I 
 
cMoAAk^G^^^^^UuJiM^ A' ' ^J: 
 
 AUBREY. 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 "EMILIA W Y N D H A M," 
 
 &c. &c. 
 
 " Hungry and tliirst}^, their souls fainted within them, and they 
 found no City to dwell in," 
 
 ijS' theee volumes. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LOjN^DO:^ : 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 SUCCESSOES TO HENEY COLBUEN, 
 
 13 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1854. 
 
LONDON . 
 
 MiN'JfED BT RETNELt. AM) WEK»HJ, 
 tUTTLE PnLTEMEY STREET. 
 

 A U B E E Y. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Oil, saw ye bonnie Leslie, 
 
 As she came across tlie Border. — BrB>'5. 
 
 It might be called a magnificent, tliougli 
 it was eyidently, not a very ancient place. 
 
 It stood towering nearly upon the summit 
 of a lofty eminence, commanding a wide 
 expanse of champagne country, and backed 
 by a range of high barren mountain hills, 
 risinsr ridfre above ridofe in dark lowerinp;- 
 succession. Barren and dreary they were, 
 in truth, but concealing within their rocky 
 bosoms mineral treasures which must ulti- 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
 M7G5027 
 
2 AUBREY. 
 
 mately become the sources of untold wealth 
 to those who had received this, as a desolate 
 and almost valueless inheritance, from their 
 forefathers. 
 
 A long winding walk led along the front 
 of the hill ; it was adorned with a profusion 
 of American shrubs, flourishing in all their 
 surpassing beauty. Azalias, rhododendrons, 
 and the lovely waxen kalmias were there, 
 flourishing in the highest perfection. They 
 formed thickets, — they throve into lofty 
 shrubs, approaching the size of forest trees, — 
 while the grass beneath was enamelled with 
 primroses, harebells, pink lychnis, and the 
 sweet little cockle-shell stellaria struggling 
 about among the undergrowth. 
 
 The mountain ash, at this time in full 
 blossom; the hawthorn pink, red, white; the 
 syringas, like orange flowers ; that delight 
 of every childish heart, the guelder-rose, 
 lilacs, and laburnums — all that adorned the 
 gardens of past generations, and all that 
 modern research had added of flower wealth 
 to our own, here mingled with a profusion — 
 a rich extravagance of abundance, which in 
 such things is so inexpressibly delicious — - 
 
AUBREY. S 
 
 one of the few luxuries that neither palls 
 nor enervates. 
 
 Then, in this wilderness of beauty, birds 
 were flitting about in extraordinary quantity, 
 for no gardener was ever suffered to disturb 
 them. The saucy robin hopped upon the 
 walks just under your feet, his tiny poetical 
 partner, the wren, whistled from a low thicket, 
 or twittered and coquetted before him ; little 
 brown creepers stole up the trunks of the 
 larger trees, and the golden-crested wi^en hung 
 from the tender young branches of the oak; 
 the burst of song from the blackbird broke 
 forth from the brake; the thrushes answered 
 one another from the saramit of the trees! 
 
 It was all melody and happiness in this 
 sweet world of feathered life. 
 
 And then the view ! 
 
 TVhat a lordly expanse !— like a picture of 
 Claude's, like a description of Milton's — 
 
 ** Eusset lawns and fallows grey, 
 Wliere th©^ nibbling flocks do stray ; 
 Mountains on wliose barren breast 
 The hovering clouds do often rest ; 
 Meadows trim with daisies pied, 
 Shallow brooks and rivers wide, 
 Towers and battlements it sees 
 Bosom'd high in tufted trees." 
 
 B 2 
 
AUBREY. 
 
 Milton, one should have tliouglit, must have 
 almost painted from the scene before us — to 
 add to the beauty of which — as if to leave 
 nothing incomplete — massive woods were seen 
 sweeping down from the nearer hills, reflected 
 by a very large mere, or small lake, which 
 lay sleeping in this day's clear sunshine, at 
 the foot of the ascen t. There stood the mansion , 
 with its extent of deepest groves, possessing 
 a something of almost ostentatious grandeur. 
 
 It was very large, that house, built in a 
 sort of corrupt half-eastern, half-mediseval 
 style of architecture — where forms were 
 strangely jumbled together, and great offences 
 no doubt committed against correct taste; 
 but it looked so rich — such a confusion and 
 profusion of ornament was lavished upon it 
 — there was so great an extent, such an 
 endless succession of roofs, and towers, and 
 pinnacles, and oriel windows, and lancet 
 windows — such a grand porch leading into 
 such a noble hall, that the effect altogether 
 was magnificent. 
 
 Then the stables, and the gardens, and the 
 farm buildings, and all and everything were 
 upon such a scale! 
 
AUBREY. . O 
 
 An almost royal scale! — And everything 
 kept with a precision and neatness which 
 showed that this was no display of unreal 
 wealth— that this mighty flow of expense was 
 maintained by a spring of proportional force 
 
 But, to return to the shrubbery walks, the 
 flowers, the birds, the lovely views, the birds 
 singing as if in rivalry of each other, the 
 cuckoo shouting, the sun shining, and the 
 world of flowers of every hue around ns. 
 
 Is this garden of Eden desolate, that no one 
 appears to enjoy it? 
 
 Are its inhabitants all gone away to 
 London at this loveliest season of the year, 
 the two first weeks in May?— and have they 
 left this scene of beauty to be enjoyed by half 
 a score of gardeners, and half a dozen house- 
 hold servants? — as is one part of the in- 
 explicable arrangements of people belonging 
 to the great world? 
 
 No, one should imagine not, for here come 
 two fio;ures alono; the walk that, as a kind 
 of terrace, crowns the brow of the hill, 
 winding amid the purple and crimson rho- 
 dodendron, the waxen almias, the yellow 
 and white azalias, the purple clusters of the 
 
6 AUBREY. 
 
 lilacs, and tlie streaming gold of the labur- 
 nums. 
 
 The one, a tall and slender figure, is that of 
 a most lovely woman, one on whom Nature, as 
 it sometimes pleases her to do, has Lavished 
 every perfection which belongs to complete, 
 almost faultless, beauty — face, figure, grace of 
 gesture, sweetness of expression, every charm 
 was there. 
 
 She is dressed, however, with the utmost 
 simplicity. A white muslin dress, confined by a 
 white band of watered ribbon, clasped with a 
 silver clasp of little value ; a black silk scarf 
 fringed at either end by the simple and cheap 
 resource of roving away the cross threads till 
 the others form the fringe; a light Leghorn 
 hat, with a dark blue sarsenet ribbon. Such 
 was her costume. 
 
 Her companion, a little girl of from three 
 to five years old, wore a striped white and 
 pink muslin high dress, over it a sort of 
 blouse of white coutil, very sparingly orna- 
 mented; she had a large flapping hat tied 
 over her profusion of curling hair, and showed 
 beneath it a face that promised to rival in 
 beauty that of her companion, whom one 
 
AUBREY. 7 
 
 could not for an instant doubt was lier 
 mother. They are walking hand in hand, 
 and the little girl is lifting up her head, and 
 chattering fast, and in a most animated 
 manner, to which the lady responds with a 
 sort of pensive smile, and by letting fall two or 
 three sentences from time to time, tending to 
 guide and direct in a certain degree the flow- 
 ing current of the young one's thoughts and 
 ideas. 
 
 Soon the little hand is withdrawn — a 
 peacock butterfly settles upon a neighbour- 
 ing guelder-rose — and away she flies with a 
 shriek of delight to pursue it. 
 
 The lady looks after her fondly, yet with a 
 strange fondness, as if passionate love were 
 checked by some hidden and painful feeling ; 
 then she sighs — not a sigh of tender melan- 
 choly — not one of those sighs which a heart 
 o'erfraught with love and the exquisite 
 beauty of things gives forth, as the only true 
 utterance to such feelings in a world such as 
 ours. No 1 but a sigh of pain, of irritation, 
 of dissatisfaction. Dissatisfied with itself, 
 perhaps? — perhaps with all this astounding 
 assemblage of beauty around? Even so. 
 
8 AUBREY. 
 
 The Lady Emma, for that was this lovely- 
 creature's name, seated herself upon a wooden 
 bench, and cast her eyes upon the view before 
 her, now spreading all its world of beauty 
 to the fair shining sun ; ' and as she gazed, 
 her countenance assumed a strange, impa- 
 tient expression, and she made a gesture 
 with her beautiful foot as if she almost 
 spurned it. 
 
 But, as the sun, descending towards the 
 west, poured his streaming light upon the far- 
 spreading landscape, diffusing a golden glow 
 of inexpressible warmth and beauty over all 
 things, a sadness the most pathetic stole over 
 a face which, when softened by tenderness or 
 melancholy, possessed an invincible charm. 
 
 So she sat there — her outer eye taking in 
 the rich picture before her ; mingling with — 
 perhaps lending a colour to — the thoughts 
 which so harassed and afflicted her. 
 
 Sometimes she sank into a reverie, in which 
 past memories were but too busy; then 
 suddenly she would stand up, clench her small 
 fingers with a slight cry of anguish, gaze 
 around her as if she were in a dream, and 
 resume her place again. 
 
AUBREY. y 
 
 Her little girl kept fluttering about the 
 flowers, still chasing the bright blue dragon 
 flies, or crimson butterflies; at last, having 
 succeeded in capturing a peacock butterfly of 
 extraordinary size and brilliancy, she came 
 flying up to her mother, rejoicing in her 
 prize. 
 
 She was struck aback by the dark expression 
 of the mother's face; an expression which, 
 once or twice during the last few weeks, she 
 had seen there, and w^hich she had sensibility 
 enough to perceive, and tenderness to feel, 
 more than is usual in a child of her age. 
 
10 AUBREY. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Wliat youdo, 
 Still betters what is done ; when you speak, sweet, 
 I'd, have you do it ever ; when you sing, 
 I'd have you buy and sell so ; when you do dance 
 I wish you a wave of the sea that you might ever do 
 Is'othing but that. — ^^Vintee's Tale. 
 
 It was a large London party, wliat people 
 are now in the habit of calling by its old 
 and long exploded name of drum — a word 
 to me signifying nothing — without etymology 
 that I know of, or the least connection of which 
 I am aware between its ordinary sense and 
 the one in which I am using it. 
 
 However, it was a drum. 
 
 And there was the usual crowding, dis- 
 agreeable or agreeable, as the case may be, 
 the usual hum of voices, the usual nothings 
 exchanged, the usual affected laughs and 
 vapid smiles which seem conventional among 
 those hacknied in such assemblages; whilst 
 
AUBREY. 11 
 
 the heart-beating excitement going on among 
 the privileged few to whom such things were 
 novelties, or to whom they afforded op- 
 portunity for interesting meetings — food for 
 hope or for despair — all such excitements 
 and emotions were happily concealed by the 
 crowd, and almost as effectually as they would 
 have been in a desert. 
 
 Of those who were still in the fresh enjoy- 
 ment of newness in the world and its ways 
 of assembling, there was one sitting in the 
 corner of a little settee, listening with heart 
 and soul to a conversation which was going 
 on behind her. 
 
 This intent listener was a young and 
 very beautiful girl. I will not attempt to 
 describe her in detail, I will only wish you 
 to imagine a charming creature whose fine 
 features, eyes of the deepest purple -blue, and 
 hair a golden auburn, with figure tall and 
 slender as that of a Grace upon ^n antique 
 gem, only served to enhance the charm of an 
 ardent, animated countenance full of sweet- 
 ness and spirit. Added to which a certain 
 unaffected negligence of attitude — a certain 
 softness in the tones of her voice, rendered 
 
12 AUBREY. 
 
 the Lady Emma, just presented, and enjoying 
 her first season, the most attractive of human 
 beings. 
 
 " To see her was to love her, and love, to 
 love for ever." 
 
 So felt many, however far from giving 
 words to the thought. 
 
 Enough, the Lady Emma was the rage of 
 the season, and she was not spoiled by it. 
 
 A rare perfection this, you must allow. 
 
 For which perfection she was not indebted 
 to any particularly careful training; to the 
 inculcation of principles lofty and pure, 
 which raise the soul into a region above the 
 mere world and its temptations and delights. 
 For, alas ! the Lady Emma had never known 
 such advantages. 
 
 No, her immunity from the frivolity, the 
 vanity, the selfish egotism, too often fostered 
 in the bosom of the reigning beauty of the 
 season, arose from the simplicity of her 
 rearing, and a some*thing of enthusiastic, 
 warm-hearted, truthful feeling, implanted by 
 the good hand of nature, which seemed to 
 teach her, as if by instinct, the real value 
 of the mere world's admiration and the 
 
AUBPwEY. 13 
 
 worthlessness of the pedestal upon which she 
 stood. 
 
 Her heart — and she had a heart, a sincere, 
 honest, loving, though, ah ! quite undisciplined 
 heart — had as yet met with nothing in this 
 new world upon which she had entered, to 
 interest her. 
 
 She had been unfortunate, perhaps, you 
 may think, but amid the host of admirers 
 that fluttered round her, not one had offered 
 a heart true and unsophisticated as her own — 
 not one, but led her instantly to suspect that 
 it was her success, rather than herself, that 
 was worshipped — that her very face and form, 
 her sweet gaiety, and lively feelings, would 
 have possessed little power to charm, had it 
 not been for the noise she had made, the 
 universal admiration she had excited, and her 
 being, in short, to speak vulgarly, the belle of 
 the season. 
 
 There was one, liowever, that might have 
 proved himself an exception to this rule ; but 
 that one she did not even know, had never 
 been introduced to. 
 
 And this one is now present at the 
 assembly. [ 
 
14 AUBREY. 
 
 A pale, tliin, but delicately-formed man, of 
 tlie middle stature he is, with a face of great 
 beauty, singularly enhanced by a most re- 
 fined expression, — for, if ever the union of 
 intellect and sensibility were written upon a 
 countenance, it was upon this. 
 
 This young man, plainly dressed, with a 
 sort of unstudied yet gentlemanlike negligence 
 that seemed well to become him, amidst the 
 silken-lined sleeves^ the fanciest waistcoats, 
 the pearl and diamond studs of the young 
 men around — stood leaning against a pil- 
 lar in a somewhat obscure corner of the 
 room, his eyes fixed with a sort of passionate 
 wonder and admiration upon the charming 
 creature on the settee. And yet this was the 
 first time he had ever beheld her. He rarely 
 frequented assemblies like the present. Some 
 accidental reason of civility had led him, 
 after an agreeable Club dinner with some of 
 the cleverest men of his dav, to look in at 
 this drum ; and his eye had fallen upon the 
 Lady Emma. He had gazed but a few 
 moments on that sweet face, his ear had 
 caught a few — very few — accents of that 
 delightful voice, and he had become at once 
 
AUBREY. 15 
 
 the victim of one of those peculiar and un- 
 controllable passions for which it is impossible 
 to account. Those of the antique world 
 attributed such things to the sudden shaft 
 of an all-powerful divinity, but the moderns 
 are content to marvel, and to shudder in 
 amazement at the inexplicable force of the 
 sentiment ; acknowledging the fact that, 
 strange as such things may appear, unques- 
 tionably such things are. 
 
 The last thing that William Aubrey ever 
 would have expected of himself was that he 
 should fall thus suddenly and unreasonably 
 in love. 
 
 Hitherto he had never, as he had 
 thought, met with any woman sufficiently 
 worthy of his esteem to excite the passions. 
 Who could love where they did not esteem 
 — and esteem with good reason ? 
 
 Who, indeed ? 
 
 And now he had fallen before a face and a 
 voice — was fascinated, enraptured, lost, — 
 before he had exchanged a syllable ! So 
 irretrievably lost, indeed, that he did not 
 even wonder at his own infatuation — did not 
 even question himself as to its source ; far less 
 
16 AUBREY. 
 
 inquire where was the indispensable esteem 
 — where the qualities to justify such a 
 passion. What did he know, what could he 
 know — but that this sweet girl had the loveliest 
 of forms and faces, and the most bewitching 
 voice and manner in the world. 
 
 For the present he was as one entranced ; 
 he cared not even to approach her ; all he 
 desired was to be allowed to enjoy his 
 darkened corner, and stand there watching 
 her face. 
 
 It was a face well worth watching, it must 
 be confessed, for varying expressions were 
 for ever flitting over it, and the perfect truth 
 of the countenance, the entire absence of all 
 second thought, affectation, or self-occu- 
 pation, rendered every expression in its turn 
 interesting. 
 
 But how far more than beautiful that face 
 became, as she listened to a conversation which 
 just then began close behind her—how it 
 lightened up with fervour, with enthusiasm ! 
 how the eye thrilled, and the colour rose ! 
 
 She was only listening to two old men in 
 naval uniforms, covered with decorations, 
 that stood conversing behind her, and there- 
 
AUBREY. 17 
 
 fore the admiration of William Aubrey was 
 not on that account distracted by jealousy. 
 They were not very formidable rivals, these 
 two grey-haired veterans, to whom she was 
 giving such undivided attention. 
 
 These were some of the words she caught. 
 ^' It is, take it altogether, the most brilliant 
 action of the war — Such a youngster, too ! — 
 not even a coromander ! — But for coolness, 
 judgment, heroic bravery, and that sort of 
 enthusiastic ardour which electrifies your 
 men — this young fellow is without a parallel 
 — now, at least ;" — and a sigh was given to 
 the memory of Nelson, as the speaker paused. 
 
 " Young is he ? How old should you 
 say?" 
 
 " Well, I said young — may be two or three 
 and twenty — may be less — he's a handsome 
 lad, but he has seen a good deal of service — 
 Looks older than he is at times — when his 
 brow is thoughtful, or his blood up — at others, 
 he is the gayest, most careless, thoughtless 
 being in the world." 
 
 *'I admired the conclusion of the story 
 most of all. Admiral," said a third gentleman 
 dressed in plain clothes, who now joined in 
 
 VOL. I. C 
 
18 AUBREY. 
 
 the conversation ; " the story of tlie dog — Was 
 it not beautiful ? " 
 
 The old sea- worn veteran smiled. 
 
 "I don't know," he said. " The skill dis- 
 played in the action was really astonishing — 
 in such a lad, too. We seamen cannot help 
 attachins; the c-reatest value to that sort of 
 thing. — Yet it teas a pretty story, that of 
 the dog — " 
 
 And his wrinkled, weather-beaten face be- 
 trayed, by its expression, how deeply and how 
 much he had felt it. 
 
 " The dou' ! " said the other naval man ; 
 " you told me nothing about a dog. Eather a 
 curious individual to u^whq in a naval historv 
 like this — What of the dog ?" 
 
 " Oh ! tell the story again, Admiral, as you 
 told it to me," said the gentleman in plain 
 clothes. 
 
 And the beautiful young creature, who had 
 been listening long, but wdth her face directed 
 the other way, now moved, and lifted up her 
 eyes and fixed them upon the old Admiral. 
 The three gentlemen, however, were too much 
 occupied in their conversation to notice her. 
 This old Admiral had a particularly inte- 
 
AUBREY. 19 
 
 resting way of telling stories of the present 
 description. There was so mncli simple feeling 
 and sympathy for all that was generous and 
 good in his heart. I despair of doing his little 
 relation justice, but I will do my best, for it 
 is a true story, and is attached to one of the 
 most eminent men in our Navy. 
 
 Thus the Admiral be2:an — 
 
 "When the Frenchmen, after a merciless 
 hard fight, had surrendered, as I told you, to 
 this little insignificant witch of a brig — it vf as 
 found, when they came to examine the cap- 
 tured vessel, that she was so much injured in 
 the battle as to render it impossible to take her 
 in tow — and, even had this not been the case, 
 these Frenchmen so outnumbered my youno- 
 lad's squad, that to think of diminishing 
 any of his own force, by putting them on 
 board her, was out of the question. So it 
 was resolved, that— taking her crew into their 
 boats, in order to mit them on board the brio* 
 — they should afterwards make for the nearest 
 port, and leave the beautiful French vessel to 
 her fate. 
 
 " Sink, there was every appearance that she 
 would — but to make all sure, they added a few 
 
 c2 
 
20 AUBREY. 
 
 scuttle-iioles of their own to finish tlie busi- 
 ness. 
 
 " My youngster you may be sure was on 
 board of the French, vessel all this time — 
 seeing to everything, and, more especi- 
 ally to the security of his men and his 
 prisoners, as the boats passed to and 
 fro conveying the Frenchmen, and a few 
 necessaries of theirs, to his own vessel — and 
 in this he was assisted by the French Captain. 
 A very gallant gentleman, who, though badly 
 wounded, insisted upon remaining in the ves- 
 sel to the last — and was busy in helping and 
 consoling his men — many of them half cut to 
 pieces — and all heart-broken at their disaster. 
 
 " In the last boat that quitted the vessel 
 — which seemed speedily about, as we say, 
 to settle — this gentleman took his seat, fol- 
 lowed hj my young lieutenant — who sprung 
 into the boat the very last man, ordering the 
 sailors, as he did so, to push away for their 
 life — as, indeed, it was high time they should. 
 
 "But they had scarcely got a few yards 
 from the vessel, before a cry, or rather a 
 piteous howl, was heard from the deck — Upon 
 which the French Captain started, turned 
 
AUBREY. 21 
 
 pale,^ and a cry of anguish, the first lie had 
 been heard to utter that whole day — burst, as 
 it were, from his very heart, and the tears 
 started into his eyes. 
 
 " ' What is it ? what is the matter, sir ? ' 
 cried my young one anxiously — for you see, he 
 had all along been very much struck with the 
 gallant bearing and fortitude of the French- 
 man. 
 
 " ' Oh, nothing, nothing,' says the officer, 
 shaking his head ; the tears in his eyes, and 
 at last fairly rolling down his cheeks. ' No- 
 thing, nothing,' says he, ' not to be thought 
 of,' — making, however, as if he would fain 
 throw himself into the water — but his wounds, 
 poor gentleman, were grown stiff, and he 
 could scarcely move hand or foot. 
 
 " ' Nothing ! nothing ! Pray tell me what 
 can it be ? Can it be the dog?' following his 
 eyes as they rested upon a little animal that 
 was now running up and down the deck — now 
 looking over the bulwarks, and giving signals- 
 of the utmost distress. 
 
 " ' It is an insigne faihlesse,^ says the 
 Frenchman; M3ut it was her dog — my wife's 
 doo; ! — The doo; she loved and |]^ave to me as a 
 
22 AUBREY. 
 
 last legacy, wlien she lay a-dying, poor crea- 
 ture, with Iier new-born baby dead beside 
 her — She bade me treasure it, and love it for 
 her sake . . . And I forgot him ! — I could forget 
 him!' And with that, fairly covering his 
 face with his hands, he sobbed aloud like a 
 chikl. 
 
 " ^ Stop/ cries my young fellow, ' Hold 
 hard !' — And with that he springs over the gun- 
 wale of the boat — he swims like a fish — and he 
 was oif like a shot, and by the ship's side, and 
 up upon the deck — and the little dog in his 
 arms — and he in the water again, before you 
 could say Jack Eobinson. And sure enough, 
 had but just time to reach the boat — which 
 luckily lay too far off to be sucked in by the 
 swell — when the French vessel gave a heave, 
 and went down head foremost. 
 
 " They blamed him," added the Admiral, 
 after a pause of general silence; "they said 
 he was mad to risk such a life as his for a 
 Frenchman's little dog. — He answered he did 
 not consider much about it at the time, ex- 
 cept to keep his men out of danger, and save 
 the poor man's dog — 
 
 '' He did not know whetlier he was right or 
 
AUBREY 23 
 
 wrong — wrong, he supposed — but it was done 
 — so let no more be said about it." 
 
 AYell, that young giiTs face, at this last 
 speech, lighted up with something so ex- 
 cessively beautiful, as her bright eyes were all 
 glistening with tears, that you never beheld 
 anything to surpass, and seldom anything 
 even to equal it ; whilst T^rilliam Aubrey's 
 heart beat so strangely that he was almost 
 ill, and obliged to turn to a windov; for fresh 
 air. 
 
 He did not hear one syllable of vvhat had 
 been said, nor did he want to hear. 
 
 He was a man of the extremest physical sensi- 
 ' tiveness of nerve, and emotion of any kind shook 
 him to quite a painful degree. He had always 
 endeavoured to meet and vanquish this bodily 
 weakness by the commanding power of his 
 will — exercising himself in habits of fortitude 
 and patience — accustoming himself to preserve 
 the utmost calmness even upon occasions when 
 people of far less real sensibility would have 
 been overcome ; but his present feelings were 
 so altogether new, they had taken him so by 
 surprise, that he was totally unprepared to 
 deal with them — the insensibility of his heart 
 
24 AUBREY. 
 
 until now — seemed to make tlie present senti- 
 ment only the more intense. 
 
 He went and stood at an open window in 
 a farther drawing-room, to refresh and recover 
 himself — from which window, however, he 
 could still at times watch her as the crowd 
 moved to and fro, and opened and closed 
 again. 
 
 And now a sort of general excitement and 
 sensation might he observed to pervade the 
 mixed multitude. All eyes appeared to be 
 directed one way, and that way was towards the 
 large door which opened upon the staircase. 
 
 Several gentlemen were coming up to- 
 gether. 
 
 There had been a great dinner given at 
 the United Service Club to celebrate the 
 gallant action of a very young Captain and 
 Commander — which our above-mentioned 
 Lieutenant had become, young as were his 
 years — for his action had been beyond praise, 
 and moreover — 
 
 Mark that, good reader — 
 
 His father was a very, very rich man, and 
 poAverful, and well known, though not of any 
 
AUBEEY. 25 
 
 very high, merely of what is called a respect- 
 ahle family. 
 
 These gentlemen that were coming up had 
 just left this great dinner, and they were all 
 in very good spirits, for the dinner had gone 
 off remarkably well, and so they entered — a 
 cheering, pleasant company of agreeable 
 faces, young and old. Some in uniforms, for 
 it had been a levee day; some in plain 
 clothes — all crowding together. In the midst 
 there was seen a charming -looking young 
 man, of slight figure, rather under the middle 
 size, with light hair, blue eyes, fair com- 
 plexion, and one of those countenances which, 
 once seen, are never to be forgotten. 
 
 This pleasing-looking young man was 
 EdAvard Aubrey — the hero of the old 
 Admiral's tale — and the hero of the day — 
 and the twin brother of William, who stands 
 at the distant window. 
 
 A fashionably-dressed, remarkably hand- 
 some young man — who looked much of the 
 same age with Edward Aubrey, though he 
 had already a certain air of man of the 
 world, if I may so speak, which the other did 
 not seem yet to have attained — followed close 
 
26 AUBREY. 
 
 upon the rear of the young officer as he 
 entered the room ; and no sooner was he fairly 
 in, than he put his glass to his eye and began 
 peering and looking about him. Presently 
 he put his hand through Edward's arm, and 
 said, " I'm looking about for all the prettiest 
 girls to make you acquainted with, Edward — 
 but the beauty of beauties — the pearl beyond 
 price, is my sister; and where is she?" looking 
 round a little while, " Oh ! oh! I spy — Come 
 along; let me present you at once." 
 
 And so saying he led the young Captain 
 back to the settee where his sister, tlie 
 Lady Emma, sat in all and more than her 
 usual beauty, and her eyelashes still moist 
 with the tears which had gushed up at the 
 story of the dog. 
 
 Oh, such a sweet glory of an April morn as 
 was that face just then. 
 
 How she started, and rose up, and held out 
 her hand, drew it back again, colouring like a 
 rose, and sat down looking a little ashamed; 
 and how he, flattered and amazed at the sight 
 of so much beauty and so sweet an emotion, 
 stammered, and bungled, and coloured too; 
 and how, if Lord Algernon had not laughed 
 
AUBTvEY. 27 
 
 merrily and goocl-liirmouredlj, and set them 
 totli at ease, they might have been trouhled 
 and nncomfortable all the evening, I need not 
 enlarge upon. But Lord Algernon's ready 
 lau£ih and his ease soon made them both 
 feel more comfortable, and the three bea-an 
 to talk pleasantly together. Edward with 
 his hand leaning upon the arm of the settee, 
 dravv'ing himself a little back modestly; and 
 Lord Alsfernon standinc^ full front and 
 chattering away with his sister — for he was a 
 great talker; and she lifting up her eyes first to 
 her brother.and lamrhimj; a little, and then softlv 
 in a shv, sweet Avav a'lancino; at the strana'er, 
 as he spoke in a lower voice^ but in a still 
 more natural and pleasant manner than his 
 comio anion. 
 
 vShe looking so surpassingly lovely all tiie 
 time. 
 
 But felicity such as this is not fated to 
 last long in London parties, at least not for 
 lions, and Mrs Lion-hunter is already at Ed- 
 ward Aubrey's side, and is saying in her most 
 inslnuatincr, flatterinsr, and fascinatincr wav: 
 
 " Oh ! I must not let even dear, beautiful 
 Lady Emma absorb you altogether — you 
 
28 AUBREY. 
 
 know you are a species of public property this 
 evening." 
 
 And so slie dragged liim away to be intro- 
 duced to I don't know who, any more than he 
 cared who. 
 
 The pale student had remained at the open 
 window — feeling really unequal to encoun- 
 tering the heat of this excessively-crowded 
 room again. He had stood there watching 
 the sweet countenance of the Lady Emma 
 with feelings of unmixed delight, the delight 
 of the highest and fondest admiration, before 
 jealousy, or distrust, future hopes or future 
 despair, have all blurred over and confused 
 the picture — he had watched her look of 
 animated excitement^ as she listened to the 
 discourse of the two elderly gentlemen; and 
 as he had not the most distant idea of the 
 subject matter of the conversation, it was 
 impossible, as I said, he should feel the 
 slightest twinge of jealousy on account of 
 those two hoary veterans — 
 
 But now the little bustle at the door lead- 
 
AUBREY. 29 
 
 ing to tlie staircase liacl excited his attention, 
 and through the waving crowd he had seen his 
 brother Edward entering the room, surrounded 
 and ushered in, as it were, in a sort of 
 triumph by a crowd of brother of&cers and 
 friends. A pang shot through him — yes, 
 there was a pang ; he hated himself for it ; 
 he always hated, he detested himself for such 
 feelings; but it was an old sore; and these 
 old sores of the heart are awful things. 
 
 Awful temptations— deep gulphs of misery! 
 
 A pang there was ; and the pale cheek grew 
 paler, and the dark eye more clouded, as it 
 rested upon the gay, brilliant, and apparently 
 thoughtless young fellow thus ushered in. 
 
 Brother, and more than brother! — twin 
 brother ! — alas ! alas ! that that w^hich should 
 have been as a double bond of love should, 
 by the careless injustice of parents, have 
 become only a source of deeper and bitterer 
 jealousy ! 
 
 William Aubrey at once passionately loved 
 his brother; dreaded and envied; admired, 
 yet censured, him. He acknowledged all his 
 sweet engaging qualities; yet, in spite qf 
 Edward's innumerable fascinations, he felt, 
 
30 AUBREY. 
 
 and believed himself to be the superior; and 
 his heart, from earliest childhood, had rankled 
 with a sense of injustice towards himself. 
 
 These feelings, contrasted and strange as 
 they were, seemed almost to have been ))orn 
 Y/itli him : he never could recollect the time 
 when his heart had not, as it seemed, been 
 poisoned with them, exasperated as they had 
 been by the partiality of parents, v.^ho, heedless 
 of the very first law of parental duty, had 
 embittered the existence of one child by their 
 undisguised partiality for the other — as they 
 contrasted the warm, expansive charactar of 
 Edward with that of the cold and shv reserve 
 of a sensitive child — disliked for the very re- 
 serve and shyness which their distaste had 
 contributed to create. 
 
 The boy so pale, so delicate, so fretful, so dif- 
 ficult to manage or to rear, appeared in truth 
 to poor advantage by the side of the vigorous, 
 high-spirited, generous lad, who had a heart 
 for everybody, — father, mother, kinsmen, 
 friends, but above all for his brother. 
 
 Instead of, as twins most ofien do, resem- 
 bling each other in external feature and general 
 disposition, in this case the very reverse had 
 
AUBREY. 31 
 
 happened. It Tronld almost seem as if one 
 infant had abstracted the vital essence from his 
 brother. The one was far above the average 
 in every plivsical perfection that can belong 
 to a new-born child, the other seemed with 
 difficulty even to breathe. 
 
 The beautiful vigorous baby, vv-ho was, 
 moreover, the first-born, was taken to the 
 mother's bosom, and the delicate puny 
 infant, whom no one cared for, was, by the 
 advice of the medical man, placed in the 
 hands of a wet-nurse. Perhaps the medical 
 man was right, medically speaking, for the 
 mother was a young woman, gay and fashion- 
 able, and not inclined to sacrifice the world to 
 the nursery ; but the result proved unfor- 
 tunate. Unthinkino:, and wanting; in all 
 sound principle to guide her impulses, the 
 mother yielded herself up to her partiality 
 for the beautiful child, her own proper nurs- 
 ling, and spoke with indifference of the other, 
 as a poor, little weeny thing that she was 
 afraid she should never be brought to endure. 
 
 She felt no compunction at thiu partiality. 
 She had little idea of duty, and never thought 
 of considering that the first duty of a parent 
 
32 AUBREY. 
 
 is impartiality — most perseveringly to root 
 out, and, if that be not altogether possible, 
 sacredly to conceal any inclination to an 
 undue preference of one child before another. 
 Parental partiality ! Oh, that is the injustice 
 which drives the child to despair ! all other 
 partialities, all other inequalities, ail other 
 preferences may be endured ; but this seems 
 to penetrate into the sanctuary, to drive the 
 young heart from its place of refuge — for in 
 the security of the mother's love compensation 
 is found for every other evil. When this fails, 
 the shipwreck is fearful — and who shall say 
 how much that is precious in that shipwreck 
 for ever goes down? 
 
 People loved Edward for his beauty, his 
 vigour, his spirit, his good humour, and were 
 tempted almost to adore him for his affection 
 for the less amiable brother ; and, when that 
 unhappy and embittered child would at 
 times repulse any somewhat boisterous mark 
 of affection, how shocked and disgusted they 
 would feel! They pitied Edward at such 
 times, and loved him all the more for 
 their pity, for Edward had the tender est of 
 hearts ; and^ young as he was, would be hurt 
 
AUBREY. 33 
 
 even to tears at times ; and great was the 
 sympathy he then inspired. But no one 
 guessed, for no one cared to guess, no one 
 sympathised "with the intenser sufferings of 
 the other, and no one observed or understood 
 the sensitive delicacy of a temperament so 
 unlike that possessed by any of his family. 
 The father was a powerful man, the mother 
 all health and spirits and gaiety, relations 
 upon each side of the same constitution. 
 William, alone, was a victim to that exquisite 
 and most painful tenderness of nerve, caused 
 by, or the cause of, an almost morbid sen- 
 sibility of character, — a sensibility, however, 
 in this, as in most instances, compensated 
 by the possession of the rarest intellectual 
 gifts. 
 
 Morbid sensibility of the nerves is, of 
 course, the cause of frequent depression of 
 spirits ; and the demon of the flesh, which in 
 gayer and stronger natures assumes the more 
 tempestuous forms of temptation, may, in 
 these more delicate ones, be detected lurking 
 like a venomous reptile amid the hidden 
 recesses of the heart ; whispering the thousand 
 base suggestions of fear, of envy, of jealousy, 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
34 AUBREY. 
 
 of unreasonable anxiety — temptations against 
 which we are as sedulously warned in that 
 blessed code we are bound to obey, as against 
 the more open and licentious vices. 
 
 But what mattered that code to them? 
 
 That code was as a dead letter in this 
 family — an old forgotten law. 
 
 Neither William, nor Edward, had ever 
 been taught to venerate, to study, or to form 
 themselves upon that. 
 
 It was a matter of course in their father's 
 household that everybody should go to Church 
 on a Sunday morning, dine an hour earlier 
 than customary upon that day, and have only 
 a few intimate friends to dinner. But here 
 ended the religious observances in the 
 house of Aubrey, and everybody thought they 
 had done all that was necessary. Many of 
 their neighbours did much less, — conscience 
 was quite at rest. 
 
 It never entered into the head of either 
 Mr Aubrey, or of his wife, to doubt but that 
 they were very good Christians. 
 
AUBREY. 35 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A sudden, subtle flame, 
 
 Bj veering passion fanned. — Tennyson. 
 
 We return from the somewhat long digres- 
 sion of the last chapter to the gay and 
 crowded — the humming and buzzing apart- 
 ments, where the twin brothers now are. 
 
 The one has drawn further back into the 
 shadow of the window curtains, and his eye 
 still follows the sort of ti^iumphant entry, as I 
 have called it, of the other — he who comes 
 forward so charming-looking, so fresh, so easy, 
 so gay, with his delightful countenance, his 
 light, waving hair, and that indescribable look 
 which seems to belong to accomplished naval 
 men, and to them alone, and which is so win- 
 ning to every beholder. And lo ! he is brought 
 up to the settee upon which sits the idol, the 
 
 D 2 
 
36 AUBREY. 
 
 divinity, the worshipped one of William's 
 heart! She! the first — and he felt it would 
 be the last — for whom that heart would ever 
 tremble, and for which it was already sinking 
 and dying. And the sweet smile, the lambent 
 brightness of the eyes and countenance with 
 which she receives him ! 
 
 There was a strange sense of bitterness 
 arising. 
 
 *' But no," a voice within him seemed to 
 say, "this triumph he shall not achieve. / 
 saw her first — / loved her first. He has sup- 
 planted me in all other things; he hath the 
 birthright; I am a mere younger brother, 
 though born of the same bed, in the same 
 half-hour. One is a prince and the other a 
 pariah. All that has been given up^ of course, 
 but this shall not be given up. I saw her 
 first, I loved her first; brother Edward, I bar 
 that." 
 
 What folly! 
 
 As if it depended upon the rights of the 
 matter, if rights they could be called, whether 
 the joyous and victorious sailor, or the pale, 
 melancholy student should best make his way 
 to a fair woman's heart. 
 
A U B E E Y. 37 
 
 But lie thought not of the absurdity; he 
 clung to, and hugged the idea that he had 
 spied out and appropriated the treasure first ; 
 that it was his — and that his brother should 
 not supersede him. 
 
 There was little satisfaction in watching 
 the Lady Emma now, and one of his occasional 
 nervous headaches came on, so that the noise 
 and heat of the room became very oppressive, 
 and feeling dizzy — indeed, half distracted — 
 he stole away without noticing his brother, 
 who was not aware that he was in the room, 
 and went down stairs and took his hat, and 
 refusing the offer to call his cab, which he 
 left for his servant to take his chance with, 
 and come home when he was tired of waiting — 
 he walked up Grosvenor Street, where all these 
 fine doings were going on, and so to the fresh 
 air of the park. 
 
 The night was glorious, the stars were 
 shining like suns, the air calm and clear, the 
 moon sinking behind the distant trees. 
 
 The fresh breeze saluted him as he ap- 
 proached the park, refreshing his fevered 
 brow, and calling a faint colour into his wan 
 and delicate cheek. 
 
88 AUBREY. 
 
 Nature looked so beautiful in its calm 
 silence. 
 
 He had a poet's eye and heart, and lie 
 worshipped nature. 
 
 Till now this worship had been to him a 
 source of his purest and most unmixed delight. 
 His heart entirely free — his sensibility to 
 beauty so keen — his imagination so fervent 
 and bright, the loveliness of nature had been 
 a sort of compensation for all other love. He 
 looked upon her, and she seemed to look upon 
 him with a certain tenderness. He felt him- 
 self her child — he, who had no other parent ! 
 
 Morbid feelings these were, perhaps; but 
 morbid or not, they were the sweetest of his 
 life. 
 
 But now all is changed. 
 
 " II faut I'amour ou la religion pour gouter 
 la nature," says Madame de Stael. 
 
 But love not only possesses the power to 
 brighten and give interest to scenes of natural 
 beauty ; it has alas ! another power — to deaden 
 by contrast all other sensations but its own, 
 rendering all stale, flat, and unprofitable in 
 which it has no share — and therefore it is, that 
 unrequited love is so fatal a bane of human 
 
AUBREY. 39 
 
 happiness; not only that the one source of 
 exquisite felicity is dried up, but that with it 
 all goes —that taken, all is taken, and life be- 
 comes a dreary, loveless wilderness, where no 
 water is. 
 
 He was shocked at himself, when he per- 
 ceived the change which had taken place in 
 his feelings as he wandered over the grass and 
 Tinder the trees — his favourite solitudes at 
 early morning, before the busy throng had 
 stained their freshness. 
 
 "Where was all this beauty now ? 
 
 "With her ! the barest prison walls — the 
 darkest and deepest dungeon w^ould have been 
 a paradise ! without her, all creation would be 
 as nothing. 
 
 Unaccountable effect of one brief half-hour. 
 
 One consolation he had, however; it was a 
 fond, but it is a common superstition. The 
 very intensity of this sudden passion seemed 
 to him as a reason for its success — it was as 
 something supernatural — something sent — - 
 sent to a purpose. What was so transcendent 
 could not be without result. As was the 
 greatness of his love so must be the greatness 
 of his claim. The Lady Emma was his — 
 
40 AUBREY. 
 
 could only be his. It seemed as if nothing on 
 earth could be strong enough to snatch her 
 from him. 
 
 And he had not exchanged one word with 
 her — had not even asked to be introduced. 
 
 While William in this manner beguiles his 
 passion in the Park, Edward, in a much 
 happier, though rather more commonplace 
 way, is indulging his, by dancing with the 
 lovely creature, of whom he was already, with 
 a true seaman's heartiness, become the undis- 
 guisedly passionate admirer. 
 
 He had hesitated a moment through modesty, 
 when the music struck up (for a little carpet 
 dance was to conclude the evening) ; but the 
 deep blue eyes glanced at him, almost expect- 
 ingly, as he thought; so with an air of 
 devotion the most sweet and engaging, he 
 offered himself for her partner, and soon they 
 were united in all the bright delirium of the 
 dance. 
 
 Oh that young sailor's heart! how it 
 bounded ! how it overflowed with happiness ! 
 
AUBREY. 41 
 
 Such pure downright happiness. He was not 
 troubled with doubts and cares, not he. — He 
 who thinks little, if ever, about himself, 
 escapes that bane of present enjoyment. He 
 was wrapt up in her. His admiration in 
 fact knew no bounds, and he thought himself 
 the most blessed and privileged fellow upon 
 earth, to have come across such a divine 
 beauty. 
 
 To dance with her till she was ready to 
 faint for want of breath; to support, almost 
 carry her to her seat ; to hang over her and 
 fan her ; to fly, when fanning seemed vain, to 
 a neighbouring window and let in the fresh 
 air — to tremble lest the fresh air should be 
 too cold for her — to catch up the lace shawl 
 of some one thrown upon a chair near, and 
 throw it over her — to ask what he should 
 fetch her, — '^ iced water, wine, — what — " to 
 be answered by those sweet, pleased smiles. 
 With smiles of amusement and delight 
 mingled. A little amusement at his assi- 
 duity, so unlike the ordinary staid attentions 
 of young men of fashion — delight with all he 
 said and did, but most of all with the adora- 
 tion which beamed in his eyes, and found an 
 
42 AUBREY. 
 
 answer in her heart ! so she responded to all 
 this. 
 
 And the feelings of the heart were already 
 giving a softness to her voice, a certain timid 
 shyness to her manner, that rendered her 
 more than e^yer irresistible. 
 
 She would not let him fetch her anything, 
 but being a little recovered, said, that the 
 noise of the cornet- a-pis ton, which certainly 
 was now blowing furiously, made her head 
 ache; and that she would go down to the 
 refreshment room. So he offered his arm, 
 which she took; and he led her along the 
 room, and down the stairs, and every one 
 who met them smiled with a sort of cordial 
 sympathy ; for every one seemed to feel that 
 this young hero of the day, and the loveliest 
 girl of the season, were well paired; and, 
 besides, people knew, that Edward Aubrey 
 was the heir of a very large fortune, and 
 quite entitled by his social position to take a 
 wife from among the fair daughters of the 
 aristocracy. 
 
 Wife, fortune, or such things, he, as yet, 
 thought not about, his soaring imagination 
 was a flight far above that. Time enough 
 
AUBREY. 43 
 
 for such prosaic matters by-and-by, at 
 present it was tlie love infinite which regards 
 nothing but its object. To hand refresh- 
 ments to her was now his pleasant task ; and 
 when that was done, she went and sat down 
 upon a couch in a cool and shady part of the 
 room, and he sat down by her. 
 
 And then a charming conversation began 
 between the two ] and she, who was all curiosity 
 and interest about everything which con- 
 cerned him, began to talk about the sea, and 
 the dangers and excitements of a seaman's 
 life ; and to tell him about her brother Alger- 
 non; and how she loved him the best of all 
 her brothers, because he was the sailor boy. 
 Desdemona, my dear — ^remember she spoke 
 almost too plainly, but in truth, your talk 
 was as guileless as hers. 
 
 She loved Algernon the best of all her 
 brothers, though she had seen little or nothing 
 of him for the last four years. This war kept 
 every one at sea, and when he did come on 
 shore, he had usually spent his time in Lon- 
 don — just running down now and then to see 
 her and her sisters, who remained with the 
 governess at the family place in Ireland, none 
 
44 AUBREY. 
 
 of them being introduced, for she was the elder 
 by some years, and this was her first season 
 in London. 
 
 It was now two years since she had seen 
 Algernon, till just that very day, as she was 
 coming down with her mother, dressed to go 
 out to dinner; he ran into the house, saying 
 he was that moment arrived, and ran out 
 again almost as quickly, to find himself 
 lodgings, where he could dress for the great 
 dinner he was going to — one given at the 
 United Service Club to Captain Aubrey, 
 of the Seagull — " And that is the first 
 time I heard your name mentioned," she 
 said. 
 
 He bowed and coloured. 
 
 Then Lady Emma said, 
 
 "You and Algernon are great friends, are 
 you not?" 
 
 He hesitated a little moment, and then he 
 answered, 
 
 " I should pay myself too great a compli- 
 ment, I fear, if I said that." 
 
 " How can you say so ? How can your 
 friendship be anything but an honour to any 
 one?" 
 
AUBREY. 45 
 
 " Tour brother. Oh ! that is a different 
 thing." 
 
 " How different ? I don't understand," she 
 was about to say, but she stopped, coloured, 
 and cast down her eyes. 
 
 She was prettier than ever ; lovely as her 
 eyes were. 
 
 " Since you do not think it presumptuous 
 in me to claim the honour," he said, looking 
 at her with much tender admiration in his 
 face; ''since you do not think it presumptu- 
 ous in me to claim the honour, I may say that 
 Lord Algernon and I have been considerable 
 allies whenever we have met, and I feel now 
 — now I think — I hope — we may be called 
 friends." 
 
 And yet, whilst he said this, something 
 within him said, "No — acquaintance, fami- 
 liar acquaintance, close allies if you will — 
 but not friends !" 
 
 Lord Algernon was of about the same age 
 as Edward, but, as I have told you, amaz- 
 ingly more practised in the ways of the 
 world. 
 
 His parents, the Marquis and Marchioness 
 of Hurstmonceaux, were commonplace worldly 
 
46 AUBREY. 
 
 people in their several ways — lie, a needy 
 and embarrassed Irish peer, hungering after 
 money, and she, an uneasy mother, weighed 
 down with the shifts and cares of pride, 
 poverty, ambition, and many children. 
 
 Struggling after what might distinguish 
 her as a leader of ton, and enable her in due 
 time to establish her daughters — anything 
 deserving the name of a right education, — 
 the rearing a child in habits of religious 
 principle and moral rectitude, had been 
 quite out of the question in her family. 
 The children were left to take their chance. 
 Governesses such as they were sometimes 
 had been, sometimes not, provided for the 
 girls; the boys were sent mere children to 
 school, there to take their chance. Lord 
 Algernon, with whom we have chiefly to do, 
 had early entered a very large private school, 
 under a very severe 'master, who, thrash 
 him as he might, could thrash no learning 
 into this boy's incorrigible head; and whose 
 severity only served to harden him to rebel- 
 lion and the most daring defiance of every 
 obligation, human and divine. From thence 
 he had passed to one of our great public 
 
A U B R E X. 47 
 
 schools, being at the time intended for the 
 Church. There he had distinguished himself 
 by his wildness and daring indifference to 
 authority of every description, much to the 
 admiration of most of his fellows, who thought 
 all this prodigiously clever. He did not, in- 
 deed, want for parts, which the daring audacity 
 of his character rendered dazzling in the eyes 
 of a parcel of school])oys, and which to a certain 
 degree even blinded the masters to his faults. 
 At last one of his exploits was of so glaring 
 a nature that, son of a marquis as he was, 
 and destined for the Church, and a very large 
 family living, it was found necessary to expel 
 him. Upon which he at once went to sea, 
 and continued his wild career in every place, 
 and upon every occasion, where the oppor- 
 tunity for excess and self-indulgence offered. 
 This mad behaviour still rendered him but 
 too brilliant and seductive in the eyes of his 
 companions, and his superiors unfortunately 
 found some compensation for his errors in his 
 reckless bravery, cool resolution, and ready 
 judgment upon all occasions which had called 
 for the exhibition of such qualities. 
 
48 A U B E E y. 
 
 Edward Aubrey's lately -acquired renown 
 made him an object of attraction in every 
 circle ; and Lord Algernon, who in the midst 
 of all his apparent wildness, ever kept an eye 
 to the main chance, was ready enough to claim 
 the acquaintance begun at sea, and to 
 establish it at once upon a more intimate 
 footing than Edward had understood it to 
 be. But Edward was easy, careless, and 
 good tempered; his head, perhaps, a little 
 turned by his success, and he felt flattered by 
 Lord Algernon's advances; partly as coming 
 from a man of station superior to his own; 
 partly because he was universally reckoned a 
 very clever fellow : most of all because he v/as 
 the brother of Lady Emma. 
 
 And now the party is about to break up ; 
 and the Marchioness comes to take her 
 daughter away. 
 
 The two young men who had kept assidu- 
 ously near her, attended the two down stairs, 
 Lord Algernon giving his arm to the mother, 
 and thus leaving the too happy Edward 
 to attend upon the fair sister, and to 
 enjoy the pleasure of all the little familiar 
 chat and laugh Avhich attends upon seeking 
 
AUBREY. 49 
 
 for a sortie de halle among heaps of shawls 
 and wraps of all descriptions, and upon 
 assisting to place it upon the beauteous 
 shoulders, seeing the strings tied under the 
 prettiest chin in the world, the blue eyes 
 sparkling, the lips smiling, the manner so 
 pleasant, so sweet, so winning all the while ! 
 
 The young men placed the ladies in their 
 carriage, the tall footman shouted "home," 
 jumped up into his comfortable seat on springs 
 behind, and away they drive. A piece of 
 humanity this same foot board on springs, by 
 the way, which it is astonishing was not 
 thought of sooner. But so it is with all 
 humane inventions, when once they are adopted 
 we shudder at the barbarity of which, whilst it 
 was in practice, we never thought, and were 
 partakers like the rest of the world. Who 
 thought of the injury their footmen sustained 
 upon the hard, rattling foot-board of old 
 times? Let us look around and see what 
 nedifi^ences of this sort still exist in our dailv 
 domestic arrangements. 
 
 " Home," shouted the footman, and away 
 drove the carriage, and Edward stood for a 
 few moments bareheaded upon the steps, 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
50 AUBREY. 
 
 watching it as it rolled down the street, and 
 then he sighed, and turned into the house to 
 seek his hat. 
 
 As he was preparing to cross the threshold, 
 and depart, an arm was thrust through his. 
 
 ^'Whither bound?" said the voice of Lord 
 Algernon. 
 
 ^' Why, home, I suppose." 
 
 " Home ! and at this time of night ! — Why 
 man, it's not gone three yet." 
 
 ^' Time for all sober people to be in bed," 
 said Edward, endeavouring to turn away. 
 
 He wanted to be alone with his own excited 
 thoughts. 
 
 "Sober people! — granted — but to that 
 category, I should opine, neither you nor I 
 strictly belong." 
 
 " I have always esteemed myself a model of 
 sobriety," said Edward, quietly, "at least, in 
 comparison with your noble self; and to-night 
 I have a head- ache, and shall go home." 
 
 " A head- ache ! — poor dear fello-^ — is that 
 all? Something a good deal better or a good 
 deal worse than that, I take it, is the matter. 
 Pshaw ! my good lad, you mistake the age you 
 live in. Men don't, in these our days, go about 
 
AUBREY. 51 
 
 mewling, and puking, and stealing home, 
 when tliey have got anything the matter just 
 here. — That's not the way to win a mistress in 
 this our good nineteenth century. — The girls of 
 these days study metaphysics and ride a fox- 
 hunting — and like a dashing fellow in their 
 hearts — and abhor a milksop — which you 
 never were, Aubrey ; so, for luck's sake, don't 
 begin now." 
 
 " Come along with me," he rattled on, "to 
 the Club — not that hum-drum United Service 
 Club, Senior or Junior — but to a special little 
 affair got up in a corner by a few choice 
 spirits, with no old grey -beards to lay down 
 the law. — Come along with me, and we'll 
 have a morsel of supper, and toast a fair un- 
 known, in hock or champagne of the prime — 
 and maybe take a hand at picquet, or let that 
 alone if we like better — Liberty Hall it is at 
 this Phosnix of Clubs — this little jewel of the 
 tribe. Every man doth w^hat is right in his 
 own eyes there — Come along !" 
 
 The invitation was tempting, for it was the 
 brother of his charmer who gave it, so 
 Edward suffered himself to be guided by 
 Lord Algernon, who still leaned upon his 
 
 E 2 
 
52 AUBREY. 
 
 arm, until, after traversing various fashionable 
 streets, they came to one a little out of the 
 way, where this gambling house was situated 
 — for neither more nor less was that, which 
 Lord Algernon designated as Club. 
 
 The house was rather small, and of unpre- 
 tending appearance outside, but within, it 
 w^as replete with every imaginable luxury. 
 
 The furniture was of extreme elegance, 
 no expense had been spared. The walls were 
 hung with choice pictures, or what pre- 
 tended at least to be, choice pictures. The 
 cuisine was, to say the least of it, such as to far 
 exceed the ordinary recherche and perfection 
 thought indispensable for the Club world of 
 the times we live in. 
 
 The company assembled in the drawing 
 room which our young men entered, seemed 
 chiefly to belong to the higher aristocratical 
 circles, and most if not all quite young men — 
 many almost boys. Of this company some 
 were lounging half asleep upon the sofas — 
 some dosing over newspapers — some, com- 
 fortably ensconced in arm chairs, were read- 
 ing. There was no play going on in this 
 drawing room — neither cards nor dice being 
 
AUBREY. 53 
 
 there allowed — but from iDehincl door cases, 
 hung with portieres of rich embroidery, 
 sounds might be heard which betrayed what 
 was passing behind the scenes. Low mur- 
 muring discourse, as of men busily en- 
 gaged at cards ; and -now and then the rattle 
 of the dice-box ; and now and then deep tones 
 as of suppressed emotion ; and now and then 
 a sharp feverish laugh; and now and then a 
 smothered oath. 
 
 It might have reminded one of that portal 
 of hell, where stood Dante and listened to 
 the fatal sounds that issued mingled from 
 that drear empire. 
 
 Duri lamenti, eel alti guai. 
 
 But Lord Algernon left Aubrey no time to 
 speculate upon the scene before him. He 
 had ordered supper as they came up stairs 
 and he now carried him down to what was 
 called the coffee-room, in which numbers of 
 small tables were arranged, at which young 
 men were seen sitting alone, or in small parties. 
 The two with wdiom we have to do w^ere 
 speedily engaged upon the most delicate and 
 elegant little supper that could be well ima- 
 
54 AUBREY. 
 
 gined, and were pledging each other in the 
 finest of wines'. to the fair unnamed — for nei- 
 ther lover nor brother, hy a sort of instinct 
 of respect and delicacy, chose that her name 
 should be uttered within these precincts. 
 
 The supper over, Aubrey prepared to pay 
 his share of the cost, but this Lord Algernon 
 would not permit. He said that it was his 
 business, and flung down, in his usual reckless 
 manner, two or three pieces of gold, not con- 
 descending to wait for his change. 
 
AUBREY 55 
 
 CHAP TEE IV. 
 
 What time tlie miglity moon was gatliering light, 
 
 Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, 
 
 And all about him roll'd his lustrous eyes. — T£>'NTSOx. 
 
 The two young men did not go up stairs 
 again that night. They strolled homewards 
 together, and parted at the top of St James's 
 street. 
 
 Edward Aubrey's way lay along Piccadilly, 
 and by the G-reen Park. 
 
 The morning was by this time beginning 
 to dawn, and in the eastern sky faint lines of 
 light indicated the approaching day. His 
 head was in a tumult, his temple veins beat- 
 ing with excitement. He could not bear the 
 idea of going into a house, more especially 
 to his father's house in Dover street, which, 
 though large and handsome, was so closely 
 pent up behind and in front — the front by 
 
56 AUBREY. 
 
 tlie narrow street", the back choked up with 
 buildings. So he, too, turned towards the 
 trees, and the green of the parks — their quiet 
 and their freshness, and, entering the Green 
 Park through the little iron gate, got into the 
 long walk running eastward and westward. 
 It was now totally deserted, he had it all to 
 himself, and kept pacing up and down lost 
 in the fond foolish fancies of a young roman- 
 tic lover, and that lover, too, a sailor. 
 
 His dreams were delightful, but still more 
 delightful than any dream was the one reality 
 which he hugged to his heart. Lord Algernon 
 had asked him to call upon him that day at his 
 father's house in Eeirent's Park — the osten- 
 sible reason to plan a ride somewhere or 
 other, no matter where. 
 
 No matter, indeed, he was to call at the 
 house where Lady Emma lived, and hence- 
 forth the door of that house would be 
 opened to him. 
 
 The clocks were striking five ere he be- 
 thought himself of going home. 
 
AUBREY. 57 
 
 The two brothers met the next morning. 
 
 Edward was taking a late breakfast; his 
 father had long ago finished his, and had been 
 gone out an hour or two. William had 
 breakfasted with Mr Aubrey, but he had not 
 yet left the room ; he was sitting buried in 
 an arm chair reading, or seeming to read. 
 
 Late it was when Edward appeared, his 
 face looking pale, and somewhat jaded — for, 
 truth to tell, he had not closed his eyes that 
 night, late as it was when he went to bed. 
 His mind was in too great a state of excite- 
 ment to allow him to sleep. 
 
 The young sailor, accustomed to an existence 
 of contention with the elements, to the fresh 
 and stirring life of winds and waves — seeking 
 composure if his spirits were accidentally 
 rufiled, by pacing his deck, gazing upon 
 the mighty ocean below, upon the mul- 
 titudinous stars above, imbibing, as it w^ere, 
 into his soul, the grandeur of the infinite 
 — was quite bewildered in the whirl and 
 confusion of this great Babylon where he 
 now found himself, for the first time since 
 he had been a mere boy. 
 
 His ideas were all in confusion — This 
 
58 AUBREY. 
 
 very idle, very pleasant, but altogether 
 new, artificial life into which he was 
 suddenly plunged, contrasted in every respect 
 to the simple but strenuous existence in 
 which he had been engaged, seemed at 
 first quite to bewilder his senses. A little 
 time and a little practice would, however, soon 
 have accustomed him to it, and he would have 
 learned to take matters as quietly as other 
 young men of his acquaintance, had not the 
 strong impulse of love, the tumults of 
 that rare thing in a life of the great world, 
 a genuine passion, interfered to perplex him 
 still further. 
 
 Nothing could be less in harmony. 
 
 On board his ship the generous emotions 
 with which his heart was swelling would have 
 been all in unison with the grand and simple 
 of nature around him; but with the noise, 
 bustle, hurry, and trivial excitement of a 
 London season, what had they to do ? 
 
 Poor Edward ! he knew not, as the French 
 say, where to find himself. The mere nervous 
 excitement he felt, would alone have been 
 sufficient to deprive him of rest. 
 
 Not so with William. 
 
AUBEEY. 59 
 
 "William was still less of this world : but lie 
 knew it and understood it and all its little- 
 nesses well — and, knowing, he disliked and 
 despised it. 
 
 Both possessing superior talents, no two 
 young men could be much more opposed in 
 character than were these brothers. The 
 one was formed for action and actual life, the 
 other for contemplation, and the exercise of 
 those loftier functions of thought and intellect 
 which belong to a higher and purer world of 
 light than that we see around us. Ardent 
 and generous, Edward had achieved success 
 and found happiness in that struggle with 
 facts^ which is the part of the hero — 
 William had sought peace in the indidgence of 
 that thoughtful, far-searching mind which is 
 the universe of the poet and the philosopher. 
 In this his subjective life he had found what 
 he sought, until he was suddenly awakened as 
 from a dreamy trance, to intense emotion, 
 — to passionate reality, — by the imexpected 
 sentiment which had taken entire possession 
 of him. 
 
 That which threw the one brother into 
 the regions of imagination and poetry, re- 
 
60 AUBREY. 
 
 vealed to the other the de^^ths of real 
 life. 
 
 But these feelings were not, as with Edward, 
 the source of contradiction and confusion, 
 of nervous excitement, and trembling dis- 
 order of faculty. Serious, earnest, refined, 
 his sense of beauty most delicate, his imagi- 
 nation alive to that ideal which is poetry, 
 before it has found words, — these new, deep, 
 fervent feelings, were in harmony with the 
 old life within, and only served to vivify and 
 to glorify it. 
 
 His sharp fit of jealousy against his bro- 
 ther had speedily subsided. Something 
 seemed to whisper within, that not for the 
 gay, brave, somewhat thoughtless Edward, 
 was this angel of loveliness destined, but for 
 another and a more earnest heart. He did him- 
 self, perhaps, more than justice; but brilliant 
 as was Edward, William ever felt himself to 
 be the superior. He knew what was within 
 himself; the delicacy of perception, the high 
 imagination, the sound and strong intellect 
 with which he had been endowed, and he 
 felt, and perhaps truly, that the man so en- 
 dowed, who does, indeed, love, loves as none 
 
AUBREY. 61 
 
 Other can— and that such a love, and such a 
 heart, is the nohlest treasure woman can 
 obtain. 
 
 He fancied he saw in the Ladj Emma that 
 assurance of her being one to estimate the 
 yalue of such a treasure. That divine thing 
 which was in, and about lier seemed formed 
 to harmonize, rather with the finer intellect, 
 than with the handsomer and more dazzling 
 man. 
 
 But was Edward even handsomer ? Wil- 
 liam looked into his glass. It was, perhaps, 
 the first time in his life that he had ever 
 done so with the intention of criticising his 
 own personal appearance. One does not look 
 to advantage inspecting oneself thus. Suffice 
 it to say, he was surprised— pleased and sur- 
 prised at once, at what he saw. 
 
 There was a something— not greater beauty 
 certainly— but a something which he felt 
 Edward never did, nor could possess. So his 
 jealousy had vanished like an ugly night 
 dream, and he was prepared to be just as 
 cordial with his brother as ever. Cordial he 
 always was; nevertheless, to say the truth, 
 William did not after all love Edward very 
 
62 AUBREY. 
 
 much. Cliaracters of his stamp are, I thinks 
 not very much given to strong, mere natural 
 affection, as it is called. Their sympathies 
 are less the result of accident than of choice. 
 They are probably too nice in their 
 perceptions — too fastidious perhaps to attach 
 themselves very warmly to those relations 
 which nature, or accident, have thrown in 
 their way, and Edward was not a character 
 very strongly to interest his brother — inte- 
 resting and dear as he was found to be by 
 most people. 
 
 Edward, on the contrary, loved William 
 exceedingly. He acknowledged and rejoiced 
 in his brother's superiority of intellect — 
 thought himself the luckiest fellow in the 
 world to be connected with such a man — 
 boasted of his acquirements, gloried in his 
 success at college — in the splendour of his in- 
 tellect, and the powers of his understand- 
 ing, and gladly, joyfully, "knocked under," 
 as his phrase was, to the superiority he ap- 
 preciated so highly. 
 
 But to return. Here he comes at last to 
 his very late breakfast, looking and feeling 
 very jaded and uncomfortable, yet with a sort 
 
AUBREY. 63 
 
 of secret joy dancing in his eyes, " for is 
 he not to call at her father's house that 
 day?" 
 
 William lifted up his head from his book. 
 
 " You are late this morning, Edward," said 
 he. 
 
 "Very.— What o'clock is it? I did not 
 come in till five last night." 
 
 William shook his head. 
 
 '^ My father does not like such hours, Ed- 
 ward. I am afraid you must contrive to be a 
 little earlier in — or at least a little earlier 
 down. You are a prodigious favourite, as 
 you well know; but my father has his little 
 peculiarities — I think they have grown upon 
 him of late — and nothing annoys him more 
 than irregular hours." 
 
 ^' Well, but, William," said Edward, sitting 
 down to the uncomfortable ruin of a break- 
 fast, and pouring himself out a cold cup of 
 coffee, " you must be reasonable. — One does 
 not come on shore, after five years spent at 
 sea, to use oneself to another man's idea 
 of hours — and go to bed when it strikes 
 
 nine." 
 
 '' Don't drink that cold stuff," said William, 
 
64 AUBREY. 
 
 ringing tlie bell. '' At tlie risk of our good 
 father's displeasure, I have ordered some hot 
 coffee to be kept ready for you." 
 
 '' Tliank you — but displeasure! — You don't 
 mean to say that he was really displeased. 
 
 " Well, disjjJeased is a strong term, as 
 applied to you and him. — It would be difficult 
 for you to displease him. But annoy — and 
 you would not like to annoy him." 
 
 '' No, certainly; but there is reason in all 
 things. I can not be a prisoner. Will. It's 
 against my very nature. I'd rather be a 
 galley slave at once, than be bound down with 
 this sort of domestic chain. — My father is so 
 good — so kind to me, that to vex him would 
 be a constant torment of remorse — and yet, to 
 be a good boy, and come home just when I 
 ought, and not to do this, and not to do that 
 — not to have my swing when I am swinging 
 — I declare to you again^ I would rather be 
 bound by real chains, that I could swear at, 
 and perhaps, break asunder — than carry these 
 tender fetters, soft though they be — fetters 
 which it would be unnatural to swear at, and 
 impious to break ! " 
 
 And he began, somewhat impatiently, to 
 
AUCREY. G5 
 
 swalloAv large pieces of icy cold toast and 
 butter. 
 
 William once more dropped his eyes upon 
 liis book, seeming to read, ^vliilst Edward 
 tossed down the hot coffee which a servant 
 brought in; then he looked at his watch, and 
 with a " Who would have thous^ht it had 
 been so late?" ordered his horse. 
 
 " It is late," said William ; '• and just give 
 me leave, Edward — my father — " 
 
 " Our father, if you please, William." 
 
 '* Oil)' father — I beg your pardon. It is 
 the common way of expressing oneself — our 
 father, then, dotes upon you — I use the vulgar 
 phrase, for really I cannot find any other that 
 so completely expresses the thing I mean. He 
 is excessively proud of what you have done — 
 what father v\'ould not ? — But, moreover, you 
 are, as you must well know, peculiarly his 
 son — You are his heir. Every man looks upon 
 his heir as doubly his son ; and in all proba- 
 bility, and not quite unreasonably — he expects 
 his son and heir to look upon him as more than 
 ordinarily his father. Kow — all the forenoon 
 vou are rushins^ about town, nobodv knows 
 where — and all the afternoon you are on horse - 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
66 AUBHEY. 
 
 ]r)ack — and you dine out every day, unless tliere 
 is a party at home, — and my father is in bed 
 long before you come in — so, if you do not 
 appear at breakfast, when is he to see you? 
 
 Edward's face, which had looked a little 
 vexed and out of humour at first, gradually as- 
 sumed such a sweet, cordial expression, as his 
 brother went on speaking, that had you been 
 there, you would have been ready to dote too. 
 ^'Dear William," he cried, ''what a selfish, 
 thoughtless wretch you make me out to be I" 
 
 " Hard words," his brother answered, and 
 smiled — smiled in a more ailectionate manner 
 than was usual with him, for Edward was 
 irresistible when moved by sudden emotion ; 
 his feelings were so genuine and so good. 
 
 " Hard words you apply to yourself, Ed- 
 ward — harder than I should ever be tempted 
 to use, were you a thousand times more 
 thoughtless tlian perhaps you are — or selfish 
 than you certainly are not — But, recollect, I 
 warn you — Have a care. ^ly father — our fa- 
 ther — is a singular sort of man. To common 
 observers he may appear, and he does appear, 
 much like other commercial men who have 
 wealth and leisure enoudi to assume 
 
AUBREY. 6t 
 
 the gentleman — according to their idea of 
 such beings — but the world in general 
 know him as little as he knows himself. He 
 has led such an active, bustling life, that 
 he has had little time for reflection — not 
 much for feeling. — When circumstances urge 
 a man on so rapidly, there is scarcely a 
 pause left for feeling. — Nothing but a com- 
 plete break-down — something quite out of the 
 common course — crossing, and, as it were, 
 interrupting the current of a man's life, and 
 occasioning a sort of stand-still in existence — 
 when the man lives to and in himself — learns 
 first to know himself — can call forth the deep 
 utterances of the soul. — Many men die, leav- 
 ing the scene, without having once given wit- 
 ness of what is within. — God grant that 
 my father may do the same — for his awaken- 
 ing from the dream in which he lives might 
 be awful." 
 
 Edward had tossed off another cup of coffee 
 whilst his brother was thus discoursing, 
 rather as if thinking aloud, than as addressing 
 another. He now rose and came to the fire, 
 and stood there, leaning with his back against 
 
 F 2 
 
68 A U B R E Y. 
 
 the cliimney-piece, and looking attentively at 
 his brother. 
 
 William was silent, and his eyes were fixed 
 again upon his book. 
 
 Edward was silent, too, for some time. At 
 last he said, 
 
 " Have a care ! — Have a care of what ? " 
 
 " Of offending him," answered his brother^ 
 without lifting up his head. 
 
 " I hope I am incapable of doing anything 
 that ought to offend him — and /never saw that 
 in him which would lead me to suppose that 
 he would take offence unjustly and without 
 reason." 
 
 " Perhaps not. — But he may be unjust and 
 unreasonable in the degree to wdiich he carries 
 out offended feelings, in themselves perhaps 
 not ungrounded." 
 
 "But I don't intend— I hope it is im- 
 possible that I can intend — to give cause 
 for any well-grounded anger — for certainly I 
 should not call his anger well grounded 
 because I asserted my liberty of action. — That 
 liberty, William, which you know as well as I 
 know, lies after a certain age at the foundation 
 of all manly character, and the right to which 
 
AUBREY. 69 
 
 you assert as decidedly as I do — or you would 
 not be the man I take you for." 
 
 " Well, well — think upon what I have said, 
 and be in time for breakfast to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 '^But, do you know, that what you say 
 half inclines me to assert my independence, 
 and stay away." 
 
 '' I did not think you had still so much of 
 the child in you." 
 
 "For child, read fool," said Edward, again 
 recovering his good humour; ''but the worst 
 of it is," he added, sitting dovrn by his 
 brother, ''the unfortunate part of all misun- 
 derstandings between fathers and sons, as I con- 
 ceive this matter to be. lies — in these cursed 
 relations of money. Sons are unreasonable, 
 and want too much — fathers are niggardly, 
 and give too little. - The balance between 
 age and youth can rarely be struck with fair- 
 ness — ^but there is far Y'orse than ihat — Such 
 petty dissatisfactions don't reach the pith of 
 the matter. — The Avorst is, that everv thous^ht 
 and feeling is perverted hj the fear of being 
 actuated, or thought to be actuated, by base 
 motives of self-interest. — I declare I could 
 
70 AUBREY. 
 
 sacrifice every enjoyment — give up the asser- 
 tion of my dear liberty of action for ever — 
 where it not that my so doing might secure 
 ... I hate to think of it — other things be- 
 sides the affection of my father." 
 
 " Over-refiner," said William. " Nonsense ! 
 — forgive me for saying so — but what have 
 you to gain or lose? — You know everything 
 he has in the world, except my share in my 
 mother's settlement, he has given to you — 
 and you know well, or, at least, I know well, 
 that happen what might — No, no; — that is 
 saying to much — it would take a great deal — 
 it would be hard matter for you to ofiend him. 
 — But once do it — and his anger would be like 
 his love — extravagant as that is illimitable. — 
 Therefore, have a care." 
 
 " Well, ril be down at his breakfast to- 
 morrow, but now — " getting up and going to 
 the window — " I must look out for my horses, 
 for I protest it is going hard upon two 
 o'clock — and at half-past, I promised to join 
 Algernon — " 
 
 "Algernon!" repeated William, looking 
 suddenly up. 
 
 "Not Algernon Sidney," said Edward, 
 
AUBREY. 71 
 
 laughing, " you need not look so excited, Wil- 
 liam — no Algernon Sidney restored to earth 
 for the benefit of you hero worshippers — but a 
 very different sort of person I can assure you, — 
 Algernon Mordaunt, in short, the wildest 
 young fellow in existence at times — or as 
 grave and staid as yourself when so it 
 pleaseth him." 
 
 " I have heard of him, Edward. — He is a 
 person, already somewhat too notorious, for 
 his name to have escaped even one so much 
 out of the world as I am.'' 
 
 ' ■ Notorious ! That means celebrity in an 
 evil sense, you anatomisers of words would, I 
 suppose, tell us. I know no particular harm in 
 him — do you? — I do not think I have any very 
 great liking to him. — True, he and I appear 
 to take life much in the same way — and do so, 
 as far as the mere surface of things lies — but 
 there is much in me that I should never tell 
 him — and which he would laugh at and not 
 understand if I did." 
 
 *' So I should think, indeed." 
 
 " But I like him well enough — and we wan- 
 derers upon the ocean cannot afford to be 
 very particular in our companionships, ^^e 
 
/ 2 AUBREY. 
 
 must take up with what comes — So I took up 
 with him in the Levant. He was far the 
 best of the set we had there, in spite of his 
 faults. — But I never much cared for the 
 honour of his acquaintance until last night, 
 and then — " and a hue colour flew to his 
 cheek, — " I own I was very glad that I knew 
 him." 
 
 " As how? " 
 ^' He is the brother of Ladv Emma." 
 '' Lady Emma ! Who is Lady Emma? " 
 " Oh ! the lines t creature upon ihe f\ice of 
 the earth — one that he introduced me to last 
 night — his sister — daughter to the IvLarquis 
 of Hurstmonceaux. Emma — Lady Emma — 
 She was sitting upon a little settee, in the 
 most lovely attitude eyes ever beheld, and she 
 rose at the introduction — and ob, William! 
 I was fool and puppy enough to read a cer- 
 tain SAveet confusion in her eyes, and a 
 tremblins; in lier voice — as if I was not iust 
 like a new, every day acquaintance to her. 
 Laurels ! They may cover me over — me un- 
 worthy — with laurels. I would barter them 
 all for this little sprig of myrtle," and he 
 laughed joyously, almost triumphantly. 
 
A U B R E Y. 7S 
 
 William looked at liim from under the half- 
 closed eye-lid. That eye ! It looked at the 
 moment like tlie eye of a serpent, it was so 
 cruel — an evil eye. 
 
 For a pang of jealousy more bitter than a 
 serpent's tooth, had shot through his heart, and 
 seemed to turn his whole nature into ofall — to 
 venom rather, I should say. 
 
 His feelings for had or for good were 
 dangerously intense. His sufferings imder 
 mortal pain of any sort, so sharply exces- 
 sive, that jealousy and love were to him tor- 
 ments, such as we read of in the appalling 
 histories of the old, old world, hut such as vre 
 little expect to meet with now-a-days. 
 
 He turned pale — he turned black. 
 
 Edward sat gazing into the lire. He had 
 relapsed into silence after that short outburst 
 of joyous laughter, and he sat musing ; his 
 mind teeming witli happy, loving thoughts ; 
 absorbed in tlie present fulness of his joy; 
 thinking little of, and certainly having little 
 apprehension as regarded the future. 
 
 His had been such a life of uninterrupted 
 prosperity, that to be frustrated in his wishes, 
 appeared as unnatural and impossible to him, 
 
74 AU3REY. 
 
 as to some, alas, it appears, to succeed in 
 theirs. 
 
 William, on the contrary, had little reason, 
 from the unjoyous course of his own life, to 
 expect much from fate. Yet, strange to say, in 
 this instance he did rely upon it, and with a 
 security which took to his mind the appear- 
 ance of a fatality. Accustomed to observe 
 himself as well as others, he could in no other 
 way account for this strong prevision or pre- 
 sentiment — call it what you will — which as- 
 sured him that the inappreciable prize was des- 
 tined to be his — and with him jealousy already 
 took rather the form of that of an affianced 
 man, unjustly disturbed in the possession of 
 his treasure, than of a rival contending with 
 a rival upon equal terms. 
 
 William knew himself pretty well ; yet he 
 was not aware at this moment of the source 
 from which his feelings of assurance and 
 security sprung — he attributed them to fata- 
 lity — that fatality is the fatality of the strong 
 man — a determined will. 
 
 A determined will is as a spiritual mag- 
 netism, subduinof all thino's to itself. 
 
 "What's the matter with vou, William?" 
 
AUBREY. 75 
 
 cried Edward, turning suddenly round, and 
 perceiving the cliange in his brother's counte- 
 nance, "what on earth can be the matter 
 with you ? — You look almost black ; I should 
 rather say — yellow green." 
 
 And he laughed again, and then more 
 seriously added : 
 
 "Really, brother, I am afraid you are ill; 
 and yet you don't look so much ill as odd — 
 angry, rather, I should say — if there were 
 anything to make you angry." 
 
 "I am neither ill nor angry," answered 
 William, coldly. 
 
 " Well, you are uneasy, then, I suppose — Is 
 it upon my account, brother? I have often 
 observed that nobody can fall in love but it 
 puts everybody else out of humour, and every 
 bystander has some reason or other for abusing 
 it. — Now, do speak out — But really, what 
 possible objection can there be to my falling 
 in love? — Nay," for now his thoughts began to 
 travel far, " to my offering my hand and my 
 heart to Lady Emma Mordaunt." 
 
 " None in the least, if she will accept them." 
 
 " And why should she not? — I a'nt a very 
 ugly fellow ; and I bear my blushing honours 
 
76 AUBREY. 
 
 thick around me — and, I assure you, she did 
 not look as if she hated me altogether — and 
 then — as to her friends — I am my father's 
 eldest son and heir — and I shall have the 
 fortune of a prince — and the Marquis, it is 
 said, is not over rich, and there is an immense 
 family of children, and so — and so — I am not 
 going to be down-hearted about the matter, 
 but mean to set to with all my might, and 
 conquer or die in the attempt." 
 
 William shuddered as if struck with a 
 sudden chill, as if some one were walking over 
 his grave — a grave. 
 
 " ^Yell, you are a strange fellow ; I can but 
 half understand you," said Edward, "I never 
 saw such a face as your's was just now. It 
 w-as as if you had suddenly put on a hideous 
 tragic mask. If we ivere at this moment 
 between the tropics, I should say you had been 
 suddenly stricken wdth the plague — but I'm 
 no doctor ; and here come my horses. — Seri- 
 ously though, William," he added kindly, as 
 he rose to go, "if I were you, and I did not 
 feel better soon, I would send for a doctor, for 
 you look indeed very bad." 
 
 And, so saying, he left the room. 
 
AUBREY. 77 
 
 Opening tlie door, again, lie looked in, and 
 said: 
 
 '' But I never told you what a lucky dog I 
 was — I am going with Algernon to call at 
 the ^larquis of Hurstmonceaux's — So consider 
 me as a lost man." 
 
78 AUBREY. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 But not a voice replied ; no answer came from tlie dark- 
 ness. 
 
 And when tlie eclioes liad ceased, like a sense of pain was 
 tlie silence. — Longfellow. 
 
 "No — no — no. 
 
 " She is mine, not his. 
 
 " Such love as mine ! — such love as his ! 
 
 " Can there be a doubt? 
 
 " Do not all women love because they are 
 loved? — and what woman can resist the in- 
 tensity of a love like mine? 
 
 " Let him flutter about her; let him do his 
 best, his worst ; he shall not, nay, he dare not. 
 If he were once to know what passes in this 
 heart — the agonies, the fierce paroxysms of 
 which it is capable — he dare not — He dare as 
 soon send a pistol bullet through my brain, 
 as drive the poignard in ! 
 
 "No — 'I care not. 
 
AUBREY. 79 
 
 "I shall seek no introduction at present; I 
 want no introduction. A meeting under the 
 common vulgar arrangements of the great 
 world's life, I do not want, and could not bear ; 
 but I shall get to her some way. It will come, 
 sooner or later it will come, and she will be 
 mine — 
 
 " Mine !— 
 
 "And what did he say last? 
 
 " What had he the cruelty to say? 
 
 " That he was assured of success because he 
 was the heir? 
 
 '' He would buy her, then. 
 
 " Purchase that heart, more precious than 
 the chrysolite, with his gold — Yet, stay, not 
 so — It was her parents that were to be thus 
 bribed — but that I envy him not; I would 
 not owe the possession of one lovely auburn 
 tress upon her head to gold ! 
 
 "She must love me for myself — only for 
 myself— or, dear as she is, she is not forme." 
 
 Alnaschar ! 
 
 He spurned in fancy at the daughter of 
 the Grand Vizir. 
 
 In this wild manner, the man of thought, 
 the man of such mental power and force of 
 
80 AUBREY. 
 
 character, kept talking to himself, until at 
 length exhausted with, and half ashamed of 
 his over excited thoughts, he rose from his 
 seat, resolving to go into the Park and get a 
 little fresh air. 
 
 To the Park he went, and walked by the 
 side of Eotten How, and amused himself 
 with watching the equestrians, young and old 
 men, and slight, pretty girls, that were killing 
 the morning, pacing up and down there. 
 Girls do not, in my opinion, look particularly 
 well on horseback — it requires a certain pecu- 
 liar spirit to sympathise with the horse, to ride 
 easily and well, in order to look as charming 
 and agreeable as when otherwise engaged. 
 
 Very few of the young lady equestrians 
 riding that morning fulfilled these con- 
 ditions; and "William, who now began to be 
 an observer of young ladies, saw nothing 
 much to please him. When lo ! three horses 
 were seen advancing; the party consisting of 
 two gentlemen, and one young lady. 
 
 The gentlemen rode but very indifferently ; 
 they evidently were not particularly accom- 
 plished horsemen, but with the young lady 
 it was different. She sat her horse with 
 
AUBREY. 81 
 
 the most easy grace, and there was a 
 charming expression of enjoyment in her face, 
 over which a sweet westerly wind was 
 blowing, lifting the tresses of her beautiful 
 hair, and giving a bright glow of health to 
 the countenance. 
 
 She had been but too lovely as he had seen 
 her the night before, in her evening full dress, 
 but she was infinitely more charming now. 
 Then she had appeared to him as the dazzling 
 inhabitant of a higher world, and he had felt 
 inclined to worship her as a divinity, but he 
 saw her now in a far dearer light — as a sweet 
 young girl — a sweet, lively, natural, laughing 
 girl. 
 
 And he turned paler than ever. 
 
 She was talking gaily to both her com- 
 panions, first addressing one and then the 
 other, and William, who was beginning, with 
 a strange instinct, to grow knowing in the 
 afiairs of the heart, perceived with joy, how 
 openly and unaffectedly she smiled upon and 
 chatted with Edward, and then turned away 
 to laugh with her brother ; whilst her beautiful 
 horse, as if proud of his burden, pranced 
 and curvetted beneath her, with arching 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
82 AUBREY. 
 
 neck and hoofs so daintily touching, as 
 scarcely to touch the ground, and she yielding 
 easily to every motion as if horse and rider 
 had been but one. 
 
 And so the little group passed and re- 
 passed several times ; at a pace with which 
 William easily kept up, as he walked along 
 the path and watched them. 
 
 At length he overheard a few words as they 
 approached the side where he was, and the 
 voice was that of Lord Algernon; he was 
 telling his sister that now she must go home, 
 ^' for,'^ he said, ^' there Avere certain calls to 
 be made and engagements that he must keep," 
 and he yawned as he spoke, — for he was one 
 who liked not to be put out of his way, and 
 whose apparent good- nature was speedily ex- 
 hausted; and he was beginning to be tired of 
 playing chaperon to his pretty sister and his 
 friend, and wanted to be somewhere else 
 where he might act principal himself. 
 
 So they turned their horses' heads, and 
 went down Eotten Eow, intending to leave 
 the Park by Stanhope Gate. A considerable 
 crowd was collected there at the time, 
 and the horses got separated a little, the 
 
AUBREY. 83 
 
 two gentlemen proceeding first and tlie young 
 lady following a little "way behind, having 
 been unavoidably delayed by the press. But 
 just as she was about to pass through the 
 gate, a carriage at full speed, drawn by a 
 couple of furious horses, whom tlie coachman 
 was vainly endeavouring to hold in, came 
 dashing past and, at such a rate that she must 
 have been inevitably upset, had not a strong 
 hand seized hold of her bridle, and forcibly 
 pushing back her horse — almost throwing him 
 upon his haunches — rescued her. 
 
 The carriage rushed on, and so near was it, 
 that the wheel just grazed her horse's head as 
 itpassed like a whirlwind by. 
 
 There is always something fearful in a 
 narrow escape, and the young lady turned 
 very pale and trembled so violently that she 
 could scarcely sit her horse. The animal, 
 too, was shuddering and quivering and evi- 
 dently in extreme terror. 
 
 In the meantime, the gentleman who had 
 seized the bridle continued to retain it, 
 patting and endeavouring to soothe the ter- 
 ] ified horse with words and caresses, but he 
 did not look up at the young rider. He 
 
 G 2 
 
84: AUBREY. 
 
 seemed anxiously providing for her safety by 
 quieting the animal, but he looked not up at 
 herself. 
 
 Eeader, did you ever know what it is to 
 dally with a letter — some long-expected letter 
 — bearer of tidings of blessedness unutter- 
 able- How the heart plays with itself, and 
 will not break the seal for very joy. The 
 moment of expectation is so sweet, the 
 security of certainty so exquisite, that we 
 love to prolong it — to rest, a sit were, upon 
 that, before rushing into the full tide of over- 
 whelming happinesss. 
 
 Thus it was with William Aubrey. 
 
 The time was then come — the inevitable 
 moment — that moment which he had felt 
 assured would sooner or later arrive — he held 
 the bridle of her horse, he had saved her life. 
 He was privileged to look up, to gaze, to speak, 
 released from chilling, conventional forms. 
 Nature and circumstance had brought them 
 together — one of those circumstances of terror 
 and emergency had occurred which break down 
 custom and restore us for a moment to nature's 
 primitive freedom, — but he paused. He 
 delayed to taste the fulness of his joy ; his 
 
AUBREY. 85 
 
 heart was already so overflowing with emotion 
 that it almost choked him. 
 
 But a fair head was now bent down to 
 him as there he stood, still holding the bridle, 
 and a sweet voice faltering with recent terror, 
 uttered these words : 
 
 " I thank you very much, sir. You have 
 saved my life." 
 
 Then he looked up and their eyes met, and 
 the expression that was in his seemed to 
 penetrate her very soul. 
 
 A strange feeling it was — of terror — of 
 fatality ! 
 
 She turned a little pale, and then a little 
 red, and made as if she would have with- 
 drawn her bridle from his grasp, but he said 
 quietly : 
 
 '' I think your horse is too much frightened 
 — you had better let me lead him through 
 the gate and accompany you till you rejoin 
 your companions, one of whom is my brother. 
 — Oh, here they are !" 
 
 The two men were riding up in haste, both 
 looking vexed at themselves for their mo- 
 mentary inattention. 
 
 Lord Algernon, as is usual with men of 
 
86 AUBREY. 
 
 his temper^ vexed with every one else 
 besides. 
 
 " What the deuce, Emma, have you been 
 about ? and what are you doing ? " and he 
 glanced angrily, first at her, and then still 
 more angrily at her companion. Her com- 
 panion, however, kept his ground, still 
 holding her bridle and still soothing and 
 caressing the trembling horse. 
 
 "It is Captain Aubrey's brother," said 
 Lady Emma, in a low voice. 
 
 " But how comes all this to pass ? And 
 what have you been about? " 
 
 " He has saved my life, I believe — You 
 have saved my life, I am sure;" again bend- 
 ing down to him. " May I introduce you to 
 my brother? — This is my brother Algernon. 
 Mr Aubrey — did not you say you Avere Mr 
 Aubrey ? " 
 
 Lord Algernon gave a somewhat stiff bow 
 — anything but grateful felt he — his sister 
 had got into some awkward scrape and laid 
 him under an obligation. He hated scrapes 
 and detested obligations. Lady Emma felt 
 annoyed at his manner, and her voice trem- 
 bled a little as she added : 
 
AUBREY. 87 
 
 ^' I was in the greatest danger, and Mr 
 Aubrey saved my life — perhaps at the risk of 
 his own." 
 
 ''I ran no manner of risk," TTilliam said 
 simply. 
 
 In spite of Lord Algernon's looks he still 
 kept hold of the bridle. 
 
 In the mean time. Captain Aubrey had 
 flung himself from his horse, and had come 
 forward holding him by the rein; but the 
 animal pulled and pranced, and he could with 
 difiiculty get towards Emma. AVilliam was 
 the first to perceive this. 
 
 " Keep back, Edward," he said, with 
 authority, "your horse is so unmanageable, 
 that it may do mischief here — better mount 
 again, and keep him in order." 
 
 Captain Aubrey answered by throwing the 
 rein to a lad who was passing by, and he was 
 at Lady Emma's side in an instant. 
 
 "What has been the matter? What has 
 happened?" he cried, trembling with anxiety. 
 
 "'It was an overdriven carriage, through 
 the gate — Mr xVubrey — he is your brother, I 
 believe, — was just in time to save me." 
 
 Edward looked at his brother gratefully. 
 
88 AUBREY. 
 
 and said in a low tone which reached only 
 William's ear, " God bless you for this ! " 
 
 He envied him, oh, how he envied him for 
 having saved his darling, but it was a 
 generous envy. As for being jealous, the 
 idea entered not his head. 
 
 "I see no use in staying here all day," 
 Lord Algernon now somewhat rudely broke 
 in. " Can't you manage your horse yourself, 
 Emma, and let us go home." 
 
 " If you will take my advice, my lord," 
 said William, "you will let me lead the 
 animal through the streets. It has evidently 
 been dreadfully frightened, and seems inclined 
 to start and shudder at every noise." 
 
 " Let me do that," cried Edward, endea- 
 vouring to lay hold of the rein. 
 
 " jVfo — " putting his hand back, as one who 
 had a right to decide upon what should be 
 done — and he felt he had a right, the life he 
 had saved, was it not henceforth his ? " No, 
 your vocation is not exactly the stable, Ed- 
 ward, and I doubt whether I shall not in this 
 case prove the better esquire. Shall we go?" 
 appealing to Lord Algernon. 
 
 '* By all means, if you please." 
 
AUBREY. 89 
 
 So Edward, a good deal mortified, and in- 
 clined, for the first time in his life, to quarrel 
 with his brother, remounted his steed, and 
 followed at rather a sulky distance ; whilst 
 William quietly led Lady Emma's horse 
 through the streets, preceded hy Lord Alger- 
 non, who troubled himself not once to look 
 back and see how they were going on. 
 
 They had to go through many streets, for 
 the Marquis of Hurstmonceaux's house was 
 one of those large palaces placed among the 
 groves and lawns of the Eegent's Park. 
 
 At last they arrived, the horses stopped, 
 servants appeared, and Lady Emma was 
 assisted to dismount. 
 
 She had kept up her courage pretty well 
 until then, but no sooner did her foot touch 
 the earth, than she felt dizzy and sick, and 
 she reeled and would have fallen, had not 
 William Aubrey caught her upon his arm. 
 
 Lord Algernon was dismounting from his 
 horse; Edward was disentangling himself— for 
 that is the proper phrase — from his, so William 
 Aubrey had the advantage again, and before 
 the two other young men were at liberty, 
 he with Lady Emma on his arm, was 
 
^0 AUBREY. 
 
 mounting the liigli flight of steps which 
 led to her father's hall door. 
 
 Here, just as they were crossing the threshold, 
 the two others joined them ; but not before her 
 eyes had again met his deep passionate gaze, 
 — that look with so strange a power in it. 
 
 Lord Algernon had recovered his good 
 humour by this time; and, with his good 
 temper, his good manners were restored; 
 which, young aristocrat though he was, were 
 sadly to seek whenever he happened to be — as 
 he very often did happen to be — out of 
 sorts; so he courteously came up to Wil- 
 liam Aubrey, and thanked him for the service 
 he had done, and desired to relieve him from 
 further trouble, as he phrased it. He sent 
 for his sister's maid, and consigning her 
 to the attendant's care, asked William to 
 come up to the di^awing room, " In order that 
 I may present you to my mother," he added. 
 
 William Aubrey, whose feelings were in a 
 strange state by this time, most unwillingly 
 yielded his charge to her brother's hands, but 
 there was no remedy. So Lady Emma, ac- 
 companied by her maid, tried to cross the 
 hall, and go up stairs, but she tottered so 
 
AUBREY. 91 
 
 miicli that she could scarcely stand. And 
 now, it was Edward's turn. He was frank 
 and impetuous, and accustomed to dart for- 
 ward to his object, be that object small or 
 great, in a drawing room or upon the ocean, 
 and so he rushed past his brother and her 
 brother, without ceremony, and hurried 
 towards Emma, crying — ''You can scarcely 
 st^nd, take my arm." 
 
 xVnd she laid her arm within his, doing 
 this so willingly, so confidingly, and lifting 
 up her eyes towards his, with such a sweet 
 and peaceful reliance written in them, and 
 such a gentle, smile lighting up her languid 
 iiice, that it was onh' too charming. 
 
 " Lean upon me — you don't lean upon me. 
 Lean upon me," he kept saying in a low 
 Toice. That clear, manly voice of his was 
 so inexpressibly sweet, when the tones were 
 softened by emotion. — '' You don't lean upon 
 me." 
 
 And she did lean upon him ; and her arm 
 was closely pressed — pressed close to his 
 heart; and she felt that heart beating so 
 wildly. And again she looked up into his 
 face, and there she met all that woman so 
 
92 AUBREY. 
 
 loves to meet — sincerity and devotion, and 
 the liigli spirit of the man, subdued to utter 
 tenderness. And yet the man was still there. 
 Edward was not, as too many unfortunate 
 lovers are, deprived of the power of making 
 himself interesting or acceptable, by the 
 very agitation arising from the force of 
 his attachment. The spirit which had 
 carried him through many of the great 
 emergencies of life, and triumphed over dif- 
 ficulties which might have appalled the 
 bravest, was softened and melted, but not 
 overcome, by his present feelings. 
 
 They were of so generous and animating 
 a nature ! 
 
 There is a sympathetic instinct in these 
 things. Emma, who possessed more than the 
 usual share of such precious gifts, felt at- 
 tached to Edward Aubrey by the sweetest 
 feelings of love and reliance ; they seemed 
 to understand each other at once. 
 
 You may see how it is, by the very atti- 
 tude and expression of the two figures as you 
 follow them, and, certainly, the power of 
 '' elective attraction " was exhibited, in its 
 full perfection here. Observe them as they go up 
 
AUBREY. 93 
 
 the wide stairs together, having dropped the 
 Abigail upon the way ; who, being no longer 
 wanted, had taken up her lady's hat, 
 which had fallen upon the hall floor, and 
 followed discreetly, at a little distance behind. 
 
 Edward and the young lady parted at the 
 door which separated the gallery, at the head 
 of the stairs, from the little side passage 
 which led to Lady Emma's apartments, then, 
 returning to the party he had left, the three 
 young men entered the drawing-room toge- 
 ther. In this apartment they found the 
 Marchioness of Hurstmonceaux sitting bon- 
 netted and cloaked, waiting for her carriage. 
 
 Lord Algernon immediately went up to 
 her, ushering in, or rather pushing forwards, 
 William Aubrey. 
 
 " Mother, let me present Mr William 
 Aubrey to you — brother to Captain Aubrey, 
 whom I had the honour to introduce here an 
 hour or two ago, as so distinguished by his 
 actions at sea. This present gentleman has 
 a nearer claim upon your favour — inasmuch 
 as he has achieved great actions by land— - 
 and has just saved your fair daughter. Lady 
 Emma's life, by his daring bravery." 
 
■94 AUBREY. 
 
 *^How! Wliat do you say, Algernon?" 
 exclaimed the Marchioness, without betray- 
 ing any great emotion. However, she rose 
 and returned the rather shy and reserved 
 salute of William Aubrey, which followed upon 
 Lord Algernon's half ironical introduction. 
 *' I am sure I am extremely indebted to you, 
 sir, but," turning to her son, " pray tell me 
 liow it all came to pass." 
 
 And with the instinctive dread of younger 
 -sons proper to prudent mothers, as she spoke, 
 she cast an anxious glance upon the new 
 comer. The glance satisfied her. She men- 
 tally settled it with herself that there was 
 little to be called attractive in the cold and 
 somewhat repulsive countenance before her. 
 It contrasted most unfavourably, or rather fa- 
 vourably, with the handsome, happy, animated 
 aspect of his elder brother, who stood just 
 behind him ; and, she secretly rejoiced that 
 for once the provoking course which nature 
 is for ever taking in such matters, seemed 
 reversed in her favour ; for the elder brother, 
 the heir to enormous wealth, was in this in- 
 stance as superior to the younger in every 
 personal endowment, as he was in other ad- 
 
A U B R E Y. 95 
 
 vantages. She gave vent to one sigh of 
 relief and satisfaction, and then turned to 
 William Aubrey with greater cordiality — 
 thinking he looked delightfully bilious and 
 disagreeable — and thanked him warmly for 
 the service he had done. 
 
 ^' Though what that is, I do'nt know in the 
 least," concluded she. 
 
 ^'' Nor I either," cried Lord Algernon, 
 breaking into a laugh, '" only we found 
 Emma and her horse, both of tliem in a great 
 mess — trembling and shaking — half out of their 
 senses with fright — and Mr Aubrey holding 
 the young lady^s bridle, and she crying, 
 and saying, that he had saved her life — for 
 which good office not only your ladyship, but 
 half the town, will be ready to cover him with 
 laurels; for what could this London do just 
 now without the beauteous Emma?" 
 
 "I am sure I thank you exceedingly, sir," 
 began the Marchioness; ''but how was it?" 
 
 '^ The merest trifle, madam. A carriage 
 with runaway horses, dashing through Stan- 
 hope Gate, just as Lady Emma was quitting 
 the Park. — The sum of my merits amounts 
 merely to this, that I happened to be stand- 
 
96 AUBREY. 
 
 ing there — laid hold of the bridle — and pushed 
 the horse out of the way." 
 
 " How romantic girls are !" cried Lord 
 Algernon; "Emma would have it that her 
 life had been saved at the risk of the gentle- 
 
 man's own." 
 
 " That makes no difference in our obliga- 
 tion to Mr Aubrey," said the Marchioness 
 politely. ''But what were Captain Aubrey 
 and Lord Algernon Mordaunt doing all the 
 time?" she said, turning to Edward and 
 smiling upon him. 
 
 *^ I am ashamed to say — quite ashamed, 
 Madam!" cried Edward. "We seamen are 
 such awkward brutes, especially on horse- 
 back — I was as helpless as a child. — If it had 
 not been for William, I do not know what 
 would have become of us. — Such a horrible, 
 horrible business ! It makes one shudder to 
 think of it." 
 
 "Say no more, Edward, I beg;" his brother 
 began with a good deal of impatience; " the 
 whole matter was the veriest — the most in- 
 significant trifle . . . except as regarded 
 Lady Emma's safety," he added. 
 
 " A rather important exception," replied 
 
AUBREY. 97 
 
 the Marcliioness, laugliing. " However, all's 
 well that ends well ; and I quite agree with 
 Mr Aubrev, that the less said about such 
 disagreeable things, and the sooner they are 
 forgotten, the better. One consequence, how- 
 ever, will, I hope, be permanent — the pleasure 
 of Mr Aubrey's acquaintance. I have already 
 given you a ticket, I think, for my ball. 
 Captain Aubrey — ^h Aubrey will accept 
 another. I shall be happy to see you both 
 upon the 15th." 
 
 A little more conversation in the usual 
 style — the Marchioness's carriage was an- 
 nounced, and the vouns: men rose to f[:o. 
 They all three went down stairs together, but 
 Lord Algernon was called back. 
 
 " Only just to bid you bring the elder one 
 — Captain Aubrey, I mean — to dinner to- 
 morrow. Eight o'clock ; be punctual, I pray. 
 Tour father hates late hours." 
 
 "And the other?" , 
 
 " Oh, no need to ask the other; a card for 
 my ball is quite acknowledgment enough of 
 what he has done. But, Algernon," — as he 
 was making his way to the door — "you are 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
98 AUBREY. 
 
 certain Captain Aubrey is the elder son ; the 
 other looks ten years older." 
 
 "Twin brothers; but I believe Edward is 
 the elder." 
 
 " Only believe. What do you mean — Can 
 there be any mistake? — Don't be foolish, 
 Algernon. Tell me the truth at once — This 
 is not a time for you to indulge your too 
 absurd fondness for mystifying. ... I say the 
 other looks at least ten years older." 
 
 " Poor, dear mama ! what a pass she is in," 
 said Lord Algernon, going up to the Mar- 
 chioness, and familiarly patting her cheek. 
 "What can it matter which is the elder, 
 when there is only half an hour between 
 them?" 
 
 "Do you mean by this that Mr Aubrey's 
 fortune is to be divided? — I thought it was 
 all to go to the eldest son— that would alter 
 things, indeed. In that case it would be but 
 a plebeian fortune after all." 
 
 "It is not to be divided, ma'am, and it all 
 goes to the eldest son — and it will be not 
 a plebeian but a princely fortune — and put 
 Emma up for sale when and where you will. 
 
AUBREY. 99 
 
 yon will hardly get a Letter price for her, 
 that I can assure you of, at least. — I know 
 so much from unquestionable authority." 
 
 "But are you certain which of the two 
 is the eldest son?" reiterated the mother, 
 anxiously. " I cannot help having my doubts 
 upon the matter." 
 ^ " Why, I told you, did I not?" 
 
 "Yes; but you are so heedless, and he 
 looks so much older." 
 
 " Well, then, go and ask his father." 
 
 "ProYoking boy!" 
 
 "Xay, you won't believe meJ^ 
 
 The Marchioness began to look vexed and 
 angry. 
 
 "Now, what will you give me, mother 
 mine," said he, coaxingly, "if I put you out 
 of your pain? — l^othing for nothing is my 
 maxim; and I am such a poor devil! and my 
 lord is so needy, or so stingy — what is a 
 fellow to do ? I must have a thousand pounds 
 on Thursday. — Will you get it for me?" 
 
 "Oh, Algernon! Algernon! where is this 
 to end?" 
 
 " In a cannon-ball knocking my head off, I 
 
 H 2 
 
100 AUBREY. 
 
 suppose. But come, ma'am, be generous and 
 be politic. Get this money for me, and I'll 
 not only tell you which the eldest son is, but 
 run him down for you — and Emma's as sure of 
 him as ever deer -stalker was of his prey. 
 Otherwise — mind, I promise nothing — I am 
 forced to sell my services," he went on, with a 
 harsh, careless laugh. " Service is no dis- 
 grace, though thieving is — and I must either 
 serve, beg, or steal, and that's the long and 
 short of it." 
 
 "Well, well, I'll see about it — but your 
 father is hard -pushed just now." 
 
 " The more the necessity for you to secure 
 a rich husband for Emma, and beware of mis- 
 takes — Things are just upon the balance 
 between the two men at present. They are 
 both in love with her ; any fool may see that — 
 and suppose you should encourage her to fall 
 in with the wrong man ! There would be a 
 pretty commence." 
 
 " Algernon, you are too provoking — you 
 are cruel." 
 
 " Mother, I am poor and penniless, and at 
 my wits' end." 
 
AUBREY. 101 
 
 "Well, well!" 
 
 " Promise. Give me your hand upon it — 
 a thousand pounds next Thursday, and the 
 right man comes to dinner to-morrow." 
 
 " I promise — and here is my hand upon it; 
 but you are a sad, sad, naughty hoy." 
 
 " Thank, you, dear ma'm. Well, then, it's 
 all right, and the Captain's the man." 
 
102 AUBREY. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 All ! thou art young, and life is fresli and gay, 
 And tliine eye glistens, and thy heart beats high ; 
 ISlo fear to check, no tear to wipe away, 
 No retrospect to sadden with a sigh : 
 Strong in thy youth and happiness, beware. 
 
 Mes Acton Tindal. 
 
 The two Aubrey's left the door together. 
 
 Edward was about to put bis arm within 
 William's and walk up the street with him. 
 His heart was full ; he wanted to talk over his 
 feelings with his brother and his friend. 
 
 But William shook the arm off. 
 
 "What's ihe matter?" cried Edward, now 
 for the first time perceiving the cloud upon 
 William Aubrey's face. '* William, what is 
 the matter with you ? Mj dear fellow, you 
 look quite ill ; I hope you T.^ere not hurt in 
 any way whilst saving that life — that life 
 more precious than all in the Universe besides. 
 I hope you were not hurt, dear fellow; you 
 look quite ill — won't you go home ? What 
 i^it?" 
 
AUBREY. 10 
 
 o 
 
 His brother made no answer. He only 
 turned his face homewards. His heart was 
 full of bitterness. Jealousy, that scourge 
 of love, was converting his nature to gall. 
 Once he turned round and looked at his 
 brother, as if to satiate his soul with the cruel 
 sense of his pre-eminent beauty and worth. 
 For alas ! in addition to his other cruel feelings, 
 there came upon him for the first time a sense 
 of his brother's real superiority in worth — not 
 intellectual it is true, but far better, moral 
 worth. 
 
 This conviction had been brought home to 
 him by the contrast between the generous con- 
 fidence and afiection of Ed.ward and his own 
 baseness, envy, almost hatred. — The conviction 
 that this rival brother had the advantage not 
 only as regarded the gifts of fortune, but that 
 man to man he was his superior, pressed upon 
 him for the first time in his life. 
 
 The wretched depression of his spirits as 
 he thus thought, was almost msupportablo. 
 This conviction was one of those sudden un- 
 accountable impressions which rush into the 
 mind we know not whence or wherefore, and 
 seem at once to change all its views and rela- 
 
104 AUBREY. 
 
 tions. A few hours ago, and William was exult- 
 ing in the idea, that, however inferior in worldly 
 prospects he might be, in all the higher 
 qualities he was his brother's superior; and 
 that the claim he so wildly and fiercely asserted 
 to the possession of that sweet gM's heart, 
 was justified by his own merits, moral and 
 intellectual. Hitherto he had regarded his 
 brother as amiable in truth, but thoughtless, 
 wild, and shallow. Edward had from boy- 
 hood been prone to make escapades and in- 
 volve himself in various scrapes, which had 
 cost his father both anxiety and money, and 
 though these errors were powerless to weaken 
 his parent's partiality — for unreasonable par- 
 tiality is proof against everything — still William 
 had the satisfaction in the midst of his morti- 
 fications of cultivating a proud feeling that he 
 deserved a different lot — that man to man he 
 was the superior, and that weighed in an im- 
 partial balance he would not have been found 
 wanting ; but that had arisen within him, as he 
 stood watching those two ascending the stairs 
 — as he entered the Marchioness of Hurstmon- 
 ceaux's drawing-room — which startled him 
 and made him recoil at his own heart. 
 
AUBREY. 105 
 
 The serpent was suddenly revealed there. 
 A power of evil, an intense capacity of 
 hatred — a resolute and blasphemous deter- 
 mination to rebel against fate, destiny, pro- 
 vidence, God — whatever name he mio:ht choose 
 to give to that external force, which we all 
 feel siuTounding ns. and to which we must 
 sooner or later submit, appalled him — and 
 whilst all withui him was in this rasino; 
 tumult of unhallowed thought — there stood 
 his brother, with his honest, ingenuous face, 
 beaming, as it seemed to him, like that of an 
 angel — all happiness and goodness. 
 
 The iiTitation he felt, when Edward, in so 
 affectionate and confiding a manner, laid hold 
 of his arm, was insupportable. — There are 
 humours — of the demon — of man's worst 
 adversary, they must be — when the very 
 merit of those we envy is only an additional 
 cause of aversion and hate — when we have 
 not even the excuse — the only palliation pos- 
 sible for the base passion — namely, a sense of in- 
 justice — and our evil feelings are but the more 
 intenselv bitter because we cannot dis£ruise from 
 ourselves that the happy one deserves his good 
 fortune, and that the converse is justly ours. 
 
106 AUBRET. 
 
 Every blessing that could fall upon Edward 
 he did at this moment deserve; and that 
 William knew and felt with intensity. Whilst 
 he! 
 
 "I'm not ill," he said, shaking off Edward's 
 arm somewhat roughly, " Why w^ill you bother 
 me with supposing I am ill? — I hate to be 
 thought ill — let me alone — I am only out of 
 humour." 
 
 " Out of humour, true enough ! " said 
 Edward, letting go his hold. And I confess 
 if it were any one but yourself, who are not 
 given to be pettish, I should not be surprised. 
 Colder thanks for a great service I think few 
 men ever received — but I imagined that you 
 would have disregarded it. You are a 
 philosopher you know — philosophers should 
 despise such things. The marchioness is a 
 mere heartless woman of the w^orld — that one 
 may see with half an eye. Pooh ! pooh, man ! 
 How can you let such nonsense vex you? " 
 
 "I wish you would not talk nonsense — 
 magnifying the ^ service ' as you call it, till it 
 becomes ridiculous. . . . Eeally, Edward, you 
 have lived so long out of the world, that you 
 make yourself absurd by these romantic 
 
AUBREY. 107 
 
 exaggerations — and what is not quite fair, 
 make others appear absurd also." 
 
 *' I said nothing particularly absurd or ex- 
 aggerated that I am aware of — but true enough 
 you are out of humour, as you say — and so, I 
 will, for the present, wish you a good morning." 
 
 And this saying he turned away chilled, 
 vexed, and disappointed. He had loved 
 and honoured his brother from a child, the 
 proof he had just given of spirit and pre- 
 sence of mind had filled him ^vith admiration, 
 and with almost enthusiastic gratitude — and 
 to have his demonstrations repelled in this 
 rude manner, not only wounded him as a 
 brother, but offended him as a man. 
 
 He felt hurt and irritated and by that 
 one whom, alone of all in this great metro- 
 polis he looked upon as a friend, — and 
 this sudden repulse, and the consequent 
 reaction of his feelings made him wretchedly 
 uncomfortable. What could it be that had 
 thus suddenly started up as it were between 
 them? Whence this coldness and irritation? 
 He could not understand it. Was it in truth 
 mere temper and caprice? Was the man so 
 esteemed from earliest childhood, for the 
 
108 AUBREY. 
 
 equality and firmness of his temper, sub- 
 ject like more imperfect beings, to the 
 influences of mere humour; and was he be- 
 loved so little that they were to be visited 
 upon him 1 
 
 Edward was high spirited, and possessed 
 abundance of common sense, but his feelings 
 were warm. He could not easily be provoked, 
 and he tried hard to bear the thing patiently ; 
 but he determined not to meet William again 
 till the irritation upon his own side, at least, 
 had in some degree subsided, so he resolved 
 to spend the remainder of the day from home. 
 And this he did in spite of the conversation 
 in the morning; and though he knew that his 
 father had a dinner party that day, at which 
 it would be a considerable disappointment if 
 he were not present. 
 
 But his was still a character of impulse — 
 and the more he thought of his brother's words 
 and manner, the less he found it possible to 
 meet him with cordiality. Go home just at 
 present, therefore, he could not, and he would 
 not. He was sorry to disappoint his father, 
 but the thing could not be helped. 
 
 What to do with himself? AVhy, go and 
 
AUBREY. 109 
 
 dine at the club, and make tlie best excuses 
 he could for himself in the morning. And so 
 to the Junior United Service Club he went, 
 and sat down feeling uncomfortable enough, 
 and ordered his chop, and took up the news- 
 paper — trying to read, but comprehending 
 not one word. 
 
 Sometimes the sweet smiles of Lady Emma 
 were before him, and then it was as when the 
 sun breaks out over the clouded landscape of 
 an April day; but most often his thoughts 
 took another turn. 
 
 He ran over in recollection the events of 
 his, as yet, short life. Home and its history. 
 His father, and his mother, and the loved 
 companion of his childhood—his brother 
 "William. 
 
 And then his heart swelled as it had often 
 done before, with a generous pity, as he con- 
 trasted the fond partiality of which from 
 infancy he had been the object, with the 
 checks and coldness which too often had been 
 his brother's portion. Things which the 
 warm heart of Edward had felt sensibly for 
 him, and had endeavoured to repair by the 
 strength of his own affection; and he had 
 
110 AUBREY. 
 
 believed, because it seemed so natural, that 
 his feelings met from William with an equal 
 return. 
 
 But he was not aware how far more hard 
 was AYilliam's task. Pity is a sweet sentiment ; 
 easily excited and pleasant to experience — to 
 weep with those that weep, interferes with no 
 self-love — but to rejoice with those that rejoice ; 
 — to look without envy upon the advantages 
 possessed by another — whilst the bosom is 
 perhaps rankling with the sense of injustice 
 to ourselves, this demands the true heroism 
 of the spirit — that diviner form of noble, 
 universal charity, of which the word "love" 
 is but a narrow and feeble expression. 
 
 Had Edward guessed the real cause of his 
 brother's altered manner, he would have been 
 greatly relieved, and could at once have par- 
 doned it ; but an idea of the truth never entered 
 his head ; in its place strange suspicions began 
 to arise, too painful to be endured, too base to 
 be indulged — they should not be indulged. 
 He Tv^ould not do his brother the injustice to 
 believe him to be jealous of his position and 
 advantages ; he who had, till now, shown him- 
 self so nobly exempt from the unworthy senti- 
 
AUBREY. Ill 
 
 ment, even ^vhen there liad been far greater 
 occasion to excite it. No, no, — a little temper, a 
 little ill humour — all men were subject to such 
 things — that was it. Perhaps he had said some- 
 thins: inconvenant in Eeo^ent's Park — he could 
 not remember — but he dared to say something 
 had passed which had offended his brother's 
 nice sense of propriety — best think no more 
 about it — all would be forgotten upon both 
 sides, after a night's sleep. 
 
 So he applied himself to the study of his 
 newspaper again, and was getting a little 
 more interested, and beginning to feel more 
 easy and as usual; when a hand was laid 
 upon his shoulder, he turned round, it w^as 
 Lord Algernon. 
 
 " Eight glad to have found you ! I thought 
 you were gone home, pious young man ! to 
 dine, like a good boy, vdth your governor. — I 
 despaired of catching you to-night ; and yet I 
 wanted to speak to you abominably .... and 
 this it is," sitting down and lowering his tone ; 
 ^' you must know, Edward, that I have very 
 unguardedly and foolishly got myself engaged 
 to play a match at whist, at our Club, there. 
 Now, I am afraid that the fellows, are rather 
 
112 AUBREY. 
 
 more tlian a match for me, so I am looking 
 hard for my partner. Now, you are a clever 
 hand at this, as at every other thing you set 
 about: and so I want you to accept the 
 honoured of&ce." 
 
 " I dislike playing matches," answered 
 Edward; "you know I always get off such 
 things if I can. Excuse me this time — 
 besides, to tell truth, I am very particularly 
 ill-adapted for the sort of thing to-night — my 
 head aches ; and I am so confoundedly stupid 
 and out of humour, that I should revoke or 
 something of that sort before three deals were 
 over. . . . Let me oif to-night, Mordaunt " 
 
 "Nonsense! you are only hipped, only 
 wool-gathering, and in — in .... Nonsense ! 
 man — you are the best player I know ; and I 
 counted upon you, or I never would have 
 plunged in, neck and heels, as I have. Come, 
 be good natured, Aubrey — don't disappoint 
 me this once — and I'll tell you what I have 
 got for you — an invitation from the Mar- 
 chioness to dine mth us to-morrow ! You'll 
 come — won't you?" 
 
 " Come ! — thank you — Certainly I will 
 come — but what of this match, Algernon : I 
 
AUBREY. 113 
 
 wish I could persuade you to give up playing 
 matches — at leasts betting upon your own 
 side, as in days of yore I have seen you do. 
 I hope there are no heavy bets depending upon 
 this affair." 
 
 " Oh ! a mere trifle, as far as I am concerned. 
 You Imow I have renounced high play long 
 ago. A pitiful trifle, merely to pass the time 
 away — one must kill time," stretching himself 
 and yawning, " some way or other. One 
 must kill time, or time will kill us — that I 
 know. What can one find to do? So come 
 along —let us have a dinner and a bottle of 
 claret at the club. Come along — there's a 
 good fellow;" and putting his arm under 
 Edward's, he rather dragged than led him 
 away. 
 
 Edward yielded. Alas ! he was too ready 
 to yield to his own easy obliging temper; 
 besides, was not Lord Algernon Lady 
 Emma's brother? 
 
 And now they have dined, and each 
 
 having taken a few glasses of wine, they 
 
 are gone up stairs, and Edward has been 
 
 VOL, I. I 
 
114 AUBREY. 
 
 introduced to the scene within the em- 
 broidered curtains of the portiere^ and he 
 has also been introduced to two somewhat 
 sinister-looking men, who are presented under 
 the names of Captain Locke and Mr Har- 
 greves. These gentlemen are strangers to 
 Edward, who, thinking of other things, and 
 almost mechanically, has suffered himself to 
 be set down at the whist table, and is now 
 cutting for deal. 
 
 And so they begin to play. 
 Edward, once fairly in for it, endeavoured 
 to collect his thoughts, and give his entire 
 attention to what he was about. He loved 
 this particular game, as he loved everything 
 which taxed his powers of calculation, judg- 
 ment, and memory. Alas ! that his habits of 
 life and education had not furnished him, 
 when his professional exertions were at a 
 stand, with higher objects upon which to 
 exercise these good gifts possessed by him in 
 no ordinary degree. But alas! alas! what 
 numbers around us are, every day that passes 
 over our heads, betrayed into evil courses, 
 merely by the same miserable want of some- 
 thing to do. 
 
AULTtEY. 115 
 
 Edward observed with pleasure that Lord 
 Algernon kept his word as to betting, and 
 was very moderate in this respect, at which 
 proceeding the two stranger gentlemen, as 
 he thought, looked a good deal surprised and 
 disappointed. And they now and then cast 
 side glances at the other tables, wjiere, to 
 judge by appearances, very high play was 
 going on, as if they felt that they themselves 
 were wasting time. 
 
 They played, nevertheless, with a skill and 
 attention which seemed to be habitual to 
 them, whilst Lord Algernon, to the astonish- 
 ment of Edward, never played worse in his 
 life. Kot that he made any very obvious 
 blunders, but the whole style of his play 
 that evening was greatly below his average 
 force, and this, of course, put Edward out; 
 he could not understand his partner's game. 
 The luck, too, seemed to go against them; 
 in short, the match was lost, at which Lord 
 Als^ernon rose from the table, with an air 
 of great vexation. He paid the stakes 
 and bets by a cheque upon his father's 
 banker, instead of upon his own agent; as- 
 suring the gentlemen, with a haughty laugh — 
 
 I 2 
 
116 AUBREY. 
 
 as they hesitated a little as to receiving 
 it — that he had credit at that house to cover 
 a much larger sum than the one in question 
 — adding that, if they did not like to take 
 his paper, he could give them his note of 
 hand, which he would cash if they would 
 take the trouble to call at his father's house 
 any time that evening, or the following day. 
 
 The cheque was received without further 
 demur ; and then Lord Algernon put his arm 
 under Edward's. 
 
 "I never saw you play worse," he said, 
 speaking loud enough to be heard by every 
 one present. 
 
 " Nay — I did my best — but I told you I 
 was not in the right humour. And give me 
 leave to say, if I was not in force, I know 
 another who was a good deal further below 
 his usual mark." 
 
 "Pooh! I played very well — I never re- 
 collect playing better," and involuntarily he 
 squeezed Edward's arm. 
 
 Edward suddenly looked up into his com- 
 panion's face — interrogatively — as much as to 
 say — 'what do you mean by that?' 
 
 But the face was turned away, and the arm 
 
AUBREY. 117 
 
 instantaneously relaxed, and Lord Algernon 
 drew Edward, mthout fiu'tlier parley, out of 
 the room, and into the street, and when there, 
 after a little pause he said : 
 
 " I never was more vexed in my life than 
 to lose this match, and to those two fellows — 
 and lucky I did not get heated, and bet in 
 the mad way I sometimes do. It provokes 
 one to lose his money to a couple of snobs." 
 
 "I wonder you choose to play with snobs. I 
 think I never saw a more complete couple of 
 such in my life. — TTho are they ?" 
 
 "Oh! they are not nobodies, as you may 
 think — they are admitted into society — you 
 see them everywhere. One is the man who 
 has made untold sums in India ; the other is 
 heir to the great contractor — he who realized 
 his million, they say, by victualling his 
 Majesty's navy. I don t suppose his beef was 
 exactly Scotch ox — rather hard of digestion, 
 some say — but what of that ? Seamen must 
 not be dainty — and a millionaire has no sins. 
 But if he don't take care, they say, his son 
 will get through the million in no time — not if 
 he plays with the luck he did to-night, though." 
 
 " Misery makes a man acquainted vrith 
 
118 AUBREY. 
 
 strange company, and so does the whist table," 
 said Edward, "I wish one had anything 
 better to do." 
 
 '' What can a man do better whilst he is 
 ashore? — What can poor devils of seamen 
 find to do better ? — At least, I for one cannot 
 — I can't be dangling all day in ladies' draw- 
 ing-rooms, or be disgracing myself in Kotten 
 Eow by sitting my horse like a tailor. What 
 on earth is there for men like you or me to do 
 but amuse ourselves ?" 
 
 " What indeed !" . 
 
 William Aubrey went home in no better 
 humour than his brother. 
 
 jSTay, worse, for he was angry with himself, 
 as well as with all the world — out of sorts as 
 regarded all around and within him. 
 
 Those two figures ascending the stairs 
 together haunted him : and he read in that 
 little group, as in some hieroglyphical scroll, 
 that which made his heart die within him. 
 
 Besides, he knew the world well enough to 
 understand all that was implied in the Mar- 
 
AUBREY. 119 
 
 chioness's manner; and never had lie so 
 bitterly felt the immensity of the distance 
 which custom and prejudice had placed 
 between himself and his brother. And, I 
 think it is not till love mingles its interests 
 with those of money, that an earnest mind like 
 the one before ns cares about it. Most young 
 people are disinterested enough as regards 
 mere wealth, till the possession of it or the 
 want of it affects their prospects as regards 
 the heart. 
 
 True enough William had long been alive to 
 the position in which he was placed by general 
 opinion, and by his father's decided views as 
 regarded the rights of primogeniture, views 
 which Mr Aubrey carried to the utmost extent 
 to which a proud and ambitious temper can 
 lead. — From a mere child he had been made 
 to feel this, and in a manner few children 
 are capable of feeling such things; but now 
 those sensations began to assume a bitterness, 
 and to excite an exasperation hitherto un 
 known, and which frightened eten himself. 
 
 He looked upon himself as an outcast — ex- 
 cluded—shut out from the dearest objects of 
 the heart by his inflexible destiny. 
 
120 AUBREY. 
 
 What was he ? — what could he ever be ? 
 
 Should he toil in an ungrateful profession 
 — pass all the best years of life in arduous 
 exertions and the lonely solitude of heart — 
 looked down upon yfith civil contempt — as 
 a thing most carefully to be watched and 
 avoided by those he alone cared to interest or 
 please? Forbidden even the endeavour to 
 make himself acceptable to her, whom he had 
 thought — whom he still thought — ^lie might 
 have had the power to win. 
 
 But what — granted that she might have been 
 won to love him — what as things stood had 
 he to offer ? — The miserable pittance of a few 
 hundreds a year, and — love! — Love in a 
 cottage ! — a lot such as love in a cottage 
 appears to the children of this world — of this 
 our century. And this, whilst his brother — 
 his rival brother — the brother sent into the 
 world just half an hour before himself — 
 possessed enormous expectations to lay at her 
 feet — all that pride, pomp, wealth, and luxury 
 — which offermg it was evident the mother 
 would be too happy to accept. 
 
 What had lie to offer to this lovely girl as 
 the recompense for her heart? — if that heart 
 
AUBREY. 121 
 
 on him were generously bestowed — liow could 
 he — and how could his brother — reward her ? 
 
 Oh ! true love is prodigal — is grasping. 
 All the gems of the Indies seem too poor to 
 Javish upon its idol : and the man who can 
 despise wealth as regards himself, feels as a 
 very beggar, when he wants the oblation to 
 offer to the bright particular star he worships. 
 
 William Aubrey's feelings vfere partly 
 noble, generous, and good; partly envious, 
 jealous, and bad — but good or bad they were 
 alike painful. 
 
 All was but pain — pain — pain. 
 
 Again he went into the Park, for he hated 
 the idea of returning to his father's house: 
 but here, as elsewhere, the crowds oppressed, 
 and seemed almost to suffocate him. So he 
 turned to Kensington Gardens, and plunged 
 among the thickest and most unfrequented 
 solitudes, there to indulge his misery. 
 
 The misery of a most lonely and despairing 
 heart. 
 
 He looked round. He wanted some one to 
 whom he might open his heart; some tender 
 female breast upon which he might repose ! 
 
 Hitherto he had in every trouble sufficed 
 
122 AUBREY. 
 
 to himself, but now he yearned for tenderness 
 and sympathy. He was so utterly dis- 
 heartened that he felt, what we have all more 
 or less at times experienced, the necessity for 
 seeking some arbiter of conscience — some other 
 one to decide how far our feelings are justifi- 
 able or wrong — to draw the moral line which 
 we are too much agitated by passion to trace 
 for ourselves. 
 
 Unhappy man. He had no mother, — he 
 never had known what it was to have a 
 mother. She who when living had claimed 
 the name was now dead, but living or dead it 
 was the same thing, she had been no mother 
 to him. She had always professed — she seemed 
 to take an unnatural pride in professing — how 
 little she cared for him. As if she magnified 
 her idol and justified her partiality, by under- 
 valuing the unfortunate other child. People 
 blamed her much, some even remonstrated, 
 but the thoughtless and heartless woman 
 seemed to imagine it quite excuse enough to 
 reply with ail unfeeling laugh, that for her 
 part she wondered Avhat any one could see in 
 William to put him in comparison with 
 Edward, whom she thought the most charming 
 
AUBREY. 123 
 
 cliild she ever had seen. She could not help 
 it, but there was something about the other 
 which made him quite her pet aversion. 
 
 " I can't conceive what you all see in him," 
 she would say. 
 
 Sister there was none, to make up in some 
 deo-ree for this cruel alienation ; kind maidenly 
 aunt, there was none to act the part of more 
 than mother to the rejected child. Not one 
 female relation had the boy sufficiently near 
 to atone in some degree for the unnatural 
 mother's injustice — yet was there one woman, 
 obscure of station indeed, but strong and 
 fervent in heart, who he felt had loved him 
 from his cradle, with that love which passeth 
 gl^ow — which finds little vent in words or 
 caresses, but is deep, strong, and partial, and 
 always there. 
 
 This woman, in short, was no other than 
 his wet-nurse — Alice Craven. 
 
 ^' Nay, take him away, I cannot abide the 
 sight of him. ]f never saw such an ugly little 
 wretch of a thing in my life." 
 
124 AUBREY. 
 
 " He appears to be a very delicate child, 
 madam," said the doctor, looking with a 
 benevolent interest at the wretched half- 
 starved infant — " and I repeat what I before 
 said — that the only chance of rearing him 
 lies in sending him out of town immediately. 
 The young woman I have brought with me is 
 a highly respectable person — whom I have 
 known all my life. She is married to Mr 
 Clarkson's gamekeeeper, and lives down in 
 Sussex; and the fine air of those hills will 
 give the child a better chance for life than 
 anything else we can do — I am no advocate, 
 in general, for wet-nursing, far less for sending 
 infants out of their own nursery — out to 
 nurse — as was the fashion some years ago — 
 but this is an exceptional case. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! do just what you like — only 
 leave me my own sweet, darling baby " — 
 looldng down with pride at the beautiful 
 infant sleeping by her side — " and do what 
 you will with the other — for I never shall 
 abide him." 
 
 " Madam," said the Doctor gravely — 
 " these are strange words." 
 
 Upon which she opened wide her large, 
 
AUBREY. ]25 
 
 proud, amazed eyes, whicli said as plainly as 
 eyes could speak,— ''What ! Do you presume 
 to lecture me ! " 
 
 He saw it would not do, but the look only 
 confirmed him in his opinion. The infant 
 could be no loser, as he thought, in any way, 
 by being removed from such a mother, and 
 his best chance for life lay in the fresh air of 
 the country. This heartless young lady, 
 when she saw him return a fine blooming boy, 
 might learn better than to indulge this un- 
 natural aversion. 
 
 I doubt whether he judged rightly in thus 
 separating the parties, but it was done for 
 
 the best. 
 
 ''Would you like to see the wet nurse, 
 
 madam? " 
 
 "l^Yell — yes — just as you please — Yes — I 
 think I may as well see her — ^but I really am 
 horribly exhausted — quite feverish, doctor, 
 with all this fuss — Nurse, for goodness sake, 
 give me something." 
 
 " Had not you better, my lady, dispense 
 with seeing the young woman," begins the 
 nurse in her most blanditious tone. " Keally, 
 madam, you seem quite overdone — Let me 
 
126 AUBREY. 
 
 take away tlie sweet angel baby. — What, my 
 prince ! — are you opening your beautiful eyes 
 — Look! and if tliey arn't just for all the 
 wide world like his own dear mama's. Oh ! 
 but ain't he a precious jewel?" 
 
 Hugging him to her old deceitful bosom, 
 whilst the doctor turned away thoroughly 
 disgusted, and opened the door himself to 
 introduce the young woman, whom he pro- 
 posed to engage as wet nurse. 
 
 She was a handsome, intelligent, clever- 
 looking young person, with every appearance 
 of health, — though of dark, rather than florid 
 complexion. 
 
 The lady cast her eyes carelessly upon her. 
 " Well, I should not think you would make 
 such a capital wet nurse," she said. 
 
 " Pardon me, madam," put in the doctor. 
 "I will engage for that. This lady and I, 
 Mrs Craven," he said, " think that if it would 
 be agreeable to you — you had better take 
 the child altogether under your care — I mean 
 carry him home with you — for he is a very 
 delicate baby — and I doubt whether there is 
 any chance of rearing him if we keep him in 
 town. I have known you for some time — I 
 
AUBREY. 127 
 
 think I may trust you — I rely upon your 
 care," he said emphatically, almost severely, 
 
 "children in these cases have often not 
 
 justice done to them — I shall expect, and I 
 shall take care to know that you do justice to 
 this child. — Eecollect, that you will be 
 answerable not only to his parents, but 
 to mel'^ 
 
 He looked at her with meaning. 
 She coloured a little — then she fixed a pair 
 of fine intelligent eyes upon the doctor's face, 
 and said with some spirit — "I understand 
 you^ sir, — God do so to me, and more also if 
 I do not my best by this baby." 
 
 '' Madam, you may trust her implicitly," 
 said the doctor, turning to the lady. 
 
 " La ! what a solemn fuss you make about 
 the commonest thing in the world — why 
 everybody used to be brought up in this way 
 — but I think the world is children mad at 
 present." And she prepared to turn round 
 and compose herself to sleep. 
 
 The doctor put the baby into the young 
 woman's arms. — "You may take him now," 
 he said, — "my carriage shall carry you down 
 
128 AUBREY. 
 
 to Mitchani Bark — it is about twenty miles 
 ofF, I tliink.'^ 
 
 " Will you not please to kiss tlie child, 
 ma'am, before he goes ? " asked the wet nurse. 
 
 ''La ! — yes — oh you horrid fright " — as the 
 mantle was opened — " No, 1 positively can't 
 kiss it — but, au re voir, my young man," 
 stroking his little, thin, red hand, in a 
 playful, careless sort of manner — ''And if you 
 can, good woman, bring me back something a 
 little less horrid looking — Do you hear, young 
 woman?" 
 
 She turned on her pillow, — the wet nurse 
 pressed the poor unconscious baby to her 
 heart. — The good doctor saw the action and 
 was satisfied. 
 
AUBREY. 129 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 Under tlie greenwood tree, 
 Oh ! Tvlio Trill live with me 
 And hear the sweet birds' note. — Shakspeaee. 
 
 The rejected child was taken to the solitary 
 hills of Sussex; the heart of the foster- 
 mother swelling high with all a woman's 
 generous tenderness to the oppressed and 
 unfortunate. 
 
 Closely nestling to her hosom she carried 
 him, whilst her own boy, a little infant about 
 the same age, was consigned to the arm of a 
 female friend. 
 
 Eight glad was Alice Craven to be allowed 
 to carry the child home with her, for it had 
 been a sore thing to leave her husband and 
 have to seek a place of wet nurse in the great 
 metropolis. But misfortune upon misfortune 
 had visited the hapless gamekeeper. He had 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
130 AUBREY. 
 
 begun by losing, for him, a large sum of 
 money — nearly the whole amount of his 
 savings — through the failure of a bank in 
 which they had been deposited. His master 
 had been head partner in that bank; and 
 in its shipwreck he himself was totally ruined. 
 All his servants were discharged as a matter 
 of course, and poor Craven found himself not 
 only out of place, but suffering under rheu- 
 matic fever J the result of his exertions during 
 the nights of a most inclement and tempes- 
 tuous winter. 
 
 He had to enter the hospital. — His wife to 
 live as she could. He had recovered at last, and 
 they had just lately obtained the place at Mr 
 Clarkson's, but the furnishing of their cottage 
 and various expenses, incident to a long ill- 
 ness, had put them sadly behind in the world ; 
 
 so that when their little one was born, it 
 
 was resolved upon between them that, as the 
 only chance of redeeming their circumstances, 
 Alice should engage herself as wet nurse. 
 
 Dr F., the great lying-in physician, was very 
 well known to Alice; who had indeed been 
 brought up from infancy in his house — 
 serving there in various capacities until she 
 
AUBREY. 131 
 
 left it, with the doctor's approbation, to be 
 married to Craven, — a very respectable man, 
 though nearly twenty years older than herself. 
 
 She loved him, nevertheless, with all the 
 honest warmth of a true woman's heart, and 
 as the doctor's carriage rolled pleasantly 
 along, her joy at being restored to her hus- 
 band so soon thus expanded itself to her 
 friend and companion Hesther Baker, who 
 had accompanied her from Sussex : — 
 
 "I am so glad, Hetty, to be back with 
 Craven again, for he is mighty weakly still — 
 and wants his wife very badly at times to 
 look after him, — for he's one that never 
 thinks of himself. — It was very, very good, 
 and kind of Dr F. to plan for me to bring the 
 babe down here." 
 
 ''So I think — aiid it will make Master 
 Craven glad at his heart to have you back 
 again — But, Alice, excuse an old friend for 
 speaking her mind — I doubt whether having 
 these tico children to take care of, and no one 
 to look after you or them — and one your own 
 child, and the other an alien and a stransfer — 
 I doubt but it may be a snare to you, Alice. — 
 
 K 2 
 
132 AUBEEY. 
 
 Blood is thicker than water. — It will be hard 
 to do justice between them." 
 
 ^'Do you think so?" pressing the little 
 stranger, who now hung upon her breast. — 
 ^^ Do you think so? Well, I should have 
 thought so an hour ago — thought so, if this 
 child had been a fine, strong, happy, pros- 
 perous baby. But I'll tell you what, Hetty, 
 with such a mother as that one — I think the 
 very beggar born on a dunghill is better off 
 than he, in spite of his fine clothes — and even 
 his very clothes look to me less handsome 
 than his brother's, and I feel the greatest pity 
 for the poor weeny thing — and I can love it 
 — aye just as I should, and would, have done 
 if he and that little dark-eyed rascal there 
 had been twins. — Yes, I can, and shall — you 
 dear monkey — and you must remember, sir, 
 that if you are turned off to the cow, it's all 
 for your sake — and his, that's better than 
 ever you will be — that it's done." 
 
 " Well, I hope and I trust you'll keep to it 
 — and recollect what the doctor said as he put 
 the babe into your arms in the carriage. — 
 He's a good, but he's a dour man is Dr F., if 
 as how he thought any child of Ids was 
 
AUBREY. 133 
 
 ■wronged bv any nurse of his'n — it would be 
 hard if he ever forgave it." 
 
 '^ I would'nt offend him for all the whole 
 world," said Alice, with a look of dismay, — 
 " and Fm half afraid to think, after what you 
 say. that I have undertaken the charge of one of 
 Ids. If any harm came to it, he'd never, 
 never, forgive me — and who knows? It's 
 such a delicate-looking little darling. — Oh 
 Hetty, Hetty, I begin to wish I never had art 
 or part in this business — and you, my little 
 own one, what right had I to sell your flesh 
 and blood?" 
 
 " Don't fret — don't fret, Alice — I'm sorry 
 I said what I did — but one's so afraid for 
 those who enter into temptation — and it is 
 a temptation — ^but you Avere right to do as 
 you have done — a God above will keep you if 
 you bravely try to do your duty. — Twins^ 
 aye twins ! — That is the way to look upon it 
 — you must try to think you had twins — 
 Only one is the weakliest and the most to be 
 pitied, and you must be just the opposite of 
 that grand, bad lady — and just take the most 
 care of it upon that account, — and do more 
 for it, for fear you should do less by it." 
 
134 AUBREY. 
 
 '^ And so I will — and so I shall — and you 
 shall see, Hetty — you and the doctor and all 
 the world, — whether I don't turn him out 
 when the year is over as fine a baby as the 
 best." 
 
 The gamekeeper's cottage stood in a wood, 
 which sjDread over a vast extent of hill and 
 dale country, in the most secluded part of the 
 centre of Sussex. 
 
 It was, indeed, a lonely spot, and rarely 
 visited, for neighbours there were none within 
 a couple of miles, and Alice and her husband 
 passed weeks and even months without seeing 
 human face, except of the underkeepers, with 
 whom the young woman had little or nothing 
 to do. 
 
 She found it all the more easy upon that 
 account to perform her duty by these two 
 children. Her husband excepted, they occupied 
 all her time, and were quite sufficient to fill her 
 life with interests. Alice was one of those who 
 live in their heart and affections — a woman of 
 strong passions, and high imagination unusual 
 in those of her position. In these she seemed to 
 live, and what is rarely found with those in her 
 rank of life, who seem to find it impossible to 
 
AUBREY. 
 
 135 
 
 exist without society, and to consider dullness 
 as the greatest affliction that can befal them,— 
 she was quite content to dwell in the almost 
 absolute solitude of the woodland wilderness 
 
 around her. 
 
 She was, as I have said, a woman of intense 
 feeling and great imagination— a poet un- 
 known to herself.— The beauty of the woods— 
 the sweet sounds and varied notes that are 
 heard in the branches— the music of the wind- 
 nature's great organ pipe— whether breathmg 
 softly among the branches, or in a roar of 
 full diapason sweeping along the tops of the 
 oaks— the primrose and wood anemonies of 
 gpping_wild briars and brown nuts of 
 summer and autumn— and all the varied tints 
 and changes of the fleeting, ever beautiful, 
 year were to her sources of intense delight. 
 
 And pretty it was to see her, when the 
 labour of the day was over, sitting by the 
 side of a clear bubbling brook, that wandered 
 through the moss and wild flowers, and lost 
 itself In the thickets hard by the cottage. 
 She, busy at her needle-work,— the picture of 
 neatness and rural beauty, Immming a low 
 sono- and rocking the cradle with her foot in 
 
136 AUBREY. 
 
 which the two infants lay. Whilst the 
 cuckoo was calling, the throstles and black- 
 hirds filling the bushes and tree-tops with 
 melody — and the nightingale, at a little 
 distance singing his fill. 
 
 So the gamekeeper found her. One sweet 
 afternoon it was. The setting sun gleaming 
 through the trees, throwing his slant beams 
 upon her golden hair, and shedding a yellow 
 beauty upon the thickets and bushes around 
 her. 
 
 He paused, and looked upon her with his 
 grave, serious eye, as he leaned upon his gun, 
 — and watched her as she lifted her head from 
 her work — and stooped over, and looked into 
 the cradle as a little whine was heard to 
 proceed from it. Then she kneeled down by 
 the side and soothed the little complainer to 
 sleep again, and then bending down kissed 
 first one and then the other, and so, serene and 
 peaceful, took up her sewing once more. 
 
 The serenity and peace that were upon that 
 face at this period of her life it was, in itself, 
 a delight to behold. 
 
 " That's right," said the honest gamekeeper 
 to himself, — " that's just as I would have it. 
 
AUBREY. 137 
 
 And yet, it's a marvel to me how she can do 
 it. Come when I may, look after matters as 
 jealously as I will — it's all the same — I never 
 catch her tripping — It's all as if they were 
 twins — as she promised me. No one could 
 guess which was her own child, only, if there 
 is a preference, it's always for the t'other one." 
 
 '' Thou art a good lass, Alice," he went on, 
 coming up to her, and laying his hand upon 
 her shoulder. 
 
 She started up and turned round, and the 
 sudden glow of joy came into her face — as it 
 always did when he returned home safe. 
 
 It was a perennial feeling — every day the 
 same — the same gush of joy when he came 
 home. 
 
 He who was indeed her hest friend — ^loved, 
 honoured, and obeyed, as the superior, the 
 protector, the firm and wise adviser — the all 
 on earth to her, and he deserved it. 
 
 A woman's love is an inexhaustible spring, 
 gushing forth in the desert of life, and making 
 the wilderness to flourish like a rose. 
 
 " Thou art a good lass," he had said, and 
 his manly features and dark eye were beaming 
 with satisfaction and approbation. 
 
138 AUBREY. 
 
 " I liarclly thought," he went on, still keeping 
 his large arm, covered with the rough shooter's 
 jacket, over her slender and delicate shoulders. 
 "I hardly thought, my good girl — though I 
 knew all along thou wert no common one — 
 that thou couldst stand by thy good inten- 
 tions so bravely and truthfully as thou hast 
 done." 
 
 They sat down upon the mossy bank to- 
 gether, he still fondly keeping his arm around 
 her. 
 
 "Dost thou know, Alice, when thou 
 brought'st that babe home, my heart misgave 
 me fearfully?" 
 
 "I don't know why it should," she said, 
 looking up into his eyes. '' Could you not 
 trust me with it?" 
 
 " If I could have trusted any woman, I 
 could trust thee; but mother's love is so 
 strong. The God above sent it for the best 
 of purposes, — he made the mother's heart 
 bolder than the brave man's — softer than 
 the brooding dove's — more terrible than the 
 lion in its fury. It was a good and wise 
 purpose, for all his gifts are good ; but man — 
 .man — he misdirects and mars the good gifts 
 
AUBREY. 139 
 
 of tlie Almighty, and the stream which in its 
 native bed brings refreshment and blessing to 
 all — driven from its course, only mischiefs 
 and harms. I am no scholar, Alice, and I 
 can't put into words all I feel; but I was 
 afraid — and that's the long and short of it — 
 that because thou hast such a true mother's 
 feeling in thy breast, tlierefore it would be the 
 more impossible for thee to do thy duty." 
 
 " But it has been made quite easy to me, 
 you see, Godfrey ; for I love this child as my 
 own. I feel as if it had no mother of its 
 own, and I am so sorry for it." 
 
 " That is well, for do you know, Alice, if I 
 thouo'ht vou unmindful of your dutv, or if 
 any hurt were to come to this child entrusted 
 to our good faith, I think I should go wild — 
 I think — I think — I could never forgive — not 
 even thee, Alice." 
 
 " Don't talk so, pray don't talk so — you 
 frighten me. I do my best ; you know I do ; 
 but God only knows —suppose the child should 
 fall sick and die." 
 
 A cloud passed over the strong face of the 
 man of the woodlands — that brave, daring, 
 high-spirited man. 
 
140 AUBREY. 
 
 " Sick ! and die !— Don't let it— that's all 
 — Babies never die but through want of care 
 — what art thou talking of, Alice — As if thou 
 wer't preparing me — it bodes no good to talk 
 in that way — Don't let it die — Do you hear 
 me" — and he withdrew his arm on her shoulder 
 — "for mark my words — I never would and 
 I never could forgive thee, if that child were 
 to die." 
 
 Alice turned pale — she dreaded her hus- 
 band's displeasure above all things — he was 
 as the mighty thunderer to the fair and frail 
 one — strong in his love — but annihilating in 
 his anger. 
 
 She had seen him angry once or twice — 
 not with herself, and not without cause — for 
 his anger had been excited by deeds of cruelty 
 on the part of those under his orders — but it 
 had been terrible — she shuddered whenever 
 she thought of it. 
 
 The babes began to move and to cry. 
 
 She took them up — one in each arm — and 
 brought them to her husband — " And which 
 looks the best ? " asked she, and smiled. 
 
 "Why that little urchin — I declare I 
 hardly know one from the other — but this 
 
AUBREY. 141 
 
 one seems to me the bonniest — and that's not 
 our's, Alice — " 
 
 *' No," said Alice, and she turned a little pale, 
 and her eye saddened; ^' I have done my duty 
 — but that's not our's — poor baby, he was born 
 the strongest of the two — but he's not the 
 strongest now." 
 
 '' Never mind, lass — never vex thvself — o:et 
 him alons^ some how or other till he's eisrh- 
 teen months old, and then we'll see if we 
 don't make a man of him." 
 
 ^' Ah ! " sighed Alice, and a dark presenti- 
 ment of evil, which had haunted her ever 
 since she had undertaken her task, came over 
 her — " Ah ! eighteen months ! — That's a long 
 time, to." 
 
 And too true — when at the end of two 
 years — for so long was the little William 
 Aubrey allowed to remain with his foster 
 mother — when at the end of two years Alice 
 brought the boy to his parents, she returned 
 to a desolate home — she had sometime been 
 a childless mother. 
 
 She never had any other children — and she 
 lived on in the secluded forest a desolate 
 woman. 
 
142 AUBREY. 
 
 She never altogether recovered the loss of 
 her child. The event had happened when 
 her husband was far away in Scotland, where 
 he had been detained nearly six months. 
 
 It had been impossible for Godfrey to re- 
 join his wife in this time of heavy trial. 
 People in his condition are still more the 
 slaves of circumstances than those above them 
 — it is unnecessary to enter into the details 
 of these. — Suffice it to say, that Alice was 
 constrained to meet this great sorrow alone — 
 and such was its effect upon her that from 
 that time forth she became an altered woman. 
 She said little — but at times expressions of 
 remorse would mingle with her grief. — It 
 seemed as if she could not be comforted — In 
 vain her friend Hesther endeavoured to con- 
 sole her for having given the little one a 
 rival — 
 
 She was, however, better after Godfrey 
 returned — 
 
 And her face lightened up with a strange 
 troubled joy, when laying his hand upon her 
 head he said solemnly — 
 
 " We ought to thank God that it pleased 
 him to take that one." 
 
AUBREY. 143 
 
 "It is a hard saying, dear Alice," he added 
 kindly, bending towards her and striving to 
 comfort her — ' ' a hard saying for thee, poor, 
 childless mother — but let us thank God 
 nevertheless — thou did'st thy duty — He will 
 remember thee in the day when he maketh up 
 his jewels, and thou shalt have thy child 
 again — doubt it not." 
 
 But at that she cried bitterly. It was as 
 if she could not be comforted. 
 
 " Mrs Craven is here," said the footman, as 
 William at last returning home was wearily 
 re-entering the house. 
 
 His first feeling was vexation. 
 
 He was not in a humour to see even her. — 
 He was fond of his nurse. — Still she could 
 not compensate for the immensity of the 
 want which pressed upon him. 
 
 He felt ashamed of this unamiable feeling, 
 and recovering himself, "Where is she?" 
 asked he. 
 
 " Up in your study, sir." 
 
 " Has she had anything to eat and drink?" 
 
144 AUBREY. 
 
 " A cup of tea in the housekeeper's room, 
 sir — Mrs Anderson has taken good care of 
 her." 
 
 ''That is right." 
 
 " Mammy ! — " as he opened the door — " I 
 am glad to see you." 
 
 "Child ! — Mr William" — rising up, taking 
 his hand, and looking upon him with such a 
 look! 
 
 . . . '• Such, as the mother ostrich fixes 
 on her young, 
 
 When that intense affection wakens the 
 breath of life." 
 
 " It's a long, long time, since I have been 
 to see you, Mr William." 
 
 "You don't come often, good Mammy — Sit 
 down, my dear Y\roman — why don't you come 
 oftener ? " 
 
 '' I don't like to be troublesome," she said, 
 '' Your father's fine servants don't fancy me 
 too much, as it is — and, perhaps, you would 
 be tired of seeing your poor nui^se's face if 
 she came too often— eh? — Mr William." 
 
 "Pooh! — Don't talk nonsense — You know 
 I'm always glad to see you — and how's God- 
 frey Craven?" 
 
AUBREY. 145 
 
 " Why, he's ailing." 
 
 " Ailing ! What's the matter with him? " 
 
 " The old matter and worse — he's fast 
 losing the use of his limbs." 
 
 " You don't say so — and Avhat are you both 
 to do?" 
 
 "May—" 
 
 She said no more, she looked wistfully at 
 him. 
 
 " Kay ! That's no answer — what do you 
 purpose to do ? " 
 
 The woman seemed hurt at the way in 
 which he spoke, as if she expected something 
 more than this. 
 
 At last she articulated, but as with some 
 difficulty : 
 
 " You robbed him of his son." 
 
 " I ! — Now mammy — or Alice Craven." 
 
 " Don't call me Alice Craven," she said 
 angrily — " Call me mammy." 
 
 '' Well, mammy — you are always casting 
 that up to me, — as if" he added with bitter- 
 ness, — "it was my fault, that a helpless infant 
 I was driven from the bosom of an 
 unnatural mother, and cast upon the tender 
 mercies of a stranger — You proved yourself 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
146 AUBEEY. 
 
 a motlier and more I am sure, than a mother 
 or at least than my mother to me — And you 
 know — or ought to know, I feel deeply grate- 
 ful for your care — and all that I can do, all 
 that it is reasonable for me to do — " 
 
 " Eeasonable ! " she muttered to herself. 
 
 " Yes, reasonable — you know I am always 
 ready to do — but, Alice, you sometimes vex 
 me — you seem to assert a claim over me that 
 is more than I can exactly acknowledge — you 
 know I am a man of a peculiar nature — not a 
 particularly amiable one, I am afraid — and the 
 more things of this kind are pressed upon me, 
 the more inclined I feel to resist them. Tell 
 me what you want — ask what you wish, 
 but do not remind me of the wrong done to 
 your poor little child, when I was a baby — in 
 which others, not I — were art and part." 
 
 ^' Yes, yes, it was all my own fault — ^blame 
 me for it — Say what you will." 
 
 " I blame nobody. We were all in the com- 
 mon case — the case of most human beings — of 
 all but the very strong willed — we are the mere 
 sport of circumstances, over which we have no 
 control, and which we are too blind to bend 
 to our good, even if we could control them. 
 
AUBREY. 147 
 
 But let us have done with retrospect. Tell me 
 what you want me to do for Godfrey Craven." 
 
 "What his son would have done for him 
 — if he had had that son whom you — I 
 mustn't say that again, it seems — whom I — 
 and other things robbed him of." 
 
 " Well, what would that son, do you sup- 
 pose, hrf\'e done?" 
 
 " He would have maintained him." 
 
 " But I have not money to maintain him — 
 not as he ought to be maintained — not as I 
 wish. You know the allowance my father 
 gives me is not a large one." 
 
 " Shame !" she said bitterly. 
 
 " He has his own notions upon the subject — 
 and probably just ones. As I am to have only a 
 younger son's portion, he thinks I ought to be 
 accustomedto do without money — so he gives me 
 an allowance proportioned to my expectations." 
 
 " Whilst the Captain . . ." 
 
 " Has one in proportion to his expectations." 
 
 " Sham.e ! — shame !" 
 
 " Nay, mammy, don't look so black — it's the 
 way of the world." 
 
 " It's a very vile, bad, and unjust one — 
 and so I will ever say." 
 
 L 2 
 
148 AUBSEY. 
 
 " And so you ever have said — over and 
 over again — and so let it now be said for the 
 last time — for there is no remedy." 
 
 " And you ! — so handsome, so good, and so 
 clever !" 
 
 " And so is the Captain, as you call him, 
 much handsomer, quite as clever, and a thou- 
 sand times more good." 
 
 "I don't believe it — I don't believe it — 
 everybody says how clever you are — but only 
 to think of your being poor — I can hardly 
 credit that." 
 
 " Yes, good mam — I really am poor — poor 
 for my wants and position. These things are 
 relative — I declare I do not believe there is 
 an honest labourer's son in the kingdom who 
 is so often pressed for money as I am." 
 
 Alice seemed actually to writhe with pain. 
 Her eyes were fixed upon the ground. At 
 last, composing herself with considerable diffi- 
 culty, she said : 
 
 " And you look ill, Mr William — but I don't 
 wonder you look ill — bad treatment makes us 
 all look ill." 
 
 "I am not badly treated, my good nurse, 
 don't talk in that way." 
 
AUBREY. 
 
 149 
 
 " But I say you are— To set one brother so 
 above another 1" 
 
 " It's the way of the world, dear mammy— 
 If you love me, say no more about it." 
 
 " But why do you look so ill?" 
 
 "Do I look ill? — I was not aware that I 
 
 was looking ill." 
 
 " Ah ! ^Ir William, Mr William !— some- 
 thing is amiss at your heart— I can see it — I 
 
 can see it." 
 
 " To be sure," she went on, "it is not for 
 such as I to be trusted with the secrets of 
 such as you— but if I knew what ailed you, I 
 could— I could find something, perhaps, to 
 comfort you," she added, rising and putting 
 her hand fondly upon his shoulders, and look- 
 ing up beseechingly in his face. 
 
 But recollecting herself— for there was an 
 almost imperceptible motion of the shoulders, 
 as if to shake off the hand— she shrank back 
 and resumed her seat. 
 
 His heart smote him as she did this— for 
 the hardness of his pride— so he went and sat 
 down by her, and took her hand. 
 
 '' Mammy," he said, " if I were to tell you 
 what ailed me, could you keep it to yourself? 
 
150 AUBREY. 
 
 You are not like other women^you could keep 
 it sacredly to yourself." 
 
 ''Ah! child— ah! Mr William!— do you 
 think that they could drag out of me, by wild 
 horses, what concerns you ! — or burn it out of 
 me with red hot irons? Tell your poor 
 mammy what's the matter — for something is 
 the matter — something does ail you." 
 
 "Nurse," he said, and his whole counte- 
 nance flushed up into a crimson glow — " What 
 if William Aubrey was in love?" 
 
 "Dear, dear child! is that all?" she said, 
 much relieved, and her face becoming serene 
 at once. 
 
 "Is that all? — Surely there can be no 
 great harm in that — Surely you'll not love in 
 vain, with your beautiful face — for beautiful 
 it is, though, perhaps, not altogether so 
 blooming and handsome as the Captain's 
 — and surely, with that sweet, thoughtful 
 smile — and that thinking brow, as one may 
 say, of your's — you're out and out more inter- 
 esting than the Captain — and everybody 
 agrees he's a charming young man ! " 
 
 First a pensive, melancholy smile of aifec- 
 tion, and then a darkened, clouded brow 
 
AUBUEY. 151 
 
 answered this effusion, but V\^iHiam spoke 
 
 not. 
 
 ''What's the matter, my dearest hoy?— 
 what's the matter, Mr William? Why 
 should you be crossed in love— all true lovers 
 as I've heard and partly know, are apt to be 
 despairing. It's a sure sign of the passion. 
 Why, even Godfrey would be as downcast as 
 a drooping bird, strong man as he is, when he 
 was in love with me ! So keep a good heart, 
 dear Mr William, for faint heart never won 
 fair lady. And she must be a strange woman 
 to my mind," looking fondly upon him, " who 
 could prove cruel to such as you." 
 
 "Dear nurse! your wisdom is of the 
 woods. You speak as a child of nature such 
 as you are.— You know not how these things 
 are carried on in the great world— in London 
 here. Life is not as it was in those old ballads 
 of which you are so fond. Grant she would 
 love me— what am I?— what have I to offer! 
 Let her prefer me to him in her heart— what 
 matter ? But she does not love me— she does 
 
 not prefer me." 
 
 And he di^opped his face between his 
 
 hands. 
 
152 AUBREY. 
 
 "Oh mother ! — mother ! " he went on in a 
 low murmuring tone, yielding himself up for 
 once to the weakness of complaint, tempted 
 to it by the loving and sympathising cha- 
 racter of his companion — " Oh mother, 
 mother, it was little to me till now — that 
 inequality of condition vdiich you have so 
 resented for me — but now it comes — hard — 
 hard — I saw her first — I loved her before he 
 had cast his eye upon her — I feel it is folly 
 perhaps — but I feel that for me and not for 
 him nature had bestowed that wonderful 
 charm — that face and form — that spiritual 
 beauty, far greater tlian all other beauty, yet 
 enhanced by so much beauty — those eyes that 
 smile — that voice ! — Yv^e are different men — 
 He and I — altogether different — not a 
 thought, not a feeling in common. Twins 
 I have heard, are either as one single point, 
 so closely are they united — or as two opposite 
 poles, exactly the reverse of each other — So it 
 is with us." 
 
 " He called me mother," said Alice to 
 herself — and her heart fluttered and beat as 
 it always did, when that fond name was 
 bestowed upon her. The conventional circum- 
 
AUBREY. 153 
 
 stances which separated them were so painful 
 to a heart glowing with the strongest and 
 warmest affections, all concentrated upon two 
 objects — her husband and this child ! 
 
 This child who had hung from his callow 
 infancy at her breast, and whom she longed 
 to embrace and caress as a son. — But she 
 dared not. He was a great man's child, and 
 she a poor gamekeeper's wife. There was 
 that deep, deep gulph between them — inferior 
 and superior — and William was one accus- 
 tomed to keep what he considered his proper 
 position, in all circumstances. Kow and 
 then, however, upon occasions of sudden 
 emotion he, wdio had never known w^hat it 
 was to experience the tenderness of his own 
 hi2;h-bred mother — would bestow the name 
 upon one who had proved herself even more 
 than mother to him. 
 
 And then how her heart leapt at the sound. 
 Mammy was but a pet name carelessly and 
 commonly bestowed — MotJier came with a 
 certain solemnity, as if the heart in its severer 
 moments acknowledged the claim — the claim 
 of a love passing that of a mother which she 
 felt for him. 
 
154 AUBREY. 
 
 "• He called me mother/' — and her heart 
 beat, and glowed, and yearned towards him at 
 the word. 
 
 " Sir — Mr William — dear young master !" 
 she faltered out, " I never saw you so un- 
 happy before, You mustn't be unhappy — 
 it's not for you to be unhappy. Something 
 must be done. You must not be unhappy. 
 I think I know — though you think I don't — 
 why that beautiful young lady and you can't 
 have one another. It's the old thing — because 
 of Mr Aubrey's injustice and partiality — but, 
 sir — if the young lady loves you, things might 
 be made more even. Mr Aubrey's a stern 
 and a harsh, but he's not a bad man — The 
 heart that can love anything as he loves the 
 Captain can't be so shut up to others as it 
 may seem — So hear reason — If the young 
 lady loves you with a true and faithful heart, 
 sure and certain but we'll find a means to 
 make you happy. It seems bold in me to say 
 so much; but Mr Aubrey's kind and con- 
 descending to me — for . . . too .... and — 
 and — well — he'd listen to me pleading for 
 you. I know he would — He feels I've a 
 right to speak for you. He likes me for 
 
AUBREY. 155 
 
 loving you. He's very rich, -^ve all know . . . 
 So if this young lady really loves you, as she 
 must and ought — ^Iveep a good heart and trust 
 to your poor mammy." 
 
 " Love me ! Did I say she loved me? Xo, 
 no, Alice — though I have that strange and 
 passionate persuasion that we were made to be 
 one, it is too late — He has already come 
 between us — he, who has the right to put 
 himself forward, which I, who had nothing to 
 offer, could not do. She is a peer's daughter, 
 Alice — Edward is an engaging fellow — he has 
 already entered the lists in public. If I were 
 to attempt it now, it would be I who should 
 assume the odious character of my brother's 
 supplanter and rival — aild, besides, what could 
 I offer to the woman I loved ? — A younger 
 son's portion instead of a vast estate — a 
 pretty proof of disinterested affection that 
 would be — The sacrifices to be all upon her 
 side ! and for one v;ho — oh ! if he had millions 
 of worlds to offer, would have laid them all at 
 her feet." 
 
 He rose from his seat in great agitation. 
 
 Alice looked after him with sad surprise as 
 he paced up and down the room, striving to 
 
156 AUBREY. 
 
 recover his composure. She had never seen 
 him so moved before. He was usually so 
 calm — so completely the master of himself. 
 So he had ever been, as the thoughtful boy — 
 yet more as the well-collected man. 
 
 It was a strange passion this — something 
 she had never seen before — so different from 
 what she would have expected in him — from 
 what she had observed in others. 
 
 He came and sat down by her again. 
 
 Having once opened his heart, it seemed as 
 if he must go on. The flood-gates of feeling 
 once unlocked, the stream of confidence flowed 
 full and fast to this affectionate and humble 
 friend. 
 
 " Strange, strangej^' he said, sitting down 
 by her. "I have a superstition about it — 
 Such things cannot be sent^ — cannot come 
 over us like a summer cloud, for nothing. 
 Unprepared as I was — never dreaming of any 
 such matter — that this one face among so 
 many faces — ^fair, it is true — most fair .... 
 Yet there were others as fair — fairer, per- 
 haps . . . That this one face — should have 
 power to raise in me this unaccountable passion. 
 Strange! strange! — What is the meaning of 
 
AUBREY. 157 
 
 it all? — For surely I cannot believe but that 
 such things have a meaning — that these 
 mighty, mysterious forces of passion have an 
 errand ! The verv excess" — he went on — " the 
 very absurdity of my hopes and wishes seem 
 to prove to me that in some way or other they 
 shall be accomplished. Such things cannot be 
 in vain — cannot — shall not ! — I must — I will 
 possess her ! . . . . And yet, yet — fool — fool " 
 — striking his forehead, and the bright flash- 
 ing of his eye subsiding to the deepest melan- 
 choly — "there is no way — not the slightest 
 shadow of a way .... and yet. Yes, Alice," 
 turning to her, with a look so wild it almost 
 approached to madness, *' I feel that I can- 
 not live to see her another's, and that other 
 my brother I — I would rather she were dead ! 
 Ah, ah, there is the arrow's barb — there the 
 venom of the wound — my brother ! — my own 
 brother ! — So near, and yet so far — The same 
 blood, the same breath, the same home, the 
 same hearth ! Ah ! ah I " and he gnashed his 
 teeth in bitterest a^onv, ''ah! ah I — there it 
 is ! — there it is ! and rather than that ! — he 
 must die, or I will die." 
 
158 AUBREY. 
 
 She laid hold of his arm ; she was pale as 
 death — her teeth T/ere chattering. 
 
 ^'No, no — don't talk in that way. — Your 
 brother! No brother of yours — always 
 crossing your path. No, don't look upon it 
 so — If that it is hurts you so, look upon him 
 as he is — as he has always been — your rival — 
 your worst enemy — anything but your brother." 
 
 The words produced a revulsion of feeling. 
 
 " Don't talk in that way, v\^oman" — he said, 
 turning upon her — " Don't talk so — you know 
 or ought to know that he has been the kindest 
 and most affectionate of brothers. — Would 
 God I could love him as he has loved me !" 
 
 '^ Then why do you talk so w^ildly ?" 
 
 " Because you cannot conceive — no one who 
 has not felt it can conceive, that horrid 
 jealousy in love— doubly horrid when it lives 
 among such near relations ! — Any other rivalry 
 — any other torture but that. It is horrid — 
 it is dreadful! — it is insupportable ! Yes," 
 and his pale countenance suddenly brightened 
 — "it is insupportable, and I wnll not even 
 try to bear it." 
 
 And then, to compose his agitation, there 
 
AUBREY. 159 
 
 came oyer him — not tlie holy and manly de- 
 termination to conquer and to subdue himself, 
 to break by one great and painful effort those 
 shackles of the soul which love without hope 
 when not resisted and vanquished, casts over 
 us. Iso strong 'sense of duty to himself 
 — to his brother — to the Great Author of 
 his being who sent him into the world 
 to strive, and to battle, and to conquer 
 evil and himself — none of these faithful and 
 high thoughts calmed Mm. 
 
 No, he deadened himself by that opiate of 
 the great enemy — when hope is not — and a 
 noble resignation of the object desired is not 
 — by the opiate of despair. 
 
 By yielding to the full force of his despair. 
 
 One outlet to this earth's woes — and that 
 easy enough to the man who neither values life 
 nor fears death — is ever open — He thought of 
 a certain cool, deep, dark water, somewhere 
 upon his father's land — hung over and shaded 
 with oak, and alders, and willows, — where, as 
 boys, they two had been forbidden ever to go, 
 for the Ys'vder was esteemed fathomless- — 
 There it lay sleeping, dark, silent, and cool. 
 
 Here, as a man, he had often been, and 
 
160 AUBREY. 
 
 startled tlie wild duck from lier nest, in the 
 reeds upon the side, — and there, under that 
 huge oak tree, whose golden-leaved branches 
 spread far over the stream, darkening that 
 which w^as already dark, there he had once 
 sat, his Shakespeare in his hand — half-opened, 
 at the place where Ophelia sinks into the 
 envious stream. There he had sat, lookinsjc 
 into the still depths — musing upon that strange 
 theme, — self-murder. In the calm philosophic 
 balance of his own feelings, marvelling at the 
 state of mind — speculating upon the passion 
 of despair — which could so rupture all the 
 instinctive laws of nature. 
 
 He recollected the day well — and smiled 
 bitterly at his own vain philosophy. 
 
 Now that deep pool — it was to that he 
 looked. 
 
 There was rest — There, that heart, now 
 writhing under the scorpion lash of the furies, 
 should find peace. 
 
 Sleep ! peace ! 
 
 Eternal sleep and peace ! 
 
 Ah ! fool, fool ! who will assure thee of 
 that? Yain and presumptuous intellect — 
 false and mistaken courage — daring to die ! — 
 
AUBREY. 161 
 
 not daring to suffer ! Ignorant even of the 
 mystery — the deep mystery of passion under 
 ■which he is agonising— yet without fear or 
 doubt rushing upon the altogether un- 
 known. 
 
 '' I will not even try to endure it ! " 
 
 He had said it, and in that saying found 
 comfort and calm. 
 
 And a certain dark composure was restored 
 to the face, which had been working with an 
 agony in him so unnatural. 
 
 But Alice gazed upon him with terror. 
 
 She was silent for some moments, sitting 
 there, and looking at him with anxious 
 affrighted eye. 
 
 "Will not try — will not try — what does 
 that mean ? — What does he mean by that? " 
 she kept repeating to herself. 
 
 "I am but a poor humble woman, you 
 know, Mr William," at last she ventured to 
 say; "but not altogether untaught. — Where 
 I was brought up they taught me something 
 
 not enough— not enough," she said, looking 
 
 at him with much emotion. — " Ah, dear! not 
 nearly enough. They never taught me either 
 how to bear — but one thing the Doctor did 
 
 YOE. I. M 
 
162 AUBREY. 
 
 teach me — that we must all try to bear what- 
 ever comes — whatever comes ... He was a firm 
 strong man himself, not like you, Mr William 
 ... A strong built, firm, great, brave man, 
 and nothhig ever upset Mm. He expected 
 all of us to be as ?ie was — but he never taught 
 us how — only that — But it was enough, be- 
 cause he was firm we dared not but be 
 firm. And so — and so — it shocks me, and 
 it grieves me, Mr "William, sir, to hear you 
 say, you will not try. What will you do if 
 you won't try ? —What are we to do if we 
 "won't try to bear?" 
 
 ''Oh! oh! nevermind — nevermind — you 
 are no casuist, Alice, — how should you be? 
 NcA^er mind me." 
 
 There v/as something in his look that she 
 could not endure. 
 
 " But what do you mean?" 
 
 " Oh, pooh ! nothing — and now, dear Alice, 
 I have said enough, and a great deal too 
 much; however, it has done me good, dear, 
 kind woman. Nothing like you women for 
 that," assuming a careless air, as he rose and 
 went to open the door. " Good bye, dear 
 mam/' giving her a kiss, " and think no more 
 
AUBREY. 1G3 
 
 of what I have said — forget it as soon as you 
 can, there's a dear woman." — 
 
 And so he got her out of the room. 
 But as she went down stairs she kept say- 
 ing to herself, " If he had but said he would 
 clo it — he wouki never do it — so my husband 
 always says— only get a man to talk about 
 killins: himself and he'll never kill himself — 
 but if this vouno; ladv should marry his bro- 
 ther — he's one to do it — he put me off so — 
 I know he icill do it — I know him — 
 — I know every pulse that beats in his 
 proud heart — This brother : — and what right 
 has that man to come and take, one by one, 
 every blessing of this one's life away — canker 
 — canker — eating out his brother's heart — 
 Ms brother ! — very like him ! 
 
 " But he shan't have that young lady — 
 He shan't have everything and leave my 
 William nothing. Xo, he shan't. There is 
 one here who loves him, if nobody else 
 on earth does, and he shan't have his 
 noble soul rived out of his body for any of 
 them." 
 
 Alice had not been reared in the family of 
 the strong, brave man, as she called the 
 
 M 2 
 
164 AUBREY. 
 
 Doctor, for nothing. She had imbibed much 
 of his determination, gentle and quiet as her 
 usual demeanour was ; and she proved it, 
 when the occasion arose. 
 
AUBREY. 
 
 165 
 
 CHAPTEK YIL 
 
 Artists hold yon sliapes but shadows, 
 Hovering round tliy mounting way, 
 Tempting from thy track forechosen 
 On through other paths to stray ; 
 Burns thy young aim, upward climbmg, 
 High above a guiding star, 
 Onward— onward earnest-hearted ; 
 
 Lo, but wildering hghts they are. 
 
 W. C. Bennett. 
 
 " Mary, dearest Mary, what are you about 
 at this moment, charming Miss Prue. In- 
 diting an endless letter to that paragon of 
 lovers, Walter the penniless? Silly girl, what 
 have you been about? I declare you fancy 
 yourself twice as wise as I am ; that may be, 
 but you are not half so Inoidng, for learn, 
 Mary of my heart, that since I have been in- 
 troduced into this great mass of confusion 
 they call ' society,' I have been taught to dis- 
 tinguish between two things very accurately. 
 
 " Do you remember that playing at syno- 
 nimes, which Miss Fisher used to be so fond 
 
166 AUBREY. 
 
 of? Eeally that woman was not one of the 
 ordinary sort. She was wise and knowing 
 too, or I am mistaken ; and as the man parted 
 the oyster, giving each of the suppliants a 
 shell, I think she did very much so by you 
 and me — to you she gave the wisdom, and to 
 me the knowing — hut this, par parenthese. 
 Put your good head to work at these said 
 synonimes again, and distinguish between 
 wise and knowins;. 
 
 " One thing is certain — wise, people may 
 grow in the country —but knowing, they can 
 only become in town — and wisdom brings with 
 it all sorts of good but totally useless things 
 as regards the world we live in — namely, dis- 
 interestedness, contempt of riches, value for 
 numerous qualities w^hich count for nothing — 
 such as goodness, modesty, strong principle, 
 tenderness of heart, and universal charity — 
 and all this valueless baggage you find heaped 
 together upon Walter the penniless — and so 
 — so — dear, wise, and most unknowing crea- 
 ture, you have chosen him. 
 
 '•And there you sit content to wait for no 
 one knows what or when — but happy, in that 
 your dear excellent heart is satisfied — when, 
 had you but been knowing^ you would at least 
 
AUBREY. 167 
 
 have tried a season in to^vn first — Ti'lien what 
 would have happened do you think, I think? 
 ^Yhy, then, 1 think you would have found it 
 still more than I have found it — stale, Hat, 
 and unprofitable — and would have gone down 
 again to Sinicoe place more devoted to Walter 
 the penniless than ever. I am already tired 
 of this life — Why, if I were to love it, did my 
 father and mother keep me down at that 
 place all this time, and put Miss Fisher about 
 me? Why did they suffer her, and that life 
 together, to call forth in me wants and wishes 
 which this life of society cannot ever gratify 
 — these parties, and balls, and dinners, and 
 breakfasts, and rides in Eotten How — what 
 are they? 
 
 " Shall I ever learn to like it ? Perhaps as 
 people do when they begin to take to wine, or 
 smoking, or any other nasty thing whicli they 
 at first find abominable — perhaps, like the 
 rest, I shall not only get a sort of a liking for 
 it in time, but it wdll become quite necessary 
 to my existence. 
 
 " This is what my mother said — when I 
 complained to her that I found town dull, 
 and wanted to be home at Hurstmonceaux 
 again. 
 
168 AUBREY. 
 
 ^' 'Dear child !' she said, Hhat is just as 
 I felt myself at first, and yet I was as much 
 admired as you are in my day — but never 
 mind, you will soon become used to it — and 
 find it at last impossible to exist out of 
 society.' 
 
 " Dear Mary, what a horrid thing that would 
 be — worst of all. 
 
 '' But why do I go prating on in this tedious 
 manner, about the dullness of town? Oh ! 
 it's no longer dull — it is become a charming 
 place within these two days — so — 
 
 " Such are the changes of mortal things — 
 
 '' Sometimes to better, sometimes to worse. 
 
 "But in this case, at least, for better — 
 life which seemed just sinking into a doze is 
 wide awake enough now. 
 
 " Mary, dear, you know — for I have not 
 concealed that little truth from you, that I have 
 been very much admired, and have produced 
 quite a sensation, as they say, since I have 
 risen upon this scene; and no young first 
 appearance this season has equalled the splen- 
 dour of mine. And you know, too, that I 
 have had plenty of admirers, but not one true 
 lover, like Walter the penniless: and that 
 I admired some, rather, myself, but did 
 
AUBREY. 169 
 
 not really care a straw for any one of them ; 
 and now .... 
 
 " My dear Mary, I think the human heart 
 is the strangest, strangest thing — and the 
 real human story, I verily believe, if it could 
 but be read in all its truth, which it never, 
 never is — would exceed in interest — exceed in 
 strangeness — in bizarrerie — in contradictions 
 — in every unaccountableness in short, — 
 all that has been imagined, written, or sung, 
 in the wildest or the most extravagant 
 romances. 
 
 "A trite remark, enough, as I perceive, 
 now I have put it down — but things come 
 just haphazard when I write to you . 
 
 " * When will this girl have done j)rosing, 
 and come to facts,' I think I hear you 
 say. 
 
 ^' Well, it was at Mrs Wilton's assembly — 
 I had dined there with papa and mama — It 
 was not a very dull dinner — many military 
 and naval men were there, which I think 
 always makes it pleasant — they mostly seem 
 more simple and earnest than other people — 
 the old ones, at least — those who have dealt 
 with real death and danger in the great war — 
 
170 AUBREY. / 
 
 The younger are, perhaps, not much better 
 than the rest of us — mere idle triflers upon 
 the earth's surface, with as little meaning in 
 their life as in one of Mr Devigne's extempore 
 fantasias on the piano-forte — remember you 
 them ? 
 
 " I sat by an old Admiral, as good luck would 
 have it; and he, finding I w^as fond of the 
 sea — for dear Algernon's sake — talked to me 
 a good deal, and seemed to like the interest I 
 took in what he said. 
 
 " Dear Algernon ! — Ah ! Mary — Why ? — 
 why? 
 
 " He has come home more charming than 
 ever — such an elegant, fashionable, dare-devil. 
 * Oh fie!' says Miss Fisher — 'Lady Emma, 
 pray do not let me hear you use such expres- 
 sions.' But it is just him; he would dare 
 everything. They say he is brave as a 
 panther — one's tired of Lion— in action: and 
 I believe there is nothing he will not dare^ 
 either by land or sea. 
 
 '' Now, it's vain to scold me — I do — I can- 
 not help loving that sort of character; its 
 very faults are interesting to me— that care- 
 less way of trifling with danger of all sorts — 
 
AUBREY. 171 
 
 of all sorts, even, Mary — mind that — it is to 
 me so interesting — Courage ! — Manly courage ! 
 — Tlie couracre to do ^vrono; even — I am afraid 
 the quality is so all in all to me. 
 
 " ' Ah Emma ! ' says my sweet Mary, and 
 sighs. 
 
 " Pity, though, fair saint, that your own 
 taste did not run a little more that way. 
 You might have done anything with Alger- 
 non — but now, poor fellow ! 
 
 " Well, let that pass — I will not tease you — 
 ^ w^e cannot help ourselves in these things. 
 We are puppets that are played upon by mys- 
 terious powers — Why you, of all people, must 
 prefer Walter the penniless, when you could 
 have had Algernon, passes my comprehension 
 and ever w^ill — but forgive me, I am his 
 sister. 
 
 " Where was I? oh, at dinner — We will skip 
 the rest of it and get up stairs,' where I am 
 sitting upon a little settee — causeuse, I for- 
 get the foolish name of it — driving down my 
 yawns, and endeavouring to look civil, whilst 
 Miss Marston is detailing the interesting cir- 
 cumstances of her sister's wedding — wreaths 
 and bonnets and veils and breakfast, and all 
 
172 AUBREY. 
 
 — when the gentlemen — that is some of the 
 older and nicer ones, begin to come up from 
 dinner, and as the best luck in the world 
 would have it, a knot of these dear old 
 prosers fell into talk just behind me. 
 
 " You must know, if jou read the news- 
 papers, the brilliant action that has, not very 
 long ago, taken place in Indian Seas. No- 
 body talked of anything else for a few days, but 
 everything passes away in the ever-flowing 
 stream of events here, — and I suppose, this 
 would have died into silence like the rest of ^ 
 them, had it not chanced that the hero of the 
 tale — a young, remarkably handsome man — 
 and heir to a large fortune, came up to Lon- 
 don when all the world was in town; and 
 then the clubs, and the parties, and the 
 everythings, could think and talk of nothing 
 else. — 
 
 " I cared little about it, till, as luck would 
 have it, these dear old cronies of naval 
 men, began to discourse of it just within 
 hearing of me on my settee. 
 
 " Mama says whatever one is, on no 
 account to be rude — and Miss Fisher 
 used to say the same thing in a somewhat 
 
AUBREY. 173 
 
 different fashion — ^but in spite of good instruc- 
 tion, rude was I as a bear. 
 
 '* I fairlv said hush to Miss Marston, 
 turned my back sans f aeon upon her, and had 
 eyes and ears only for these dear old men. 
 
 " One of them was telling the story so well ! 
 Newspapers never relate a thing just as it 
 occurred. — He was setting the matter right, 
 and had to begin from the beginning. 
 
 " It was a seaman's tale, full of sea phrases, 
 I did not understand much of it, but I 
 gathered, that, in the first place, never was 
 cleverer seamanship she^vn — that, in the 
 second place, never was more heroic courage 
 displayed — and in the third place, never more 
 generous humanity. 
 
 '' There was an episode about a dog ! 
 
 ''It brought the tears into the good old 
 admirals' eyes — You will not wonder they 
 were in foolish mine. 
 
 " I twinkled them away as well as I could, 
 but I was obliged at last fairly to steal the 
 corner of my handkerchief to those traitorous 
 little orbs, or I should have had the tears 
 running down my cheeks. 
 
 " Pearly drops^ in a London party ! 
 
174 AUBREY. 
 
 " What propriety of place ! 
 
 "I am not going to repeat the story of the 
 dog — I should tell it so ill that I should 
 spoil it. 
 
 " Sometime when we are over the fire, and 
 your honour is in the humour, I will try for 
 it — but not now. 
 
 " A pause. 
 
 "For we are coming to the critical moment 
 of my life's history, I verily believe. 
 
 " You know, Mary, how we both hate and 
 despise girl's talk about love and lovers — ^but 
 I bore with you when you were in earnest, 
 and you must bear with me. 
 
 *' Love that is pretended, and fancied, and 
 all that — oh ! what rubbishy, despicable stuff 
 it is. 
 
 "But real love ! 
 
 '' Such as you bear to Walter ! 
 
 " Such as I know now. Oh ! it is 
 stronger than death, and mightier than 
 the grave. 
 
 " There is something terrible in its very 
 sweetness — something that makes the heart 
 
AUBREY. 175 
 
 sliudder and tremble, even in the midst of its 
 inefiable joy. 
 
 " Some young men came into the room. 
 
 " Among them was Algernon — and who 
 with him ? 
 
 '• Edward Aubrey ! 
 
 " It seems to me as if it was almost happi- 
 ness enough to write down the lovely name. 
 
 '' He was the young naval Captain that had 
 done so w^ell ; and he was the close friend of 
 my own, dear Algernon. 
 
 " Algernon soon brought him up to me. 
 
 " ' And sweet sister,' he said, with his dar- 
 ling smiling look as if he was so proud of me. 
 
 " Ah, in that moment I did rejoice that I 
 was beautiful — I did glory in my woman's 
 prize — my beauty ! Vv^hen brought face to face 
 with the glory of man. 
 
 " I felt my face all in a glow — not in an 
 ugly flush, but all in a glow — and I had more 
 courage than he had, for his beautiful ani- 
 mated eyes — they are blue, Mary — they fell 
 before mine — as if— shall I say it ? — as if 
 mine dazzled him ! — for — I really could not 
 help it — I did look . . . well — pleased — I sup- 
 pose I must call it. 
 
176 AUBREY. 
 
 « 
 
 "I sat down again upon this nice rounded 
 settee ; and Algernon came and stood opposite 
 to me, chatting in his pleasant way. How I 
 do love Algernon ! And the young naval Cap- 
 tain stood by, a little retreating, so that I was 
 obliged to turn round somewhat, not to leave 
 him out of the conversation. 
 
 " I never saw such a sweet, charming ex- 
 pression as he has — So then, by and by, the 
 rooms were cleared for dancing. 
 
 " And now comes the strangest part of my 
 adventures. I don't know what you will say 
 to me, Mary, now. You will understand me 
 as little as Ixlo myself. 
 
 " You know I am far from being short- 
 sighted as almost every body in the world is. 
 I can see and distinguish, in a wonderful 
 manner, even in imperfect lights. My God- 
 mother, the Fairy, gave me the gift at my 
 christening, I suppose. 
 
 " Well, the two young captains were talking 
 to each other a little, and people, as I said, 
 were clearing away in the other drawing- 
 room, and as I turned to watch what was 
 going on, I saw a gentleman upon the other 
 side of the room, leaning against one of the 
 
AUBREY. 177 
 
 windows, and looking my way — looking, in 
 short, at me. 
 
 " There was no mistaking the expression 
 of his eyes — I do not pretend to deny that — 
 and distant as we were from each other I 
 could not help seeing it. 
 
 " He was a small man, rather below the 
 middle size, but very delicately, I might say 
 elegantly made. His face was pale, and 
 nobody would call him handsome — and yet 
 there was a strange fascination about that 
 face — when you had once looked, it seemed 
 impossible to help looking again. 
 
 " I could not, at least. When I did look 
 again, his eyes were cast upon the ground; 
 but I thought I never saw a more interesting 
 countenance. However, I did not observe long, 
 for charming Edward Aubrey came colouring 
 and stammering, — and his bright sweet eyes 
 telling all manner of pleasant tales — to ask 
 me to dance — and I, of course, joyfully ac- 
 cepted — and rose, and took his arm — and then, 
 I turned back to look at that other; but he 
 was gone, and I saw him no more that night. 
 
 " 1 danced with Edward Aubrey. — Such 
 dancing! — How unlike any dancing I ever 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
178 AUBREY. 
 
 had before! — How we seemed to swim in hap- 
 piness in the flow of that music which came 
 sounding — sounding — and was the only reality 
 to which I was sensible ! 
 
 "But the evening came to an end at last, as 
 all mortal things must do — and mortal felicity 
 soonest of all — and Algernon and Edward 
 Aubrey put mama and me into the carriage. 
 
 " And then — how unlike a romance where 
 everything seems to conspire to make poor 
 creatures wretched ! — here, everything seemed 
 to combine to make me happy — for we were 
 scarcely comfortably shut up and on our way 
 home, when mama began to talk about 
 Captain Aubrey, and in such terms ! — Saying 
 he was the most delightful young man that 
 she had ever seen — and rejoicing that he was 
 a friend of Algernon's, whom she had ordered 
 to introduce him at our house — and, in short, 
 giving pretty broad hints that she thought 
 him a most eligible young man. 
 
 "You know what that implies, Mary — in 
 this abominable slave-market where we are 
 put up for the chance of the highest bidder. 
 
 " I feared mama might perhaps have ex- 
 pected something very grand from me — at 
 
AUBREY. 179 
 
 least till the bloom of tlie first season ^vas 
 gone by — but no I — she seems quite content 
 with Captain Aubrey — and I am sure I 
 should be. 
 
 " But now, Mary, there is more to tell. 
 
 " The next day, in due course, Edward 
 Aubrey called with Algernon, just at the time 
 my horse was about to be brought to the door ; 
 so, instead of riding along the Edgeware Road 
 with trusty Elias to look after me, behold me 
 with my two handsome cavaliers parading it 
 up and down Eotten Row — and very pleasant 
 it was. We talked and laughed and enjoyed 
 ourselves ; and I was thinking of nothing 
 but the present joke — when, lo ! my eyes 
 glancing at the walkers upon the other side of 
 the rails, who shoukl I see but the same gen- 
 tleman I had descried the night before — he 
 was w^alking our pace as we idly lounged along 
 upon our horses, and I could not mistake the 
 reason why. 
 
 "He was watching a foolish girl on horseback 
 — with a cavalier upon each side of her — 
 just in the same strange manner as the night 
 before — ^but he was not aware, I am sure, that 
 I saw him — yet I did, and my heart made a 
 
 N 2 
 
180 AUBREY. 
 
 strange stop and pause — and I felt myself grow 
 a little sick and pale, as I should do, I fancy, 
 if I saw a spirit. There was again, that 
 strange mysterious feeling of relation with 
 this man — so disagreeable ! — I hope he has 
 not magnetised me ! 
 
 " I turned again to Edward Aubrey, and 
 talked with him to get rid of the impression 
 — but someway my gaiety was gone, and I 
 was obliged to force myself to laugh, and 
 seem at ease. 
 
 "We came out of the park by Stanhope Gate. 
 The two cavaliers a little in front of me, I 
 following them, and when just as I was going 
 to pass through the gate, came a carriage with 
 runaway horses, starting so unexpectedly upon 
 me that I quite lost my head, and should have 
 been infallibly struck down and trampled 
 under foot, had not a strong hand seized my 
 bridle, and pushed back my horse so suddenly, 
 that he almost fell. The carriage passed like 
 a whirlwind, just missing my preserver, who 
 stood for a moment looking down ; whilst I, 
 dizzy with terror, could scarcely keep myself 
 from fainting, and my poor Jessy was shud- 
 dering and trembling in every nerve. 
 
AUBREY. 181 
 
 "As soon as I could recover myself a little, I 
 bent down and thanked my preserver as well 
 as I could ; upon which he lifted up his face 
 — for he stood there those few seconds im- 
 moveable as a statue — he lifted up his face — 
 and Avhat and whose should it be, but that of 
 the very man I had seen before? 
 " His eye met mine. 
 
 " Oh Mary, what Avas there in those eyes of 
 dark, deep grey? — What a look it was! — 
 what intensity of passion I — of melancholy 1 — 
 of subduing force ! 
 
 " A shudder and trembling passed through 
 me from head to foot. I felt the colour fly 
 into my face, — I felt my eyes fall before his — 
 I could only falter out something or other. I 
 forget all that was said, but that look ! that 
 eye ! I never to my dying day shall forget. 
 
 "You used to laugh at me and call me 
 superstitious. Who would not grow super- 
 stitious who had lived the life I have lived? 
 That wild, wild Hurstmonceaux ! Those 
 broad walks under the solemn oaks — those 
 twilight rambles through the shady, trembling 
 thickets, with the moon glistening on the sleep- 
 ing lake — and the trees casting such deep, 
 
182 AUBREY. 
 
 mysterious shadows — and the creeping, stilly, 
 whispering sounds — and the nightingale's 
 strange, passionate chants — do you remember? 
 How we would go, half- shuddering and hesi- 
 tating along — fearful even though we were 
 two together — almost believing that we saw 
 the mysterious genii, the spirits of the 
 woods in those vistas between the trees — this 
 even when we were two together ! But when 
 you were gone away, and I used to stroll out 
 of an evening by myself! I could quite 
 persuade myself — nay, I am even now half 
 persuaded — I did see strange realities — I did 
 feel strange spiritual influences. 
 
 *' You seemed not to like to hear me talk 
 in this way. — Ah, my Mary, you had chosen 
 a better part ; but upon me these superstitions, 
 which you in your wisdom denounce as base- 
 less and danirerous, have taken a stron^; hold. 
 
 '' People should not keep girls secluded in 
 wild, remote, romantic places, if they mean 
 them afterwards to be rational beings, instead 
 of slaves to imagination. There is not a legend 
 or a tale of whispering spirits — of haunting 
 shadows — of second sight — of ghosts — of 
 magnetism or of magic — which I do not feel 
 
AUBREY 183 
 
 more than lialf inclined to believe. When 
 you and Miss Fisher have reasoned about 
 these things, and disproved their existence by 
 laws of logic, laws of nature, and so on— 
 you know how you and she talk— something 
 within me has ever given you the lie. 
 
 '' Something within has seemed to say that 
 all you assert is very fine, very plausible ; but 
 that there is more in this living, breathing 
 world about us than your notions would 
 admit. Spiritual inHuences within us and 
 about us that are not in this matter-of-fact 
 way to be accounted for. In short, to use 
 one of thgse expressions, trite, because they 
 are immortal — 
 
 '•' There is more in lieaven and eartli, Horatio, 
 Tlian is dreamt of in your philosophy.'' 
 
 " You may put it as you will — turn and 
 twist it as you will — I say that the influence 
 exercised by that deep, mysterious eye over my 
 feelings is most strange and unaccountable. 
 
 "It is not love — not any such thing; and I 
 do not think you will imagine that it is, as it 
 seems to me, a more deep, mysterious agency. 
 Not that I despise love — I look upon a true 
 
184 AUBREY. 
 
 and sincere love as the most holy and sacred 
 of things ; but yet it seems to me trivial and 
 common-place in comparison with this deeper 
 interest. 
 
 " I thought I beheld at tliis moment the 
 arbiter of my destiny — that I was under the 
 influence of some irresistible power with 
 which it would be vain to contend. 
 
 '' As for him, he turned paler than ever. 
 However, the other two came up, and Edward 
 Aubrey introduced him. 
 
 " Introduced ! — what a word ! How 
 strangely these every-day expressions and 
 proceedings mix themselves up with higher 
 and more spiritual imaginings. It is like the 
 mingling of gold and clay in the great statue 
 of the vision. Stay! — was it not iron? But 
 never mind. 
 
 " Edward Aubrey introduced this man, so 
 strangely interesting before — as who and what, 
 do you think? 
 
 " His brother ! 
 
 "His twin, and only brother! 
 
 "Now, sweet, incredulous Mary, wonder 
 — do wonder. Is it not odd that this man 
 who, unknown, excited such unaccountable 
 
AUBREY. 185 
 
 interest in me sliould prove to be neither more 
 nor less than dear Edward Aubrey's own twin 
 brother ? 
 
 " Dear Edward Aubrey ! Yes, it is out — 
 what is the use of mincing the matter? — 
 dear to me past words ! And this man is his 
 brother ! — his twin brother ! 
 
 " Edward wanted to lead my horse home, 
 but this William — for that is his name — 
 would not allow, saying, ' Edward was little 
 acquainted with the management of horses,' 
 which was true enough; so Edward yielded, as 
 I am persuaded everybody will and must do 
 to this man, and he led my horse home. 
 
 "Walkino: with his head bent down in a 
 musing, meditative manner, silent as a ghost, 
 which will not speak unless it is spoken to — 
 and I was too dizzy, and felt too much shaken 
 to wish to speak, so I was as silent as polite- 
 ness would allow, and only uttered once or 
 twice — and at such times he would lift up his 
 face, and fix those deep, passionate eyes upon 
 me for a moment, and then withdraw them 
 again. 
 
 " And so at last we got home. 
 
 " Then I was Edward's once more. 
 
 " Oh ! it was so sweety so strangely sweet, 
 
186 AUBREY. 
 
 to escape from tlie mystical, unintelligible in- 
 fluences of the one, to the cheering, open day- 
 light sunshine of the other. 
 
 *'I am his — I know I am, for life and 
 death — and he is mine. 
 
 " Twenty -four hours, scarcely, since we first 
 met, and he knows, and I know, that we are 
 bound together for this life, and for ever. 
 
 '' No, I cannot conceive that eternity itself 
 can, in its ever moving circles, disclose a time 
 when Edward Aubrey and his Emma will not 
 be one. 
 
 '' It is as if I had loved him ever since time 
 began, and so should do till time was no 
 more. 
 
 *' You will understand this part of my 
 story, if the other and more romantic portion 
 is unintelligible to you. Your love for 
 Walter, I think I have heard you say, seems 
 to be of the infinite — without beginning or 
 end. If you never said it, I am sure you 
 must have felt it. 
 
 " I was interested by William, I don't deny 
 it ; and he seemed to throw a strange influ- 
 ence of charm over me. But when sick, and 
 faint, and scarcely able to stand, I laid hold 
 
AUBREY. 187 
 
 of Edward Aubrey's arm, and he pressed it — 
 Oh ! so fondly and gently to his heart — there 
 came such a lightsome, wholesome, loving 
 feeling over me, I felt better directly — sup- 
 ported, and cheered, and comforted — and so, 
 so happy ! 
 
 "Forgive me, best and dearest of Marys, 
 for these volumes. You say you love to have 
 them — and I love to send them. I love to 
 open my whole heart to you. And now, 
 sweet girl ! send me some of your dear, use- 
 less, rational lectures, back in return. 
 
 " But don't scold me for giving away my 
 heart in such a hurry to Edward Aubrey — 
 for, indeed, I am quite sure that I have his in 
 return — and, besides, till you have seen him, 
 you cannot form a guess how irresistibly 
 charming he is." 
 
188 AUBREY. 
 
 CHAP TEE YIII. 
 
 The pride of Imman pomp and power — 
 Say lives it in tliis awful hour ? 
 Wlien false and failing, blank and drear. 
 The fairest dreams of earth appear, 
 And hope scarce triumphs over fear ? 
 
 Mes Acton Tindal. 
 
 " Your brother is a cleliglitful fellow, Wil- 
 liam, that every one must acknowledge; and 
 he is just come ashore, after several years 
 spent at sea. — He is young, spirited, and self- 
 confident; loves pleasure, and has earned a 
 right to enjoy it. — I am as sensible of all this 
 as you can be ; and I hope I am prepared for 
 little things, that may not be altogether what 
 I would — or you would most wish in him . . . 
 But these absences — night after night — nights 
 which I cannot find, at least, after a certain 
 hour, are given to general society — to balls or 
 parties, and such things, which it is natural 
 enough, and where I wish him to be — these 
 late hours unaccounted for, make me seriously 
 uneasy — '^ 
 
AUBREY. 189 
 
 *'I am no puritan," Mr Aubrey went on; 
 " I wish young men to see and know the 
 world, and I am not, I hope — become a 
 crabbed, selfish old man — envious of pleasures 
 he can no longer share — but Edward's man- 
 ner of spending his time vexes and disap- 
 points me — I looked for something different — 
 something . . . 
 
 " Well — well vouns: men will be vouns: 
 men. — But what of this Lord Algernon Mor- 
 daunt, with wdiom he seems so intimate. 
 People shake their heads, and look mysteiious 
 when I mention his name. Is he or is he 
 not a young scamp of fashion, Avith whom 
 Edward had better have little to do? — or is 
 he merely a young man of the world, going 
 on in the way of other young men of the world 
 — at whom the greybeards shake their heads 
 ominously — thougli little harm comes of it 
 after all. 
 
 " Tell me, William, what you know about 
 this young man — and vrhether you are ac- 
 quainted with the cause of the close intimacy 
 subsisting between him and Edward? 
 
 "I do not recollect that his name was 
 much mentioned in Edward's letters," he 
 
190 AUBREY. 
 
 added, after pausing a little to give William tlie 
 opportunity to speak ; but no answer came. 
 
 The young man sat, thrown sideways upon 
 his chair, listening to what his tall and stately 
 father was saying, but with his face turned 
 a little away, so as to conceal the expression 
 of it. 
 
 At last Mr Aubrey, after having thus 
 spoken, pausing frequently in his discourse, 
 as if expecting an answer, but in vain — fairly 
 stopped with, 
 
 " What do you think of it ? Speak out, 
 William." 
 
 William then turned round, and presented 
 his pale features, and troubled countenance, 
 to his father. 
 
 Any other father might have observed the 
 expression of suffering written on the face of 
 the son before him ; but Mr Aubrey did not. 
 His anxieties were all absorbed by the absent 
 Edward. He was only intent upon drawing 
 information from William upon a subject so 
 close to his heart — he was accustomed to look 
 upon this second son, merely as he stood in 
 relation to the other. 
 
 William felt this indifference at the moment 
 
AUBREY. 191 
 
 more acutely than usual. He had long known 
 how little he was to his father — nothing 
 scarcely in comparison with his brother, but 
 now, that he was really suffering — ill — and 
 looking, as he knew, very ill — to see plainly 
 that his father either saw not — or cared not, 
 for one or the other, wounded him painfully. 
 
 '' Speak out, William," he had said, and 
 had fixed those stern intelligent eyes upon his 
 son's face. But he read nothing that was 
 there. His thoughts were in another place. 
 
 " Edward," William at last began, " is just 
 as you say, sir. After some years spent, 
 cabined up in a small vessel, he is enjoying 
 the pleasures of liberty and society at home. 
 It is natural — why should he not?" 
 
 *' That is an evasive answer, William. I 
 apply to you. I have confidence in your 
 judgment and observation. Tell me frankly 
 what vou have observed in vour bro- 
 ther . . ." 
 
 " I am no spy, sir," said William. 
 
 "Don't use such odious terms to me," cried 
 his father, with some irritation. " Who talks 
 of spies? — I want nothing, which as a father 
 — and a father justly anxious about his son 
 
192 AUBllEY. 
 
 — I have not a riglit to require — from a man 
 in whose opinions I place confidence. Tell 
 me the truth at once, sir, and let me have no 
 evasions — I hate them — What do you know of 
 Lord Algernon ? — What do you know of the 
 way in which your brother spends his time ? " 
 
 *'As usual," thought William bitterly; 
 " when he can make use of me, and especially 
 in any matter that regards my brother's inte- 
 rests, I rise in value — I become ever an ob- 
 ject to be won by civil speeches — when that 
 is no longer the case, I drop into my accus- 
 tomed insignificance." 
 
 '' I am not my brother's keeper." 
 
 " So said Cain," remarked Mr Aubrey. 
 " Will you give me no satisfaction? " 
 
 *' If I could give you satisfaction I would 
 . . . and yet stay," making a violent 
 effort — forcing himself, in spite of his jeal- 
 ous heart, to enter upon a subject that was 
 killing him; "perhaps I can giYQ you satis- 
 faction upon one point at least — Edward's 
 increased intimacy with Lord Algernon — it 
 arises, I believe, from attachment to his 
 sister." 
 
 "How! the Lady Emma!" with a start 
 
AUBEEY. 193 
 
 of joy — and an expression of undisguised 
 astonishment and pleasure, rarely to be seen 
 upon his face. 
 
 *' You do not say so — the Lady Emma ! 
 and pray how do her friends receive it ?" 
 
 William's lips became white, as he an- 
 swered : 
 
 " I believe with every encouragement that 
 can be given in such a case." 
 
 " That is agreeable intelligence, indeed !" 
 said the father, recovering his usual com- 
 posure, but looking excessively gratified — 
 " that is agreeable intelligence — nothing could 
 give me greater satisfaction — a beautiful girl 
 of high family ! Whether there be money, 
 I know not — and most certainly I care not. 
 I shall do everything on my side to forward 
 so desirable a connection — and you must help 
 me, William." 
 
 William felt sick and faint, and his face 
 grew paler than ever, as he said, in a scarcely 
 articulate voice: 
 
 " I do not exactly see what / can do." 
 
 ''Nor I neither, just at this moment; but 
 circumstances are for ever arising which 
 enable us to forward or to obstruct the 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
194 AUBREY. 
 
 progress of such an affair. — You are in Ed- 
 ward's confidence, no doubt. Encourage liini 
 by every means in your power to persevere in 
 the pursuit of this most desirable object. 
 Tell him^ if he care to know — and he has 
 not the usual perverseness of youth, he loill 
 care to know — tell him that nothing on earth 
 could give me greater satisfaction than to see 
 him ally himself thus." 
 
 "And must it be my own brother," was again 
 William Aubrey's bitter thought — "Must I 
 be, not only an alien from my father's heart, 
 but must I be driven from Edward's, or rather 
 he from mine. Can I bear in feverish agony 
 to witness his joy, his bliss triumphant — to 
 gaze in jealous hatred at a happiness I ought 
 to love and share — to see her another's — and 
 his ! Oh ! any one's — any one's but his." 
 
 "What is the matter with you, young 
 man?" — said his father, interrupting the deep 
 reverie into which William was falling, — 
 — " What is the matter with you, young 
 man ?" 
 
 He started, as if suddenly roused from the 
 deepest slumber. 
 
 "Matter with me? — Nothins^." 
 
AUBREY. 195 
 
 *' Then you show a strange indifference to 
 what should, one would have thought, next to 
 myself, have been of the greatest interest to 
 you — your brother — your twin brother's hap- 
 piness. But it is not the first time," added 
 Mr Aubrey, in a tone of severity, " not the 
 first time that I have remarked this selfish 
 and egotistical insensibility to the welfare of 
 my elder son." 
 
 "I was not aware of it." 
 
 " Then he aware of it — an eldest son, as 
 the prop and roof-tree of the parental house 
 — I look upon — as he ought to be looked 
 upon — as he is regarded by all the rational 
 part of world — as the object of most value 
 and importance in the eyes of every member 
 of that house. His good conduct and suc- 
 cess reflect a lustre upon— as his failure and 
 misconduct cast a shadow over, the whole 
 of his family — upon his alliances the progress 
 and advancement of that tree depends, of 
 which the other members of the household 
 are but as the lateral, and in comparison, 
 insignificant branches. — But this is not the 
 first time, William, that I have observed a 
 certain coldness and indifference upon your 
 
 2 
 
196 AUBREY. 
 
 part, with regard to tins subject so all-impor- 
 tant to me — I hope, sir, I am not to attribute 
 it to any baseless and fantastic whims enter- 
 tained by certain theorists, who, in my opinion, 
 have vastly too much influence in these 
 times." 
 
 William Aubrey was silent. 
 
 "Answer me," said his father sternly, 
 "you know, that I look upon silence at a 
 moment like this to be but a form of revolt." 
 
 ''I am a younger son, myself, sir — " 
 
 " What do you mean by that? — A younger 
 son ! — I hope, I am not to hear any of the 
 envious cant, too often now-a-days put into 
 young men's heads, about equality of rights — 
 parental justice, and so on. I would have 
 you to know, sir," raising his voice, " that I 
 admit no rights in my family but such as 
 are founded upon my will — no claim of 
 justice in the disposal of a fortune acquired 
 by my own talents and abilities, but such as 
 I choose to admit — Sir, the wisdom of the 
 world has decided this question ages before 
 either of us were born to discuss it, and if it 
 had not been so — had I been the first to 
 recognise the rights of primogeniture, I should 
 
AUBREY. 197 
 
 have done so — and have expected yon, sir, to 
 acquiesce in my decision." 
 
 William Aubrey only answered by a slight 
 inclination of the head. 
 
 Mr Aubrey was a taciturn man, of cold, 
 reserved manners, but when once excited to a 
 certain degree, he would sometimes burst 
 forth into the most passionate expressions. 
 
 Upon the present subject he was peculiarly 
 irritable. His determination to make an 
 eldest son, as it is called, of Edward, is so 
 common a one, that it is not probable that his 
 conscience upon that account would have 
 troubled him. But he felt, and he knew, that 
 it was not merely as his eldest son, that he 
 showed this preference to Edward — but that 
 in making him heir of his fortunes, he had 
 likewise made him heir of his affections — had 
 indulged an unjust partiality as well as fol- 
 lowed a common rule — that he had not been 
 — would not be — could not be, — -just to his 
 other son — that he thought little of his 
 interests, and was indifferent to his happi- 
 ness, and when he read in William's eye what 
 he chose to consider unjustifiable resentment, 
 at his following those laws of primogeniture 
 
198 AUBREY. 
 
 common to the world around liim, but whicli 
 he knew and felt, if he would have owned it, 
 had a far deeper source — his irritation was 
 excessive. He was a man of strong will, ac- 
 customed during the early part of his life, to 
 bear down the puerile opposition of men of 
 other climes and other natures, by the exer- 
 cise of despotic authority — and in this way he 
 had endeavoured to beat down the sturdy 
 sense of wrong which at times was to be read 
 in William Aubrey's eye. 
 
 On other occasions things would go on better 
 between them — William was cool and re- 
 served, and his father stern but civil. A 
 <5ertain respect for abilities and strength of 
 character whicli each acknowledged in the 
 other, might influence them imperceptibly to 
 themselves, and at such times they got along 
 tolerably well — as two men do who are obliged 
 to respect, but cannot love each other. 
 
 There were moments, however, when the 
 sense of his father's unkindness and injustice 
 struck with more than usual force upon the 
 feelings of William Aubrey, and at such mo- 
 ments, the father observing the symptoms of 
 internal rebellion, which he was resolved never 
 
AUBREY. 199 
 
 to acknowledge as just, would be excited to 
 the utmost irritation and anger. ' 
 
 So it came to pass now. 
 
 "Don't bend the head in mock submission 
 to me, sir," he cried. 
 
 " There is no mocker v intended," AYilliam 
 answered sarcastically. " It signifies that 
 which is true — not acquiescence of reason — 
 but submission to power." 
 
 " What do you mean by that? '^ 
 
 '' Oh ! " rising, as if about to leave the 
 room; "you are too acute, sir, not to compre- 
 hend so simple a distinction." 
 
 " Stay ! — Let us have it out this once. 
 Once more, for the five hundredth time, I 
 think it is, I read proud defiance and dark 
 censure in that eye of yours — What do you 
 complain of ? " 
 
 " Simply that it has pleased heaven to 
 make a younger son of me. You would not 
 have me such a mere insensible ass as to rejoice 
 in such a lot — or such a liypocritical coward 
 as to pretend that I did." 
 
 "I would have you like wiser and better 
 men if I could — not envious and jealous of 
 the advantages possessed by others." 
 
200 AUBREY. 
 
 *' So I would have myself." 
 
 "And why are you not what you would 
 have yourself ? Why are you not what you 
 ought to make yourself ? 
 
 "Because the same unknown, irresistible, 
 mysterious power, which makes one man a 
 being of stern, unconquerable will — and sent 
 the warm stream of happiness, self-confidence, 
 and courage, dancing through the veins 
 of another — made me thoughtful — still 
 and deep — a weigher of facts — no dupe 
 of words — no slave of pretences — one who 
 cannot and who will not accept names for 
 things. As for envy and jealousy — they 
 are the natural growth of one heart — just as 
 indifference to justice may be the growth of 
 another — just as an unreflecting enjoyment of 
 the fruits of injustice may be the portion of a 
 third." 
 
 There was a pause of a few moments. 
 
 Then Mr Aubrey, recovering his ordinary 
 composure of manner, said — 
 
 " William Aubrey — ^you are a match for 
 me." — 
 
 He mused a few moments more — and then, 
 with unusual cordiality of tone he added — 
 
AUBREY. 201 
 
 "Go forth, my son — struggle with the 
 world and subdue it as I have done — and 
 after you have subdued it — use your power 
 despotically — without owning responsibility 
 to any — as I have hitherto done and intend 
 henceforward to do." 
 
 And, saying this, he rose and left the 
 room. 
 
 After the momentary irritation had sub- 
 sided, he did not seem in the least degree 
 agitated by this conversation. To measure 
 his proceedings by the standard of right and 
 justice was foreign to every habit of his mind. 
 He had a sort of intuitive eagle glance, 
 which took in at once a wide circle of things 
 — but when once his mind was settled upon 
 any point — it was a vain attempt to turn 
 him. His conduct, with regard to his two 
 sons, had become the habit of his mind — he 
 thought no more of it than, by those among 
 whom so much of his life had been spent — it 
 is esteemed unjust that this man shall be 
 born a Brahmin and that a Pariah. 
 
 When the repose of his conscience was 
 disturbed by the behaviour of his plain- 
 spoken younger son, he would be aroused 
 
202 AUBREY. 
 
 for the moment to violence — but the 
 passion subsided as rapidly as it arose, 
 and he returned to his usual course of action, 
 devoting the whole energy of his character to 
 the advancement of the interests of his future 
 representative — leaving the other son to get 
 along just as he could and would. 
 
 His father had left the room, and William 
 remained sitting where he left him. 
 
 Now the man who remains — the man who 
 keeps the field after such an encounter, is the 
 man who is worsted. It is the mark of vic- 
 tory to walk away — this power to resist the 
 almost frenzied temptation to continue the war 
 of words, — being, indeed, proof of a certain 
 triumph of that self-command which is as the 
 rampart to the Great City of Life. It is true 
 the father, by one imperious sentence, had com- 
 manded William to remain where he was — and 
 listen to what it pleased him to say — but the 
 young man was not prepared, after his own last 
 bitter reply, to find the contest so suddenly 
 brought to an end. — His father's self-command 
 astonished him — he respected it and he was 
 humbled by it — ^he felt worsted. 
 
 This feeling only increased his irritation — 
 
AUBREY. 203 
 
 only deepened the shadows that were darkening 
 over his soul — closing every beaming pros- 
 pect — as one sees the black thunder-clouds 
 gradually gathering round the horizon until 
 all is wTapt in gloom. 
 
 That one bright spot — that one — the eye 
 which had fallen under his! the faltering 
 voice, that one moment of mysterious emotion 
 which had told him, in spite of all, that 
 something in him there was which possessed 
 a strange magnetic power over Lady Emma 
 — something almost persuading him that a 
 love deep as his, must, nay had, forced an 
 answering sentiment — the vague superstitious 
 hope which had been as the one bright 
 spot in his cloudy heavens — that too had 
 vanished. 
 
 He knew his father w^ell. He was a man 
 of powder and determination, sufficient to 
 carry every point upon which he had set 
 his mind — and common sense pointed out at 
 once that in the present case, everything was 
 so reasonable, — so exactly in accordance with 
 what must be the natural desire of all parties 
 concerned, that there really was not the 
 shadow of a difficulty to be removed. 
 
04 AUBREY. 
 
 Edward had but to speak, and liis father 
 had but to declare his intentions in his favour 
 — to render him an acceptable suitor in almost 
 any family, however noble. Far more in one 
 like this, at once very noble and very needy. 
 
 It was the morning of the day upon which 
 the ball was to be given at the Marchioness 
 of Hurstmonceaux's, that the scene above 
 related took place — each of the brothers had 
 received a card. 
 
 William had anticipated this evening with 
 a strange mixture of pleasure and pain. To 
 see her again — see her, in her triumphant 
 loveliness — look once more upon that sweet, 
 gay, animated face — even this was rapture. 
 Moreover he had resolved to dance with her. 
 He was little of a dancer, but what mattered 
 that? He would take one turn Avitli her — 
 just sufficient to secure her as a partner ; then 
 he would have her hand within his arm, and 
 he should lead her down those steps upon 
 which the ball-room windows opened, and 
 through the groves of that park-like garden, 
 
AUBREY. 205 
 
 and down by the sleeping Avater, and while 
 the nightingales were singing, and the pale, 
 round moon calmly shining, — he would speak 
 and try his power. 
 
 Try what she was, and what he was. 
 
 He had in his way a determination as 
 courageous, as resolute, as iron, — as Mr 
 Aubrey himself. 
 
 But now as he sat there, his resolution 
 began to Avaver. — Should he, in defiance of 
 his father's declared wishes,— of what must 
 be the wish of her parents, — of what must 
 be her own best interest, and his brother's 
 best interest, — should he endeavour to thrust 
 himself into this circle of joy, an ominous 
 intruder— and substitute, if in his power, 
 confusion, and distraction of opinion and 
 feeling — hesitation and doubt, and jealousy, 
 in place of all this straightforward affection 
 and happiness. 
 
 Hope had forsaken him. The glaring ab- 
 surdity — the ridicule of setting up such pre- 
 tensions as his, in opposition to those of 
 his brother, struck him now as the act of 
 an idiot, rather than of a rational being. 
 And if it were vain, as it was odious, openly 
 
206 ■ AUBREY. 
 
 to contend for the field, why not give place at 
 once ? 
 
 Why — as all the laws of honour, both in 
 love and arms, forbade — maintain a contest 
 which was utterly hopeless, and which could 
 result only in an amount more or less of gra- 
 tuitous pain to all parties? 
 
 Why not retire as a man of spirit ought 
 to do — as a man with his heart in the right 
 place would have done? 
 
AUBREY. 207 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " Deliver me from the fallacies of the world, from my 
 own folly, that I be not cheated by the one, nor betrayed 
 by myself." — Jeeemy Tatloe. 
 
 It was a niglit such as William's poetic fancy 
 had painted it. 
 
 The moon had risen, bright, round and 
 clear; yet the stars might be seen through 
 the air — soft glittering spangles upon the 
 blue spreading sky ! 
 
 The evening was warm as that of Italy, when 
 two lovers sat and gazed at those patterns 
 of rich gold upon the floor of heaven — 
 I^ot a breath was stirring — The splendid villa, 
 or rather palace in the Regent's Park, 
 stood surrounded by tufted groves and 
 shrubberies, its long front one galaxy 
 of lights. — From the saloon, which was the 
 dancing room — a vast lofty apartment one 
 
208 AUBREY. 
 
 blaze witliin — those broad steps descended, 
 wliicli reached along the entire centre of the 
 front, stretching out into long wings on 
 either side. These steps were adorned with 
 innumerable flowers, visible as if it were day, 
 such were the floods of light which illumi- 
 nated the whole of the large pavilion 
 which this centre in some sort repre- 
 sented — The sound of music heard from 
 the saloon filled the air, and festive groups, 
 masked or unmasked, as the case might be, 
 in all the grotesque variety of a masked and 
 fancy ball, were crowding in and out of the 
 wide-opened windows, ascending and descend- 
 ing the steps — or winding among the bowery 
 walks of the gardens, which were glittering 
 with coloured lamps on every side. 
 
 The Marchioness of Hurstmonceaux, who 
 rarely gave parties, piqued herself, when she 
 attempted such a thing, upon giving the best 
 of the season. 
 
 Lady Emma was loveliness itself. In a 
 wreath of lilies of the valley mingled with 
 delicate little wood -flowers so light and 
 faintly tinted, just like the flowers which 
 everyone who loves the woods, knows and loves. 
 
AUBREY. 209 
 
 She ^Tore a dress of mingled paly green and 
 -white, her beautiful hair flowing around her 
 in a way which could not have been allowed 
 at any but a fancy ball. Her eyes were 
 bright with innocent enjoyment, as, with the 
 light steps of the wood nymph she repre- 
 sented, she glanced from place to place more 
 like a vision than a reality. By her side, as 
 her shadow, the young naval officer might be 
 seen, unmasked, and his dress uniform of 
 white and blue (for uniforms were admitted as 
 fancy dresses), showed off his figure to the 
 highest advantage. 
 
 He knew nothing of love's artifices, not he. 
 He adored her, and he showed it, without 
 disguise. In some, this might have appeared 
 obtrusive and ill-bred, — not so in him. It 
 was all so spontaneous, so simple, so unaf- 
 fected — such a matter of course. The world 
 seemed to agree to accept it so, and to look 
 upon them as engaged lovers, though not a 
 word of that nature had he yet ventured 
 to say. 
 
 Those, who knew him little, were struck 
 with the ease, and, to use an old, almost 
 obsolete word, the gallantry of his manner. 
 VOL. I. P 
 
210 AUBREY. 
 
 There was that in it of observance, of re- 
 spect, of devotion, which young men of the 
 world have agreed to discard, but which, 
 when united with a manly freedom and 
 spirit, will always produce its effect upon 
 women. His blue eye too was so bright, 
 his smile so sweet, the expression of his 
 countenance so charming ! Yet had any 
 friend who really loved him been present, 
 one who cared to observe the slight but 
 expressive changes which time insensibly 
 produces upon the countenance, he might 
 have felt grieved and anxious at the indi- 
 cations to be discerned there. 
 
 That clear, ingenuous eye was no longer 
 the same. Bright it was — and fervent it 
 was — but there was no longer that per- 
 fect, lucid, confiding frankness for which it 
 had once been remarkable. Clouds came 
 and went over that once open and cheerful 
 brow ; and the countenance was from time to 
 time obscured by a certain troubled darkness. 
 For a moment the pensive, anxious, uneasy 
 expression would be there, — then he would 
 shake it off, — and would chat and laugh, 
 with his usual animation — with more, per- 
 
AUBREY. 211 
 
 haps. But the laugh seemed less sweet, — 
 less gay, — less natural, — and the pleasant 
 stream of unaffected conversation had lost 
 its easy flow. 
 
 It was when he was gazing upon Lady 
 Emma that this change of expression was 
 the most visible. Yet it was evidently not 
 the melancholy anxiety of a doubting lover. 
 There seemed to be something behind. 
 
 And, alas ! most true — there was some- 
 thing behind. 
 
 Edward was no longer the same. He had 
 suffered himself to be betrayed by the ruling 
 fault of his nature — facility — into courses 
 which were as offensive to his taste as con- 
 trary to his principles — if principles, indeed, 
 he could be said to have. His should rather 
 be called good instincts than good principles, 
 for his nature was most happy — but his 
 moral education, properly so styled, had yet 
 to begin. 
 
 His childhood had been entirely ne- 
 glected. 
 
 Those great ideas of responsibility to a 
 higher power — of watchfulness, self-denial, 
 and self-distrust, which enable the man 
 
 p 2 
 
212 AUBREY. 
 
 to pass with an undeviating rectitude 
 through the labyrinth of life, had never 
 been inculcated. And perhaps, under these 
 circumstances, the very possession of those 
 naturally good dispositions with which Edward 
 was gifted, became injurious — it served to 
 disguise to him the extent of his moral 
 wants. 
 
 Natures high and magnanimous, as the one 
 before us, are apt to be too facile in matters 
 they consider of indifference. They are often 
 exceedingly easy and good-natured, as it is 
 called, — and Edward was particularly so — 
 besides the tempter was the brother of the 
 girl he adored; and passion acting upon a 
 heart like his, shed more than the usual de- 
 lusive charm over everything that was in any 
 manner associated with its object. 
 
 Edward loved Lord Algernon for Emma's 
 sake, and suffered this unprincipled young 
 man to lead him from one step to another, 
 until he found himself involved in engage- 
 ments which his conscience and judgment 
 disapproved— and which, though as yet no 
 particular mischief had arisen, he felt 
 w^ould awaken — were they known — so much 
 
AUBREY. 213 
 
 just anxiety upon the part of his father and 
 brother. 
 
 But night after night was thus passed away 
 until at length the fatal fascinations of play 
 began to involve him. What he had origi- 
 nally done, merely in complaisance to Lord 
 Algernon's wishes, was now continued to 
 gratify his own. He was very clever — of a 
 highly ardent and enterprising temper, and, 
 like too many young men in his position in 
 life, he had at present no earthly thing to do. 
 He wanted an interest — a pursuit — something 
 to stimulate his spirit. He found it, alas ! 
 where so many others, once good and innocent 
 as he, have found it. 
 
 To play whist, exerting all the skill which 
 the game demands — to bet high ! — and tremble 
 at the danger of losing sums, which he knew 
 his father would be justly displeased at his 
 having risked — and which, rich as he was, it 
 might inconvenience him, if lost, to pay . . . 
 the very excitement of the danger possessed 
 an invincible charm — whilst to extricate him- 
 self from the perils he incurred, by the 
 exercise of his own exceeding skill, was a 
 delight irresistible. 
 
214 AUBREY. 
 
 Every morning brought its compunctious 
 visitings for this conduct, and with them 
 resolutions not to olBfend again — those vain, 
 half resolutions with which, and not with 
 honest good intentions, hell, as it has been 
 said, is paved. Such half resolutions do not 
 even reach the point of honest intention — far 
 less do they result in real action — they serve 
 merely to satisfy the gnawings of that sort 
 of conscience which depends very much upon 
 the state of the nerves, and may be laid asleep 
 by a hearty meal or a gallop in the fresh air. 
 
 Still, though thus, in a manner, silenced 
 and stupified, the good monitor was never 
 altogether to be laid at rest ; and there 
 was a sense of internal dissatisfaction with 
 himself, ever present. Oh, how unlike to the 
 happy consciousness of useful and honourable 
 endeavour, with which he had walked the 
 deck of his vessel, gladdening every eye that 
 beheld him ! 
 
 Had he been soundly educated — his moral 
 nature developed as it ought to have been — 
 had Edward Aubrey been taught to look up- 
 wards — the true model been placed before his 
 eyes — had he, in short, been a Christian man, 
 
AUBREY. 215 
 
 instead of a mere member of a Christian 
 society — these evils could never have arisen 
 — the temptation would have been resisted at 
 first, had the habit of early resistance been 
 acquired. But he wanted the faithful compass, 
 the unerring guide. He was there — a beautiful 
 vessel, exposed to all the waves and winds — 
 the shifting lights and fallacious signals of a 
 world, in which, with the best compass, and 
 the best pilotage, it is so hard to steer 
 aright. 
 
 The internal dissatisfaction that was grow- 
 ing upon him was more peculiarly felt this 
 evening. 
 
 Surrounded as he was witb all, to his fine 
 perceptions, so peculiarly delightful — and 
 allowed, nay more, encouraged, to devote his 
 time and attention to the sweet object of his 
 admiration — at this moment more than ever 
 sweet and charming — this dissatisfaction, this 
 discontent with himself, became peculiarly 
 galling and oppressive. 
 
 How happy but three weeks ago — how per- 
 fectly, how supremely happy would all this 
 have made him ! — but was he happy 
 now ? 
 
216 AUBREY. 
 
 He did not even ask himself the ques- 
 tion. He was quite unaccustomed to this 
 sort of self-inquisition. He suffered the 
 undying worm to keep gnawing there within, 
 without calling himself to account — these un- 
 easy feelings to haunt him without troubling 
 himself to ask why. But she was not so 
 easily to be satisfied. 
 
 She had, once or twice, when looking up at 
 him, perceived the cloud darkeuing over the 
 countenance, once so frank and gay, the bright 
 expression exchanged for one of suffering 
 and care, and she Avas struck and affected 
 by it. Her woman's instinct told her that 
 it was not upon her account. There was a 
 change, but she was not the cause of it; and 
 she felt privileged, as they walked up and 
 down the room, her arm pressed closely to his 
 breast, to ask the cause. 
 
 Lady Emma was of a frank, open temper. 
 She had been brought up in the retirement of 
 the country, and she knew little of mere con- 
 ventional reserves. 
 
 She perceived that Edward was not exactly 
 as he had been ; and she saw no harm in asking 
 what had happened. 
 
AUBREY. 217 
 
 With that arm of hers pressed so closely to 
 his heart, she felt she had the right to take 
 the interest she did in his happiness. 
 
 *'I have been looking at you several times, 
 Captain Aubrey," she began, "and I have 
 been thinking what a changeful countenance 
 yours is. At times it is gaiety itself, and you 
 seem the happiest of beings ; then, suddenly 
 the sky darkens over . . . You are like an 
 April day." 
 
 The blood rose suddenly to his temples, then 
 as suddenly retreated. 
 
 The arm was pressed more tightly to his 
 heart, as he answered : 
 
 " And are you so exceedingly, exceedingly 
 kind as to observe my change of looks? — 
 and can you care — may I dare hope it — for my 
 clouds or sunshine ? Oh ! it rests with one, 
 and with one only, to make mine a perpetual 
 sunshine." 
 
 Iso man should ever call a woman Jcind. It 
 always sounds to her sensitiveness like a tacit 
 reproach. 
 
 Lady Emma blushed in her turn, and 
 loosened her arm a little ; then she bashfully 
 raised her eyes, and stole a glance at her 
 
218 AUBREY. 
 
 lover's face. What she read there made her 
 no longer ashamed of being kind. 
 
 There was a silence for a short time, then 
 he said : ^ 
 
 *• I have had cause to be dissatisfied with 
 myself." 
 
 He paused a little, and thus went on : 
 
 " When a man has only himself to answer 
 to, he cares little — perhaps too little — 
 whether he is pleased with himself or not. 
 But it shall be so no more with me." 
 
 " I can hardly believe it possible," she said 
 with great simplicity, " that you should ever 
 have cause to quarrel with yourself." 
 
 " Who has not? — and I most of all," was 
 his answer, and then he looked down again at 
 her with oh ! such intense tenderness ! — and 
 he felt the little arm trembling in his. 
 
 He took the hand which lay upon his arm, 
 and he pressed it gently, and he was about 
 then and there, surrounded as they were, to 
 declare his passion, and ask for that heart 
 which he believed to be already his own . . . but 
 at that critical moment — ah ! that mysterious 
 thread of moments upon which life hangs ! — 
 Emma's governess came up and interrupted 
 
AUBREY. 219 
 
 them. She said, that the Marchioness of 
 Hurstmonceaux was calling for her daughter, 
 to be introduced to, and dance with, the Prince 
 of C. C, she believed it was — and so, with 
 considerable hurry and fuss, she carried her 
 away. 
 
 Our Marchioness was a shrewd woman, 
 and had she been aware how matters stood, 
 nothing could have made her more angry 
 than this blundering interruption of a con- 
 versation which was becoming so interest- 
 ing. Princes might dance with her daughter, 
 and it was well that they should — it 
 gave the young creature a certain eclat 
 which was valuable. But the Lady of Hurst- 
 monceaux was not one to drop the substance 
 and grasp at the shadow. She knew that 
 Captain Aubrey was an excellent match and 
 a sure card — that it was one of those affairs 
 which may be called a real good thing ; equally 
 eligible on both sides — one of those schemes 
 which may almost inevitably be brought to 
 bear — Yet, secure as she felt, she would have 
 been not the less glad to see all things com- 
 fortably settled, by a regular engagement, so 
 that she might be able to lay the subject 
 
220 AUBREY. 
 
 aside, and turn lier mind undisturbed to other 
 pressing matters, which troubled her much, 
 and with good reason. 
 
 But worthy Miss Fisher, who, unfortu- 
 nately, had, by Emma's desire, been invited 
 this evening, was not quick-sighted in love 
 matters, and not being in the Marchioness's 
 confidence, she blundered as we have seen. 
 
 Captain Aubrey very unwillingly relin- 
 quished Lady Emma's arm, suffering Miss 
 Fisher to lead her away ; and as it was for 
 the purpose of being introduced to the prin- 
 cipal personage present, he did not choose to 
 follow her ; so he turned away vexed, and, if 
 truth must be told, excessively jealous — and 
 he went and sat down in a corner of the 
 room, by the side of one of the large windows 
 looking towards the garden, from whence he 
 could watch the whirling waltz going on 
 within, or gaze upon the calm and beautiful 
 night, and the various groups wandering about 
 the grounds without. 
 
 The scene was fantastical and grotesque 
 — masks always give a peculiar appearance 
 of oddness and unreality to people upon 
 such occasions — he was in no very good 
 
AUBREY. 221 
 
 humour, and he sat looking at the people as 
 they went in and out, and making somewhat 
 sarcastic reflections as they passed to and fro. 
 At last his attention was arrested by a figure, 
 dressed as a German broom girl, her face 
 entirely covered by a mask, which she kept 
 most pertinaciously on. 
 
 The figure was standing upon the steps, 
 and seemed absorbed in thought, taking no 
 notice of the crowds as they ascended and 
 descended, sometimes even jostling her, but 
 when thus driven from her position, she re- 
 sumed it immediately. 
 
 She seemed to be quite unaccompanied, and 
 to belong to no party. Every now and then, 
 however, she raised her eyes, and, as he 
 fancied, fixed them upon himself, keeping 
 her fiice turned towards the place where 
 he sat. He was just about to move away, 
 and put an end to this kind of disagreeable 
 scrutiny, when, his eyes following the direc- 
 tion of hers, he became aware of two figures 
 approaching. 
 
 The lovely Lady Emma was re-entering the 
 dancing room, leaning upon the arm of a 
 young man much taller than herself, so as to 
 
222 AUBREY. 
 
 bear the just and beautiful proportion to lier 
 fine and slender figure. He was, dressed in the 
 splendid Hungarian costume, and literally- 
 blazing with jewels. He held his mask in his 
 hand, and a face was thus displayed which 
 appeared the very ideal of manly beauty, 
 enhanced by the grace and elegance of the 
 most splendid figure in the world. He 
 was, in short, a proper peer for the lovely 
 girl who hung upon his arm, and it would 
 seem as if everyone acknowledged this — the 
 crowd falling back in a sort of admiring gaze, 
 as these two fine creatures came forward to 
 take their places in the dance. 
 
 They began to dance, and it was, indeed, a 
 very beautiful sight. 
 
 The dress and figure of the cavalier so 
 magnificent, and the light, glancing, and fairy- 
 like creature who floated away as if her feet 
 scarcely touched the earth, so lovely — 
 
 She thought and cared little for all this, 
 but her eyes were bright and her countenance 
 beaming^she was sure that Edward loved 
 her, and that this very grand young man 
 was perfectly charmed with her — and true 
 enough he did feel a little in' danger 
 
AUBREY. 223 
 
 of parting with his heart, which, like an 
 ordinary piece of coin, had gone into circu- 
 lation and come back to him so often. He 
 was not accustomed to disguise his admi- 
 ration when excited, and he made no secret of 
 it now. 
 
 The waltz seemed to Edward Aubrey as if 
 it never would come to an end. 
 
 He sat there, like one stupified by some 
 sudden and unexpected shock, gazing vacantly 
 at this magnificent apparition which had 
 arisen, as it were, suddenly, between him and 
 the object of his passion, casting him down at 
 once from the happy elevation to which the 
 general esteem and admiration of the world 
 had elevated him — sinking him to a mere 
 nothing before the young and handsome 
 magnate. 
 
 Edward Aubrey felt, at that moment, very 
 much as men in mythic times must have 
 felt, when the divinities in person descended 
 from Olympus, to enter the lists with poor 
 creatures of clay, and bear away the prizes 
 in love and war. 
 
 These high-blooded, high-born, highly ac- 
 complished beings, who belong to the ancient, 
 unadulterated aristocracies of ages, may not, 
 
224 AUBREY. 
 
 perhaps, be ill compared with those divinities 
 of the antique world, in whom the men of 
 those times — it may be from some vague 
 tradition of superior races — believed. 
 
 To the worshippers of ideal beauty — to 
 those who, like some of us even at this time 
 of day, regard personal beauty as some- 
 thing sacred, and inestimable, and in itself 
 to be revered, not as the ornament of, but as 
 the essential good (of these I profess myself 
 not to be one) — a being like this is transcen- 
 dental. 
 
 Captain Aubrey, however, did not feel 
 himself in the least inclined to worship beauty 
 in the form of the Prince, however much he 
 might in that of Lady Emma. 
 
 Black, bitter jealousy was at this moment 
 turning all the sweetness of his nature into 
 gall, as he kept his eyes fixed, riveted upon 
 the pair. 
 
 That dance ! — that odious dance ! — would 
 it never come to an end ? 
 
 Oh yes, it would end — it is already ended 
 — and they are arm in arm again — and they 
 are coming his way. 
 
 The puppy ! — The proud conceited puppy ! 
 — The rascal foreigner ! — Woman ! — woman ! 
 
AUBIIEY. 225 
 
 — ^woman ! — Flirt ! — ^jilt ! — trifler ! — His brain 
 was reeling — bis beart raging as tbey passed 
 bim. Tbe young Hungarian beveling clown 
 bis proud, beautiful bead, and speaking in 
 tones so soft and low — and sbe, witli ber 
 c'beek faintly flusbed by tbe exercise — a tinted 
 lily — ber eyes bent on tbe ground, banging 
 on bis arm listening — and so softly smiling ! 
 
 Ob, tbat ineffably sweet smile ! 
 
 And sbe never once looked up — tbougb 
 sbe passed close by bim — neitber bearing nor 
 caring. — Was be forgotten already ? 
 
 Tbey passed, and be rose and came towards 
 tbe steps wbere tbe woman, dressed as tbe 
 " Buy-a-Broom," was still standing. — 
 
 "Do you know me?" sbe began Avitb tbe 
 usual freedom of tbe mask. 
 
 " Not in tbe least," be said, and was about 
 to pass ber. 
 
 "But I know you," sbe answered, just 
 moving so as to prevent bim from going on, 
 witbout unduly pusbing against ber. 
 
 " I know you — and I am sure you know 
 me." 
 
 " I assure you I do not in tbe least — and 
 if you know me, it is because I am witbout 
 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
226 AUBREY. 
 
 a mask, so tliat any one wlio chooses to take 
 the trouble to enquire, may learn my name ; 
 but I never, to my recollection, heard your 
 voice before." 
 
 " Very possibly. . . . Then, on honour, you 
 do not know me? Will you give me your 
 honour upon it ? " 
 
 " If it is any satisfaction to you — yes." 
 
 " Because I have something to say to 
 you." 
 
 '' Say on." 
 
 " Something which concerns your good — 
 for I have read your heart — yes — I know 
 more of you than you suppose — and now I 
 warn you — turn your eyes away in time. 
 Look before you ! Ask yourself — can you 
 pretend to rival such a man ! You are a 
 handsome, pleasant young fellow enough — 
 nobody denies that — you know and do your 
 duty — you are brave, loving, and true; but 
 what's all that? He is a Prince, beautiful and 
 deceitful, bred in courts, flattering, and 
 false, but fascinating, and a foreigner ! — And 
 you will set up your claims and pretensions 
 against his, will you ?" 
 
 "You need not stop me to tell all this 
 
AUBREY. 227 
 
 — I have been feeling it, without your lielp, 
 this last half hour," he answered bitterly, sur- 
 prised out of his self-command for the moment. 
 
 ^' You have ! — I thought so ! — Then listen 
 to me. — Edward Aubrey, you are too good to 
 be the sport of a vain, heartless girl — but 
 if you are not careful, you will be. . . . 
 Young man, when you have learned to know 
 the sex as I have, you will find that there 
 are faults — nay, there are vices — which are 
 charms in their eyes. — Only look yourself 
 — and see whether in this one less than half 
 an hour, you do not know that she has changed 
 to you — you, Edward Aubrey — you, honest 
 and sincere as you are — aye, honest enough, 
 and sincere enough — but what woman ever 
 loved a man for that ? " 
 
 Edward's blood was already boiling — the 
 venom thus administered seemed to drive him 
 almost mad — he was beside himself with rage 
 and jealousy. 
 
 He looked the way the mask bade him — 
 and, sure enough, he thought, who could mis- 
 take the expression of that face ! 
 
 " Nay," the tempter in female form went 
 on — " If you are not satisfied — go and be 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 AUBREY. 
 
 satisfied — try her — go and speak to her — See 
 how she will seem to like it — See what wel- 
 come you will have — Why ? can you suppose 
 that, brought up by such a mother, she does not 
 know very well what she is about? — and can 
 you imagine that mother will ever rest now, 
 till she brings this matter to bear? Princess 
 C. C. ! It will sound a little better, I ima- 
 gine, than Lady Emma Aubrey." 
 
 "Come, Algernon! Are you not tired to 
 death of all this fiddling, piping, and mas- 
 querading? Let us go and amuse ourselves 
 like men." 
 
 Lord Algernon had his own reasons fi}r 
 changing his tactics, and was now as desirous 
 to get Edward Aubrey away as he had of late 
 been to bring him and his sister together. He 
 acquiesced readily. 
 
 " j\Ty good fellow, I have been sick of all 
 this nonsense an hour and a half ago — so let 
 us get our hats, and steal a march — we shall 
 never be missed." 
 
AUBREY. 229 
 
 " Never be missed," Edward repeated bit- 
 terly to himself. 
 
 " And if mama should find us out/' Algernon 
 went on, '' Why she'll suppose we are only 
 gone to change our dresses and get masks, 
 which I'll swear, if interrogated, was the truth. 
 But hold ! Keally it might be capital fun to 
 do that. I have ten thousand minds.'' 
 
 "No — no," — said Edward, putting his arm 
 into Lord Algernon's, and pulling him along. 
 
 " I tell you I'm sick of it all. Let us go 
 to the Club and have our revenge." 
 
 " As you will," answered the other. 
 
 And for the first time Edward was the 
 seducer to the fatal board. 
 
230 AUBREY. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "Enougli. 
 
 To pluck commiseration of his state 
 
 From brassy bosoms, and rough hearts of flint, 
 
 From stubborn Turks and Tartars never train'd 
 
 To offices of tender mercy." 
 
 Meechant of Venice. 
 
 They were gone. 
 
 The festivities continued. 
 
 The bands played with increased animation ; 
 the night, as it deepened, seemed to increase 
 in beauty; a soft wind pLayed among the 
 leaves and flowers, and the nightingales were 
 revelling in song. 
 
 The stars were shining large and bright in 
 the heavens, the tiny lamps glittering like 
 thousands of glow-worms below. 
 
 That young enthusiastic creature, so alive to 
 the beauty which surrounded her, was any- 
 thing but what the mask had described her 
 to be — anything but a worldly schemer and 
 calculator — for she was the mere child of 
 
AUBREY. 231 
 
 imagination and passion, and resembled any 
 creature on earth rather than her mother. 
 
 We left her, the young, beautiful, imagina- 
 tive, and inexperienced girl, descending the 
 steps which led to the gardens, hanging upon 
 the Prince of C. C.'s arm. 
 
 Flattered she was — perhaps for the moment 
 a little touched, as women are but too apt to 
 be, by the devotion of any one whose devotion 
 is esteemed an honour — but it was the mere 
 excitement of the moment— and there was 
 the faithful woman's feeling at the bottom of 
 
 it for, even as she Avent down those steps, 
 
 her colour heightened, and her eyes sparkling, 
 she looked round for Edward. 
 
 She looked round to see whether he was 
 there to observe her triumph, and gloried in 
 thus enhancing the value of a heart which 
 was all his own, by giving proof of the dis- 
 interestedness of its affection. 
 
 How many women every day, from poor 
 Camilla Tyrrel on board the yacht, to the 
 victim of yesterday, have made the same 
 mistake, and lost the heart they so highly 
 prized, by the indulgence of this somewhat 
 sentimental vain glory. 
 
232 AUBREY. 
 
 But he was not there — at least, not in the 
 place where she had left him. She was a little 
 disappointed not to see him, but not in the 
 least alarmed. Little did she guess all that 
 had been passing in his heart, or the manner 
 in which he would soon be passing his 
 time. 
 
 Throwing desperately at hazard — 
 
 He had abandoned his favourite whist table, 
 and there he stood, with pale cheek and hag- 
 gard eye, watching the turn of the dice, and 
 betting madly — not with the gambler's pas- 
 sionate hope, and fierce hunger of gain — but 
 with the vain endeavour to distract his mind, 
 and annihilate one passion by another. 
 
 It was the first time in his life that he had 
 experienced the racking torments of jealousy 
 — of disappointed love — and all the rage and 
 despair which belong to that form of anguish, 
 and little knew he how such fierce agonies 
 of the heart are alone to be met and subdued. 
 
 Had it been bodily pain, danger, imprison- 
 ment, suffering under any mere physical form, 
 he would have endured it with fortitude and 
 calmness — but against his present feelings 
 he was helpless as a child — weak as the 
 
AUBREY. 233 
 
 feeblest of cowards — reckless and desperate as 
 the most untutored savage. 
 
 So there he stood, his temples aching as if 
 they would burst, his eyes wild and staring, 
 urG^infr on the frantic ^ame with the fury of a 
 maniac. 
 
 Lord Algernon marvelled at the change — 
 half rejoicing, half regretting that the work 
 seemed so effectually done, and that the man 
 whom he had been accustomed to regard as a 
 inodel — whose conduct had ever been a tacit 
 censure upon his own — was now being swept 
 away, and a victim to the dire passion of 
 gaming, and with an apparent defiance of con- 
 sequences which astonished him. 
 
 He stood observing liini some time in silence. 
 And now, fortune seemed to rejoice in her new 
 votary, and to welcome him with her highest 
 favour — heaps of gold began to accumulate to 
 an enormous extent before Edward. Then Al- 
 gernon seemed suddenly to be seized with the 
 same frenzy — he began to bet upon the 
 throws of his friend with an equally desperate 
 disregard of calculation — and soon heap 
 upon heap, and notes to a very large amount 
 began to accumulate before him also. 
 
234 AUBREY. 
 
 Long this desperate game went on. Thirsty 
 and fevered, they kept calling for wine, and 
 drinking eagerly; then they threw again — 
 and still as they threw the most extraordinary 
 run of luck attended them. At last almost 
 mad with excitement, Algernon proposed to 
 stake all their winnings upon one final chance. 
 The challenge was accepted, but the sum in 
 question was so large, that a sort of part- 
 nership was entered into among the standers- 
 by, who divided the risk among them. 
 
 One well-experienced calculator, however, 
 took the largest portion of the bet. — Keasoning 
 upon the doctrine of chances, which answers 
 so well upon paper — he assured himself, as far 
 as assurance is possible in such cases, that 
 the probabilities of a high throw must be 
 greatly against one who had met with such 
 unparalleled success during a whole evening — 
 it was almost impossible, according to all the 
 rules of calculation, but that the tide of 
 fortune must turn. 
 
 The two young men, who were, themselves, 
 also now playing in partnership^ declared, that 
 they had no wish to leave the table, winners 
 to so large an amount — but that it was to 
 
AUBREY. 235 
 
 1)6 understood that the present was their last 
 throw for that night ; winners or losers, they 
 should then leave the table. 
 
 The cool and experienced calculator stood 
 there, with thoughtful, unmoved face, watch- 
 ing the eager impassioned looks of the young 
 men around — the greedy eyes of Algernon, 
 who was well-known to him, fixed upon the 
 heaps of gold and notes lying before him on 
 the table, and the wild, excited air of the 
 young naval of&cer, a comparative stranger. 
 Wary and composed, he kept repeating to him- 
 self—" The tide must turn." 
 
 True, perhaps, but not for that night. 
 Edward handed the box to Algernon. 
 " Throw, you," he said. 
 But the gentleman above mentioned inter- 
 fered — 
 
 " I withdraw my bet, if the hands that 
 throw are changed." 
 
 "Are you mad?" whispered Algernon, 
 " with such a run of luck in your favour — to 
 pass the box to me." 
 
 "Be it as you will," answered Edward 
 carelessly. 
 
 He raised his hand as he spoke. 
 
236 AUBREY. 
 
 The dice fell upon the table. 
 
 He has won ! — 
 
 The eyes of Lord Algernon flashed with a 
 fierce, hungry joy — Edward turned silently 
 away. 
 
 He cared not to calculate his gains. As the 
 cry arose that he had won — it was as if a 
 sharp poignard had entered into his heart. 
 He had sought at that table distraction, not 
 gain, and now as the flood of fortune poured in 
 upon him, with it came the miserable thought 
 — " It is worse than valueless — it is no longer 
 for her." 
 
 To have lost — to have been plunged into 
 all the misery of money embarrassments^ of 
 his father's anger, and his brother's quiet dis- 
 approbation — to quarrel with them, with the 
 world, with everything, and fly for shelter to 
 his ship — that was what he was panting for. 
 The voice of the winds and waters was 
 sounding in his ears — a refuge from his 
 intolerable misery. 
 
 He had firmly believed when he risked this 
 last throw, that he should lose — and he had 
 won ! — He knew not what — cared not what — 
 he had won to an immense amount. 
 
aubhey. 237 
 
 He turned awav, and his eye fell npon 
 one of tlie large mirrors against the wall, 
 reaching from ceiling to floor, and there he saw 
 reflected, not only his own fevered excited face, 
 but tlie haggard countenance of a very 
 young man, who stood there the picture of 
 dismay, and as if thunderstruck at his own 
 losses. 
 
 He was a mere uoy. — A slender, delicate, 
 raw, feeble-looking youth, whose hair, pale 
 and scanty, stood almost on end; and 
 whose features, simple to childishness, were 
 distorted vrith ac^onv. The afronv of a feeble 
 spirit, wherein all that supports the man 
 is swept at once away. His hands were 
 clasped convulsively before him, his cheek 
 was ashy pale, his eyes staring, his white lips 
 quivering. 
 
 Weakness of character is a contemptible 
 and ridiculous thing, but when the weak are 
 driven to hopeless despaii', the excess of their 
 agony almost renders it sublime. 
 
 This poor, raw lad was one just sent from a 
 private select establishment, to a fashionable 
 college at one of our Universities. The school 
 was one to which the father, at once a rigid 
 
238 A U B R E Y. 
 
 dissenter and a very j^roud and vain man, who 
 had made liis own large fortune, had con- 
 signed his son, with the idea of escaping the 
 dangers of a public school, and from thence 
 he had launched him at once into the vortex 
 of university life. The poor sensitive youth 
 found it difficult to stand his ground, untrained 
 as he had been to assert himself, and hold his 
 own against the violence or the ridicule of 
 the many, and he soon from mere fear — the 
 fear of not being thought manly — launched 
 into courses, considered desperate even by 
 those who held law and order at equal de- 
 fiance. 
 
 Among other of his silly ambitions, it had 
 been one of the first to become a member 
 of this present fashionable gambling club, — 
 he had succeeded, and this was only the 
 second night of his appearance upon these 
 boards. Seeing other young men, whom he 
 admired and emulated, joining in this chance 
 against the man with the run of luck, — he 
 had vauntingly put down his name for a 
 much higher portion of the risk than he was 
 the least able to meet, and he had lost! — 
 and more by thousands than there was the 
 
AUBREY. 239 
 
 slightest probability of bis finding any means 
 whatsoever to pay. 
 
 His father ! 
 
 He trembled even to think of his father — 
 that stern, despotic father, to whose severity 
 he was probably indebted for the moral weak- 
 ness and cowardice that had been his ruin. 
 What would become of him? What should he 
 do? 
 
 Put a pistol to his head? . . . 
 
 But at that idea his cheeks grew more 
 blanched than ever, and his teeth rattled 
 within his jaws. 
 
 Such was the picture of despair which 
 greeted Edward, as he turned from the 
 gaming table. 
 
 And at that sight, a feeling of horror came 
 over him. For the first time in his life 
 he knew what it was to hate and abhor 
 himself. 
 
 He, in his restless defiance of what was 
 wrong, in his frenzied impatience to escape 
 a present misery, had been the cause of hurl- 
 ing a fellow creature down the fearful abyss 
 into which it was plain this poor, pale, help- 
 less, half-idiot had fallen. 
 
240 AUBEEY. 
 
 But Edward's heart was good, in spite 
 of Ills many faults, and the weakness 
 which others, more hardened, might have 
 laughed at, aroused in him a feeling of sincere, 
 almost tender pity, and he could not refrain 
 from going up to the poor chap-fallen simple- 
 ton, whom, but live minutes before, he recol- 
 lected as so vain and boasting. The lad liad 
 fallen a few paces back from the crowd round 
 the table, where every body was talking loud, 
 and amid a confused hubbub of voices, 
 Lord Algernon was quietly arranging in 
 bundles and rouleaux the Bank notes and 
 sovereigns before him. 
 
 " You seem very uncomfortable" — Edward 
 began, speaking as a man }night do to a mere 
 boy — " I wish you could point out any way 
 in which I might be able to serve you." 
 
 Two great school-boy tears ran down the 
 miserable lad's cheeks, then a flush of burning 
 shame followed ; then a feeling of anger at 
 being thus addressed by the man who had 
 won his money ; then a fear of being thought 
 raw and a child. 
 
 He did not lift up his eyes, as one more 
 practised might have done, and scowl down 
 
AUBREY. 241 
 
 what be considered a very impertinent piece 
 of compassion, but be turned sulkily away, 
 shaking his head and muttering — 
 
 '• I want nothing from you^ 
 
 And so he left the room. 
 
 But his agonised, foolish face haunted 
 Edward like a spectre — and when, at last, he 
 was called upon to come to the table and receive 
 his portion of the gains — sick and disgusted he 
 looked with horror upon their amount — whilst 
 Algernon, suddenly looking up from busi- 
 ness, cried, 
 
 '^ There is one wanting — The second on the 
 .list — Mountford ! — he's not paid." 
 
 There was a general exclamation of 
 ''Where the deuce is he?" 
 
 *'I saw him but a moment ago," says one. 
 
 " Stolen away, stolen away ! by Jove," cries 
 another. 
 
 " That will never do. No, no, my young 
 master. If you icill keep company with men, 
 you must learn, that scores must be paid and 
 engagements kept." 
 
 And several young men hurried out of 
 the room and down stairs. 
 
 They soon returned, two of them hauling 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
242 AUBREY. 
 
 in the poor trembling caitiff; he looked only 
 half alive. 
 
 His only idea, when he left the room so has- 
 tily, had been that of scorning assistance, aiid 
 acting, as he imagined, in a very high-spirited 
 manly manner. He never dreamed of being 
 suspected of the endeavour to run away from 
 his responsibilities, little as he knew how to 
 answer them ; and now, when he heard the 
 interpretation that was put upon his beha- 
 viour, he was ready to die Yvdtli shame and 
 mortification, though too bashful and nervous 
 to find words to explain himself. 
 
 " Come, my young gentleman," said Lord 
 Algernon, insolently, for he knew who poor 
 j\Iountford was, and despised liim, from tlic 
 depth of his heart, as the son of a man who 
 had made his fortune by the manufacture of 
 cotton hose. 
 
 '' Come, my gentleman — none of your 
 tricks here. As I presume you would have 
 pocketed the money if the dice had been 
 in your favour — it won't do to shirk the 
 business when the cast is against you — so fork 
 out your notes, young son of a stocking — or 
 else learn the noble art of I U's." 
 
AUBREY. 243 
 
 " I U -but how am I to pay ? ^Vhat 
 am I to do ? " said the lad, looking roimd him 
 in despair. 
 
 '* Pay, you young . . . rascal," he mut- 
 tered between his teeth. " How came you to 
 bet if you did not know how to pay? That 
 may be Nottingham honour, young gentleman, 
 but it's not what we call honour here." 
 
 " Algernon — Algernon " — said Edward, 
 laying his hand upon his shoulder — •• be 
 quiet — let the poor lad speak. What was it 
 you were going to say ?" he added, turning to 
 Mountford, with great kindness in his look and 
 manner. 
 
 '• I don't know — I have nothing to say — I 
 have not the money — and my father would 
 flay me alive rather than pay a gaming 
 debt." 
 
 '' Why you precious scoundi'ei ! — and know- 
 ing this, you put dovrn your name for this 
 amount" — showing him the list upon the 
 leaf of a pocket-book— " and meant to have 
 sacked the winnings if you had gained ! " 
 
 " I only did what I saw all the rest of you 
 doinfr." 
 
 *' All the rest of us ! you fool, puppy — all 
 
 R 2 
 
244 A U B Pw E Y. 
 
 the rest of us ! You think that's the way 
 gentlemen deal with each other ! " 
 
 The poor young man grew paler and paler ; 
 he seemed as if he could hardly stand. There 
 he was, twenty or thirty indignant, con- 
 temptuous, mocking, scornful eyes fixed upon 
 him — with weak and tremulous nerves, shak- 
 ing in every limb — ^his brain whirling in utter 
 confusion — he neither knew what to do or 
 to say, 
 
 Edv/ard bent down his head, whispering 
 Algernon, who was busy at the table as ever 
 tradesman might be at his desk — counting, 
 and receiving, and dividing, and calculating. 
 
 " Let the poor lad alone. Take his I U. 
 I will be answerable for the payment." 
 
 " Pooh ! — nonsense, Edward ! What are you 
 thinking of ? His father is a rich old churl, 
 good for nothing but to be bled." 
 
 Edward only answered coldly, — 
 
 " I presume, if / give security for him, you 
 will not refuse the lad's note-of-hand." 
 
 " Not I — do as you like. It's all one to 
 me. Only mind. Captain Aubrey, I am a 
 poor devil myself, and / cannot afford to be 
 generous." 
 
AUBREY. 245 
 
 "I understand you. The loss falls upon 
 
 me alone." 
 
 " Why it will be half your winnings." 
 
 *' I only wish it were all." 
 
 Upon which Lord Algernon lifted up his 
 face, and fixed upon him a broad stare, be- 
 tween contempt and amazement, and seemed 
 ready to burst into a loud laugh— but seeing 
 something or other that he did not quite un- 
 derstand in Aubrey's face, he forebore to 
 laugh— and saying carelessly, " Be it as you 
 please," went on with what he was about. 
 
 Edward passed to the opposite side of the 
 
 table. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said he, "by your permis- 
 sion, I will have a moment's conversation 
 with Mr Mountford." 
 
 The young man upon this lifted up his 
 scared eye — and then he could see how much 
 friendship there was in the expression of 
 Edward's face; a something which subdued 
 his foolish pride and affectation of spirit, and 
 the tears came into his eyes, and began to 
 trickle down his cheek again as Edward put 
 his arm within his, and led him to the other 
 side of the room. Some of the other young 
 
246 AUBREY. 
 
 men at this whistled in a low tone — some 
 put their tongues into their cheeks — some 
 turned with indifference awaj. There was 
 not one — not one among them all — these 
 young but practised gamblers, that had a 
 thought of pity for the wretchedness of one 
 companion, or sympathy for the generous 
 humanity of the other. 
 
 ^' Young man," Edward gently began, when 
 they were out of hearing of the rest — " you 
 must excuse the liberty I take — I mean well 
 by you, and I hope you will at once look upon 
 my interference as it is intended. I guess, by 
 the few words you have let fall, that your 
 father is not a man to be coaxed into paying 
 debts of honour for one who has no right to 
 incur them — but I see you are sensible of the 
 deep disgrace of having played in the hope of 
 gaining a large sum, upon the credit of an 
 engagement which, if you lost, you were un- 
 able to discharge. This was bad, sir — very 
 bad." 
 
 " I know it — I know it ! — I did not think 
 of it I — I assure you upon my faith and 
 honour — I never saw it in this light before 
 — besides, I was sure I should win." 
 
AUBREY. 247 
 
 *' Sure you should win ! " Echvard could not 
 help repeating in a slightly contemptuous tone. 
 
 " Why did not Mr Briscoe feel sure of it- 
 er why did he risk his money?— and every- 
 body says he knows." 
 
 a ^^gii ^vell — you have lost — and ot 
 
 course you must pay." 
 
 '' But I can't !— I can't ! "—cried the poor 
 wretch in a deplorable tone. " I have not 
 live hundred pounds in the world." 
 " Then you are disgraced." 
 " Oh! oh! oh!" 
 
 '' Will you promise me faithfully if I rescue 
 you from disgrace, that you will touch neither 
 card nor dice for the next two years— nor 
 make a single bee during that whole time— 
 and that you will immediately witlidraw your 
 name from this Club." 
 
 '' WithdraAV my name from the Club ! " 
 ''Yes certainly. You know the alternative 
 
 is to be turned out." 
 
 u jj(3^y I — I don't understand." 
 
 " Why, jou... ninny. ..—hut attend. Can't 
 you see, that if you do not pay your debts of 
 honour— of course you will be driven out from 
 the company of Iwnourahle gentlemen." 
 
248 AUBREY. 
 
 " I am sure I don't think tlieni so particu- 
 larly honourable. Why they none of 'em 
 pay their tradesmen's bills." 
 
 '^ That is not the question at issue just now. 
 Perhaps I have my own opinions upon that 
 head as you have yours — but of this I am 
 certain, that they are not fit company for one 
 like you." 
 
 '' Like me, sir!" — drawing up. 
 
 Captain Aubrey took no notice of this, but 
 went on — 
 
 " And therefore it is upon condition that 
 you withdraw your name from the Club, and 
 give me a written promise to the effect I men- 
 tioned — that I will endorse your note-of-hand 
 for the sum in question — and, furthermore — 
 'loAvering ]iis voice,' I will accept the said 
 note as part of my share of these hateful gains 
 — and if you will accompany me into the 
 dining-room, which I think is empty, you 
 shall see me put the document into the 
 candle." 
 
 A flush of joy and surprise crimsoned the pale 
 cheek, — and the figure so beaten down and 
 degraded by contemptible cowardice and des- 
 pair, looked for the moment almost dignified by 
 
AUBREY. 249 
 
 a genuine good feeling — that of heartfelt 
 
 gratitude. 
 
 Mountford seized hold of Edward's hand — 
 '' You will ! Then God bless vou for it." 
 They went to a little table, and the affair 
 
 was soon settled. And then the note-of-hand 
 
 endorsed by Edward was taken to the o;amino:- 
 
 •• CO 
 
 table. He simply showed it to Algernon, 
 saying, 'carry this to my account;' and then, in 
 a friendly manner, turning to Mountford, 
 said — 
 
 " Come along with me, I have something to 
 tell you." They both went down into the 
 dining-room, where candles were burning, but 
 where no one was present. 
 
 The note-of-hand was soon in flames within 
 the chimney, and its atoms dispersed to the 
 elements. 
 
 And then, without going up stairs again to 
 receive the portion of the spoil which yet re- 
 mained for him, Edward turned homewards. 
 
 It was by this time between five and six 
 o'clock; and the sun was blazing far above 
 the horizon over the still sleeping w^orld of 
 London. 
 
250 AUBREY. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 "Friendship is constant in all other things, 
 Save in the office and affairs of love." 
 
 Much Ado about ]N'oTniNG. 
 
 ..." And so, svreet Mary, as I told you, it 
 was a beautiful ball; a ball — like a thing in a 
 fairy tale — or wliat one fancies one sees in 
 some ballet at the opera. 
 
 " You never beheld anything more beautiful 
 than the long line of the house, one blaze 
 of light, as it was reflected in the water upon 
 the lawn ; and the trees glittering witli what 
 seemed numberless little glimmering stars ; 
 and the real stars over head, upon that 
 bright night, shining down upon us. . . . Oh, 
 so glorious ! seeming to say, how far their 
 brilliancy exceeded all that insignificant 
 man could do. 
 
 " You remember the chorus of Haydn's 
 
AUBTvEY. 251 
 
 you are so fond of, ' The heavens are telling.' 
 ' One thinks in every star an angel speaks.' 
 Dear Mary, were not these strange thoughts 
 in the midst of a masked ball — but that is 
 the use of opening windows and letting the 
 crowd flow out of doors ; there is something 
 in the vault of heaven so far surpassing the 
 loftiest and most noble ceiling that ever was 
 painted. 
 
 " I was excessively happy the first part of 
 the evening ; and just in the way you Avould 
 have me be happy. A way in which I felt 
 as if it was right and good to be happy. 
 
 " There is that in Captain Aubrey that 
 makes me feel as if I were the better for lik- 
 ing him as I do ; and the better for feeling 
 that he likes me. So different from some 
 foolish, tempting, wrong and deceitful feel- 
 ings I used to have, at merely being admired. 
 There is a pleasure in being admired — tliat^ I 
 call pleasure ; there is happiness in being liked 
 — tliat^ I call happiness. Do you remember 
 you used to talk in this way long ago? — I did 
 not quite understand you then — but I do per- 
 fectly now. 
 
 '' I don't knovv what Captain Aubrey and I 
 
252 AUBREY. 
 
 talked about at first — all sorts of trifling 
 tilings — but then be has such a way of talk- 
 ing ! He always seems to me to feel so 
 rightly about everything — but yet I thought 
 he did not seem happy — there was a depres- 
 sion about him that I could not account for. 
 He did not seem so happy as he used to be. 
 I was so sorry to see it. His nature is in 
 itself so joyous! Every now and tlien this 
 cloud seemed to come over him, just as we 
 were enjoying ourselves the most. So at last 
 I ventured to ask him whether anything was 
 the matter? — and I found something was the 
 matter. 
 
 "Ah, Mary — ^matter indeed ! 
 
 "But I did not know then what it was, 
 alas ! as I do now. I was in a fool's para- 
 dise. 
 
 " Mary ! Mary ! Is that the only paradise 
 in the world. Is one never — does no one 
 ever meet with any but a fool's paradise here ? 
 A paradise of. mere shows and deceptions. 
 Is there no real happiness to be found ? — I be- 
 gin to think so. 
 
 " But I was happy, then — oh ! so happy ! 
 
 " I could not mistake the tone of his voice, 
 
AUBREY. 253 
 
 the look of his eyes, as he said these words — 
 * Oh, it rests with one, and only one^ to make 
 mine a perpetual sunshine.' 
 
 " They must mean something, surely — all 
 I wished them to mean — but ah, Mary ! 
 
 " Just as he was going to say something more 
 — and I was trembling so, I did not know 
 what to do — between hope and fear of what 
 would come next, just at that turning point, 
 perhaps, of my whole existence — who should 
 come up but that good but, on this occasion, 
 stupid Fisher ? Breaking in upon the conversa- 
 tion — at that critical moment — telling me, in 
 a fuss, my mother wanted me to come and 
 
 to dance with Prince C C . At this 
 
 Captain Aubrey first seemed as if he would 
 not let me go — but I felt ashamed when 
 Miss Fisher, in a hurry, kept saying my 
 mother was waiting for me, so I gave a 
 little pull, as if I wanted to be released ; upon 
 which he dropped my arm instantly, and I 
 went away with Miss Fisher, and met my 
 mother bringing up Prince C. C, and 
 saying something about ' where had I hidden 
 myself ? ' 
 
 " ' And who is Prince C. C. ? ' 
 
254 AUBKEY. 
 
 " He is a very handsome, yery accom- 
 plished, very rich, very fine young Prince ; 
 a real Prince ! Not a little German poten- 
 tate of five hundred quarterings and fifty acres, 
 but a real Prince from the eastern part of 
 Europe. Of a right royal line, and tlie most 
 agreeable and finished gentleman one ever saw. 
 
 " Mary, it was impossible not to be grati- 
 fied at the sudden look of admiration — don't 
 think me foolish — it is a part of my story — 
 life is a chain of little things, I think — all 
 working steadily, as it were, in some one 
 direction . . . this sudden look it was that 
 gave me courage and gave me pleasure. 
 
 ** Pleasure! I will not deny it — I was proud 
 at that moment — oh, how proud ! — and I 
 tliought — this is something — this stamps a 
 value upon the offering I have to make to 
 Edward. 
 
 " And I was charmed with the Prince for 
 giving me this delightful feeling, and I was still 
 more pleased, the more I saw of him. There 
 was something so high about him — something 
 quite different from any man I ever met be- 
 fore — it made me feel as I fancy the young 
 ladies did in the old world, when those 
 
AUBREY. 255 
 
 beautiful divinities, Apollo and so forth, 
 came doAvn amono- tliem. 
 
 ''We waltzed together, and he danced 
 charmingly. It was quite inspiiing to dance 
 Tvitli him. I had the feelinc^ that we looked 
 so well — and fool ! that I was — all the time 
 I was pleasing myself with imagining that 
 Edward was looking: on, and seeinfr how I 
 looked, and seeing that this Prince of princes 
 admired me, and that lie was valuing my 
 affection all the more, because of what I could 
 inspire in others. 
 
 " Not that I mean — that the Prince liad 
 fallen in love with me. I had no such non- 
 sense in mv head — but I was so dad that 
 Edward should see that such a one admii'ed 
 me. 
 
 ''Oh ! Mary, Marv. how mv head and 
 heart do ache this morning. — After the 
 dance, we went down together to the pleasure 
 grounds, where were tents and refreshments. 
 I had, dancing; that wav some little time 
 before, seen Edward standing by the window 
 above the liight of steps, talking to a mask 
 in a German ' buy-a-broom' dress, and I felt 
 so pleased to pass him, and intended to give 
 
256 AUBREY. 
 
 him as I passed a little assuring look, as much 
 as to say, ^ I don't care for all this in the 
 least ' — but he was gone. 
 
 " I looked east — I looked vrest. — Captain 
 Aubrey was no longer to be seen, and from 
 that moment I took no more pleasure in any- 
 thing. The Prince and I walked round the 
 garden together, Avhich was illuminated till it 
 was as bright as day, and he kept talking for 
 some time very agreeably, as I thought — but 
 what cared I ? 
 
 " It was of no use — my spirits were 
 damped, and everything seemed flat and 
 tasteless; and, as w^hen one is in that humour 
 one is sure to be very tasteless oneself, so it 
 was plain the Prince found me^ for he asked 
 whether I would return to the house, as he 
 believed he was engaged to a young lady for 
 the next quadrille. I said my head ached, 
 and, if he pleased, I would sit down in the 
 fresh air a little, and begged that I might 
 not detain him, or that I should insist upon 
 returning to the house; upon which, after 
 making a few polite difficulties, he did as he 
 was bid, and oh ! was I not glad to be left 
 alone to breathe 1" 
 
AUBREY. 257 
 
 " I felt so glad at last to be quiet — to think 
 upon what had passed — upon Edward's way 
 — and speech, and to try and comfort myself 
 for his not being where I expected to find 
 him, by the security of what had passed — 
 the certainty that he cared for me — and 
 so I began to feel sure that he was not gone 
 away, though I could not see him any- 
 where. 
 
 "But as I sat there, now looking at the 
 stars, now searching among the gay masque- 
 rading groups in the garden, in the hopes of 
 finding him — suddenly the 'Buy-a-Broom' 
 passed behind the seat upon which I was. 
 
 " She stopped when she saw me, and seemed 
 to hesitate a little as she stood looking at me. 
 These masks, people seem to think, entitle 
 them to be as rude as they please. She stared 
 at me, as no one without a mask would have 
 dared to have done. 
 
 " At last she said — 
 
 '' ' Buy a broom, lady ? ' 
 
 *"No, thank you.' 
 
 " ^ Buy something else, then, lady?' 
 
 "'Thank you — I do not want to buy 
 anything.' 
 
 VOL. I. s 
 
258 AUBREY. 
 
 " * !N'ot even truth — if it were to be sold? ' 
 said she. 
 
 '' ' Truth is not sold,' I answered. 'False- 
 hoods sometimes are.' 
 
 " She looked very fixedly at me again for 
 a few seconds ; then she said — 
 
 " ' Yery true — shall I give it you, then ? ' 
 
 " ' I do not think you have any truth to 
 give that can concern me,' I said. 
 
 " ' Oh! but I may have, though you do not 
 think it. An indifferent stranger may tell 
 you truths which a partial, blinded friend 
 would, may be, never see. Lady, those who 
 dazzle all eyes cannot be seen as they really 
 are, and those whom others always regard 
 under deceptive lights, are never likely to be- 
 hold themselves in a just one. You are a good 
 young creature in the main — I can see that; 
 and a more beautiful one I never beheld. But 
 you are like the rest of your foolish sex — the 
 slave of appearances.' 
 
 " I turned half away. I thought this 
 impertinent, yet I could not help longing to 
 hear more. I was sure by the voice that it 
 was a woman and not a man that was speak- 
 ing ; so I did not get up and go away. 
 
AUBREY. 259 
 
 " ' There are two,' went on the mask, 
 i One ! — Where is he at this moment ? Eisking 
 his hononr and robbing others — little able to 
 bear to be robbed — at the gaming table, 
 whilst you are sitting here — alone. There is 
 another . . . but I will not speak of Mm — for 
 she is not worthy of him who cannot perceive 
 the difference between gold and tinsel.' 
 
 "'What do you mean?' I said, angrily, 
 surprised into speaking, which I ought not to 
 have done. ' I see no gold in the one ' — I 
 thought she was alluding to the Prince — 
 ' and I am certain there is no tinsel in the 
 other.' 
 
 " ' As you please — I tell you ' — and she 
 bent down her head to my ear, and whispered 
 'Edward Aubrey is gone to a certain club in 
 M. street — known to everybody but you — and 
 when you imagine he is thinking of you, and 
 waiting to dance with you, and what not, he 
 has the dice-box in his hand, and is playing 
 for enormous sums at hazard.' 
 
 " And she turned away and disappeared in 
 the crowd. 
 
 " I did not know what to do — I should 
 have despised the information two or three 
 
 s 2 
 
260 AUBREY. 
 
 hours ago ; but now something within me urged 
 that it tallied strangely with what had passed 
 between us this evening — when he had seemed 
 to confess that something was amiss in his 
 conduct, and promise it should immediately be 
 reformed. Was it possible ? — and had he left 
 my mother's house at such a moment, and 
 me, and Algernon, and all of us, for a base 
 indulgence like this? — and more, was he at 
 that very instant upon the brink of a preci- 
 pice — playing for enormous sums — 44sking 
 his honour,' she said — Oh ! miserable infatua- 
 tion ! 
 
 " I felt so sick and ill, I could hardly keep 
 myself from falling upon the ground. I got up 
 and tried to return to the house ; I could not 
 — I was obliged to sit down again. 
 
 " And then came to my assistance that one 
 who had saved my life a short time ago. 
 
 " Suddenly, as if he had been somewhere 
 close by all the time, and had seen me change 
 colour and feel so ill — the very man most 
 desirable for me at that moment to see — 
 William Aubrey, Edward's brother, stood 
 before me, saying, 'You seem ill. Has that 
 mask said anything to annoy you ? ' — He 
 
AUBREY. 261 
 
 spoke so kindly and gently, and with such a 
 protecting tone ! as if he could and would 
 ward all evil from me — save me from sorrow 
 as he had already saved me from death ! 
 
 "It is quite strange how his tone of voice 
 and the look which accompanied it seemed to 
 say all this; and how I at once felt as if I 
 could lean upon him and trust him as the 
 wisest and tenderest of brothers. ■ 
 
 " But he is Edward's brother. 
 
 '' I looked up at him, and my eyes filled 
 with tears in spite of myself. 
 
 " ' What can be the matter ? he said 
 anxiously. 
 
 " ' Oh ! Mr Aubrev ! — it is dreadful what 
 that mask said to me.' 
 
 " ' What could she say? — Dreadful ! — What 
 dared she to say ? ' 
 
 " ' Oh ! Mr Aubrey ! — Edward — Captain 
 Aubrey — your brother.' 
 
 " He went a little paler — he is usually pale 
 — and his lips looked white, but 
 
 "• What of him?' was all he uttered. 
 
 *' ' That mask says . . .' 
 
 " ' But who believes what masks say?' he 
 interrupted. 
 
262 AUBREY. 
 
 a i 
 
 Nobody? — May one pay no attention to 
 what masks say ?' 
 
 " ' Very little, I should think.' 
 
 " ' But this was so terrible — so terrible !' 
 
 *' ' Sweet Lady Emma/ sitting down by me, 
 and just laying his hand upon mine, which 
 was trembling upon the bench, and doing this 
 so kindly, so like a brother — as I am sure he 
 feels, and is to me — ' Had you not better tell 
 me at once what is so terrible ? In all proba- 
 bility I may be able to assure you whether you 
 ought to believe it or not.' 
 
 " ' She says — she says — that Edward — 
 Captain Aubrey — I mean your brother — Oh ! 
 Mr William! — Mr Aubrey! — he is at this 
 very moment at some club — I forget the name, 
 and don't know it — but he has gone away from 
 my mother's party, and is at this very moment 
 playing hazard, and for enormous sums, she 
 says.' 
 
 *' ' I don't believe a word of it.' 
 
 "I could not help turning suddenly round and 
 I don't know what I said for very joy. 
 
 " The colour flew up into his face. 
 
 " I loved him all the better for being so in- 
 dignant in his brother's cause. 
 
AUBREY. 263 
 
 *^ ' Oil ! bless you ! bless you ! for saying 
 that. But are you sure — can you be quite, 
 quite, quite, sure ?' 
 
 " And I fairly burst into tears- 
 
 "I could not help it. I know I ought 
 — but I could not help it. I was so glad — it 
 was such a relief 
 
 " I fairly sobbed aloud. 
 
 "'Are you quite, quite sure? Tell me 
 again — tell me you are quite, quite sure.' 
 
 " He seemed as . if he could not very easily 
 speak himself at that moment, but he pressed 
 the hand that lay under his. 
 
 " He seemed struggling witli himself, 
 struggling to keep down his feelings — he tried 
 to speak once, twice, three times. 
 
 " William Aubrey has the softest, most feel- 
 ing nature in the world. 
 
 ' Quite sure ?' I sobbed out again. 
 Quite sure,' he said at last, in an odd, 
 hollow sort of voice — he must have been 
 perfectly overcome with feeling — " As sure as 
 one man can be of another, whose conduct he 
 never in his life had occasion to condemn.' 
 
 "I looked suddenly up at him — oh! so 
 
 
264 AUBREY. 
 
 gratefully, as he said this ; but I was shocked 
 when I saw his face — he seemed like one 
 struggling for life — as if some terrible hand 
 was clutching at his breast and choking him. 
 His face had quite changed. 
 
 " ' What is the matter, Mr Aubrey? ' 
 
 "I thought he was suddenly taken very ill. 
 
 " ' Matter ! ' said he, in a melancholy tone, 
 his countenance suddenly collapsing; 'What 
 matters it ? ' 
 
 " And then his eyes fell upon me with so 
 piteous an expression — that I could not help 
 fearing all was not right. 
 
 " ' But why do you look as you do? if Ed- 
 ward be what you say . . .' 
 
 ' ' ' Then nothing in creation can go ^Yi^ong/ 
 he said, with a faint smile. 
 
 " ' I don't mean that — I know you may 
 have troubles of your own — but just now . . .' 
 
 "'I have troubles of my own — and why 
 not just now ?' 
 
 The joy to find Edward guiltless? ' 
 I always believed him not only to be 
 without guilt, but almost without blemish,^ 
 was his answer. 
 
 a i 
 
AUBREY. 265 
 
 a 
 
 And like one who has gained some great 
 Yictory, as he said this, his face suddenly 
 lighted up all in a glorious glow. 
 
 " What a heart he has ! — What sympathy 
 in his brother's welfare ! — but they are all so 
 proud of him, and well they may. 
 
 '' I did not say thank you — thank you — 
 though my heart said it, and I dare say my 
 eyes said it. Now I was less uncomfortable 
 — I began to feel a little ashamed of what I 
 had been saying to Edward's brother — my 
 heart was lightened of its burden, and I 
 endeavoured to behave myself, and recollect 
 what I was about. 
 
 "So I sat still a little time, and then I 
 withdrew my hand which he still was holding 
 in his, and said, I felt rather cold, and 
 perhaps we had better go into the house 
 again. 
 
 "He looked wistfully at me, as if he had 
 something more that he wanted to say — then 
 gave a heavy sigh. — Such a sigh, Mary, it 
 seemed to come from the very bottom of the 
 heart ; and rising, asked me * whether I would 
 take his arm ? ' 
 
 " I was so shaken, and so tired, and so com- 
 
266 AUBREY. 
 
 pletely cloicn^ witli one thing or another, that 
 I was orlad enous^h to take it — but how his 
 was trembling ! 
 
 ''This is all very odd and disagreeable; 
 don't you think so, Mary? — I do not know 
 what to make of it. 
 
 '• In the first place there is no doubi that 
 Captain Aubrey was gone. Unless, indeed, 
 he returned masked. But that I think he 
 hardly would have done and not have spoken 
 to me. And it is certain that no other mask 
 addressed me durins^ the remainder of the 
 evening. 
 
 " Then this extreme emotion and depres- 
 sion upon the part of William Aubrey, coupled 
 with that cloud which certainly did at times 
 come over his brother's face — and his owning, 
 almost, that he had done something which he 
 did not approve of, and his sort of promise to 
 me that it should be amended ! 
 
 '^ One feels so inexperienced, so ignorant 
 of things. Goino^ stumblinfi^ along in this 
 great dreary world around us — not knowing 
 whither we turn — or what we see. . . . All in 
 a sort of twilight obscurity. — Oh, for a friend! 
 — I do so want a friend — a brother I — Dear 
 
AUBREY. 267 
 
 Algernon ! — I do love vou dearlv — dearlv — 
 
 C I. V w 
 
 but what I "want is a wise friend. 
 
 " My mother, as vou well know, is far too 
 busy for friendship. She has not time, even 
 if she had inclination, to listen to a girl's i<ile 
 talk and difiiculties. But I need not call this 
 idle talk or sirlish dimcultv — it is a verv verv 
 serious thing. The whole happiness of niy 
 existence — 1 know it^ and feel it — is involved 
 in the question of Edward's integrity. 
 
 ^' Oh I hoAv I wish "^A'illiiim AuLrey were 
 anvthincr in the world but Edward's brother. 
 I would rather ask his advice than that of 
 any one I know. But one cannot — it is 
 not maidenly to show so much interest to a 
 man's own brother — it is like showins- it to 
 himself. 
 
 '• Surely, he would tell me the truth. If 
 he is not truthful, who is? I never saw a 
 more truthfid countenance — I can fancy dear 
 Edward tellincr a white lie now and then, for 
 fun. or s^allantrv : but TTilliam never. 
 
 "His face is the very mirror of plainness 
 and truth — so gentle, yet so sincere. 
 
 " But then, to betrav his brother's secret 
 
268 AUBREY. 
 
 infirmities to me ! — what brother ? — what man 
 of honour and feeling could bear to do it? 
 And probably — nay, I am sure of it — he 
 thinks his brother is about to amend his 
 faults. 
 
 " Did not Edward promise me ? 
 
 " But where was he yesterday evening ? 
 
 " Who shall tell me — how shall I learn ? 
 
 *' I must learn —I must and will know. 
 
 " Mary ! Mary ! I have it. 
 
 '^ I will ask himself ! " 
 
AUBREY. 269 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Your brother — no, no brother, yet the son — 
 Yet not the son — I Trill not call him son — 
 Of him I was about to call his father. — 
 
 As TOU LIKE IT. 
 
 William Aubrey returned home in a state 
 of agitation and distress that was piteous. 
 
 His heart overflowing with jealousy, with 
 envy, with a sort of wikl despair. There 
 could be no doubt of it, — the sweet creature 
 loved his brother. The heart he had all 
 along allowed himself to consider as his own 
 lawful possession, and which, as has been said, 
 with a strange self-flattery he had believed 
 he was far better calculated to obtain, and 
 more deserving of than Edward could be — 
 was already given away. 
 
 Every sentence that feU from her lips 
 — the expression of her eves, the tones of 
 
270 AUBREY. 
 
 her voice — all her innocent imdisgiiise of 
 manner — at once made him sensible of the 
 value of the heart he so much prized, and 
 that it was lost to him for ever. 
 
 How should he bear it ? 
 
 And then his thoughts turned to reflect 
 u23on what she had told him, and passed to 
 a severe scrutiny upon the integrity of his 
 own answers, an integrity which had cost 
 such an effort that he shuddered at the 
 temptation he had gone through, for well he 
 knew that one word of his in confirmation 
 of what she dreaded might have sufficed to 
 open her eyes and sever that tie, — the ex- 
 istence of which was worse than death to 
 him. 
 
 Then the tempter within began to argue 
 and question with — almost to blame, him. 
 Why must he take upon himself to advocate 
 his brother's cause? Why not have seized 
 the opportunity to plead his own — To point 
 out the difference between the two, and to 
 persuade her of that which he himself 
 sincerely believed — that of the two Captain 
 Aubrey was not the man best formed to make 
 her happy? 
 
AUBREY. 271 
 
 Of this f^ict he felt more than ever persuaded 
 by what had passed that night — when she 
 had shown so much sensibility and right 
 feeling. 
 
 And why, then, must he, from an exagge- 
 rated sense of honour, do what in him lay 
 to confirm her partiality for his brother ? Was 
 Edward indeed as deserving as the world gave 
 him credit for being, or was he nothing more 
 than a brave, brilliant, and fashionable young 
 man, without either conduct or solidity — in- 
 capable through his intellectual habits of that 
 life of the soul for which he himself alone 
 desired to exist — and which this lovely 
 creature appeared so well formed to share ? 
 
 And so he allowed himself to play the casuist 
 with his conscience. And thus that first step 
 towards wrong-doing was taken, — wherein a 
 man suffers himself after an action of this 
 nature rather to regret the sacrifice than 
 rejoice at the victory. 
 
 The man who does this is preparing to 
 yield upon the next occasion. 
 
 And so William walked musingly home — a 
 thorough egotist — though by no means a 
 selfish man. And many such there are who, be- 
 
272 AUBKEY. 
 
 cause they are neither of unjust, nor un- 
 generous habits, live on regardless of this 
 absorption into self — this reference of all 
 things to self, which gradually impairs every 
 finer moral quality. 
 
 So entirely, indeed, were his thoughts en- 
 gaged in this manner that he had quite over- 
 looked what Lady Emma had told him of his 
 brother, until entering the dining-room, upon 
 his return home, he found his father seated 
 there. 
 
 He was about to retire, for he was in no 
 humour for conversation; but his father, 
 turning round, said, 
 
 "Is it you, William? Come in — I am 
 alone." 
 
 William obeyed. 
 
 " Where is Edward ? " asked Mr Aubrey, 
 as his son approached the table, and stood 
 there, hat in hand, without sitting down. 
 " Where is your brother ? I thought you 
 had been together at the Marchioness of 
 Hurstmonceaux's masquerade. Did you not 
 see him there ? " 
 
 " Yes," said William, " he was there, — not 
 masked, but in dress uniform." 
 
AUBREY. 273 
 
 ''I am glad of tliat — I could not have en- 
 dured that he should have made a torn -fool of 
 himself But why is he not come home 
 with you? " 
 
 " Nay, sir — I have again to repeat — I am 
 not my brother's keeper. Edward has his 
 own hours, and pursues his own plans — and 
 what am J, that 1 should interfere with 
 them ? " 
 
 " Did you leave him, then, at the ball ? " 
 
 " He was not to be seen there when I 
 came away, but that is nothing — he might 
 have masked and assumed a character at the 
 end of the evening — many, I knov/, did so." 
 
 '' Then you were not aware of his presence 
 — ^You do not know, in fact, whether you left 
 him at the ball or not? Is that what you 
 intend to say ? " 
 
 " Precisely." 
 
 " I have not been very well this last two 
 days," Mr Aubrey went on, after a short 
 silence, "or I should have gone to this ball 
 myself. I want to see the young lady who, 
 you assure me, forms the excuse for Edward's 
 late hours — and for his indifference to my 
 
 VOL. I. T 
 
274 AUBREY. 
 
 wishes in that respect. But I am not well — 
 I don't know how it is exactly with me." 
 
 ^'What is the matter, sir?" going up to 
 him immediately. 
 
 Mr Aubrey laid his hand upon his son's 
 arm. 
 
 " A worn-out life — " 
 
 " But you are young, sir, quite young — 
 You should not suffer yourself to fancy 
 such things — Men have been commanding 
 armies and ruling nations, at an age far ex- 
 ceeding yours." 
 
 " Possibly so. — But my life has been a 
 wearying one — busy and prosperous, yet 
 yielding little satisfaction. I have amassed 
 money. I have risen to the summit of my 
 ambition, as regards this world. I have suc- 
 ceeded in everything that I have undertaken 
 ... to find, that all is vanity and vexation of 
 spirit. — A hollow deception all. What I have 
 most desired has proved most tasteless when 
 attained. Apples of Sodom ! — Apples of 
 Sodom ! — There is no one good thing under 
 the sun ! " 
 
 " I am sorry," William replied gravely, 
 " when I hear any man, and most of all you, 
 
AUBREY. 275 
 
 sir, confess to the discovery of that, which I 
 have found out almost since I could think 
 at all." 
 
 " You ! " 
 
 "And why not I?" said William, with 
 some impatience, "Is my lot in life so par- 
 ticularly fortunate, that I should escape the 
 longings and the regrets which are the portion 
 of most men?" 
 
 " Those are more sick who surfeit on too 
 much, than those who starve upon too little/' 
 was his father's answer. " William — why are 
 you always harping upon that string ? — Do 
 you envy your brother ? " 
 
 "Yes," said William firmly, "I do." 
 
 " Base passion," muttered his father, 
 " Then I was not deceived in my opinion. — 
 I always thought you of a totally different 
 nature — scarcely could believe you of the same 
 blood. As your brother — You ! you have 
 sucked in baseness with vour mother's — " 
 
 " No, not mother's," interrupted William, 
 in a sullen voice. 
 
 " Well, then, your nurse's milk — you are 
 not like a son of mine — you are the very 
 reverse in all thino^s to Edward." 
 
 T 2 
 
276 AUBREY. 
 
 "Yes, sir — no one feels and knows that 
 more sensibly than I do, but it remains to be 
 proved whether I alone am capable of the 
 miserable passion of envy. Strip him as I 
 stand here stripped — of everything that can 
 render life desirable — and endow me with all 
 man covets upon earth, and we shall see how 
 he will stand the test." 
 
 " I would back him against ten thousand." 
 William said no more. 
 There was silence for a few moments, then 
 Mr Aubrey began again. 
 
 " Why can he not come home?" 
 Yv^illiam answered nothing. 
 " Was the ball over when you came away? 
 Did you see nothing whatever of him?" 
 " ISFothing." 
 
 " Nor happen to hear anything?" 
 " How should I hear anything of him?" said 
 William, evasively. 
 
 "You did hear something of him then," 
 cried Mr Aubrey, starting from his reclining 
 posture in the arm-chair, and sitting upright, 
 and I desire that you will hide nothing, 
 but tell me frankly what it was you heard." 
 " Nay, sir — is not that requiring too much 
 
AUBREY. 277 
 
 of me ? Am I good for nothing better than 
 to be a fetch and carrying tale bearer?" 
 William replied, with a good deal of emotion. 
 
 '' Tale bearer ! This is not the first time 
 you have offended me by these sort of insinu- 
 ations. Be it as you will . . . You refuse to 
 assist your father, whose only object in life 
 is, as you well know, the w^elfare and security 
 of your brother. Be it as you please. I ask 
 no more questions." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir — I was far from 
 intending to offend you; but will you not see 
 — can you help seeing — that nothing upon 
 earth could lead to such ill constructions 
 upon myself as the carrying defaming reports 
 — ^which I am convinced are false — to you, 
 the father of my brother." 
 
 " I will be the judge of that — I will stand 
 you security as to that. You have heard 
 something, then — tell me, William, what is 
 it?" 
 
 As he was speaking, the door bell was heard 
 to ring. 
 
 " Here he comes — ask himself," said Wil- 
 liam. 
 
278 AUBREY. 
 
 " It is his footstep in the hall; he is goino- 
 up stairs. Bid him come in to me." 
 
 William opened the dining-room door 
 slov/ly, and unwillingly; at that moment he 
 could scarcely bear to look upon his brother's 
 countenance. 
 
 '' Edward ! " 
 
 Captain Aubrey turned — Such a troubled 
 face was displayed. 
 
 " My father wants to speak with you." 
 
 "My fiither! — I thought he had been in 
 bed hours ago." 
 
 "No — he is up, and not quite well." 
 
 "Not well!" — hastily turning, and enter- 
 ing the room — " not well ! Sir — my dear 
 father — v/hat is the matter? Indeed, you do 
 not look well." 
 
 " Edward," said Mr Aubrey, and he held 
 out his hand to his son, " if you are well, I 
 am well, and all is as it should be. You are 
 come home straight from this ball — I thank 
 you for this condescension to an old man's 
 wishes." 
 
 " Sir," cried Edward, and a fine colour flew 
 into his face, *' I am not." 
 
 But Mr Aubrey turned so pale, that the 
 
AUBREY. 279 
 
 words he was about to speak — the confession 
 he was about to make — were arrested. He 
 stopped suddenly, looking confused and 
 annoyed. 
 
 " You mean to say, then," said Mr Aubrey, 
 looking steadily at him, while his face grew 
 darker and paler every moment, ''that what 
 I so earnestly desire has not been done — 
 that this nio^ht is as other nights. Well, 
 well — it is what fathers must look for from 
 their sons — I was but a fool to expect different 
 treatment from mine." 
 
 '' Don't speak in that way, my dear f^ither. 
 You know it is my pleasure, as it is my 
 highest duty, to consult your wishes; but 
 forgive me — it is impossible to be always what 
 others desire one to be — what one desires 
 oneself to be ... ." 
 
 " You have been playing again, then, I am 
 to understand. . . . And what have you lost, 
 young man ? Come — be candid. What am 
 I to advance for you ? 
 
 "Playing — who told you I ever played?" 
 cried Edward, angrily, glancing at his bro- 
 ther. " William consent to be a spy !" 
 
 ''You need not cast such looks at your 
 
280 AUBREY. 
 
 brother, Edward. I have not my information 
 from him. He regards neither my interest 
 nor yours in preserving this obstinate silence 
 with respect to the manner in which you spend 
 your time. But at least he deserves no other 
 reproach at your hands." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, William — I sincerely 
 beg your pardon," cried Edward^, turning 
 suddenly to his brother, and taking his 
 hand and pressing it warmly, " Forgive me 
 — 'f have behaved shamefully. Forgive me, 
 William — brother.'* 
 
 A pang shot through William's heart as he 
 looked upon Edward's manly, affectionate 
 countenance, whilst saying this. He envied 
 him — in those bitter moments he envied him 
 even his good qualities, wretched man that 
 he was ! 
 
 Mr Aubrey looked on without betraying 
 any emotion in his countenance, yet his heart 
 swelled, and yearned towards his eldest son. 
 
 Reserved, cold, saturnine, as was his own 
 temper, the genial warmth of Edward's 
 manner sent a glow of delight, as it were, 
 through his whole frame. 
 
 But his anxiety as to the main subject 
 
AUBREY. 281 
 
 iij^on which his suspicions had been awakened 
 was only increased by the admission Edward 
 had made. It was plain that he considered 
 himself in his brother's power, and was most 
 grateful for William's silence. 
 
 " Edward ! — turn this way. Let me look 
 in your face, sir, and do you the same by me. 
 It is well — or rather it is very far from well. 
 Something is wrong here," and he laid his 
 hand upon his son's breast. 
 
 " Wrong — wrong — aye a thousand things 
 wrong," was Edward's reply. " Could you 
 suppose, sir, kind and partial as you are, that 
 I could be an angel, exempt from human 
 faults and infirmities? But do not ask me 
 further — what I could tell you it might give 
 you great pain to know. Be satisfied, dear 
 sir, I have no gaming debts, upon my honour 
 I have not one." 
 
 "Then it is because fortune has been 
 favourable. Oh ! my son ! how can you bear 
 the reflection ! Other men's money ! Money 
 they can ill spare, perhaps, in your purse. 
 Do you think it was the expectation of having 
 your debts to pay that made me uneasy. Go 
 and spend your money honourably, young 
 
282 AUBREY. 
 
 man, as you used to do, and see if your father 
 will ever grudge to supply it." 
 
 " Sir !" father! cried Edward, greatly moved, 
 *' you have said enough. I have played, I 
 own it, but I have done for ever. Ask me no 
 questions about the past, the answers would 
 only give you pain. Be satisfied, dear father. 
 I am sick and disgusted with the past. I 
 have played. I will play no more." 
 
 Mr Aubrey held out his hand, Edward took 
 it with reverend affection. Then perceiving 
 how pale his father looked, he begged of him 
 so affectionately to go to bed ; assured him so 
 seriously that this should be the last time that 
 he should have reason to complain of him, 
 that his father went up to his chamber more 
 delighted with him than ever. There was 
 something in the warm cordiality of Edward's 
 nature that exercised a species of fascination 
 over every one with whom he came into close 
 connection. 
 
 All save one, and his connection with him, 
 near as was the relationship, could not, per- 
 haps, be called close. 
 
AUBREY. 283 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Beslirew me but I love lier heartily ; 
 For slie is vrise, if I can judge of lier ; 
 And fair slie is, if that mine eyes be true ; 
 And true slie is, as slie liath proved lierself. 
 
 Meecha^tt of Texice. 
 
 So tilings ^.vent on for some little time. 
 
 Edward abstained from even visiting the 
 Club, and was less with Lord Algernon in 
 consequence. That young nobleman, indeed, 
 seemed indifferent to his, or to any company 
 or occupation save one — his time and his 
 thoughts were swallowed up in gaming, to 
 which an extraordinary run of luck tempted 
 him more than ever. 
 
 Ascot races occurred at the end of this period, 
 and to them, with all the rest of the world, 
 the party with whom we have to do went. 
 
 The Marquis of Hurstmonceaux had taken 
 a house on the skirts of Cranbourne Chase, 
 and w^as there with the Marchioness, Lady 
 
284 AUBREY. 
 
 Emma, and a large party of friends, among 
 whom the Prince of C. C. made one. 
 
 Edward Aubrey was upon the course, and 
 so was William ; the latter drawn there by an 
 attraction which he felt to be fatal to his 
 peace, and contrary to every habit of his for- 
 mer self — the other agonising with jealousy, 
 watching the figure of the girl he so tenderly 
 loved — seated in the Grand Stand, surrounded 
 by admirers. 
 
 She was beautifully dressed in abundance 
 of white muslin and lace, with a bonnet 
 trimmed with delicate pink flowers, and a 
 rich Brussels lace veil hanging from it, and 
 falling softly all round her face ; and her blue 
 eyes smiled sweetly, and her lovely lips were 
 prattling so pleasantly, as she turned from 
 one to the other, apparently in the highest 
 spirits. 
 
 He sat there, idly leaning upon the fine 
 chesnut horse which carried him, his eyes 
 turned upon that group above, indifferent 
 to all besides — the clamorous throng, the 
 bawling voices, the hum of business from the 
 betting-stand, the hurry and excitement as 
 the beautiful animals which were to contend 
 
AUBREY. 285 
 
 for the prize appeared, mounted by the light 
 jockeys in their bLack caps, bright silken vests, 
 danced <^ailv under a brilliant sun, and 
 ambled gently up and down the course, dis- 
 playing their forms and their paces to the 
 anxious eyes of those who had thousands and 
 thousands depending upon the issue — and to 
 the admiration of those who were only there 
 to see and be seen. It was all nothing to 
 EdAvard. 
 
 He sees but one. 
 
 She is gay and animated. He watches 
 that thrill of girlish surprise and pleasure, at 
 the bright scene at which she is present for 
 the first time of her life — her delight at the 
 beauty of the glorious day — exhilarated as she 
 is by its warmth, and the sweet freshness of a 
 high breeze that blows over those heathy 
 downs — he sees her, stretching forward to 
 gaze — as fresh object succeeds to object, and 
 then turning round and appearing to prattle 
 so gayly and prettily with those about her, 
 and looking so happy ! 
 
 And there he sits without spirits to enter 
 the Stand, and mingle with the group around 
 her ; oppressed with many a painful reflection, 
 
286 AUBREY. 
 
 but most of all by that one bitter tliouglit — 
 that she could be so joyous and happy and he 
 away. It was j)lain she cared little for him — 
 perhaps not at all. 
 
 And — ah ! — ah ! 
 
 Here he comes — and the colour flies into 
 her beautiful face, and her eyes flash brighter 
 than ever. 
 
 At least he thought so — and rage in his 
 heart, would fain have turned awav — but he 
 was as one fascinated to the spot — he could 
 not move. 
 
 But was it as he imagined? 
 
 So it might appear, indeed ; but little did he 
 know what was passing in that young heart. 
 
 She had seen him sitting there. 
 
 One glance had assured her that he was 
 present and watching her — that she was the 
 sole object of his attention in the midst of the 
 bustling crowd — and that assurance it was 
 which had sent the blood to her cheek and 
 given fresh sweetness and brilliancy to her eyes 
 — and too delighted was she to show that others 
 were attentive when he was negligent and un- 
 kind — for why did he not come into the Stand 
 when she was there ? She was vexed and wished 
 
AUBREY. 287 
 
 to give him a little pain — and so, when the 
 Prince of C. C. joined the party, whose atten- 
 tions, as I said before, were the acknowledged 
 standard of success — the grand triumph of 
 the season — she stealing a little naughty 
 glance down, and seeing him still sitting 
 there watching and looking, as she thought, 
 charming, seated in that negligent manner 
 upon his beautiful horse, for once indulged 
 the true spirit of coquetry, — and the bright 
 cheek and the flashing eye answered to the 
 exulting heart. 
 
 She welcomed the Prince with smiles so 
 sweet that he, old experienced stager as he 
 was, thought that he had never seen a crea- 
 ture so bewitching, and he began, at that 
 moment, really to feel an odd, almost forgot- 
 ten, sensation, as if there was something called 
 a heart yet beating within him, and as if 
 it was being literally a little touched. He 
 was surprised at himself — but the sensation 
 was rather agreeable. It reminded him of 
 early days — days gone long ago, when he 
 was a calf of a boy, and fancied himself in 
 love. 
 
 So his countenance responded, far more 
 
288 AUBREY. 
 
 than responded to liers, and, like a flattering 
 glass, gave extreme beauty to his expression, 
 and there was a touch of almost natural ten- 
 derness about it, so that Lady Emma herself 
 began to be a little moved, more than she had 
 ever thought it possible she could be moved 
 by any face but that one — which was so dear 
 
 to her. 
 
 What Edward saw with such bitter feelings 
 of despair was but a momentary forgetfulness. 
 Lady Emma began with the innocent desire 
 of enhancing her value in the eyes of the man 
 she loved, and ended, by suffering herself to 
 be, for a short moment, fascinated by the 
 dangerous one whom, in her heart, she cared 
 not for. 
 
 Oh, world ! world ! with what snares dost 
 thou encompass the heedless and the young ! 
 
 Emma ceased to look down towards him, 
 as he sat there below, and turned away to the 
 prince, and they too were soon seated together, 
 engaged in a conversation which appeared 
 but too interesting to the wretched observer. 
 She bending her head and listening, her colour 
 rising and falling upon her cheek, and he, 
 his proud head bent downwards, seeming to 
 think of nothing but her. 
 
AUBREY. 289 
 
 And it was very pleasant for this hlase^ 
 blighted man of the world to flmcy himself 
 thinking of nothing but her. 
 
 She was a sweet creature certainly, there 
 Avas something so ndive^ so spirited — united 
 to such perfect ton and good manners ! — thus 
 thou2fht he. 
 
 He should trifle away the remainder of his 
 stay in England very pleasantly in her com- 
 pany, and how could he amuse himself better? 
 
 How little did she guess what was passing 
 in his mind, or understand those eyes, so well 
 taught to tell a tale of false and most delusive 
 tenderness. How little did she know the 
 nature of that delusion which was leading her 
 fancy, for the moment, astray. 
 
 She was so young, and had been so little 
 instructed in vfhat was right, that she Yv^a^> 
 not aware how pernicious a thing it was for her 
 own heart, thus to be trifling with its affec- 
 tions — far, far less could she dream of the 
 fatal consequences of that hour. 
 
 They were, one and all of them, in truth, 
 in tbe same case, wandering bewildered in the 
 labyrinth of this world — in the entanglement 
 of their own wishes, feelings, and inclinations 
 
 VOL. I. U 
 
290 AUBREY. 
 
 — none of them looking either to the right 
 hand or to the left — none of them choosing or 
 directing their course — all blindly following 
 the path to which the fancy of the moment 
 led them. 
 
 The prince yielded to the vain pleasure of 
 trifling with his own and her feelings, and 
 she suffered vanity and imagination to bewitch 
 her for the time. 
 
 But Edward — what did he do? 
 Much as he did on a former occasion. 
 His first impulse was to dismount from his 
 horse, throw his bridle to his groom — come 
 into the Grand Stand and confound her by one 
 look — one look would be enough. 
 
 But as his foot was upon the stairs, a set of 
 young men, laughing and talking, came hur- 
 rying down ; the start was about to be made, 
 and they were hastening to the betting-stand, 
 to look after their bets. Edward wanted 
 strength of purpose enough to enable him to 
 stem this torrent — ^he suffered it to sweep him 
 before it— and it swept him into the betting- 
 stand. 
 
 There stood Algernon, flushed with recent 
 victories, both upon the turf and at the table 
 
AUBREY. 291 
 
 — intoxicated with the deceitful wealth thus 
 showered upon him by fortune — confiding in 
 his own good star, he was betting with a reck- 
 less defiance of everything. 
 
 As soon as he saw Edward, he crossed the 
 Stand, and, seizing him by the arm, cried, 
 
 '' And where have you been hiding yourself 
 for these last ten days, my good fellow ? Just 
 in time ! Ten to one — the favourite against 
 the field. Take the bet, — I have taken it in 
 thousands. There is not a doubt about the 
 matter — I know her, and all about her. She 
 will carry all before her — See ! see ! " — and 
 he turned him round as he spoke — " there she 
 comes — What shape ! — What a spring ! — 
 "What bone ; yet what lightness ! Here, 
 Stanhope, Aubrey '11 take your bet, if you '11 
 have any more." 
 
 "Yes," replied a dark, ill-looking man of 
 about fifty, with thick set figure, and hair 
 combed straight down over his forehead, "I 
 am ready to take Captain Aubrey — but he 
 must speak quick^ for I am not so sure of my 
 field but what I must be allowed time for 
 hedging." 
 
 " Come, Aubrey " — 
 
 u 2 
 
292 AUBREY. 
 
 ^^ As you will," said Edward, careless of 
 everything — of his father — of his implied pro- 
 mise — '' ten to one — against the field ; which 
 way is it ? — I never know — in five hundreds 
 — just as you choose." 
 
 For from where he stood his eye com- 
 manded the Grand Stand displayed there 
 before him like a bed of flowers — and among 
 those beautiful creatures he saw one leaning 
 forward, with gMisli eagerness, over the ba- 
 lustrade — and asking questions, with breath- 
 less impatience, from him who leaned over too 
 — but seemed to see nothing but herself. 
 
 " As you will," he said. 
 
 ^^Will you not write it down in your bet- 
 ting-book ? " 
 
 " I have not one. Write it you down, 
 Algernon- — what is it ? " 
 
 " Sir — Captain Aubrey — " 
 
 He turned, for some one touched his elbow. 
 
 There was so great a crowd that it was 
 almost impossible to move — ^but an arm was 
 stretched towards him. 
 
 " Captain Aubrey — " 
 
 And, pale with emotion — his eyes straining 
 to catch his — his arm anxiously pressed for- 
 
AUBREY. 293 
 
 wards to seize Ms arm, Aubrey beheld Mount- 
 ford struggling to make liis way through the 
 closely packed figiu^es that stood around him. 
 
 The poor boy's face was working Avith 
 anxiety and impatience — the cold dew stood 
 upon his forehead — ^but he could not reach 
 Edward. 
 
 ^' Captain Aubrey ! " — 
 
 That was all he seemed able to utter. 
 
 ^' I beg your pardon, gentlemen — will you 
 make way for a friend of mine, who seems to 
 have something to say to me ? " 
 
 '' Oh," said Mr Stanhope, having entered 
 his bet into his book with great deliberation, 
 ^^ I beg your pardon " — then turning round as 
 he made way — 
 
 " Mr Mountford," — he muttered with a faint 
 sneer — as the pale, lank boy pushed forward 
 — and the press giving way, he laid hold of 
 Edward's arm. 
 
 '' Cap tarn Aubrey," he whispered, "" come to 
 the window, will you, out of hearing of these 
 men — I have something to say to you." 
 
 Edward yielded, mth his usual good nature, to 
 the anxious impatience of the boy, and suffered 
 himself to be led to the other side of the place. 
 
294 AUBREY. 
 
 '' It's a great liberty — but I owe yon so 
 much. They would half mui^der me if they 
 knew — that Stanhope . . . You havn't — 
 I hope you havn't been betting upon the 
 favouiite." 
 
 " I don't very well know what I have been 
 doing — I have done as Algernon bade me ... . 
 he knows — I know nothing of these things — 
 Why? — ^what's the matter? . . ." 
 
 " I hope you'll forgive me, Captain Aubrey, 
 I hope it's no very large sum." 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know ; let me calculate ; 
 if I lose — on my life but there goes five thou- 
 sand," cried he, aghast — " What have I been 
 about, moon-calfing in this way — and my 
 father ! — well, I suppose I shall win — the 
 favourite's sure of the day." 
 
 " But she isn't, she isn't — you won't win 
 it, you won't indeed. Oh, if there were only 
 time for you to hedge." 
 
 '^ But there is not — they are starting — they 
 are gone !" 
 
 " There is yet time to hedge, Captain 
 Aubrey — and — Oh ! I beseech you, listen to 
 me — " as Edward said somewhat impatiently, 
 
AUBREY. 295 
 
 ^' Lord Algernon assures me that the favou- 
 rite must win." 
 
 '^ Oh, hedge ! hedge!" cried the boy in an 
 agony — '^ the favourite will not win — I know 
 it will not win — it cannot win — they have 
 taken good care it shall not win. Oh, Cap- 
 tain Aubrey, there is still time, hedge — 
 hedge." 
 
 '• I hope," said Edward, gravely eyeing the 
 youngster as he spoke, " that you, possessing 
 some information that others do not, or, at 
 least, imagining you do, which amounts to the 
 same thing, have not been taking the field 
 against the favourite." 
 
 Mountford's eye fell at this speech, and the 
 colour flew to his face, but it was merely a 
 nervous sense of shame, at having been 
 thought capable of such a meanness. 
 
 His face resumed its natm^al hue, and his 
 eye was, for once, steady and trae, as he 
 answered. 
 
 " No, upon my honour, I have not." 
 
 *^ That's right," said Edward, and hastened 
 away as if there was nothing else that he 
 cared for. 
 
 Mountford was dull enough in his percep- 
 
296 AUBREY. 
 
 tions, but he understood this, and it made 
 him feel more grateful than ever. 
 
 ^^ He cares more for my honourable conduct 
 than for five thousand pounds ! " was his 
 mental exclamation — then, following him, — 
 "but, Captain Aubrey — " 
 
 '' Well, well, well." Edward's eyes were 
 again fixed upon the Grand Stand. 
 
 "By Jove, they are coming up! — The 
 favourite is leading — hedge — hedge, dear 
 Captain Aubrey ! Any odds against the field 
 will be taken now — Captain Aubrey ! — Cap- 
 tain Aubrey ! — the favourite will come in 
 second — I know it — I know it !" 
 
 " If," said Edward, coolly turning round, 
 " you mean that you have private information 
 of your own, of which others are ignorant, 
 
 • • * • 
 
 " I have, I have !" — breathless with impa- 
 tience — " Oh, for heaven's sake — " 
 
 " Then what I would not hp.ve you do, I 
 will not do — " 
 
 " But the case is so different — what will 
 you not do?" 
 
 " Profit by it." 
 
 " But you — you have been taken in by a 
 rascal, with whom no scores are to be kept. 
 
AUBREY. 297 
 
 — Oil ! oil ! Too late ! too late !— It is as I 
 said — the favourite — the favourite." 
 
 And the race rushed by — 
 
 The favourite lost it by half a neck. 
 
 Edward felt a cold chill over his whole 
 frame — he turned pale. — Mountford saw his 
 changed countenance, and turned paler still. 
 
 "You care to lose this money," he said 
 in a low voice, bringing his mouth close to 
 Edward's ear. 
 
 " I cannot help caring for it," said Edward, 
 endeavouring to look composed — *'Itis a 
 large sum — and my father, who is not well, 
 will be vexed at it — Not that he would care 
 for the money, if spent in an honourable 
 way — but thus ! — and after what I said not 
 ten days ago ! — fool ! — madman ! — fool 1" 
 
 This he muttered to himself, and turned 
 to the window, and leaned out to hide his 
 as^itation. 
 
 Mountford stood silently by for a short 
 time — his face working in a strange manner 
 — now red — now deadly pale. 
 
 " You excused me a much larger sum than 
 that," he said at last, leaning out of the 
 window by Edward's side, and speaking in a 
 
298 AUBREY. 
 
 low, faltering voice — ''I owe you that and a 
 great deal more ; why cannot I brave my 
 father's anger, rather than you should brave 
 yours. I ought to say, Captain Aubrey, I will 
 pay you the five thousand I owe you. I ought 
 to go to my father — and not you to yours — I 
 know that I ought — ^but — but — " 
 
 " You cannot — I thank you for thinking of 
 it — ^but never mind, I know you fear your 
 father — that is a terrible feeling, poor fellow. 
 It must be dreadful to see a father really 
 angry — to be cast off . ..." he went on talking 
 indistinctly to himself, '' as this poor fellow's 
 father would cast him off if he knew the 
 scrape he has got himself into. That would 
 indeed be insupportable — the shame and the 
 sorrow ! — Mv father ! — he will suffer — but he 
 will forgive — He is severe, but he is generous 
 — ^he will blame, but he will forgive — but as 
 for this poor timid lad ! . . . . No, it must not 
 be thought of." 
 
 He had been tempted to accept the poor 
 boy's offer at first, he so dreaded the giving 
 pain to his father, — but these last considera- 
 tions prevailed. The next thought was — 
 
AUBREY. 299 
 
 Algernon lias had a run of luck, he owes me 
 money, I will ask him. My father must not 
 know of this folly. It would half kill him. 
 
 He drew himself in from the -window, and 
 turned round to look for Algernon, but Alger- 
 non was no longer to be seen. In his place 
 came up Mr Stanhope — who was in truth a 
 regular professional — he held his betting-book 
 in his hand. There was a sort of bustle on 
 the Stand, and Edward perceived that a good 
 deal of murmuring and discussion was going 
 on. Mr Stanhope, however, approached in 
 the blandest manner, saying, 
 
 '• Captain Aubrey — If it will be perfectly 
 convenient to you .... as I have not the honour 
 of your personal accjuaintance, perhaps — " 
 
 " Five thousand, is it not ? — I have not the 
 money about me." 
 
 " Not of the slightest importance — an I.O.U. 
 or any memorandum of that sort from a gen- 
 tleman of Captain Aubrey's known honour 
 will be sufficient. I regret to say — that as I 
 am obliged to leave England for Paris to- 
 morrow morning early, I shaU wish to get the 
 bill discounted to-night — or by ten o'clock 
 to-morrow, when the West End banks open, 
 
300 AUBREY. 
 
 will do, should that suit Captain Aubrey's 
 convenience better." 
 
 " Of course," said Edward, somewhat 
 angrily, " You don't suppose I can chuck away 
 ^Ye thousand pounds as boys chuck cherry- 
 stones. I must provide to take up the memo- 
 randum, as you call it, when it comes to my 
 banker for payment." 
 
 " No doubt, no doubt, but Captain Aubrey's 
 agent " 
 
 " Is not in the habit of being asked for large 
 advances, sir. Will you please to give me a 
 leaf of your pocket-book, that I may write 
 what you require ?" 
 
 Which he did, and was about to hand it to 
 Mr Stanhope, when he was again interrupted 
 by Mountford, who said, '' Stay, Captain 
 Aubrey, there is a discussion going on — there 
 was not fair play." 
 
 ^' Sir," said Mr Stanhope, opening wide his 
 eyes, "what do you presume to insinuate?" 
 
 Poor Mountford looked somewhat startled 
 at this question, which was put with all the 
 arrogant defiance of a bravo — the stern, black, 
 daring eye of the gambler, seeming, as it were, 
 to pierce through the vitals of the nervous, 
 
AUBEEY. ^ 301 
 
 irresolute young man before liini : who turned 
 very pale, and visibly trembled. 
 
 This added fresh strength to Mr Stanhope^s 
 resolution to carry the question by main 
 force. 
 
 "Mr Mountford," he said, eyeing him, "in 
 another place, and at another time, I will ask 
 for an explanation of this ungentlemanlike and 
 uncalled-for interference. With respect to 
 there having been, or having not been, what 
 you are pleased to call, fau' phay, I do profess 
 myself to be ignorant, having no acquaintance 
 among those blackguards with whom Mr 
 Mountford seems to be upon such confidential 
 terms, gentry ready with any scandalous 
 pretence to evade the payment of tlieu^ debts 
 of honour — sir, the bet between Captain 
 Aubrey and myself, is an affau' between gentle- 
 men, with whom you can have little to do." 
 
 The insolence called a hectic colour to the 
 lad's cheeks, but he seemed ready to sink into 
 the earth with shame, at the turn afiaks were 
 ta,king. 
 
 It was but too true, he was upon very inti- 
 mate terms of acquaintanceship with many 
 of the jockeys, and those not the most 
 
302 ? AUBREY. 
 
 respectable of the body, as also with various 
 grooms, hangers-on about the stables, and 
 that sort of people, which, in his perverted 
 ambition to be thought a regular man of the 
 world, he had considered as just the thing — 
 and therefore, that conscience, which makes 
 cowards of us all, responded to the accusations 
 thus heaped upon him. It was certain, that 
 from a hanger-on of this description, he had 
 obtained the secret, that the favouiite had 
 certainly been physicked before she started, 
 and he had recompensed the man for his in- 
 telligence by a five-pound note. He now felt 
 heartily ashamed of what he had done, and 
 there he stood, blushing and stammering, and 
 casting a wistful eye at Captain Aubrey. 
 
 Edward was touched by the appeal, and he 
 said quietly, but with decision — 
 
 "How Mr Mountford obtained the intelli- 
 gence, which, unfortunately come too late for 
 any one to profit by it, I should suppose is at 
 least no afiair of Mr Stanhopes — " 
 
 " Pardon me, sir," was the reply, with a look 
 of withering contempt at the miserable caitifi", 
 who stood there looking like the most abject 
 criminal," so long as Mr Mountford pleases 
 
AUBREY. 303 
 
 to keep his romantic inventions to himself, 
 so long he is at liberty to enjoy them — and, he 
 may make use of them to evade as many bets 
 as he pleases, for anything I care, /never 
 accept such things from children, who go 
 mewling and crying when they are called upon 
 to pay — but when babies presume to interfere 
 in the affairs of men and gentlemen, I shall 
 take the liberty of showing them, that I, for 
 one, have my own peculiar remedy for these 
 sort of proceedings " 
 
 And he made a very significant gesture. 
 
 ^' You may spare yourself the trouble, Mr 
 Stanhope, of correcting that gentleman, his 
 education, I presume, has not been entrusted 
 to your hands. As regards the little account 
 between ourselves, I beg to say, that I am 
 ready to give you my note of hand for it. I 
 consider that I incurred the debt, and I shall 
 pay it." 
 
 And with apparent coolness he placed the 
 paper he held in Mr Stanhope's hand. 
 
 But, having done so, he looked round for 
 Lord Algernon, for his heart was sinking at 
 the thought of his father, so unfit, at this 
 
304 AUBREY. 
 
 moment, to bear any liuny or anxiety — ^but 
 Lord Algernon was not to be seen. 
 
 Edward was leaving the Stand in order to 
 search for him, when Mountford again came 
 up, saying, timidly — 
 
 ^' Captain Aubrey, I am ashamed of myself 
 — I do not know what to say in my defence — 
 I thank you exceedingly for supporting me at 
 that critical moment, when Stanhope might 
 have made me the laughing stock of the whole 
 Stand — but you ought not to have paid the 
 money indeed^ There was so much simple, 
 passionate earnestness in this misguided boy, 
 whenever he was not affecting to ape the 
 manners of men of the world, as he thought, 
 that Edward was quite affected. 
 
 '^ I paid the money," he said, " because I 
 believed that I ought so to do. It was very 
 kind of you, Mountford, to warn me, and if I 
 beheved that the horse was really physicked, 
 I should hesitate, I confess, as to what I ought 
 to do — but I have just overheard what Mr 
 Cottenham has been assuring Lord Baynforth 
 is the truth — that the dose was an innocent 
 one, and administered by the connivance of 
 the groom and jockey — in order to be set up 
 
A r B R E Y. 305 
 
 as a pretext for not paying the bets, incurred 
 in case the favourite lost. This being so, there 
 was no doubt as to the obligation — and now," 
 added he, taking Mountford's arm, as they 
 descended the steps of the Stand together, 
 '•may I say one word more — Will Mr Mount- 
 ford again lay himself under the possibility of 
 receiving a lesson from ^Ir Stanhope? — AVill 
 he be, not only an intimate acquaintance, but 
 suffer himself to l)e made the tool of the low 
 and designing people who engage in these scan- 
 dalous intrigues." 
 
 Again Mountford coloured, aud he made as if 
 he would withdraw the arm which Edward held. 
 
 He was still so foolish as to feel inclined 
 to resent, instead of gratefully accepting the 
 other's disinterested advice. 
 
 He was still jealous of being treated like a 
 boy. 
 
 But Edward was most indulgent of nature, 
 and nothing could weary or offend him when 
 he hoped to do good. He had been too much 
 in the habit of forbearance as regarded those 
 under his command on ship-board, to be lightly 
 offended or easily turned from a benevolent 
 purpose. 
 
 VOL. I. X 
 
306 AUBREY. 
 
 ^^ Excuse me, Mountford," lie said, "but I 
 seem to feel as if I had known you for years, 
 — and, besides, you have laid me, to-day, 
 under a very serious obligation, by your kind 
 endeavours to save me from heavy loss. Ee- 
 member, too, that I am a mere seaman, and, 
 as such, accustomed to feel strongly and speak 
 plainly. You must permit me to say one 
 more word. — Fly low company, as you would 
 the poison of vipers — assert your better self — 
 weigh the objects of your present ambition at 
 theu^ just value. — What is the applause of a 
 set of men like those you frequent ? — Value- 
 less as an object, and, if obtained, to be 
 obtained at the cost of all that is really worthy 
 and honourable mthin you." 
 
 ^^ But what can I do ? — I have nothing 
 better to do.'' 
 
 ^' Find something better to do." 
 ."You have your profession — I have no 
 profession — I am dependent on my father — 
 and he's made a very large fortune, and he 
 does not like — it would hurt his pride, to see 
 an eldest son of his working to get his 
 living as if he were the son of nobody . . . 
 Besides, he likes to see me in good society — 
 
AUBREY. 307 
 
 fashionable, you know, and he gives nie a 
 very handsome allowance, I must say, and yet 
 he's the tradesman still, as Holworth says, 
 for he expects me to make it c/6>— and if he 
 knew that I did not, or got into debt — as 
 every one of the rest of them does — I don't 
 know what would become of me — He'd 
 cast me off as easily as an old glove. . . . 
 But you are a true friend. Captain Aubrey — 
 and the first I ever met with — and I ought, 
 aye, and by heaven I will," he added with a 
 glow of generous resolution, seeming for the 
 first time to ennoble him in his own eyes, — ■ 
 ^'I ivill get this five thousand pounds which 
 I owe you, come what will of it." 
 
 ^^ You shall do no such thing, — You don't 
 owe it me — You know I cancelled the debt — 
 Say no more upon the subject — That evening 
 was a most painful one to me — I shall find 
 some other means of getting the money." 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 TtEYKELL AND WBIGUT, LITTLE PULTENBY STREET, IIAYJlATiKET. 
 
^ 
 
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 MESSRS. HURST AND BLACKETT, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO MR. COLBURA^, 
 
 HAVE LATELY PUBLISHED 
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE 
 
 COURT AND CABINETS 
 
 OF GEORGE THE THIRD, 
 
 FROM ORIGINAL FAMILY DOCUMENTS. 
 BY THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM AND CHANDOS, K.G., &c. 
 
 Second Editiox, Revised. 2 vols. 8vo., with Portraits. 30s. 
 
 OPIXIOXS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 " These volaraes contain much valuable matter. The letters which George, 
 first Marquis of Buckingham, laid by as worthy of preservation, have some claim 
 to see the light, for he held more than one office in the State, and consequently 
 kept up a communication with a great number of historical personages. He 
 himself was twice Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, first, under Lord Rockingham, and 
 secondlv, under Pitt ; his most constant correspondents were his two brothers, 
 ^yilliara and Thomas Grenville, both of whom spent the chief part of their lives 
 in official employments, and of whom the former is sufficiently knovrn to fame 
 as Lord Grenville. The staple of the book is made up of these family documents, 
 but there are also to be found interspersed with the Grenville narrative, letters 
 from every man of note, dating from the death of the elder Pitt to the end of 
 the century. There are three periods upon which they shed a good deal of light. 
 The formation of the Coalition Ministry in 1783, the illness of the King in 1788, 
 and the first war with Republican France. Lord Grenville's letters to bis brother 
 afford a good deal of information on the machinations of the Prince's party, and 
 the conduct of the Prince and the Duke of York during the King's illness.'" — The 
 Times. 
 
 " A very remarkable and valuable publication. The Duke of Buckingham has 
 himself undertaken the task of forming a history from the papers of his grand- 
 father and great-uncle, the Earl Temple"(first Marquis of Buckingham), and Lord 
 Grenville, of the days of the second \Vm. Pitt. The letters which are given to 
 the public in these volumes, extend over an interval commencing rvith 1782, and 
 ending with 1800. In that interval events occurred which can never lose their 
 interest as incidents in the history of England. The Coahtion Ministry and its 
 dismissal by the King — the resistance of the Sovereign and Pitt to the efforts of 
 the discarded minist^ers to force themselves again into office— the great con- 
 
THE COURT AND CABINETS OF GEORGE III. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS CONTINUED. 
 
 sti'.tutional question of the Regency which arose upon the King's disastrous malady 
 —the contest upon that question between the heir apparent and the ministers 
 of the Crown— the breaking out of the French Revokition, and the consequent 
 entrance of England upon the great European war,— these, with the union 
 with Ireland, are political movements every detail of which possesses the deepest 
 interest. In these volumes, details, then guarded with the most anxious care 
 from all eyes but those of the privileged few, are now for the first time given to 
 the public. The most secret history of many of the transactions is laid bare. 
 It is not possible to conceive contemporary history more completely exemplified. 
 From such materials it v^^as not possible to form a work that would not possess 
 the very highest interest. The Duke of Buckingham has, however, moulded his 
 materials with no ordinary ability and skill. The connecting narrative is written 
 both with judgment and vigour — not unfrequently in a style that comes up to 
 the highest order of historical composition — especially in some of the sketches of 
 personal character. There is scarcely a single individual of celebrity throughout 
 the period from 1782 to 1800 who is not introduced into these pages ; amongst 
 others, besides the King and the various members of the royal family, are Rock- 
 ingham, Shelburne, North, Thurlow, Loughborough, Fox, Pitt, Sheridan, Burke, 
 Portland, Sydney, Fitzwilliam, Tierney, Buckingham, Grenville, Grey, Malmes- 
 bury, Wilberforce,Burdett, Fitzgibbon, Grattan, Flood, Cornwallis, the Beresfords, 
 the'Ponsonbys, the Wellesleys, &c." — Morning Herald. 
 
 " These m-cmoirs are among the most valuable materials for history that have 
 recently been brought to light out of the archives of any of our great families. 
 The period embraced by the letters is from the beginning of 1782 to the close 
 of 1 799, comprising the last days of the North Administration, the brief life of 
 the Rockingham, and the troubled life of the Shelburne Ministry, the stormy 
 career of the Coalition of '83, the not less stormy debates and intrigues which 
 broke out on the first insanity of the King, the gradual m-odifications of Pitt's first 
 Ministry, and the opening days of the struggle with France after her first great 
 revolution. Of these the most valuable illustrations concern the motives of Fox 
 in watbdrawing from Sbelburne and joining with North against him, the desperate 
 intriguing and deliberate bad faith of the King exerted against the Coalition, and 
 the profligacy and heartlessness of the Prince of Wales and his brother all through 
 the Regency debates. On some incidental subjects, also, as the affairs of Ireland, 
 the Warren Hastings trial, the Fitzgerald outbreak, the Union, the sad vicissitudes 
 and miseries of the last days of the old French monarchy, &c., the volumes supply 
 illustrative facts and comments of much interest." — Examiner. 
 
 <' This valuable contribution to the treasures of historic lore, now for the 
 first time produced from the archives of the Buckingham family displays the 
 action of the different parties in the State, throws great light on the personal 
 character of the King, as v/ell as on the share which he took in the direction of 
 public affairs, and incidentally reveals many facts hitherto but imperfectly known 
 or altogether unknown. In' order to render the contents of the letters more 
 intelUgible, the noble Editor has, with great tact and judgment, set them out in 
 a kind of historical framework, in which the leading circumstances under which 
 they were mitten are briefly indicated— the result being a happy combination of 
 the completeness of historical narrative with the freshness of original thought 
 and of contemporaneous record." — John Bull. 
 
 " These volumes are a treasure for the politician, and a mine of wealth for the 
 historian." — Britannia. 
 
[iORD GEORGE BEKTIKCK: 
 
 A POLITICAL BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 BT TES EiaHT EOK". B. DISBASLI, M.P. 
 
 Fifth and Cheaper Edition, Revised. Post 8vo. 10s. Gd. 
 
 Prom Blackwood's Magazine. — " This biography cannot fail to attract the 
 deep attention of the pubhc. We are bound to say, that as a pohtical biography 
 we have rarely, if ever, met with a book more dexterously handled, or more 
 replete with interest. The history of the famous session of 184G, as written by 
 Disraeli in that brilliant and pointed style of which he is so consummate a master, 
 is deeply interesting. He has traced this memorable struggle with a vivacity and 
 power unequalled as yet in any narrative of Parliamentary proceedings." 
 
 From The Dublin University Magazine. — " A political biography of 
 Lord George Bentinck by Mr. Disraeli must needs be a work of interest and 
 importance. Either the subject or the writer would be sufficient to invest it 
 with both — the combination surrounds it with peculiar attractions. In this 
 most interesting volume Mr. Disraeli has produced a memoir of his friend in 
 which he has combined the warmest enthusiasm of affectionate attachment with 
 the calmness of the critic." 
 
 From The Morning Herald. — " Mr. Disraeli's tribute to the memory of 
 his departed friend is as graceful and as touching as it is accurate and impartial. 
 No one of Lord George Bentinck's colleagues could have been selected, who, 
 from his high literary attainments, his personal intimacy, and party associations, 
 woukl have done such complete justice to the memory of a friend and Parlia- 
 mentary associate. Mr. Disraeli has here presented us with the very type and 
 embodiment of what history should be. His sketch of the condition of parties 
 is seasoned with some of those piquant personal episodes of party manoeuvres 
 and private intrigues, in the author's happiest and most captivating vein, which 
 convert the dry details of politics into a sparkling and agreeable narrative.'"' 
 
 LOSD PALMERSTON'g OPINIONS 
 AInD POLICY; 
 
 AS MINISTER, DIPLOMATIST, AND STATESMAN, 
 
 DURING MORE THAN FORTY YEARS OF PUBLIC LIFE. 
 
 1 V. 8vo., with Portrait, 12s. 
 
 " This work ought to have a place in every political library. It gives a com- 
 plete view of the sentiments and opinions by which the policy of Lord 
 Palmerston has been dictated as a diplomatist and statesman." — Chronicle. 
 
 " This is a remarkable and seasonable publication ; but it is something more — 
 it is a valuable addition to the historical treasures of our country during more 
 than forty of the most memorable years of om* annals. We earnestly recommend 
 the volume to general perusal." — Standard. 
 
HURST AND BLACKETT S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 THE LIFE OF MAlilE DE MEDICIS, 
 
 QUEEN or FRANCE, 
 
 CONSORT OF HENRY IV., AND REGENT UNDER LOUIS XIIL 
 
 BY MISS PABDOE, 
 
 Author of "Louis XIV. and the Court of France, in the 17th Century," &c. 
 
 Second Edition. 3 large vols. 8vo., with Fine Portraits. 
 
 " A fascinating book. The history of such a woman as the beautiful, impulsive, 
 earnest, and affectionate ^larie de Medicis could only be done justice to by a 
 female pen, impelled by all the sympathies of womanhood, but strengthened by 
 an erudition by which it is not in every case accompanied. In Miss Pardoe the 
 unfortunate Queen has found both these requisites, and the result has been a 
 biography combining the attractiveness of romance with the reliableness of his- 
 tory, and which, taking a place midway between the 'frescoed galleries' of 
 Thierry, and the 'philosophic watch-tower of Guizot,' has all the pictorial brilliancy 
 of the one, with much of the reflective speculation of the other." — Dailj/ News. 
 
 " A valuable, well-written, and elaborate biography, displaying an unusual 
 amount of industry and research." — Mornmg Chronicle. 
 
 " A careful and elaborate historical composition, rich in personal anecdote. 
 Nowhere can a more intimate acquaintance be obtained with the principal events 
 and leading personages of the first half of the 17th century." — Morning Post. 
 
 " A work of high literary and historical merit. Rarely have the strange 
 vicissitudes of romance been more intimately blended with the facts of real 
 history than in the life of Marie de Medicis ; nor has the difficult problem of 
 combining with the fidelity of biography the graphic power of dramatic delineation 
 been often more successfully solved than by the talented author of the volumes 
 before us. As a personal narrative, Miss Pardee's admirable biography possesses 
 the most absorbing and constantly sustained interest ; as a historical record of the 
 events of which it treats, its merit is of no ordinary description." — John Bull. 
 
 " A hfe more dramatic than that of "Marie de Medicis has seldom been written ; 
 one more imperially tragic, never. The period of French history chosen by Miss 
 Pardoe is rich in all manner of associations, and brings together the loftiest 
 names and most interesting events of a stirring and dazzling epoch. She has 
 been, moreover, exceedingly fortunate in her materials. A manuscript of the Com- 
 raandeur de Rambure, Gentleman of the Bedchamber under the Kings Henry IV., 
 Louis XIII., and Louis XIV., consisting of the memoirs of the writer, with all 
 the most memorable events which took place during the reigns of those three 
 Majesties, from the year 1594 to that of 1660, was placed at her disposal by 
 M. de la Plane, Member of the Institut Royal de la France. This valuable 
 record is very voluminous, and throws a flood of light on every transaction. Of 
 this important document ample use has been judiciously made by Miss Pardoe ; 
 and her narrative, accordingly, has a fulness and particularity possessed by none 
 other, and which adds to the dramatic interest of the subject. The work is very 
 elegantly written, and will be read with delight. It forms another monument to 
 the worthiness of female intellect in the age we live in." — Illustrated News. 
 
 I 
 
HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE 
 
 BARONESS D'OBERKIRCH, 
 
 ILLUSTRATIVB OF THE SECRET HISTORY OF 
 
 THE COURTS OF FRANCE, RUSSIA, AND GERMANY. 
 
 "W^RITTEN BY HERSELF, 
 
 And Edited by Her Grandson, the Count de Moxtbrisox. 
 
 3 vols. Post 8vo. 31s. 6d. 
 
 The Baroness d'Oberkuxh, being the intimate friend of the Empress of Russia, 
 wife of Paul I., and the confidential companion of the Duchess of Bourbon, 
 her facilities for obtaining information respecting the most private aflfairs of the 
 principal Courts of Europe, render her Memoirs unrivalled as a book of interest- 
 ing anecdotes of the royal, noble, and other celebrated individuals who flourished 
 on the continent during the latter part of the last century. Among the royal per- 
 sonages introduced to the reader in this work, are Louis XVI., Marie Antoinette, 
 Philip Egalite, and all the Princes of France then living— Peter the Great, the 
 Empress Catherine, the Emperor Paul, and his sons Constantine and Alexander, 
 of Russia — Frederick the Great and Prince Henry of Prussia — The Emperor 
 Joseph II. of Austria— Gustavus III. of Sweden — Princess Christina of Saxony — 
 Sobieski, and Czartoriski of Poland — and the Princes of Brunswick and Wurtem- 
 berg. Among the remarkable persons are the Princes and Princesses de Lamballe, 
 de Ligne and Galitzin — the Dukes and Duchesses de Choiseul, de Mazarin, de 
 Boufllers, de la Valliere, de Guiche, de Peuthievre, and de Pohgnac — Cardinal de 
 Rohan, Marshals Biron and d'Harcourt, Count de Staremberg, Baroness de 
 Krudener, Madame Geoffrin, Talleyrand, iMirabeau, and Necker — with Count 
 Cagliostro, Mesnier, Vestris, and Madame Mara; and the work also includes 
 such literary celebrities as Vohaire, Condorcet, de la Harpe, de Beaumarchais, 
 Rousseau, Lavater, Bernouilli, Raynal, de I'Epee, Huber, Gothe, Wieland, Male- 
 sherbes, Marmontel, de Stael and de Genhs ; with some singular disclosures 
 respecting those celebrated EngHshwomen, Elizabeth Chudleigh, Duchess of 
 Kingston, and Lady Craven, Margravine of Anspach. 
 
 *• The Baroness d'Oberkirch, whose remarkable Memon-s are here given to the pnblic, saw 
 much of courts and courtiers, and her Memoirs are filled with a variety of anecdotes, not 
 alone of lords and ladies, but of emperors and empresses, kings and queens, and reigning 
 princes and princesses. As a picture of society anterior to the French Kevolution, the hook 
 is the latest and most perfect production of its kind extant ; and as such, besides its minor 
 value as a book of amusement, it possesses a major value as a work of information, which, in 
 the interest of historical truth, is, without exaggeration, almost incalculable." — Observer. 
 
 "Thoroughly genuine and unaffected, these Memoirs display the whole mind of a woman 
 
 who was well worth knowing, and relate a large part of her experience among people with 
 
 whose names and characters the world will be at all times busy. A keen observer, and by 
 
 position thrown in the high places of the world, the Baroness d'Oberkirch was the very 
 
 1 woman to write Memoirs that would interest future generations. We commend these 
 
 I volumes most heartily to every reader. They are a perfect m.agazine of pleasant anecdotes 
 
 ; and interesting characteristic things. We lay down these charming volumes with regret. 
 
 ' They will entertain the most fastidious readers, and instruct the most informed." — Examiner. 
 
 "An intensely interesting autobiography." — Morning Chronicle. 
 i " A valuable addition to the personal history of an important period. The volumes deserve 
 1 general popularity." — Daily Nens. 
 
 " One of the most interesting pieces of contemporary history, and one of the richest 
 collections of remarkable anecdotes and valuable reminiscences ever produced." — John Bull. 
 
6 HURST AND BLACKETT'S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF JOHN ABERKETHY, E.E.S., 
 
 WITH A VIEW OF HIS WRITINGS, LECTURES, AND CHARACTER. 
 
 BY GBOBGE MACIIi'WAIE", P.B.C.S., 
 
 Author of " Medicine and Surgery One Inductive Science," &c. 
 
 Second Edition. 2 v. post 8vo., with Portrait. 2l3. 
 
 " A memoir of high professional and general interest." — Morning Post. 
 
 " These memoirs com-ey a graphic, and, ^^•Q believe, faithful picture of the 
 celebrated John Abernethy. The volumes are written in a popular style, and will 
 afford to the general reader much instruction and entertainment." — Herald. 
 
 " This is a book which ought to be read by every one. The professional man 
 will find in it the career of one of the most illustrious professors of medicine of 
 our own or of any other age — the student of intellectual science the progress of a 
 truly profound pliilosopner — and ail, the lesson afforded by a good man's hfe. 
 Abernethy's memory is worthy of a good biographer, and happily it has found 
 one. Mr. Macilwain \\Tites well; and evidently, in giving the history of his 
 deceased friend, he executes a labour of love. The arrangement of his matter is 
 excellent : so happily interwoven with narrative, anecdotes, often comical enough, 
 and deep reflection, as to carry a reader forward iiTesistibly." — Standard. 
 
 TUB LITEEATURS AND ROMANCE 
 
 OF NORTHERN EUROPE: 
 
 CONSTITUTING A COMPLETE HISTORY OF THE LITERATURE OF SWEDEN, 
 DI WMARK, NORW^AY, AND ICELAND, W^ITH COPIOUS SPECIMENS OF THE 
 MOST CELEBRATED HISTORIES, ROMANCES, POPULAR LEGENDS AND TALES, 
 OLD CHIVALROUS BALLADS, TRAGIC AND COMIC DRAMAS, NATIONAL SONGS, 
 NOVELS, AND SCENES FROM THE LIFE OF THE PRESENT DAY. 
 
 BY 'WILLIAM AISTD MAKY HO'WITT. 2 vols. 21s. 
 
 ** English readers have long beeu indebted to Mr. and Mrs. Howitt. They 
 have now increased our obligations by presenting us with this most charming and 
 valuable work, by means of which the great majority of the reading public will 
 be, for the first time, made acquainted with the rich stores of intellectual wealth 
 long garnered in the literature and beautiful romance of Northern Europe. 
 From the famous Edda, vrhose origin is lost in antiquity, down to the novels of 
 Miss Bremer and Baroness Knorring, the prose and poetic writings of Denmark, 
 Norway, Sweden, and Iceland are here introduced to us in a manner at once 
 singularly comprehensive and concise. It is no dry enumeration of names, but 
 the very marrow and spirit of the various Vi^orks displayed before us. We have 
 old ballads and fairy tales, always fascinatir.g ; we have scenes from plays, and 
 selections from the poets, with most attractive biographies of great men. The 
 songs and ballads are translated with exquisite poetic beauty." — Sun. 
 
 " A book full of information — and as such, a welcome addition to our literatm'e. 
 The translations — especially of some of the ballads and other poems — are exe- 
 cuted with spirit and taste." — Athencsum. 
 
HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 MEMOIRS A^'D C0RRESP0:MDENCE OF 
 
 MAJOR GENERAL SIR W. NOTT, G.C.B., 
 
 ENVOY AT THE COURT OF LUCKNOW. 
 
 EDITED BY J. H. STOC QUELES, ESQ., 
 
 At the request of the Daughters of the late General, from Private Papers and 
 Official Documents in their possession. 2 vols. 8vo., with Poii:rait. 
 
 MILITARY LIFE IN ALGERIA. 
 
 BY THE COUNT P. DE CASTSLLAI^TE. 2 vols. 21s. 
 
 " We commend this book as really worth perusal. The volumes make us 
 familiarly acquainted with the nature of Algerian experieuce. Changarnier, 
 Cavaignac, Canrobert, Lamoriciere, and St. Arnaud are bron--' t prominently 
 before the reader." — Examiner. 
 
 " These volumes will be read with extraordinary interest. The vivid manner 
 in which the author narrates his adventures, and the number of personal anecdotes 
 that he tells, engage the reader's attention in an extraordinaiy manner." — 
 Sunday Times. 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 
 
 AN ENGLISH SOLDIER 
 
 11^ THE UNITED STATES' ARMY. 2 vols. 21s. 
 
 *' The novelty characterising these interesting volumes is likely to secure them 
 many readers. ' In the first place, an account of the internal organization, the 
 manners and customs of the United States' Federal Army, is in itself, a novelty, 
 and a still greater novelty is to have this account rendered by a man who had 
 served in the EngUsh before joining the American army, and who can give his 
 report after having every opportunity of comparison. The author went through 
 the Mexican campaign with General Scott, and his volumes contain much descrip- 
 tive matter concerning battles, sieges, and marches on Mexican territory, besides 
 their sketches of the normal chronic condition of a United States' soldier in time of 
 peace." — Daily News. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE 
 
 BRITISH CONQUESTS IN INDIA. 
 
 BY HOKACE ST. JCHIT. 2 vols. 21s. 
 '' A work of great and permanent historical value and interest." — Post. 
 " The style is graphic and spirited. The facts are well related and artistically 
 grouped. The narrative is always readable and interesting." — Athenaum. 
 
 HISTORY OF CORFU; 
 
 AND OF THE REPUBLIC OF THE IONIAN ISLANDS. 
 
 BY LIEUT. H. J . "W. JERVIS, Eoyal ArtiUery. 1 vol. ICs. 6d. 
 "Written with great care and research, and including probably all the 
 particulars of any moment in the histoiy of Corfu." — Athenaeum. 
 
CLASSIC AND HISTORIC PORTRAITS. 
 
 BY JAMES BBUCE. 2 vols. 21s. 
 
 This work comprises Biographies of the following Classic and Historic Per- 
 sonages :— Sappho, ^sop, Pythagoras, Aspasia, Milto, Agesilaus, Socrates, Plato, 
 Alcibiades, Helen of Troy, Alexander the Great, Demetrius Poliorcetes, Scipio 
 Africanus, Sylla, Cleopatra, Julius Caesar, Augustus, Tiberius, Germanicus, 
 Caligula, LoUia Paulina, Caesonia, Boadicea, Agrippina, Poppaea, Otho, Corn- 
 modus, Caracalla, Heliogabalus, Zenobia, Julian the Apostate, Eudocia, Theodora, 
 Charlemasine, Abelard and Heloise, Elizabeth of Hungary, Dante, Robert Bruce, 
 Ignez de Castro, Agnes Sorel, Jane Shore, Lucrezia Borgia, Anne Bullen, Diana 
 of Poitiers, Catherine de Medicis, Queen Elizabeth, Mary Queen of Scots, 
 Cervantes, Sir Kenelm Digby, John Sobieski, Anne of Austria, Ninon de 
 I'Enclos, Mile, de JMontpensier, the Duchess of Orleans, Madame de Maintenon, 
 Catharine of Russia, and Madame de Stael. 
 
 " A Book which has many merits, most of all, that of a fresh and uuhacknied 
 subject. The volumes are the result of a good deal of reading, and have besides 
 an original spirit and flavour about them, which have pleased us much. Mr. 
 Bruce is often eloquent, often humorous, and has a proper appreciation of the 
 wit and sarcasm belonging in abundance to his theme. The variety and amount 
 of information scattered through his volumes entitle them to be generally read, 
 and to be received on all hands with merited favour." — Examine)'. 
 
 " We find in these piquant volumes the liberal outpourings of a ripe scholarship, 
 the results of wide and various reading, given in a style and manner at once plea- 
 sant, gossippy and pictvu-esque." — AthcncEum. 
 
 " A series of biographical sketches, remarkable for their truth and fidelity. The 
 work is one which will please the classical scholar and the student of history, 
 while it also contains entertaining and instructive matter for the general reader.'' 
 — Literary Gazette. 
 
 RULE AND MISKULE OF 
 
 THE ENGLISH IN AMERICA. 
 
 EY THE AUTHOR OP " SAM SLICK," 2 vols. 21s. 
 
 '* We conceive this work to be by far the most valuable and important Judge 
 Haliburton has ever written. While teeming with interest, moral and historical, 
 to the "-eneral reader, it equally constitutes a philosophical study for the politician 
 and statesman. It will be found to let in a flood of hght upon the actual origin, 
 formation, and progress of the republic of the United States." — iV. and M. Gaz. 
 
 THE SONG OF ROLAND, 
 
 AS CHANTED BEFORE THE BATTLE OE HASTINGS, 
 
 BY THE MINSTREL TAILLEFER. 
 
 TRANSLATED BY THE AUTHOR OP "EMILIA WYNDHAM." 
 
 Small 4to., handsomely bound, gilt edges, 5s. 
 
 '"The Song of Roland' is well worth general perusal. It is spirited and 
 descriptive, and gives an important, and, no doubt, faithful picture of the chivalric 
 manners and feelings of the age." — Herald. 
 
HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 THE JOURNALS AND CORRESPONDENCE OF 
 
 GENERAL SIR HARRY CALVERT, 
 
 BART., G.C.B. and G.C.H., 
 
 ADJUTANT-GENERAL OF THE FORCES UNDER H.R.H. THE DUKE OF YORK. 
 
 COMPRISING THE CAMPAIGNS IN FLANDERS AND HOLLAND IN 1793-94; 
 
 WITH AN APPENDIX CONTAINING HIS 
 
 PLANS FOR THE DEFENCE OF THE COUNTRY IN CASE OF INVASION. 
 
 EDITED BY HIS SOJST, SIR HARRY VERNEY, BART. 
 
 1 vol. royal 8vo., with large maps, 14s. bound. 
 
 " Both the journals and letters of Capt. Calvert are full of interest. The 
 letters, in particular, are entitled to much praise. Not too long, easy, graceful, 
 not without wit, and everywhere marked by good sense and good taste — the 
 series addressed by Capt. Calvert to his sister are literary compositions of no 
 common order. With the best means of observing the progress of the war, and 
 with his faculties of judgment exercised and strengthened by experience — a quick 
 eye, a placid temper, and a natural aptitude for language rendered Capt. Calvert 
 in many respects a model of a military critic. Sir Harry Verney has performed 
 his duties of editor very well. The book is creditable to all parties concerned in 
 its production." — Athenaeum. 
 
 COLONEL LANDMANN^S ADVENTURES 
 
 AND RECOLLECTIONS. 2 toIs. 21s. 
 
 "Among the anecdotes in this work will be found notices of King George III., 
 the Dukes of Kent, Cumberland, Cambridge, Clarence, and Richmond, the Princess 
 Augusta, General Garth, Sir Harry Mildmay, Lord Charles Somerset, Lord Edward 
 Fitzgerald, Lord Heathfield, Captain Grose, &c. The volumes abound in inte- 
 resting matter. The anecdotes are one and all amusing." — Observer. 
 
 " These ' Adventures and Recollections' are those of a gentleman whose birth 
 and profession gave him facilities of access to distinguished society. Colonel 
 Landmanu writes so agreeably that we have little doubt that his volumes will be 
 acceptable." — Athenceum. 
 
 ADVENTURES OF 
 
 THE CONN AUGHT HANGERS. 
 
 SECOND SERIES. 
 BY -WIIiLIAM GRATTAW, ESQ., 
 
 LATE LIEUTENANT CONNAUGHT RANGERS. 2 VOls. 21s. 
 
 '* In this second series of the adventures of this famous regiment, the author 
 extends his nan-ative from the first formation of the gallant 88th up to the 
 occupation of Paris. All the battles, sieges, and skirmishes, in which the regi- 
 ment took part, are described. The volumes are interwoven with original anec- 
 dotes that give a freshness and spirit to the whole. The stories, and the sketches 
 of society and manners, with the anecdotes of the celebrities of the time, are told 
 in an agreeable and unaffected manner. The work bears all the characteristics 
 of a soldier's straightforward and entertaining narrative." — Sunday Times. 
 
10 HURST AND BLACKETT's NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 THE MAEVELS OF SCIENCE, 
 
 AND THEIR TESTIMONY TO HOLY WRIT ; 
 
 A POPULAR MANUAL OF THE SCIENCES. 
 
 BY S. M7. PULIiOM, ESQ'. 
 
 DEDICATED BY PEPailSSION TO THE KING OF HANOVER. 
 
 Seventh Edition, with Numerous Illustrations. Post 8vo. 7s. Gd. 
 
 " This work treats of tbs whole origin of nature in an intelligent style ; it puts 
 into the hands of every man the means of information on facts the most sublime, 
 and converts into interesting and eloquent description problems which once 
 perplexed the whole genius of mankind. We congratulate the author on his 
 research, his information, and his graceful and happy language." — Brita^inia. 
 
 " The skill displayed in the treatment of the sciences is not the least marvel iu 
 the volume. The reasonings of the author are forcible, fluently expressed, and 
 calculated to make a deep impression. Genuine service has been done to the 
 cause of Revelation by the issue of such a book, which is more than a mere 
 literary triumph. It is a good action." — Globe. 
 
 "Its tone is grave, grand, and argumentative, and rises to the majesty of poetry. 
 As a commentary upon the stupendous facts which exist in the universe, it is 
 truly a work which merits our admiration, and we unhesitatingly refer our readers 
 to its fascinating pages." — Disjmtch. 
 
 "Without parading the elaborate nature of his personal investigations, the 
 author has laid hold of the discoveries in every department of natural science in 
 a manner to be apprehended by the meanest understanding, but which will at the 
 same time command the attention of the scholar." — Messenger. 
 
 " A grand tour of the sciences. Mr. Fullora starts from the Sun, runs round 
 by the Planets, noticing Comets as he goes, and puts up for a rest at the Central 
 Sun. He gets into the jMilky Way, which brings him to the Fixed Stars and 
 Nebula. He munches the crust of the Earth, and looks over Fossil Animals and 
 Plants. This is follovred by a disquisition on the science of the Scriptures. He 
 then comes back to the origin of the Earth, visits the Magnetic Poles, gets 
 among Thunder and Lightning, makes the acquaintance of ^Magnetism and Elec- 
 tricity, dips into Rivers, draws science from Springs, goes into Volcanoes, through 
 which he is drawn into a knot of Earthquakes, comes to the surface with Gaseous 
 Emanations, and sliding down a Landslip, renews his journey on a ray of Light, 
 goes through a Prism, sees a Mirage, meets with the Flying Dutchman, observes 
 an Optical IHusion, steps over the Rainbow, enjoys a dance with the Northern 
 Aurora, takes a little Polarized Light, boils some Water, sets a Steam-Engine in 
 motion, witnesses the expansion of Metals, looks at the Thermometer, and 
 refreshes himself with Ice. Soon he is at Sea, examining the Tides, tumbling 
 on the Waves, swimming, diving, and ascertaining the pressure of Fluids. V/e 
 r«po+ v..-r,.i „ovt in thp. Aiv. nuining tUrougii ail its properties. Having remarked 
 on the propagation of Sounds, he pauses for a bit of Music, and goes off into the 
 Vegetable Kingdom, then travels through the Animal Kingdom, and having 
 visited the various races of the human family, winds up with a demonstration of 
 the Anatomy of Man." — Examiner. 
 
VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. 11 
 
 NARRATIVE OF A 
 
 JOUSNEY ROUND THE WORLD 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 A WINTER PASSAGE ACROSS THE ANDES TO CHILI, 
 
 WITH A VISIT TO THE GOLD REGIONS OF CALIFORNIA AND AUSTRALIA, 
 THE SOUTH SEA ISLANDS, JAVA, &C. 
 
 BY F. GERSTAECKEK. 
 3 vols, post 8vo. 31s. Gd. 
 
 " Starting from Bremen for California, the author of this Narrative proceeded 
 to Rio, and thence to Buenos Ayres, -^here he exchanged the wild seas for the 
 yet Tvilder Pampas, and made his way on horseback to Valparaiso across the 
 Cordilleras — a winter passage full of difficulty and danger. From Valparaiso 
 he sailed to California, and visited San Francisco, Sacramento, and the mining 
 districts generally. Thence he steered his course to the South Sea Islands, 
 resting at Honolulu, Tahiti, and other gems of the sea in that quarter, and from 
 thence to Sydney, marching through the Murray Valley, and inspecting the 
 Adelaide district. From Australia he dashed onward to Java, riding through the 
 interior, and taking a general survey of Eatavia, with a glance at Japan and the 
 Japanese. An active, intelligent, observant man, the notes he made of his adven- 
 tures are full of variety and interest. His descriptions of places and persons are 
 lively, and his remarks on natural productions and the phenomena of earth, sea, 
 and sky are always sensible, and made with a view to practical results. Those 
 portions of the Narrative which refer to California and Australia are replete with 
 vivid sketches ; and indeed the whole work abounds with living and pictm'esque 
 descriptions of men, manners, and localities." — Globe. 
 
 " The author of this comprehensive nan-ative embarked at Bremen for Cali- 
 fornia, and then took ship to the South Sea Islands, of which and of their inhabit- 
 ants we have some pleasant sketches. From the South Sea Islands he sailed to 
 Australia, where he effected a very daring and adventurous journey by himself 
 through the Murray Valley to Adelaide. He then proceeded to Java, the interior 
 of which he explored to a considerable distance. Before he departed for Europe, 
 he remained some time at Batavia, and was so fortunate as to v/itness the arrival 
 of the Japanese vessel bringing her annual cargo of goods from Japan. Inde- 
 pendently of great variety — for these pages are never monotonous or dull — a 
 pleasant freshness pervades Mr. Gerstaecker's chequered narrative. It offers much 
 to interest, and conveys much valuable information, set forth in a very lucid and 
 graphic manner." — Athenceum. 
 
 " These travels consisted principally in a ' winter passage across the Andes to 
 Chili, with a visit to the gold regions of California and Australia, the South Sea 
 Islands, Java, &c.' In the present state of things and position of affairs, no m.ore 
 desirable book can be imagined. It carries us at once to the centre of attractions 
 — it conveys us to the land of promise to expectant thousands. We behold, face 
 to face, the mighty regions where so many of our countrymen have gone, that 
 it seems almost a second home. We are informed, in minute details of the life 
 that is led there. There is no false glitter thrown over the accounts ; the author 
 evidently strives to raise no false hopes, and excite no unreasonable expectations. 
 The accounts given of California are particularly explicit. The description of 
 Sydney during the excitement prevailing on the discovery of new mines is very 
 interestins:. ' ' — Sun. 
 
12 HURST AND BLACKETT's NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 AUSTRALIA AS IT IS: 
 
 ITS SETTLEMENTS, FARMS, AND GOLD FIELDS. 
 BY F. LANCELOTT, ESQ,, 
 
 MINERALOGICAL SURVEYOR IN THE AUSTRALIAN COLONIES. 
 
 Second Edition, revised. 2 vols, post 8vo. 21s. 
 
 " This is an unadorned account of the actual condition in -which these colonies 
 are found by a professional surveyor and mineralogist, v^'ho goes over the ground 
 with a careful glance and a remaikable aptitude for seizing on the practical por- 
 tions of the subject. On the climate, the vegetation, and the agricultural 
 resources of the country, he is copious in the extreme, and to the intending 
 emigrant an invaluable instructor. As may be expected from a scientific hand, 
 the subject of gold digging undergoes a thorough manipulation. Mr. Lancelott 
 dwells with minuteness on the several indications, stratifications, varieties of soil, 
 and methods of working, experience has pointed out, and offers a perfect manual 
 of the new craft to the adventurous settler. Nor has he neglected to provide 
 him with information as to the sea voyage and all its accessories, the commodities 
 most in request at the antipodes, and a general view of social wants, family 
 management, &c., such as a shrewd and observant counsellor, aided by old 
 resident authorities, can afford. As a guide to the auriferous regions, as well as 
 the pastoral solitudes of Australia, the work is unsurpassed," — Globe. 
 
 *' This is the best book on the new El Dorado ; the best, not only in respect to 
 matter, style, and arrangement, in all of which merits it excels, but eminently 
 the best because the latest, and the work of a man professionally conversant with 
 those circumstances which are charming hundreds of thousands annually to the 
 great Southern Continent. The last twenty years have been proHfic of works 
 upon Australia, but they are all now obsolete. Every one who takes an interest 
 in Australia M'ould do well to possess himself of Mr. Lancelott's work, which 
 tells everything of the social state, of the physiology, and the precious mineralogy 
 of the gold country." — Standard. 
 
 " We advise all about to emigrate to take this book as a counsellor and com- 
 panion." — Lloyd's Weekly Paper. 
 
 A LADY'S VISIT TO THE GOLD DIGGINGS 
 
 OF AUSTRALIA IN 1852-3. 
 
 BY MRS. CHARLES CLACY. 1 voL lOs. 6d. 
 
 *' The most pithy and entertaining of all the books that have been written on 
 the gold diggings." — Literary Gazette, 
 
 " Mrs, Clacy's book will be read with considerable interest, and not without 
 profit. Her statements and advice will be most useful among her own sex." — 
 AthenOium. 
 
 " Mrs. Clacy tells her stor}' well. Her book is the most graphic account of the 
 diggings and the gold countrj- in general that is to be had." — Daily News. 
 " One of the best guides to Australian emigrants yet issued." — Messenger. 
 " Wc recommend this work as the emigrant's vade mecum.^' — Home Companion. 
 
VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. 13 
 
 A SKETCH ER'S TOUR 
 
 ROUND THE WORLD. 
 
 BY ROBEBT EL'WES, ESQ. 
 
 Second Edition, 1 vol. royal 8vo., with 21 Coloured Illustrations from Original 
 Designs by the Author. 21s. elegantly bound, gilt edges. 
 
 " Combining in itself the best quahties of a library volume, with that of a gift- 
 book, is Mr. Elwes' ' Sketcher's Tour.' It is an unaffected, well-written record 
 of a tour of some 36,000 miles, and is accompanied by a number of very beautiful 
 tinted hthographs, executed by the author. These, as well as the literary 
 sketches in the volume, deal most largely with Southern and Spanish America, — 
 whence the reader is afterwards taken by Lima to the Sandwich Islands, is carried 
 to and fro among the strange and exciting scenes of the Pacific, — thence sails to 
 the AustraUan coast, — passes to China, — afterwards to Singapore and Bombay, — 
 and so home by Egypt and Italy. The book is pleasantly written throughout, 
 and with the picturesque variety that cannot but belong to the description of a 
 succession of such scenes, is also full of interesting and instructive remarks." — 
 Examinsr. 
 
 " This is a dehghtful book. ]Mr. Elwes, in his Tour tlirough America, Aus- 
 tralia, India, China, Turkey, Egypt, and Europe, has chosen the grandest and the 
 most beautiful scenery for 'the exercise of his pencil. To the illustrations he has 
 added descriptions so vivid that his pen makes the work of the pencil almost 
 unnecessary. It is hard to say to what class of works the book must be assigned. 
 The beauty' of the engravings, and the handsome getting-up, make it an extremely 
 elegant book for the table of the drawing-room. The abundance of hvely 
 remarks and anecdotes, and the extent and variety of information, make it an 
 equally admirable book of learning and amusement." — Standard. 
 
 " The garment in which this book comes forth seems to point out the drawing- 
 room table as its place of destination. The nature of its contents — cheerful, 
 lively letter-press — will assure it a ready welcome there. Yet it is not, therefore, 
 inehgible for the libran,- shelf— even for that shelf which is devoted to ' Voyages 
 Round the World.' Pieasanter reading, we repeat, need not be offered than our 
 sketcher brings." — AthencBum. 
 
 " In every respect a most charming volume, abounding with exquisite coloured 
 engravings — an elegant gift-book for the season." — Messenger. 
 
 A TOUa OF INQUIRY 
 
 THROUGH FRANCE AND ITALY, 
 
 ILLUSTKATIXG THBIK PEESZNT 
 
 SOCIAL, POLITICAL, AND RELIGIOUS CONDITION. 
 
 BY EDMUND SPENCER, ESQ., 
 
 Author of " Travels in European Turkey," " Circassia," &c. 2 vols. 21s, 
 
 " Mr. Spencer has travelled through France and Italy, with the eyes and feeUngs 
 of a Protestant philosopher. His volumes contain much valuable matter, many 
 judicious remarks, and a great deal of useful information." — Morning Chro- 
 nicle. 
 
14 HURST AND BLACKETT S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 TRAVELS m EUROPEAN TURKE 
 
 Y 
 
 THROUGH BOSNIA, SERVIA, BULGARIA, MACEDONIA, ROUMELIA, ALBANIA, AND 
 EPIRUS ; WITH A VISIT TO GREECE AND THE IONIAN ISLES, AND A HOME- 
 WARD TOUR THROUGH HUNGARY AND THE SCLAVONIAN PROVINCES 
 OF AUSTRIA ON THE LOWER DANUBE. 
 
 BY EDMUlsTD SPEWCEK, ESQ., 
 
 Author of " Travels in Circassia," &c. 
 
 Second and Cheaper Edition, in 2 vols. 8vo. with Ilhistrations, and a valuable 
 
 Map of European Turkey, from the most recent Charts in the possession of 
 
 the Austrian and Turkish Governments, revised by the Author, 18s. 
 
 " These important volumes appear at an opportune moment, as they describe 
 some of those countries to which public attention is now more particularly 
 directed : Turkey, Greece, Hungary, and Austria. The author has given us a 
 most interesting picture of the Turkish Em.pire, its M'eaknesses, and the em- 
 barrassments from which it is now suffering, its financial difficulties, the discon- 
 tent of its Christian, and the turbulence of a great portion of its Mohammedan 
 subjects. We are also introduced for the first time to the warlike mountaineers 
 of Bosnia, Albania, Upper Moesia, and the almost inaccessible districts of the 
 Pindus and the Balkan. The different nationalities of that Babel-like country, 
 Turkey in Europe, inhabited by Sclavonians, Greeks, Albanians, Macedonians, 
 the Romani and Osmanli — their various characteristics, religions, superstitions, 
 together with their singular customs and manners, their ancient and contem- 
 porary history are vividly described. The Ionian Islands, Greece, Hungary, and 
 the Sclavonian Provinces of Austria on the Lower Danube, !ire all delineated in 
 the author's happiest manner. We cordially recommend Mr. Spencer's valuable 
 and interesting volumes to the attention of the reader." — U. S. Magazine. 
 
 " This interesting work contains by far the most complete, the most en- 
 lightened, and the most reliable amount of what has been hitherto almost the 
 terra incognita of European Turkey, and supplies the reader with abundance of 
 entertainment as well as instruction." — John BitlL 
 
 ARCTIC MI8CBLLANIE.S, 
 
 A SOUVENIR OF THE LATE POLAR SEARCH. 
 BY THE OFFICERS AITD SSAMEIST OF THE EXPEDITION. 
 
 DEDICATED BY PERMISSION TO THE LORDS OF THE ADMIRALTY. 
 
 Second Edition. 1 vol, with numerous Illustrations, 10s. 6d. 
 
 From the " Times." — This volume is not the least interesting or instructive 
 among the records of the late expedition in search of Sir John Franklin, com- 
 manded by Captain Austin. The most valuable portions of the book are those 
 which relate to the scientific and practical observations made in the course of the 
 expedition, and the descriptions of scenery and incidents of arctic travel. From 
 the variety of the materials, and the novelty of the scenes and incidents to which 
 they refer, no less than the interest which attaches to all that relates to the 
 probable safety of Sir John Franklin and his companions, the Arctic Miscellanies 
 forma a very readable book, and one that redounds to the honour of the national 
 character. 
 
VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. 15 
 
 THE ANSYREEH AND ISMAELEEH: 
 
 A VISIT TO THE SECRET SECTS 0? NORTHERN SYRIA, 
 
 WITH A VIEW TO THE ESTABLISHMENT OF SCHOOLS. 
 
 BY THE HEV. S. LYDE, M.A., 
 
 Late Chaplain at Beyrout. 1 vol. 10s. 6cl. 
 
 " :Mr. Lyde's pages fumish a very good illustration of the present state of some 
 of the least kno^n parts of Syria. Mr. Lyde visited the most important districts 
 of the Ausvreeh, lived vrith them, and conversed with their sheiks or chief men. 
 The practical aim of the author gives his volumes an interest ^^-hich -^vorks of j 
 greater pretension "want." — AihencBum. 
 
 " By far the hest account of the country and the people that has been presented ^ 
 by any traveller." — Critic. 
 
 TUAVELS I^ INDIA AND KASHMIE. 
 
 BY BAPlCW SCHGNBEIIG-. 2 vols. 21s. 
 
 ''This account of a Journey through India and Kashmir vrill be read with 
 considerable interest. Whatever came in his vray worthy of record the author 
 committed to writing, and the result is an entertaining and instnictive mi^scellany 
 of information on th"e country, its climate, its natural productions, its histor>- and 
 antiquities, and the character, the rehgion, r.nd the social condition of its inhabi- 
 tants. The remarks on these various" topics possess addhional interest as the 
 author views India and oui- rule over that country \vith the eye of an impartial 
 observer." — John Bull, 
 
 KHARTOUM AND THE NILES. 
 
 3Y G-EGSG-E SEELLY, ESQ^ 
 
 Second Edition. 2 v. post 8vo., with Map and Illustrations, 2l3. 
 
 " Mr. Mellv is of the same school of travel as the author of ' Eothen.' His 
 book ahosetheris ven- agreeable, comprising, besides the description of Khartoum, 
 manv intelligent illustrations of the relations now subsisting between the Govern- 
 ments of the Sultan and the Pacha, and exceedingly graphic sketches of Cairo, 
 the Pvramids, the Plain of Thebes, the Cataracts, ^^c"— Examiner. 
 
 ATLANTIC & TRANSATLANTIC SKETCHES. 
 
 BY CAPTAIM" MACKIIf]MC]>T, E,]>7. 2 vols. 21s. 
 
 " Captam Mackinnon's sketches of America are of a striking character and 
 permanent value. His volumes convey a just impression of the United States, a 
 fair and candid view of their society and institutions, so weU written and so 
 entertaining that the effect of their perusal on the public here must be con- 
 siderable. Thev are light, animated, and lively, fuH of racy sketches, pictures of 
 life, anecdotes of society, visits to remarkable men and fam.ous places, sporting 
 j episodes, &c., verv" original and interesting." — Sunday Times. 
 
16 HURST AND BLACKETT's NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 REVELATIONS OE SIBERIA. 
 
 BY A BANISHED LADY. 
 Third and Cheaper Edition'. 2 vols. 16s. 
 
 " A thoroughly good book. It cannot be read by too many people." — Dickens's 
 Household Words. 
 
 " The authoress of these volumes vs^as a lady of quality, who, having incurred 
 the displeasure of the Russian Government for a political offence, was exiled to 
 Siberia. The place of her exile was Berezov, the most northern part of this 
 northern penal settlement ; and in it she spent about two years, not unprofitably, 
 as the reader will find by her interesting woric, containing a lively and graphic 
 picture of the country, the people, their manners and customs, «&c. The book 
 gives a most important and valuable insight into the economy of what has been 
 hitherto the terra incognita of Russian despotism." — Daily Netos. 
 
 " Since the publication of the famous romance the ' Exiles of Siberia,' of 
 Madame Cottin, we have had no account of these desolate lands more attractive 
 than the present work, from the pen of the Lady Eve Felinska, which, in its un- 
 pretending style and truthful simplicity, will win its way to the reader's heart, 
 and compel him to sympathise with the fair sufferer. The series of hardships 
 endured in traversing these frozen solitudes is affectingly told ; and once settled 
 down at one of the most northern points of the convict territory, Berezov, six 
 hundred miles beyond Tobolsk, the Author exhibits an observant eye for the 
 natural phenomena of tliose latitudes, as well as the habits of the semi-barbarous 
 aborigines. This portion of the book will be found by the naturalist as well as 
 ethnologist fall of valuable information." — Globe. 
 
 '' These 'Revelations' give us a novel and interesting sketch of Siberian life — the 
 
 habits, morals, manners, religious tenets, rites, and festivals of the inhabitants. The 
 
 waiter's extraordinary powers of observation, and the graceful facihty with which 
 
 « edescribes everything worthy of remark, render her ' Revelations' as attractive 
 
 cfascinating as they are original and instructive." — Britannia. 
 
 FOREST LIEE IN CEYLON. 
 
 BY "W. KWIGHTOIT, M.A., 
 
 ^Drmerly Secretary to the Ceylon Branch Royal Asiatic Society. 2 vols. 21s. 
 
 " A very clever and amusing book, by one who has lived as a planter and 
 journahst many years in Ceylon. The work is filled with interesting accounts of 
 the sports, resources, productions, scenery, and traditions of the island. The 
 sporting adventures are narrated in a very spirited manner." — Standard. 
 
 EIGHT YEARS 
 IN PALESTINE, SYRIA, AND ASIA MINOR. 
 
 BY F. A. ISTEAL, ESQ,., 
 
 LATK ATTACHED TO THE CONSULAR SERVICE IN STRIA. 
 
 Second Edition, 2 vols., with Illustrations, 21s. 
 ** A very agreeable book. Mr. Neale is evidently quite familiar with the 
 East, and writes in a lively, shre-wd, and good-humoured manner. A great 
 deal of information is to be found in his pages." — AthencRum. 
 
VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. 17 
 
 TRAVELS IN BOLIVIA; 
 
 WITH A TOUR ACROSS THE PA^MPAS TO BUENOS AIRES, &c. 
 BY li. HUGH DE BONELLI. 
 
 OF HER BRITANNIC MAJESTY's LEGATION. 2 YOls. 21s. 
 
 EIGHTEEN YEARS ON THE 
 
 GOLD COAST OF AFRICA; 
 
 INCLUDING AN ACCOUNT OF THE NATIVE TRIBES, AND THEIR 
 
 INTERCOURSE WITH EUROPEANS. 
 
 BY BRODIE CBUICKSHAIfK, 
 
 MEMBER OF THE LEGISLATIVE COUNCIL, CAPE COAST CASTLE. 2 VOls. 2l3. 
 
 " This is one of the most interesting works that ever yet came into our hands. 
 It possesses the charm of introducing us to habits and manners of the human 
 family of which before we had no conception. Before reading 'Sir. Cruicksbank's 
 volumes we were wholly unaware of the ignorance of all Europeans, as to the 
 social state of the inhabitants of Western Africa. Mrs. Beecher Stowe's work 
 has, indeed, made us all familiar with the degree of intelligence and the disposi- 
 tions of the transplanted African ; but it has been reserved to Mr. Cniickshank 
 to exhibit the children of Ham in their original state, and to prove, as his work 
 proves to demonstration, that, by the extension of a knowledge of the Gospel, and 
 by that only, can the African be brought within the pale of civilization. We 
 anxiously desire to direct pubhc attention to a work so valuable. An incidental 
 episode in the work is an affecting narrative of the death of the gifted Letitia 
 Elizabeth Landon (L.E.L.), written a few months after her marriage with 
 Governor Maclean. It relieves the mem.ory of both husband and wife from all 
 the vile scandals that have been too long permitted to defile then- story." — 
 Standard. 
 
 " This work will be read with deep interest, and will give a fresh impulse to 
 the exertions of philanthropy and religion." — John Bull. 
 
 LIFE IN SWEDEN, 
 
 WITH EXCURSIONS IN NORWAY AND DENMARK. 
 BY SELINA BUNBURY. 2 vols. 21s. 
 
 " The author of this clever work never misses a lively sketch. Her descriptions 
 of life in Sweden and Norway are all piquant, and most of them instructive, 
 illustrating northern life in all its phases, from the palace to the cottage. The 
 work is well calculated to excite in the English pubhc a desire to visit^ scenes 
 which have as yet been exposed to the view of few travellers." — Daily News. 
 
 " Two dehghtful, well-informed volumes, by a lady of much acuteness, lively 
 imagination, and shrewd observance. The work can be safely recommended to 
 the "reader, as the freshest, and most certainly the truthfullest pubhcation upoQ 
 the North that has of late years been given to the world." — Observer. 
 
18 HURST AND BLACKETT's NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 NARRATIVE OE A 
 
 FIVE YEAUS' RESIDENCE AT NEPAUL. 
 
 BY CAPTAIIT THOMAS SMITH, 
 
 Late Assistant Political-S.esident at Nepaul. 2 v. post 8vo. 21s. 
 
 "No man could be better qualified to describe Nepaul than Captain Smith; 
 and his concise, but clear and graphic account of its history, its natural produc- 
 tions, its laws and customs, and the character of its warlike inhabitants, is very 
 agreeable and instructive reading. A separate chapter, not the least entertaining 
 in the book, is devoted to anecdotes of the Nepaulese mission, of whom, and of 
 their visit to Europe, many remarkable stories are told." — Post. 
 
 CANADA AS IT WAS, IS, AND MAY BE. 
 
 By THE LATE LlEUTENANT-CoLCNEL SiR R. BONNYCASTLE. 
 
 With an Account of Recent Transactions,, 
 
 BY SIB J. E. ALEXANDEB, K.Ij.S., &c. 2 v. witk Maps, &c. 21s. 
 
 " These volumes offer to the British public a clear and trustworthy statement 
 of the affairs of Canada, and the effects of the immense public wo-rks in progress 
 and completed ; with sketches of localities and scenery, amusing anecdotes of 
 personal observation, and generally every information which may be of use to the 
 traveller or settler, and the military and political reader. The information ren- 
 dered is to be thoroughly relied on as veracious, full, and conclusive." — Mes- 
 senger. 
 
 FIVE YEARS. IN THE WEST INDIES. 
 
 BY CHABLES ^W, DAY", ESQ. 2 vols. 21s. 
 
 " It would be unjust to deny the vigour, brilliancy, and varied interest of this 
 work, the abundant stores of anecdote and interest, and the copious detail of 
 local habits and peculiarities in each island visited in succession." — Globe. 
 
 SCENES FROM SCRIPTURE. 
 
 BY THE EEV. G. CBOLY, LL.D. 10s. 6d. 
 
 " Eminent in every mode of literature, Dr. Croly stands, in our judgment, first 
 among the living poets of Great Britain — the only man of our day entitled by his 
 power to venture within the sacred circle of religious poets." — Standard. 
 
 " An admirable addition to the library of religious families." — John Bull. 
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OE A MISSIONARY. 
 
 BY THE EEV. J. P. ELETCHEB, 
 Curate of South Hampstead. Author of " A Residence at Nineveh." 2 v. 21s. 
 
 " A graphic sketch of missionai-y life." — Examiner. 
 
 " We conscientiously recommend this book, as well for its amusing character 
 as for the spirit it displays of earnest piety." — Standard. 
 
HURST AND BLACKETT's NEW PUBLICATIONS. 19 
 
 SPAIN AS IT IS. 
 
 BY G. A. EOSKIISrS, ESQ. 2 vols. 21s. 
 
 '' To the tourist this vrork ^vill prove invaluable. It is the most complete and 
 interesting portraitui'e of Spain that has ever come under our notice." — John Bull. 
 
 FAMILY ROMANCE; 
 
 OR, DOMESTIC ANNALS OF THE ARISTOCRACY. 
 BY SIR BEKNAED BUBKE, Ulster King of Arms. 2 vols., 21s. 
 
 Among the many other interesting legends and romantic family histories com- 
 prised in these volumes, vrill be found the foliowing: — The %vonderful narrative 
 of ]\Iaria Stella, Lady Newborougb, who claimed on such strong evidence to be a 
 Princess of the House of Orleans, ar.d disputed the identity of Louis Phihppe — 
 The story of the humble marriage of the beautiful Countess of Strathmore, and 
 the sufferings and fate of her only child — The Leaders of Fashion, from Gramont 
 to D'Orsay — The rise of the celebrated Baron YVard, now Prime ^Minister at j 
 Parma — The curious claim, to the Earldom of Crav.ford — The Strange Vicissitudes j 
 of our Great Families, replete with the most romantic details — The story of the 
 Khkpatricks ci Closeburn (the ancestors of the French Empress), and the re- i 
 raarkable tradition associated ^ith them — The Legend of the Lambtons — The ; 
 verification in our own time of the famous prediction as to the Earls of Mar — j 
 Lady Ogilvy's escape — The Beresford and '\^'ynyard ghost stories, correctly told — 1 
 j &c., &c. 
 
 *' It were impossible to praise too highly as a work of amusement these two most 
 interesting volumes, whether we should have regard to its excellent plan or its 
 not less excellent execution. The volumes are just what ought to be found on 
 every drawing-room table. Here you have nearly fifty captivating romances, with 
 the pith of all their interest preserved in undiminished poignancy, and any one 
 may be read in half an hoiu:. It is not the least of their merits that the 
 romances are founded on fact — or what, at least, has been handed down for truth 
 by long tradition — and the romance of reality far exceeds the romance of fiction. 
 Each story is told in the clear, unaffected style with which the author's former 
 works have made the public famihar, while they afford evidence of the value, 
 even to a work of amusement, of that historical and genealogical learning that 
 may justly be expected of the author of ' The Peerage.' The aristocracy and 
 gentry owe, indeed, a great debt to ilr. Burhe as theu' family historian." — 
 Sfa'/idard. 
 
 " The very reading for sea-side or fire-side in our hours of idleness." — Athe- 
 ncEtim. 
 
 I^^AVAL ARCHITECTURE: 
 
 A TREATISE ON SHIP-BUILDING, AND THE RIG OF CLIPPERS, j 
 
 WITH SUGGESTIONS FOR A XEW ilETHOD OF LAYING DOWN VESSELS. i 
 
 BY LCP.D P-OBEBT MOISTTAGU, A.M. 
 Second Edition, with 54 Diagrams. 6s. 
 
 " Lord Montagu's v.ork will be equally valuable to the sliip-builder and the • 
 ship-owner — to the mariner and the commander of yachts." — U. S. Magazine. \ 
 
20 HURST AND BLACKETT's NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 SAM SLICK'S WISE SAWS 
 AND MODEM INSTANCES; 
 
 OR, WHAT HE SAID, DID, OR INVENTED. 
 
 Second Edition. 2 vols, post 8vo. 21s. 
 
 " We do not fear to predict that these delightful volumes -vrill be the most 
 popular, as, beyond doubt, they are the best of all Judge Haliburton's admbrable 
 works. The ' Wise Saws and Modern Instances' evince powers of imagination 
 and expression far beyond what even his former publications could lead any one 
 to ascribe to the author. We have, it is true, long been familiar with his quaint 
 humour and racy narrative, but the volumes before us take a loftier range, and 
 are so rich in fun and good sense, that to offer an extract as a sample would be 
 an injustice to author and reader. It is one of the pleasantest books we ever 
 read, and we earnestly recommend it." — Standard. 
 
 " Let Sam Slick go a mackarel fishing, or to court in England — let him venture 
 alone among a tribe of the sauciest single women that ever banded themselves 
 together in electric chain to turn tables or to mystify man — our hero always 
 manages to come off with flying colours — to beat every craftsman in the cunning 
 of his own calling — to get at the heart of every maid's and matron's secret. 
 The book before us will be read and laughed over. Its quaint and racy dialect 
 will please some readers — its abundance of yarns will amuse others. There is 
 something in the volumes to suit readers of every humour." — Athenceum. 
 
 " The humour of Sam Slick is inexhaustible. He is ever and everywhere a 
 welcome visitor ; smiles greet his approach, and wit and wisdom hang upon his 
 tongue. The present is altogether a most edifying production, remarkable ahke 
 for its racy humour, its sound philosophy, the fehcity of its illustrations, and the 
 delicacy of its satire. Whether he is making love to Sophy, or chatting with the 
 President about English men and manners, or telling ghost stories, or indulging in 
 day-dreams, or sketching the characters of Yankee skippers, or poaching in our 
 fisheries, or enticing a British man-of-war on to a sand-bar, he is equally delightful ; 
 charming us by the graphic vivacity and picturesque quaintness of his descriptions, 
 and, above all, by his straightforward honesty and truth. We promise our 
 readers a great treat from the perusal of these ' Wise Saws and Modern Instances,' 
 which contain a world of practical wisdom, and a treasury cf the richest fun." — 
 Mor7iing Post. 
 
 " As a work embodying the cynicism of Rochefoucault, with the acuteness of 
 Pascal, and the experience of Theophrastus or La Bruyere, it may be said that, 
 except Don Quixote, the present work has no rivah" — Observer. 
 
 TRAITS OF AMERICAN HUMOUR. 
 
 EDITED BY THE AHTHOR OP " SAM SLICK.'* 3 vols. 31s. 6d. 
 
 "We have seldom met with a work more rich in fun or more generally 
 delightful . ' ' — Standa rd. 
 
 " No man has done more than the facetious Judge Haliburton, through the 
 mouth of the inimitable ' Sam,' to make the old parent country recognise and 
 appreciate her queer transatlantic progeny. His present collection of comic 
 stories and laughable traits is a budget of fun full of rich specimens of American 
 humour." — Globe. 
 
FLORENCE, THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 BY A. BAILLIE COCHRANE, ESQ. 2 vols. 
 
 THE ROSES. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OP " THE ELIRT," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 " The 'author of ' The Flirt' is ever welcome as a -writer. ' The Roses' is a 
 novel AThich cannot fail to charm." — Observer. 
 
 " ' The Roses' displays, with the polish always attending a later work, all the 
 talent which appeared in ' The Rirt,' and * The Manceuvring Mother.' It is a 
 book which no one would lay down unfinished." — Standard. 
 
 " In this charming novel the author has brought out the female character in 
 three well-chosen conti-asts. The whole tale is a history of sweet and tender 
 hearts to which the reader cannot refuse his sympathy." — John Bull. 
 
 ELECTRA : A STORY OF MODERN TLAIES. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF "ROCKINGHAM." 
 
 WaXH ILLUSTRATIONS BY LORD GERALD FITZGERALD. SECOND EDITION. 3 V. 
 
 From the Times. — " The author of ' Rockingham' holds always a vigorous 
 pen. It is impossible to deny him the happy faculty of telling a pleasing story 
 with ability and power. Flis characters are the flesh and blood we meet in our 
 daily walks ; their language is natural, appropriate, and to the purpose. ^Ye are 
 bound to extend our highest praise to the skill with which the several characters 
 in ' Electra' are pourtrayed, and with which the interest of the story is sustained 
 to the very last chapter. Lady Glenarlowe and her daughter, Lord Glenarlowe 
 and Electra, are all linelv-drawn pictures, and are full of touches by a master 
 band." 
 
 AILIEFORD: A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " JOHN DRAYTON." 3 v. 
 " A work abounding in fascination of an irresistible kind." — Observer. 
 '' A most charming and absorbing story." — Critic. 
 " The book throughout excites the interest of reality." — Spectator. 
 " ' Aiheford' is the biography of the clever writer of ' John Drayton.' It is 
 a deeply interesting tale." — Britannia. 
 
 CHARLES A U CHESTER. 
 
 dedicated to the RIGHT HON. B. DISRAELI. 3 VOls. 
 
 " The author has originality and a strong imagination." — Titnes. 
 
 " Music has never had so glowing an advocate as the author of these volumes. 
 Tliere is an amazing deal of ability displayed in them." — Herald. 
 
 " The life of an enthusiast in music, by himself. The work is full of talent. 
 The sketches of the masters and artists are life-like. In Seraphael all will recog- 
 nize Mendelssohn, and in Miss Benette, Miss Lawrence, and Anastase, Berlioz, 
 Jenny Lind, and another well-known to artist hfe, will be easily detected. To 
 every one who cares for music, the volumes will prove a dehghtful study." — 
 Britan7iia. 
 
22 HURST AND BLACKETT S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 . HARRY M U I R; 
 
 I A STORY or SCOTTISH LIFE. 
 
 1 BY THE AUTHOB, OF "MARG-ABET MAITLAND." 
 
 I Second Edition. 3 vols, post 8vd, 
 
 " We prefer * Harry Muir' to most of the Scottish novels that have appeared 
 since Gait's domestic stories. This new tale, hy the author of ' Margaret Maitland,' 
 is a real picture of the weakness of man's nature and the depths of woman's kind- 
 ness. The narrative, to repeat our praise, is not one to be entered on or parted 
 from vnthout our regard for its writer being incvesisecV'—AthencBum. 
 
 " A picture of life, everywhere genuine in feeling, perfect in expression."— 
 Ea:aminer. 
 
 "This is incomparably the best of the author's works. In it the brilliant 
 promise afforded by * IMargaret Maitland' has been fully realised, and now tliere 
 can be no question that, for graphic pictures of Scottish life, the author is 
 entitled to be ranked second to none among modern vaiters of fiction." — Cale- 
 donian Mercury. 
 
 BY THE SAjIE AUTHOR. 
 
 ADAM GRAEME 
 
 OF MOSSGRAY. 
 
 Second Edition. 3 vols. 
 
 " A story awakening genuine eniotions of 
 interest and delight by its admirable pictures 
 of Scottish life and scenery." — Post. 
 
 CALEB FIELD. 
 
 A TALE OF THE PURITANS. 
 
 Cheaper Edition. 1 v. G*. 
 
 "This beautiful production is every way 
 worthy of its author's reputation in the 
 very first rank of coutemporavy writers." — 
 Standard. 
 
 DAEISN; Oil, THE MESCHAST PMNCE. 
 
 SY ELIOT ■\VABBUETOIT. Sscond Sdition. 3 vols. 
 
 " The scheme for the colonization of Darien by Scotchmen, and the opening 
 of a communication between the East and \Yest across the Isthmus of Panama, 
 furnishes the foundation of this story, wdiich is in all respects worthy of the 
 high reputation which the author of the ' Crescent and the Cross' had already 
 made for himself. The early history of the Merchant Prince introduces the 
 reader to the condition of Spain under the Inquisition ; the portraitures of 
 Scottish life which occupy a prominent place in the narrative, are full of spirit ; 
 the scenes in America exhibit the state of the natives of the nevv^ world aj; that 
 period; the daring deeds of the Buccaneers supply a most romantic element in 
 the story ; and an additional interest is infused into it by the introduction of 
 various celebrated characters of the period, such as Law, the French financier, 
 and Paterson, the founder of the Bank of England. All these varied ingredients 
 are treated with that brilliancy of style and powerful descriptive talent, by which 
 the pen of Eliot Warburton was so eminently distinguished." — John Bull. 
 
 THE FIRST LIEUTENANT'S STORY. 
 
 BT LADY" CATHABIH"E LOITQ. 3 vols. 
 
 " As a tracing of the workings of human passion and principle, the book is full 
 of exquisite beauty, delicacy, and tenderness." — Daily News. 
 
WORKS OF FICTION. 
 
 23 
 
 REGIITALD LYLB. 
 
 BY MISS PARDOE. 3 v. 
 
 HIGH AND LOW; 
 
 OR, LIFE'S CHANCES AND CHANGES. 
 
 BY THE HON. HENRY COKE. 3 t. 
 
 THE YOUITG- HEIRESS. 
 BY MRS. TROLLOPE. 3 v. 
 
 " The knowledge of the world which Mrs- 
 Trollope possesses in so eminent a degree is 
 strongly exhibited in the pages of this 
 novel." — Observer. 
 
 The BEAST'S DAUGHTEB, 
 
 OR, THE DAYS Vv'E LIVE IN. 
 
 BY MRS. GORE. 3 v. 
 " One of the best of 3Irs. Gore's stories. 
 The volumes are strewed with smart and 
 sparkling epigram." — Jlorning Chronicle. 
 
 CASTLE AVOlSr. 
 
 By the Author of 
 
 " EMILIA WYNCHAM," &c. 3 v. 
 "One of the most successful of the au- 
 thor's works." — Post. 
 
 L AD Y M A HI O IQ-. 
 
 BY MRS. Yk FOSTER. 3 v. 
 
 " This fascinating novel needs not the 
 attraction of the name of the late Duke of 
 Wellington's niece upon the title-page to 
 commend it to the novel readers of the 
 fashionable world. The work gives evidence 
 of talent of no common order." — John Bull. 
 
 THE L02TGW00DS 
 
 OF THE GRANGE. 
 
 By the Author of 
 ''ADELAIDE LINDSAY." 3 v. 
 
 " 'The Longwoods' are a family group, in 
 the story of whose life romance readers will 
 find a charm and an interest similar to that 
 which attends the annals of the ' Vicar of 
 Wakefield.' " — Daily News. 
 
 Ul^TCLE WALTER. 
 BY MRS. TROLLOPE, 3 v. 
 
 '" Uncle Walter' is an exceedingly enter- 
 taining novel. It assures Mrs. Trollope more 
 than ever in her position as one of the ablest 
 fictioQ writers of the day." — Morning Post. 
 
 ALICE WENTWORTH. 
 
 3v. 
 "A novel of exciting interest." — Post. 
 
 THE KIISTNEARS. 
 
 A SCOTTISH STORY. 3 v. 
 
 " We heartily commend this story to the 
 attention of our readers for its power, sim- 
 plicity, and truth. None can read its impres- 
 sive record without interest, and few without 
 improvement." — Morning Post. 
 
 EROOMHILL ; 
 
 OR, THE COUNTY BEAUTIES. 
 
 " ' Broomhiir is a tale of life in polite 
 "society. The dialogue is easy — the interest 
 is well sustained." — AtheruEum. 
 
 SIARY SBAEAM. 
 
 BY MRS. GREY, 
 
 Author of " The Gambler's Wife." 3 v. 
 
 " Equal to any former novel by its author." 
 — AthencBum. 
 
 AI'TInSTTE. a Tale. 
 
 BY W. F. DEACON. 
 
 With a ^Memoir of the Author, by the 
 
 Hon. Sir T. N. Talfousd, D.C.L.* 3 v. 
 
 '•'Annette' is a stirring tale. The 
 prefatory' memoir by Sir Thomas Talfourd 
 would be at all times interesting, nor the less 
 so for containing two long letters from Sir 
 Walter Scott to Mr. Deacon, full of gentle 
 far-thinking wisdom." — Examiner. 
 
 COiq-EESSIOITS OF AN 
 
 STOI^IAK. 
 
 BY C. ROWCROFT, ESQ. 3 v. 
 
 "The life of an Etonian — his pranks, his 
 follies, his loves, his fortunes, and misfor- 
 tunes — is here amusingly drav.-n and happily 
 coloured by an accomplished artist. The 
 work is full of anecdote and lively painting 
 of men and manners." — Globe. 
 
 THE BELLE OE THE 
 
 VILLAGE. 
 
 Bv the Author of 
 
 " The Old English Gentleman." 3 v. 
 
 "An admirable story. It may take its 
 place by the side of 'The Old English Gen- 
 tleman.'" — John Bull. 
 
 The LADY and the PRIEST. 
 
 BY MRS. aUlBERLY. 3 v. 
 
THE ARMY AND NAVY. 
 
 Published on the 1st of every Month, Price 3s. 6d. 
 
 COLBURN'S UNITED SERVICE MAGAZINE, 
 
 AND 
 
 NAVAL AND MILITARY JOURNAL. 
 
 This popular periodical, which has now been established a quarter of 
 a century, embraces subjects of such extensive variety and powerful 
 interest as must render it' scarcely less acceptable to readers in general 
 than to the members of those professions for whose use it is more par- 
 ticularly intended. Independently of a succession of Original Papers 
 on innumerable interesting subjects, Personal Narratives, Historical 
 Incidents, Correspondence, &c., each number comprises Biographical 
 Memoirs of Eminent Officers of all branches of service, Reviews of New 
 Publications, either immediately relating to the Army or Navy, or in- 
 volving subjects of utility or interest to the members of either, Full 
 Reports of Trials by Courts Martial, Distribution of the Army and Navy, 
 General Orders, Circulars, Promotions, Appointments, Births, Marriages, 
 Obituary, &c., with all the Naval and :Military Intelligence of the Month. 
 
 " This is confessedly one of the ablest and most attractive periodicals of which 
 the British press can boast, presenting a wide field of entertainment to the 
 feneral as well as professional reader. The suggestions for the benefit of the 
 two services are distinguished by vigour of sense, acute and practical observation, 
 an ardent love of discipUne, tempered by a high sense of justice, honour, and a 
 tender regard for the welfare and comfort of our soldiers and seamen." — Globe. 
 
 " At the head of those periodicals which furnish useful and valuable information 
 to their peculiar classes of readers, as well as amusement to the general body of 
 the public, must be placed the ' United Service ^Magazine, and Naval and Mihtary 
 Journal.' It numbers among its contributors almost all those gallant spirits who 
 have done no less honour to their country by their swords than by their pens, 
 and abounds with the most interesting discussions on naval and military affairs, 
 and stirring narratives of deeds of arms in all parts of the world. Every informa- 
 tion of value and interest to both the Services is culled with the greatest diligence 
 from every available source, and the correspondence of various distinguished 
 otficers which enrich its pages is a feature of great attraction. In short, the 
 ' United Service Magazine' can be recommended to every reader who possesses 
 that attachment to his country which should make him look with the deepest 
 interest on its naval and military resources." — Sun. 
 
 " This truly national periodical is always full of the most valuable matter for 
 professional men." — Morning Herald. 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
CHEAP EDITION OF MISS BURNEY'S DIAEY. 
 
 Xow in course of publication, commencing the 1st March, 
 
 to he completed in Seven Monthly Volumes, small 8i-o, E^ibellished with 
 
 Portraits, p7*M:e only os. each, elegantly bound, 
 
 DIARY AND LETTEES 
 
 OF 
 
 MADAME D'AEBLAY, 
 
 AUTHOR OF '•' EVELINA," "CECILIA," &c. 
 
 IXCLUDIXG THE PERIOD OF 
 
 HER RESIDENCE AT THE COURT OF QUEEN CHARLOTTE. 
 
 In announcing a new and cheap edition of Madame D'Arblay's 
 celebrated Diary, the publishers cannot convey a better idea 
 of the nature of the work, to those who are unacquainted with 
 it, than by extracting the opening passage of Miss Burney's 
 Journal, which was commenced in 1768, and continued, with 
 but few interruptions, during the greater portion of the writer's 
 long and eventful life : — 
 
 " To have some account of my thoughts, actions, and acquaintance, when 
 the hour arrives when time is more nimble than memory, is the reason which 
 induces me to keep a Journal— a Journal in which I must confess my every 
 thought — must open my ivhole heart.'' 
 
 When we call to mind that the person who formed this resolu- 
 tion, and adhered to it during the most important period of her 
 briUiant career, was one of the most remarkable and justly cele- 
 brated women, not merely of her own, but of any time or country- 
 —that her family position, no less than her celebrity, comnianded 
 for her an intimate intercourse with all who were illustrious in 
 English Literature and Art during their most illustrious era, 
 ancf that the results of such resolution are here given to the 
 world precisely as they left the hand of their writer (the omis- 
 sions required by personal and family considerations being alone 
 excepted), the interest this work must excite, can scarcely be 
 increased; yet it ought to be stated, that, shortly after the 
 publication of her second work, "Cecilia," she was spon- 
 taneously offered by Queen Charlotte a situation about her 
 Majesty's person, which brought her into daily mtercourse with 
 every individual forming the Court of George III. During 
 
MISS BUENEY'S DIARY AND CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 this remarkable period of lier life, IMiss Burney never omitted 
 to note in her Journal such events and conversations of the 
 past day as she deemed worthy of record, and might be given 
 ■without any violation of confidence ; and these sketches of the 
 Court of George HI. during the important era in question form 
 part of the work now announced. 
 
 The CoKRESPONDExcE, which takes its place chronologically 
 with the DiART, includes, besides a large number of Madame 
 D'Arblay's own Letters, a selection from those addressed to her 
 by the various distinguished literary and other persons with 
 whom she was intimate. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 EDINBURGH REVIEW. 
 
 " Madame D'Arblay lived to be a classic. Time set on her fame, before 
 she went hence, that seal which is seldom set except on the fame of the de- 
 parted. All those whom we have been accustomed to revere as intellectual 
 patriarchs seemed children when compared with her ; for Burke had sat up 
 all night to read her writings, and Johnson had pronounced her superior to 
 Fielding, when Rogers was still a schoolboy, and Southey stiU in petticoats. 
 Her Diary is written in her earhest and best manner ; in true woman's Eng- 
 lish, clear, natural, and lively. It ought to be consulted by every person who 
 wishes to be well acquainted with the history of our literature and our 
 manners." 
 
 TEVIES. 
 
 " Miss Burney's work ought to be placed beside BoswelFs ' Life,' to which 
 it forms an excellent supplement." 
 
 LITERARY GAZETTE. 
 
 " This pubUcation will take its place in the libraries beside Walpole and 
 Boswell." 
 
 NAVAL, AND IkHLITARY GAZETTE. 
 
 " A work unequalled in literary and social value by anything else of a similar 
 kind in the language." 
 
 aiESSENGER. 
 
 " This work may be considered a kind of supplement to Boswell's Life of 
 Johnson. It is a beautiful picture of society as it existed in manners, taste, 
 and literature, in the reign of George the Third, drawn by a pencil as vivid 
 and brilliant as that of any of the celebrated persons who composed the circle.'' 
 
 POST. 
 
 " Miss Burney's Diary, sparkling with wit, teeming with lively anecdote 
 and delectable gossip, and full of sound and discreet views of persons and 
 things, will be perused with interest by all classes of readers." 
 
CHEAP EDITION OF THE LIVES OF THE aUEENS. 
 
 Now in course of Publication, in Eight Monthly Volumes^ post octavo 
 ^comprising from 600 to 700 pages each), commencing ike \st 
 January, 1854, Price only 7s. Qd. per Volume, elegantly hound, 
 
 LIVES 
 
 OF THE 
 
 QUEENS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 BY AGNES STRICKLAND. 
 
 Bctficateti iin ISxprtss permission to %zt J^ajestp. 
 EMBELLISHED WITH PORTRAITS OF EVERY QUEEN, 
 
 BEAUTIFULLY ENGRAVED FROM THE MOST AUTHENTIC SOUKCES. 
 
 In announcing a cheap Edition of this important and inte- 
 resting work, which has been considered unique in biographical 
 literature, the publishers again beg to direct attention to the 
 following extract from the author's preface : — " A revised 
 edition of the ' Lives of the Queens of England, embodying 
 the important collections which have been brought to light 
 since the appearance of earlier impressions, is now offered to 
 the world, embellished with Portraits of every Queen, from 
 authentic and properly verified sources. The series, com- 
 mencino- with the consort of William the Conqueror, occupies 
 that most interesting and important period of our national chro- 
 nology, from the death of the last monarch of the Anglo-Saxon 
 line, Edward the Confessor, to the demise of the last sovereign 
 of the royal house of Stuart, Queen Anne, and comprises therein 
 thirty queens who have worn the crown-matrimonial, and four 
 the regal diadem of this realm. We have related the parentage 
 of every queen, described her education, traced the influence 
 of family connexions and national habits on her conduct, both 
 public and private, and given a concise outline of the domestic, 
 as well as the general history of her times, and its effects on 
 her character, and we have done so with singleness of heart, 
 unbiassed by selfish interests or narrow views. Such as they 
 were in life we have endeavoured to portray them, both in 
 
good and ill, without regard to any other considerations than 
 the development of the facts. Their sayings, their doings, their 
 manners, their costume, will be found faithfully chronicled in 
 this work, which also includes the most interesting of their 
 letters. The hope that the ' Lives of the Queens of England' 
 might be regarded as a national work, honourable to the 
 female character, and generally useful to society, has encou- 
 raged us to the completion of the task." 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 FROM THE TIMES. 
 
 " These volumes have the fascination of romance united to the integrity of 
 history. The work is written by a lady of considerable learning, indefatigable 
 industry, and careful judgment. All these qualifications for a biographer and 
 an historian she has brought to bear upon the subject of her volumes, and from 
 them has resulted a narrative interesting to all, and more particularly interest- 
 ing to that portion of the community to whom the more refined researches of 
 literature afford pleasure and instruction. The whole work should be read, 
 and no doubt will be read, by all who are anxious for information. It is a lucid 
 arrangement of facts, derived from authentic sources, exhibiting a combination 
 of industry, learning, judgment, and impartiahty, not often met with in bio- 
 graphers of crowned heads." 
 
 MORNIXG- HERALD. 
 
 " A remarkable and truly great historical work. In this series of biographies, 
 in which the severe truth of history takes almost the wildness of romance, it is 
 the singular merit of Miss Strickland that her research has enabled her to throw 
 new light on many doubtful passages, to bring forth fresh facts, and to render 
 every portion of our annals which she has described an interesting and valuable 
 study. She has given a most valuable contribution to the history of England, 
 and we have no hesitation 'in aflflrming that no one can be said to possess an 
 accurate knowledge of the history of the country who has not studied this truly 
 national work, which, in this new edition, has received all the aids that further 
 research on the part of the author, and of embellishment on the part of the pub- 
 lishers, could tend to make it still more valuable, and still more attractive, than 
 it had been in its original form." 
 
 MOENING CHEOlflCLE. 
 
 " A most valuable and entertaining work. There is certainly no lady of our 
 day who has devoted her pen to so beneficial a purpose as Miss Strickland. Nor 
 is there any other whose works possess a deeper or more enduring interest." 
 
 MORNIKG POST. 
 
 " We must pronounce Miss Strickland beyond all comparison the most en- 
 tertaining historian in the English language. She is certainly a woman of power- 
 ful and active mind, as well as of scrupulous justice and honesty of pui-pose." 
 
 QTJARTERLT REVIEW. 
 
 " Miss Strickland has made a very judicious use of many authentic MS. au- 
 thorities not previously collected, and the result is a most interesting addition 
 to our biographical library." 
 
 ATHENJEUM. 
 
 " A valuable contribution to historical knowledge. It contains a mass of every 
 kind of historical matter of interest, which industry and research could collect 
 We have derived much entertainment and instruction from the work." 
 
NEW LIBRARY EDITION, WITH PORTRAITS, OF 
 
 PEPYS^ DIARY AND CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 Noiu ready, elegantly printed, in Four Volumes, demy octavo, a new 
 and improved Library Edition, including all the late important MS. 
 Additions, and upwards of Two Hundred additional Notes, and 
 Letters, Index, ^c, price 10s. 6d. per Volume, handsomely bound, 
 
 of the 
 
 DIARY AND CORIIESPOISDENCE OF 
 
 SAMUEL PEPYS, RR.S., 
 
 SECRETARY TO THE ADMIRALTY IN THE REIGNS OF CHARLES II. 
 AND JAMES II. 
 
 EDITED BY RICHARD LORD BRAYBROOKE. 
 
 The autliority of Pepts, as an Hstorian and illustrator of 
 a considerable portion of tlie seventeenth century, has been 
 so fully acknowledged by every scholar and critic, that it is 
 now scarcely necessary even to remind the reader of the ad- 
 vantages he possessed for producing the most complete and 
 trustworthy record of events, and the most agreeable picture 
 of society and manners, to be found in the literature of any 
 nation. In confidential communication with the reigning 
 sovereigns, holding high official employment, placed at the 
 head of the Scientific and Learned oi* a period remarkable 
 for intellectual impulse, mingling in every circle, and ob- 
 servino- everything and everybody whose characteristics were 
 worth^noting down ; and possessing, moreover, an intelli- 
 gence peculiarly fitted for seizing the most graphic points in 
 whatever he attempted to delineate, Pepts may be considered 
 the most valuable as well as the most entertaining of our 
 National Historians. 
 
 A New Library Edition of this work, comprising all the 
 restored passages and the additional annotations that have 
 been called for by the vast advances in antiquarian and his- 
 torical knowledge during the last twenty years, will doubtless 
 be regarded as one of the most agreeable additions that could 
 be made to the library of the general reader. 
 
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ON PEPYS' DIARY. 
 
 FKOM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW. 
 
 " Without making any exception in favour of any other production 
 of ancient or modern diarists, we unhesitatingly characterise this journal 
 as the most remarkable production of its kind which has ever been 
 given to the world. Pepys' Diary makes us comprehend the great 
 historical events of the age, and the people who bore a part in them, 
 and gives us more clear glimpses into the true English life of the times 
 than all the other memorials of them that have come down to our own." 
 
 FROM THE QUARTERLY REVIEW. 
 
 " There is much in Pepys' Diary that throws a distinct and vivid 
 light over the picture of England and its government during the period 
 succeeding the Restoration. If, quitting the broad path of history, we 
 look for minute information concerning ancient manners and customs, 
 the progress of arts and sciences, and the various branches of antiquity, 
 we have never seen a mine so rich as these volumes. The variety of 
 Pepys' tastes and pursuits led him into almost every department^ of 
 life. He was a man of business, a man of information, a man of whim, 
 and, to a certain degree, a man of pleasure. He was a statesman, a 
 bel- esprit, a virtuoso, and a connoisseur. His curiosity made him an 
 unwearied, as well as an universal, learner, and whatever he saw found 
 its way into his tablets." 
 
 FROM THE ATHEN^UM. 
 
 " The best book of its kind in the English language. The new 
 matter is extremely curious, and occasionally far more characteristic 
 and entertaining than the old. The writer is seen in a clearer light, 
 and the reader is taken into his inmost soul. Pepys' Diary is the ablest 
 picture of the age in wliich the writer lived, and a work of standard im- 
 portance in English literature." 
 
 FROM THE EXAMINER. 
 
 " We place a high value on Pepys' Diary as the richest and most 
 delightful contribution ever made to the history of English life and 
 manners in the latter half of the seventeenth century." 
 
 FROM TAIT'S MAGAZINE. 
 
 "We owe Pepys a debt of gratitude for the rare and curious informa- 
 tion he has bequeathed to us in this most amusing and interesting work. 
 His Diary is valuable, as depicting to us many of the most important 
 characters of the times. Its author has bequeathed to us the records of 
 his heart— the very reflection of his energetic mind; and his quaintbut 
 happy narrative clears up numerous disputed points— throws light into 
 many of the dark corners of history, and lays bare the hidden substratum 
 of events which gave birth to, and supported the visible progress of, the 
 nation." 
 
 FROM THE MORNING POST. 
 
 " Of all the records that have ever been published, Pepys' Diary 
 gives us the most vivid and trustworthy picture of the times, and the 
 clearest view of the state of English public affairs and of English 
 society during the reign of Charles U. We see there, as in a map, 
 the vices of the monarch, the intrigues of the Cabinet, the wanton follies 
 of the court, and the many calamities to which the nation was subjected 
 during the memorable period of fire, plague, and general licentiousness." 
 
CHEAP EDITION OF THE 
 DIAEY AND COEEESPONDENCE OF 
 
 JOM EVELYN, RE.S. 
 
 Now completed, with Portraits, in Four Volumes, post octavo ^either of 
 : which may be had separately'), price 6s. each, handsomely bound, 
 
 COMPRISDfG ALL THE IMPORTAJfT ADDITIONAL NOTES, LETTERS, AND OTHER 
 ILLUSTRATIONS LAST ilADE. 
 
 " We rejoice to welcome this beautiful and compact edition of Evelyn. It is 
 intended as a companion to the recent edition of Pepys, and presents shnilar clahns 
 to interest and notice. Evelyn was greatly above the vast majority of his con- 
 temporaries, and the Diary which records the incidents in his long life, extending 
 over the greater part of a century, is deservedly esteemed one of the most inte- 
 resting books m the language. Evelj-n took part in the breakmg out of the civil 
 war agamst Charles I., and he lived to see William of Orange ascend the throne. 
 Through the days of Strafford and Laud, to those of Bancroft and Ken, he 
 was the steady friend of moderation and peace in the Enghsh Church. He 
 mterceded ahke for the royahst and the regicide ; he was the correspondent of 
 Cowley, the patron of Jeremy Taylor, the associate and fellow-student of Boyle ; 
 and over all the interval between Vandyck and Kneller, between the youth of 
 Milton and the old age of Dryden, poetry and the arts found hun an mtelligent 
 adviser, and a cordial friend. There are, on the whole, very few men of whom 
 England has more reason to be proud. He stands among the first in the list of 
 Gentlemen. We heartily commend so good an edition of this Enghsh classic."— 
 Examiner. 
 
 " This work is a necessary companion to the popular histories of our country, 
 to Hume, Hallam, Macaulay, and Lingard.— 5Mn. 
 
 LIYES OF THE PRINCESSES OF EjSGLAND. 
 
 By MRS. EVERETT GREEN, 
 
 EDITOR OF THE " LETTERS OF ROYAL AND ILLUSTRIOUS LADIES." 
 
 5 vols., post 8vo, with Illustrations, lOs. 6d. each, bound. 
 \* One Volume more will complete the Series. 
 
 " This work is a worthy companion to Miss Strickland's admirable ' Queens 
 of England.' That celebrated work, although its heroines were, for the most 
 part, foreign Prmcesses, related almost enturely to the history of this country. 
 The Princesses of England, on the contrary, are themselves Enghsh, but their 
 lives are nearly all connected with foreign nations. Their biographies, conse- 
 quently, afford us a ghmpse of the manners and customs of the chief European 
 kmgdoms, a circumstance which not only gives to the work the charm of variety, 
 but which is likely to render it pecuharly useful to the general reader,_as it links 
 together by association the contemporaneous history of various nations. VVe 
 cordially commend Mrs. Green's production to general attention ; it is (neces- 
 sarily) as useful as historj-, and fully as entertaming as romance."— 6^w«. 
 
THE PEERAGE AND BARONETAGE 
 
 FOR 1854. 
 
 BY SIR BERNARD BURKE, 
 
 'ulster king of arms. 
 
 A NEW EDITION, REVISED AND CORRECTED THROUGH- 
 OUT FROM THE PERSONAL COMMUNICATIONS 
 OF THE NOBILITY, &c. 
 
 With 1500 Engravings of AEMS. In 1 vol. (comprising as much matter 
 as twenty ordinary volumes), 38s. bound. 
 
 The following is a List of the Principal Contents of this Standard Work: — 
 
 I. A full and interesting history of 
 each order of the English Nobility, 
 showing its origin, rise, titles, immu- 
 nities, privileges, &c. 
 
 II. A complete Memoir of the Queen 
 and Eoyal Family, forming a brief 
 genealogical History of the Sovereign of 
 this country, and deducing the descent 
 of the Plantagenets, Tudors, Stuarts, 
 and Guelphs, through their various 
 ramifications. To this section is ap- 
 pended a list of those Peers and others 
 wlio inherit the distinguished honour 
 of Quartering the Royal Arms of 
 Plantagenet. 
 
 HI. An Authentic table of Precedence. 
 
 IV. A perfect History of All the 
 Peers and Baronets, with the 
 fullest details of their ancestors and 
 descendants, and particulars respecting 
 every collateral member of each family, 
 and all intermarriages, &c. 
 
 V. The Spiritual Lords. 
 
 VI. Foreign Noblemen, subjects by 
 birth of the British Crown. 
 
 VII. Extinct Peerages, of which 
 descendants still exist. 
 
 Vni. Peerages claimed, 
 
 IX. Surnames of Peers and Peeresses, 
 with Heirs Apparent and Presumptive. 
 
 X. Courtesy titles of Eldest Sons. 
 
 XI. Peerages of the Three Kingdoms 
 in order of Precedence. 
 
 XIL Baronets in order of Precedence. 
 Xin. Privy Councillors of England 
 and Ireland. 
 
 XIV. Daughters of Peers married to 
 Commoners. 
 
 XV. All the Orders of Knight- 
 hood, with every Knight and all the 
 Knights Bachelors. 
 
 XVI. Mottoes translated, with poeti- 
 cal illustrations. 
 
 " Tiie most complete, the most convenient, and the cheapest work of the kind 
 ever given to the pubhc." — Sun. 
 
 " The best genealogical and heraldic dictionary of the Peerage and Baronetage, 
 and the first authority on all questions affecting the aristocracy." — Globe. 
 
 " For the amazing quantity of personal and family history, admirable arrange- 
 ment of details, and accuriicy of information, this genealogical and heraldic 
 dictionary is without a rival. It is now the standard and acknowledged book of 
 reference upon all questions touching pedigree, and direct or collateral affinity 
 with the titled aristocracy. The lineage of each distinguished house is deduced 
 through all the various ramifications. Every collateral branch, however remotely 
 connected, is introduced ; and the alliances are so carefully inserted, as to show, 
 in all instances, the connexion which so intimately exists between the titled and 
 untitled aristocracy. We have also much most entertaining historical matter, 
 and many very curious and interesting family traditions. The work is, in fact, a 
 complete cyclopaedia of the whole titled classes of the empire, supplying all the 
 information that can possibly be desired on the subject."' — Morning Post. 
 
WORKS PUBLISHED FOR HENRY COLBURN. 9 
 
 SIE B. BUEKE'S DICTIO]S^AET OE THE 
 
 EXTIKCT, DORMANT, AXD ABEYA^sT PEERAGES 
 
 OF ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, AND IRELAND. 
 
 Beantifully printed, in 1 vol. 8vo, containing 800 double-colnmn pages, 
 
 21s. bound. 
 
 This work connects, in many instances, the new with the old nobility, and it 
 will in all cases show the cause which has influenced the revival of an extinct 
 dignity in a new creation. It should be particularly noticed, that this new work 
 appertains nearly as much to extant as to extinct persons of distinction; for 
 though dignities pass away, it rarely occurs that whole families do. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE LMDED GENTRY. 
 ^ Genealogical Bictionary 
 
 OF THE WHOLE OF THE UNTITLED ARISTOCRACY 
 
 OF EXGLAXD, SCOTLAND, AND IRELAND. 
 
 By SIR BERNARD BURKE. 
 
 A new and improved Edition. 
 
 ^° The Purchasers of the earlier editions of the Dictionary of the Landed 
 Gentry are requested to take notice that 
 
 A COPIOUS ENDEX 
 
 has been compiled with great care and at great expense, containing EEFERE^•CES 
 
 TO THE XAJMES OF EVERY PERSON (upwards of 100,000) MENTIONED IN THE 
 
 WORK, and may be had bound uniformly ^^"ith the work : price, 5s. 
 
 EOMANTIC EECOEDS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE ARISTOCRACY. 
 
 By SIR BERNARD BURKE. 
 
 Second and Cheaper Edition, 2 vols., post 8vo, 21s. bound. 
 
 " The most curious incidents, the most stirring tales, and the most remarkable 
 circumstances connected with the histories, pubUc and private, of ournoble houses 
 and aristocratic families, are here given in a shape which will preserve them 
 in the hbrary, and render them the favourite study of those who are interested 
 in the romance of real life. These stories, with all the reality of established fact, 
 read with as much spirit as the tales of Boccacio, and are as full of strange 
 matter for reflection and amazement." — Britannia. 
 
10 INTERESTING WORKS 
 
 MEMOIRS OF HORACE ¥ALPOLE. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 ELIOT WARBURTOK 
 
 Cheaper Edition, in 2 vols. 8vo, with Portraits, 16s. bound. 
 
 " These Memoirs form a necessary addition to the hbrary of every EugUsh 
 gentleman. They nearly complete the chain of mixed personal, political, and 
 hterary history, commencing with 'Evelyn' and ' Pepys,' and ending almost in 
 our own day with the histories of Mr. Macaulay and Lord Mahon." — Standard. 
 
 THE LIEE AND REIGN OE CHARLES I. 
 
 By I. DISEAELI. 
 
 A NEW EDITION. REVISED BY THE AUTHOE, AND EDITED BY 
 
 HIS SON, THE RT. HON. B. DISRAELI, M.P. 2 vols., 8vo, 28s. bound. 
 
 " By far the most important work on the important age of Charles I. that 
 modern times have produced." — Quarterly Review. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF SCIPIO DE RICCI, 
 
 LATE BISHOP OF PISTOIA AND PKATO; 
 
 EEFOEMER OP CATHOLICISM IN TUSCANY. 
 
 Cheaper Edition, 2 vols. Svo, 12s. bound. 
 
 The leading feature of this important work is its apphcation to the great 
 question now at issue between our Protestant and Cathohc fellow-subjects". It 
 contains a complete expose of the Romish Church Establishment during the 
 eighteenth century, and of the abuses of the Jesuits throughout the greater 
 part of Europe. Many particulars of the most thrilling kind are brought to 
 light. 
 
 HISTORIC SCENES. 
 
 By AaNES STEICKLAND. 
 
 Author of " Lives of the Queens of England," &c. 1 vol., post Svo, 
 elegantly bound, with Portrait of the Author, 10s. 6d. 
 
 " This attractive volume is replete with interest. Like Miss Strickland's 
 former works, it will be found, we doubt not, in the hands of youthful branches 
 of a family as well as in those of their parents, to all and each of whom it 
 cannot fail to be alike amusing and instructive." — Britannia. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF LADY JAIE GREY. 
 
 By SIB HAEEIS NICOLAS. 1 vol. Svo, bound, 6s. 
 
PUBLISHED FOR HENRY COLBURN. 1 1 
 
 MEMOIRS OF PRINCE ALBERT; 
 AND THE HOUSE OF SAXONY. 
 
 Second Edition, revised, with Additions, by Authority. 
 1 vol., post 8vo, with Portrait, bound, 6s. 
 
 REVELATIOSS OF PRIKE TALLEYRAND. 
 
 Second Edition, 1 volume, post 8vo, with Portrait, lOs. 6d. bound. 
 
 " We have perused this work with extreme interest. It is a portrait of Tal- 
 leyrand drawn by his own hand."— 3Ior7iing Post. , 
 
 " A more mteresting work has not issued from the press for many years. It is 
 m truth a most complete Boswell sketch of the greatest diplomatist of the age. 
 — Sunday Times. 
 
 MADAlME CA^MPAN'S MEMOIRS 
 
 OF THE COURT OF jMARH: ANTOINETTE. 
 
 Cheaper Edition, 2 vols. 8vo, with Portraits, price only 12s. 
 " We have seldom perused so entertaining a work. It is as a mirror of the 
 most splendid Court in Europe, at a time when the monarchy had not been shorn 
 of any of its beams, that it is particularly worthy of attention. —Chronicle. 
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS OF THE EMPRESS JOSEPHINE. 
 
 3 vols., small 8vo, 15s. 
 
 " A curious and entertaining piece of domestic biography of a most extra- 
 ordinary person, under circumstances almost unprecedented. —^ ew Mommy. 
 
 '= An extremely amusing book, full of anecdotes and traits of character of 
 kings, princes, nobles, generals, &c."— J/or«t«>/ Journal. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF A HUNGARIAN LADY. 
 MADAME PULSZKY. 
 
 WRITTEN by HERSELF. 2 vols., 12s. bound. 
 
 " Worthy of a place by the side of the Memoirs of Madame de Stael and 
 Madame Campan."— (??o6e- 
 
 MEMOIRS OF A GREEK LADY, 
 
 THE ADOPTED DATJOHTEE OF THE LATE 
 QTJEEjN^ CAEOLIl^TE. 
 
 WRITTEN by HERSELE. 2 vols., post 8vo, price 12s. bound. 
 
12 INTERESTING WORKS 
 
 Now ready, Part XL, price 5s., of 
 
 M. A. THIERS' HISTORY OF FRANCE 
 
 UNDER NAPOLEON. 
 
 A SEQUEL TO HIS HISTORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 
 
 As guardian to the archives of the state, M. Thiers had access to diplomatic 
 papers and other documents of the highest importance, hitherto known only to a 
 privileged few. From private sources I\I. Thiers has also derived much valuable 
 infonnafion. ]\Iany interesting memoirs, diaries, and letters, all hitherto unpub- 
 lished, and most of them destined for political reasons to remain so, have been 
 placed at his disposal ; while all the leading characters of the empire, who were 
 alive when the author undertook the present history, have supplied him with a 
 mass of incidents and anecdotes which have never before appeared in print. 
 
 *^* The public are requested to be particular in giving their orders for 
 " Colburn's Authorised Translation." 
 
 N.B. Any of the Parts may, for the present, be had separately, at 5s. each ; 
 and subscribers are recommended to complete their sets as soon as possible, to 
 prevent disappointment. 
 
 RUSSIA UNDER THE AUTOCRAT NICHOLAS I. 
 
 By IVAN GOLOVINE, a Russian Subject. 
 
 Cheaper Edition, 2 vols., with a full-length Portrait of the 
 Emperor, 10s. bound. 
 
 " These are volumes of an extremely interesting nature, emanating from the 
 pen of a Eussian, noble by birth, who has escaped beyond the reach of theCzar's 
 power. The merits of the work are very considerable. It throws a new light on 
 the state of the empire — its aspect, political and domestic — its manners; the 
 emjjloyes about the palace, court, and capital ; its poUce ; its spies ; its depraved 
 society," &c. — Sunday Times. 
 
 GENERAL PEPE'S NARRATIVE OE THE 
 AVAR IN ITALY, 
 
 FROM 1847 to 1850; INCLUDING THE SIEGE OF VENICE. 
 
 Now first published from the original Italian Manuscript. 
 
 Cheaper Edition, 2 vols., post 8vo, 10s. bound. 
 
 " We predict that posterity will accept General Pepe as the historian of the 
 great Italian movement of the nineteenth century. His work is worthy of all 
 commendation." — Standard. 
 
 MEMOIRS AND CORRESPONDENCE OF 
 SIR ROBERT MURRAY KEITH, K.B., 
 
 Minister Plenipotentiary at the Courts of Dresden, Copenhagen, and Vienna, 
 from 1769 ^o 1793 ; with Biographical Memoirs of 
 
 QUEEN CAROLINE MATILDA, SISTER OF GEORGE III. 
 
 Cheaper Edition. Two vols., post 8vo, with Portraits, 15s. bound. 
 
PUBLISHED FOR HENRY COLBURN. 13 
 
 THE CRESCENT AND THE CROSS; 
 
 OR, ROMMCE AND RE^TIES OF EASTERN TRAVEL. 
 
 By ELIOT AVARBURTOX, Esq. 
 
 Tenth Edition, revised, in 1 vol., with numerous Illustrations, 10s. 6d. bound. 
 
 " A book calculated to prove more practically useful was never penned than 
 the ' Crescent and the Cross' — a work which surpasses all others in its homage 
 for the sublime and its love for the beautiful in those famous regions consecrated 
 to everlasting immortality in the annals of the prophets— and which r.o other 
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