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B E R K E I B Y^ 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY Of 
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 HISTORICAL SOUVENIR, 
 
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 LITERARY CABINET 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 ^3I^X3B3SSf SnSIf 3B i^X3B2EIL ^^<^^A'W^'^^^o 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PUBLISHED FOR THE PROPRIETOR. 
 Price Twelve Shillings and Six Pence. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 /)V/3 
 Hi- 
 
 Legend of Tarpeia 
 
 Lines ..... 
 
 The Maniac .... 
 
 The Emperors .... 
 
 The Shipwreck, a Tale of Real Life 
 
 The Devil's Bridge 
 
 Mount St. Michael, Cornwall 
 
 Childhood's Days 
 
 The Templar, a Tale of the Twelfth Centur 
 
 The Tower of London . 
 
 Sympathy, &c. . 
 
 George of Aspen 
 
 York Cathedral 
 
 The Skylark .... 
 
 The Bridesmaid 
 
 Tintem Ahhey .... 
 
 The Faithful Servant 
 
 The Just for the Unjust, a Tale 
 
 The Forsaken 
 
 Life of Kosciusko 
 
 Battle of Corunna 
 
 The Reprieve .... 
 
 Netley Abbey 
 
 Friendship. Translated from the French 
 
 The Dying Indian Girl 
 
 Sketch of Indian Life 
 
 Isabella and Gertnide 
 
 A Visit to a Chinese City 
 
 The Siege .... 
 
 318 
 
 PAGE. 
 1 
 
 8 
 
 8 
 
 9 
 
 13 
 
 34 
 
 37 
 
 41 
 
 42 
 
 76 
 
 84 
 
 ST) 
 
 101 
 
 104 
 
 105 
 
 107 
 
 109 
 
 110 
 
 147 
 
 148 
 
 153 
 
 157 
 
 158 
 
 161 
 
 162 
 
 164 
 
 144 
 
 189 
 
 194 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Wandering Orphan Minstrels . 
 
 The Incognito, a Tale 
 
 Stanzas .... 
 
 Sir Thomas More and Family 
 
 De La Valliere . 
 
 Life and Death 
 
 The Intendant's Palace . 
 
 Zella .... 
 
 Marie Labonne 
 
 Lines, &c. 
 
 Dirge from " The Avenger " . 
 
 The Convent . 
 
 Knighthood of Francis 1. 
 
 A Mid-winter Song . 
 
 The Veiled Lady of Furness 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 The Bereaved Sister 
 
 The Merrimac 
 
 Heidelberg Castle 
 
 The Moor's Last Sigh 
 
 City of Winchester 
 
 How Fanny Teaches her Children 
 
 The Young Noviciate 
 
 Guilty Fear . 
 
 A Smuggler's Tale 
 
 The Gipsy Boy 
 
 A Sketch of Newfoundland 
 
 Christian Fortitude . 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 205 
 206 
 228 
 229 
 237 
 244 
 245 
 252 
 253 
 266 
 267 
 268 
 277 
 278 
 279 
 295 
 296 
 299 
 301 
 304 
 805 
 315 
 325 
 327 
 328 
 336 
 339 
 346 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS, 
 
 BEAUTIFULLY ENGRAVED OF STEEL. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 De La Vallierb ..... Frontispiece. 
 
 Vignette Title, &c. ... . . 
 
 Shipwreck off the Isle of Wight . . .13 
 
 Mount St. Mcchael, Cornwall . . . . S7 
 
 Alexander and Diogenes . . . . .61 
 
 George of Aspen ...... 85 
 
 The Faithful Servant ..... 100 
 
 Windsor Castle, &c. ..... 132 
 
 The Reprieve ....... 157 
 
 Isabella and Gertrude ..... 181 
 
 The Arrest ....... 204 
 
 Family of Sir Thomas Moke . : . . 230 
 
 Zella ........ 252 
 
 Knighthood of Francis the First . . . 277 
 
 Heidelberg Castle ...... 301 
 
 The Young Noviciate ..... 325 
 
 &c. &c, &c. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The present volume lays claim to notice for these two 
 reasons ; — first, its contents, — secondly, its plates. 
 
 Its contents have been so formed as to suit it in a 
 pre-eminent degree as a present for youth. Its sketches 
 are those of places and events which have peculiar in- 
 terest — whether the gorgeous scene, with forest and 
 mountain and river, or the mighty castle, or the tented 
 battle-field, where liberty made a stand against oppres- 
 sion. Its tales are such as inculcate morality, and 
 teach that the road to happiness is that of virtue. Its 
 plates are beautiful alike for the engraver's art as the 
 scenes they depict. Illustrating some great point, they 
 serve to fix the attention to the truths — and thus 
 
 " Through the eye correct the lieart." 
 
THE LEGEND OF TARPEIA. 
 
 Rome was yet in her infancy ! Scarcely a year had passed 
 since the ploughshare of Romulus had marked out the sacred 
 Pomserium, and enclosed the Palatine with a deep ditch, the 
 earth thrown up from which, strengthened by stakes, formed its 
 only wall. The whole, ^ppire of the city was contained 
 within that narrow compass,. with the exception of a strong 
 fortress on the Saturnine hill, afterwards the capitol, which 
 commanded the wide desolate swamp around. Its sides, after 
 the fashion of those ancient times, were laboriously scarped ; 
 and the place itself, peering over Rome, as well as the sur- 
 rounding marshes, formed a hill fort, almost impregnable, and 
 an outwork of vital importance to the parent state. 
 
 But Rome may be said to have been " born in whirlwinds 
 and baptized in blood." Brief as had been her existence, her 
 course seemed drawing to a close, like the beautiful sunset, 
 that, as it went down, was flashed back from spear and helm, 
 for around her walls lay a countless host of enemies ; and 
 from the summit of the Liurinal lay the light of day lingered 
 upon the royal standard of the Sabines, as it fluttered orer the 
 tent of their King. And Tatius, when he unfolded that 
 banner to the breeze, had sworn never to return unless he 
 bore back with hini the noble and high-born damsels, whom 
 
 A 
 
2 THE LEGEND 
 
 the Romans, under a false show of hospitality, had ravished 
 from their friends, and detained, in grim and resolute defiance. 
 Romulus, unable to resist that host in the field, had retreated 
 within the walls, between which and the Sabine camp stretched 
 a long low marsh, extending along the future Via Sacra and 
 Forum to the base of the Capitol. Protected thus by the na- 
 ture of the ground, the Romans were enabled to pour their 
 troops through that fortress upon the Sabine lines, and daily 
 sallies, in which the Kings often mingled hand to hand, bore 
 witness to the forward resolution of the assailants and the ob- 
 stinacy of the defence. 
 
 The wet lands in front of the city, though very advantage- 
 ous, were not such as entirely to cover it, and it was therefore 
 of the highest consequence that the Capitol, which was almost 
 unassailable, should be entrusted to the ablest hands. Accord- 
 ingly it was garrisoned by picked troops, under the command 
 of a noble Roman, whose name has not descended to us, save 
 as the Father of Tarpeia ; and taking with him all his effects 
 and his beautiful daughter, the pride of Rome, the warrior 
 looked down upon the enemy, when he had seated himself in 
 his stronghold, with a stern brow and a stout heart, for he 
 was of a good courage, and held cheap the menaces of the Sa- 
 bines and their furious King. " These autumnal nights," 
 q.uoth the blunt soldier, *' will chill the courage and crack v/itli 
 agues the joints of these gilded courtiers, and be the sun of 
 August never so scorching, it shall go hard with me if they 
 doff their armour for an hour." And so he treated the Sabines 
 with ambuscades and sallies, always chusing the hottest time 
 for his onset, until the spirits of their warriors drooped within 
 them, and they cursed the ill-timed chivalry of their King and 
 the doughty old Governor of the Capitol. 
 
 But while thus, ensconced in his airie, like a spider in the 
 midst of his web, he kept a wary look out on the foe, little did 
 
OF TARPEIA. 3 
 
 he dream of the treason which that foe was plotting against 
 him. A maiden is timid only in speaking of her first love. 
 He knew not that Tatius, when attending the solemn ferie* 
 at Rome, had won the heart of Tarpeia, and even now carried 
 on, by means of a secret messenger, a correspondence with her. 
 It was a sultry evening of August, and, according to his wont, 
 her father had shown himself proportionately active. After a 
 fierce skirmish, the Romans had retired into the fort, and the 
 wearied Sabines, bearing away their wounded and dead, 
 straggled into their lines, sullen and exhausted, while their 
 iron adversary, chuckling over the success of his plans, walked 
 sturdily up and down a part of the outer wall that looked into 
 their camp, and plotted new stratagems for the morrow. 
 
 Another too looked across the valley, upon that thronged 
 and busy scene. The Lady Tarpeia sat sorrowfully at a dis- 
 tant bastion, where she commanded a view of the hostile 
 camp, — yes, hostile even to her, for her heart and soul was of 
 the true Roman cast, and she was worthy of the race from 
 which she sprung. She had given back her royal lover's 
 vows and resigned his heart, but it was not so easy to regain 
 her own. Tatius had sighed and pleaded, and promised, 
 until she had consented to see him that very night. And she 
 sat alone without comfort or adviser in her need, shadowing 
 forth in her breast some scheme of high and lofty peril, for the 
 deliverance of her country. As she looked upon the royal 
 tent, and fancied she saw issuing from it her lover's form, she 
 felt her heart throb high with disdain, that the breezes of 
 
 Rome should sweep around his banner, and she felt that, if 
 need were, she could resign even him to destruction for the 
 
 safety of her father's land. While wrapt in these absorbing 
 
 * Ferioe, from whence our word/a/n 
 
4* THE LEGEND 
 
 thoughts, the night came suddenly down, and she arose, with 
 a lofty brow but fluttering heart, to redeem her pledge to its 
 bitterest foe. 
 
 As she descended the rude steps that led from the walls, she 
 saw near her a youthful client of her house, one who she knew 
 loved her, for when was woman ignorant of the love borne 
 her, though hidden in the heart of hearts. Her damsels had 
 joined her, and she bade one of them call the youth, who came 
 with a downcast look but a happy spirit before her. ' ' Julius," 
 she said, " I have need of thy service ; may I command thee ?" 
 And even in her mental agony she smiled at the youth's per- 
 plexed and hesitating speech, when she knew he would have 
 died at her bidding. She bade her maidens withdraw out of 
 hearing, and then went on. " You have the watch to-night 
 and you must leave the postern gate at the foot of the northern 
 cliff unbarred, and you will yourself be at hand with fifty 
 chosen men, or, at least, with as many as you can collect with- 
 out my father's knowledge. If the God Consus prosper us, 
 to-night Rome will be free. Be at your post, and I will direct 
 you further." 
 
 And the young Roman did not hesitate, though startled and 
 grieved, to obey the lady of his love. 
 
 It was to meet Tatius that Tarpeia stole down the dark and 
 winding stair that led down the northern front of the hill, and 
 he came, but he came in arms. The King was not so blinded 
 by love as to be unaware of the chance of success thus placed 
 within his reach, for ambition, if it plays greatly, often plays 
 foully. A numerous body of his troops stole by two's and 
 three's beneath the walls, while with his person were some of 
 his bravest chiefs. His heart smote him when he heard the 
 light foot of his mistress pausing at the foot of the stair, before 
 she gave the signal agreed on. It was a double treachery ; 
 but what was the sacrifice of the fond and passionate woman, 
 
OF TARPEIA. 5 
 
 and who can measure her feelings when patriotism prevailed 
 over love ? 
 
 The signal was given and answered, and the door thrown 
 back. At the foot of the stairs was a small landing-place ; 
 hut on the right, connected with it by a short and narrow pas- 
 sage, was a large guard-room, one of those excavations through 
 the tufo continued in after times and that still remain. In it was 
 posted Julius and his band, with directions, as soon as the King 
 had been drawn a little way up the stairs, for the sake of pri- 
 vate conversation, to steal upon him and make prisoners of 
 him and his chiefs, for some of his favourites were known to 
 be about his person. 
 
 Nor indeed was the risk to Tatius very great, even when a 
 prisoner. By the rape of the Sabine maidens, most of the 
 noble Romans were connected with the most illustrious fami- 
 lies of the nation, and desired nothing so much as peace. 
 When the King was once in their power they might command 
 their own terms, which were known to be only a stipula- 
 tion for a close friendship and alliance, and then her country 
 rescued by her means, a gleam of hope flashed across Tarpeia's 
 spirit, on which she trembled as she dwelt. 
 
 She beckoned the King to follow her, which he did, leaving 
 his companions at the landing-place. When she paused, and 
 cast a trembling look below, she was alarmed at their num- 
 bers, and a cold chill for a moment fell upon her, but she ral- 
 lied her energy, and laying her hand on the arm of Tatius, 
 looked full in his face. 
 
 *' King," she said, " would you expose me to the world, or 
 was there need of so many to escort you to a simple maiden, 
 for 1 dare not doubt your faith?" 
 
 ''• Fear nothing, my Tarpeia," said the King tenderly, ad- 
 vancing as he spoke, but she turned from him and descended 
 to the place where his followers stood. 
 
 A 5 
 
6 A LEGEND 
 
 " Noble chief," she said, " when I forgot mine own dignity 
 I might have supposed others would forget it too. Do you 
 bear arms for fear of me ? If I remain, swear to me, by Pal- 
 ler and Pavor, gods of the Sabines, that you will grant me a 
 request, such as a noble maiden may ask." 
 
 " It is thine, fair Tarpeia," replied the King, " all that thou 
 canst ask is thine." 
 
 " Give me, then," said she, with a brightening of the eye, 
 and flushed cheek, " give me what ye bear on your arms, since 
 ye must needs come so many against a simple girl !" 
 
 As she spoke, she noticed men of rude aspect stealing into 
 the gate, which was now completely full, and two or three 
 began to drop along the passage where was posted the ambus- 
 cade. In her agony of suspense she delayed no longer. 
 
 *' It is enough," she said, *' King and Chiefs, by the terrible 
 oath ye have sworn, I demand your arms ! By Pavor and 
 Paller, by the Agonates, their awful Priests, I demand the 
 fulfilment of your oaths !" 
 
 *' Not so, fair lady," said Tatius, " what we bear on our 
 arms is thine, take it! and unclasping a massive bracelet of 
 gold, he flung it at her feet, and the other chiefs, indignant at 
 what seemed a paltry subterfuge, followed his example. She 
 saw her error, but met it with her father's heart. 
 
 *' Julius," she shrieked, " Tarpeia and victory !" 
 
 At that signal word the gallant youth, heading his party, 
 rushed from their ambush, bearing back the stragglers who 
 opposed them, and thundered upon the Sabine chiefs, who at 
 first, surprised and stunned, were yet unable to fall back from 
 the dense mass of soldiery that closed around the entrance and 
 barred the way. Rallied boldly by the King, they turned upon 
 their assailants with equal valour and tenfold numbers, and 
 their star prevailed. The Romans, fighting hand to hand with 
 undaunted courage, were hewn down one by one, while the 
 
OF TARPEIA. 7 
 
 great mass of their enemies pouring up the stairs bore back 
 all resistance ; and when day dawned the standard of Tatius 
 waved over the Capitol, and over the gashed and gory bodies 
 of its defenders. 
 
 And where was she, the devoted maiden, whose erring pa- 
 triotism had wrought this evil work ? Her fate is not posi- 
 tively known ; she was called a traitress in after days by those 
 who knew not her tale, but when the Capitol ceased to be 
 Sabine, the spot in which some pious hands laid her remains 
 was still shown, nor, had her treachery been such as was sup- 
 posed, could her tomb have been sufficient to pollute the 
 sanctuary of Roman religion. Tradition indeed denies that 
 she was buried there. It affirms that she was snatched from 
 the hands of the soldiery by the genius of Rome, and that she 
 still sits enchanted, in motionless and marvellous beauty, 
 adorned with gold and gems, on a costly throne, within the 
 deep caverns of the Capitol. There she is to remain, it is 
 affirmed, so long as Rome exists. My informant told me her 
 brother caught a distant sight of her, like a flash of lightning 
 on a sunbeam, and that being terrified, he fled back in haste. 
 In the mouths of Roman maidens, this tale has lived for 
 twenty-seven hundred years, and still lives : and while history 
 has handed down her name branded with undeserved dis- 
 honour, la bella Tarpeia is pitied and remembered only as she 
 deserves by bosoms as pure, as gentle, and as beautiful as her 
 own. 
 
LINES. 
 
 Queen of our island home, 
 Round winch the salt waves foam, 
 
 Free as the people who dwell on its shores, 
 We hail thee, the ocean's queen, 
 In all seas thy ships are seen, 
 
 Ruler of England and Queen of her laws. 
 
 Happy, thrice happy those 
 Who fear no foreign foes, 
 
 Seek not for war with its crimes and its stain. 
 Wishing to dwell in peace. 
 Wishing all strife to cease. 
 
 Such the people o'er whom thou dost reign. 
 
 THE MANIAC. 
 
 The mind is o'erclouded — bright reason has flown — 
 Fell sorrow has darkened that spirit which shone 
 With a lustre so pure^ and a lustre so bright. 
 Alas ! to be quenched in so gloomy a night! 
 
 How bright was that eye — oh ! what meaning was there ! 
 Now clouded by madness — now dimmed by despair : 
 No lustre beams thence, all is clouded and drear 
 Which, when reason illumin'd, shone brightly and clear. 
 
 It is past ! nought remains but a premature grave, 
 In that village churchyard where trees darkly wave ; 
 Her sorrows and pains shall be ended and past. 
 And with joy she'll awake at the trumpet's first blast. 
 
 Awake ! not as now but a creature of time, 
 A dweller on earth with its pain and its crime; 
 But a spirit of light and a spirit of love, 
 Fit to share in the pleasmes of heaven above. 
 
THE EMPERORS. 
 
 A SCENE AT ERFURTH, IN 1808. 
 
 What an extraordinary tumult then reigned in the small town 
 of Erfurth, now so desolate ! What an epoch was that, in 
 which the all powerful will of the man who was buried on the 
 rock at St. Helena, assembled, as if by a magic stroke. Empe- 
 rors, Kings, Nobles, and all the great and renowned men that 
 then existed ! 
 
 Napoleon had called to Erfurth the first rate actors of the 
 French theatre : Talma, Mademoiselle Duchesnois, Made- 
 moiselle Mars, the fascinating Georges, the charming Bur- 
 goin, appeared several times in the course of a week, to play 
 their finest parts before the august assembly. A small theatre, 
 which had been discovered in the ancient college of the 
 Jesuits, was fitted up for the occasion, w^ith a promptitude 
 and elegance really French. 
 
 Tickets of admission were distributed to ladies, both 
 strangers and native ; but it was not an easy matter to procure 
 them ; and only with the greatest difficulty could we obtain a 
 few, to witness the representation of the tragedy of (Edipus. 
 
 We set out in several coaches from Weimar, and arrived 
 safely at Erfurth, where, having engaged apartments at an inn, 
 we left our tickets and tried to sally forth in the town, but the 
 great crowds in the streets compelled us to return. We were 
 surprised, in counting our tickets over again, to find two 
 of them missing. In vain did we search all over the room,. 
 
10 THE EMPERORS. 
 
 and remove every article of furniture ; they were nowhere to 
 be found. The waiter had no doubt appropriated them to 
 his own use, and sold them at a high price ; for these tickets 
 were the source of much profit to the inhabitants ; strangers 
 who came to Erfurth, without acquaintance, having paid as 
 much as two or three hundred francs for one. 
 
 *' Ah ! if we had but two or three officers with us," ex- 
 claimed the youngest of our party, for a military man was as 
 good as a ticket. It was an excellent idea ; and we very soon 
 found among our acquaintance two cavaliers, under whose 
 protection we went to the theatre. At the head of the stairs 
 we were received by a soldier of the National Guard, a man 
 with a most terrible physiognomy, who conducted us to the 
 several boxes, the saloon being as yet nearly empty. 
 
 11 I was fortunate enough to be placed between two of my 
 friends, in one of the front boxes, from whence we could dis- 
 tinctly see what was passing in the parquet. We congratu- 
 lated ourselves on our good fortune, in having obtained such 
 comfortable places, bur our joy was not of long duration. 
 The boxes around us gradually filled to excess. Suddenly 
 the door of our box was opened, and a soldier, or gendarme, 
 I do not know which, said to us : *' What ! three ladies on 
 three chairs, there's room for six !" and he inserted between 
 us two more ; these fortunately happened to be of our acquaint- 
 ance. All the boxes were rapidly filled, we were most un- 
 mercifully crowded, and scarcely could move. The heat was 
 overpowering, but we had not time to think of it, for the im- 
 portance and splendour of the spectacle which was forming 
 before us, so much engaged our attention, that we forgot all 
 the inconveniences of the situation. 
 
 Immediately opposite the stage were placed two arm-chairs 
 for the Emperors, and on either sides plain ones without backs 
 for the Kings and reigning Princes. The space behind these 
 
THE EMPERORS. 11 
 
 seats now began to fill. Statesmen and Generals, from most 
 of the Powers of Europe ; men whose names have since become 
 celebrated in history, many with uniforms embroidered with 
 gold, were seen entering. An air of vivacity distinguished the 
 French from the more modest and serious Germans. We saw 
 Berthier, Soult, Caulaincourt, Savary, Lannes, Duroc, and 
 many others equally celebrated ; Goethe, with his calm coun- 
 tenance full of dignity, and the venerable Wieland. The 
 Grand Duke of "Weimar had called them to Erfurth. Several 
 German Princes, either reigning or allied to the reigning 
 houses, were collected round the two veterans of Germ.an li- 
 terature. 
 
 Of a sudden a rolling of drums was heard outside. " It's 
 the Emperor !" cried every one. " Fools; what are ye about !" 
 said the commanding officer to the drummers, " don't you see 
 it's only a King !" In fact, it was a German Monarch who 
 was making his entree. 
 
 Three other Kings soon afterwards followed — the Kings of 
 Saxony, Bavaria, and Wirtemberg, all without state or dis- 
 play. Jerome, the King of Westphalia, eclipsed the other 
 Monarchs and Princes by the splendour of his embroi- 
 deries and jewellery. The Emperor Alexander, with his 
 majestic deportment, came next. The great box opposite 
 dazzled our eyes by the brilliancy it cast around the saloon. 
 The Queen of Westphalia, covered with diamonds, was seated 
 in the centre ; near her sat the lovely Stephanie, Grand Duchess 
 of Bade. Several German Princesses were grouped round the 
 reigning ones ; and the cavaliers and ladies of the court occu- 
 pied the back part. 
 
 At that moment Talleyrand appeared, in a little box m.ade 
 expressly for him, on a level with the stage, the infirmity of 
 his feet not allowing him to appear in the parjpuet itself. The 
 Emperor and the Kings stood conversing around the box with 
 
12 THE EMPERORS. 
 
 the Prime Minister. Every one else was at the rendezvous : 
 he alone who had convoked all those grandees was absent. 
 At length, another rolling of the drums was heard, but much 
 louder than the first ; all eyes were instantly turned with an 
 anxious gaze of curiosity towards the entrance door. He en- 
 tered at last, this most extraordinary man of that eventful pe- 
 riod, dressed in the most simple manner. He slightly bowed 
 to the Sovereigns present, who had been kept waiting so long, 
 and then occupied his easy chair on the right of the Emperor 
 Alexander. His short and rather ungraceful figure contrasted 
 strangely with the superb stature of Alexander. The four 
 Kings sat down on the chairs without backs, and then the 
 spectacle commenced. 
 
 Immediately after the representation of the tragedy, Avhich 
 he had seen acted at least a hundred times. Napoleon, having 
 seated himself comfortably in his chair, had fallen fast asleep. 
 
 It was a strange, a singular sight, to see the monarch at 
 whose nod kingdoms trembled ; the terrible man whose plans 
 made the happiness or misery of half the world, given up to a 
 quiet and peaceful slumber : we could not help contemplating, 
 with an admiration mingled with fear, that fine profile, to which 
 the dark uniform of Alexander served as a ground. 
 
 But now where are the Emperors, the Kings, who were 
 assembled in that theatre ! Where are they ? and where is he 
 who convoked them there ? He was buried on a barren rock, 
 around which the waves of the Atlantic foam ! 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 How uncertain is life ! and with it, how uncertain all our 
 hopes and plans for the future ! We plan, and scheme, and 
 speculate, and think the time long and the days many which 
 intervene between us and the object of our desires ; — the 
 future comes at last ! the hopes, the wishes, the pantings are 
 forgotten ! What was the future is now the present ; but how 
 seldom does it bring the realisation of our hopes or the fulfil- 
 ment of our plans ! So many changes and chances have in- 
 tervened, that the desires have been frustrated, the cherished 
 plans defeated ; and the day which was so fondly looked 
 forward to, as the day upon which happiness w^as to be en- 
 joyed, becomes too often one of bitter sorrow and accumulated 
 misery. 
 
 In a cottage, or rather hut, in that beautiful isle, the Isle of 
 Wight, there dvv'elt, a few years since, a very aged widow- 
 woman. Her features still retained a noble expression, which 
 in youth must have amounted to beauty ; but a calmness 
 rested upon them — a calmness of despair rather than of 
 complacency, — as if there still existed the remembrance of 
 sorrows, which time indeed had softened down, but could not 
 eiFace. She seemed to have outlived hope ; and her only wish 
 now was, to quit a world which had neither friend nor ac- 
 quaintance, kith nor kin, to make life glide on pleasantly. 
 
 Of the friends of her youth, many had left the spot where 
 they were born, to roam through various parts of the country^. 
 
 B 
 
14 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 as chance might lead them, and more were dead. Of her 
 children, the one had gurgled his last breath in the midst of 
 dashing waves, which, having robbed him of life, tossed his 
 inanimate corpse upon the beach at the feet of his mother, who 
 was eagerly looking for the return of her son, full of life and 
 joyousness; the other sank below the slow-consuming finger 
 of disease. The one set like the tropical sun, its light quenched 
 in a moment ; the other, like the setting of that orb in milder 
 climes, paled into a gentle twilight ere night closed. 
 
 Thus it was this widow became so lonely: no sound of 
 merriment rose from her humble abode ; no joyous peal of 
 laughter, speaking how light were the hearts which dwelt there, 
 fell upon the ear ; but all was dreary and desolate — dreary as 
 despair, and desolate as the heart which has nothing to love. 
 
 It was not, however, always thus with Widow King, for 
 thus was she called. She had known brighter and happier 
 days, — days which, if too bright to last, seemed too bright to 
 be followed by a night so drear. 
 
 Misery first made its entrance into her home when her hus- 
 band sickened and died, thus depriving her of her chief means 
 of support, and leaving her with two children, who, if too 
 young to know to the full extent the loss they had sustained, 
 were also too young to be able to earn much to procure their 
 daily bread. But though thus deprived of a husband whom 
 she loved — thus reduced to greater straits to procure a liveli- 
 hood than she had hitherto been put to — the affections of the 
 widow were not quenched ; her hopes, though cast down, were 
 not destroyed ; she still had her children to love ; and, if toil 
 to a greater extent was to be endured for them than if she were 
 alone, there was something still left upon which she could 
 place her affections ; and she felt that every year her toil 
 would be lessened, inasmuch that, as her children grew older, 
 they would be able to work for themselves, and at length to 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. 15 
 
 decrease her work until nothing more of labour remained than 
 would be pleasure to a person bred to habits of industry. 
 
 At a very early age, her son manifested a strong predilec- 
 tion for a seafaring life. The hut in which he was born was 
 built upon the verge of a cliff, at the foot of which the waves 
 dashed in rough weather — the music which rocked him to sleep 
 on many of the nights during childhood. His delight was to 
 be amongst the fishermen who dwelt upon that coast, listening 
 to their stories of dangers past, of storms which had threatened 
 death, and of the deeds of hardihood they had done, when 
 every moment threatened a watery grave. 
 
 The strong attachment which he bore to his mother, forbade 
 him to urge the fulfilment of his wishes ; for though living 
 upon the ocean's edge, and familiar with all its beauties, its 
 wonders, and its fearfulness, she had all that aversion to a sea 
 life which is so often found in the minds of the inhabitants of 
 inland countries, though seldom amongst those who dwell upon 
 the coast. These have perhaps 
 
 " Danced in triumph o'er the waters wide," 
 
 and forgot the danger in sharing the delight. 
 
 ''The excelling sense, the pulse's maddening play. 
 That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way," 
 
 may have so counteracted the fear of trusting to the treach- 
 erous waves — which, sparkling round the vessel, seem, like 
 the fabled syrens, eager to lead to destruction the thing they 
 sport with — that all apprehension is forgotten, and real plea- 
 sure enjoyed. 
 
 But it was not so with Widow King. To her a seaman's 
 life seemed fraught with danger, and she urged her son to 
 seek for an employment in which he would not have to 
 encounter such perils as those are sure to do whose lives are 
 
 B 2 
 
16 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 passed upon the watery waste. She entreated, with all a 
 mother's fondness and a mother's love, that he would not 
 deprive her of all she held dearest by his waywardness. 
 
 Accident, however, determined that the mother's wishes 
 should be frustrated. For some time Charles King had ab- 
 sented himself from his fayourite haunts ; his light, loud laugh 
 was never heard among the cliifs, startling even the sea-bird, 
 as he listened to the jests of the fishermen. Eager to obliterate 
 the joys he felt himself destined never to share, he prudently 
 forbore to frequent scenes which were likely to bring them to 
 his remembrance ; and he had even engaged himself to a 
 farmer, to watch a few sheep as they fed, finding a scanty pas- 
 turage on the sides of the cliffs. 
 
 His mother hailed the change with rapture, and felt, if pos- 
 sible, more fond of her son, who could thus give up his fondest 
 desires to gratify her. She noticed, however, that he had 
 grown less cheerful than formerly. He became thoughtful ; 
 and, though he strove to maintain his usual light-heartedness 
 in his mother's presence, it was clear he had not yielded his 
 favourite scheme without a struggle. Time might have 
 eradicated this impression, but it chanced that an individual 
 visited their abode, who at once counteracted every previ- 
 ously-formed arrangement, and finally led Charles upon that 
 voyage from whence he never returned alive. 
 
 This person's name was Saunders; he had, at various times, 
 visited nearly every part of the globe, and was at that time 
 
 mate of an Indiaman, which was to sail from in a few 
 
 weeks' time to the land of rupees and cowries. 
 
 The fond attachment of this man to the place of his birth, 
 had led him to visit the isle, — an attachment which seems 
 strongest in the sailor's mind, who, though visiting many 
 lands, has no home in any, and therefore attaches to the place 
 of his birth that degree of fondness which others give to the 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. 17 
 
 spot in which they have spent the best years of life. This man 
 had, therefore, come to give his place of nativity " a three- 
 years' good-bye," as he said, previously to his commencing his 
 next voyage. 
 
 As Charles was attending to his sheep, Saunders accidentally 
 passed by, and, with all the frankness of a sailor, began to 
 enter into conversation. He soon discovered his predilection 
 for the sea, and that he relinquished his views merely at the 
 suggestions of his mother. 
 
 " If my father were alive," said Charles, " I would soon be 
 upon the sea ; and with a good boat under me, I should not 
 fear danger ; while, with my net and line, I could earn a deal 
 more than I do by keeping sheep. But my mother says it 
 will break her heart if I leave, and therefore I stay, though 
 against my own wishes." 
 
 *' So your father 's dead ? " said Saunders. 
 
 " Yes," answered Charles ; " he has been dead these two 
 years." 
 
 " And you w^ant to be a fisherman ?" 
 
 *' Yes," said Charles. 
 
 " And you do not follow it because your mother objects ? " 
 
 *' That is the case," replied Charles. 
 
 " Why, my lad," said Saunders, "a fisherman's is but a sorry 
 trade. But what think you of turning a true jolly sailor? 
 What think you of visiting all the bright lands you have 
 heard tell of?" 
 
 " It is," answered Charles, " what I am never to enjoy ; 
 and, therefore, I try to think as little about the matter as 
 I can." 
 
 " But now, if I were to procure you a berth in the Com- 
 pany's service, (and that's next best to being in his Majesty's,) 
 what should you say ? " 
 
 The eyes of Charles flashed with delight at the proposition. 
 
18 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 He answered eagerly — " I should like it, of all things ; " but, 
 instantly checking himself, added, " But I could not accept of 
 it — and so " 
 
 " ' And so ' What were you going to finish with ?" 
 
 asked Saunders. 
 
 " I was only going to say, that as I could not take it, so 
 thinking about an impossibility could do no good." 
 
 " But you could take it if your mother approved ? " 
 
 " Oh ! then. But I know she will not." 
 
 *'' And if she refuses, will you not go then ?" 
 
 " No, sir," replied Charles. 
 
 "You will not?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "What! will you miss the only chance which may ever 
 happen to you of having your wishes gratified ? Will you 
 lose the only hope of making your fortune ? Why, for the 
 rest of your life you may sit and do nothing, if you have but 
 spirit to follow where fortune leads. Come, now, think again. 
 Well, what do you say '? Will you go ? " 
 
 For a moment Charles hesitated ; but he immediately an- 
 swered — "I am very much obliged for your offer — more 
 obliged than I know how to thank you ; but I cannot accept 
 it. If I were to follow my own inclinations, I should bring a 
 deal of sorrow to my mother ; and if I were to gain the 
 fortune you say, I should not enjoy it, if I thought I had 
 broken her heart in getting it." 
 
 " Well, hark ye, lad," said Saunders, in an altered tone ; 
 " I like the spirit that will not seek a fortune for oneself at 
 the expense of another's happiness, and I don't dislike you a 
 bit the more for having a fondness for your mother, — although 
 it is counted rather squeamish to be pinned to a woman's 
 apron. To my thinking, a man's no worse for having feeling; 
 and, if you choose to take a trip with me, why, I'll give you 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. 19 
 
 as good a push on in life as I can. But as you say you will 
 not unless your mother consents, so, if you will tell me where 
 she lives, I'll just go and have a word or two with her; and I 
 dare say she will not refuse, with such a chance. So good day, 
 younker, and just look after your sheep, for I see they have 
 been going astray while we have been talking. Don't let your 
 head now be running after palanquins and rupees, but mind 
 what you have to take care of. We will see — all in good 
 time — Rome was not built in a day." 
 
 With this caution, Saunders departed, and Charles, with 
 high hopes, such as had never been indulged in before, con- 
 tinued watching his charge till sunset, though in his im- 
 patience to hear from and tell to his mother all relating to this 
 unlooked-for event, he frequently wished that the day would 
 more quickly end. 
 
 At times, indeed, he felt inclined to be despondent. Would 
 his mother consent to his going as far as India, when she had 
 so strenuously opposed his coasting the shores of their own 
 little isle ? When such a thought as this arose, he felt that 
 the event he wished for was so improbable, that he regretted 
 the chance which had given new birth to his wishes, and so 
 fair an opportunity of gratifying them, feeling certain that they 
 never would be fulfilled. 
 
 •Meanwhile Saunders had found his way to the widow's 
 hut. He briefly told the occasion of his coming, and of his 
 willino-ness to assist her son if she allowed him to follow a 
 
 o 
 
 course of life in which that assistance might be availablcc 
 
 " I am," said he, " a lonely man in the world, and perhaps 
 like your son for refusing to do the very thing which in my 
 youth I did ; — my passion for a seaman's life as strong as his — 
 my father's and mother's objections as forcible as yours. 
 Unable to gain their consent, at length I quitted my home 
 without their knowledcne. Though full of hopes of success, 
 
20 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 it cost me a severe struggle before I finally resolved upon 
 leaving home. I well remember the evening. My father sat 
 smoking, my mother was at needle-work, my task was reading 
 aloud ; but the thoughts of the future so filled my mind, that 
 I could not keep my attention ; and, complaining of being 
 unwell, I shut the book, and, wishing my parents good night, 
 retired to bed. Perhaps my feelings so worked upon me as 
 to cause something unusual in my conduct, for my father ob- 
 served, ' Well, my lad, what makes you so particular in your 
 good-nights ? you are not thinking of dying ? ' Retiring to 
 my own room, I wrote a letter, stating what I had done, and 
 upon it left a lock of my own hair. This was the last they 
 ever saw of me ; for, upon my return, my parents were both 
 dead." 
 
 For a moment Saunders stopped in his narrative ; the wear- 
 and-tear of many years had not effaced the recollection of that 
 night ; but, instantly recovering, he continued — 
 
 " I have never been able to free myself from the idea that 
 my conduct may have hastened their deaths. Though thinking 
 little of the matter at the time, I have learned that the shock 
 of such a circumstance as that leaves an impression never to 
 be effaced ; and I never tread the shores of England without 
 visiting the graves of my parents, as a sort of atonement. This 
 duty over, I start again a new man. I had been thus employed 
 a little time before I happened to see your son ; the similarity 
 of his case with my own struck me forcibly, and I tried to 
 tempt him to leave ; but his attachment was stronger than mine 
 had been to my parents, and though I held out bright pro- 
 spects, he steadily refused. But another might be more suc- 
 cessful in his attempts, and succeed in inducing your son to 
 leave home without your knowledge, perhaps bringing you to 
 the grave, and embittering the rest of his days, as mine are. 
 
 *' As I had neither brother nor sister, I am now alone in the 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. 21 
 
 world, and, if you please, would willingly take your son under 
 my protection. As lie has no father, I will be one to him as 
 long as his actions secure my regard ; and this, I trust, will 
 lono- continue. Should it last till death, I shall leave him all 
 
 o 
 
 I possess. Your consent is all that is required, and, for the 
 sake of your son, for your own sake, do not let any foolish 
 objections oppose a plan so likely to prove beneficial to 
 both." 
 
 In this way Saunders urged the widow, until at length she 
 gave her consent ; and, when Charles returned in the evening, 
 he was surprised to find that Saunders was to sleep there for 
 the night, and that his mother had at last yielded her consent. 
 His joy was unbounded. He danced half frantic about the 
 room ; but, upon seeing his mother begin to cry, he checked 
 himself, and hastening up to her, said, in a sorrowful tone, 
 
 " Mother, don't cry ; if you so dislike it, I will not go. 
 "VVe will not think about it again." 
 
 " No," said the widow ; " though I think, as Mr. Saunders 
 says, that it will be best for both, I cannot help feeling. But 
 there is a God above, who guards the sea as well as the land : 
 I commit you to his care ! " 
 
 To beguile the time, Saunders related some of his naval 
 stories, making his auditors laugh and cry by turns. Charles 
 was in ecstasies, thinking he should soon see the realities of the 
 things he was hearing of; and, with his head full of strange 
 and jumbled images of the future, he retired to rest— to have 
 the same ideas, though in stranger, wilder, and more fantastic 
 forms, present in his sleep : so much had imagination worked 
 upon his mind, that, even when the other senses were 
 asleep, it could not rest, but spent itself in strange image and 
 wild picture. 
 
 The next day Charles departed with his newly-acquired 
 
 friend, who promised to furnish him with all that was neces- 
 
 B 5 
 
22 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 sary for his new mode of life ; and although he felt sorrow at 
 the idea of separation from home, yet the joy which he ex- 
 perienced in being at length fairly set out in life, in the way 
 he had so ardently wished for, almost overcame every other 
 feeling. 
 
 Not so his mother. Though she strove to conceal her 
 feelings, and though few tears were shed at parting, yet the 
 departure of her son oppressed her spirit, and wrung her heart 
 with anguish. It seemed to her as if death had taken away 
 another of her family. There was a strange and fearful void 
 wherever she went. The hut appeared quite altered ; it had 
 grown so strangely quiet, for the loud lough and cheerful talk 
 of her son were now no more. She missed him in the even- 
 ing. There was a vacancy about the room, such as she had 
 never known, except at her husband's death. And the bed, 
 too, upon which her son had been used to sleep, this awoke 
 feelings of anguish. It stood there, clean, neat as ever, but 
 vacant ; and the interruption of the daily task of making it 
 afresh caused her to feel, in all its acuteness, the absence of her 
 son. She would stand and look upon it, till her feelings grew 
 so strong that she could look no longer ; then, unable to con- 
 tain her anguish, she v/ould turn away and weep bitterly. 
 
 A separation such as had taken place between the mother 
 and son is perhaps more acutely felt than even the separa- 
 tion wrought by death. In the latter case, so many causes 
 conspire to make a change expected. The wearing of illness 
 — the gradual diminution of strength — the increasing dimness 
 of the eye : these all tell the family that they must soon ex- 
 pect to lose one of its members. And even when the spirit 
 of life has fled, so much intervenes to prevent the heart from 
 dv;elling upon its misery, as greatly to ameliorate the pangs 
 that are felt. The midnight watchings — the unremitting at- 
 tentions which are given to the dying in the last few days of 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. 23 
 
 life, have jaded and worn down the frame of the watcher ; but 
 when those three dark words " All is over" are spoken — words 
 never heard without emotion — which tell that the unremitting 
 attention and anxious thoughts are of no further avail ; then, 
 when these excitements are withdrawn, nature imperiously 
 demands a rest, of which sleep claims a share. Then the sym- 
 pathies of friends, and the necessary attention which a burial 
 demands, prevent, by an exertion of the faculties, grief from 
 overpowering the mind. 
 
 And though when the day arrives which is to consign the 
 dead to its original elements of earth and ashes, the unhealed 
 wounds bleed afresh, yet is it felt that the dead is not even 
 then entirely removed, and the green grave becomes a sort of 
 hallowed spot which memory loves to haunt. 
 
 But in the separation by absence the change is instantly 
 effected. The two stand together ; the pressure of the hand 
 — the lip is felt ; the melody of speech is heard. A moment 
 passes ! The one is gone — the other left in silence and so- 
 litude. 
 
 Then follow the harro wings of uncertainty, which increase 
 in proportion as danger or difficulty is likely to attend the 
 footsteps of the departed. Imagination and conjecture are 
 busied in picturing dangers and fancying difficulties, so that 
 even hope pales away and sinks into despondency. The un- 
 certainty, too, which hangs over the absent, keeps alive these 
 feelings. They cannot, as in the case of the dead, be buried, 
 as it were, in the grave of the departed ; but are ever active, 
 busy, and at work, in following the traveller tlirough the diffi- 
 culties it is fancied he will have to encounter. So that every 
 storm which is heard by those who have relatives or friends at 
 sea, immediately suggests the idea that they must be braving 
 a similar danger ; every account of shipwreck, as presaging 
 too surely a similar disaster to those they hold dear. 
 
24 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 It was thus with Widow King ! Months rolled away, but 
 the lapse of time brought no relief ; her anxiety became the 
 stronger as the time approached for his return. 
 
 The voyage in which Charles was embarked, was calculated 
 to last for three years. During the passage outwards she 
 heard from him several times ; but at length his letters became 
 more rare. At last one announced that his return would take 
 place in less than a twelvemonth. Then month by month, 
 week by week, day by day, and almost hour by hour, was 
 the time counted by his mother ; — vain attempt, alas ! to 
 accelerate the speed of the winged hours. With one un- 
 varying tread time moves on — alike to the happy and the sad ; 
 neither joy nor sorrow, hope nor fear, can stop or quicken it 
 one jot. Fit emblem of Jehovah is time, — it began with the 
 beginning, it will last to the end of all things ; or rather, it 
 never had beginning, and never will have end — and through 
 that space will move along with one uniform, one regular 
 tread. It is ourselves who create its wings or retard its foot- 
 steps, as inclination leads us to wish for the future, or to dread 
 its approach. We portion it into years, and months, and days ; 
 these are but stages for ourselves to rest at, as we travel along 
 the road of life ; and thus it is ourselves, not time, who are 
 always changing, as we speak of the sun rising and setting, 
 though that globe of fire is always fixed, and it is our tiny 
 earth that moves around it. 
 
 At length it wanted but a month — a week — a day. It 
 passed, and yet her son came not ! " To-morrow, to-morrow ! " 
 were the plaintive words the widow uttered from day to day ; 
 but the morrows passed on till they numbered weeks, and the 
 weeks swelled into months, and yet he returned not. She 
 expected him in the summer; but the summer waned into 
 autumn, and he was not there. She then felt certain that he 
 would come in that rich season of the year ; but it passed on, 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. 25 
 
 and he came not. The winter was rapidly advancing — the 
 ocean was now often lashed into fury by the wild winds — and 
 the widow felt that all her fears were realised, and that she 
 was never destined to see her son again. 
 
 It was the middle of October; the rain had fallen at intervals 
 in heavy showers from the dark masses of clouds which the 
 wind drove on. As the night advanced, the clouds thickened, 
 and the wind rose, sighing and moaning with that peculiar 
 sound too surely the herald of a tempest, and seeming as if a 
 prayer that the God of the Winds would spare its ravages. 
 
 The waves of the ocean began to curl and swell, and to bear 
 upon their surface that yeasty froth which is always caused by 
 a violent agitation. 
 
 As the night drew on, the storm increased ; the rain fell in 
 heavy drops ; the wind rose to a hurricane; and the ocean, 
 driven into wilder fury by the sweeping blasts, rose, and 
 swelled, and dashed in furious madness. 
 
 The sun went down, and darkness hung like a veil over 
 creation — as if the works of the Spirit of Destruction, too 
 fearful for daylight to witness, were to be carried on in silence 
 and gloom. But the darkness, though it concealed everything 
 from view, added yet to the horrors experienced by the senses. 
 The heavy splashings of the rain-drops — the howling of the 
 winds — the roar of the waters — struck terror to the hearts of 
 those sheltered from its fury, when they thought upon relatives 
 who were exposed to such a danger, with nothing but a plank 
 between themselves and the yeasty waves, which were curling, 
 hissing, foaming — seeming eager in the madness of their rage 
 to dash to destruction everything that their fury could assail. 
 
 If, during the calm, fears and apprehensions of shipwreck 
 assailed the heart of the widow, they were sure to be increased 
 a hundred-fold on such a night as this. She stood at the 
 window of her hut, listening to the wild sounds which rain. 
 
26 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 and wind, and waves made as they mingled in their strife. 
 And ever and anon a prayer passed her lips, as the hurricane 
 swept on in a sudden gust of wilder fury. For hours she 
 stood thus. At length she retired to rest ; hut to sleep was a 
 vain attempt. Images of wrecks and death floated through 
 her mind, forbidding sleep to approach. The mind was too 
 troubled to rest, and, with that disquieted, the eyes vainly 
 sought to close. And if the overpowering influence of weari- 
 ness brought sleep, it was but for a moment, — a dream, a start, 
 and she was as much awake as before. 
 
 At length, unable to endure this torture any longer, she 
 rose, dressed herself, and once more took her post as watcher. 
 It was in vain she strained her eyes across the wide waste of 
 waters — the darkness was too thick and deep for human 
 vision to penetrate, even had there been an object upon which 
 to gaze. But so it is — upon what the heart thinks, there the 
 eye turns, though reason and better knowledge proclaim its 
 uselessness. The heart, the hopes, the fears of the widow 
 were upon the sea ; and there, almost mechanically, and in 
 spite of herself, her eyes wandered. At lengtli, growing 
 familiar with the darkness, her eyes could distinguish distant 
 objects, which had not at first been discernible. Upon the 
 land, objects in plenty were presented to her view — tree, and 
 stile, and cottage. But it was not upon the land her thoughts 
 were turned ; and, if her eyes rested there, it was but for a 
 moment, and with that wild and vacant look which, in place 
 of giving knowledge, shows only the abstraction of the mind. 
 It was upon the ocean all her thoughts were turned ; but there 
 nothing was visible except sea and cloud, which seemed to 
 minf^le in their strife, so high the furious billows rose. 
 
 Ten o'clock passed — eleven — twelve — and as yet the storm 
 had abated nothing ; on the contrary, each hour, as it passed 
 heavily away, had added yet more to its fury. The midnight 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. 27 
 
 had not long passed, when the watcher thought she could dis- 
 tinguish something moving upon the waters. Horror and 
 apprehension were excited in an instant. She strained her 
 gaze until her eyeballs assumed a fixed and rigid appearance, 
 seeming incapable of being ever again relaxed. She felt sure 
 that it was a ship, but the next instant it was again lost to her 
 view, and she imagined that it was but a larger and heavier 
 wave than usual, rolling along the foamy deep. A moment 
 more and it was visible again ; in the next, a bright flash 
 broke the darkness, and the report of a gun rolled along the 
 waters. 
 
 That gun, too well known as the signal of distress, over- 
 powered whatever remained of firmness in the heart of the 
 widow. She uttered a loud shriek, and rushing into the 
 chamber of her daughter, exclaimed, in wild accents, — the 
 agonised and thrilling tone of anguish and despair, — " Jessy ! 
 Jessy ! — Your brother ! — The storm ! the storm ! " and fell 
 senseless upon the ground. 
 
 The sleeper started from her slumbers, wild and confused ; 
 a vague and confused idea of danger and horror filled her 
 mind, which was soon realised at the sight of her mother 
 lying inanimate before her. But her presence of mind quickly 
 returned, and she endeavoured to recall her mother to her 
 senses. Some time elapsed before this could be effected. The 
 long and anxious watch had been followed by a shock so 
 sudden and overpowering, that nature was spent, and the spirit 
 of life seemed quenched by the blow. But at length she 
 slowly revived : she unclosed her eyes with so wild a look, as 
 to make her daughter think, that if life had returned, it was at 
 the expense of reason. By degrees, however, it wore away, 
 and she met the mild, anxious gaze which came from her 
 daughter's blue eve with a look almost as calm. But return- 
 ing reason brought back all those thoughts which had so 
 
28 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 long and so painfully agitated her mind, though the arrest 
 "which had been put upon her senses had softened them down 
 to comparative calmness. 
 
 " Oh, Jessy ! " said she, as she lay upon the bed from which 
 lier child had risen, and too weak as yet to get up ; " Oh, 
 Jessy ! do look out, — there is such a fearful storm ! I have 
 been watching it, — and there is a ship, — they are firing 
 guns, — and your brother ! Oh, Jessy ! — my Charles ! my 
 Charles!" 
 
 The poor girl feared that her mother would again become 
 insensible ; but the excitement passed off ; and the request of 
 her mother to look out upon the storm, for a moment turned 
 her thoughts upon herself. In her hurry and agitation she 
 had forgotten everything but her mother, and she now sat by 
 her side, clad only in those clothes with which she had risen. 
 Her naked feet had trodden to and fro the small room, lightly 
 as a feather falls upon the ground. She had not seemed to 
 feel the cold, so anxiously was her mind occupied. But when 
 her mother again asked that she would see if the ship was 
 visible, the sight of which had caused such perturbation to her 
 own mind, she hastily dressed, and advanced eagerly to the 
 door. 
 
 During the time that had elapsed, the storm had abated 
 nothing of its fierceness ; but the firing had awakened many 
 of the inhabitants of the village, who were assembled upon the 
 beach. 
 
 Yes, it was a ship, with her sails and rigging all torn away, 
 and almost dismantled, — rolling, a mere log upon the waters. 
 The helmsman had lost all power over her, for she would 
 no longer obey her rudder, but was fast driving to the shore, 
 and thus fast driving to destruction. It was, too, this ship 
 whose return had been so anxiously looked for by the widow, 
 for upon its deck stood her long-absent son ! 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. 29 
 
 It was a sad return, after long years of absence. She had 
 left her port a beautiful thing, filled with light hearts and 
 hopeful spirits — with her sails all set, and every flag gaily 
 streaming, as though her voyage was a holiday trip : she re- 
 turned a mere hulk, without sail to set or flag to fly ; exposed 
 to the mercy of the winds and the waves, which seemed bent 
 upon her destruction — too true an emblem of man's pilgrimage 
 through life. 
 
 Many attempts were made to rescue the crew from what 
 seemed too inevitable — a watery grave ; but every efibrt was 
 useless, no boat could live in such an angry sea ; and, after a 
 few minutes, the hardy adventurers were forced to put back, and 
 row for the shore. 
 
 Thus left to her fate, the noble ship was every moment driv- 
 ing nearer to destruction ; and the hope of the spectators, and 
 no doubt of the crew, was, that she might be stranded so near 
 the shore that life and property might be saved. 
 
 Vain hope ! A wild shriek rent the air, telling too fearfully 
 of an earlier doom. She had struck upon a rock, and every 
 wave that now rolled past added its mite towards the desola- 
 tion of that noble fabric. 
 
 Again were attempts made from the shore to rescue the 
 sufferers ; but all attempts proved abortive, and, in an agony 
 of mind, they saw a boat, lowered from her side, instantly 
 crowded Avith those eager to save life. With anxious looks 
 its progress was watched ; but a few minutes it floated, when 
 a wave passing over it, it filled and went down. 
 
 The widow was now again one of the watchers, and many a 
 prayer passed her lips to Him who " keepeth the winds as in 
 a treasure-house, and holdeth the waters in the hollow of His 
 hands," that her son might not be among those whom she saw 
 engulphed by that angry deep, which takes and takes, but 
 yields back nothing. 
 
30 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 Sorrow is selfish, and therefore this lone woman may be 
 pardoned in thinking but of herself. If she was spared, others 
 must be stricken, — there must rise up many a widow's moan, 
 and many an orphan's wail, through the destruction she was 
 witnessing. 
 
 Contrary to expectation, the ship did not immediately go to 
 pieces. The rocks upon which she was aground rose up on 
 one side, so as to form a shelter against the waves ; and though 
 every billow as it rolled onwards passed over her, sweeping 
 everything from the decks, yet it seemed probable that some 
 hours would elapse before she became a total wreck. 
 
 The work of destruction now seemed over ; for as the day 
 drew on, the storm abated, and, soon after sunrise, those from 
 the shore were able to visit her. 
 
 The anxious eyes of both widow and daughter were bent 
 upon the vessel ; but suddenly they were turned to another 
 object. Something black for a moment appeared upon the 
 surface of the waters ; it disappeared, it came, was lost again ; 
 it rose, a heavy wave dashed it forward, and at the feet of the 
 widow was thrown up the body of her son ! 
 
 The moment she recognised the features, she uttered a 
 piercing shriek, but she did not faint or fall. She knelt down 
 by the cold and wet body, and caressed it, as if the clay had 
 been animate, and could appreciate and return the endearments. 
 A bag was hung round the neck of her son. She eagerly 
 burst it open ; it contained gold and jewels, the earnings of 
 years of arduous labour. She spurned the baubles as if they 
 had contained poison — " It was these — these worthless toys 
 that brought him thus ! " she cried ; and, tossing them from 
 her on the sand, she fondled again the cold form which lay 
 before her. The fountains from whence sorrow flows, so that 
 it falls in bitter drops from the eyes, seemed closed. She 
 wept not ; but there was a wild and strange expression about 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 31 
 
 her face, proclaiming the agony within more plainly than tears. 
 But these at length fell, and she grew calm. 
 
 It would seem that, too noble to desert the ship, Charles 
 had calmly waited with the captain and his friend Saunders. 
 The rest, eager to save themselves, so crowded into the 
 boats, that tliey sank in a few moments after leaving the side 
 of the vessel. But when the ship herself was breaking fast, 
 and every wave was expected to dash her to shivers, Charles 
 determined to gain the shore by an exertion of his own strength 
 and expertness in swimming. Fastening a bag which con- 
 tained his hard-earned treasures round his person, he leaped 
 into the sea, and, as far as could be seen by his companions, 
 buffeted the billows manfully. Perhaps it was that his strength 
 was unequal to the task, or perhaps the treasures with which 
 he was encumbered prevented its execution : he only reached 
 the shore to find a grave. 
 
 The only two saved were those who remained on the wreck, 
 being picked up by the boats the next morning alive, though 
 in a state of insensibility. In the course of the day, many of 
 the seamen's bodies were cast on shore, and, on the Sunday 
 following, were consigned to one common grave— followed by 
 many spectators, but without one friend. Though a less 
 numerous company followed the coffin of Charles, his grave 
 was hallowed by tears sincerely shed — the tears of a bereaved 
 mother and affectionate sister. 
 
 The unavailing sorrow for the dead is, perhaps, soonest and 
 best controlled by the attention being required by the living. 
 If left to prey upon itself, misery, where it does not end in 
 actual madness, brings on a low, morbid, melancholy despond- 
 ency, uncheered and ungrieved by either subsequent joys or 
 sorrows. 
 
 The widow's sorrow for the dead was soon turned towards 
 the living. Her daughter, — a young, pale, pensive thing, with 
 
0» THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 a mild blue eye, lit up, it would have seemed, with fire from 
 heaven, so bright and beautiful was its hue, and with a cheek 
 so tinted with that beautiful hue which consumption paints, 
 while it carries on the work of death within, — became ill. A 
 cold had settled on her, caught probably on the night of that 
 fearful storm, under which she sank, as a flower when stricken 
 by a blast. 
 
 Of all the diseases to which humanity is heir, consumption 
 alone gives beauty, even while making its inroads. The eye, 
 the cheek — how lovely is the expression of the one, and the 
 tint upon the other ! the voice, how soft and musical ! Then, 
 again, how calm and quiet is the mind, — no feverishness, no 
 fretfulness, but all gentleness, mildness, love, — feelings which 
 increase as the disease grows in power — so that as the body 
 grows feebler, and the limbs lose their power, the mind rises 
 in strength and beauty ; and that fatal malady, though preying 
 upon the young and most beautiful, seems to make its victims 
 angels even on this side of the grave. Then how gently death 
 comes on ! it is not heralded by pain or suffering, but, bright 
 to the last, they sink into a slumber, gentle and peaceful as 
 the sleep of a child. 
 
 There is one thing alone which makes death by consumption 
 undesirable, and that is, that the patient is beguiled into a 
 belief of returning health, even when the strength is at its last 
 ebb ; and, therefore, there is not that preparedness for death 
 which, as sinful beings about to pass to judgment, all ought 
 to make ; for the workings of this disease, like the insidious 
 vampire, lulls to security, while it carries on the work of 
 death. 
 
 It was thus with Jessie King : she grew weaker and weaker, 
 but that was set down to the inclemency of the winter ; — 
 the spring came on, and the summer followed, but she only 
 became worse and worse. She had, for some days past, been 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. 33 
 
 unable to leave her bed, and one bright sunny day, at her re- 
 quest, it was drawn up to their little window, that she might 
 look again upon the lovely works of nature. Long, long she 
 gazed ; every tree, every field, every shrub in their only little 
 garden, seemed to have grown doubly dear. Perhaps absence, 
 or some secret sympathy — a feeling that it would be the last 
 look of the beautiful earth — may have caused its earnestness. 
 She gazed upon the landscape before her till the night-clouds 
 had gathered and shut it from view ; then, gently lying down, 
 she fell into a beautiful slumber, which settled down to a deep 
 sleep — from which she never woke. 
 
 So gently had she sunk down, that when sleep ended and 
 death began could not be told. The anxious watchings of a 
 mother soon discovered that she had not moved from the posi- 
 tion which she had first assumed. The fond and solicitous 
 mother pressed her hand upon the sleeper's cheek — it returned 
 the cold chilliness of death, and then was it that she first found 
 out that she had become a childless mother, as well as a 
 widowed wife ! And she sat down and wept, — she wept long 
 and deep, not loud ; and her wail was very sad and pitiable — 
 it was the wail of a broken heart ! 
 
 The mind stricken with overmuch sorrow, either turns to 
 madness or bursts. The heart of the widow burst. Her 
 solitude was so lonely and desolate, her grief so long and deep, 
 that nature could not support it. She settled down into a quiet 
 melancholy, mistaken for calmness, which soon ended in death ; 
 and in a few months the family were once more united — 
 united in death ! 
 
THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE. 
 
 Among the many and beautiful workings of nature, we have 
 always admired the endless variety displayed in the earth's 
 surface. We speak not of the utility of such an arrangement, 
 though the consideration of this point would furnish much 
 material of interest and instruction. It would be a pleasing 
 study to trace the means which are used to supply the earth's 
 decrease. But we wish to regard this inequality in the point 
 of beauty, having reference only to its adaptation to the mind 
 of man. It would be comparatively as nothing that daisied 
 plains extended on every side — we should soon tire of looking 
 on the picture. The landscape which charms by its grandeur, 
 and delights by its glories, is, when hill and dale, forest and 
 meadow, fiercely rushing torrents, and gently gliding streams 
 are blended. 
 
 It would be comparatively as nothing if the year had been 
 an eternal summer ; trees might always be waving in their 
 bright green clothing, and birds, as they hopped from sprig 
 to sprig, filling the branches with melody ; but the sameness 
 of the colour would cause it to lose its charms, and the ear 
 would soon cease to delight in the music from having it so 
 constantly repeated : the brilliant thing is, that as season 
 follows season in quick succession, trees and flowers bud, 
 bloom, and wither, presenting an endless variety, and pleasing 
 in every way. So quickly does the year roll round, that al- 
 most imperceptibly is the bright green of spring mellowed 
 
THE devil's bridge. S5 
 
 into summer, and soon again tinted with the autumn-yellow 
 of decay. 
 
 It would be comparatively as nothing if an endless day had 
 Leen appointed ; the sun always high in the firmament — al- 
 ways pouring over creation his glorious beams : the fittest 
 arrangement is, that day and night should alternately succeed 
 each other ; that when the monarch of day has run his course, 
 stars should bespangle the heavens, like diamonds in the coronet 
 of night. Thus is the variety which nature presents exactlj' 
 adapted to the human mind, for man is ever seeking novelty. 
 But while this diversified appearance is everywhere presented, 
 there are spots on the earth where the mind is struck with awe 
 at the sublimity of the spectacle. Near Aberystwith, in Car- 
 diganshire, is an object of curiosity and wonder, vulgarly called 
 the Devil's Bridge, properly Pont y Monach, or Monk's 
 Bridge. This bridge consists of a single arch between twenty 
 and thirty feet in span, thrown over another arch of less than 
 twenty feet, which crosses a tremendous chasm. Tradition 
 assigns the construction of the lower arch to the monks of 
 Strada Florida Abbey, about the year 1087. It is probable 
 this date is too early ; but Geraldus mentions having passed over 
 it with Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, at the time of the 
 Crusades, in the year 1188. 
 
 The original arch being suspected to be in a decayed state, 
 the present one was built over it in the year 1753. They span 
 a chasm in a tremendous rock, which has evidently been 
 enlarged, and was perhaps originally produced by the incessant 
 attack of the impetuous Mynach. 
 
 In order to view the scenery of this romantic spot, the visi- 
 tor should first cross the bridge, and then descend by the right 
 of it to the bottom of the aperture, through which the Mynach 
 drives its furious passage, having descended from the moun- 
 tains about five miles to the north-east. The depth from the 
 
S6 THE devil's bridge. 
 
 upper bridge to the bed of the river is 114 feet. The effect of 
 the double arch is picturesque ; and the narrowness of the fis- 
 sure, darkened by its artificial roof, enhances the solemn gloom 
 of the abyss. 
 
 On regaining the road, a second descent must be made by 
 passing through a small wood, at the distance of a few yards 
 from the bridge, to view the four concatenated falls from the 
 point of a rock in front. Each of these is received into a deep 
 pool at the bottom, but so diminished to the eye, at the present 
 point of view', as almost to resemble one continued cascade. 
 The first fall takes place about forty yards south-west of the 
 bridge, where the river is confined to narrow limits by the 
 rocks. It is carried about six feet over the ridge, and pro- 
 jected into a basin at the depth of eighteen feet. Its next leap 
 is sixty feet, and the third is diminished to twenty, when it 
 encounters rocks of prodigious size, through which it struggles 
 to the edge of the largest cataract, and pours in one unbroken 
 torrent down a precipice of 110 feet. 
 
MOUNT ST. MICHAEL, CORNWALL. 
 
 Opposite to the Town of Marazion, and connected with it 
 by a narrow causeway of pebbles, passable at low water, is the 
 very singular pyramidical insulated mass of rocks, called St. 
 Michael's Mount, which gives name to the adjoining bay. 
 This is one of those rare objects which arrest and fix the atten- 
 tion the moment they are seen. Its peculiar situation, and the 
 sublime character it assumes, from appearing to rise imme- 
 diately from the waves, singularly interest the imagination of 
 the observer ; though when viewed from the land, its real 
 magnitude is apparently diminished from the vast extent of the 
 horizon, and the expanded tract of water which surrounds its 
 base. At high water it appears a completely insulated con_ 
 gregation of rocks, towering to a considerable height, gradually 
 decreasing in size ; till, assisted by the tower of the chapel on 
 the summit, it assumes the form of a complete pyramid. At 
 low water it may be approached from the shore over a kind 0£ 
 causeway of sand and rocks, which are submerged by every 
 rising tide, and the Mount again rendered a perfect island. 
 Some of the masses of rock in the intermediate space are im- 
 mensely large, and all composed of granite of a close texture, 
 with its feltspar of a pinkish colour. The Mount itself consists 
 of a hard granite, in which transparent quartz is the prepon- 
 derating substance. From various stations its appearance is 
 different ; being in some places nearly perpendicular, and at 
 others of a gentle declivity; and though the rocks are for the 
 
38 MOUNT ST. MICHAEL, CORNWALL. 
 
 most part craggy and barren, yet the soil affords sufficient 
 herbage to pasture a score of sheep or upwards for the whole 
 year. It has also some small plantations of fir scattered over 
 its surface. The distant view of the Mount excites ideas of 
 extreme grandeur ; but the effect is considerably increased, 
 when traversing its base, ascending its craggy sides, and slowly 
 winding beneath its immense masses of pendent rocks. 
 
 When it was first consecrated to religious purposes is un- 
 known ; but the earliest time it appears on record as a place 
 of devotion, is in the fifth century, though it seems probable 
 that it was then highly celebrated ; as St. Keyna, a holy virgin 
 of the British blood royal, and daughter of Braganus, Prince of 
 Brecknockshire, is stated to have come hither on a pilgrimage, 
 about the year 490. Here she was joined by her nephew 
 CadoG, who is reputed to have caused a fountain to spring up 
 in a dry place, on which a church was erected to his honour. 
 Upv/ards of 500 years afterwards, Edward the Confessor 
 founded on this spot a priory of Benedictine monks, on whom 
 he bestowed the property of the Mount, together with several 
 other places. There has been much written on the subject of 
 some ancient traditions, which tell us, that this Mount was 
 formerly attached to the shore, and surrounded with trees. 
 These traditions appear perfectly groundless : Dr. Berger has 
 shown very satisfactorily, from the position of the strata, that 
 St. Michael's Mount could not have been separated from the 
 land, but by some great convulsion, far beyond the reach of 
 tradition or historical record. The height of the Mount, from 
 the level of the sea to the platform of the tower of the chapel, 
 is 231 feet. The whole of the island contains about seven 
 acres of land : at the foot of the Mount is a level piece of 
 ground, where is a wharf, and near it a considerable village. 
 
 The earliest transaction of a military nature recorded to have 
 happened at this Mount, was in the reign of Richard I., during 
 
MOUNT ST. MICHAEL, CORNWALL. S9 
 
 whose wars in the Holy Land, or subsequent imprisonment in 
 Germany, it was seized, according to Hoveden, by Henry de 
 la Pomeroy, who expelled the monks, and fortified the place, 
 probably to support the cause of John, Richard's brother, who 
 was Earl of Cornwall, and at that time endeavouring to usurp 
 the throne. On the release of Richard, it is stated, that Pome- 
 roy, fearing the King's vengeance, committed suicide ; and 
 that, after his death, the Mount was surrendered to the Arch- 
 bishop of Canterbury. 
 
 It is scarcely possible for a person with a reflecting mind to 
 look upon such a structure as this with indifference. Imao-i- 
 nation will be at work conjuring up pictures of the past. Since 
 it first was reared, what changes have been ! Where are those 
 who built so lofty an edifice — where are its first inmates ? 
 The artisans by whose aid stone was laid upon stone, and the 
 austere monks by whom it was tenanted, lie hidden in the 
 ground. How many generations has it seen fade away — how 
 many hopes bafiled — how many sighs, how many tears ! 
 
 Where now the matin and the vesper bell, which day by 
 day rang a morning and evening hymn ? 
 
 In looking on such a structure as this, there seems to come 
 a voice from every stone, telling that all things are fleeting, that 
 time mars every beauty and destroys every grace, and that 
 man himself is mortal. 
 
 The ascent to the top of the JMount is by a steep and crago-y 
 passage fronting the north, defended about midway by a small 
 battery, which also protects the entrance of the bay, and the 
 whole summit is occupied by the remains of the ancient mon- 
 astic buildings. Its circumference is rather more than a mile ; 
 and its height, from the sand to the top of the chapel-tower, as 
 ascertained by Hadley's quadrant, is 250 feet, being forty-eight 
 feet higher than the Monument in London. 
 
 On the top of the tower, and in one of the angles, are the 
 
 c2 
 
40 MOUNT ST. MICHAEL, CORNWALL. 
 
 remains of a moon-stone lantern, kept, (as Captain Grose ob- 
 serves,) in all likelihood, by the monks, who had a tithe of the 
 fishery, to give direction to the fishermen in dark and tem- 
 pestuous weather. This is vulgarly called St. Michael's Chair, 
 and will only admit one person to sit down in it. The ascent 
 to it is dangerous ; but it is sometimes ascended out of a 
 foolish conceit, that whosoever sits therein, whether man or 
 woman, will henceforth have the mastery in domestic affairs. 
 
CHILDHOOD'S DAYS. 
 
 Oh, Childhood's days ! oh, Childhood's days ! 
 A spirit's tongue might hymn yom* praise ; 
 So chaste, so bright, so purely fair. 
 That evil seems not lurking there. 
 
 The open brow, the playful wile. 
 The ruddy cheek, the cherub smile, — 
 These are the Sowings from a heart 
 Where guilt and sorrow have no part. 
 
 The troublous thoughts age has to bear — 
 The heart of pain, the brow of care, 
 Make many wish, though wishing 's vain, 
 That Childhood's days would dawn again. 
 
 For us those joyous hours have fled, 
 And thus 'twill be when we are dead, — 
 That those now young, in tuneful lays, 
 Will sing the praise of Childhood's days ! 
 
THE TEMPLAR. 
 
 It was a bright summer's evening, in the year 1190 ; the 
 descending sun threw his slanting rays over the earth, and 
 tinged with purple and crimson the skies above — forming the 
 clouds which gathered for the evening, into a halo of glory for 
 himself. 
 
 On the plains of a single horseman moved slowly 
 
 along ; the rider was completely clad in black armour; and, as 
 far as could be judged from the case of iron which covered him, 
 a man of great strength, — broad-shouldered, thickly framed, 
 and with an expansive chest. His visor was half raised, so as 
 to admit the cool breeze of evening, and partly concealed a 
 countenance in which determination and courage were distinctly 
 marked. In addition to his defensive armour he carried a 
 shield, but without any device to give evidence of his rank, 
 though his golden spurs proclaimed him a knight ; whilst his 
 offensive weapons consisted of a lance, which he carried in his 
 hand : a SM^ord also hung from his side, and a dagger was sus- 
 pended from his girdle. 
 
 The horse which he bestrode was every way caparisoned for 
 war. A noble animal it was, and well able to bear the iron 
 load upon its back ; as the rider drew in the rein, it pawed 
 the earth, and showed impatience of restraint. 
 
 '* No, good steed," said the horseman, " thou hast work to 
 do before the sun rises, and fresh thou must set forth for thy 
 journey." 
 
THE TEMPLAR. 43 
 
 He had not thus continued long before the vesper-bell from 
 a neighbouring convent broke the stillness of the evening, 
 which had hitherto been only interrupted by the rustling of 
 the leaves which the wind gently moved, and the twitter of 
 birds as they returned to their nests. The horseman no sooner 
 heard the bell, than he manifested the utmost impatience and 
 disappointment. He turned his horse quickly round, and 
 gazed intently in the distance, though not a single creature 
 was in sight. 
 
 " Curses on him," muttered he ; " what are the vows of a 
 Templar worth ? he swore to meet me here when the vesper 
 bell should ring, and now^ when the time has arrived, he comes 
 not ; fear of the Grand Master has caused him to break his 
 oath. Perish such cowards ! Had I asked one of my own 
 brave companions, how gladly would they have followed ! but 
 I durst not do that. A Templar cannot supplant me — but 
 since the one I have chosen comes not, alone, unaided will I 
 perform my design." Thus saying, he drew the rein, which 
 he had suffered to fall upon his horse's neck, so quickly, as 
 almost to throw his steed upon its haunches. Rowel-deep 
 was he about to plunge his spurs into his horse's flank, when 
 a slight dust seemed to be raised at a great distance ; nearer 
 and nearer it approached, then the rattle of a horse's hoofs met 
 his ears, and soon a horseman, galloping with the utmost speed, 
 was shadowed out. " It is he," exclaimed the impatient 
 knight, and darting his spurs into his steed, hastened to meet 
 the new-comer. 
 
 Mutual greetings having been returned, they proceeded on 
 their way. The jaded state of the Templar's horse (for the 
 white mantle which the rider wore bespoke his order) rendered 
 it difficult for him to keep pace with his companion, who was 
 continually urging his horse forward. 
 
 •' Stop, Sir Hugh," exclaimed the Templar, " your im- 
 
44 
 
 TJIE TEMPLAR. 
 
 patience hurries you beyond prudence ; 'tis yet four hours to 
 your appointed time, and we have scarcely twelve miles to 
 travel/* 
 
 " We are late, very late," rejoined his companion. *' See 
 yon glimmering star," continued he, pointing to the evening 
 star — which, like a lamp of gold, glistened through the azure 
 heavens — " that is my beacon — when its shinings shall be 
 quenched by the western sea, then is the hour of my appoint- 
 ment ; and look, 'tis now on the wane, and we are on hilly 
 ground." 
 
 Evening had for some hours given place to night, before 
 the riders ended their journey ; at length they reached the 
 bank of a river, and both quickly alighted. Sir Hugh St. 
 Pierre (for such was the name of the black knight) whistled a 
 shrill piercing note, and from a thick cluster of trees started 
 forth a human form. The horses were then fastened to a tree> 
 and St. Pierre threw aside the most cumbersome part of his 
 armour ; whilst the stranger dragged a light boat from a small 
 creek, where it had been concealed by some reeds and flags. 
 
 It was one of those summer nights when there is no dark- 
 ness ; not a cloud flitted along, to throw the least shade over 
 the sky. It was not night ! Nature had but thrown her silken 
 veil of bright and beauteous blue over the earth, that the sun 
 should not throw his glorious rays upon her, and then she 
 spangled this azure airy curtain with the most brilliant and 
 sparkling diamonds. 
 
 On the bank opposite to that on which the knights stood, a 
 lordly castle reared the giant head ; massive walls encircled it 
 as a girdle — lofty battlements formed its coronet. The river 
 washed the foot of its walls, which rose to about the height of 
 nine yards, while at the distance of every six or seven a turret 
 crested them. 
 
 On the inside of the walls there was a deep moat, which ran 
 
*HE TEMPLAR. 45 
 
 round the castle ; and, in times of danger, a sentinel was 
 posted at every turret ; though as the Baron who reigned over 
 it was now at peace with his neighbours, this precaution 
 against surprise was not taken, and only a single sentinel 
 paced the walls. 
 
 The moon, which was now at the full, was slowly rising 
 behind the castle, and threw its dark shade across the 
 waters. 
 
 " Your time is well chosen," observed the Templar to his 
 companion; " had not the moon thus aided us, we should 
 hardly have crossed the river unnoticed." 
 
 "Ha! ha!" interrupted the stranger, "yon sentinel must 
 strain his eyes to the utmost to see what we are doing, when 
 the man in the moon himself can't catch a glimpse of us through 
 those dark walls." 
 
 " Silence, sirrah ! " fiercely returned the Templar, "meddle 
 not with that which concerns you not — to your work." The 
 stranger submissively bowed his head, and immediately dragged 
 the boat to a rude kind of landing-place, so that the knights 
 could easily step in. 
 
 Swiftly over the waters the light bark sped. St. Pierre kept 
 continually gazing at the castle, as if expecting some signal ; 
 but all seemed wrapt in silence. At length a light gleamed 
 forth ; " Look," exclaimed St. Pierre, in rather a loud tone of 
 
 "Are you mad?" rejoined the Templar, in a whisper; 
 *' your voice will betray us, and then 'tvv'ould be no child's 
 play. Lance to lance, or sword to sword, I fear not mortal 
 man ; but I desire not to be sitting here, whilst the arrows are 
 flying around us, and each of those sleeping fools opens his 
 drowsy eyes that he may launch his shafts at me, as though I 
 were some ominous night-bird." 
 
 The light was allowed to shine upon the waters but for a 
 
 c5 
 
46 THE TEMPLAR. 
 
 few minutes, when a shade was placed before it ; again it 
 gleamed forth for a minute, and then disappeared. 
 
 So manfully had the stranger plied the oars, that the walls 
 of the castle were now reached ; but, to the astonishment 
 of St. Pierre and his companion, a boat was moored against 
 them. 
 
 " In case our plan fails, we must take away every chance of 
 pursuit," said the stranger ; and, immediately gliding his bark 
 against the other, pierced a large hole in her side, just above 
 the surface of the water. 
 
 As soon as this was accomplished, he began to scale the 
 walls ; silently and stealthily he gradually ascended — the 
 corner of some projecting stone aifording him the only footing, 
 and the separations between them the only parts by which he 
 could hold. 
 
 Soon as he reached the top, his first concern was to 
 master the sentinel ; skulking behind a turret until the sentry 
 ])assed, he sprang forward from his hiding-place, threw his 
 jirms round him, and wrested the weapon from his grasp, 
 threatening to throw him headlong from the walls if he made 
 the least resistance. The man finding ail opposition useless, 
 quietly submitted ; and, suffering his hands to be bound, stood 
 calmly looking on. A stone, with a string attached, was then 
 thrown up from below, and a ladder of rope thus drawn up ; 
 and this, by means of hooks, was then made fast at the 
 top. The knights ascended, and a ladder being secured in a 
 similar way on the other side, means of ascent and descent 
 were formed. 
 
 From the casement through which the light had been seen, 
 a kercliief was now waved. St. Pierre answered the signal, 
 and then it was withdrawn. Immediately afterwards St. Pierre 
 descended into the moat, which he paced for a few moments 
 with the utmost impatience. A secret door was then opened, 
 
THE TEMPLAR. 47 
 
 and a lady, dressed as if about to undertake a journey, issued 
 forth. 
 
 Meanwhile the sentinel having released his hands, watched 
 his opportunity for escape ; he made a bound forward, and 
 gave the signal of alarm, but the knight's companion again 
 arrested him. He attempted resistance, and struggled to ob- 
 tain his freedom, at the same time calling out as loudly as he 
 was able. A blow was struck — he staggered backwards, 
 uttering a piercing cry, and fell from the walls. A loud 
 splash followed — the waves opened to receive the body of 
 the unfortunate man — circle succeeded circle, each growing 
 larger and fainter — and then they rippled on as playfully as 
 before. 
 
 The cry of alarm which the sentinel had made, awoke the 
 sleeping inmates of the castle ; light shone from every loop- 
 hole, and all appeared hurry and confusion. 
 
 " Lower the drawbridge," exclaimed a powerful voice, 
 which, from its authoritative tone, might be easily distinguished 
 as the baron's. 
 
 The order was obeyed in an instant, and forth rushed his 
 retainers, some completely armed, others carrying bows, and 
 the rest bearing torches. 
 
 *' Extinguish every light," again commanded the same 
 voice ; " they serve but to show where we are, and conceal 
 the enemy." 
 
 Scarcely were the words uttered, when the order was obeyed, 
 and then the flutter of a white dress was distinctly seen. 
 
 " It is my niece ! she has escaped through the secret door ! 
 launch an arrow at her — a thousand marks for him who hits 
 her — better see her weltering at my feet, than that she should 
 escape with her paramour." 
 
 There was a pause — every eye was turned to the wall, from 
 which St. Pierre was descending with the lady in his arms. 
 
48 THE TEMPLAR. 
 
 None of the attendants appeared willing to obey their lord's 
 commands. At length one arm was raised — steady and 
 deliberate aim was taken — to the very head was the arrow 
 drawn — a twang followed, and swiftly through the air the 
 winged messenger of death took its flight. 
 
 So true an aim had the archer taken, that it would have 
 buried itself in the bosom of her against whom it was directed, 
 had not the Templar interposed his person, — it struck his 
 breastplate, and then fell harmlessly into the moat. 
 
 " Confound his steel case," muttered the disappointed marks- 
 man ; ** but a thousand marks is worth another effort." 
 
 As quickly as possible St. Pierre descended the ladder with 
 his fair burden, whom he placed in safety in the boat, and 
 then seated himself by her side. 
 
 The Templar now remained alone on the walls ; he drew 
 his sword, and waving it high above his head, shouted their 
 well-known war-cry. 
 
 " She is in a Templar's power," exclaimed the Baron. " I 
 will double the reward for any one who takes him, alive or 
 dead." 
 
 Twenty bows were instantly raised, and twenty arrows 
 launched against him. Like hail-drops they rattled on his 
 steel armour, and then bounded harmlessly off. 
 
 *' Try him with cold steel," was again shouted by the 
 Baron, and again all his retainers were on the alert. 
 
 The Templar laughed scornfully at the fruitless efforts of 
 his assailants. He cut the ladder which led into the moat, 
 and then deliberately descended the other side ; and having 
 seated himself in the stern of the skiff, the oars were splashed 
 into the water, and the vessel bounded forward. 
 
 The moon had now risen above the castle, and threw her 
 pale and silver beams around. Like a majestic queen she 
 walked the azure path of heaven, gladdening by her smiles the 
 
THE TEMPLAR. 49 
 
 crlistenin^ waves, as they sported playfully along, and sparkling 
 their crests with diamonds. 
 
 The light bark sped swiftly onward, but not a word was 
 spoken by any one in her. 
 
 " Man the boat and pursue them ! " ordered the Baron. 
 
 ** Ha ! ha !" said the rower of St. Pierre's bark (who up 
 to this time had unceasingly plied the oar with his utmost 
 strength, so that at every stroke it quivered, and the boat 
 darted forward); " get as many into her as you can— a cool 
 bath will be very refreshing this fine morning." 
 
 During this time St. Pierre and his fair companion had 
 not exchanged words ; the lady intently bent her eyes to the 
 castle, and tears silently trickled down her cheeks. 
 
 " Why are you so sad ?" inquired St. Pierre ; " have you 
 not quitted the place where nothing but unhappiness was in 
 store for you ?" 
 
 " True," was the reply, " I have quitted the walls where, 
 had I remained until another dawn, I should have been forced 
 into a hateful union ! True, I have quitted the habitation of 
 an uncle who detested me ! But it is also true, that within the 
 circuit of those dark stones my happiest hours have been spent ! 
 Years have passed over me without a sorrow — summers with- 
 out a cloud." 
 
 " And may not such days return ?" said St. Pierre. 
 
 " Ah ! " replied the maiden, " hope would whisper, yes ! 
 But the feathered songster of the woods — which, that we may 
 be gladdened by its wild melody, is so often made captive — 
 beats wildly against its prison bars, and struggles to obtain its 
 freedom ; and, having gained it, finds that there are bleak 
 winds and pitiless storms, which it knew not of before ; and 
 then, though too late, would gladly seek an asylum in its 
 former home. Just this is my case ; — like a liberated bird, I 
 have soared above my prison walls, and have now^ the wide 
 
50 THE TEMPLAR. 
 
 world throiigh which to roam ; but, oh ! the scenes are strange, 
 and its customs foreign ; and in all the extent which yon blue 
 arch encircles, I have but one on whom to rely ; and should 
 that one leave me, then, like a stricken fawn, must I seek some 
 unfrequented glen, and lay me down and die. 
 
 " In a few hours," replied St. Pierre, " we shall reach the 
 Abbey of St. Mary ; the Prior is my sworn friend, and at ray 
 request will link our hands with the indissoluble tie ; then 
 will we quit this water-girdled isle, and, having the world for 
 our home, will roam through all its lands, and see if there be 
 not in other countries as sunny skies as those which canopy 
 England." 
 
 " I know," answered the lady, " that you purpose joining 
 the champions of the Cross, and will lead the Christian bands 
 against the infidel host ; nor would I dissuade you from so 
 noble an undertaking. But, ah ! their climate is unhealthy, 
 their arrows are poisoned, and their scimetars are keen, and 
 if you should fall — " 
 
 " Then drop a tear over a warrior's grave, and smile on as 
 before." 
 
 Further conversation was interrupted by the boat reaching 
 the shore. The rower leaping out, drew it to a convenient 
 landing-place, and St. Pierre and his companions having dis- 
 embarked, it was again concealed. 
 
 In obedience to the Baron's commands, and allured by the 
 hope of obtaining the reward which was to follow the capture 
 of the Templar, the boat belonging to the castle was instantly 
 filled by his retainers ; but the precaution against pursuit 
 taken by St. Pierre's attendant, rendered it impossible for 
 them to cross the river, — their weight sinking the boat so low, 
 that the water immediately flowed through the hole which had 
 been made. 
 
 This unexpected check filled the Baron with fury ; he 
 
THE TEMPLAR. 51 
 
 foamed with rage, and vowed that he would revenge himself 
 on the Templar, though he should compass the kingdom in 
 search of him. After some delay, however, the boat was re- 
 paired, and the Baron and his retainers soon reached the 
 opposite shore. 
 
 The veil of night was now being taken away, and as fold 
 after fold was with withdrawn, the sun's glorious beams shone 
 brighter and brighter. He came from his ocean bed, like an 
 emperor from his palace — his own brilliant rays forming his 
 diadem, the crimsoned sky his robe of royalty. 
 
 The marks of the hoofs of St. Pierre's horses were dis- 
 tinctly visible on the yet dewy grass, and the road the riders 
 had taken was clearly marked out. Having no horses on this 
 side of the river, it was immediately determined by tbe 
 Baron, that his men should return to the castle, saddle their 
 own, ford the river, and pursue the fugitives with the utmost 
 speed. 
 
 " It is useless to follow them on foot," said he; " return to 
 the castle, and afterwards pursue them." 
 
 The sun was now high in the heavens, and poured forth his 
 golden rays over flood and field ; not even a shadowy cloud 
 rose to dim his lustre ; but the deep blue vault of sky seemed 
 to gaze with delight on its own loveliness, as the glassy waters 
 reflected its bright image. He had roused from slumber the 
 world's inhabitants ; and bleating flocks, and warbling birds, 
 and buzzing insects, seemed to join in a morning hymn to the 
 monarch of day. So brilliant and smiling was all around, that 
 nature seemed to have decked herself in her gayest robes, to 
 celebrate some joyful holiday ; and earth and air, to gather the 
 beauteous things they contained, to form the procession in some 
 magnificent pageant. 
 
 Such a day was it the Baron's intention to make it. He 
 had fixed, that then his niece's marriage should take place ; 
 
52 THE TEMPLAR. 
 
 and preparations for celebrating it with the utmost costliness 
 and magnificence had been made. 
 
 The bridegroom was there, with his friends and retainers, 
 gorgeously arrayed — but the bride whom he sought had fled. 
 Numerous guests were assembled — but the welcome voice of 
 the host was wanting. Minstrels with their harps were there, 
 to celebrate the day in merry song — but the sunny eyes which 
 were to wake the notes of melody beamed not on them ; and, 
 like the fabled statue, when not gilded by the morning sun, 
 no music filled the air. 
 
 In vain the assembled multitude sought to know the cause 
 of the commotion, — none were left to tell ; and as one asked 
 the other the reason, instead of answering, the questioned per- 
 son shook his head, looked grave, and was silent. 
 
 The arrival of the boat was the signal for the numerous 
 assemblage of guests to hasten to the bank. In brief words 
 the Baron explained the reason of his absence, and expressed 
 his determination to be revenged ; and, in a short tim.e, the 
 ring of armour and the neighing of horses resounded, whilst 
 the plumes of knights waved gaily in the breeze. 
 
 While these events were taking place, Adela de Montford, 
 the cause of all the disturbance, was riding to the Abbey of 
 St. Mary, between St. Pierre and the Templar. The dew- 
 drops glistened beneath their horses' hoofs, and the rosy morn 
 coloured the sky. 
 
 The depressed spirits of Adela revived as the distance be- 
 tween her and her uncle increased ; and the freshness of the 
 morning brought a bloom to her cheeks, which a sleepless 
 night had rendered pallid, — as if the rose had kissed the lily, 
 and left the tint of its ruddy lips. 
 
 As soon as the abbey appeared in the distance, the Templar 
 prepared to return ; and, after having exchanged a friendly 
 farewell with St. Pierre, bent low and bid adieu to his fair 
 
THE TEMPLAR. 53 
 
 companion. The lady returned his salutation with equal 
 courtesy ; she then thanked him for the protection afforded on 
 the previous night, and also for the kindness shown in accom- 
 panying her so far, and expressed regret that he was about to 
 depart. 
 
 *' We shall meet again in Palestine," answered the Templar, 
 " but till then I shall not see you, for on a Templar the eye 
 of beauty sparkles not, nor does the cheek of beauty smile ; 
 this," continued he, pointing to the cross on his shoulder, " is 
 a Templar's bride, and until oaths may be broken and honour 
 remain untarnished, he may not wed another." 
 
 He again bowed low ; and, turning his horse's head, pro- 
 ceeded onward in a contrary direction. 
 
 " Ha !" mused he as he moved slowly along, " happy St. 
 Pierre ! destined, as thou seemst to be, to sail down the stream 
 of time, linked with a kindred spirit ! For me how different 
 a lot ! No kind looks are bent — no soothing words fall — no 
 affectionate wife cheers my solitude, or ministers during sick- 
 ness. But through life I must pursue my lonely course ; and 
 when I fall, my brow may, perhaps, be crowned with the 
 laurel wreath of honour — but the tear of affection falling on 
 my grave would hallow it more. 
 
 " Of what worth is it to me that I stand among the foremost 
 of this valorous order, so that I may aspire to hold the baton 
 of the Grand Master, when death wrests it from the puny hand 
 which now grasps it ? What avails it that I have done such 
 deeds that my name is trumpeted through all the courts of 
 Europe ? With me my glory will expire, and in my grave 
 my greatness lie buried. 
 
 *' A Templar is a slave in all but name : his goods, his 
 strength, his free-will, are at another's disposal. Oh ! what is 
 such a life worth ? It is night while the sun is yet shining, 
 and death while the life-blood vet flows." 
 
54 
 
 THE TEMPLAR. 
 
 Excited by such thoughts, and apparently wishing to fly 
 from them, he spurred his horse and urged him forward ; but 
 immediately checking himself, continued — 
 
 " Why, because disturbed myself, should I wreak vengeance 
 on this noble animal ? No ! when the battle-tide rose high, 
 he bore me nobly through ; and when danger hovered over 
 me, proudly carried me away, and never flagged or failed his 
 rider. Shall I requite such services thus ?" 
 
 Dow^n a gentle slope, which led to a thick forest, the Templar 
 was descending, when he reined in his horse. It was a spot 
 well adapted for reflection, for the thick foliage completely 
 obscured the sun's rays, and threw a dark and sombre hue 
 around. As soon as he reached the entrance of the wood, he 
 alighted, and seating himself beneath a wide-spreading oak — 
 which stood out from the adjoining trees like the advance-guard 
 of an army, and extended its giant arms afar, as if to challenge 
 all intruders — sank into deep meditation. 
 
 " Strange," mused he, " that the voice of yon fair lady 
 should have thus awakened these thoughts. Peace, troubled 
 spirit ! will you never rest ? Ah ! Isabel, Isabel ! thou art 
 now indeed revenging thyself. Oh! I cruelly repaid thy love; 
 and nowthe remembrance of thy kindness haunts me like a fiend. 
 Thy eyes, once so bright and lovely, rise before me like mirrors 
 to reflect my baseness ; and thy gentle voice, so sweet and 
 musical as it was, thrills into my ear, branding me with the 
 name of murderer. Oh, memory, memory ! shall I never blot 
 out the record of deeds engraven on thee ? No ! thou art the 
 harvest-field on which are sown man's actions ; mine have pro- 
 duced the prickly thorn, which goads and lacerates its victim. 
 Ah ! what avails it that I aim at greatness ? can it flourish 
 from such a root ? How gladly would I exchange all the 
 glittering hopes which ambition holds out, for a calm and tran- 
 quil mind ! " 
 
THE TEMPLAR. 55 
 
 He buried his face in his hands, and sank into a deep reverie. 
 At length the rattle of horses' hoofs, approaching through the 
 wood, aroused him. He started up, and, dashing away a tear 
 which had filled his eye, exclaimed, 
 
 " Shall a Templar be seen weeping, and those things be 
 unveiled to other eyes, which himself dares scarcely look 
 on?" 
 
 In a moment he was up, and all appearance of weakness 
 vanished. His eye blanched not, nor did his nerve quiver; 
 but, vaulting into his saddle, he closed his visor, and pre- 
 pared for battle. 
 
 'Twas well he did so, for instantly afterwards an arrow 
 struck the bars of his helmet. The hostile intention of the 
 horsemen being now evident, without waiting for a further 
 discharge of missiles, the Templar set his lance in the rest, 
 and spurred his horse against his opponents. 
 
 The leader of the opposite party was equally anxious for 
 the onset, and, urging his horse forward, hastened to the 
 attack. Like maddened bulls, they met in furious conflict, 
 and both lances were shivered to the grasp ; but owing 
 either to the greater power or skill on the part of the Templar, 
 his adversary was hurled to the ground, and almost stunned 
 by the fall. 
 
 The Templar had yet, however, fearful odds to contend 
 with: his opponents still amounted to five in number ; but 
 danger was his delight, and war his pastime. He drew his 
 sword, and rushed onward to a fresh attack. 
 
 With such impetuosity did the Templar charge his foes, 
 that two more fell beneath his powerful arm, and lay gasping 
 on the ground. Dismayed by the prodigies of valour which 
 he performed, his adversaries were turning to fly, when the 
 archer, galled at the ill-success of his former efi'ort, again let 
 fly an arrow — but in place of aiming at the Templar, directed 
 
56 
 
 THE TEMPLAR. 
 
 his shaft against the horse. It struck it in the face, and 
 penetrated to the brain ; when the noble animal, stung with 
 pain, and as if conscious from whose hand its death-blpw 
 came, bounded towards the archer, stopped a moment, and 
 then sank down. As it fell, the Templar, dealing a furious 
 blow upon the archer's head, cleft it asunder, and the horse 
 and its slayer died on the same spot. 
 
 To extricate himself from the stirrup was, with the Templar, 
 but the work of a minute ; but the hopes of obtaining victory 
 were further removed. It might have been possible for him 
 to have fled into the glades of the forest, and thus have 
 escaped, — but " When did a Templar fly ?" rose upon his 
 mind. 
 
 Placing his back against a tree, he prepared for mortal con- 
 flict, — and well did he sustain the reputation he had acquired 
 of a valiant knight ; but his prior conquests had not been 
 gained without wounds, which bleeding copiously, greatly 
 weakened the force of his blows ; and victory, which had long 
 hovered over, as if unable to decide to whom to adjudge the 
 palm, would soon have declared against him, had not a stranger 
 started from behind, and placed himself by the side of the 
 Templar; whilst his enemies, dismayed at the succour he had 
 received, immediately fled. 
 
 The noise of the retreating horsemen quickly died away in 
 the distance, leaving all as calm and unruffled as if the ring of 
 armour and the clash of swords, engaged in mortal warfare, 
 had never resounded in the leafy walls around. 
 
 The stranger who had thus turned the battle-tide when at 
 its highest pitch, and rescued the Templar from imminent 
 danger, hastened to catch one of the horses of the slain, which 
 during the scuffle had fled to some distance. 
 
 Though dressed in the usual costume of a Norman vassal, 
 there was something in his appearance which betokened better 
 
THE TEMPLAR. 57 
 
 birth. There was a nobleness of manner and a loftiness of 
 bearing, which, in spite of all his endeavours to suppress, crave 
 a dignity to his actions. He appeared to aim at concealment, 
 shunning the Templar's glance, and preventing the thanks 
 which were being called forth on account of the opportune as- 
 sistance he had afforded, by quitting the spot, under pretence 
 of securing one of the loose horses. 
 
 Disregarding his own wounds, though the blood oozed freely 
 from them, the Templar advanced to the knight he had un- 
 horsed, in whom the life-blood was fast ebbing away ; for such 
 had been the force with which he had been charged, that his 
 adversary's lance had pierced through his shield and linked 
 shirt of mail, and inflicted a deep wound in his breast. 
 
 Gently, as if the least roughness would sever soul from body, 
 so loosely did they appear linked together, the Templar unlaced 
 the helmet of the dying man ; and which, as soon as removed, 
 discovered the countenance of a young man of apparently five 
 or six and twenty years of age. A profusion of curly auburn 
 hair shaded his forehead ; his features were regular and at- 
 tractive ; and which, had the ruddy glow of health mantled his 
 cheek, would have been handsome ; but the hand of death had 
 been busy there, marring the might and withering the bloom of 
 the young warrior. 
 
 "Why has this fierce attack been made upon me ?" asked 
 the Templar, as he bent over the body, endeavouring in vain 
 to recognise the features. " What cause of offence have 1 given, 
 that nothing but blood could wash it out ?" 
 
 The dying man, turning his blue eyes upon the Templar — 
 they were once bright and beamed with lustre, now pale and 
 glassy,— said, " What! had I no cause? Through you have my 
 best hopes been blasted. Impatient for the day which was to 
 bind me to the lady Adela, I have counted months, and days, 
 and hours, as they winged their tardy flight. At length, to-day 
 
58 THE TEMPLAR. 
 
 dawned. Gay, and with heart light as air — oh ! 'tis heavy 
 now — I rose to meet my bride. My bride ! The only bride 
 that I shall wed, will be that grim one, death ! And all this 
 you have caused ; was not it enough to rouse to vengeance ? 
 May the curses of a dying man " 
 
 *' Curse not," interrupted the Templar: "curses are but words 
 breathed to the winds ; they fall harmlessly as feathers on the 
 heads against which they are directed, but recoil like leaden 
 weights on those who utter them." 
 
 *' Have I not cause," replied the other, " to curse the hand 
 which has thrown me here ? 'Tis not that I fear death, though 
 'tis hard to fall ere time has caused the leaf of life to wither 
 or the evening shadows to lengthen. But my lips burn ; oh, 
 for a draught of water to moisten them ! I have much to tell," 
 continued he, " much that deeply concerns you, but my parched 
 lips" (they were indeed of a livid hue — that colour death de- 
 lights in) " refuse utterance to my thoughts, even should this 
 glimmering lamp of life flicker on during the recital." 
 
 At a short distance from the spot there was a murmuring 
 rill, whose clear and crystal-like waters wound through the 
 wood their unobtrusive course, giving health to the grass 
 and shrubs which grew upon its banks, and partly over- 
 shadowed it. 
 
 *' But a cup, — I cannot fetch it in my palms," muttered the 
 Templar to himself as he glanced around, as if in search of 
 some vessel in which it might be conveyed. The helmet of 
 the dying man lay at his feet. " Ah ! " said he, raising it from 
 the ground, " this is a fit war-cup, most of all for a dying 
 warrior." 
 
 Impelled by the desire to ascertain what the dying man 
 could have to relate concerning himself, the Templar hastened 
 to the stream ; but whilst he was absent, the spirit winged its 
 flight. Still and motionless the body lay upon the ground — 
 
THE TEMPLAR. 59 
 
 nought changed, save that death had stiffened the limbs. The 
 features were calm and pale, as if chiselled on the marble, for 
 no violent wrench had severed soul from body. No pain had 
 been there to writhe and distort ; but so gently had life trickled 
 out — pulse following pulse, each beating feebler ; and breath 
 succeeding breath, each coming fainter — that when the heart's 
 blood ceased to flow, life seemed not extinct, but only wrapped 
 in slumber. And there that form which had lately been full 
 of life and acti\'ity — that goodly structure, occupied as it had 
 been by a godlike power, lay stark and stiff. 
 
 "Within that house of flesh, Mind like a presiding deity had 
 sat enthroned — lifting it, though destined to walk the earth, 
 above the roll of stars, and bearing it on the wings of ima- 
 gination through regions impenetrable by sight ; but spum- 
 ing the chains of death, it soared to its invisible home, and 
 left its frail and fickle frame to the tyrant's blasts and deso-^ 
 lation. 
 
 But no voice was there to lament or wail over the dead ; 
 no sorrowing eye graced his ashes with a tear. Unmoved, 
 the mighty sun marched on in his never-ending course, though 
 a nobler creation than himself lay wrecked and shattered in 
 his view. The smiling skies surrounded him, and he sought 
 not even a shadowy cloud, as if to veil a tear. 
 
 The varied tribes of warbling birds filled the trees with their 
 melody ; but no note of sadness mingled in the strain. 
 
 The beauteous flowers which decked the green earth's breast 
 closed not up their lovely colours. No sympathy was felt for 
 the corpse which they surrounded ; and sorrow for the dead 
 ■v\'ithered not their beauties. Nature changed not her wreath of 
 roses for the cypress and the yew. 
 
 In the carious and wondrous machinery of the universe, all 
 goes on as uninterruptedly as before, when the noblest of men 
 are numbered with the dead. Sun and sky, smiling landscape 
 
60 THE TEMPLAR. 
 
 and sparkling waters, have no sympathy for them. Nature 
 never puts on the garb of mourning, or ever drops a tear. 
 
 The Templar bent over the corpse, and sank into deep me- 
 ditation. His reverie was broken by the stranger, who dis- 
 mounted from his horse and urged him to fly. " Hasten to 
 cover. Sir Knight," said he ; " those knaves who have fled will 
 soon procure assistance ; and if a pack like this could gore the 
 noble stag, how, when wounded, will he escape their fangs?" 
 
 The Templar steadily fixed his eyes upon the stranger, and 
 for a moment started with surprise at discovering that the man 
 to whom he was indebted for his life was the rower who had 
 assisted in the escape of Lady de Montford. He quickly, 
 however, recovered his composure, and mounted the horse the 
 stranger held for him, but stopped for a moment to gaze upon 
 the dead. He then rode away. 
 
 The preceptory of the Templars was situated in a picturesque 
 spot ; its lofty turrets rose from the midst of verdant and 
 flowery fields, and commanded an extensive range of the sur- 
 rounding country. It was strongly fortified according to the 
 rules of defence then practised — a point never neglected by the 
 knights of this order, and which from the disordered state of 
 the kingdom (owing to the feudal system), and from the dis- 
 like which was entertained to the knights themselves, was ex- 
 tremely necessary. It might have been considered as almost 
 impregnable ; for in addition to that wall of iron, which, on 
 the slightest summons, the knights' bodies presented, mas- 
 sive walls surrounded it, strong enough to have resisted any 
 force the neighbouring barons could bring against it. 
 
 Upon a lofty watch-tower, sentinels were posted night and 
 day, so as to guard it from surprise : whilst a deep moat, over 
 which a ponderous drawbridge could be raised or lowered at 
 pleasure, cut off all communication from the surrounding 
 country. 
 
THE TEMPLAR. 61 
 
 If Alexander the Great had lived a few centuries later, he 
 would have said — in place of '* Were I not Alexander, I would 
 be Diogenes" — " Were I not Alexander, I would be a Templar;" 
 for both the knights and the philosopher were men without 
 wants, — the only difference between them being, that in the 
 one case the mind was contented, and therefore wished for 
 nothing ; and, in the other, everything was provided, and the 
 mind could wish for nothing beyond. For if the Templars 
 practised austerity and suffered privations, they had at least 
 the luxury of being surrounded by bright and beautiful 
 scenery — river, and forest, and field, adding their beauties to 
 the landscape — all blending together to make one bright spot ; 
 and if Diogenes had but half as beautiful views to gaze upon 
 as the Templars, the King of Macedon might have envied him 
 his state. 
 
 It was to this knightly home the Templar was returning, 
 though then in a mood little calculated to enjoy the beauties 
 of scenery, for he was faint with loss of blood, jaded with ex- 
 cessive fatigue, and with his armour broken and covered with 
 gore and dust. He had nearly reached the eminence which 
 led to the barbican, when the rattle of advancing horsemen 
 met his ears. 
 
 It required not a moment's consideration on his part to dis- 
 cover he was the object of pursuit ; and though scarcely able 
 to retain his seat, from weariness, he spurred his horse forward, 
 in the hope of outstripping his enemies ; but the sound 
 gradually growing louder and louder, told that they gained 
 fast upon him. Nearer they approach every minute. The 
 Preceptory is but a short distance before him—forward he 
 hurries, his enemies almost upon his heels. The walls are 
 now gained and the signal given ; in an instant the draw- 
 bridge is lowered, and the Templar rides into the court- 
 yard. Before it could be again drawn up, his enemies vrere 
 
62 THE TEMPLAR. 
 
 upon it. *' Drop the portcullis ! " shouted the Templar, in a 
 voice of thunder ; and then, overcome with exertion, he fell 
 from his saddle, as if in uttering these words his remaining 
 energies had been gathered, whicli glowed brightly for a 
 moment, like a meteor ray, and then left all in dark- 
 ness. 
 
 While the fallen Templar was being removed to his own 
 apartment in the Preceptory, his pursuers, after some delay, 
 were admitted within the walls, and at length, after repeated 
 solicitations, were brought into the presence of the Grand 
 Master. 
 
 The Grand Master was seated in a small apartment, or ra- 
 ther cell — and which, but for the air of cheerfulness given to it 
 by the sun-beams whicli found their way through a narrow 
 loop-hole, would have had more resemblance to a prisoner's 
 dungeon, than the apartment of the Head of an order, whose 
 chivalrous exploits were heard of throughout the whole of Eu- 
 rope — whose arms were strong enough to overthrow mon- 
 archies, and hurl kings from their thrones. 
 
 The occupier of this homely apartment was a man far ad- 
 vanced in life — the suns of threescore summers had wrinkled 
 his brow and imprinted deep furrows on his cheeks ; and the 
 frost of threescore winters had silvered the few hairs which 
 remained upon his head, and whitened the beard which fell 
 upon his breast. A pair of shaggy eyebrows partly con- 
 cealed his eyes, whose brightness time had dimmed but not 
 quenched. 
 
 The Grand Master was seated at a low table, his head rest- 
 ing upon his hand, as he busily pondered over a parchment 
 scroll — apparently the rules of the order — which lay before 
 him. The heavy and rapid tread of mailed knights along a 
 passage which led to this retired nook, aroused his attention — 
 an unwonted sound at that time, for all the Templars were clad 
 
THE TEMPLAR. 63 
 
 in their robes of peace, and walked to and fro with noiseless 
 tread and downcast looks. The intruders — for such they might 
 be termed, as it was only on weighty occasions that the Grand 
 Master allowed his privacy to be broken in upon — on entering, 
 bent low in token of respect, and then advancing a few paces 
 forward, the foremost thus addressed him : — 
 
 " Grand Master of the noble order of the Temple, though 
 unknown to you, I have a claim to your attention. I have come 
 
 to ask justice at your hands. I am Reginald de Montford " 
 
 " Reginald de Montford," interrupted the Grand Master, " he 
 to whom I am indebted for the preservation of my life ?" 
 
 " No ; that was Edward, my brother; he has gone to his rest, 
 and left me the protector of his children, and it is on account 
 of those he held most dear that I have come hither. His 
 daughter has been carried off by one of the knights of your or- 
 der. By secret means her consent had been obtained, and in 
 the stillness of night her lover scaled the walls of my castle, 
 and bore her away. Where she is hidden I cannot tell, but 
 her paramour I have pursued to the gates of your Preceptory. 
 He entered a minute before us, and thus escaped, or my sword 
 would have redressed my own wrongs. I now ask that my 
 niece may be restored to my guardianship, and justice done on 
 her paramour." 
 
 The brow of the Grand Master darkened at the intelligence. 
 His features, naturally stern and austere, became swollen with 
 fury. He started from his seat, and pacing to and fro in his 
 narrow room, exclaimed, " That such a thing should have hap- 
 pened in my very presence! What a character will posterity give 
 n>e ! for the head is blamed for the faults of the members. You 
 have asked for justice ; that shall be granted, though it were my 
 dearest friend on whom I had to pass sentence. W^hatever the 
 vices of the order, it shall at least be said that the Grand Mas- 
 ter himself holds the scales of justice with an even hand." 
 
 d2 
 
64 THE TEMPLAR. 
 
 The gust of passion which indignation had raised passed soon 
 away, and his features quickly settled into their usually calm 
 and dignified composure ; but not so his sense of justice — this 
 was no evanescent feeling, bubbling and boiling for a moment, 
 and then as quickly subsiding. He continued, in a milder 
 tone — 
 
 " I see it is the ewe lamb of the flock that has been stolen, 
 and as David said to Nathan, * As I live, the man who has done 
 this thing shall surely die.' " 
 
 The Grand Master had joined the order of Templars from 
 principle, and in all the stations he had filled in his ascent to 
 the highest dignity, had ever conformed to the rules of the or- 
 der ; nor did he in the least change when fortune placed him 
 on the pinnacle of greatness. Pie still continued the rigid and 
 austere habits, differing nothing from the rest of the knights, 
 either in the richness of his apparel or the sumptuousness of 
 his viands. His character was great and honourable on all 
 points but one. He regarded with mistrustful and jealous eye 
 those who held the higher posts and were likely on his decease 
 to be elected in his room. 
 
 The GrAnd Master now summoned his attendant, Conrad de 
 Leisle, 0. man of the utmost dissoluteness, but veiling it from 
 other eyes under the mask of sanctity. He had ever a text of 
 Scripture ready, and a mournful shrug of the shoulders, when 
 he heard of the failings of the younger brethren. By such arts 
 of dissimulation and hypocrisy, he gained the entire confidence 
 of his superior. 
 
 With his arms folded across his breast, his eyes bent upon 
 the ground, and his features twisted into the utmost primness, 
 he awaited his superior's commands. 
 
 " Prepare the hall of the Preceptory immediately," said the 
 Grand Master ; "let the great bell be instantly tolled, and all 
 the brethren summoned to take their places before the sun shall 
 
THE TEMPLAR. 65 
 
 have crossed another line of the dial. Let no one be absent ; 
 I have an affair of the utmost importance to unfold, one which 
 must be discussed immediately : every day has its duties, and 
 ere I sleep this work must be done ; to-morrow will bring its 
 own cares. When all is ready, let me be informed." 
 
 True to the moment, the Grand Master was acquainted that 
 everything was prepared, and Conrad leading the way, con- 
 ducted him and Reginald de Montford to the hall. 
 
 A higher place was set apart for him ; whilst on benches, 
 raised according to the several degrees, sat the knights — and 
 the outer part was filled with squires and others whom curiosity 
 had drawn together. The Grand Master glanced along the 
 lines, but every seat, save one, was occupied — the vacant one 
 was close to his own, belonging to one of the knights whom his 
 mistrust accounted rivals. 
 
 The Grand Master then addressed the Assembly, — 
 
 " Knights of the noble order of the Temple," said he, " I 
 have required your presence on an important occasion. One 
 of our holy order is accused of carrying off and concealing the 
 niece of the noble knight who stands by my side — a lady 
 whose affections he had gained by means unknown to her 
 lawful guardian, and in utter disregard of our ancient law, 
 which holds * that it is dangerous to all religions to gaze too 
 much on the countenance of woman.' I have therefore sum- 
 moned you, brethren of the same holy order, that means may 
 be devised to * put away the evil thing from us,' and that the 
 knight who has broken our laws, and thus ' given occasion to 
 the enemy to blaspheme' should receive a just punishment. 
 But I perceive Sir Bertrand de Gramont's seat unoccupied ; he 
 has a head for council as well as an arm for fight, and should 
 not now be absent. Does any one know aught of him ? " 
 
 " He returned but a short time since, wounded and bleed- 
 ing," answered a voice from the mass. 
 
&S THE TEMPLAR, 
 
 " If possilale let him attend," said the Grand Master ; " his 
 presence is needful ; nor will we resume business till he 
 appears." 
 
 A silence deep and dead as the night followed, when, after 
 a lapse of some minutes, the Grand Master whispered to Con- 
 rad, who stood by his side, "Where can Bertrand de Gramont 
 have been ? " 
 
 **I suppose, 'walking up and down the earth, and moving 
 to and fro in it, seeking whom he might devour,' like our 
 great adversary," answered Conrad. 
 
 Bertrand de Gramont was disliked by both Conrad and his 
 superior ; the former was at enmity with him, and the Grand 
 Master himself bore him no good will from the feeling that he 
 would probably be his successor. 
 
 More words to the same effect might have passed between 
 the Grand Master and his confident, when Sir Bertrand de 
 Gramont himself entered the hall. 
 
 On entering the hall. Sir Bertrand de Gramont bent respect- 
 fully to the Grand Master, and then advanced slowly to his 
 place. 
 
 "Would it not be advisable to have the armour of De Gra- 
 mont brought into the hall ?" whispered Conrad to the Grand 
 Master ; *' appearances are strangely against him, and De 
 Montford would at once determine if it were he whom they 
 pursued." 
 
 Without replying to the hint of Conrad, the Grand Master 
 rose and thus spoke : 
 
 " Sir Bertrand de Gramont, the noble Baron by my side has 
 accused one of our holy order of carrying off and concealing 
 his niece, — a lady who since her father's death has been under 
 his guardianship. He further states, that the Knight who hath 
 thus disgraced himself and our order entered the Preceptory 
 scarcely a minute before him, bleeding and wounded. We do 
 
THE TEMPLAR. 67 
 
 not lay the guilt at your door ; but your absence when all were 
 summoned, and your pale and haggard looks, tell greatly 
 against you." 
 
 " I have often looked paler and been worse wounded when 
 fighting for our order than now, when I have been defending 
 my life," said De Gramont ; " but little notice was then taken." 
 
 *' Thy deeds of arms are not unnoticed ; general consent 
 has awarded to you the first place in the field and in the tour- 
 nament — and oh ! sad pity is it, that the knight before whose 
 puissant arm the stoutest foeman falls, should himself be con- 
 quered by the arts of female witcher}\ Say, for thine own 
 sake, for the sake of the order to which thou belongest, say it 
 was not thou." 
 
 The Grand Master paused for a moment, but De Gramont 
 continued silent. 
 
 "Art thou dumb?" said the Grand Master angrily; "is it 
 truth, then? and has shame sealed thy lips?" 
 
 Fire flashed from De Gramont's dark eyes — those lamps of 
 the soul — at the taunt, " No," said he, starting up, " shame 
 and De Gramont are as far removed as the world's centre from 
 its circumference. Once only did I bring shame on myself; 
 that was when I painted the bull's head on my shield, and 
 bound myself to this order. When I gave my wealth to satisfy 
 its rapacity, and my strength to defend its usurpations, — when 
 I forswore my fellows, and laid down my liberty, — then I 
 brought shame upon myself. And tliis I did for an order uni- 
 versally hated. Men shun a Templar as they would a plague. 
 He brings desolation wherever he approaches, and blights the 
 rosy cheeks of beauty in gazing on them." 
 
 " Stop his mouth," shouted Conrad ; " suffer him not to 
 blaspheme the Holy Order of Zion." 
 
 The hall was instantly in a state of commotion and uproar, 
 
6S THE TEMPLAR. 
 
 when the voice of the Grand Master was heard above the din, 
 and the single word " peace," pronounced in a deep and solemn 
 tone, calmed the tempest. 
 
 " De Gramont's words are too true," said the Grand Master ; 
 " our order has fallen off from its primitive simplicity, and be- 
 come notorious for its profligacy ; a Templar is a name for vice 
 and folly, instead of virtue and holiness. But it is the fault of 
 the members, and not of the order. Our laws are still strict, 
 and if obeyed, our morality would be unimpeachable ; but 
 since riches have flowed in upon us, we have become reckless. 
 Religion brings not men to our banner ; but if the least mis- 
 fortune happen, so that the world disgusts them, they fly hi- 
 ther ; and thus, if one heart-string which binds them to their 
 fellows be broken, they seek to repair it by severing the rest. 
 They come moody and sad ; but these feelings soon wear off". 
 When Sir Bertrand first came to our Preceptory, grief sat heavy 
 upon him ; but this has now passed away." 
 
 " I had cause for sorrow then," said De Gramont, " nor has 
 the remembrance of it vanished ; but the mind has its changes, 
 the same as the year. It has its dark time of trouble and care 
 — that winter of gloom ; but there likewise come blithe and 
 happy hours, as summer's cheerfulness and brightness. I did 
 come to your Preceptory a moody, melancholy man. By one 
 fell stroke, every link which bound me to others was cleft in 
 twain. I determined to renounce the world, which had cheated 
 me by delusive hopes and shadowy expectations ; I thought of 
 a monastery, but the life of a recluse I could not endure ; I 
 then determined to enrol my name under the banner of Zion, 
 and help to rescue the Holy Sepulchre from the dominion of 
 the Saracens. In this cause I have fought and bled. But 
 never have I broken my oaths. 
 
 *' 'Tis false," said Reginald de Montford, stepping forward. 
 
THE TEMPLAR. 69 
 
 *' Here I brand you with treachery and perjury, disprove it if 
 thou canst ! There lies my gage." And he threw down his 
 heavy gauntlet. 
 
 " When I became a Templar," said De Gramont, as he 
 picked up the iron glove, ** I resigned all my riches but honour ; 
 that is too precious a gem to be parted with. That is the 
 heir-loom which has descended from sire to son ; and if I am 
 the last to bear the ancient name of De Gramont, I will give 
 it to the air as unsullied as I received it. Time and place fit- 
 ting, I am ready to fight on foot or on horseback, with lance, 
 sword, or mace ; and may God defend the right." 
 
 " Amen," said the Grand Master in a solemn tone, and the 
 rest of the assembly echoed the word. 
 
 For a moment De Gramont looked attentively at the gaunt- 
 let he held, which had sustained some little injury from the 
 stroke of a sword ; then addressing his adversary, he said in a 
 sarcastic tone, " There is a flaw in your gage. Sir Knight; you 
 will find your cause equally faulty." 
 
 The Baron's cheeks instantly became flushed, partly from 
 anger, and partly from the ill omen which had been drawn from 
 the accident. 
 
 The keen eye of Conrad quickly read the thoughts which 
 were passing in the Baron's mind, and wishing to relieve his 
 embarrassment, he whispered to the Grand Master, " Would it 
 not be well to name the time and place for the combat, which 
 should take place at once ?" 
 
 Acting upon the suggestion, the Grand Master then spoke : 
 " We appoint noon to-morrow the hour, and the tilt-yard of 
 our order the spot, for these knights to meet. See that all be 
 prepared, as ourself shall witness the combat." 
 
 " I will not fight then," said De Gramont; "my wounds 
 will then have stiffened, so that I shall not have strength to 
 strike fairly." 
 
 d5 
 
70 THE TEMPLAR. 
 
 "A longer delay cannot be granted." 
 
 ** Then I refuse to accept the challenge ; with odds so fear- 
 fully against me, I could not have success." 
 
 " Then thou shalt be put to death as a recreant, perjured 
 knight," said the Grand Master. *' Is it unjust or harsh ? " 
 continued he, appealing to the assembly. 
 
 The word ** No" fell from every lip ; and Conrad rendered 
 still more emphatic by repeating it. 
 
 ** It will be death either way," said De Gramont ; " but if I 
 fall in fight, I shall be dishonoured. You may invade the sanc- 
 tuary of life if you will ; but it never shall be said that I gave 
 you ingress. In what form shall my death come ? I trust I 
 shall be doomed to one fitting a knight to suffer." 
 
 ** No," said the Grand Master, " it shall be a felon's death. 
 From yonder tree shalt thou hang in thine armour — the very 
 armour you have degraded — your spurs being first cleft from 
 your heels, and your helmet torn from your brow." 
 
 "And what shelter shall my bones have ?" said the otherc 
 
 ** They shall bleach in the air, and hang, when thou art gone, 
 a memorial of thy shame." 
 
 *' Of my glory, rather," said De Gramont ; " for the same 
 death which justice makes ignominious, tyranny makes mar- 
 tyrdom." 
 
 ** And in every court in Europe I will proclaim thee to have 
 been a false-hearted craven knight," said De Montford. 
 
 " The censure of fools is praise," tauntingly remarked De 
 Gramont. 
 
 " De Gramont," said the Grand Master with deep solemnity 
 of manner, ** you stand upon the brink of death ; can you look 
 down the deep abyss before you unmoved ? " 
 
 ** I knew that it would come to me, nor could I tell how 
 long my thread of life would be spun," said De Gramont. 
 *^ The world is but a stage where we shuffle through a few brief 
 
THE TEMPLAR. 71 
 
 scenes — and from them I fled hither. Your sentence will but 
 remove me farther still ; and often would I have made myself 
 wings and left them far behind, but— — " and he paused. 
 
 *' But what ?" said the Grand Master. 
 
 *' No, 'twere better not said," replied De Gramont. 
 
 •' Say what could have been the charm which bound you ?" 
 again asked the Grand Master. 
 
 " Priests tell of Judgment and of Purgatory." 
 
 The Grand Master instantly started up, and retiring to his 
 own apartment, paced it with hasty steps : " Can I be wrong 
 in condemning that man to death ? I will consider again all I 
 have heard, and judge accordingly." 
 
 He then returned to the hall, and, after informing De 
 Gramont that he would wait till noon the next day for his 
 final decision, retired. 
 
 Night soon threw her sable mantle around and hushed the 
 earth to slumber, but sleep failed to close the eyes of De Gra- 
 mont ; he tossed to and fro on his uneasy couch ; he rose and 
 walked about the room, and then returned to bed : but all his 
 endeavours to woo slumber were ineffectual. His painful 
 wounds and troubled mind prevented her approaches. 
 
 It was midnight ! all was calm, and still, and peaceful ; and 
 nothing broke the calm and peaceful stillness. It was a season 
 for reflection, and at that moment De Gramont's mind was in 
 a fit state to reflect. Memory all at once became wonderfully 
 busy ; and days, and scenes, and actions, long since passed, 
 were present to his view. He seemed to live life over again, 
 and traced with wonderful accuracy the several stages from 
 youth to manhood, from manhood to maturity. But as thought 
 rapidly followed thought, they crowded and oppressed his mind, 
 and he soon tried to banish reflection ; but it seemed to grow 
 upon him as he endeavoured to drive it from his mind. He 
 paced the room, but still the thoughts followed him, as though 
 they had been the shadows of himself. He returned again to 
 
72 THE TEMPLAR. 
 
 bed, and nature at length growing outwearied, he sank into a 
 short and fitful sleep. 
 
 But so strong a power was being exerted by memory, that 
 even in sleep it could not rest ; it but changed its mode of 
 action, and leaving the heart, assailed the imagination. There 
 stood before him his own lordly home — his home of earlier 
 and happier days ; and in one of the apartments of that mas- 
 sive castle, himself seemed to sit — himself, a younger, gayer, less 
 care-worn man ; and by his side was a fair-haired, blue-eyed 
 woman ; she looked timidly into his face, and quailed, and 
 sank her pensive gaze when his dark and flashing eye rested 
 upon her. So vivid was the scene, that it appeared more like 
 the reality re-acted again, than the dim shado wings of a dream. 
 
 That scene — that hour — De Gramont remembered it well. 
 It was to him the last of happiness. That fair and beautiful 
 creature, who was then sitting by his side, was soon no more. 
 For him she had given up " her all on earth, and more than all 
 in heaven — name, rank, reputation, all for him and his love, 
 and he repaid it by desertion. Ambition, which deprived 
 angels of happiness, took it from De Gramont. For the sake 
 of an alliance which should bring wealth and titled honour, 
 he left his first, his only love ; and she, " at once above 
 — beneath her sex," who had braved contumely and scorn — 
 who for De Gramont would freely have given up life, could 
 not bear up against the withdrawal of his love. She never 
 upbraided him, and to all appearance maintained the same 
 calmness ; but her heart was struck with grief, and in a few 
 short months Isabel Fitz Allen was a corpse. 
 
 But a retributive justice overtook De Gramont — in a little 
 while he himself was betrayed, as he had been the betrayer. His 
 wife became the avenger of his mistress. De Gramont had 
 sown the wind to reap the whirlwind. 
 
 It was then, after having slain the paramour of his wife 
 in mortal conflict, that De Gramont joined the order of the 
 
THE TEMPLAR. 73 
 
 Templars (a divorce from his wife having previously been 
 procured), his fame as a warrior and his rich domains pro- 
 curing that entrance, which would otherwise have been denied 
 to a man once married. It was this — the last day that he ever 
 saw his Isabel, till he saw her no longer conscious of his pre- 
 sence, that was now present to the sleeper's fancy. " Curse, 
 curse," muttered he, — "a curse upon ambition." 
 
 A sudden and violent movement awakened him from his 
 uneasy slumber ; he started up, and the next instant he felt the 
 pressure of a hand against his own. 
 
 De Gramont was about to demand the business of the in- 
 truder, but the stranger checked him. 
 
 " Hush ! hush !" said he ; " the least noise will be the ruin 
 of both: if I am discovered here, it will be death. At to-mor- 
 row's fight, demand a champion — that cannot be denied, and I 
 will be there. I am not what I seem. Farewell." 
 
 In an instant the stranger had departed ; but how he had 
 contrived to appear there at all, was a mystery to De Gramont ; 
 though he felt no doubt from his voice and manner, that the 
 stranger was the same person to whose timely assistance the day 
 before he was indebted for life. He however determined to fol- 
 low the advice then given, and to trust to fortune for the rest. 
 
 At length the noontide came ; all the knights were assem- 
 bled in the court-yard adjoining the Preceptory. De Mont- 
 ford was already mounted, and seemed impatient of delay. 
 
 After a few minutes, De Gramont appeared in a new suit of 
 armour, and took his station at the other end of the lists oppo- 
 site De Montford. As soon as all was quiet, the Grand Master 
 took his seat midway between the combatants ; but immediately 
 afterwards De Gramont rode into the centre of the arena, and 
 said — " I am here as a knight good and true ; but, as I urged 
 yesterday, I cannot fight ; I therefore demand a champion. 
 Who," continued he in a louder tone — " who will set a lance 
 at rest for the honour of Bertrand de Gramont ? " 
 
74 THE TEMPLAR. 
 
 " The request of our brother cannot be refused," said the 
 Grand Master. " If his champion be ready, let him appear." 
 
 In an instant, a young though athletic man, clad in a plain 
 suit of armour, came forth, and advancing to the place where 
 the Grand Master was seated, said, " I am ready to take up 
 his quarrel, the more so because I know him to be innocent." 
 
 '* But how know we that you are of knightly order ? " said 
 the Grand Master. 
 
 " I am of as noble birth as him I shall oppose," said the 
 stranger ; " and that, if I live out this tilt, I will prove." 
 
 " Then nothing more is needed ; let all proceed as though 
 De Gramont himself fought in his own cause." 
 
 In a few minutes the knights were ready, man opposite to 
 man — their visors were drawn down, and their lances set at 
 rest ; when the Grand Master, rising from his seat, said in a 
 solemn tone, " May God defend the right ! " then striking the 
 railing in front of him as a signal, the trumpets sounded, the 
 knights put spurs to their horses, and dashed furiously along. 
 
 At the first onset the lances of both were shivered to the 
 grasp, and the horse of the stranger thrown upon his haunches 
 by the Baron's shock. But neither man nor horse went down ; 
 and in a moment the animal regained his feet, and in the next 
 the rider had drawn his sword, and was prepared to renew the 
 conflict. In the fight with swords, skill and activity avail 
 more than mere animal strength, and of this the stranger 
 seemed fully sensible : he therefore, for some time, contented 
 himself with acting upon the defensive, till having, by a skil- 
 ful feint, thrown the Baron off his guard, he suddenly became 
 the assailant, and raising himself in his saddle to give full 
 force to the blow, brought it down upon the head of his oppo- 
 nent. The blow was fatal. The sword cleft his helmet, and 
 penetrated to his brain, and the body of Reginald de Montford 
 fell lifeless to the ground. 
 
 *' God, by giving the victory to De Gramont, has proclaimed 
 
THE TEMPLAR. 75 
 
 his innocence," said the Grand Master, rising ; " let no man 
 even in thought reverse that decree. But it now becomes us 
 to know the name of that knight who has fought so nobly." 
 
 " I am," said the stranger, raising his visor, " the son of 
 Edward de Montford, the son of a murdered man, murdered 
 by his brother, and now the avenger of his death." 
 
 " That is a heavy charge," said the Grand Master with 
 surprise ; "it should not be made without good proof." 
 
 " It is, alas ! too true," replied the young De Montfort ; 
 ** nor was that all, for when he slew he took possession. I, 
 indeed, contrived to escape, and have for some time been an. 
 exile from the home of my father ; but he kept my sister in 
 his power, using the utmost severity to compel her to marry 
 against her own wishes, that he might strengthen his interest 
 by a powerful alliance. It was to save from such a fate, and 
 to give her to one she loved, and to whom she had been be- 
 trothed by her father, that the noble De Gramont lent assist- 
 ance as powerful as disinterested." 
 
 " De Gramont," said the Grand Master, turning to that 
 knight, "we have to entreat your forgiveness, for having 
 too hastily and unadvisedly passed judgment upon you. On 
 you it has however but thrown additional lustre ; to me it will 
 act as a warning : for of what use is the past, if we improve 
 not for the future ? As for your enemy, another than a mur- 
 derer's death has been assigned to him — that doom cannot be 
 reversed ; but let his body hang as a memorial of his ig- 
 nominy, till his bones be whitened by the rains of heaven ; 
 and would that his soul could be so purified !" 
 
 " Nay," replied the young De Montford, " by the laws of 
 toumay, the vanquished becomes the property of the con- 
 queror ; let me then have the disposal of his corpse. ' He 
 shall be buried in the tomb of his ancestors ; and as the earth 
 closes over his remains, may it cover his ignominy also." 
 
THE TOWER OF LONDON. 
 
 The Tower of London is so entwined with the history of this 
 country, that anything relating to it must he interesting to an 
 Englishman. It forms, perhaps, the best history of the na- 
 tion — the best commentary upon the characters of the mon- 
 archs who have, during successive centuries, swayed the sceptre 
 of these realms. 
 
 It is also remarkable as having, at one and the same time, 
 formed a palace, a prison, and a fortress. Who can tell the 
 varied and conflicting feelings which must have agitated the 
 breasts of its tenants ? hope, and mirth, and misery, strangely 
 blended, and almost joined together — the utmost repletion and 
 the most acute hunger, a monarch's pleasures and a captive's 
 privations, might have been witnessed within a dozen yards of 
 each other. There have risen simultaneously from within its 
 dark walls, the mirthful and joyous voices of the rich, the 
 beautiful, the happy ; the wail and the shriek of the anguished 
 and agonized — the height of mirth and the depth of misery : 
 whilst mingling with these two opposite cries, there resounded 
 the clash and clang of armour and of arms — the rattle of drums 
 and the trumpet's shrill blast, and all those varied sounds 
 which give pomp and circumstance to war, and " make ambi- 
 tion virtue." But it is as a prison, rather than either as a 
 palace or a fortress, that the Tower will by us be regarded ; for 
 peihaps it is under this point of view it is best entitled to 
 distinction . 
 
THE TOWER OF LONDON. 77 
 
 The oppression and misery which its walls have witnessed 
 — the cruelties which have been practised — the strength and 
 security of its outward defences — the nobles who have been 
 confined in its dungeons — its walls, at once the palace and 
 prison of kings, lead one to wish to penetrate its secret 
 chambers, where every stone proclaims a murder, and every 
 echo rings a death-knell. 
 
 This celebrated fortress stands on the northern banks of 
 the Thames, at the eastern extremity of the city. Various are 
 the opinions among antiquaries as to the origin of this vener- 
 able pile. Not the least credit, however, is due to the report 
 of the White Tower having been founded by Julius Caesar, 
 who never advanced to this capital in either of his bravely - 
 contested invasions ; but that the Romans had a fortress here 
 in a subsequent age, is highly probable. The earliest and 
 principal portion of the White Tower, or Keep, was built by 
 order of William the Conqueror, about 1080, to overawe the 
 citizens. In the reign of his son, it was surrounded with walls, 
 and fortified by a deep ditch. Reign after reign saw con- 
 tinual improvements, till the time of Edward I., who, soon 
 after his accession, greatly enlarged the ditch and moat, and 
 repaired and strengthened the White Tower ; he also strength- 
 ened the entrance towards the west, by fresh out-works. 
 These may be regarded as the last military improvements 
 prior to the invention of cannon ; but it would be too tedious 
 to enumerate these in chronological order — we shall therefore 
 content ourselves with giving some of the most remarkable 
 occurrences. 
 
 The first prisoner recorded to have been confined in the 
 Tower was Ralph Flanhard, Bishop of Durham, in the reign 
 of Henry I. — this prelate having been the minister and adviser 
 of William Rufus. The celebrated Hubert de Burgh, Earl of 
 Kent, who had been entrusted with its keeping by Henry III., 
 
78 
 
 THE TOWER 
 
 was disgraced and imprisoned here about 1232. In 1244, 
 Griffin, son of Llewellin, Prince of Wales, was killed by a fall 
 from the Tower, while endeavonring to escape with his son 
 and other Welsh prisoners. In the reign of Edward I., 600 
 Jews were confined here at one time, charged with clipping 
 and adulterating the coin ; and various nobles of Scotland and 
 Wales were at different times sent there — prisoners taken 
 during the English monarch's invasion of these countries. 
 In 1305, the famous William Wallace was incarcerated here 
 previous to his execution, which has fixed an indelible stain 
 on the memory of Edward. It is no hero's action to trample 
 on the vanquished ; and it would have reflected brighter 
 lustre on the arms of the monarch, had he spared the life of 
 this champion of freedom, in place of leading him to execution 
 like the vilest of criminals. The conquerors of old, who led 
 their prisoners at the wheels of their chariots, would have 
 achieved a nobler triumph had they received them like friends 
 — though unfortunate — in place of exposing them to the gaze 
 and insults of innumerable spectators. The disquietude of 
 Richard II. 's reign again brought the Tower into notice. In 
 1377, the king, with the royal family and many of the nobles 
 and prelates, were besieged within its walls by the mob headed 
 by Wat Tyler. In 1378 he was again besieged by his uncle, 
 the Duke of Gloucester ; and on this occasion, after an ap- 
 parent reconciliation, many of the king's ministers and others 
 were executed by the duke's order, and among them Sir 
 Simon Burley, who was beheaded on Tower Hill. This was 
 the first person who suffered decapitation on that place, a spot 
 which, during a long course of years afterwards, was destined 
 to drink in the blood of the most noble and wealthy of the 
 land. Here, too, in 1397, the unfortunate Richard was forced 
 to resign his crown to Henry, Duke of Hereford ; and here, 
 shortly afterwards, lay the body of the monarch for one night 
 
OF LONDOX. 79 
 
 pre-vious to its interment. So true is it of deposed monarchs, 
 that the moment they step from the throne, they put their 
 foot upon the grave. 
 
 In the reign of Henry IV., James, Prince of Scotland, who 
 was driven on shore in the North while on his way to France, 
 was kept in the Tower. His father dying during his captivity, 
 he became king of Scotland, and thus was the third monarch 
 of that country who had been confined here within a century. 
 After a period of eighteen years, he obtained his freedom, on 
 condition of paying a ransom of £40,000 — for the performance 
 of which he was compelled to give hostages. In the following 
 reign. Sir John Oldcastle was imprisoned here on the charge 
 of heresy, and for which he was condemned to be burnt ; but, 
 managing to escape the night before his sentence was to be 
 executed, he was not taken till four years after, when, as if his 
 enemies had spent their time in devising how they might in- 
 flict the greatest torments, he was hung over a slow fire, and 
 thus roasted alive. 
 
 In the reign of Henry VI., the Tower was in continual use. 
 In the first part of his reign, the Dukes of Orleans and Bour- 
 bon, and many other nobles of France, were confined here, — 
 prisoners taken during the wars for the maintenance of our 
 authority in France at that time. In 1450, the Tower was 
 besieged by the army of rebels headed by Jack Cade, when 
 Lord Say and his son-in-law fell victims to the hatred and 
 violence of the people. This rebellion was but the fore- 
 runner of still greater strife ; the civil wars called the Wars of 
 the Roses soon followed, during which time the Tower fre- 
 quently changed masters. After the battle of Hexham, in 
 1464, the King himself was sent here a prisoner, while his 
 successful rival, Edward IV., occupied it as a royal residence 
 more frequently than had been done for many years previously. 
 Strange were the vicissitudes which occurred in Henry's life. 
 
80 THE TOWER 
 
 In his infancy he was proclaimed monarch of England and 
 France, and, before his tongue could lisp his name, received 
 the homage of the nobles of the two most powerful countries 
 in Europe ; and now he was languishing in one of the prisons 
 in a tower where he had reigned as king, while the walls re- 
 sounded with the notes of revelry which proclaimed the tri- 
 umph of his conqueror. By a sudden revolution in his favour, 
 he was taken from his dungeon and placed upon the throne ; 
 but Fortune, which had cheated him by a smile, soon turned 
 her back upon him, and he was quickly sent to his former 
 cell, where shortly after he breathed his last, probably by the 
 assassin's hand ; for though no proof exists of his having been 
 murdered, yet the suddenness of his death, and the known 
 characters of the reigning monarch and his brother, give room 
 for suspicion. Here Edward V. and his brother the Duke of 
 York are supposed to have been murdered by order of their 
 uncle. Various are the opinions with regard to this point, 
 but it is clear that they must have met their death by unfair 
 means. History brings them to the Tower to prepare for 
 young Edward's coronation, but beyond this it is silent ; there 
 is, however, something ominous in this silence. Had the 
 young princes only been imprisoned, there would at one time 
 or another have been heard a voice to tell where they were 
 hid, and therefore is that silence the stillness of death. In 
 Richard's reign, Lords Hastings and Stanley, and the Bishop 
 of Ely, were arrested in the Tower, and the former imme- 
 diately beheaded. This monarch kept in close confinement 
 his nephew Edward Plantagenet, who had a prior title to 
 the crown, and the unfortunate youth was executed in 
 the following reign, on account of the jealousy of Henry 
 VII. In the reign of Henry VIII. imprisonment followed 
 imprisonment in quick succession. In 1534, Sir Thomas 
 More, and Fisher, bishop of Rochester, were confined here for 
 
OF LONDON. 81 
 
 denying the king's supremacy, and the following year executed 
 on Tower Hill. In 1536, the beauteous but ill-fated Anne 
 Boleyn suffered in consequence of her husband's fickleness. 
 Lords Thomas Howard, Dacey, and Montague were sent 
 here on the charge of treason, and soon after ended their 
 career on the l^lock. In 1540, Cromwell, Earl of Essex, 
 suffered decapitation, and soon after Queen Catherine Howard 
 and Lady Rochford. The following reign saw the execution 
 of Seymour, Lord Sudley, and the Protector the Duke of 
 Somerset. The stake and the scaffold were in constant use 
 during the short reign of Queen Mary. Among the most 
 distinguished victims may be reckoned Lady Jane Grey and 
 her husband, the Duke of Northumberland, the Duke of 
 Suffolk, the eminent prelates Cranmer, Latimer, and Ridley, 
 the Earl of Warwick, the Marquis of Northampton, the Earl 
 of Devonshire, and Lord Cobham ; and the insurrection of 
 Sir Thomas Wyatt filled this prison-house with inmates. 
 The greatest blot in the reign of Elizabeth is, that during her 
 government its walls were crowded with prisoners — the Arch- 
 bishop of York, six Bishops, an Abbot of Westminster, and 
 other divines, two Earls, Lady Catherine Grey, and several 
 private individuals. To this may be added Thomas Howard, 
 Duke of Norfolk ; his son the Earl of Arundel, the Earl of 
 Northumberland, Sir Walter Raleigh, the Queen's favourite 
 the Earl of Essex, the Earls of Southampton, Richmond, &c. 
 At the commencement of the reign of James I., these prison- 
 doors were again opened. The brave, the highly-gifted Sir 
 Walter Raleigh, with Lords Grey and Cobham, were confined 
 here, on the charge of attempting to place Lady Arabella 
 Stuart on the throne. This unfortunate lady, who, from her 
 relationship to Mary, Queen of Scots, w^as regarded with a 
 jealous eye by both James and his predecessor, was also im- 
 prisoned here. Being taken in an attempt to escape, her 
 
82 THE TOWER 
 
 intellect became disordered, and she died in confinement in 
 this miserable state. In 1640, the Earl of Strafford and 
 Archbishop Laud, the ministers and advisers of Charles I., 
 were committed to the Tower, and soon after executed. 
 
 It would be tedious to relate all the imprisonments which 
 took place during the reign of the Charleses and the inter- 
 mediate Commonwealth. If in times of comparative peace, 
 when there were no feuds to excite, this fortress was thronged 
 with prisoners, it cannot be supposed but that during a civil 
 war, when hatred and violence rise to the highest pitch, those 
 who, by their station or learning, become obnoxious to the 
 ruling party, would be silenced. That " dead men tell no 
 tales," is a common saying — but princes, dreading the oppro- 
 brium attached to an execution, take as sure a method of 
 quieting restless tongues ; within a dungeon's walls they are 
 as still as in the grave — the bitterest lamentation would bring 
 no sympathy, and the wildest shriek never wring a heart. 
 We must not, however, omit to mention the names of Algernon 
 Sidney and Lord William Russell, both of whom were im- 
 prisoned here in Charles the Second's reign, and shortly after 
 beheaded, at the instigation of James, Duke of York, who, on 
 his accession to the throne, executed his unfortunate nephew 
 the Duke of Monmouth, after a confinement of only two days 
 in the Tower. On the eve of the Revolution, the Archbishop 
 of Canterbury and six bishops were sent to this prison by a 
 warrant signed by the infamous Lord Chancellor, better known 
 by the name of Judge JefFerys, who himself shortly after died 
 a prisoner in this fortress. 
 
 During the reign of William III. numerous Jacobites and 
 other conspirators against the king were imprisoned here, 
 many of whom were executed on the fatal hill. During the 
 government of Anne, few persons were committed here ; but 
 the rebellions in favour of the Pretender in the reigns of the 
 First and Second Georges caused it to be again filled. The 
 
OF LONDON. 83 
 
 last person executed on Tower Hill was Lord Lovat, in 1747, 
 who was beheaded for the attempt to place the Pretender on 
 the throne. During the reign of George III. many persons 
 were imprisoned here on charges of high treason, and other 
 political offences. 
 
 The last were the accomplices in an atrocious plot (called 
 the Cato Conspiracy) to subvert the government by assassi- 
 nating his Majesty's ministers while at a cabinet dinner at Lord 
 Harro why's, in Grosvenor Square. The principal conspirators 
 were committed to the Tower, March, 1820, and executed in 
 front of Newgate the May following. These close the annals 
 of this fortress as a state prison. 
 
 Thus have we briefly mentioned the principal persons who 
 have been confined in this fortress. Could we make the 
 dumb walls vocal, what tales would they not tell ! Oh ! how 
 would the recital of the piercing shrieks that have rent them, 
 and the foul deeds they have witnessed, " harrow up the 
 soul!" — the prayers they have heard — the ravings of remorse 
 — the wild cries of anguish — the heart-breaking sighs of inno- 
 cence, which the walls have echoed, — the crimes which have 
 been perpetrated — the cruelties that have been practised — the 
 wrongs that have been inflicted, — form so large a catalogue, 
 that the poet, as he looked upon its massive walls and lofty 
 turrets, desecrated and stained as they are, might well term it 
 *' London's lasting shame." 
 
 Of all the dungeons in the world, the Tower of London has 
 the most aff'ecting stories to relate. In the dens of the Inqui- 
 sition more cruelties may have been practised. The Bastile 
 of France may have had more victims ; but it is not the 
 recital of the intenseness of the suffering or the number of the 
 sufferers which produces a tear. It is over the patience and 
 resignation displayed by the victims doomed unjustly to the 
 fire, the axe, or the rack, that men mostly weep. The same 
 
84 SYMPATHY. 
 
 individual who, comparatively unmoved, hears of the taking of 
 cities, and the wholesale slaughter of their inhabitants, will burst 
 into a flood of tears over the misery of a single individual. 
 
 Mighty structure ! years have passed away since a prisoner's 
 heart was wrung within thy dungeons; — may thy chains never 
 more be riveted on free-born man — may thy ponderous doors 
 never again shut him out from the glorious light of heaven, 
 but in silent majesty mayst thou still look on this overflowing 
 city as the guardian of its rights ; and then in after ages, when 
 another Gray shall appear, as he looks upon thy massive walls 
 on which the rain-drops have so often fallen, that the blood of 
 former days has been washed out, and contemplates thy vener- 
 able pile reposing in silence, with the olive branch of peace 
 waving from thy summit — again shalt thou be the theme of 
 verse, but in place of being branded as a " shame," thou shalt 
 henceforth be praised as *' London's lasting glory." 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 Ah, why is heaved that mournful sigh ? 
 
 Why starts so oft the pearly tear? 
 Thine is the claim, sweet Sympathy ! 
 
 Thou soft partaker of our care ! 
 
 E'en as the woods concordant mourn. 
 When Philomela pours her strain ; 
 
 So e'en canst thou our sighs return, 
 In grateful echoes to our pain. 
 
 Or as the morning's blissful ray 
 Dispels the filmy clouds to light ; 
 
 So thou canst cheer the mind to-day, 
 And lock our cares in ten-fold night. 
 
 Here then, sweet Symjiathy, thy power bestow, 
 And mould this heart to feel another's woe. 
 
(^ yr-^y^f■, 
 
GEORGE OF ASPEN. 
 
 *' Oh George ! Oh, that—" 
 
 It was all that was uttered — the sentence was abruptly bro- 
 ken off; but volumes were expressed in those few words. 
 The plaintive tone, the bitter exclamation, the sudden ending 
 — these told but too plainly that the heart of the speaker was 
 riven and wrung. 
 
 These words were uttered by a young and beautiful woman 
 to her husband ; they seemed but the finish of a conversation, 
 but she seemed unable to give utterance to her feelings — the 
 agitation of the mind overcame the power of speech, and turn- 
 ing away, she pressed one hand to her heart, while with the 
 other she seemed to endeavour to hide the emotion which the 
 face too plainly showed was agitating her. 
 
 The person addressed was in the height of passion ; the right 
 hand was clenched, while the left had seemed almost me- 
 chanically to grasp the scabbard of his sword, and had brought 
 it round so that the brand might be easier drawn. 
 
 His hair streamed wildly, and his fine dark eyes rolled with 
 malignant passion, as if a demon had kindled them with fire 
 from hell ; but his lips were compressed, and his teeth ground 
 against each other, as if to keep the storm of passion which 
 raged so furiously from bursting forth. 
 
 But the passion was not of words alone — he had used his 
 hand and struck his wife ; struck her as she was gazing like an 
 
 E 
 
Ob GEORGE OF ASPEN. 
 
 angel of love upon his face, which was changed from its usual 
 calm and manly beauty to the fierce air of a demon. 
 
 It was this blow which had produced those plaintive words 
 from the speaker as she turned away — it was not of pain ; the 
 blow had not been hard enough for that, but it had inflicted a 
 pang keener, more intense, and more acute, than that of mere 
 corporal suffering ; it had struck the heart and wounded the 
 keenest sensibilities. 
 
 "Ah, turn and weep !" replied George, in the tone of sup- 
 pressed passion, as he gazed upon his wife, seeming to wish to 
 find a subject upon which to vent his rage. "Ah, weep on ! 
 but think not to move me by your tears. By the soul of my 
 father, the traitor shall die a traitor's death, and were an ocean 
 made from woman's tears, as I live they should not save him. 
 There, take that for answer, and rest contented ; now urge fur- 
 ther if you dare. Ah, cry away," continued he, mockingly, as 
 he paced to and fro with measured tread, " but tears will avail 
 nothing with me !" 
 
 The Lady of Aspen had sunk into a chair, but it was not to 
 weep. Her grief was too poignant, too bitter for tears ; it had 
 dried up the fountain from whence tears flow : and that sorrow 
 is the bitterest which can wring tears from the eyes of man, and 
 forbid them to flow from the eyes of woman. 
 
 At the time of this tale, Stephen, the fourth of the Norman 
 princes, was swaying the sceptre of England ; but that which 
 he had gained by an artifice, he could hardly keep by force of 
 arms: he was, indeed, at that time, a prisoner in the hands of 
 his enemies, though his liberation was destined soon to take 
 place. The memorable siege of Winchester had just then hap- 
 pened — a siege which compelled Matilda to fly for her life, 
 and gave up her brother, the Earl of Gloucester, into the hands 
 of his enemies. The Saxons, who had been much oppressed 
 
GEORGE OF ASPEN. 87 
 
 by the Norman conquerors, gladly availed themselves of the 
 disquietude of the times to endeavour to recover their ancient 
 independence. Stephen was himself too much a Norman to 
 attempt to conciliate the affections of a race held in such con- 
 tempt by their conquerors, and he had besides, in order to con- 
 ciliate the affections of the Norman Barons, allowed them to 
 oppress to a great degree the conquered Saxons. So that 
 though all had sworn fealty to him when first he seized upon 
 the cro\vn, many joined the ranks of his enemies, and lent their 
 aid to pull down the usurper, and to throw a tyrant and op- 
 pressor from the throne. Among those who had joined the 
 army of Matilda, was the father of the Lady of Aspen. 
 
 During the reigns of the earlier of the Norman princes few 
 were the intermarriages w^hich took place between the con- 
 querors and the conquered. In general, the Saxons were held 
 in too much contempt, for the haughty Noiman to think to wed 
 one of the fair daughters of that race ; and as their riches and 
 possessions had been wrested from them by their conquerors, 
 avarice, which, in other instances, might have brought about 
 alliances, was but little tempted. 
 
 Some few instances to the contrary however took place, and 
 one among them was that of the Lord of Aspen. 
 
 Hereward was one of the few Saxon barons who still pos- ^ 
 sessed any power. The river still ran through the broad lands 
 which owned him for lord, as it had done through those of 
 his illustrious sire ; and at the hall of Hereward as many 
 feasted as there had done when the Saxons held rule over Eng- 
 land, and freely offered to any their rude and boisterous hos- 
 pitality. Then, when the wine-cup had passed freely, the hall 
 rang with shouts, until the very roof echoed and seemed to 
 applaud again, as the deeds of the great Hereward were re- 
 corded by his successor, whose valour he admired, and whose 
 deeds of daring he longed to imitate. Had a Norman been 
 
 E 2 
 
88 GEORGE OF ASPEN. 
 
 present at any of these revels, he would have had but little 
 difficulty in making out a charge of treason against the owner, 
 for the invectives thrown out and the hopes of revenge in- 
 dulged in by the assembled guests were loudly spoken when 
 the wine had opened the heart to deliver its sentiments freely. 
 Though the Saxons held but little power^ and during the time 
 of peace could be contemptuously treated with impunity, they 
 became formidable in war, and during a civil war particularly 
 so ; they were still a numerous body, and though possessing 
 individually but little power, when united they formed a pov/- 
 erful auxiliary to the party whose cause they espoused. 
 
 Stephen was fully conscious that after the inroads his fol- 
 lowers had committed upon the possessions of the Saxons, he 
 could never hope to conciliate their affections ; he therefore 
 took the other course, and attempted to awe them into submis- 
 sion through fear. Accordingly, wherever stood the hall of the 
 Saxon thane, there rose, as adjacent as could be, the castle of 
 the Norman baron. 
 
 It was thus that George of Aspen became the neighbour of 
 Hereward the Saxon. Aspen Castle and the fief adjoining 
 were conferred upon him that he might act as a check upon 
 Hereward, and awe the Saxon thane into submission. How- 
 ever, soon after he came into possession of his castle, the 
 Baron of Aspen found another employment for his thoughts, 
 than that of devising the best means of crippling his neighbour's 
 influence ; and instead of getting the thane into his power, it 
 was himself who became the captive — a captive not indeed 
 through the sword and battle-axe, but through bright eyes and 
 lovely features. 
 
 Edith of Hereward had indeed a beauty which could have 
 riveted the eyes and charmed the heart of one less prone to 
 love than the Lord of Aspen. Her figure was tall and com- 
 m.anding, though gracefully elegant ; her features were of the 
 
GEORGE OF ASPEX. 89 
 
 true Saxon mould ; her hair was light, and hung loosely over 
 a neck than which the down of a swan was scarcely less foir ; 
 her eyes were blue — that deep, beautiful blue, to which there 
 seems affixed a peculiar spell — so that while they want the 
 deep penetrating glance which a dark eye commands, they 
 seem to have a still greater power of riveting the attention and 
 binding the heart. 
 
 And those eyes ! — it were a marvellous thing if the Baron of 
 Aspen could have gazed upon them and not have been spell- 
 bound. Talk of the power of the basilisk to fascinate, there is 
 not half the power in the serpent's eye as in the deep, full, lus- 
 trous blue, which sometimes beams from the eyes of woman. 
 They seem to be melted into tears by the tenderness of the 
 heart, yet never to be dissolved ; and the light which shines 
 from them — the flashings of the soul, where dwell love, pit}^, 
 tenderness — has the power of penetrating another's heart, and 
 kindling there some of the same generous sentiments. 
 
 The character of the daughter of Hereward might be read 
 in her eyes. Her voice was lov/, soft, musical ; her manner, 
 timid, reserved, and gentle : but the light which shone from 
 her eyes told too well what the spirit was within — a soul of 
 noble and generous sentiments, patient under trials and suffer- 
 ings, and which, if incapable of resenting an injury, felt in 
 all its bitterness the poignant insult ; a soul which death could 
 not intimidate, but a word cut to the quick ; a soul which 
 would never upbraid for unkindness, but would pine in silent 
 sorrow over the deed ; a soul which the smile of love could 
 lead, and the power of hatred kill. 
 
 Such was the lady whom the Baron of Aspen loved ; and 
 having loved, wooed ; and having wooed, won. The very 
 opposition of their feelings, their tempers, their persons, may 
 have contributed in a great degree to fix the affections of both. 
 
 The dark fierv mien of the Norman contrasted no more 
 
90 
 
 GEORGE OF ASPEN. 
 
 strongly with the fair features of the Saxon maiden, than did 
 the bold, passionate daring of his mind, with her gentle, affec- 
 tionate, and unassuming manner. For a time indeed the Baron 
 of Aspen felt that the possession of a wife had brought him 
 happiness. AVhen wearied with the toil of ambition and the 
 pomp of power — when moody, discontented, melancholy — then, 
 when the stern associates, his companions in the tented field, 
 in the gallant tournament, that mimic of war, or in the exciting 
 pleasures of the chase, could afford him no delight, there was 
 still a fond and affectionate heart to which he could turn — a 
 heart which seemed to grow fonder and more affectionate as the 
 demand for the exercise of kindness became more frequent. 
 
 There was, however, one check upon the happiness of the 
 Baron. His wife, tender, affectionate, kind — to whom him- 
 self seemed all — loving as she was, yet to his eyes had one 
 dark, deforming spot, which detracted from her virtues, as it 
 marred her loveliness. — She was a Saxon. 
 
 "When the heart was open to love — when the beauties of 
 Edith captivated the eyes and her gentleness won the affec- 
 tions of the Baron, he then thought but little of the marriage 
 with a Saxon. Her family was of ancient line, claiming de- 
 scent from the kindred of the immortal Alfred. Her father 
 was a man known to fame ; her grandsire, yet more so — the Con- 
 queror himself had acknowledged, yea and honoured the valour 
 of Hereward of Ely : but still she was a Saxon, and though at 
 first George of Aspen felt so much affection for his wife that 
 it engrossed every other feeling, he could not but perceive 
 that himself was held in a sort of contempt by the proud and 
 haughty Norman Barons, for having wedded the daughter of 
 a Saxon. And even to such an extent was the contempt car- 
 ried, that the very retainers and vassals of the Baron of Aspen 
 could hardly be brought to acknowledge the Saxon Edith for 
 their mistress ; and occasionally a rude jest fell upon the 
 
GEORGE OF ASPEN. 91 
 
 Baron's ears — a jest levelled at the expense of his wife. There 
 is no quicker way of diminishing the power of love than to 
 bring the object upon which it is placed into contempt. The 
 effect thereof is first to cool, then to make indifferent, and 
 then to hate. It was to the first of these three points that 
 the heart of George reached, when the civil war broke out 
 between Stephen and Matilda. The conduct of the Baron to 
 his lady up to that period seemed but little changed. To all 
 appearance, he still kept up the same affectionate manner; 
 but changed it was — it was but the outside show of that which 
 before had emanated from the heart ; it was the body without 
 the soul — the same in feature and in form, but deathless and 
 still. But that war soon brought the feelings George of Aspen 
 entertained towards his wife to indifference. Her father and 
 himself took opposite sides in that internal strife. The Baron 
 espoused the cause of Stephen — the Thane embraced the side 
 of Matilda. The memory of her father contributed much to 
 make the Saxons join her standard. The crown had been 
 gained by Henry principally through the means of the Saxons; 
 and, in return, through the whole of his reign he treated them 
 with a kindness seldom received from their conquerors. And 
 though the subsequent acts of ]\Iatilda showed that she fol- 
 lowed but little in the footsteps of her father, yet as her adver- 
 sary was a Norman both in heart and action, the Saxons al- 
 most to a man flocked to the standard of Matilda — and first 
 and foremost of them all was Hereward of Ely. The love of 
 kindred impelled this warrior to join in the quarrel ; and while 
 joining in the strife, and apparently sujDporting the cause of 
 the Queen, there rose in more than one breast the hope of 
 restoring one of the Saxon line to the throne in the general 
 confusion that would ensue during the civil strife. Their hope 
 was, that when the contending sovereigns had worn away and 
 crippled their strength in the contentions with each other, 
 
92 GEORGE OF ASPEN. 
 
 they, like the fox in the fabie, should be able to carry off the 
 prize. 
 
 It then became a hard trial for the Lady of Aspen. A 
 father and a husband led on troops which were destined to 
 meet in martial strife, each endeavouring to compass the death 
 of the other. To wish success for the one was to wish injury 
 for the other, and thus the mind of the lady was wrung with 
 anxious thoughts ; now for a parent to whom every tie bound 
 her, then for a husband for whom her heart still retained all 
 its fondness, notwithstanding the checks put upon love by the 
 harsh conduct of the Baron. 
 
 At first fortune declared in favour of the Queen ; hers was 
 the conquering army, and her opponent a prisoner in her 
 power. The cause of Stephen then seemed lost for ever, and 
 his dispersed followers mostly again returned to their castles, 
 and prepared to sustain a siege should their enemies endea- 
 vour to obtain their possessions. Among them was George of 
 Aspen, but the defeat had soured his temper, and he treated 
 his wife with constant unkindness — even with harshness. It 
 was soon after that the Lady of Aspen received a message from 
 her father, entreating her to return to the hall of Hereward, 
 as the Queen w^as resolutely bent upon laying siege to and 
 reducing the Castle of Aspen. The answer the lady returned 
 was noble and in every way worthy herself: "Tell my 
 father," said she to the messenger he had sent, " that duty 
 and honour alike forbid me to comply with his request. 
 The fates and fortunes of my husband shall be shared, were 
 they ten times as dark and twenty times as desperate. The 
 grief I entertain at my husband's loss forbids the joy I should 
 otherwise feel at my father's success. Return with such 
 messages no more, since nothing which does not include the 
 good of the Baron of Aspen shall be thought of by his lady. 
 My father must address his future messages to the Baron, not 
 
GEORGE OF ASPEN. 93 
 
 to me, — his thoughts are mine." When the Baron heard of 
 the message, he became stirred -with passion ; and though he 
 could not but feel the affectionate conduct of his wife, yet his 
 indignation burst forth, and his words showed too plainly the 
 contempt which had long reigned in his heart towards his 
 Saxon neighbour. " The Saxon porker," cried he, " carries 
 it mighty bravely ; but victory is so new a thing, that he may 
 well triumph. I suppose he thinks that he can as easily 
 drive us from this castle as he does his pigs from the field, and 
 will bring the same weapons doubtless. The insolent churl ! 
 to think that he can overpower a Norman baron ! But a few 
 good strokes of Norman steel will soon teach such paltry 
 knaves better." 
 
 Many and more bitter would have been the taunts the 
 angry Baron would have uttered, had not his lady gently laid 
 her hand upon his arm and said mildly, " If not for his sake, 
 at least for mine, spare your invectives." 
 
 " For your sake ! " said the Baron with a contemptuous 
 look, and apparently glad to find an occasion to give vent to 
 his passion. " For your sake I have done too much already ; 
 but for you, the insolent churl your father had been but 
 little able to utter his insolent threats : I could have crushed 
 him as I would an adder in my path, and added his possessions 
 to mine. And but for you, it had been done ; but for you, I 
 had been now the first amongst the leaders in the King's army, 
 instead of an object of contempt." 
 
 " Oh! George," said his lady, *' I have never given cause 
 for this : the Saxons are oppressed, but not contemptible." 
 
 "Oh no!" retorted the Baron with a sneer: "a noble — a 
 very noble race ! at the wine-cup, I believe one could beat 
 a dozen Normans ; but as for valour, why a score would flee 
 from the stroke of a Norman axe. True, they are valorous in 
 words — at least the women, and that I know to my sorrow^ 
 
 e5 
 
94 GEORGE OF ASPEN. 
 
 O that I had ever wedded ! or, having done so, were mated 
 to one who had a soul like my own !" 
 
 ** Am I then so soon an object of aversion ?" said the Lady 
 of Aspen with a deep sigh. As she spoke, she looked full in 
 the face of her husband — a look full of love, one that recalled 
 former days to his remembrance — that for a moment his pas- 
 sion was checked. She was continuing, but he stopped her. 
 
 " Tut, tut," said he, but his voice was milder, " I cannot 
 listen to you now, but must prepare my castle to receive your 
 noble father in a way suitable to his rank and dignity ; and if 
 he carries his carcass to his own hall, place no faith in the 
 words or valour of a Norman." 
 
 The Baron then proceeded to give the necessary directions 
 to furnish the garrison with provisions, and to prepare to sus- 
 tain the threatened siege ; whilst his lady retired to her own 
 apartment, to indulge in melancholy feelings and to mourn 
 over blighted hopes. 
 
 But the fortunes of war are varying and uncertain, and the 
 Queen, in her turn, became the fugitive. The people, irri- 
 tated by her imperious bearing toM^ards them, joined the ranks 
 of her enemies, and the partisans of Stephen were soon able 
 to make head against the Queen. ' 
 
 Hereward of Ely still, however, adhered to the cause he 
 had at first espoused, and, with the Queen's brother-in-law, 
 Robert of Gloucester, was taken prisoner at the siege of Win- 
 chester. 
 
 The Normans exulted in the capture of a man whose name 
 was held in veneration by the Saxons, and determined to 
 revenge the frequent defeats they had suffered from his father 
 by dooming his son to death. 
 
 The same messenger who brought the news of the success 
 of Stephen's party to the Castle of Aspen, told also of the 
 capture and probable fate which awaited the Saxon Thane. 
 
GEORGE OF ASPEN. 95 
 
 It was on the morrow after these tidings reached the Baron, 
 that the scene with which this tale opens took place. The 
 Baron was standing and looking from the battlements of his 
 own lordly home, and dreams and thoughts of ambition passed 
 through his mind. At his feet lay wooded park and grassy 
 field ; beyond, and yet more extensive and richer, lay the pos- 
 sessions of the Saxon ; and the Baron seemed to be indulging 
 in the hope that the possession of both would soon be his. 
 
 It was while thus ruminating upon the future, that he was 
 joined by his lady. Her thoughts were widely different from 
 those of her lord : her errand was to entreat her husband to use 
 his power to save her father's life. It was perhaps the sudden 
 check such a request gave to his golden hopes, which irritated 
 the Baron. He rudely refused. The supplicant entreated yet 
 more, when, infuriated, he raised his arm and struck her. 
 
 Timid, mild, and gentle as was the Saxon lady, she had a 
 soul as proud as the Norman Baron. She had borne the 
 taunts of her husband without reply ; but in that she displayed 
 a nobleness and dignity of character, since it is far easier to 
 resent than to suffer. But when the assistance of her husband 
 was refused, then w^as it that her mind rose to activity and to 
 power, — the timid gave place to the resolute, and the dignity 
 of command succeeded to the gentle and yielding disposi- 
 tion. 
 
 When evening closed in, the Baron of Aspen set out to join 
 the now triumphant followers of Stephen ^ and, before the 
 night had darkened the earth, the lady was bound for the same 
 destination as her lord, though for a very different motive. 
 
 That day had wrought a vast change in the heart of the 
 Lady Edith. The morning saw her a gentle suppliant for the 
 liberation of a beloved father ; the evening saw^ her at the head 
 of a few resolute men, determined to effect that liberation 
 by force. 
 
96 GEORGE OF ASPEN. 
 
 Within an hour after the Baron had quitted his castle, the 
 lady was once again in the halls of Hereward. Everything 
 was just as when she quitted it ; the spoils of war and of the 
 chase hung in their respective places ; and, as she stood in 
 the great hall, surrounded by well-remembered faces, it 
 seemed as if her absence had been but a night, in place of 
 years. One thing alone was different, and that gave reality to 
 what else might have seemed but a dream. Her father — the 
 hale, though grey-headed chieftain — his form met not her eye ; 
 his loud and joyous voice fell not upon her ear ; his seat was 
 vacant. 
 
 The plan of the Lady of Aspen was soon matured. No 
 sooner was the visit and its occasion known, then all were 
 eager to lend their aid to bring about the liberation of their 
 noble chieftain. A score were selected from those who pre- 
 sented themselves, as the intention was to take by surprise the 
 castle in which the Thane was imprisoned. She determined to 
 be the general in this attack, and though earnestly dissuaded 
 from hazarding her own person in the attempt, she would not 
 consent. 
 
 •* I am still Edith of Hereward," said she, "and as such 
 can look upon danger and difficulty without dismay. We are 
 branded as slaves, taunted as cov/ards, by our conquerors ; 
 but to-night shall show the proud Normans that the daughter 
 of a Saxon chieftain can brave a danger their own would 
 shrink from encountering." 
 
 A loud shout followed this speech, the echo of which reached 
 the Castle of Aspen ; and the followers of the fair Saxon felt 
 their courage raised, and their desire to try a blow with the 
 enemy increase. 
 
 The object of the lady was to arrive at Winchester before her 
 lord, and accordingly the night was broken in upon, and the 
 time of sleep abridged, in order to accelerate the journey. The 
 
GEORGE OF ASPEN. 97 
 
 bell of the Abbey of Winchester tolled the hour of midnight, 
 when the attack was to commence, in order to liberate the 
 Saxon Hereward. Reposing securely after their recent vic- 
 tory, the Normans had but little suspicion of their enemies' 
 design, and without alarming any, the Saxons mastered the 
 sentinels upon the outer walls and entered the city. Stimulated 
 to exertion by their first success, the Saxons boldly set to work 
 to liberate the prisoner. With loud shouts, they attacked the 
 castle in which Hereward was held a captive ; and such was the 
 consternation spread by the suddenness of the attack, that the 
 sentinels fled in the utmost fear, fancying that the army of 
 Matilda had rallied, and was endeavouring to retake the city. 
 
 The prison of Hereward was reached — the captive set at 
 liberty, but the time which had been consumed was fatal to the 
 assailants. Finding themselves unattacked, the Normans soon 
 recovered their presence of mind, and assembled in numbers to 
 oppose their foes. 
 
 Darkness favoured the Saxons, or else they had been cut off 
 to a man ; but the smallness of their numbers and the ob- 
 scurity of the night formed their security. 
 
 The object of the Saxons was to gain the gate through which 
 they had entered, well knowing that that point was unguarded. 
 They therefore pushed boldly forward and reached it in safety. 
 Hereward himself, armed with a ponderous mace, was prepared 
 to keep the liberty which had been so unexpectedly given him, 
 and was the last to leave the city. 
 
 The smallness of their numbers then became apparent to 
 the Normans, who, maddened at having been outwitted, re- 
 solved to make up for their first fears and inaptitude. They 
 accordingly sallied forth in large numbers after the small 
 body of Saxons. 
 
 Nothing remained for the Saxons but flight ; but Hereward 
 seemed determined to make a stand, and calling his fol- 
 
98 GEORGE OF ASPEN. 
 
 lowers around, fiercely attacked the Normans who were 
 without the walls. It was, however, but a brief struggle ; 
 overpowered by numbers, the Saxons sank one by one upon 
 the earth. Hereward himself fought like a demon ; his pon- 
 derous mace dealt death at every stroke, till the foe shrunk 
 from him dismayed as though he were invulnerable to their 
 weapons and bore a charmed life. 
 
 For every Saxon that was slain, there fell at least a dozen 
 Normans ; but as the latter still pressed on, Hereward per- 
 ceived that hope of victory was over, when calling upon the 
 half-dozen that remained to follow him, he dashed furiously 
 forward. Dealing his blows right and left, he cleared a passage 
 through the Norman host, followed by the few who re- 
 mained of that faithful band who had hazarded their lives 
 for his. 
 
 The fugitives hastened forward to a little clump of trees 
 where they had left their horses, and where the Lady of 
 Aspen was waiting the arrival of her father with anxious hopes 
 and a troubled heart. 
 
 Closely followed by their enemies, only three lived to reach 
 it ; the others were cut down ere far advanced. Among the 
 former was Hereward himself. 
 
 *' My father, my father !" was all that was spoken by one; 
 *' My daughter ! my own dear child ! " the only words that 
 fell from the other ; when the Thane snatched the reins of 
 one of the horses, and vaulting in a moment upon his back, 
 pressed forward, accompanied by his child, from the scene of 
 slaughter. 
 
 Their enemies, however, were not far behind, and perceiving 
 that the fugitives were likely to escape, prepared their bows. 
 A flight of arrows was sent after the Saxon and his daughter, 
 who, from the hilly ground they were riding over, were fully ex- 
 posed to their enemies. Hundreds of missiles fell around them, 
 
GEORGE OF ASPEN. 99 
 
 but they passed unhurt. They were nearly out of danger, when 
 suddenly one came whizzing on, launched by a stouter arm 
 and with a truer aim. A piercing shriek, the shriek of a 
 female, rent the air, — the arrow had struck the Lady of Aspen 
 in the back, and had penetrated her heart. Her father 
 caught the sinking form of his daughter ; then, checking his 
 own horse, he raised her from her saddle and placed her before 
 himself; he struck his heel against his own steed's side, and 
 the animal advanced with greater speed up the hill, bearing 
 upon its back the living and the dead. 
 
 The cry of the old man was very sad when he found that 
 his daughter was a lifeless corpse in his arms. Bitter were 
 the lamentations he uttered — tender and endearing were the 
 epithets he used, as if the cold clay could hear his expressions 
 of regard, and be sensible of his endearments. For a time he 
 was insensible to all around, and the horse took what course 
 he pleased, unchecked by his rider. But rest and repose were 
 necessary for both the rider and his steed ; yet even then the 
 childless old man still held his daughter in his arms — still 
 clung round her with affectionate concern — and then, bearing 
 the corpse of his daughter in his arms, resumed his journey. 
 
 Thus it was he entered his own domains. The strange and 
 sad spectacle caused many inquiries, but the Thane was deaf 
 to all. " To-morrow ask, and I will tell," he muttered, and 
 passed on. He carried the body of his child to the room she 
 had called her own, and laid her upon the bed on which she 
 had so often slept. He bent over her in agony — he paced 
 round her with uneven tread ; but at length nature burst the 
 trammels of restraint, and the old man wept long and bitterly. 
 The livelong night he passed in that chamber with the dead, 
 and none dared venture to disturb him. 
 
 His heavy tread was heard for hours, but at length all grew 
 quiet, and not a sound came forth. After waiting long and 
 
100 GEORGE OF ASPEN. 
 
 anxiously for their master, the vassals ventured to enter the 
 apartment ; the morning sun shed its beams full into the 
 room, and illumined the pale features of the deceased, making 
 death beautiful. They likewise gilded the grey hairs of the 
 old man, as, kneeling down by the bedside, he leant over the 
 body of his daughter, with her hand clasped in his. His 
 attendants spoke to him, but he neither moved nor gave answer. 
 The old man was dead, and cold as the corpse his face hung 
 over. 
 
 The melancholy tidings were not long in finding their way 
 to the Castle of Aspen ; and when the Baron heard thereof, 
 the colour fled from his cheek, and his lip turned pale as 
 ashes. Sorrow took possession of his heart. He lived as 
 though life were valueless — in the world, but not of it ; and 
 from that day forth a smile of pleasure never rose upon the 
 cheek of George of Aspen. 
 
YORK CATHEDRAL. 
 
 This magnificent cathedral is so surrounded with houses, 
 that it is difficult, or even impossible, to find a station from 
 whence a full and distinct view of it can be taken. The level 
 situation of the country, also, renders the prospect from the 
 tops of the steeple somewhat unpicturesque. The edges of 
 the Woulds and of Hamilton Moors, distinctly seen to the 
 east and the north, give some variety to the prospect ; and to 
 the south, at the distance of fifteen miles, the spires of Selby 
 and Hamilton Haugh, covered with trees, in the middle of an 
 extensive plain, are conspicuous objects. However, the author 
 of a recent description thinks that the best station for a visitor 
 to take a general survey around, will be underneath the central 
 tower, or lantern steeple, the loftiest part of the edifice, where 
 the various enrichments of sculpture, observed in the statuary 
 screen, the rich tracery and painting in the windows, and the 
 numerous clusters of columns in the different aisles, all com- 
 bine to show a scene of splendour and solemnity which pro- 
 bably no other cathedral but this of York can boast of. 
 
 The interior of the cathedral is, in every respect, answerable 
 to the magnificence of its exterior. The cross aisle displays 
 a superb specimen. The circular arch, not quite laid aside in 
 Henry the Third's time, still appears in the upper part, en- 
 closing others of a pointed form. The pillars that support the 
 larger arches are of an angular shape, and all the columns 
 have rich leafy capitals. The windows are long, narrow, and 
 
lOS YORK CATHEDRAL. 
 
 pointed, consisting of one light, or divided into several by 
 unramified mullions. The windows in the south end are 
 arranged in three tiers ; the uppermost, composed of two con- 
 centric circles of small arches, is looked upon as a fine piece 
 of masonry. In these windows are the representations of 
 Archbishop St. William, St. Peter, St. Paul, and St. Wilfred ; 
 but the four figures of Abraham, Solomon, Moses, and Peter, 
 in the lower tiers, are the work of a native artist, Mr. Peckitt. 
 The north and south transepts display the same style of archi- 
 tecture; but in the lowermost tier of light, one window of ex- 
 quisite beauty is divided into five, separated by stone mullions 
 concealed fronfc the eye, placed at a distance by clusters of 
 elegant shafts, attached at intervals, and supporting arches 
 richly ornamented with a kind of chevron work, a relic of the 
 Saxon stA'le. 
 
 Among the more ancient of the tombs, that of Archbishop 
 Scrope merits particular notice; but neither this, nor those of 
 Archbishops Rogers and Savage, display much ornament. The 
 monument of Archbishop Greenfield, however, is a fine piece 
 of architecture, enriched with tracery and pinnacles, and sup- 
 ported by arches and buttresses. 
 
 York Cathedral is only one of the buildings which tell us 
 that England is the glory of the whole earth — the princess of 
 nations ; before the prowess of whose arm, tyranny and oppres- 
 sion have quailed ; and before the flood of whose glorious 
 illumination, ignorance has trembled, and sought her native 
 shades. And when we walk her interior — when we see from 
 some projecting heights her vessels reposing on their shadows, 
 waiting only the occasion to be stirred by instinctive life — her 
 cities, her towns, her cathedrals, her hamlets, and her villages 
 — we cannot but claim it as our proudest boast, that such a 
 land is ours ; and not only the sweep of her present empire, 
 but the high antiquity, and the bright renown cherished from 
 
YORK CATHEDRAL. 103 
 
 sire to son, and perpetuated through many a long age — the 
 spell of chivalry is upon her ; the hrilliant illusions of that 
 time, when the pomj) of the tournay and the masque were 
 amongst Europe's first glories. She possesses the proudest 
 abbey piles — buildings where the spirit of antiquity yet 
 lingers ; and round whose cloisters, and cells, and ruined 
 shrines, the shades of old monks and abbots yet walk the low 
 castellated remains — 
 
 Whose turrets gleam i' the sun ; 
 
 frowning towers, which have often rung with the clang of the 
 siegement, and where the shock of war and the stern voice of 
 battle have often been heard : all these remind us of her by- 
 gone days, for they are hers — may they be hers for ever ! 
 
THE SKYLARK. 
 
 Sweet bird of happiness, 
 
 Thou 'st left thy clover nest, 
 
 To soar to bright lands which the eye cannot see. 
 
 O ! for an angel's wing, 
 
 That I might rise and sing 
 Blithely and sweetly, and purely as thee ! 
 
 Sweet is thy matin lay,. 
 Hymn'd to the God of Day — 
 Joyous the strain as joyous can be : 
 
 Emblem of happiness, 
 
 Emblem of gentleness, 
 O ! that my hours were alway with thee ! 
 
 Nothing of sadd'ning strain, 
 
 No lament over pain — 
 
 These thou hast left for mortals like me ; 
 
 On thy light, buoyant wing. 
 
 Thou risest carolling — 
 Earth's cheating phantoms are nothing to thee ! 
 
THE BRIDESMAID. 
 
 It is somewhat remarkable, that while the Bride has formed so 
 often a subject for the pen and pencil, the Bridesmaid should, 
 with few exceptions, have been unnoticed. For the Bride 
 minstrels have swept the harp-strings, and poets conjured up 
 their loftiest thoughts ; and the fairy-wand of romance has 
 woven around her a mystic web, so that her every action has 
 been traced, and her every thought conjectured. The painter's 
 skill has been called forth to depict her in all the charms of 
 her loveliness, as she stood before the altar, and bound herself 
 to another, till death severed the silken cords — her before pale 
 cheeks, whose paleness rivalled the rose-wreath which formed 
 the chaplet for her brow, mantled with the crimson blush of 
 modesty ; and the bridal-day, with its merry peal and joyous 
 hours — have all been painted in the gorgeous colouring with 
 which fancy tints. 
 
 Yet is there another in that group which surrounds the 
 altar, on whom the poet might bestow a lay — the limner, a 
 picture ; — the part she is performing is not ignoble ; there is 
 that in the office she is filling, which can scarcely be done 
 without feelings of deep emotion, if envy tincture not her 
 heart with gall. 
 
 She is oftentimes the sister, perhaps the only one, of the 
 bride, endeared to her by the ties of relationship, yet more so 
 by the band of aJQTection : they may have learned the same 
 lessons, played the same tunes, loved the same studies — in 
 
106 THE BRIDESMAID. 
 
 a word, followed the same pursuits, and, li!:e Juno's swans, 
 sailed down the stream of time inseparable companions. 
 
 But the time is now come which is to dissolve these closely- 
 knit ties. Can she then look upon an act, which, if it dry not 
 up the fountain of affection towards herself, turns its bright 
 streams to another channel, with indifference ? Is there not, 
 therefore, a generous devotedness on her part, as she arrays 
 her sister for the wedding ? when every merry peal which 
 tuneful bells may ring will be as the death-knell of her own 
 happy hours ; she must think of the solitariness in store for 
 herself, and though her countenance be lit up with smiles, and 
 she strives to look cheerful and merry, yet they only enliven 
 her heart, as the moonbeams the waters ; their face becoming 
 all brightness, their depths all coldness ; and when the mar- 
 riage ceremony is over, and her sister has left the home of her 
 childhood, how great a change will she find wrought in the 
 domestic circle ! — a change dread and solemn as that felt when 
 death calls one of a family to his own dark home. There will 
 be a void which she feels cannot be filled up — the very walls 
 seem to burn with the name of sister — everything around calls 
 her to mind ; the plants they have tended — the favourite birds 
 they have fed — the walks they have trodden together — the 
 music they have played — all with one accord recal the lost one 
 to her remembrance — and lost in thought, she well might 
 seek some solitary chamber, and recal the images of the past — 
 of earlier and happier years, before sorrow had laid a finger 
 upon the heart, or suspicion entered the mind. And as this the 
 glorious past floats through the mind, and is contrasted with 
 the dark uncertain future, the heart of the sister may well 
 harbour some feelings of despondency, and entertain the 
 thought that the world is not so fair as fancy may have 
 painted ; but that sorrow, sickness, disappointment will have 
 to be endured by her she loves so well. 
 
TINTERN ABBEY, MONMOUTHSHIRE.* 
 
 What ruins are those I survey, 
 
 And which strike with such rev'reiice my eye ? 
 The towers of old Tintern are they, 
 
 The towers on the banks of the Wye. 
 
 The abbey once flourishing stood. 
 
 And wath Monmouthshire's proudest might vie, 
 When high it o'ershadow'd the flood 
 
 Which laves the green banks of the Wye. 
 
 But Tintern 's now mould 'ring away. 
 
 Her prosperous days are past by ; 
 And fallen in utter decay 
 
 Are the towers on the banks of the Wye. 
 
 Yet still as the trav'llers advance, 
 And the abbey's grey ruins descry. 
 
 They cast many a wandering glance 
 At the towers on the banks of the Wye. 
 
 But the fortunes of Tintern are gone. 
 
 No more rises its head to the sky ; 
 And the Ivy stands witness alone. 
 
 To the towers on the banks of the Wye — 
 
 * These lines were written at the request of a young lady, who in her journey into 
 Wales, on admiring the beauties of Tintern, was induced to take a slip of its ivy grow- 
 ing on the walls, and plant it in her father's grounds. 
 
108 TINTERN ABBEY. 
 
 Tlie Ivy which grew on its wall, 
 When Tintern was flourishing high ; 
 
 The Ivy which grew at its fall, 
 
 On the towers by the banks of the Wye. 
 
 A slip of that Ivy remains, 
 
 Nor, with tenderness propt, shall it die. 
 But stand witness for ages again 
 
 To the towers by the banks of the Wye. 
 
 To reflection and memory dear 
 The Ivy shall be in my eye ; 
 
 When I see it, I think with a tear 
 
 Of the towers by the banks of the Wye. 
 
J'jirUeJ/ bu ^ Coopci /<• '/ 
 
 ^ y/z^ Jf^a^^^^. 
 
THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. 
 
 Search, search, in records past and gone, and find a man more brave, 
 Than he who died a fearful death another's life to save. 
 No crowds were there to witness it, t' applaud the noble deed, 
 Which, while it saved from fearful death, gave his own life to bleed. 
 
 The sun was sunk, the woods were thick, a madd'ning roar was heard, 
 The woods resounded with the cry, the tangled thicket stirr'd, 
 And springing forth, with mane erect, a lion in his pride 
 Fasten'd upon the passing horse, and tore its heaving side. 
 In vain the servant, undismay'd, spurr'd on the frighten'd steed, 
 The courser heeded not the heel, nor quicken'd he his speed; 
 Death was at hand for one or both, the servant saw and gave 
 His body to the ravenous beast, his mistress he might save. 
 
 Who is the bravest ? he who dares, death 'midst a thousand foes ? 
 When love of country, thirst for fame, within his bosom glows, 
 With passions kindled, blood on fire, how can a man feel fear? 
 For though fell death is near at hand, he cannot tell how near ; 
 He fights, he fights, and death o'ertakes, he dies a glorious death. 
 And Fame and Honour crown his brow, as heaves his parting breath: 
 And friends shall tell his noble deeds, he dared the foeman's power. 
 To build a name might well repay one dark and painful hour. 
 — Or he who threw his life away when none but God was near — 
 None but the God who gave him life, and she his soul held dear? 
 He loved her as a serf may love, he died and show'd its power — 
 Death, Death, wert thou the conqueror in that dark, fearful hoiur ? 
 Ah, no ! the soul thou conquer'd not— that spurn'd thy puny sway, 
 And left the frail and fickle frame, and soar'd from earth away. 
 Where all is light, and peace, and joy : the slave and noble there, 
 If true on earth, its glorious fruits alike may freely share. 
 
THE JUST FOR THE UNJUST. 
 
 I PITY the widow who has children looking to her for support. 
 Widowhood may be a light and a gay time for those who have no 
 such claims, and who, through being left in competency, if not 
 in affluent circumstances, can indulge in pleasure and gaiety 
 unchecked and unrestrained by the thraldoms of marriage : it 
 is different — very different — to those who, unblessed by for- 
 tune, have to provide for the wants and guide the footsteps of 
 the young. Let the gay young widow be a subject for the 
 mirthful and the merry to point their witty observations at : 
 she who, with scanty means, has to provide for the wants of 
 her children, is entitled to be regarded with far other feelings 
 than those of mirth and merriment. There is superadded to 
 a mother's assiduity and tenderness, all the anxious cares of 
 a father. The hopes, the fears, the duties which nature in- 
 tended should be borne by two, have to be sustained and per- 
 formed single-handed and alone. Oh ! if it be a sight calcu- 
 lated to awaken the highest feelings of pleasure, to watch a 
 young and fond mother playing with and caressing her chil- 
 dren, it must arouse feelings of admiration — of pity, to note 
 a young widow, in the first days of her bereavement, gazing 
 with a fond but earnest look upon her offspring. That look, 
 so earnest, so intense, so painfully ardent, conveys too truly 
 the workings of the spirit within. Alone, imaided, with no- 
 thing to trust to but God and a firm rectitude of purpose, 
 she has to curb the wayward spirits of youth — to lead, to 
 
THE JUST FOR THE UNJUST. Ill 
 
 teach, to guide, to warn, — and yet more, to labour for the 
 sustenance of those who, too young to know care or to have 
 thought, are ever assailing with childish troubles and petty 
 grievances. 
 
 If a picture of true heroism were to be required, it would be 
 amongst the widowed daughters of humanity that the search 
 would be carried on with the fairest prospect of success. The 
 patient endurance, the quiet submission to duty — duty in- 
 volving alike toil and privation, — the continued watchfulness, 
 the constrained appearance of calmness when the heart is often 
 bursting — the frequently-endured privation, — and these, too, 
 suffered and performed under the hardest and most trying cir- 
 cumstances — in silence and solitude, without sympathy to 
 cheer or encouragement to stimulate — unkno%\Ti save to God, 
 and unspoken save in prayer, — afford such a picture of pa- 
 tience, disinterestedness, and nobleness, that if the frivolities 
 of Avidowhood afford a theme for ridicule, its toils and heart- 
 wearings afford a subject, if for nothing higher, at least for 
 respect. 
 
 The summer's sun was rising brightly over the pretty little 
 village of Elmsdale ; — the seven tall and stately elm trees 
 from which it derived its name seemed spangled with bright 
 jewels, as their dew-bespangled leaves glistened in the beams 
 of the morning sun ; — the old grey towers of the princely 
 and noble castle of Windsor, which rose near the little village, 
 seemed to lose their ruggedness and sternness, as though even 
 their time-worn stones were gladdened by the coming of day. 
 Its lofty towers and tesselated terraces, and towering battle- 
 ments seemed to feel the influence of the sun, and rejoice that 
 
 F 2 
 
112 THE JUST FOR 
 
 his bright beams once more shone upon them. There it stood^ 
 in the midst of woody and wide-extending parks — the same 
 proud and princely pile it had ever been — rich in the re- 
 collection of by-gone years — ^bearing back the mind to days 
 of war and chivalry, when th€ proud and almost princely 
 barons held powerful sway, the king himself being but little 
 more than the most potent of many who exercised an almost 
 kingly power. 
 
 Yes ! there it stood ! a deserted yet wonderful relic — 
 a giant of other days, which though conveying the idea of 
 feudal grandeur and magnificence, seemed but ill adapted for 
 the taste of modern times. 
 
 The glorious days of the noble structure seemed over — the 
 deer browsed undisturbed in the park, undismayed by the 
 whoop of the hunter, — the bird built its nest in the thick 
 foliage of the trees undisturbed and unmolested, save from the 
 hand of the wandering school-boy. 
 
 There, listening to the belling of the deer, the song of the 
 bird, the caw of the rook, the splashing of the ducks as they 
 dived in the lakes, 
 
 "The saddest heart might pleasure take 
 To see all nature gay." 
 
 And now all was waking into life and activity under the 
 bright beams which the morning sun was shedding over the 
 varied landscape ; — the bird left its nest, the cattle grazed in the 
 meadows, the hind led forth her young to feed in the noble 
 park, and the sheep became eager to leave their fold. All was 
 life and beauty, as if the spell which darkness threw over 
 nature had been broken, and the charm which lulled to sleep 
 been dissolved, by the beams of the morning. But the dew 
 
THE UNJUST. 113 
 
 "Still hung upon leaf and flower, and fruit, as if they shed tears 
 over the silence they had lost, though called to brightness and 
 beauty ; as daughters leaving their mother's home to embark 
 on the wide and troublous sea of life shed tears — yet not all 
 of sorrow, for hope makes them radiant. 
 
 The village consisted of about twenty cottages — some of 
 the prettiest and neatest cottages ever seen. The honeysuckle, 
 the rose, and the jessamine covered their walls, forming at 
 once a beautiful sight, and shedding a rich perfume. And 
 within were contented spirits — happy parents and healthy 
 children ; and the merry peal of laughter which every now 
 and then broke the quietness, proclaimed alike the absence of 
 trouble and of thought. It is true, few — perhaps very few — 
 of the luxuries of life found their way to these humble homes; 
 but what of that ? — these happy villagers had never known 
 their want, and therefore never felt their loss. 
 
 One cottage, and one alone of all the cluster, was an ex- 
 ception. The plants which climbed the walls and clustered 
 over the latticed porch grew unrestrained and wild, betoken- 
 ing that the family "within were either engrossed by care, or 
 were extremely negligent. 
 
 The family consisted of four individuals — two children and 
 their parents ; but as yet there were no signs of life. The 
 blinds of the little chambers were drawn, and all was hushed 
 as death. — Hushed as death ! — it was a silence and solemnity 
 fitted for the time, for the hand of death was busy. 
 
 Upon the bed was lying a young man apparently of about 
 thirty, whose livid lip and glassy eye proclaimed that he was 
 hastening fast to that last sleep of mortals, the sleep of death. 
 The mind of the dying man was disquieted and troubled ; but 
 the thoughts which agitated him were anxious ones for others 
 rather than for himself. A pale yet youthful and beautiful 
 woman was bending over the dying man, watching with an- 
 
114 THE JUST FOR 
 
 xioiis look his flushed cheek and thick-coming breath, and 
 ministering that comfort which kind words and deep solicitude 
 can always afford. 
 
 '' Oh God ! that I might live !" exclaimed the dying man. 
 " Not for myself I ask it, but for your sake, Ellen, and for 
 the sake of my children. To leave you friendless, and them 
 orphans, to the world's cold, biting scorn — Oh! Heaven, Hea- 
 ven !" 
 
 His wife kindly urged him to think not of it. " There is," 
 said she, ** a God above us who provides for the widow, and 
 becomes a father to the fatherless ; and if the ravens are fed 
 from his bounty, shall not we ?" 
 
 *' Oh ! Ellen, Ellen ! you know not what poverty is. You 
 cannot think what it is to be exposed to the cold chilliness of 
 penury — to meet with proud contempt and haughty scorn — to 
 wear away the body's strength and the soul's thoughts in toil, 
 incessant toil. And you, that have known comforts, luxuries, 
 wealth, to come to this — and through me ! — Oh ! Ellen, does 
 not your heart curse me ?" 
 
 *' No !" exclaimed his wife. " May Heaven bless you, as 
 I do ! The fault does not rest with you ; and that which has 
 now been taken, Heaven in its own good time will return, if 
 such be the pleasure of the Almighty." 
 
 There was a pause ; the eyes of the wife were turned with 
 a fixed and earnest gaze upon her husband's face, who soon 
 after added — 
 
 " The pain is passing away. It cannot last long. You 
 were always good, and kind, and gentle, Ellen ; God and 
 religion were not often forgotten by you. If not for yourself, 
 at least for me, as the last request of a dying man — a man 
 you have loved — let our children be instructed in the ways of 
 religion and virtue. Wealth will not be their portion ; but 
 they may have a nobler gift than riches, a heart at peace with 
 God." 
 
THE UNJUST. 115 
 
 His wife bent over him in tearful agony,"and, pressing her 
 lips to his fevered brow, kissed it fervently. While tears fell 
 fast from her eyes, she said in a broken and tremulous voice — 
 " I will, my Herbert, I will." 
 
 " None," said the husband, " can tell what religion is, till 
 they lie as I now do. I should have died happier had I thought 
 more of God." 
 
 His children — a boy of about seven, and a girl of five years 
 old — were brought to the bedside. The dying father took 
 their hands and kissed them ; but his feelings overcame him, 
 and he soon desired them to leave the room. Immediately 
 afterwards he turned his eyes upon his wife — faintly uttered, 
 " It is all over ! " then, with a feeble struggle — during which 
 were uttered the words "wife, children, God!" — and the 
 spirit left the clay. 
 
 For a long time the afflicted wife hung over the senseless 
 
 form of what had once been her husband. Loud and deep 
 
 were her lamentations, and she pressed her face to that which 
 
 was fast assuming the coldness of death, as if its warmth could 
 
 bring back the life which had fled. But, however deep the 
 
 grief, there are duties which the dead require. The body was 
 
 therefore left, that these might be performed, whilst the living 
 
 went to weep. 
 
 ^ * * * * ^ 
 
 Years rolled on. The once young Ellen Stanley has grown 
 to a matronly woman. But her face, though it has lost some 
 of its beauty, still wears that mild, pale, pensive look it wore 
 in youth. Her eyes, though not so bright as once they were, 
 still retain their expression of benevolence and love. But 
 if the years which have passed have taken these charms from 
 her, they have, like the descending mantle of Elijah, given a 
 double portion to her children. Her son had grown up to a 
 fine lad of nineteen, and, by those who look but slightly 
 
116 THE JUST FOR 
 
 into the features, would have been regarded as handsome. His 
 hair was light, and clustered in small curls round his forehead, 
 which, though not high, was far from being contracted. His 
 eyes were bright and blue ; but they were small, and there 
 vfas an expression about them of haughty and determined re- 
 solution, for they were somewhat sunk beneath his eyebrows, 
 which either nature or habit had contracted into a perpetual 
 furrow. His nose was finely moulded ; but about his mouth 
 there was a sinister and malicious expression. 
 
 His sister's countenance, while more beautiful, was, at the 
 same time, more pleasing than her brother's. No evil passions 
 contracted her brow ; and the expression of her mouth, in 
 place of being a malicious one, was one of good-natured mirth ; 
 whilst the playfulness which lurked about her eye, told of a 
 light-hearted and thoughtless disposition — full of high spirits, 
 determined to be pleased with the pleasures of life, and ignorant 
 as yet of its snares. 
 
 It was Sunday evening, in the middle of summer, and in 
 that little cottage the mother and her two children were 
 assembled. The window opened to the west, and the set- 
 ting sun threw its bright rays into the room. The Bible 
 lay open before the parent, and, in a low and musical tone 
 which well accorded with the beauty of the hour, she was read- 
 ing of " the way, the truth, and the life." But the attention of 
 her son was far otherwise occupied ; and, if he heard at all 
 the words which were spoken, they were only heard with the 
 ear, without being understood. Presently a loud whistle was 
 heard. 
 
 " Ah ! there," cried Herbert, interrupting the chapter his 
 mother was reading, — "Ah! there is James Wildbran ; I knew 
 he would be back to-night. I must hear the news." 
 
 Perhaps, however, the consciousness of the wrongness of 
 his action crossed his mind, for in the next instant his face 
 
THE UNJUST. 117 
 
 •was crimsoned with a blush of shame ; but, immediately after- 
 wards, he turned to leave the room. 
 
 " Herbert," said his mother as she closed the book, " I had 
 better speak now than later. Respect for a mother might 
 have taught you better than to make such an interruption. 
 But it matters little about that ; the insult has been offered 
 to a higher Being than myself — to Him who made us both. 
 To slight His Word is to offer insult to the Author, and from 
 disrespect direct opposition proceeds. Of late you are strangely 
 changed. You have grown idle in your habits, and neglectful 
 of your God. The calm kindness of your former manner has 
 gone. You are now capricious, wayward, and ill-natured. 
 In your sleep you cannot rest, but start, and mutter, and 
 clench your fist. Oh, Herbert, Herbert ! you have some 
 dreadful secret at your heart, either just committed or about 
 to be performed. Oh ! if we are poor, let us be honest ; let 
 us not bring the curse of God and man alike upon us. If 
 you will not work, I will toil for you — toil while strength 
 lasts ; but rather, far rather would I see my child shrouded 
 for the grave, than have him live to disobey God, dishonour 
 his parent, and destroy himself. Whatever it be, this new- 
 found friend, this Wildbran, has a hand in it. Oh, Herbert ! 
 as you value my blessing, go not to him. By the pains, the 
 watchings, the yearnings of a mother, abstain from his com- 
 pany ; for if you rush to vice and ruin, then will you bring 
 down your mother with sorrow to the grave." 
 
 It was true, as his mother had said, a change had come 
 over the spirit of her son. He was scarcely to be known as 
 the same individual to whom, a few months before, his mother 
 and sister were all in all. 
 
 James Wildbran was a gay, reckless young man — a wild, 
 careless, jovial companion, who could laugh, and sing, and tell 
 merry tales, and while away the time so pleasantly, that his 
 
 F 5 
 
118 THE JUST FOR 
 
 companions wondered at the swiftness with which the hours 
 flew when they were in his company. Why he had come 
 into that i:)art of the country, nobody could tell. It was not 
 for employment, for he had no ostensible means of livelihood ; 
 and yet he always seemed to have money at command — if not 
 in great quantities, at least sufficient to keep him. 
 
 But there was such an air of mystery about him ! Where 
 he came from, nobody could tell ; and he was frequently 
 absent whole days together, no one could surmise where. 
 His cottage, too, no one had ever been inside — except Herbert. 
 His appointments were at the alehouse, the green, but never 
 at his own house ; and yet, — for such was the curiosity of the 
 villagers, that one or two had, at sundry times, peeped in at 
 the lower window, — nothing could be seen there to justify sus- 
 picion. The furniture was but scanty ; but that excited no sur- 
 prise in a village where all were poor. An oaken table, and 
 two or three chairs of the same material, made up the whole. 
 
 Certain it is, that poaching had been lately carried on in 
 the neighbourhood to a greater extent than had ever been 
 known before ; but then there was nothing which could bring 
 such deeds home to Wildbran. 
 
 Such was the young man with whom Herbert had formed 
 a companionship — a companionship the most dangerous to 
 religious principles and high integrity, since Wildbran, though 
 not openly despising, secretly laughed alike at religion and 
 morality. " It does for greybeards," he would say, " to be so 
 strict and cautious ; but youth and pleasure were made for one 
 another — and, for my own part, I see no ill in gaiety and jol- 
 lity, and I never found any one who thought so except those 
 who are too old to partake of them — and then they find out 
 how exceedingly sinful they are, for the benefit of the young. 
 I wonder now, Herbert Stanley, you let your mother keep you 
 so hard at work. There you are, slaving, slaving all the week. 
 
THE UNJUST. 119 
 
 and then moped to church on a Sunday, and then drenched 
 with prayers and sermons all the evening. Why, such work 
 as that is enough to blunt every energy ; whereas after a little 
 pleasure you would go to work a new man." 
 
 This ever has been, and ever will be, the surest method for 
 the vicious to seduce the virtuous from their good resolutions 
 and principled morality. 
 
 Vice truly is 
 
 " A monster of so frightful mien," 
 that if the full form were presented at first, horror and disgust 
 would only ensue : but when once habits of idleness are in- 
 stilled, the rest soon follows, and we 
 
 " First endure, then pity, then embrace." 
 
 The mind of Herbert was not yet ripe for open rebellion ; the 
 principles in which he had been brought up yet assumed a 
 mastery, — the natural respect he bore to his mother — the re- 
 spect not alone such as is due to a parent, but added there- 
 unto the respect which follows worth and virtue. 
 
 He sat down again in moody silence. His mother spoke to 
 him a few minutes afterwards, but he returned no answer; 
 and his sister, rising from her seat, placed her hand upon his 
 arm, and gently looking into his face, said, 
 
 *' Herbert, my brother, think upon the time of our child- 
 hood and the days of our youth. Through those days happy 
 v/ere we ; we worked and played together — we tended the 
 same flowers, reared the same birds, shared each other's sorrow 
 and partook of each other's joy. Then all was gladness — we 
 shared each other's secrets, and knew each other's thoughts ; 
 then each had firm confidence in the other, and we were happy. 
 But now it is far otherwise : you are grown silent and love 
 solitude — your hopes and fears are kept entirely to yourself. 
 Is it that I have become no longer worthy of your confidence? 
 
ISO THE JUST FOR 
 
 or are your secrets such that you dare not reveal them ? But 
 since this estrangement has taken place, are you happier than 
 you were ? You cannot say you are ; now you seldom smile ; 
 and when you do, it is such a smile, that I would sooner see 
 you cry — it has in it so much more of sadness than of mirth." 
 
 He looked upon hej with a malignant expression, in which 
 concentrated anger and a hidden resolve were strangely min- 
 gled with a wild ferocity. She quailed beneath the glance, and 
 with a heart bursting sat down. This was the first interruption 
 to the harmony which had always had a home in that humble 
 cottage — a herald of the misery which afterwards befel them. 
 
 For an hour Herbert thus sat, without his features returning 
 to their wonted calmness. It would seem that to him, as to 
 the traitor Judas, the devil then took possession of his spirit, 
 prompting to the deeds he afterwards wrought. Alas ! what 
 demon is there stronger than a man's bad passions, unre- 
 strained and unchecked by religion and virtue ? 
 
 But the expression of his countenance was so changed within 
 that hour, that it was afterwards remembered and commented 
 on by his relatives ; the rumour of which going abroad, pro- 
 bably gave rise to the notion, that his after actions were 
 wrought through the immediate agency of the foe of humanity. 
 The evening meal was spread by the mother ; but the food 
 was left untasted by Herbert, who suddenly started up and 
 exclaimed, 
 
 " I am going to bed — good night !" 
 
 " But have your supper first, Herbert," said his mother. 
 
 ** Do now, Herbert, that is a good lad," rejoined his sister. 
 
 " I want no supper," returned he sullenly ; " I have had 
 lecture enough to spoil a better appetite than mine." And, 
 without another word, he left the room. 
 
 The village clock struck nine, and to the mother and daugh- 
 ter it seemed to have partaken of the melancholy feeling which 
 
THE UNJUST. 121 
 
 reigned in their own hearts, so heavily and solemnly the sound 
 fell. The hour passed on slowly and sadly ; the hearts of both 
 were too full to speak, and they sat in silence, though now 
 and then each turned an anxious gaze upon the other. 
 
 Ten o'clock struck, and they retired to bed — the daughter 
 with a sad spirit, and the mother with an aching heart. It 
 was too evident that her son had forsaken the path of virtue, 
 and that he was entangled in the meshes of vice. The coil of 
 the serpent was around hira, but with how many folds ? Was 
 it only now that it was beginning to be wreathed round him ? 
 or was he already wound — so deeply wound, that rescue 
 seemed impossible ? Oh ! she felt that her heart would burst 
 if she saw him pursuing a career of recklessness and vice ; 
 and she felt that she rather — much rather — would see him laid 
 in the green churchyard, than have him live to be forsaken by 
 his God, and — except indeed by those who shared alike his 
 infamy and guilt — by man also. She threw herself on her 
 knees at the bedside, and prayed long and fervently, that that 
 evil might be averted ; she prayed for strength to withstand, 
 and knowledge how to act under such trying circumstances. 
 Let the infidel scoff at prayer — let him sneer at the thought of 
 the fiats of the Omniscient being swayed or swerv^ed one jot 
 by the prayers of a mortal, who is but dust ; still must it be, 
 that the fervent prayer of the righteous availeth much. If not 
 to alter the ordering of Deity, it availeth to soothe a disquieted 
 spirit, to calm the agitated mind, to bring the heart to rest on 
 higher things than earth ; and when the spirit is harassed, 
 worn down and troubled, then prayer, as powerful as when 
 breathed from the lips of the Lawgiver of Israel, brings as it 
 were water from the stony rock — for bright thoughts succeed 
 to sad, hope takes the place of despondency, and faith bids to 
 exertion, to patience, to zeal. 
 
 The mother arose calm and serene— all angry feelings were 
 
122 THE JUST FOR 
 
 lost, and going to the door of her son's room, she said, " Her- 
 bert, Herbert." But no voice answered in reply. 
 
 *' Herbert," again said his mother, " I cannot sleep in iin- 
 kindness." But still no answer came. 
 
 *' Come, come," said his mother, " it is alike unmanly and 
 unkind to bear anger in malice. Come, Herbert, speak." 
 Still all was silence. 
 
 She took the handle in her hand, and tried to open the 
 door : the inside was locked. *' Herbert, Herbert," cried the 
 mother, " speak, speak !" Still all was silent. 
 
 Her daughter now came to her side, in anxious alarm. 
 ****** 
 
 The door w^as forced open, but no Herbert was there. The 
 bed was unpressed, the room empty ; but the open window 
 gave the idea that it was from thence he had gone out. 
 
 A sleepless night was passed by both mother and daugh- 
 ter. Anxiety, and that distraction of the spirit which anxiety 
 brings, drove away sleep from the senses. 
 
 Thus anxious — thus assailed with fears, the mother resolved 
 to wait till her son should return. Eleven — twelve passed, 
 and yet he came not home. One — two — three rolled heavily 
 along, yet all was calm and still ; there was not heard a sound, 
 save the rustling of the leaves as the wind gently passed. 
 The day began to dawn — the dull grey of the morning soon 
 gave place to the bright streaks of glorious sunlight, but still 
 the absent son had not returned. The sun rose upon the 
 earth brightly and majestically, diffusing light and gladness, 
 and making everything joyous save the hearts of the watchers, 
 and yet no tidings of young Stanley had been heard. The 
 hour of noon drew rapidly on, and then was it the* mother 
 gained the first intelligence of the manner in which the night 
 had been passed by her son ; and to that was added the yet 
 more painful information, that he at that moment was before 
 
THE UNJUST. 12S 
 
 the country Justice, charged with being implicated in the crime 
 of poaching. 
 
 No sooner was this direful news heard by the mother, than 
 all a mother's love returned. She thought not of her son as a 
 guilty atid hard-hearted youth ; his unkindness, his degrada- 
 tion were forgotten in a moment ; and, alive only to the 
 peril and danger of his situation, she instantly resolved to set 
 forth and plead for his liberation. 
 
 " A mother's pleadings ! — to that they will surely listen," 
 said she to herself. " This must be his first offence ; and, 
 being so, I may procure his pardon." 
 
 AVith these feelings, and with this hope, she arrived at the 
 Manor-house. Her errand was soon told ; and, in a few 
 minutes after, she found herself in the parlour of the Justice, 
 in which, at the foot of the table, in company with another 
 young man, stood her son. 
 
 At the sight of his mother, Herbert Stanley turned suddenly 
 pale ; but he soon recovered his self-possession, and met the 
 gaze of the Justice with a look of composure, and even of 
 haughtiness. 
 
 Mr. Justice Marshall, of Elmsdale House, was a cold- 
 hearted, selfish man ; his very generosity was selfishness, and 
 his gifts were always rendered unwelcome by the manner in 
 which they were bestowed. He always exacted such a tribute 
 of thanks from the recipient, as rendered the favour far from 
 acceptable ; or else he so magnified his own munificence, that 
 all sense of obligation was lost to the party receiving the 
 favour. 
 
 Such was the man before whom Mrs. Stanley appeared to 
 plead the cause of a guilty son. But all the eloquence of a 
 mother's pleadings were not likely to avail much with a man 
 whose heart was cold as stone, and whose sense of justice was 
 entirely derived from what the law held right. Yet such was 
 
124 THE JUST FOR 
 
 the known respectability and uniform good conduct of the 
 mother, that the Justice, notwithstanding the sternness of his 
 disposition, felt some uneasiness at the sentence he was about 
 to pass on her son. 
 
 The character of Mrs. Stanley was well known in the 
 village. The gentle sympathised with the loss of riches she 
 was known to have sustained. She was pointed out as a 
 pattern of maternal love, — so absorbed seemed her feelings in 
 the welfare of her children. 
 
 **I am sorry, madam," said the Justice to her, in a cold- 
 hearted tone, — " I am sorry to see you here on such an occa- 
 sion. But you must be aware that the law was made for the 
 protection of property, and that those who break through its 
 injunctions become liable to its penalties. Though I am the 
 injured party, I will not allow private feeling to influence my 
 mind in the least degree. Your son shall have justice — strict, 
 impartial justice — from my hands ; though I cannot help 
 expressing my regret that a son of yours should have exposed 
 himself to the law's penalties." 
 
 These words, spoken in an indifferent tone, chilled the heart 
 of the mother ; but the fervency of a mother's love urged her 
 to make an effort to enlist on her side the sympathies of the 
 Justice, and procure the liberation of her son. 
 
 " Sir," said she, in a tone of bitter entreaty, ** this once 
 pardon him,— this once let your clemency be extended. For- 
 give, forgive, and the prayers of a widowed heart shall rise to 
 Heaven to entreat the same mercy when you shall be sum- 
 moned to the tribunal of God ! " 
 
 *' It may not be," returned the stern man. ** It is the law, 
 and not I, which inflicts justice upon your son. You greatly 
 mistake, madam : I have not the power, consistent with my 
 duty, to liberate that young man. The world would say that 
 I, Justice Marshall, pandered to the faults of criminals, and 
 
THE UNJUST. 125 
 
 suffered the Park of Elmsdale to be little else than a ren- 
 dezvous for poachers." 
 
 " The world's opinion, sir," said Mrs. Stanley in reply, " is 
 at best but poor: the heart is the best judge of the motives 
 which influence the actions ; and I cannot think that yours 
 would ever upbraid you for having shown an act of clemency 
 — for having yielded to a mother's prayers, and set free her 
 child. If — but you cannot know ! how should you ? — if you 
 but knew what a mother's feelings are I if you but knew what 
 it is to watch the helplessness of infancy — to guard during the 
 days of childhood — to bear wuth the waywardness of youth — 
 you would not turn a deaf ear to my entreaty ! By the 
 memory of her to whom you yourself owe life, I entreat that 
 your pardon may be extended ! " 
 
 Though somewhat moved, the stem man shook his head 
 and muttered, " It may not be." 
 
 " It may be, sir I" exclaimed the mother. " Yourself, and 
 you alone, order it otherwise. Oh ! say that it may be, and 
 the gratitude of a widowed heart shall be yours." 
 
 " You plead to stone, mother!" exclaimed Herbert, now 
 speaking for the first time since his mother had entered the 
 room. '* The trouble you have taken is more than the farour 
 you ask." 
 
 '* Silence, young man ! " said the Justice sternly ; then, 
 turning to the mother, he continued — ** The law allows a term 
 of three months' imprisonment: I shall, at your request, 
 abridge the period one-half. Though his probable appearance 
 on my grounds last night was to carry on the nefarious 
 practice of poaching, yet, as he had neither trap nor gun in his 
 possession, he is only guilty in the eye of the law of trespass- 
 ing. That young man by his side, who was taken in a 
 different part of the wood, is guilty of the heavier charge, the 
 implements necessary for his piurpose being found upon him. 
 
126 THE JUST FOR 
 
 Your son and he are known to be companions ; but it is not 
 shown that they acted in concert last night ; and as this seems 
 to be }-our son's first offence, I shall not endeavour to sub- 
 stantiate proof sufficient to convict both, but, giving your son 
 the benefit of the same, shall only inflict a term of six weeks' 
 imprisonment upon him. As for the other — Wildbran, I 
 think his name is — he will have to take his trial at the next 
 Assizes." 
 
 At the mention of the name of Wildbran, the eyes of the 
 mother and her son instinctively met. The recollection of the 
 last evening's scene probably rose simultaneously in both 
 minds, though it gave birth to very different feelings. In one, 
 the sense of shame held full force : the other was filled with 
 the most anxious thoughts. The companion of her son was 
 before her, a degraded man and a criminal. She knew not 
 •what, from his association, might have been acquired over the 
 mind of her son. Some of the fruits she saw ; but were these 
 the first fruits, or had his insidious counsels and baneful ex- 
 ample exercised such a hold that reformation was next to 
 impossible? She saw that her son had acquired habits of 
 idleness, and had become irreligious. "Was the chain of idle- 
 ness so thick, and bound round him with so many links, that 
 nothing save a giant's strength could free from the fetters? 
 And was the irreligion the effect of immorality — the change 
 necessary to make the feelings of the heart agree with the 
 actions of the life, since the avowal of disbelief is necessary to 
 calm the I'emons trances of conscience and to get rid of the 
 disturbances of fear — belief and disquietude being inseparably 
 connected? The angels believe and obey — the " devils be- 
 lieve and tremble" — man may disbelieve, and be undisturbed 
 in his sins. 
 
 After the Justice had ceased speaking, there was a pause for 
 a few moments. The mother w*as the first to break the si- 
 
THE UNJUST. 127 
 
 lence. She had, it is true, partly gained her object, in that 
 the duration of her son's imprisonment had been shortened at 
 her entreaty ; and perhaps, under other circumstances, she 
 would have expressed her thanks, and remained contented. 
 But the feelings which agitated her breast during that pause 
 were rapidly followed by others, though very different ones ; 
 and these urged her to attempt to make an effort to effect the 
 immediate liberation of her son. 
 
 " If," thought she, " he be but just acquiring habits of 
 idleness, will not the indolence he will be subjected to confirm 
 and strengthen them ? If he be but just tainted with vice, 
 will not the associates he then will have to mingle and mix 
 with harden and confirm ? And if otherwise — if he were 
 deeper read in villany, would not the companionship of the 
 lawless and the desperate teach new ways in which villany 
 might be perpetrated ? She felt — she knew they would; and 
 so feeling, so knowing, she made another effort. 
 
 She painted in vivid colours the dangers — she portrayed as 
 forcibly as she could the probable consequences of an impri- 
 sonment upon her son. She urged her reasons with all the 
 eloquence she could command. Dwelling upon the Justice's 
 own words, she commented upon its being the first offence, 
 and ended by saying that, actuated by the spirit of gratitude, 
 she was sure that never again would her son do anything to 
 the injury of his benefactor, and that she herself would ven- 
 ture to assert that this offence should be at once the first 
 and last. 
 
 She pleaded in vain — the stern Justice was inexorable, and, 
 irritated at the earnestness of the appeal, he answered bit- 
 terly, 
 
 " I have already limited the demand due to justice, and 
 now any further attempt to lessen the duration of the period 
 of your sons imprisonment will only be to increase it." 
 
128 THE JUST FOR 
 
 If the speech had finished thus, all might have been well ; 
 but the Justice, fond of ostentation, and of enlarging upon his 
 own goodness, continued — 
 
 " I think, madam, that you and your son are both deeply 
 indebted to me, in that I have forgotten every feeling of pri- 
 vate animosity — ^put out of sight the loss my property sustains 
 and the injury done to my domains, and merely given such 
 a term of imprisonment as may serve for the youth's whole- 
 some correction. I have learned already that nothing like 
 gratitude is to be expected from the poor, or else I should have 
 thought that enough had been done for your son to prevent 
 any further injuries from being inflicted by him. But in place 
 of this, you tell me that if I let him freely off — take no notice 
 of his misdeeds, then only shall my property be spared ; though 
 I do not see that if the education you have given your son 
 cannot restrain him from commencing poaching, how your 
 authority is to hinder him for the future. Of what worth, 
 then, is your promise, or what dependence is to be placed 
 upon your words ?" 
 
 That which the Justice said might be but too true ; but it 
 was an insult, and, keenly alive to the taunt, the mother turned 
 pale as ashes, and timidly shrunk back. Not so her son : the 
 blood mounted to his cheeks, his form was drawn up erect, 
 and, breaking the silence he had hitherto maintained, he said 
 in a haughty tone, 
 
 "If I am placed in your power, you have nothing to urge 
 against my mother. For what I have done, I alone am respon- 
 sible ; her counsels, her entreaties, were never wanting to urge 
 me to follow the path of rectitude. You ask what her words 
 are worth. They are words of truth, and her promise is as 
 binding as though her soul were fettered by the obligation her 
 lips uttered ; and, as such, had you granted her request, it 
 would have been held by me. But now I owe you no thanks; 
 
THE UNJUST, 129 
 
 I despise your niggardly gift — I care not if you do your worst, 
 and pass the full sentence upon me." 
 
 *' Herbert," exclaimed his mother, in a tone of entreaty, 
 *' for my sake, peace ! " 
 
 "Very well, young man," said the Justice. *' A very 
 modest attempt, upon my word ! Another time I shall know 
 how to act. Constable, remove the prisoners." 
 
 As Herbert was being removed, he turned upon the Justice 
 a scowl of mingled hatred and revenge, and pronounced, in a 
 tone which thrilled the heart, the word "Remember !" 
 
 Not when Charles uttered that single word upon the scaffold, 
 was a deeper sensation produced than now when it was spoken 
 by an obscure youth, about to undergo an imprisonment as a 
 penalty for his misdeeds. The word lived long afterwards in 
 the minds of those who heard it, and in the village it at length 
 became a byword, and, " like the Remember of Herbert Stan- 
 ley" was used to denote the power of impressing upon the 
 
 mind to the utmost degree. 
 
 ****** 
 
 From that day forth Mrs. Stanley became an altered person. 
 She now no longer mingled with the villagers, — alternately 
 caressing and teaching their children ; she shrunk from ob- 
 servation, and, indulging in melancholy feelings, became a 
 prey to grief. She felt that she was a woman marked out for 
 observation and remark ; that the ban of obloquy and shame 
 was upon her ; that the finger of scorn was raised at her ; 
 and that she was pointed at as the mother of a poacher. Her 
 good name — that which she had cherished when property 
 crumbled away and left her poor — where was it now ? Should 
 she become the teacher of others' children, when presence, 
 precept, example, had been ineffectual with her own ? All 
 sense of gladness was lost. She breathed, she moved, she 
 
130 THE JUST FOR 
 
 lived ; but how ? it was death in life, light without heat, the 
 
 sun without brightness. 
 
 ****** 
 
 It is a strange and unwise law which punishes all crimes 
 of a similar nature alike, without regard to the circum- 
 stances under which they were committed, or to the feelings 
 which prompted the perpetrators to commit them. Inde- 
 pendent of the manifest injustice of such a course, it is fraught 
 with the most direful consequences. The association of those 
 hardened in crime, and who ran a long career of guilt before 
 the arm of the law arrested them, with others who have but 
 just commenced such a career, is productive of the worst 
 results. The prison thus becomes a school in which the 
 tyro in crime is taught lessons in villany and hardihood ; and 
 the season of confinement, instead of leading back the heart 
 to virtue and religion, plunges it yet deeper in infidelity 
 and vice. Then, too, after such an imprisonment as is now 
 inflicted, there is an almost impossibility of the criminal's 
 returning to the path of rectitude. The very fact of an im- 
 prisonment having been undergone, at once shuts the door 
 against any return. The bitterest hunger may have prompted 
 to a theft ; the wringing of the heart — wrung as the hearts of 
 the poor can only be — may have excited to deeds of revenge ; 
 the frenzy of despair — the despair caused by destitution — may 
 have maddened and fired ere guilt began : the perpetrator is 
 detected and punished — punished in the same manner as he 
 would have been if he had been a desperate villain, deeply 
 versed in crime. 
 
 The term of imprisonment at length expires, and, with the 
 cause of crime, the desire of its commission passes away. The 
 criminal may have learned that vice is unhappiness, and be 
 anxious to return to the right path ; but he finds himself an 
 
THE UNJUST. 131 
 
 object of suspicion ; his punishment is remembered, but not 
 the motives which led to the deed entailing that punishment. 
 Who will trust the man who has once been the inmate of a 
 prison ? where shall he procure employment? and, that want- 
 ing, where shall he get bread ? He finds that he is regarded 
 with mingled suspicion and contempt. Turn where he will, 
 he meets with distrust and disbelief ; and there seems to go 
 before him, as there went before the leprous Jew, a voice which 
 exclaims, " Unclean, unclean ! " 
 
 No wonder, then, that a man thus circumstanced should 
 plunge yet deeper into crime — not ended until the hulks re- 
 ceive another outcast, or the scaffold another wretch. 
 
 It was thus with Herbert Stanley. He was, when committed 
 to prison, but a dabbler in guilt ; at that time early education 
 and religious instruction had not lost all their iorce. But 
 when he became the inmate of a prison, mingling with those 
 who had run a long career of guilt, he soon learned to become 
 as bad as any of his associates, and wanted but the oppor- 
 tunity for the feeling to be displayed in action. He went into 
 prison bursting with the desire of revenge ; he quitted that 
 prison fully instructed in the means best fitted for its execu- 
 tion. Such is prison discipline. 
 
 The first gleam of a December sun was shed over the earth 
 when Herbert was released from his imprisonment. The feel- 
 ings of his heart accorded well with the season — both were 
 cold, dark, desolate. 
 
 He was liberated a far different person from what he was 
 when first confined. His thoughts were then but slightly 
 tinctured with guilt; but now he was grown callous and hard- 
 ened — fit for deeds of violence, and willing to become the 
 leader in any act which had for its end the injury of Mr. 
 Marshall. 
 
 A man bent upon committing deeds of violence is not long 
 
182 THE JUST FOR 
 
 in finding accomplices. There are always lurking about a set 
 of persons who are ready to join in any scheme which procures 
 the means of livelihood without the steady application which 
 honest industry requires, and two or three of this character 
 now formed the constant companions of Herbert. His home 
 he seldom visited — that was not a place suited to his taste ; 
 how should it ? — there all was calm and gentle — his heart was 
 agitated by stormy and violent passions. 
 
 It is possibly true, that heaven itself would be a hell to 
 fiends — the objects presented being so little suited to the de- 
 sires, that misery, instead of happiness, would be felt. It was 
 thus with Herbert Stanley : the quiet of his mother's cottage 
 was ill suited to his turbulent spirit ; the prayers which rose 
 morning and night accorded but little with a heart which 
 indulged in infidelity as a sort of screen for immorality, and 
 mocked at all religion. He found far more congenial spirits 
 at the alehouse, and the oath and the curse more frequently 
 fell from his lips than prayer or praise. One feeling, and one 
 alone, took possession of his mind — one purpose alone en- 
 grossed his thoughts — and this one was Revenge. 
 
 The dark and stormy nights of December were just suited 
 to carry out this rancorous feeling ; and, in combination with 
 his new-found companions, Herbert again renewed his attacks 
 upon the property of the Justice. But as the object in view was 
 revenge, the game which was destroyed was immense ; and 
 when the spoilers were sufficiently laden, they left the rest on 
 the spots Avhere it was killed, or hung it upon trees in places 
 where the gamekeeper was sure to pass. 
 
 Mr. Marshall was indignant ; he resolved to bring the 
 offenders to justice. The gamekeepers were doubled, and, 
 urged by the promise of reward, they exercised the utmost 
 vigilance. But these precautions were of no avail ; and, as if 
 to mark their sense of security, on that very night a pheasant 
 
# 
 
THE UNJUST. 133 
 
 was nailed against the gamekeeper's door, and several of the 
 Avindows broken by having stones thrown against thera. 
 
 As soon as the next evening closed in, the gamekeepers were 
 all at their posts. It was a cold, dark night ; a dense black 
 mass of cloud hung heavily around, from which a drizzling 
 rain was falling. For several hours the keepers proceeded 
 through every part of the plantation, but not a sound was heard, 
 except, indeed, the wailing of the wind as it swept through the 
 trees, and the patter of the rain-drops as they fell from the 
 leafless branches. But though unseen and unheard, the 
 poachers were carrying on their unlawful work. 
 
 In order to insure fidelity and watchfulness on the part of 
 his men, Mr. Marshall resolved upon visiting in person the 
 different posts, in order to see that they were at their places. 
 Armed v/ith a gun, he was proceeding from one part to another, 
 when he fancied he heard a slight rustling behind him. He 
 was turning round to ascertain the cause, when a bullet 
 whizzed past, and the next instant a man started from his 
 lurking-place, and diving into the thickest part of the wood, 
 was soon lost to view. 
 
 The report resounded in the calm night air, and before the 
 echo had died away, it was followed by the loud shouting of 
 the word " Remember," from different parts of the plan- 
 tation. 
 
 The strangeness and suddenness of the attack deprived the 
 Justice of all presence of mind for a few minutes, while the 
 several voices misled his keepers, so that each advanced to 
 that part of the plantation from whence to him the nearest 
 sound proceeded, instead of uniting in the capture of a single 
 individual. After a little time, however, several joined toge- 
 ther and renewed the search, though it turned out a fruitless 
 one, which at length was given up out of sheer fatigue. 
 
 On the morning after this attack, four or five persons were 
 
134 THE JUST FOR 
 
 seated together in the back room of a small alehouse a few 
 miles from Elmsdale. Piled upon a table before them was a 
 quantity of game, which was being portioned out and allotted 
 to the several individuals there assembled, the greater part of 
 which soon after became the property of the innkeeper, either 
 as a payment for old debts or in exchange for spirits and 
 beer ; and thus that which life and liberty had been perilled 
 to obtain was in a few hours wasted for the means of enjoying 
 the degrading pleasures of intoxication. 
 
 There was, however, one person in that group who was 
 actuated by far other feelings than that of a desire for drink. 
 The share which fell to him was immediately paid for in 
 money, of which but little was afterwards spent. But as he 
 looked upon the loaded table upon which the hare, the phea- 
 sant, and partridge lay confusedly together upon the reeking 
 carcass of a deer, a triumphant pleasure was depicted in his 
 countenance — the pleasure of gratified revenge. 
 
 The manner in which the attack had been made, and the 
 retreat so easily effected, was by means of the river which 
 ran round the plantations of Mr. Marshall. The innkeeper 
 to whom the game had been sold had long been suspected 
 of secret intercourse with poachers, but hitherto he had 
 escaped detection, and no suspicion of his keeping a little 
 boat, by which it became so easy to enter the Justice's 
 grounds, had ever entered into the minds of any. The gently- 
 running waters of the little river which wound round the 
 grounds left no trace upon their bosom of the burden they had 
 borne. 
 
 In the provision the Justice had made for the protection of 
 his property, he entirely overlooked the side most open to 
 attack ; so that while the side towards the village was care- 
 fully guarded, that towards the river was entirely neglected. 
 Availing themselves therefore of this inattention, the poachers 
 
THE UNJUST. 135 
 
 entered on the unguarded side, which at the same time afforded 
 them the greatest facilities for carrying off their spoil. 
 
 *• And when, Mr. Stanley," said one of the group, as the 
 party was about separating, — " when do you intend to lead us 
 on to the next attack ? This has turned out so successfully, 
 that I care not how soon it is repeated." 
 
 " Never," was the reply. 
 
 " You but jest," said several voices in an earnest tone. 
 
 " I never was more serious," was the answer. " When we 
 part company now, we part for ever." 
 
 " It is to turn tell-tale that you split from us now," said a 
 ruffian-looking fellow in a taunting tone. " If I but thought 
 so, " and an unintelligible curse passed his lips. 
 
 " It is for a far different purpose," said Stanley. " I am 
 not aware that I entered into any engagement with you, which 
 did not leave me at liberty to withdraw when I pleased ; and 
 as for turning evidence against the set, I am too deeply in 
 myself for that to be feared." 
 
 " Then if you mean to leave, what made you join us at all ?" 
 asked another. 
 
 " Revenge," was the reply. 
 
 " And is that yet gratified?" 
 
 " No, — not half yet; but in that you cannot aid me further; 
 what next I do, will be done alone." So saying, Herbert 
 wished his companions good day, and departed. 
 
 It seemed, indeed, as if that had been intended as the 
 grand and final attack, and consequently for several successive 
 nights afterwards no sound of an intruding foot was heard. 
 It was generally thought that the reward which the Justice 
 had offered to any one, not actually an offender, who would 
 give such necessary information as would lead to the convic- 
 tion of the rest, had caused the perpetrators of that night's ra- 
 vages to abscond. Of course the suspicion fell naturally upon 
 
 g2 
 
136 THE JUST FOR 
 
 Herbert Stanley ; but what then was the surprise of the vil- 
 lagers, when he, after a day or two's absence, again appeared 
 in Elmsdale ! He seemed to be totally ignorant of the affair 
 which had created such a sensation in the village, and listened 
 with a well-feigned air of astonishment to the tales told of the 
 adventure, which of course had greatly increased in marvel and 
 wonder in their round through the village. He however 
 laughed heartily at the news, and expressed the hope that the 
 Justice would lose every head of game, as a reward for his in- 
 humanity towards himself. 
 
 It was only at the village alehouse, or amongst low and 
 profligate companions, that these tidings were told to Herbert ; 
 for there was it only that he met with any who would form 
 anything like a companionship with him. For since his im- 
 prisonment the villagers Avith one accord shunned him, and 
 while they pitied his relatives, they abhorred the presence of 
 one who in his own person had wrought such deeds, and 
 whose influence was likely to lead others into the same course 
 of crime he had himself chosen. 
 
 The hope that was expressed by young Stanley seemed, 
 however, likely to remain unaccomplished. Night followed 
 night, and yet no fresh attack had been made, and nothing 
 served to give surprise of any other being intended ; so that 
 the gamekeepers themselves at length began to think that all 
 was safe, and to relax in their vigilance. 
 
 But while thus apparently only venting his spleen upon the 
 Justice in wishes of evil, he was at heart deeply engaged in pro- 
 jecting a plan by which this evil might be most effectually 
 wrought. 
 
 It was midnight. The lights which had glimmered through 
 the cottages and shone through the windows of the Manor- 
 house of Elmsdale were extinguished ; the sound of mirth 
 had ceased — the Christmas festivities were ended, the rich and 
 
THE UNJUST. 137 
 
 the poor were sunk in sleep, and silence and darkness reigned 
 over the earth. 
 
 As the attacks upon Mr. ^Marshall's grounds had been for 
 some time discontinued, the gamekeepers were all allowed to 
 join in and partake of the Christmas festivities, and for that 
 night the plantations were unguarded. On such a night, it 
 v/as not thought any fresh outrage would be attempted, and all 
 retired to rest, as they thought in perfect security. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Finding that counsel and remonstrance were alike vain, and 
 failed to produce any impression, Mrs. Stanley had ceased to 
 interfere in her son's pursuits, thinking wisely, that admoni- 
 tion which had not the power of softening made the heart yet 
 more indifferent, and steeled it yet more against reproof. But 
 though apparently negligent, she felt all a mother's yearnings 
 and all a mother's love, and her prayers rose frequently, that 
 the heart of her son might be changed, and that he might have 
 feelinsr enoucrh to feel for himself. 
 
 She tried, however, to lead her son back by kindness. 
 Whenever he entered, he was received affectionately by both 
 mother and sister, who seemed to be endeavouring to make 
 home happy to him, and thus win him back to love its 
 calm quiet, in place of the turbulent and boisterous pleasures 
 he now delighted in. 
 
 Thus left to himself, Herbert's goings- out and comings-in — 
 his frequent departures and his protracted absence, were never 
 commented upon. No remark was made as to how he em- 
 ployed his time. But while acting thus, his mother felt his 
 strange alienation of heart and his waywardness of conduct : 
 it was bitterness and misery to her spirit. 
 
 Accordingly, on Christmas night, it was past twelve before 
 he returned. All within was peaceful and quiet. After 
 lifting the latch of the cottage door, he paused a moment, and 
 
138 
 
 THE JUST FOR 
 
 fixed a long and penetrating look in the direction of Elmsdale 
 Lodge. 
 
 Nothing appearing to be visible, he immediately after- 
 wards entered, and retired quietly and stealthily to his own 
 room. 
 
 He sought his chamber, but not to sleep. The window 
 looked out upon the Manor-house, and there it was that 
 Herbert stationed himself, and looked intently in that direc- 
 tion. 
 
 The night was fine and starlight, though frosty and cold ; 
 and the wind swept on with a piercing blast. 
 
 At first nothing was visible save the bright stars, which the 
 frost seemed to make twinkle with unwonted lustre ; presently 
 afterwards a small clear light became visible in the direction of 
 Elmsdale Lodge, as if one of the stars had fallen from its 
 sphere, and was shining upon the earth. 
 
 " It burns, I am satisfied ! " exclaimed Herbert. He then 
 proceeded to undress for bed. Before retiring, however, he 
 looked once again : the light had increased — it looked no 
 longer like a star, but was a large lurid glare, as if a fire had 
 been there kindled. 
 
 Fanned by the wind, the light increased into a blaze, which 
 soon spread farther and grew brighter, till the heavens 'were 
 irradiated. The red lurid light rose up to the skies, mingled 
 with dark and dense columns of smoke, which curled and rolled 
 upwards in one huge mass, until the wind dispersed them, and 
 then for a few minutes the cause of the fire was discernible. 
 Stacks of hay and barns of wheat were fuel for the flames, 
 which, as they increased in strength, seemed to threaten the 
 Manor-house itself. 
 
 When too late to stop the work of destruction, the fire was 
 discovered, and the villagers hastened to the spot in order to 
 render all the assistance in their power ; but all their exertions 
 
THE UNJUST. 
 
 139 
 
 were unavailing — the wind spread the flames from stack to 
 stack, and from barn to barn, until they finally reached the 
 house, destroying in their progress all the stabling and out- 
 buildings. 
 
 If the sight was pitiable to the eye, the sound was still more 
 appalling to the ear. Horses were tied to the manger, cattle 
 fastened in the stall, and all attempts to liberate them from 
 the flames were inefi'ectual. 
 
 Their cries of agony rent the air ; their moanings, in the 
 midst of that pain from which they were unable to extricate 
 themselves, were piteous to hear. 
 
 Thus, as the work of destruction went on, were the rich 
 gifts of nature destroyed without benefit to any. The corn 
 which the labourer had produced from mother earth as the 
 food for her children, was now serving but the place of fuel ; 
 and then those noble animals which man has bound to his 
 service, these were doomed to cruel torture — to expire in the 
 midst of agonies the most severe and pains the most poignant; 
 and not because any good could result from such a sacrifice of 
 life and property. Nor was this brought about by any of those 
 untoward events which characterise the career of mortals ; 
 the bolt from heaven had not fallen to kindle the flame — 
 the vivid lightning, in its wayward track, had not caused the 
 fire — neither was it the work of accident. The deed was pre- 
 meditated, dwelt upon for days and weeks, and prompted 
 by the darkest and foulest passion which holds sway in the 
 human heart — the thirst for revenge. In the still and quiet 
 hour of night, when darkness throws a veil over actions, the 
 work had been performed — the match had been applied to the 
 rick, and Herbert Stanley added to his other crimes the darker 
 one of an incendiary. 
 
 And now, while his foul deed was working destruction and 
 pain, he, the incendiary, was asleep. Worn-out and wearied 
 
140 THE JUST FOR 
 
 nature required repose ; the agitation the mind had under- 
 gone, though the agitation of evil thoughts, required rest to 
 recruit its strength. 
 
 If angels watch over the couch of the good, what spirit 
 must have been the guardian of his slumber on that night ? 
 Some dark-boding spectre must have flitted to and fro before 
 him, and during the hours of sleep injected yet darker thoughts 
 and yet more fiendish desires of revenge. 
 
 But with such a deed fresh upon the memory, how could 
 sleep be calm and tranquil ? Accordingly, fearful dreams 
 haunted the sleep of Herbert — dreams which exerted so power- 
 ful a mastery, that in his sleep he muttered out his thoughts. 
 And before morning his secret was so far revealed, that his 
 mother knew she had to mourn over a son ; his sister, that 
 she might weep over a brother, who, by this deed, had become 
 an object of such hatred, that even the desperate in crime 
 would repel him from their society as being worse than them- 
 selves. A son, a brother, but an incendiary ! 
 
 ***** 
 
 Six months rolled away. The summer had again returned 
 to gladden the heart with its bright and joyous sunshine, its 
 beauteous flowers, and its prospect of abundance of wheat and 
 fruits ; all nature was beautiful — sky and water, forest and 
 fleld, meadow and garden. It was the 20th of July. A strange 
 kind of hum and bustle was heard in the county town of 
 
 S ; an unusual excitement prevailed, foreign to the 
 
 quiet which usually reigned in C . And this excitement 
 
 and din was caused by the Assize which was now being held 
 there. 
 
 There is always great excitement in a county town during 
 the time of an Assize ; but on this particular day the feeling 
 was even stronger than ordinary, and crowds of people were 
 thronging to the Town-hall to hear the trial which would that 
 
THE UNJUST. 141 
 
 day take place. Eleven o'clock came — the hall was thronged, 
 every avenue was crowded, and yet, though so full of people^ 
 a strange silence prevailed, so absorbed were the thoughts of 
 all in the trial which was to commence, and to listen to which 
 they had assembled. 
 
 The Judge took his seat, the barristers were ranged in their 
 respective places, the jury were in their box, and then the 
 prisoner was called to the bar. 
 
 Every eye was turned there, every attention rivetted by the 
 appearance of that individual. She came on — yes, she came, 
 for it was a woman who was then to be tried. And her crime ? 
 She was charged with incendiarism ! 
 
 A few months had worked a vast change in the appearance 
 of Mrs. Stanley, for she it w^as who stood there as a criminal ! 
 Her hair had become venerably grey, not by time, but by 
 anxiety. Her cheeks were furrowed and wrinkled; the finger 
 of care and the hand of misery had traced those lines there. 
 But as she stood, with hundreds of eyes turned upon her, 
 and hundreds of ears eager to catch the first words she 
 should utter, there was a calm dignity of manner and a 
 serenity of countenance which prepossessed every one in her 
 favour. 
 
 The trial went on. The expectation was, that the proof of 
 her innocence was easy, though from all that had been said 
 abroad it was imagined that far different would be the result 
 had the son stood in the mother's place. What then was 
 the surprise when, being asked to plead, she pronounced, in a 
 firm, clear tone, the single word " Guilty !" 
 
 " A thrill of surprise mingled with horror ran through 
 the assembled group at the utterance of those two syllables ; 
 and the old Judge himself, who might have been unmoved 
 by his famiharity with such scenes, was actuated by the 
 same feelings. He urged her to reconsider — to take 
 
 g5 
 
142 THE JUST FOR 
 
 counsel of her legal adviser, and at least to plead " Not guilty," 
 in order to have the benefit of a trial. 
 
 She declined following that counsel, and persisted in her 
 plea of guilt. 
 
 *' My lord," said one of the counsel, addressing the Judge, 
 ** I have reason to believe that the woman before you is not 
 of sane mind. From the evidence I can adduce, it is certain 
 that a man was engaged in that work. A man's footsteps 
 have been traced distinctly from the place of the fire to her 
 door, and there are good grounds for believing that her son 
 was an accomplice, if the guilt be not entirely his own." 
 
 " I am not mad," said Mrs. Stanley, " though I have had 
 to sustain enough to make me so. One individual, and one 
 alone, was engaged in causing the fire at the Manor-house." 
 
 "And that one yourself?" 
 
 " I have said so." 
 
 " Then how came the footprints I have alluded to there ?" 
 
 ** The ground was wet, and over my own shoes I wore the 
 boots of my son." 
 
 The answer w^as given clear, full and distinct, and, in the 
 silence which reigned, was audible in the remotest parts of the 
 building, and conveyed to the hearts of most, painful sensa- 
 tions, while in more than one eye, a tear of pity glistened. 
 
 But she who was the principal actor in the scene neither 
 swerved nor flinched. Her countenance was pale but calm, 
 and though after her w^ords were spoken every eye was fixed 
 upon her, it changed not in the least degree. Her lips indeed 
 moved for a moment afterwards, but no sound fell from them : 
 it seemed like an inward prayer. 
 
 There remained nothing, therefore, but to pass the sentence 
 of the law upon her. 
 
 "When asked if she had anything to say why such should 
 not be done, Mrs. Stanley replied in a firm tone, " Nothing." 
 
THE UNJUST. 143 
 
 But when the Judge came to that fearful part where, taking 
 for a time the prerogatives of Deity, he condemns to death, 
 her firmness gave way, and she fainted. 
 
 She partially recovered, and the Judge proceeded to pro- 
 nounce her doom. But fit succeeded fit in rapid succession, 
 and she was borne senseless from the court. 
 
 ****** 
 
 A fortnight passed — the city of C was, if possible, 
 
 yet more excited than it had been during the Assize. That 
 had passed over, but had left as its fruits an execution. 
 
 What a taste pervades mankind, that an execution should be 
 sought for as a spectacle worth witnessing ! To find a plea- 
 sure in seeing the agony of a despairing wretch, from whom 
 life is about to be withdrawn before the lease has run out, 
 while the fire of the eye is unquenched or the strength of the 
 limbs unabated ; to rejoice over the heaves and throes of con- 
 vulsive nature, as death and life are struggling ; to watch with 
 pleasure the motions of the limbs, as they quiver in the ago- 
 nies of death, just before the heart heaves its last throb ; — if 
 such a spectacle as this suits the taste of humanity, one may 
 well blush as belonging to such a species — one would hate the 
 race of human beings, were it not that those who find pleasure 
 in such sights are too contemptible even to hate. 
 
 But on that morning an execution was expected to take 
 place, and crowds upon crowds assembled to witness it. The 
 rich hired the windows which commanded a view ; the poorer 
 jostled one another in the streets, in their eagerness to obtain 
 a sight. From every street and lane and alley, numbers poured 
 forth; some had come for miles, and others had stood the whole 
 of the previous night before the place of execution. That it 
 was a female who was thus to undergo the law's most fearful 
 doom, gave additional zest to the spectacle. Islany were tram.- 
 pled on by the crowd, but still they pressed on. Thousands 
 
144 THE JUST FOR 
 
 were assembled there to witness the sad sight, and many signs 
 of impatience were shown for the time to pass more quickly, 
 though every minute was bringing death to one poor wretch 
 whose remaining term of life might be counted by minutes. 
 
 The time at length came ; it wanted but five minutes, — 
 four — three — two — one, — it was the hour itself — the cathedral 
 clock announced it so, first with its light and tuneful chimes, 
 like the merry way in which youth counts the fleeting hours — 
 then with its heavy strike, like the reckoning of staid and 
 thinking age. 
 
 The crowd pressed forward eagerly — impatiently ; there 
 was not a breath heard in that vast multitude, though so 
 many hearts were throbbing, so eager was every one to catch 
 a glimpse. But in this instance the sight-seers were disap- 
 pointed — the doom of the law had been forestalled, and the 
 prisoner was already dead ! 
 
 Amongst the kinder part of those who had any power, it 
 was wished that the indignities put upon the dead of hanging 
 the clay should in this instance be spared. But the mani- 
 festation of such good feeling was overruled by Mr. Marshall, 
 who had himself come to witness M^hat he called the final 
 defeat of his enemies, and " the law's last vengeance was 
 wreaked upon a corpse." 
 
 She v/as buried with ignominy and shame, and, with but a 
 few solitary exceptions, the v/orld hated her memory and linked 
 her name with villainy. 
 
 Years passed away — the dust had returned to its kindred 
 dust, the bones of others who had died by the law's decree lay 
 around and above hcx^s. Her memory was almost forgotten, 
 and lived but as an event to be chronicled for its strangeness, 
 though not for its sadness. 
 
 But then was revealed the heroic part which she had sus- 
 tained. The clergyman, the ordinary of the prison, was fast 
 
THE UNJUST. 
 
 145 
 
 hastening on to death. He had, as a part of his duty, visited 
 Mrs. Stanley when she lay under sentence of death. To him, 
 the night previous to the day fixed for her execution, she had 
 made him her confident, first binding him to a solemn promise 
 that he would not divulge it till on his deathbed. This pro- 
 mise had been rigidly kept, and though the worthy man had 
 been frequently desirous of divulging the secret, in order that he 
 might rescue her name from scorn and obloquy, still regarding 
 his promise as binding, he had hitherto refrained. 
 
 The time at length arrived when the promise was no longer 
 to be regarded, and he accordingly gave the following ac- 
 count : — 
 
 The smattering and disjointed sentences muttered by her 
 son during sleep first revealed to his mother his fearful crime. 
 Her first thought was to deny and disown her son ; the second 
 and nobler, to^save. She well knew that life alone would ex - 
 piate the crime. She resolved that that life should be her 
 o^vn,— that the innocent should suff'er, and by sufi'ering avert 
 the blow from the guilty head. But she also knew that sus- 
 picion would rest upon her son ; she therefore boldly deter- 
 mined to anticipate suspicion by declaring herself the criminal. 
 Upon this she acted, alleging that the Justice's refusal to 
 set free her son at her earnest entreaty had prompted her to 
 the desperate deed ; and as her son appeared no more in the 
 village, it seemed to the Justice but the work of supererogation 
 to hunt after the supposed criminal, when he had, according 
 to her own confession, the real one in his power. 
 
 One thing alone gave her trouble, and that was the false- 
 hoods she should be called upon to utter. Her life she 
 counted but a small sacrifice. " This," she urged, " is well- 
 nigh over ; the heart is broken, the mind bewildered, and death 
 or'^madness is sure to be the result.— It is better mine than 
 this," said she, when urged to the contrary course of action ; 
 
146 THE JUST FOR THE UNJUST. 
 
 *' his death would be mine also — my death may be his life ; it 
 ■will give him time to repent — time to repair by the goodness 
 of later days the evils of the earlier." 
 
 She then commended her daughter to the care of the pastor, 
 entreating him to befriend her as much as should lie in his 
 power — a part which was afterwards most carefully performed. 
 
 Her mind, however, could not longer sustain the weight of 
 cares and anxieties which had been pressed upon it — death 
 came to her relief; but it came in a mild and a gentle form, 
 ushered in by sleep. But her actions had borne out, in its 
 most full and perfect sense, the strength of a mother's love, 
 in that " greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay 
 down his life for his friend." 
 
 It was not likely that such noble conduct should fail to 
 meet with a blessing and a reward. Though her lessons and 
 her precepts had failed to produce any impression upon the 
 obdurate heart of her son when they were breathed from living 
 lips, in death they acquired a pathos and a power not to be 
 resisted, and Herbert Stanley became at length as noted for 
 his goodness and virtues, as he had ever been for his guilt 
 and vice. 
 
 The waves of the ocean roll between the land of England 
 and that where died the once-guilty Herbert Stanley. There, 
 where the stain which rested upon his character was unknown, 
 he lived in happiness, except that his hours were embittered by 
 the knowledge of that fearful, yet heroic act, which saved 
 him at orice from ignominy and death. 
 
 The name and memory of the actors in this sad story are 
 no more : the one lies buried within a prison's walls — the 
 other found a grave in the far-distant land of America. And 
 thus men and things pass away, as it were *' a tale that is 
 told." 
 
THE BELOVED. 
 
 How sad is the strain which now breathes from my kite ! 
 
 The notes that swell' d gaily are silent and mnte ; 
 
 My harp and my heart ! ah, strange miison there, 
 
 For the notes which sound sadly are breathed by despair ; 
 
 The lute which so lately swell' d gaily, no more 
 
 Shall gladden the heart as it cheer'd it of yore— 
 
 For the heart which by sadness and care is o'ercome. 
 
 Gives no voice to the lute, and its music is dumb. 
 
 Oh yet breathe a strain ! though a sad one it be, 
 
 It shall yet find an echo, my soul, within thee ; 
 
 For that strain is the saddest, which, telling of mirth, 
 
 Falls on ears in whoie bosom no gladness has birth. 
 
 But the strain which you breathe shall accord with my own, 
 
 And give hope to the heart from which pleasure has flown. 
 
 Then sound yet a lay for the noble, the brave ; 
 
 The young and the ardent thy sympathies crave. 
 
SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF KOSCIUSKO. 
 
 There is in all minds a desire to inquire into the facts of for- 
 mer days ; men love to trace the rise and progress of nations 
 — how, from small beginnings, kingdoms have reached a 
 towering height, till, overbalanced by the weight of their own 
 greatness, they tottered and fell. But the scenes which excite 
 the liveliest interest are the struggles for libertv. All desire 
 
 DO " 
 
 the sweets of freedom — let the chains of servitude be ever so 
 light, they are galling. Who has not marched with a patriot 
 warrior as with a handful of troops he coped with innumerable 
 squadrons ? Who has not felt the heart beat, and the cheek 
 glow with emotion, as the echo rang in fancy's ear of " Liberty 
 or death?" 
 
 November 8th, 1794, saw Warsaw, the capital of Poland, 
 taken by the Russians, and the iron fetters of slavery rivetted 
 on her sons. It is in the most critical times that the genius of 
 an individual is displayed ; and many instances are on record, 
 of men who, in times of quiet, would have passed through life 
 comparatively unnoticed, and sunk peaceably to their graves, 
 who in the storm stood foremost the champions of liberty, 
 and defended their country from its tyrannizing foes. The 
 Poles, determining to resist the encroachments of Russia, rose 
 in insurrection, and raised Kosciusko to the dignity of General. 
 This patriot was born a gentleman ; but his family not being in 
 affluent circumstances, he was sent to the school of cadets to 
 
SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF KOSCIUSKO. 149 
 
 be educated for the army. It was usual for the kings of Po- 
 land to send annually four youths to foreign countries, to per- 
 fect themselves in the art of war. He studied four years at 
 Versailles, and returned to Poland with the reputation of being 
 a skilful engineer. 
 
 About this time he captivated the affections of a young lady 
 of tlie first family and fortune in Poland ; but her parents 
 deemed it degrading to form an alliance vv'ith Kosciusko. Be- 
 ino- unable to obtain the consent of the lady's friends, he 
 formed the resolution of carrying her off; but the carriage 
 breaking down while on their way to France, gave an oppor- 
 tunity for the enraged father to overtake them. In a fierce 
 rencontre which ensued, Kosciusko was reduced to the dilemma 
 of being obliged to kill the father, or give up the daughter. 
 Humanity prevailed ; he returned his sword to its scabbard, 
 and resigned his fair prize. 
 
 As this event was greatly talked of in the upper circles, 
 Kosciusko obtained leave of absence from his sovereign, and 
 went to America. 
 
 At that period the war between England and her colonies 
 was carried on, and Kosciusko, on offering himself as a volun- 
 teer in the service of Washington, was honoured with a con- 
 siderable post in the army. On his return to his native land, 
 he fomented an insurrection amongst the Poles, to attempt to 
 throw off the Russian yoke ; and taking the command of the 
 army, first attacked the Prussian forces, amounting to about 
 40,000 men, headed by Frederick II. in person. The action 
 was long and obstinate, but the resolution of the insurgents 
 triumphed over the valour of the Russians and Prussians, and 
 compelled them to retire. 
 
 Hearing that the Russian general Fersen meditated a junc- 
 tion with the forces of Suwarrow, Kosciusko immediately 
 
150 
 
 SKETCH OF THE LIFE 
 
 marched against him. A battle ensued, and thongh the 
 Russians were thrice the number of the Poles, the victory 
 was disputed during the whole day. Twice did the valiant 
 Kosciusko repulse the enemy, and display in this action the 
 talents of the general, united with the bravery of the soldier. 
 The prodigies of valour which he performed, rendered victory 
 a long time doubtful — but he fell, pierced with wounds, and 
 with him the hopes of his country. He was taken prisoner 
 by the Cossacks, who no sooner knew that he was Kosciusko, 
 than they testified their admiration of his courage and their 
 pity for his misfortunes. The Russians treated him with the re- 
 spect due to his character, and as soon as he could endure the 
 fatigues of the journey, sent him to St. Petersburg, where Ca- 
 therine, too much irritated to be generous, confined him in a 
 dungeon, from which he was not liberated till after her death. 
 
 But though the courage of the Poles was not daunted by 
 the victory of Fersen, their operations were not directed by the 
 same genius. Defeat followed defeat, till at length the remains 
 of the Polish army retired within the fortification of the suburbs 
 of Prague, separated from Warsaw by the river Vistula. Su- 
 warrow attacked the place, and, after a bloody assault, made 
 himself master of the city ; but the carnage which succeeded 
 must for ever disgrace the Russian general. Neither rank, sex, 
 nor age was spared, but in one indiscriminate slaughter were 
 they all mowed down. The laurels which are honourable 
 when gathered in the battle-field, are a disgrace when dyed 
 with the blood of the helpless and the aged. The inhabitants, 
 destitute of all means of defence, were obliged to capitulate ; 
 but the troops refusing to submit, quitted the city. Being 
 attacked by the Russian and Prussian soldiers, some were 
 killed, and the rest delivered up their arms to the conquerors. 
 The courts of Vienna, Berlin, and Petersburg, now quietly di- 
 
OF KOSCIUSKO. 151 
 
 vided their prey ; seeming to wish to blot out the name of 
 Poland from the world. But history shall tell how she strug- 
 gled for her freedom, though she struggled in vain ; and the 
 history which tells of her noble actions will fix a stain on the 
 memory of her conquerors — a stain so deeply dyed that it will 
 never be obliterated. 
 
 A singular monument has been raised to the memory of the 
 great and gifted Kosciusko in the city of Cracow. It consists 
 of an artificial hill, formed of earth, with a spiral walk of con- 
 siderable breadth laid out upon it. The earth employed in 
 forming this mound has been collected, not only from every 
 Woywodship in Poland, but from various parts of the world. 
 A portion was sent from America, the probatory school of 
 Kosciusko's heroism. Switzerland also, that country having 
 been the last asylum of the wounded general, sent a contri- 
 bution of earth from Solothuni. The ceremony of laying the 
 basis of the mound took place on the 16th of October, 1820. 
 Earth from the battle-field at Raclawice, mingled with the 
 bones of some of the Poles who so valiantly fell there, was 
 first laid down to form a foundation, or nucleus, for this 
 curious monument. It was at the battle of Raclawice (fought 
 on the 4th of April, 1749), that the cry of " Kosciusko and 
 Freedom !" was first raised. The next supply of earth was 
 from Macieiowice. and was sent in two large chests, by the 
 Princess Czartoryska, the noble friend of the hero. Ma- 
 cieiowice may be regarded as the grave of Polish liberty ; 
 for there Kosciusko fell into the hands of the Russians. 
 The three Polish heroes, John Sobieski, Poniatowski, and 
 Kosciusko, lie entombed beside each other, in the cathedral 
 of Cracow. 
 
 Alas, for unhappy ; Poland ! Her name is now obli- 
 terated from the list of nations ; her sons are exiles in foreign 
 
152 SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF KOSCIUSKO. 
 
 lands, subsisting on the generosity qf foreigners, and especially 
 on the bounty of England — that land which never j^et turned 
 a deaf-ear to the cry of the oppressed and the fugitive. The 
 state of Poland is pitiable in the extreme, for the sceptre 
 which is swayed over her is the sword of the warrior, and the 
 diadem the monarch wears, the iron crown of the victor, — a 
 victor whose heart is as cold as the clime in which he dwells ; 
 so that he doomed the unhappy daughters of Poland to the 
 scourge, and her sons to an exile worse than death. 
 
 Oh ! that some mighty mind could arise — some master- 
 spirit come forth — who could rescue his land from the con- 
 querors, and wrest the spoil from the oppressor, and Poland 
 be once more the free and the happy ! 
 
THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA. 
 
 CoRUNNA, though only a small seaport of Spain, is a spot 
 well remembered as the scene of one of the fiercest contests 
 between the armies of England and France, and hallowed as 
 the grave of one of the most noble generals who fell in the 
 late war. The armies of Napoleon had almost swept the 
 extent of Europe — crown after crown had been given away 
 by this proud emperor to his favourites. Then Britain arose, 
 like a giant from slumber, and taught the proud Gaul that his 
 troops were not invincible ; when her banner was unfurled, 
 victory crowned it ; and in a few years the mighty Napoleon 
 fell from his greatness, and ended his days as a prisoner. 
 
 The battle commenced by a furious cannonade from a masked 
 battery, which mounted eleven guns, placed upon a height 
 commanding nearly half the British lines. But, notwith- 
 standing this galling fire, the British troops fell into their 
 respective ranks with calm intrepidity, though their brave 
 comrades were falling thickly around them ; and they were 
 soon ready to meet the French, who, rushing impetuously 
 from the opposite heights, drove back in disorder the British 
 picquets who had been posted there. 
 
 As soon as Sir John Moore saw the enemy advancing, he 
 despatched his stafF-ofRcers with orders to the different gene- 
 rals. Fraser was hastened up, and Paget commanded to sup- 
 port the right wing, against which Soult had pointed his 
 
154 THE BATTLE 
 
 choicest troops. The two armies at length became so inter- 
 mingled, that the fire from the Lattery could no longer be 
 directed against the British with any certainty, they being in- 
 capable of distinguishing friends from foes. The 50th regi- 
 ment, under the command of Napier and Stanhope, drove the 
 French from the village of Elvina, with great slaughter ; but 
 Napier advancing too far, was wounded and taken prisoner. 
 
 In the mean time, the French having brought up some re- 
 serves, the fight raged more fiercely than before ; and every 
 inch of ground was disputed with the greatest obstinacy. It 
 was about this time, the battle being at its greatest height, 
 that Sir John Moore, who had placed himself in the thickest 
 of the fight, was struck from his horse by a cannon-ball, which 
 lacerating his left shoulder and chest, inflicted a wound which, 
 though not instantly fatal, placed him at once far beyond the 
 reach of human aid. Whilst lying bleeding on the ground, 
 he partly raised himself, and, unmindful of his fearful con- 
 dition, gazed intently on the Highlanders, who at that time 
 were hotly engaged with the enemy. 
 
 Colonel Graham (who had signalised himself in many pre- 
 vious engagements under Moore) now came up. At first he 
 supposed, from the composure of the general, that he had only 
 fallen from his horse, until he saw blood issuing from the 
 wounds. Perceiving the sad state in which he lay, he im- 
 mediately rode off for assistance ; whilst Captain Hardinge 
 remained beside the general, and tried in vain to stop the 
 blood, which now flowed in torrents. Seeing that his sword 
 encumbered him, he endeavoured to unbuckle it ; but the 
 dying hero, with soldierly feeling, exclaimed, *' It is as well 
 as it is — I had rather it should go out of the field with me." 
 His calmness was so great, that Hardinge expressed a hope 
 that the wound would not prove mortal ; but Moore, turning 
 
OF CORUNNA. 155 
 
 his head, cast his eyes uiDon the wounded part, and then re- 
 plied, " No, Hardinge, I feel that to be impossible : you need 
 not go with me ; report to General Hope that I am wounded, 
 and carried to the rear." He was then placed in a blanket 
 and raised from the ground by four soldiers, who slowly con- 
 veyed him towards the town of Corunna. On their way 
 thither he frequently ordered his bearers to stop, that he mifht 
 catch a parting glimpse of the field of battle. 
 
 The fight in the mean time continued to rage with unabated 
 fury. Soult, perceiving the failure of the attack on the British 
 right wing, made a last endeavour to penetrate the centre ; but 
 he was foiled in his attempt, for some cannon being judiciously 
 planted against his columns, they were thinned before they 
 could meet the British, and then driven back in the greatest 
 disorder. On every point the British forces were victorious ; 
 and the French, defeated on all sides, sought refuge from their 
 pursuers, on the ridge of hills from whence they had de- 
 scended. 
 
 In the mean time, Moore, who had been placed on a mat- 
 tress, and supported by Anderson (who had formerly saved his 
 life), took a last farewell of all his friends. He asked them, as 
 they entered one by one, whether the enemy were completely 
 routed, and being answered in the affirmative, said, " It is a 
 great satisfaction for me to know that we have beaten the 
 French." 
 
 Though visibly sinking, he added, " I feel myself so strono-, 
 I fear I shall be long dying— it 's great uneasiness, it 's great 
 pain." 
 
 After a pause, Stanhope caught his eye, to whom he said, 
 *' Stanhope, remember me to your sister." After this, he 
 became silent— the icy hand of death sealed his lips, and the 
 spirit of Moore winged its flight to that land which mortal 
 
156 THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA. 
 
 eye never saw. He breathed his last in the arms of victory, 
 and with that breath departed one of the noblest souls that 
 ever tenanted a human frame. When night's dark mantle had 
 overspread the earth, the corpse of the victor was borne be- 
 yond the ramparts, for interment. The warriors who had 
 served under him prepared his cold bed, and gently pillowed 
 his head for his last long slumber. The night-star glimmered 
 forth to light him to his tomb, and the moaning billov/s of the 
 beach chanted his requiem. 
 
 So hurried was the burial of Sir John Moore, that his sol- 
 diers had not time to raise even a mound of earth to his 
 memory, but 
 
 " Slowly and sadly they laid him down, 
 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory ,* 
 They carved not a line — they raised not a stone. 
 But they left him alone with his glory." 
 
%/, 
 
THE REPRIEVE. 
 
 " I TELL thee, maiden, 'tis in vain his hopeless case to plead — 
 No tear that woman ever shed can cleanse so foul a deed. 
 His doom is fix'd beyond recal — thy prayer is urged in vain; 
 Too great the crime— nought, nought but blood can wash away the 
 
 stain! 
 Justice forbids that he should live, thy prayer I may not hear ; 
 Its stern decree must be fulfill'd, though pity wring a tear. 
 He who would justly judge on earth, nor prayer nor tear may heed, 
 Tho' while the hand the sentence writes, the inmost soul may bleed." 
 
 " 'Tis mercy, mercy that I crave— 'tis justice that you give ; 
 Did mercy temper justice now, my Alp, my all should live ! 
 He who in actions would be just — as just as mortal can. 
 Should show the gentle love that God has ever shown to man: 
 Justice had seen him die the death, but mercy came between, 
 And there was hope, and peace, and joy, where pain and death had 
 
 been. 
 Then imitate the righteous act, and snatch from death and bane 
 The soul most unprepared to die, when crime has left its stain." 
 
 ''Thou prayest in the name of One who life or death can give — 
 Thou prayest in the name of One who thought man fit to live ; 
 Tho' stain'd with crime. He found a means, to save ; then why should I 
 Cut off all hope of bliss and heaven, and give that man to die? 
 He lives, and let repentance take possession of his heart; 
 Let virtue rule his every act, nor from his side depart. 
 So shall he live till death shall come, but not in fearful form. 
 For he who in the calm 's been just will little heed the storm." 
 
NETLEY ABBEY. 
 
 The ruins of Netley Abbey are situated on an acclivity of the 
 eastern bank of Southampton Water. They are so embosomed 
 in the rich foliage of the old hereditary trees, as to elude obser- 
 vation from the shore, till you come suddenly upon them, 
 when a gently-rising hill conducts you to the first range of 
 walls, where you command a beautiful rural prospect, as well 
 as of the sea. Rich ivy mantles the mouldering door and 
 archways, and thick-veiling brushwood and wild plants of 
 various kinds fill up the interior of the chapel, where the ashes 
 repose of " names once known," but obliterated now from the 
 fading records of time. 
 
 Relics of broken pillars and arches, enough to show the 
 grandeur and elegance of the splended fabric to which they 
 once lent support and beauty, lie scattered in profusion around. 
 Of its history, numerous writers have treated, besides Leland 
 and Tanner in his " Notitia Monastica." According to the 
 former, the name has been corrupted from Letteleyf which has 
 been derived from Lceio Loco (a pleasant place), so that the 
 amenity of the spot was lost sight of by two unlucky deriva- 
 tions. Its founder, Peter Roche, bishop of Winchester, died 
 in 1238. The monks were of the Cistercians, and a branch 
 from the adjacent Beaulieu. Its early historical associations 
 are few ; and the most agreeable, perhaps, (to the parties 
 therein concerned,) was the amount of revenue, not less, ac- 
 cording to Speed, than £160. 2s. 9c?. Their library was less 
 
NETLEY ABBEY. 159 
 
 rich, consisting, says Leland, of only one book — a copy of 
 Cicero's Treatise on Rhetoric. In 1537, Netley Abbey, with 
 all its buildings, was granted to Sir William Paulet, afterwards 
 ^Marquis of Winchester. It next fell to the Earl of Hertford ; 
 for the entire property of the then Church of England was 
 most unceremoniously put up to auction, by that prince of 
 spoilers and woman-killers, the worst of England's tyrants, 
 Henry VIII. No church property ever more frequently 
 changed hands than Netley Abbey, and was last purchased by 
 Thomas Chamberlayne, Esq., though now little more than 
 the bare walls of a chapel, a kitchen, and a refectory, remain. 
 The original site is very extensive, presenting a quadrangular 
 court or square, 200 feet in length by 60 broad, crossed by a 
 transept of 120. The entire roof gave way about forty years 
 ago. Armorial bearings, and other feudal devices, happily 
 strew the ground. Great architectural beauty was the distin- 
 guishing feature of the edifice, as appears from the elegant 
 classic character of the relics of columns, arches, and windows ; 
 the east end in particular has a solemn awe-inspiring aspect, 
 in perfect unison with the wild loneliness and silence of the 
 scene : 
 
 " Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
 Or drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
 The moping owl does to the moon complain, 
 Of such as wandering near her secret bower, 
 Molest her ancient solitary reign." 
 
 It is peculiarly too the chosen abode^ for its ample wooded 
 recesses, of the time-pri\dleged rooks, squirrels, and eaves- 
 hunting martlet, which invariably affect this southern region 
 and adjacent islands, preferably to other parts of the empire, 
 and give fresh charm to the sweetly calm and hermit-like 
 
 h2 
 
160 NETLEY ABBEY. 
 
 seclusion pervading the general scene, more deep than we re- 
 member elsewhere. It called to mind the lines of a favourite 
 poet: 
 
 " Here let Time's creeping winter shed 
 His hoary snow about my head ; 
 And while I feel, by slow degrees, 
 My sluggard blood wax chill and freeze, 
 Let thought unveil to my fix'd eye 
 The scenes of deep eternity ; 
 Till life dissolving at the view, 
 I wake and find the vision true." 
 
 This grand fabric, when entire, seems to have been com- 
 pletely encompassed by a moat ; and two large ponds at a 
 convenient distance remain, to attest that the pious inmates 
 were not unobservant of the period of Lent. They now look 
 mournful and deserted as the ruins they shroud, and the willows 
 overhanging their banks seem to join the dirge of the night- 
 birds flocking to their favourite haunts in the recesses once 
 brilliant with life, and the grand imposing ceremonies that lent 
 splendour to religious retreat. 
 
 On the shore, in the immediate vicinity, is a fort or small 
 castle, originally, perhaps, designed as a defence for the Abbey, 
 and repaired, if not erected, by Henry VIII., at the period of 
 fortifying the southern coast ; and more recently, a modern 
 antique tower was erected by the owner of the ruins. 
 
 A graphic sketch of the Abbey and its vicinity was trans- 
 mitted to his friend Bentley by Horace Walpole. " The ruins 
 are vast, and retain fragments of beautiful fretted roofs, pendant 
 in the air, with all variety of Gothic patterns ; of windows 
 topped round and round with ivy. Many trees have sprouted 
 up among the walls, and only want to be increased by cy- 
 presses. A hill rises above the Abbey enriched with wood. 
 The fort in which we would build a tower for habitation re- 
 
FRIENDSHIP. 161 
 
 mains, with two small platforms. This little castle is buried 
 from the Abbey in a wood, in the very centre, on the edge of 
 a hill. On each side breaks in the view of the Southampton 
 sea, deep blue, glittering with silver and vessels ; on one side 
 terminated by Southampton, on the other by Calshot Castle ; 
 and the Isle of Wight rises above the opposite hills. In short, 
 they are not the ruins of Netley Abbey^ but of Paradise. Oh! 
 the purpled abbots ! what a spot had they chosen to slumber 
 in ! The scene is so beautifully tranquil, yet so lively, that 
 they seem to have retired into the world." 
 
 FRIENDSHIP 
 
 The wish of all hearts, the delight of each age. 
 The wealth of the grief- worn, the god of the sage, 
 'Tis heavenly Friendship each joy can increase — 
 The life-giving spirit of pardon and peace ! 
 
THE DYING INDIAN GIRL TO HER COMPANIONS. 
 
 A LITTLE while and on my brow 
 Shall rest the kindly hand of death; 
 
 The soul that speaks within me now, 
 Shall pass, but like some passing breath, 
 
 When soft winds fold to their repose 
 
 The Lotus-flowers at even-close. 
 
 Why do you weep to see me fade ? 
 
 Spring shall return when I am cold ; 
 The sun through yonder forest glade 
 
 Shall light your pathway, as of old, 
 And trees that round your dwelling grow, 
 Will bloom, sweet friends, when I am low ! 
 
 I know not whither I depart. 
 But love is greater than decay. 
 
 And ye will live within my heart. 
 When its last pulse hath pass'd away; 
 
 And beautiful in death will be 
 
 The memory of your love to me. 
 
 And when the shadows downward fall, 
 And bounding feet the dance prolong — 
 
 And when your soft tones one and all 
 Are mingling in the even-song, 
 
 Like a lost echo lingering near. 
 
 My voice shall fall upon your ear. 
 
THE DYING INDIAN GIRL. 163 
 
 By some cold stream I'll make mj^ home ; 
 
 My step shall move around ye still, 
 When through untrodden paths ye come 
 
 Your pitcher with sweet waves to fill ; 
 And ye shall welcome as your guide, 
 The Spirit of the Fountain-side. 
 
 It is not painful so to steal 
 
 From life, when all we love are near; 
 It is not sad, — save thus to feel 
 
 The anguish of your farewell tear ; — 
 In vain ye hide them from mine eye, 
 All warm upon my cheek they lie. 
 
 The arrow from the warrior's bow 
 
 May send a pang we cannot deem, 
 But the mild doom which lays us low, 
 
 Gomes o'er us like a pleasant dream ; 
 Calm as the death-time of a flower. 
 Is the Indian girl's departing hour. 
 
SKETCH OF INDIAN LIFE. 
 
 The Indians (as is known) hold particular portions of the 
 forests as hunting grounds, each portion exclusively apper- 
 taining to a particular tribe, and as these spots generally abound 
 in game, the owners of them are jealous in the extreme, al- 
 lowing no one of another nation to trespass on them. But 
 unfortunately this right is often infringed, a foray is the con- 
 sequence, and the lives of the offending party generally pay 
 the forfeit ; it also frequently leads to a war of extermination 
 between the tribes, and many of the once noble nations of 
 warrior Indians have ceased to exist, from the apparent trifling 
 circumstance of an infringement of ground. Many years ago 
 the Iroquois were very powerful, beating the Hurons in 
 almost every battle that took place ; by this means the latter 
 lost some of their best territories on the borders of Lakes 
 Huron and St. Clair, which were ceded to the victorious Iro- 
 quois. On this ground we now found ourselves. For some 
 time we hesitated whether we should venture to stop and 
 hunt, or go forward without the boundaries ; no one ventured 
 to utter the first — no ! or dared say — ay ! At last, as if by 
 general consent, we all sat down, threw off our packets, and 
 made a fire. This was a tacit determination of remaining till 
 we were either inclined to advance, or forced away by the ap- 
 pearance of Iroquois. After we concluded our repast, Pierre 
 gave us a caution, that since we had determined to hunt here 
 at any risk, we must not venture to separate, but keep toge- 
 
SKETCH OF INDIAN LIFE. 165 
 
 tlier in a body, make as little noise as possible ; not waste a 
 grain of gunpowder uselessly, by firing, unless our aim was 
 ■ certain, and by this means bring our enemies (should any be 
 be at hand) upon us ; keep our eyes watchful and our ears 
 open, not exhaust our strength by using any great exertion, 
 " for in case you have to fly," he said, " you will need every 
 nerve well strung." The first day and night passed very 
 pleasantly, for the very excitement was a pleasure ; no sound 
 disturbed us, and I began to fancy myself secure. " Sed diis 
 aliter visum ;" in the afternoon we were startled at hearing the 
 whoop of Indians, driving deer into a defile. We instantly 
 paused, held council in a low whisper, and then retreated to 
 our caban, sent Eloi out to reconnoitre, packed up our bun- 
 dles, tightened our belts, lexamined our rifles, slipped the 
 small silver chain that fastened our long knives in their 
 sheaths, laced our mocassins firmly, and having completed our 
 preparations for flight, awaited patiently the return of Eloi. 
 He made his appearance an hour before sun-set in a lament- 
 able plight, mud and filth from head to foot, with leaves, 
 rushes, and dried grass sticking to his capote, having been 
 obliged to crawl on all-fours the whole time he was hanging 
 on the trail, and brought the pleasing information that about 
 twenty Iroquois were advancing gradually in the direction of 
 our caban, that there was no doubt of our retreat being dis- 
 covered, and unless we instantly fled it would be too late. 
 Down went the caban, we hurriedly extinguished the fire ; 
 everything was thrown into confusion, as if some days had 
 elapsed since the party had been there, and away we went, as 
 carefully avoiding leaving foot-marks as possible. We reached 
 a river, wide but shallow, the water reaching not far above 
 our ankles, but so rapid that I could scarcely keep my legs. 
 We waded up it as far as the depth would allow us, then 
 crossed to the opposite side, and commenced ascending a 
 
 h5 
 
166 SKETCH OF 
 
 mountain. We could not have surmounted above one-third 
 of its height, when a whoop, followed after the lapse of a few 
 minutes by a yell, came borne upon the wind. ** Now," said 
 Pierre, " we must quicken our march, they have discovered 
 the embers of the fire ; we have either left a little still burning, 
 or else the ground is not yet cold." Hearing this, our flight 
 quickened, a burst of whoops every now and then acting on 
 one like the spur to a jaded horse. About day -break we 
 arrived on the banks of a wide and deep river, but sluggish in 
 its course. We had no time to construct a raft, but had to 
 swim with one hand, holding our powder and rifles out of the 
 water with the other ; this we effected, but the worst was to 
 return for our provisions and clothes. I cannot depict the ex- 
 traordinary sensation I experienced in returning, expecting 
 every moment to hear the whistle of a bullet, or be brained by 
 the tomahawk of a hidden enemy, whilst clambering up the 
 river's bank. We soon had our packets and clothes placed on 
 the nape of our necks and again swam across ; you may rely 
 on it I swam for the bare life. How I congratulated myself 
 on being born on the sea-coast, and that I had been able to 
 swim from a child ! 
 
 We soon placed the river between us and our enemies, 
 dressed, and were again ready to move forward. By this time 
 I began to flag, and the inclination of flying was wearing away 
 fast ; having our enemies at an advantage, I expressed a de- 
 sire to remain where we were, for while swimming we could 
 materially thin their numbers, and perhaps put an end to the 
 pursuit. '* No," Pierre replied, " we have the advantage, let 
 us keep it, for when they arrive on the opposite bank, they 
 will hesitate to cross from the very fear of an ambush, and when 
 they do cross, it will be at two or three different points, so we 
 should have them back and front ; we shall soon be on the pos- 
 sessions of the Delawares, and then tl c pursuit will cease; there- 
 
INDIAN LIFE. 167 
 
 fore let us keep our hands free from blood as long as possible, 
 for we were the aggressors." Upon this we continued our re- 
 treat ; the music of our march being the whoops and yells of our 
 pursuers ; who pretty M^ell knew our numbers and strength 
 by measuring the width of our caban ; this, believe me, had 
 great eiFect on the precision of my quick step. Day wore on, 
 the pursuit relaxed not, and what with wading streams, swim- 
 ming rivers, &c. (we had been flying now nearly twenty-four 
 hours) I had become so exhausted that I begged to stop and 
 fight it out, as by an ambush we should be enabled each to 
 pick off a man, which would materially check the rest. But 
 the Indians were too noble, too generous to desert me ; they 
 took it in turns to carry me, though it materially impeded their 
 esc ape, and a certain and horrid death was fast following on 
 their heels. We soon after reached a small lake ; there among 
 the grass we found a bark canoe ; into it we got, and paddled 
 across in about an hour, fastened the canoe to the bank — re- 
 treated a short time longer, when Pierre said we might now 
 halt in safety, as the hostile ground was past, and we were now 
 on the territory of the Delawares . To me this information 
 was more gratifying than a peep at my own fireside would 
 have been, in one of those fabled magic miiTors of the an- 
 cients. I threw myself down on the bare ground, and was 
 instantly asleep. 
 
 Shortly after we recommenced our march. On the fol- 
 lowing morning we came unexpectedly in sight of several 
 moose, but they almost as instantaneously discovered us, and 
 snufl[ing the air went off at a quick trot, leaving us not the 
 remotest hope of getting even a chance shot at them. The 
 best time for hunting this species of deer, is when the winter 
 is well set in, and the snow lies deep on the ground ; the 
 animal instinctively knowing the difficulty of proceeding in 
 search of food through the forest, in consequence of its size 
 
168 SKETCH OF 
 
 and weight, locates itself on some hill where there is abun- 
 dance of low spruce or birch ; round this hill it forms a path, 
 which in the course of the season widens excessively, as it 
 gradually diverges either to the right or left to crop the 
 branches. The Indians, on discovering an elk track (for 
 sometimes they are several miles round), take different spots, 
 and in their snow shoes boldly attack it ; for they can run 
 easily as well as lightly on the snow, while the enraged animal 
 flounders into it at every plunge up to its shoulders, and thus 
 falls an easy victim. An accident now and then happens, for 
 sometimes these moose-walks are at no great distance in the 
 forest, and then a party of young men (on hearing from an 
 Indian who has been well paid to give them notice of the cir- 
 cumstance) form an expedition to hunt him. It was only a 
 twelvemonth before my arrival that a Mr. Bruce was shot, the 
 ball passing through him. His agonised companions had to 
 drag him on an Indian sleigh over the frozen snow to the 
 city of Quebec, nearly ninety miles from the place where he 
 had received his wound, and wonderful to relate, he re- 
 covered. 
 
 For a day or two we had experienced a difficulty in breath- 
 ing, evidently occasioned by the smoke of damp wood and 
 vegetables burning. This made the Indians very uneasy, as a 
 fire in the forest is a dreadful calamity to them, for should the 
 wind set the fire in your direction, you have little or no chance 
 of escape, being either burnt to death, or suffocated by the 
 volumes of smoke. This was the case with us ; the wind was 
 very light but blew towards us, the fire was at a great distance, 
 yet the smoke became thicker and denser. The Indians 
 began to look serious ; but it fell calm, and when the breeze 
 again sprung up, it had changed, which relieved us of our un- 
 pleasant companion the smoke, and also from the idea of 
 beins broiled alive. 
 
INDIAN LIFE. 169 
 
 After some days we arrived at the spot where the fire had 
 raged, and there, for miles, were smouldering trees, the ground 
 covered with charcoal, and the tall pines standing black and 
 leafless ; the larger branches yet unconsumed gave them the 
 appearance of gigantic directing posts, while here and there 
 small columns of white smoke curled slowly upwards, or sud- 
 denly altering its shape, swept along the ground as the breeze 
 aifected it. The occasion of these spontaneous fires has been 
 endeavoured to be accounted for by different philosophers in a 
 variety of ways. Now as it is certain I cannot aspire to so 
 lofty a title, I shall offer no opinion of my own, but borrow 
 one or two from the note-books of the more learned. First, 
 it is said to be occasioned by lightning striking a tree, and 
 igniting the moss with which its trunk and branches are 
 covered ; second, by a hurricane, which, rocking the trees 
 violently backwards and forwards, causes combustion by the 
 firiction ; and third, from ignition by the heating of the vegetable 
 matter collected at the roots of the trees. 
 
 Now, reader, these are philosophical opinions, therefore do 
 not suppose me guilty of propagating them as my own. There 
 is another theory I may add, which I think is the most likely, 
 viz. that Indians may have left their fires burning, and which 
 may have crept along smouldering amidst the leaves and brush- 
 wood, till gaining strength, it at last bursts out, devouring 
 whole acres — whole square miles of timber, that it will take 
 centuries to replace. After passing this desolate spot, we ar- 
 rived at a grove of maple trees : here we paused to collect 
 that species of spongy timber, called in this country German 
 tinder or punk ; this we found by striking our tomahawks 
 against the trunk, and by the sound emitted we judged whe- 
 ther they contained the article we were in search of or not ; if 
 they did, we cut them, split them open, and took the tinder 
 from the heart ; for, like the ivy on the ruin, it slowly yet 
 
170 SKETCH OF 
 
 surely destroys the substance it clings to, and is sustained by. 
 Our object being attained, we moved onward, passed a small 
 savannah, and entered a long, wide, and romantic glen where 
 solitude reposed and silence reigned, broken only by the 
 whispering of the wind, " creeping from leaf to leaf," and the 
 murmuring of numerous rivulets. Continuing our route 
 through this glen for some time, we came to a rudely- shaped 
 tomb, on which was laid a large roughly-hewn crucifix. The 
 Indians instantly threw off their packets, doffed their hunting 
 caps, crossed themselves, 'and for a few minutes knelt on the 
 ground, their heads bowed in prayer for the repose of the soul 
 of the dead. After this they arose, cleaned away the weeds, 
 and having renovated it, left it for the next comers to follow 
 their example. Pierre had been here before, and related to me 
 the history of the tomb, with the fate of the " young and 
 brave" who was mouldering beneath. It was as follows : — 
 
 Years have rolled on, and those who once remembered the 
 two principal characters of the story have long since returned 
 to dust ; yet their memory lives in the hearts of their descend- 
 ants, the one held up as an example to be imitated, the other 
 as an object of detestation. They were brothers by the same 
 father, an old Delaware chief. The mother of the eldest 
 (Elk-foot) was also a Delaware woman ; she died shortly 
 after the birth of a son, and before he had attained his third 
 year, his father had again married — a young captive he had 
 taken in a skirmish with the Pawnees, and his brother. Lynx- 
 heart was born. The two boys grew up together, but the di- 
 versity of their dispositions, even from infancy, was apparent 
 to the whole tribe ; the eldest, open-hearted, brave, and ge- 
 nerous ; the other, treacherous, cowardly, and cunning. 
 
 Years swept by, and found them men. Elk-foot knew well 
 
INDIAN LIFE. 171 
 
 his brother's evil heart, but shielded him from the animad- 
 version of the old warriors ; he had given way to him even 
 from a child, and what his brother wished for, if he had it in 
 his power, he instantly gave up to please him. 
 
 In the tribe there also lived an old warrior and daughter, on 
 whom both had fixed their earliest affections, but she always 
 favoured the eldest. Still Lynx-heart pressed his suit till the 
 affection the Indian girl entertained for him for his brother's 
 sake turned to fixed aversion ; he saw the change, and from 
 that moment his blood was turned to wormwood — he fixed 
 an " Evil eye" upon his brother and marked him out for ven- 
 geance. But Elk -heart's open soul suspected not his brother's 
 hate, but pitied him. One day his brother broke forth in a 
 sudden rage before him, and cursed him as the embitterer of 
 his future life. *' Come, then, with me," said Elk-heart, " let 
 us seek the flower we cherish ; if she will turn to thee, my love 
 for her I will sacrifice, I will be to her only as a brother ; but 
 if she still refuse to link her chain with thine, then give the 
 maiden up, thy love is fruitless, even should I leave her." 
 They went : Elk-heart vainly strove to change the current of 
 her love ; he told her of his brother's anguish, how dark would 
 be his life should she not return his love ; he besought her 
 pity, then said how much she would show her devotedness for 
 him if she would only take his brother at his earnest prayer. 
 The maiden's blood mantled on her cheek, and rearing her 
 slender form proudly up, she replied, *' Elk-heart, I am a 
 warrior's child, my mother was also the daughter of a chief 
 whose wigwam was black with the scalps of his foes ; I have 
 drunk her courage in her milk ; 'tis vain to ask me to love, he 
 is thy brother, yet I will not dissemble", my tongue has never 
 known to lie, I will not marry with — with a coward ! " 
 
 There was a pause — Lynx-heart quailed from the stern 
 glance the maiden fixed on him, his dark face even blanched, 
 
172 SKETCH OF 
 
 and his lips moved, but the sound died in its birth ; then with 
 a sudden start he tore his knife from its sheath, and with a 
 desperate bound was at the maiden's side. The knife glittered 
 above her head, but Elk-heart had seen the motion, and quick 
 as thought arrested his brother's lifted arm, then calmly said, 
 " Go, my brother, go to thy wigwam, thou art not thyself; 
 calm thee — 'tis vain to force a woman's love. This night we 
 will mourn together, and on the morrow go forth to hunt. I 
 will not take the maiden to my wigwam till thou hast ceased 
 to love." He led him gently to the skin that was suspended 
 before the entrance, lifted it, and bade him depart. Lynx- 
 heart, still trembling with his rage, replaced the knife in its 
 sheath, uttered a sullen adieu to the girl, and passed from out 
 the hut. 
 
 When he had departed, the maiden vainly strove to induce 
 Elk-heart to forego the hunt : she told him all her forebodings, 
 but still he refused. " No, no," he said, " it is better to heal 
 a wound than let it rankle ; I have spoken." 
 
 " Go then," she replied, *' I cannot weep ; the Indian girl's 
 tears are dry." 
 
 A long parting embrace followed, and she stood alone in her 
 hut. When she recovered herself, she summoned her younger 
 brother, and tutored him to follow the brothers on the morrow, 
 to mark everything he saw, and hang well on the trail, so 
 that they should not know they had a spy. 
 
 The morrow came, and they went forth together, the young 
 child cautiously following. Lynx-heart appeared to have for- 
 gotten the occurrence of yesterday ; he was gay and treacherous, 
 like the gleam of sunshine that plays on the white canvass of 
 the fated vessel the moment before the squall comes, and it is 
 engulphed in the ocean's foam. 
 
 However, I must be concise with my tale. They reached 
 this glen, and, in an unsuspecting moment. Elk-heart fell by 
 
INDIAN LIFE. 173 
 
 a bullet from the rifle of his brother ; — the murderer turned 
 and fled, his cowardly heart would not allow him to look on 
 his victim's countenance. The young child had seen the deed, 
 and bore the tale to his sister, who rushed to the hut of the 
 father of the brothers, and loudly called for vengeance. 
 
 The old man heard the tale without a groan ; not even a 
 muscle of his countenance quivered, and for a moment after 
 she had ceased to speak, sat still, as if yet listening to her 
 voice ; then, without a M^ord, he slowly rose, unslung his rifle, 
 and stood in the door of his hut. 
 
 The moment his son appeared, with a curse — a father's 
 curse — he sent the bullet to his heart. But the old man's 
 vengeance was not yet complete ; he bore the body to the 
 spot where lay his eldest-born — prepared a grave for each, but 
 far apart ; over the one he placed a rude Indian sculptured 
 tomb, while nothing but a dark mound denoted where the 
 other lay. He then knelt down, and thanked the Great 
 Spirit who had nerved him to do an act of justice, and turned 
 and left the spot for ever. 
 
 There, side by side, repose the murderer and his victim ; the 
 same shower waters the graves of both, the same wind breathes 
 among the grass that grows above them, the same bird's song 
 thrills above their resting-place, the same sun's ray illumines 
 the gloom that is shed around. There is one thing alone fear- 
 fully marks the diiFerence : the wandering Indian pauses by 
 the murdered brother's tomb as if it were hallowed ground, and 
 kneeling there breathes forth a prayer to the Most High for 
 the soul's repose ; — but he turns with a shudder and a curse 
 from the dark mound that marks the resting-place of the 
 Fratricide. 
 
 By the time the legend was finished, we had passed the glen, 
 and were once more on open ground ; towards evening we 
 
174 SKETCH OF 
 
 came to a small moor, where we halted ; the whip-poor-will 
 chaunted his hymn all night, but nevertheless I contrived to 
 get quite sufficient sleep. — The next day we suddenly came to 
 a deep and perpendicular ravine, or more properly speaking 
 chasm, through which rushed, boiling along, a rapid river. 
 The ravine was not above thirty or forty feet in width, and 
 across it was thrown a pine tree cut some time since by a party 
 in the same route as ourselves ; across this we had to go, 
 though the bridge had quite a spring with it. Pierre went 
 first ; when about half-way across, his foot slipped ; in a mo- 
 ment he must have been dashed to atoms, but providentially a 
 broken branch arrested his descent by sticking into his belt ; 
 thus he hung suspended over the frightful abyss with his heavy 
 packet on his shoulders ; but he uttered no cry, not even for 
 help ; he made no motion to recover his footing, but hung as 
 steadily as he could. The other Indians threw off their bun- 
 dles, and tying the cords that bound them together, gently 
 crawled to the spot were he hung, fastened them loosely yet 
 firmly to the tree, then disincumbered him of his packet ; 
 when this was effected, he swung himself on to the tree, was 
 untied, exclaimed as usual " Le Bon Dieu," placed his bundle 
 once more on his shoulders, and walked steadily across. The 
 common observer would not have detected a sign of fear, ex- 
 cept, perhaps, that he walked more slowly and cautiously. I 
 thanked the planet under which I first made my appearance 
 into this sublunary globe, when I found myself safe on the 
 opposite side. 
 
 A few days, and we arrived once more among something 
 that bore the semblance of civilisation, viz. a Delaware village. 
 Our sudden appearance occasioned no sign of surprise ; some 
 few tall dusky men wrapped in their mantles were smoking 
 their jasper pipes, leaning lazily against their lodges ; a few 
 children were playing with their bows and arrows — as we ap- 
 
INDIAN LIFE. 175 
 
 proached they looked up for a moment, but instantly resumed 
 their sport : there was a gravity thrown around the scene that 
 had a very remarkable, if not a disagreeable effect on me. I 
 thought of Washington Irving's tale of Rip Van Winkle and 
 the old Dutch skittle-players among the Kaatskill mountains. 
 My Indians however maintained the same sedate counte- 
 nances, and scarcely deigning to recognise or greet the inhabit- 
 ants, walked straight forward and entered the first house that 
 presented itself, threw off their bundles without ceremony, and 
 then sat down as if the place were their own. I of course 
 mechanically followed the example set me ; this seemed to 
 have broken the spell that surrounded us. One Indian dropped 
 in after another till the lodge was full ; then followed a con- 
 versation perfectly unintelligible to me, as they spoke in the 
 Indian dialect, but I discovered I was the subject of it, from 
 the glances of surprise with which they occasionally regarded 
 me. Their curiosity was not long to be gratified, for every 
 individual was smoking as if his whole existence depended on 
 the blowing of clouds of smoke ; the room was filling with it 
 so fast that the recognition of feature was momentarily becom- 
 ing more difficult. The hospitality we experienced was un- 
 bounded; men, women, and children, seemed pleased to be able 
 to contribute to our comfort. When evening arrived, the In- 
 dian drum was brought forth, and armed with rattles, &c. I 
 found myself capering as wildly as the rest, to the most discor- 
 dant noises that I do think had ever before assailed my organs 
 of hearing. The few days I spent with them were some of the 
 happiest of my life, and I half resolved to become an Indian. 
 But time and tide, as the old adage goes, wait for no man ; 
 our bundles were again at our backs, and our rifles in our 
 hands. I squeezed the hands of these brave and hospitable 
 people, and once more was plodding onwards. Our route 
 daily became more diversified ; the lakes seemed to increase 
 
176 
 
 SKETCH OF 
 
 in size, the trees in height, and even the little rills swelled 
 into rivers. At length we reached the top of a high mountain, 
 and from thence burst suddenly on my view the mighty Hu- 
 ron. The soldiers of Xenophon, in that famous retreat, could 
 not have been more struck, when with one voice they shouted 
 " The sea ! the sea !" 
 
 The sun had been down some hours, and to recal the time 
 and stillness, I quote the following stanza :•— 
 
 " T'was night, and o'er the stilly deep 
 No ripple broke the seaboy's sleep, 
 
 The wind had ceased to sigh ; 
 The moon in silver pride rode through 
 Her cloudless course of spangled blue, 
 
 In silent majesty." 
 
 At such an hour — at such a time — should this vast and 
 mighty sea of fresh water be visited. Who can stand un- 
 moved amidst such grandeur and such beauty ? A beacon 
 light glimmered in the distance ; the moonbeams lay in one 
 vast mass, unbroken by a ripple ; the water birds slept upon 
 its tranquil surface. This indeed was solitude : no noise, no 
 sound ; but there was a view unbounded, not even the tracery 
 of a vessel's mast to break the sight. Yes, there I stood, ab- 
 solutely lost in wonder and admiration, till called by the In- 
 dians to our night's repast. 
 
 We had now left the Prairies far in our rear, had repassed the 
 Mississippi, and were rapidily journeying homewards through 
 the beautiful Vale of Ohio. The rainy season was over, and the 
 Indian summer had almost smiled its last smile ; the wind 
 moaned amidst the half-leaved trees, like the wild waves 
 mourning over the sailor's grave. Winter was drawing on 
 apace ; yet a month or two more, and we should again sit round 
 the blazing fires at Indian Lorette. We arrived on the border 
 
INDIAN LIFE. 177 
 
 of the Buffalo River, and thus approached the mighty Niagara, 
 where I narrowly escaped losing my life, for straggling care- 
 lessly among the brushwood, I heard a subdued rattling 
 sound. I paused, looked round, and then again cautiously 
 advanced ; the sound was repeated, but more distinctly. I called 
 to Pierre, who instantly came up and narrowly examined 
 every object ; at length he pointed to a pile of leaves exactly 
 in the path I was going ; a few steps more, and I must 
 have inevitably trod on it — there I perceived two bright eyes 
 glaring at m.e. Pierre gently raised his rifle, and with the re- 
 port up sprang a large rattle-snake ; the ball had been effective, 
 and after a few convulsive throes it stretched out full length 
 and died. I once more congratulated myself on my lucky 
 escape. 
 
 The thunder of the cataract became audible as we advanced, 
 and at length before us we saw the white mist that eternally 
 hangs over the falls, caused by the fine particles of the spray. 
 My feelings were indescribable ; the name of Niagara had 
 been familiar to me from a child, but as yet its appearance 
 lived only in my imagination. How faintly my ideas had 
 painted it ! It must be seen to be duly appreciated, or even 
 before the mind can conceive so grand, so stupendous a sight. 
 We still advanced, and then burst on my view this wonder of 
 the world. For some miles the water had been increasing in 
 rapidity, interspersed here and there with small cascades, 
 formed by ledges of rock, until reaching a steep and strait de- 
 clivity, it bounded tumultuously along, and then suddenly 
 precipitated itself into the ever- foaming abyss. One of the 
 finest views of the falls was from the Table Rock ; from this 
 when you turn your back on the precipice, you face the torrent, 
 before it takes its final leap : then turn round and look over 
 the ledge on which you stand, and nothing is to be seen but 
 volumes of feathery foam ; that which is falling in the great 
 
178 SKETCH OF 
 
 body looks like the roll of a mighty avalanche, and where it is 
 broken, it flies up, giving the appearance of a thick snow storm ; 
 when the sun shines upon it, a magnificent rainbow spans the 
 gulf, based on either precipice. 
 
 But farewell to Niagara, its grandeur and its legends ; I must 
 again, like " the Wandering Jew," change my position. 
 
 Behold us now in a bark canoe, dancing lightly over the 
 rippling waves of the majestic Ontario. Who could look (as 
 we were now doing) on the throng of busy vessels, and listen 
 to the continued click -clack of the steam-packets, from whose 
 thronged decks issued the sounds of mirth and happiness, and 
 believe that these, at present tranquil, waters had ever echoed 
 to the roar of cannon, the cries of the wounded in their agony, 
 or witnessed the engagement of hostile fleets ? Yet such was 
 the case on this fresh-water sea (for sea it is, comparatively 
 speaking) — fleets have met and fought, during the American 
 war of 1814, the opposite sides of the lake belonging respec- 
 tively to Canada and the States, from, the deep bays of which 
 they issued for the destruction of each other. 
 
 Ontario has been justly termed the " Romantic Lake," from 
 the peculiarity of its scenery. Near Kingston is the beautiful 
 Bay of Quinte, which turns and turns like the folds of the ser- 
 pent — and that so suddenly, that when the stranger thinks his 
 ''light bark" can go no farther, a sudden turn at right angles, 
 and he reaches another bay, and so on for miles, each one 
 varying in its scenery, and each one surpassing the other in 
 beauty. Here is almost a perpetual calm ; the rude winds, 
 that dash its parent's waves in white foam on the strand, pass 
 by, or breathe their gentlest breath on its glassy surface : in 
 fact, it is more like a fairy lake which lives but in poet's strain, 
 or breathes but on the painter's canvass. 
 
 Than the place of the Thousand Isles, no spot on earth can 
 be more lovely — hundreds of islets, thus beautifully and in- 
 
INDIAN LIFE. 179 
 
 numerably clustered, from some of which shoot up the lofty 
 pine, while on others, the feathery larch and spruce trees flou- 
 rish, and anon you perceive the delicate green and light tracery 
 of the birch tree. These islands are famous for a species of 
 small deer, called by the Indians " chevereaux." Here we 
 stopped several days for the purpose of hunting, and that by 
 way of varying the scene we had at night by torchlight. 
 As soon as it was dark, we fixed a large torch in the bows of 
 our canoe and paddled gently and quietly onwards, each 
 armed with a rifle ; the animals, astonished at the glare, come 
 to the water's edge, and so absorbed are they in gazing at the 
 light, that they fall easy victims. Thus several days passed 
 merrily away. 
 
 A few days after this we reached the Ottawa river, and then 
 went to view the beautiful falls of Chaudiere ; here we built 
 ourselves a raft, floated on as far as Point Fortune, and once 
 more struck into the forest. We now approached home 
 rapidly, re-crossed the Battesan river, and were absolutely re- 
 treading the very ground we had passed some months pre- 
 viously. But although I was approaching civilised life, and 
 should soon mingle with the gaiety of the city, my spirits sank 
 daily and rapidly, like the quicksilver in a marine barometer 
 before an approaching storm. 
 
 We were obliged to hurry, for the last leaf had long since 
 ceased to quiver on the extremity of the branch, the snow was 
 several inches deep, and having no snow shoes, we should 
 soon find a difficulty in travelling. We passed by the old 
 caban, where I had the first fright with the bear, and we all 
 laughed, as the sight of it brought back its remembrance ; 
 re-crossed Lake St. Joseph, descended the mountains that 
 overhang the Jaque Cartiers river, stepped into the canoe, and 
 were soon on the other side ; here we dined, and then plodded 
 steadily along towards Indian Lorette. Not many hours 
 
180 SKETCH OF INDIAN LIFE. 
 
 elapsed before I caught sight of a Squaw, wrapped up in her 
 mantlet ; we soon overtook her, and she immediately ran to 
 give notice of our return. 
 
 When we emerged from the bush, we perceived the Indians 
 standing at the entrance of the village, who, with a loud whoop, 
 instantly commenced an irregular fire of blank cartridge, which 
 we returned, the old rusty cannon chiming in now and then. 
 By the time two or three rounds had been fired, we were among 
 them, and hearty was the greeting I received. I hurried away 
 to the house where I had previously resided, to change my 
 hunting dress ; in the mean time, I despatched a Canadian to 
 the neighbouring village, St. Ambroise, for sundry gallons of 
 rum — then I took a survey of myself in a glass, to see if I 
 could recognise aught of my former self. I certainly could 
 well have asked, '* And faith is it myself, or another?" I had 
 a beard and moustaches that would have made the Grand Turk 
 die of the spleen, and skin so tanned by the weather that it 
 resembled the colour of a mahogany bed-post. However, I 
 shaved off" the superfluous hair, put on a domestic Indian cos- 
 tume, made myself more like a Christian, and adjourned to 
 Madame Etienne's. The Squaws complimented me, with what 
 was intended as a compliment of the first water, by exclaim- 
 ing, " Monsieur, you now look like a Sauvage." The fiddle 
 was brought, and dancing soon commenced. Sufiice it to say, 
 so devoted were we at our employment, that time slipped 
 away on wheels of oil, and I believe, if the night had not been 
 wound up by — sorry am I to be obliged to confess our weak- 
 ness — universal inebriety, that we must have worn the flooring 
 to a wafer. The last thing I recollect, as I dropped exhausted 
 on a deal form, was a confused mass of men and women 
 screeching, whooping, and shaking rattles, giving a correct 
 representation of a ball in Pandemonium. 
 
Jjroim by .-/ E. oHaicn. R.yt 
 
 n 
 
ISABELLA AND GERTRUDE. 
 
 *' The dream haunts me still," said the young and beautiful 
 Isabella to her sister one day as they were sitting together. 
 ** I cannot drive it from my mind." 
 
 " But, my pretty sister," said the other, " surely you 
 are not foolish enough to believe in dreams? Have you 
 not dreamed many times before, and did they ever prove 
 true?" 
 
 " Why, no, dear Gertrude ; I cannot say that they did. 
 But, then, this was so strange, so vivid, that none have ever 
 made so deep an impression." 
 
 "Probably not," replied the other. *' But, when were 
 your thoughts ever so completely occupied by any other sub- 
 ject as they are upon this ?" 
 
 *' Why — no ; I cannot say they ever were," said Isabella. 
 " The dream, however, was repeated three times over, and 
 so strange a circumstance as that never occurred before." 
 
 *' I see, dear sister," answered Gertrude, "you would lay 
 great stress upon the mystical number, three — which, I be- 
 lieve, is a sort of golden number with dream-holders. But what 
 more likely than that it should occur ? You dreamt a strange 
 and curious dream, and then, with your thoughts full of it, 
 you went to sleep again. But, in such a state of mind, you 
 cannot suppose that your sleep would be very deep. Now, 
 in such case — with your imagination on fire, and your mind 
 intently busy — you should again be presented with a picture 
 
182 ISABELLA AND GERTRUDE. 
 
 of that which occupied your thoughts when awake, is not at 
 all wonderful. And, very likely, if you fell into a third 
 sleep, the same thing would be repeated. I have heard of 
 people dreaming the same thing twice, and even three times 
 over, but never four — " 
 
 "You never have?" here interrupted Isabella, eagerly. 
 " Then—" 
 
 " Nay, dear sister," continued Gertrude, with a smile, " do 
 not think that I am going to say anything that will ad- 
 vance your notion of dreams. I account for it in this manner: 
 it is seldom that a fourth sleep occurs, or else, doubtless, the 
 same thing would happen ; but the mind is generally so 
 occupied as to banish sleep for a considerable interval, so 
 that by the time the third sleep is broken, it is the usual hour 
 for rising. No w, in your own case, I dare say that you did 
 not sleep again after the third ?" 
 
 ** Truly not," answered Isabella. " Unrefreshed as I was 
 with the night's repose, I felt no inclination to sleep ; and, 
 indeed, if I had, I should have tried to keep awake, rather 
 than again have had the strange and solemn sight presented 
 before me. But if you so readily account for my dreaming the 
 same dreams three times in one night, what solution can you 
 give of the strange fact, that many dream the same thing for 
 three successive nights, but never for more ?" 
 
 *' I account for it in the same way as I accounted for the 
 former. It is seldom a person dreams except when the mind 
 is troubled. Troubled with anxious thoughts, or wearied with 
 extreme solicitude, an individual retires to sleep ; but, dis- 
 turbed and disquieted in his mind, he cannot sink into that 
 soft, refreshing sleep which the heart at ease enjoys. It is 
 seldom, until nature is wearied out, that sleep comes at all ; 
 and in such case, what more likely than that dreams should 
 follow ? If the activity of mind were sufficient to prevent 
 
ISABELLA AND GERTRUDE. 183 
 
 sleep in the first place, it is not unlikely that it should 
 be powerful to disturb sleep in the second. But as the 
 imagination has not full play during the hours of slumber, the 
 images presented to the mind are dim and distorted — fre- 
 quently horrible and appalling, and thus at once they bewilder 
 and terrify. Now suppose a person in circumstances of ex- 
 treme difficulty dreaming such a dream as you had last night, 
 do you not think that the recollection of it will be the thing 
 most active in his memory at the time of his retiring to rest 
 the second night ? This would be sufficient to cause dreams 
 the second night ; and the very circumstance of the mind 
 being engrossed by thoughts of the former dream, will pro- 
 duce one exactly similar to it. The body will be there- 
 fore but little refreshed with that night's sleep ; and now it 
 depends upon constitutional strength whether the dream is 
 again repeated. If nature be not exhausted, the dream will 
 come again ; but if completely ^^ earied out, the individual will 
 fall into a sleep resembling torpor, and of course no dreams 
 will then ensue. None, I should say, are sufficiently strong to 
 bear the breaking up of more than three nights' repose, and 
 therefore is it that dreams seldom occur on the fourth night, 
 and not that there is any spell or mystic charm in the number 
 three. I hope now, sister, that I have explained the matter 
 to your satisfaction." 
 
 Isabella, however, only shook her head — she remained 
 silent. 
 
 " I understand you," continued Gertrude ; " your judgment 
 says yes, your feelings say no. If I would make an im- 
 pression, therefore, I see it must be done by making an appeal 
 to the feelings." 
 
 " Then let it be some other time, dear Gertrude ; my mind 
 is ill adapted to receive instruction at present. I will try, 
 however, to drive the impression from my memory." 
 
 i2 
 
184 ISABELLA AND GERTRUDE. 
 
 Isabella and Gertrude de Vere were sisters, descended, 
 though but in a remote degree, from that illustrious house which 
 bore that surname, and the title of Earl of Oxford. Isabella, 
 the child of a second marriage, was about twenty, with light 
 blue eyes and auburn hair ; her sister, who was about ten 
 years her senior, was the very reverse in point of complexion, 
 having jetty hair and black eyes ; and the difference which 
 existed in their features was extended to their feelings and 
 sentiments. Gertrude was fine, bold, confident, high in spirit 
 and firm in resolve ; Isabella was yielding, timid, diffident. 
 The one was formed to command, the other required a nobler 
 spirit upon which she could lean. 
 
 Isabella lost her mother when she had attained the age of 
 three years, so that she had grown up entirely under the care 
 of her elder sister, who entertained for her the fondest affection. 
 As years passed on, from being the scholar Isabella became 
 the companion of her sister, sharing at once her anxieties and 
 her confidence. 
 
 After the death of his second consort, their father seemed to 
 lose all pleasure in being in his own home ; the scene recalled 
 to his mind thoughts he wished to banish ; everything tended 
 to revive the recollection of one whom he loved, and whose 
 loss he so deeply deplored. It was seldom, therefore, that he 
 visited his home, and thus the sisters were left in solitude, and 
 were obliged to find their own means of occupation and 
 amusement. 
 
 But though seldom graced by the presence of its master, yet 
 at times the hall of Sir Anthony de Vere presented a strange 
 contrast to the silence and serenity which generally reigned 
 there : this was when its owner thought himself bound to 
 keep up the dignity of his ancestors, and accordingly invited 
 noble guests to join in the chase and to partake of his feasts. 
 On one occasion, among the invited guests, was the young 
 
ISABELLA AND GERTRUDE. 185 
 
 Earl of ', who at the first sight of Isabella became struck 
 
 by the powers of her beauty, and was, or fancied himself, vio- 
 lently in love. But whether the one or the other, he strove to 
 make it appear that he was captivated by her. \^Tien in the 
 chase, he was always to be found beside her ; when in the 
 withdrawing-room, it was her harp alone which seemed to have 
 music for his ears. Whatever he did, to her it was done well ; 
 whatever he did, it seemed performed for her pleasure. The 
 young Earl had just those qualities which win the heart of 
 women. He was tall, commanding, and graceful. His coun- 
 tenance was handsome and pleasing, his manners affable and 
 easy, his bearing courtly and polite. But if thus capable of 
 winning, he was still more capable, after having won, of 
 making weep. He was heartless, selfish, unprincipled, a liber- 
 tine in his conduct — a tyrant to others, a slave to his own 
 bad passions. These evil feelings were not shown until the 
 knowledge of them came too late. 
 
 Bred up as she had been in solitude, Isabella de Vere was 
 unused to the arts which are practised in the world. She saw 
 herself an object of admiration — she saw that her admirer was, 
 to all appearance, generous and noble. She had been taught 
 to love virtue and goodness : what wonder, then, that she 
 should begin to entertain feelings of regard to one who seemed 
 to hold virtue and goodness in as high veneration as she 
 herself did ? She had a heart formed to love, and when she 
 saw that she herself was an object of love — when she heard 
 that her love was prized beyond wealth, or rank, or power, 
 no wonder that she should love in return. 
 
 The first love of a young heart is always strong and ardent 
 — unclouded by sorrow, not hardened by the hoUowness and 
 heartlessness of the world, not yet soured by disappointment 
 — it is fervent, ardent, lasting. 
 
 It was thus that Isabella loved. Ignorant of the base 
 
186 ISABELLA AND GERTRUDE. 
 
 principles which lurked in the breast of him on whom she had 
 placed her affections, she was deeply wounded before she knew 
 that she had been smitten by Love's darts. 
 
 It was not until the time came for the departure of the 
 guests, that she discovered even to herself how deeply her 
 heart was engaged. She felt that there was coming a strange 
 loneliness which she could not account for, a void which her 
 form.er employment seemed inadequate to till up. 
 
 And her lover, he pined, he felt the same sorrow ; many 
 were the expressions of sorrow and regret he uttered, many 
 the protestations of regard, many the vows of constancy. He 
 promised that his absence should be short, and that during 
 that time his letters should be frequent, and thus as much as 
 possible make up for his absence. 
 
 At last the hall was deserted, the sisters were again left to 
 themselves. But to Isabella the change was a sad one. Her 
 home was now no home to her ; her heart had been carried 
 away, and what was it that her body yet lingered ? She 
 became silent and reserved ; loved to be alone, that she 
 might indulge freely in thought. Her wonted employments 
 had grown distasteful, and she felt no pleasure in anything 
 which had formerly delighted her. To walk where she had 
 walked with him, to play the tunes he had liked to hear, to 
 gaze upon the pictures he admired, was all that seemed to 
 yield gratification. Her sister clearly divined the cause, and 
 gently drew her confidence. She entered into all her feel- 
 ings, and lent her aid to everything which seemed to entice 
 the love-stricken Isabella. 
 
 It was with the utmost impatience that Isabella expected 
 the arrival of the promised letters. A month passed on, yet 
 none had been received ; day rolled on after day, week 
 passed after week, still her lover remained silent. She now 
 became more low-spirited and melancholy, and for hours 
 
ISABELLA AND GERTRUDE. 187 
 
 would sit brooding in silence, while unbidden tears would 
 
 now and then steal gently down her cheeks. 
 
 All her thoughts were engrossed, all her feelings absorbed, 
 
 by this one thing ; so much so, that they even followed her 
 
 during the hours of sleep, which were often broken by dreams. 
 
 It was one of these dreams which had now so disturbed her. 
 
 As she slept, there appeared before her a female figure clothed 
 
 in the garments in which the dead are buried. At first she 
 
 though tit was a representative of herself ; but the figure before 
 
 her was older, though it bore a strong resemblance to herself. 
 
 As the spectre stood before her, it raised its hand, — that was 
 
 bone, though her countenance was undecayed, and bore no 
 
 marks of the grave except in its rigid paleness. Then it 
 
 seemed to speak, though its lips, which were colourless, moved 
 
 not, and the words it uttered were, " At midnight, at thy 
 
 mother's grave, seek what thou wantest to know." 
 
 ****** 
 
 The evening of that day came on, and the spirits of Isabella 
 became more uncertain and broken. It was in vain her sister 
 strove to cheer her, till at length, as the last alternative, she 
 proposed that they should visit the chapel where both their 
 mothers lay buried. 
 
 From the moment that the proposal was made, Isabella 
 suddenly recovered her former flow of spirits. She rejoiced in 
 the certainty of knowing what had become of her faithless 
 lover, and her sister dared not check the flow of spirits, though 
 certain that her new-born hopes would prove fallacious. 
 
 A little before midnight, the sisters stood in the little chapel 
 where rested the varied generations of their family. The moon 
 was at its full, and shed a mild light over the sculptured figures 
 and groined arches. 
 
 The bell tolled the hour — the sisters, clasped in each other's 
 arms, silently stood gazing upon the vault beneath, where lay 
 
188 ISABELLA AND GERTRUDE. 
 
 their mothers — the last stroke sounded, and as the echo died 
 away the stone seemed to move, and then rose from the earth 
 the pale, still form of the parent of Isabella. 
 
 *' Look, look! it comes!" said Isabella; " I knew it would." 
 " Children," said the figure, "for that which you seek, 
 look there." 
 
 Suddenly, close by where the strange visitant stood, appeared 
 a frame, as though of a picture ; but the canvas was as yet 
 uncoloured ; it gradually began to assume a tint and shade, 
 the outline of figures became visible, and then the figures them- 
 selves. There stood the betrothed of Isabella, and by his 
 side was a young and fair female, who was weeping bitterly, 
 and entreating him in an earnest tone. 
 
 He was turning from her with a haughty, indifferent air, 
 when the figure of a youth appeared, who, from his resem- 
 blance, seemed the brother of the female. 
 
 He appeared to be exclaiming in a violent and angry tone 
 against him who represented the betrothed of Isabella ;— 
 the other haughtily answered, when suddenly the swords of 
 both were drawn, and after a few moments' conflict, the Earl 
 of ' fell upon the ground. 
 
 At that sight Isabella uttered a loud shriek, and fell sense- 
 less upon the pavement. It was long before she recovered ; and 
 before then, news was received that the Earl of ' had 
 
 been killed in a duel by a young man whose sister he had 
 seduced. 
 
 It was months before Isabella recovered the shock her fa- 
 culties received on that eventful night ; nor indeed did she 
 ever regain her wonted cheerfulness of spirit. Her mild and 
 melancholy manner was an evidence of the change wrought 
 upon the feelings by the disappointment of the heart's first 
 love. 
 
A VISIT TO A CHINESE CITY. 
 
 We visited Ningpo a short time since, in company with Cap- 
 tain and Mrs. B. ; the latter and myself being the first foreign 
 women who were ever there, with the exception of Mrs. Noble, 
 who was taken prisoner during the war, and was seen but by 
 very few. "We started for Ningpo on Saturday morning, ex- 
 pecting to arrive the same evening, but did not reach there 
 until the next morning, sulfering sundry inconveniences in the 
 interim, having to pass the night in the China fast- boats, with 
 accommodations the most narrow and limited. A cabin was 
 formed by spreading bamboo mats over the deck, and it was 
 not, I assure you, of the most lofty and commodious kind, for 
 we could not stand upright in the highest part. We furnished 
 our own provisions, beds, dishes, &c. &c. ; spread our beds 
 npon the floor, and slept, if we could, and as we could — though 
 I have found, before now, a softer and more downy resting- 
 place. 
 
 We arrived early on Sunday morning, and behold a mighty 
 crowd had gathered to see us when we landed. So eager was 
 the curiosity, that many waded off some distance, the sooner 
 to get a peep at us. We had with us a Chinese and English 
 police-oflicer. Captain B. sent his card to one of the manda- 
 rins, who despatched his servant immediately, to show us the 
 way to the house that had been provided for us. We were 
 placed in sedan chairs, which were carried by two men called 
 coolies : and it was really with difficulty they could get through 
 
 1 5 
 
190 A VISIT TO 
 
 the streets, which are narrow, and now they were completely 
 thronged. My chair, instead of Captain B.'s, was by mistake 
 taken first, and, of course, curiosity was most directed toward 
 me, and I really feared for the safety of the chair, if not for my 
 own, so great was the desire to see a foreign woman. They 
 were by no means rude, however, for they are a civil people. 
 But it required stronger nerves than mine to face unmoved 
 such a multitude, with every countenance directed toward me, 
 and written all over with the most intense and anxious curio- 
 sity. 
 
 Our first day at Ningpo we spent within doors, it being 
 Sunday ; but we received a call and an invitation to dine the 
 next day, from one of the mandarins. The house we occupied 
 was thoroughly Chinese, with all its appurtenances. 
 
 Monday morning came, and quite early two sedan chairs 
 were sent to take us^to see the wonders of the place, and, it 
 may be, that we might be seen. The chairs differed from those 
 we were carried in the day before, being much more elegant, 
 and furnished with glass windows before, behind, and on each 
 side, which enabled them the better to see us, who had sud- 
 denly become literally, and in very truth, the " observed of all 
 observers." We had been greatly annoyed before by the 
 people constantly lifting the curtain which hung in front of 
 the chair, and we found it more pleasant to meet the gaze of 
 the people fully and fairly, than to be playing bo-peep with 
 them all the time. 
 
 We commencedourjday's amusement by first making a call, 
 and then we went to ^sorae public places, where we received 
 calls from a number of mandarins, and were quite diverted 
 with their " chin chins" (the^Chinese for "how do you do ?") 
 which is their mode of salutation, folding their hands at the 
 time, and bowing their heads. We M'ere then served with tea 
 in the neatest little cups imaginable ; and then tables were 
 
A CHINESE CITY. 191 
 
 brought in, and spread with a great variety of sweet things, 
 fruit, and the like. 
 
 From here we went to the mandarin's to dine ; and really 
 the dinner was a curiosity in itself. The first course was of 
 sweet things, the second meats, and more substantial viands. 
 Our dinner over, we bade our host adieu, and made another 
 call, where they furnished us another dinner, and similar to 
 the first ; and, at another place where we called, they spread 
 tables, and gave us luncheons ; fortunately, our luncheons 
 came after dinner instead of before. We made five meals in a 
 few hours, and you may judge if we were not in some danger 
 of surfeiting. As for myself, I suffered an intense headache, as 
 a penalty for eating too much of good things. During all 
 this time, we had been introduced to a great many people ; 
 and the streets, as we made our way through them, were 
 crowded to even greater excess than before. I assure you the 
 excitement was almost too much for me, and I returned to our 
 abode on that evening quite exhausted. 
 
 The next morning, after receiving calls by the score, we 
 visited a pagoda, mounted fourteen flights of stairs, and stood 
 where the feet of white woman had never before trod. We 
 had a fine view from the top, and below were crowds of people, 
 who had followed us hither, and were waiting to see us pass 
 out. Men, women, and children were there, to the amount of 
 some thousands ; and, as we came out to go to our chairs, 
 which were standing a little way off, they parted to the right 
 and left for us to pass through — the women holding up their 
 children, that they might catch a glimpse of the wonderful 
 strangers. We went from here to a place of worship, called a 
 *' Josh-house ;" beautiful, indeed, it was, and their huge gods, 
 of wood and stone, though they may seem very majestic and 
 imposing to them, awakened in me no feeling but sadness and 
 pity for the deluded creatures who trust in them. There was 
 
W2 A VISIT TO 
 
 a great deal of beautiful carved work and gilding about the 
 building, and it was adorned with beautiful lanterns of painted 
 glass, in endless number and variety. 
 
 From here we went to the house of another mandarin, who 
 has a beautiful garden adorned with caves, grottoes, pools of 
 water, and a great variety of gorgeous and beautiful flowers. 
 We strolled about here a little while, enjoying its beauty and 
 its freshness, and called upon yet another mandarin, where a 
 more pleasing sight awaited us than any that had been before 
 presented. We saw and were introduced to the wife and 
 daughter of the mandarin, also several of their children of 
 various sizes. The ladies were very finely dressed, and the 
 young lady was quite a modest, pretty-looking girl. Her hair 
 was ornamented with flowers, and her arms with bracelets, 
 two on each. 
 
 After dinner they took us into another room, where they 
 examined our dresses with great curiosity and delight. We 
 have been favoured beyond any foreigners who have ever been 
 here before ; none, I apprehend, having been so honoured as 
 to sit at table with ladies of the Celestial Empire. We are 
 indebted, probably, for much of the attention we received to 
 the fact of Captain B.'s holding the office of civil magistrate, 
 in addition to his rank as captain in the army, and being, in 
 consequence, acquainted with many of the people, whom he 
 had received at his house. 
 
 When we left here, we made another call, where we were 
 treated to another lunch, and, to my great horror and dismay, 
 to another dinner. I was sick and disgusted at the very sight 
 of food. We were helped in the most lavish manner. Not 
 content with heaping our plates, which, by the way, were 
 quite small, and more like saucers than plates, they actually 
 piled up the good things ail about us. They by no means 
 confine themselves to the use of the chop sticks, but seem 
 
A CHINESE CITY. 193 
 
 quite to prefer their fingers in helping either themselves or 
 others. 
 
 It seemed to trouble our good friends that we ate so little, 
 and it appeared to me the less we ate, the more bountifully 
 they helped us. One of the young mandarins, especially, was 
 quite concerned on my account. He had been extremely gra- 
 cious and polite to me all the while — good-looking he was, 
 too, his eyes black and most brilliant, and his whole face 
 agreeable and pleasant. In his anxiety lest I should depart 
 with my appetite unsatisfied, he took rice from his own plate 
 and put it upon mine, motioning me to eat ; and this is 
 deemed an act of extreme politeness by the Chinese. Of 
 course I could do no less than eat it, which seemed to gratify 
 him exceedingly. I looked as amiable as I possibly could, 
 half surfeited as I was, and conversing by signs, we became 
 quite well acquainted before the dinner was over. 
 
 After dinner we attempted to visit some of the shops, but 
 could do so in no kind of comfort, for the crowd still pursued, 
 to get a glimpse of us as we alighted from the chairs. Indeed, 
 the shopkeepers themselves were more interested in looking at 
 us than they were in selling their goods. So we yielded to 
 " dire necessity," and made the best way we could back to our 
 quarters, glad enough to reach there, and to be at rest. We 
 were, a few hours afterwards, on board the same boat which 
 conveyed us thither, and which was waiting to take us back to 
 Chusan. Wearied enough we were, I assure you, with the 
 excitement of the last three days. I must say, that, as far as 
 my own experience goes, it is by no means a pleasant thing to 
 be an object of wonder and curiosity to a gaping multitude. 
 
THE SIEGE. 
 
 It was a bright October morning ; the sun was pouring a 
 broad flood of light over the fertile vale, with its green mea- 
 dow-land, its hanging woods, its ruddy corn-fields, and its 
 bright river — over the town and castle of Knaresborough, 
 crowded, this with fierce steel-clad veterans, mustered beneath 
 the royal standard, that with the yeomanry and burghers, like 
 their more regular comrades, in arms for Church and King 
 against the leaguring hosts of Cromwell — over the camp, the 
 lines, the outposts of the Puritans, which hemmed the destined 
 town about with, as it were, a wall of iron. Upon the heights, 
 just to the eastward of the town, the fierce, enthusiastic Lil- 
 burne had fixed his quarters, and hoisted the broad red cross 
 of the Parliament, and thence, on every side, had drawn his 
 lines about the borough ; the bridge and the high road, on the 
 south side, were kept by a brigade of pikes and two strong 
 bands of horse arquebusiers ; the meadows and the vale were 
 swept by four full regiments of the far-famed invincibles, the 
 Ironsides of Cromwell ; the woods were filled with sharpshoot- 
 ers, the roads blocked up with mounds and trenches, and all 
 the north side of the town exposed to a tremendous fire from 
 fifty wide-mouthed cannon, which, covered from the castle 
 guns by a projecting hillock, battered the dwellings of the hap- 
 less burghers without remorse or respite. Nor were the be- 
 sieged passive in the mean time, or fearful. Bright sheets of 
 flame would leap up, ever and anon, from the dark castle 
 
THE SIEGE. 195 
 
 embrasures, and clouds of snow-white smoke would swathe the 
 giant keep in their dense vapoury shroud, and with a roar that 
 told the awful tale of civil warfare even to the distant walls of 
 York, the heavy shot would plunge into the serried columns 
 of the leaguers, thinning their ranks, indeed, and shaking for 
 a moment their array, but daunting not their fiery courage, 
 nor damping their enthusiastic zeal. And now, with the long 
 roll of drums and the soul-stirring flourish of the horn and 
 bugle, from this point or that of the beleaguered town, the 
 Cavaliers would sally out on their besiegers. Now by some 
 ford of the swift river, neglected because thought impassable, 
 a little troop of gentlemen, superbly mounted on high-blooded 
 chargers, fluttering with lace and waving with tall plumes and 
 blue embroidered scarfs, would dash upon some picquet of the 
 Puritans, and drive them back, scattered and broken and cut 
 down, to the main body — and then, forced to retreat in turn, 
 would fall back foot by foot, firing their petronels and musque- 
 toons from every hedge and coppice, and charging again and 
 again on their pursuers from every spot of vantage, till they 
 had gained the river : then they would wheel, throw in one 
 shattering volley, swim through the eddying waters, and raise 
 their gallant cheer, " God for King Charles !" in safety. Now 
 it would be a steadier and sterner effort ; a heavy column 
 would rush out, pikemen and musqueteers and horse in one 
 dense body, bearing the outposts in at the pike's point, carry- 
 ing some redoubt, and then deploying in its front, until the 
 pioneers and axemen should spike its guns, fill up its ditches, 
 and level its defences to the ground. 
 
 Incessant were alarms and panics, sallies and feints and false 
 attacks, on the one hand ; and, on the other, strict watches, 
 stout resistance, guarded and sure approaches, for Lilburne 
 knew right well the quality of his own troops — the nature of 
 the force opposed to him. He had experienced often in the 
 
196 THE SIEGE. 
 
 field the fiery and resistless charges of the impetuous Cavaliers ; 
 he knew that in the stoutest veterans of the Parliament, none 
 could be found who, for a single dash, could cope with the 
 high-born and chivalrous adherents of the King ; but he knew 
 also that undisciplined and fiery gentlemen, how gallant and 
 how desperate soever, would not endure the tedium of pro- 
 tracted operations, the dull monotony of a long siege where 
 passive opposition only can be offered, the lack of wine and 
 the appliances of mirth, the scarcity of food, the daily suffer- 
 ings, the daily waste, the daily-growing anguish. He knew, 
 and acted on this knowledge. Vastly superior in his numbers, 
 he cared not for the loss of a picquet ; he shook not at the 
 defeat of an outpost, the destruction of a redoubt, or the suc- 
 cess of a sally. If evening saw the line of his circumvallation 
 broken, the morning sun beheld his working parties on the 
 ground repairing the defences, protected by so powerful masses 
 that any sally must be fruitless to annoy them, and evening 
 found the lines again complete, but stronger, nearer, closer 
 than before. Nor was this all. With his strong cavalry, he 
 kept the country round in constant terror and excitement ; he 
 cut off every convoy, before it had well left the place from 
 which it started ; he surprised every stronghold of the Cava- 
 liers, at miles away from the scene of his operations — he took 
 and garrisoned the loyal house of Ripley — he battered Spof- 
 forth Castle, the old, time-honoured dwelling of the Percies ; 
 he quelled the risings of the Langdales, the Vavasours, the 
 Slingsbys, and the Stourtons. He indeed bridled the bold 
 valour of the West Riding, as he had boasted that he would — 
 bridled it with a curb of iron ! 
 
 Yet Knaresborough still held out ! — castle and town held 
 out, though worn and wasted with fatigue and famine. — 
 Hastily had the brave defenders thrown themselves into that 
 stronghold, scantily victualled as it was, expecting succours 
 
THE SIEGE. 197 
 
 from without, as it were, every hour, and prepared desperately 
 to endure the utmost before submission to their hated foes. 
 Hastily, rashly had they suffered themselves to be hemmed in, 
 without a hope except to die, and desperately had they borne 
 up against the tortures of that hot rashness. And now the 
 moment had arrived. For three whole days, the castle and 
 the town had had no food at all ! all stores had, many days 
 since, been exhausted ; the very grass that grew upon the 
 ramparts had been all gathered, all consumed ! The beasts 
 of burthen, the domestic animals, the very vermin, had been 
 sought eagerly for food — had been devoured greedily — till no 
 more could be found at all in that most miserable town. 
 There was no one house but had lost some of its inmates, by 
 that most lingering, most terrible of deaths, mere famine ! — 
 and it was on the youngest, the fairest, the loveliest, the most 
 beloved, that the dread doom fell first. The streets were 
 heaped with carcasses, for now the living lacked the strength, 
 the energy to bury their own dead ! Thrice had the burghers 
 risen against the castle, to force its commandant, by sur- 
 rendering to the Puritans, to free them from that lament- 
 able durance ; and thrice had the noble Cavalier who held 
 that last stronghold for his royal master — while the tears 
 streamed hot and heavy down his emaciated cheeks, and 
 his heart throbbed as if it would burst his bosom, for very 
 pity — ordered the castle guns to play with grape upon the 
 famished wretches, whose despair would have forced him from 
 his duty. Three times, repulsed from the castle by their 
 friends, had that most hapless populace rushed out to the 
 besieger's camp, throwing themselves upon the mercy of their 
 foes, and hoping so to force their way into the open country, 
 and three times, at pike's point, had they been driven back 
 into that town of sepulchres and charnel-houses. 
 
 It was the third day that no particle of food, except some 
 
198 THE SIEGE. 
 
 scraps of leather, roasted or soddened into soup, had passed 
 the lips of any of the garrison, on which a sad deputation of 
 the townsmen waited for the fourth time upon the captain of 
 the castle. They came not now in turbulence, hoping to 
 force submission, but tearfully, and on their bended knees, 
 to beg the stern old veteran, as they deemed him, that, for the 
 love of God, by all his hopes of Heaven, he would have 
 mercy— woi on them, they said, " for we are men, and can 
 endure the utmost, but for our wives — our perishing wives 
 and children ! " 
 
 The man to whom their petition was addressed was of the 
 middle stature, with dark raven hair, piercing eyes, and a 
 countenance in which determination and courage were dis- 
 tinctly marked, though now a deep shade of sadness was 
 traced across his brow. 
 
 " My friends," said he, addressing the famishing suppliants, 
 " I feel for you — God is my judge I do ! — and here, here is 
 my witness that none have heavier cause to feel than I have;" 
 and, as he spoke, he opened the door of an inner chamber, 
 and showed to those worn deputies the corpse of a fair, light- 
 haired youth, stretched on a pallet bed, emaciated beyond all 
 conception — yea, literally wasted to the bones ! " Look 
 there ! " he said, '* look there ! Six little days ago, that 
 famished, cold, dead carcass, was the fairest, sprightliest, 
 bravest, noblest boy in all wide England ! You see him 
 now ! there he lies ! my boy, my glorious boy ! — oh, God ! 
 last pledge of my lost angel, who dying, left him to my 
 paternal care, which here is proved for ever ! My daughter, 
 too, she is dead — all that I loved, dead or dying — yet still to 
 my duty I will remain true. A few months since, and we 
 were prisoners in the hands of the enemy. Arrested when 
 resistance would have been vain, we were prisoners beyond 
 the hope of freedom ; such at least was I — for prison and 
 
THE SIEGE. 199 
 
 death tread hard upon each other. Yet Providence favoured 
 our escape. Would that I alone had fled — my children then 
 might have been preserved ! But still I do not murmur. I 
 feel that that Providence which opened our prison-house when 
 all hope of succour had fled, did it because it had yet work 
 for me to perform : from that I will not shrink ; it may still 
 enable us to fight and suffer yet more in the cause of our 
 King, and in that service I shall die content. Gentlemen, 
 ye are answered : when my King's orders reach me to yield 
 up this hold, then will I give it up — till then, please God, T 
 shall maintain it ; and so long as my trusty fellows have 
 boots, and sword-belts, and buff jerkins, we shall not lack a 
 meal. So, my friends, fare ye well." 
 
 To this there was no answer ; from this lay no appeal. — 
 They went away, as they had come, despairing ; they betook 
 themselves to their inhospitable homes — to their wan, starving 
 families, and sat them down beside their fireless hearths, to 
 pray for resignation, and for death to put an end to tortures 
 which were fast becoming too terrible to bear. So the bright 
 hours of daylight rolled over them unheeded, and the dark 
 night came on — that season of repose and quiet, season of 
 respite from all cares, relief from every woe — yet brought it no 
 repose, no respite to the mourners of that city ! The groans 
 of manly agony, blent with the wailings of expiring infancy, 
 and the faint sobs of women, suppressing their own agonies 
 lest they should rend the hearts of others, went up that live- 
 long night to Heaven ; and there were humble prayers breathed 
 out from penitent Christian bosoms ; and there were wild, im- 
 patient, fierce ejaculations, which those who uttered them 
 called prayer ; and there were desperate blasphemies and 
 curses, such as fiends howl out against the throne of grace, too 
 fearful to be written ! 
 
^00 THE SIEGE. 
 
 In a low chamber of a lonely dwelling, close to the outposts 
 of the enemy — looking down, indeed, upon the glacis and the 
 dry moat of the town — there sat an aged man shivering above 
 the last expiring embers of his last brand — it was the last small 
 fragment of the door, that dying brand ! All else, the floor, the 
 furniture, the casements, had been consumed already. Upon 
 the hearth, beside the embers, there stood a mug of water, and 
 a large dish covered with thrice -gnawed bones, part of a 
 horse's ribs, clean picked and broken, so as to reach the mar- 
 row. He was a tall and stately figure, was that aged man, 
 and he had been strong, sinewy, and vigorous even in his old 
 age ; but now his form was bent and all his limbs contracted ; 
 the skin, yellow as parchment, was drawn tight across his 
 withered brow ; his nose was terribly, unnaturally sharpened, 
 like the nose of a corpse ; his eye was dim and lustreless ; his 
 ashy lips were glued together with a thin frothy slaver. Yet 
 he had fought that morning in a fierce skirmish, which had 
 well-nigh brought in a drove of cattle, and had only been 
 driven back by a charge of the Ironsides, a troop of which, 
 commanded too by his own son, had fallen upon their flank, 
 and borne them back into the town when confident of victory, 
 and full of high anticipation. 
 
 His corslet and buff coat were not yet laid aside ; his 
 plumed hat was cast listlessly beside him on the ground, but his 
 blue baldric still sustained his rapier, spotted with many blood 
 gouts, and, in the buff belt round his waist, his pistols, with 
 the hammers down, and pans black with smoke, showed that 
 he had not removed them since he had thrust them back into 
 his girdle, just fired in the heat of action. There he sat, with 
 his hands clenched and his teeth hard set, silent, yet cursing 
 in his heart that recreant son, whom he had never forgiven — 
 no ! never for one moment's space ! — that he had joined the 
 
THE SIEGE. 201 
 
 Parliament against the King, and on whose head he now in- 
 voked the direst of calamities, that, by his too successful charge, 
 he had cut off the last relief from that sad starving city. 
 
 Suddenly a faint sound fell on his ear, as one of clambering 
 up the glacis. The old man listened, acutely, breathlessly, as 
 though life were dependent on his sense of hearing ! — again it 
 came, clearer and louder, nearer than before. Sword in hand, 
 on the instant the veteran sprang to the narrow casement which 
 overlooked the moat and glacis, and there, scarce three feet 
 from the window, in the steel cap and corslet, the scarlet cas- 
 sock, and unshapely boots of Cromwell's Ironsides, stood a 
 tall slender figure. The moon, which was dimly wading 
 through 'the uncertain clouds, feebly defined the outlines of 
 his form, and half revealed, as the old man fancied, the shapes 
 and weapons of a score or two of his fanatical companions in 
 the dark hollow of the moat below him. 
 
 " Treason— 'to arms — ho ! — treason !" shouted the wretched 
 father, at the utmost pitch of his querulous attenuated voice ; 
 but ere he had well syllabled the words, a faint and well-re- 
 membered sound responded to his high-pitched clamour. 
 
 *' Hist !— Father,"— it said—" Father— it is I— I have 
 brought hither food and wine, at great risk of my life — 
 approach, quick ! quick ! and take them ; I will return to- 
 morrow and crave thy blessing!" 
 
 " Out on thee ! Dog and traitor — die in thy treason, and 
 thy gifts perish with thee ! — Ho ! treason ! to arms ! treason !" 
 
 And now the cry reached wakeful ears, and was again 
 repeated and again — "Ho! treason! to arms ! treason!" — 
 and lights were seen flashing along the ramparts, and trum- 
 pets were blown through the streets, and sentinels were 
 heard continually challenging; and hasty footsteps, and the 
 clash of arms, drew nearer every moment ; and still that aged 
 man, implacable, and steeled against his son by bitter hate, 
 
202 THE SIEGE. 
 
 shouted, " To arms ! to arms !" and called the hue and cry- 
 that way with frantic energy. 
 
 " I will not be balked — thou wilt repent this, father," said 
 the young man, advancing nearer. 
 
 " Pray God I live to see thee hanged ; I will repent this 
 never ! — approach me not, or I will rob the hangman of his 
 due, and with mine own hand slay thee." 
 
 " Thou wilt not, father," replied the other, as be laid his 
 hand on the casement, and reaching into the chamber, set 
 down upon the floor a small rush basket, and a tall flask of 
 wine, — " thou wilt not, father — seeing that I have risked my 
 life to bring thee meat and wine. I knew not, till to-day, 
 that thou wert in this lamentable town." 
 
 At first the old man listened, and seemed even somewhat 
 mollified ; but as his son alluded to the situation of the town, 
 all his old rage returned, and with the words, " Die, dog ! " 
 he lounged full at his heart with his drawn rapier ; the blow 
 took effect, full on the polished corslet, and glanced off, in- 
 flicting a deep wound on his left arm, and hurling him to the 
 ground. 
 
 " Ha! have I slain thee ? — Ha! so perish all the enemies 
 of good King Charles ! " 
 
 " Praised be God," replied the Puritan, " praised be God 
 that sin is spared to thee — farewell ! " 
 
 *' Ho ! guard — this way," shouted the veteran, now more 
 incensed than ever ; '* ho 1 guard — this way ! " 
 
 And with their arquebusses, and their slow-matches lighted, 
 a party of the night-watch rushed in from the street — the 
 ruthless father pointed them to the figure of his flying son, 
 and a quick volley followed — another — and another, — and all 
 along the ramparts, from every battlement and crenelle, the 
 sharp clear flashes of the random musquetry streamed out into 
 the midnight darkness — and the loud rattle of the shots 
 
THE SIEGE. 203 
 
 Startled the sentinels of Lilburne on their posts throughout 
 the whole of the beleaguering hosts. 
 
 Escaping from the random volleys, the young man hurried 
 to his quarters ; but ere he reached them, he was met by the 
 grand rounds, interrogated, seized, dragged to head-quarters, 
 tried for communicating with the enemy by a drum-head 
 court-martial, and sentenced to be hanged upon the morrow, 
 between the glacis and the lines — ^before two hours had passed. 
 Meanwhile the old man fed — coolly fed on the meat, and 
 quaffed the wine his child— his betrayed child — had brought 
 to him — then mocked the throne of mercy with a prayer, and 
 lay down, and slept soundly — while that same child watched 
 in a military dungeon, and prayed for mercy to his soul, which 
 must be with its God to-morrow. 
 
 The morrow dawned, and the accursed gallows stood there 
 erect between the glacis and the lines — and the death-drums 
 were beating through the camp — and the Parliamentarians 
 mustered to punishment parade, with their war weapons trailed, 
 and their grim visages suffused with more than their accus- 
 tomed gloom. 
 
 The fearful tale was known — at once, almost instinctively, 
 it was revealed — all means were taken and all methods tried 
 to preserve the victim son — threats of retaliation — proffers of 
 terms — entreaties — ransom — bribes — but all were tried in 
 vain. 
 
 In the full blaze of noon, before the besieged town, before 
 the besieging army — before men, angels, God — the son died on 
 the gallows tree, victim of filial piety — martyr to military dis- 
 cipline — and the old ruthless man, who had consigned his 
 own child to that fearful doom, looked on and strove to smile, 
 and would have braved it out even to the end — but the 
 offended majesty cf nature stood forth in its dread might, — 
 the fierce revulsion of conflicting passions conquered the 
 
^04 THE SIEGE. 
 
 wretched clay, — with the sneer on his lip, and the bold evil 
 words upon his tongue — he staggered — fell — they lifted him, 
 but he was dead. 
 
 That night, a courier with a white flag paused at the out- 
 posts of the Roundheads. It was a messenger from Charles, 
 licensing his commander to surrender his good and faithful 
 town of Knaresborough ; and the next day the garrison 
 marched out with flying colours, and drums beating, and all 
 the honours of war granted them, — and flled in their superb 
 array beneath the gibbet and the corpse of him who died a 
 felon's death, for succouring a father at his need. These are 
 the glories of war, these the honours of victors. 
 
TiriE ARmEST,, 
 
WANDERING ORPHAN MINSTRELS 
 OF ITALY. 
 
 They leave their father-land, 
 They leave their moimtain home, 
 They leave the Italian's sunny clime, 
 In foreign lands to roam. 
 
 No parent's hand will guide them 
 On their long and toilsome way, 
 No parent's eye will watch them, 
 Lest their steps he led astray. 
 
 No ! orphans, friendless wanderers, 
 Their lonesome course they take ; 
 But the Father of the fatherless 
 Will not their path forsake. 
 
 That God who gave them parents dear, 
 And took from them that stay, 
 Will not forsake them as they tread 
 Through life's uncertain wav. 
 
THE INCOGNITO. 
 
 " Who can he be ?" exclaimed Mrs. Tabitha Thomson, to her 
 husband, in a tone of mingled curiosity and wonder, as they 
 sat together in their little back parlour, one evening after all 
 the children were put to bed : " I should very much like to 
 know." 
 
 " It does not become us, my dear," replied her husband, as 
 he took another sip of the brandy-and-water that stood before 
 him, — *' it does not become us to make impertinent inquiries, 
 and pry too narrowly into the character, situation, or concerns 
 of a gentleman recommended to us by our worthy and par- 
 ticular friend, George Richardson, Esq. He may, for aught 
 we know, have very cogent reasons for not informing us of 
 his rank in life ; besides, he bears the marks of rank and 
 respectability about him. That he is a gentleman is evident 
 from the tone of authority he uses, which seems as natural to 
 him as to be instantly obeyed." 
 
 Such was part of a dialogue, that took place between a 
 worthy couple, whom we intend introducing to the reader's 
 notice. 
 
 Mr. Timothy Thomson, such was the name engraved on 
 the brass plate affixed to his door, in letters full an inch and 
 a half long, (which plate, be it confidentially whispered, was 
 engraved by himself,) — Mr. Thomson, then, was a gentleman 
 of retired habits, moderate income, and peculiar — yes, cer- 
 tainly, very peculiar personal appearance. He was a virtuoso, 
 
THE INCOGNITO. 207 
 
 or antiquary, as the letters F.S.A., and a long string of other 
 initials, abbreviations of honorary titles, which Mr. T. never 
 omitted, on all due occasions, appending to his name, informed 
 you. In personal appearance, Mr. Thomson was anything 
 but prepossessing. The world would have designated his 
 figure as " short and squat ;" but we, as friendly and faithful 
 historians, must limit our judgment, and say, that he was 
 short in stature, somewhat below the middle height. He had 
 an ungraceful bend, or stoop in walking, which detracted still 
 more from his stature. This may have been acquired by too 
 close an application to study, intently poring over ancient 
 records, and scarcely legible manuscripts, but we will not 
 undertake to affirm that this was the case. There were some 
 persons who hesitated not to say, that Mr. Thomson was any- 
 thing but cleanly in his habits, tidy in his person, or neat in 
 his linen. Now we happen to know, from good authority, 
 that he changed his shirt regularly once a week, and had a 
 new coat once in two years ! Then it was said, that he took 
 (at least) an ounce of snuff a day, the dribblings of which 
 were plainly to be seen on his apparel ; that his coat was 
 always threadbare and out at elbow ; that he generally wore 
 " a shocking bad hat," slouched down over his eyes, and that 
 his whole appearance was slovenly. Now surely these per- 
 sons must have been actuated by some invidious motive, in 
 thus severely decrying his foibles. Perhaps they were en- 
 vious of his justly-acquired fame as an engraver, or his meri- 
 torious researches as an antiquary. Considering he was in 
 general deeply abstracted in thought, and naturally, as a man 
 of genius, at times absent in mind (of which his going one 
 day to a meeting of the members of the Philosophical Society 
 in his dressing-gown and slippers is sufficient proof), we are 
 rather inclined to think leniently of these minor affairs ; and 
 where we cannot altogether extenuate, at least suspend our 
 
 k2 
 
208 THE INCOGNITO. 
 
 censure, and throw into the opposite balance his irreproach- 
 able private character, his indefatigable and unwearied exer- 
 tions for the public good, his parental tenderness, his benevo- 
 lence and charity, his — , but these — it would be worse 
 than useless to attempt to enumerate his many virtues, " to 
 gild refined gold, or paint the lily," so we will now pass on to 
 his better half, the portly Mrs. Thomson ; the matron whose 
 — hem ! — here too our pen is at fault — we know not how 
 to commence, we never shall acquit ourselves of the Hercu- 
 lanean task. The most ready expedient that offers, is to 
 leave the reader's imagination to fill up the blank, when we 
 describe her, as a living specimen of the good old times, when 
 hoops and furbelows, flounces and trains were the order of the 
 day. She was one who abhorred from her heart the startling, 
 and, as she called them, horrible and frightful innovations of 
 plaited corsages and canezous ; full skirts that take sixteen 
 yards in the making, and gigot sleeves of dimensions suffi- 
 cient to make a child's frock. She still persisted, contrary to 
 the advice of her friends and despite their remonstrances, to 
 dress her daughters (that is to say, the younger ones) in 
 stuff frocks, tuckers, tippets, and sleeves, and cottage bonnets. 
 The two eldest, and we say it with regret, were sad disobedient 
 creatures, who would not, in spite of their mother's frequent 
 lectures on the subject, be brought to agree with her taste, 
 or admire, as she did, the fashions and dresses worn by their 
 great-grandmother. 
 
 With the reader's permission, we must again allude to the 
 worthy Mr. Thomson, and mention one or two circumstances 
 which are essential to our story. 
 
 Mr. Thomson was looked upon in the town where he 
 resided, with a sort of cool civility, treated with an indifferent 
 nonchalance, which just suited him. Those who knew of his 
 foibles (and we have said before he had a few), avoided 
 
THE INCOGNITO. 209 
 
 touching on them, and in general humoured and gave way to 
 his prejudices. His eccentricities were overlooked and par- 
 doned by many, for he was known to be a good-hearted man, 
 and much credit was awarded him for the respectable manner 
 in which he maintained a large family on a very limited in- 
 come. He was consequently admitted on sufferance into a 
 certain class of society, in general extremely tenacious of 
 associating with the poor gentleman, ever hedging itself 
 about with a circumscribing wall of adamant, precluding ad- 
 mittance to all save the initiated. Thus it happened Mr. 
 Thomson entered the stream of fashion, gliding on, as he 
 thought, unoffending and unoffended. He did not see, good 
 man, that he was admitted to be ridiculed and laughed at, or 
 his pride would instantly have taken offence at the insult. 
 He was in general too much engaged in thought, to notice the 
 nods and winks of those around, or too self-opinionated, when 
 he did observe them, to think they were meant for him. 
 Avoiding all abstruse disquisitions or noisy argument (except 
 indeed on antiquarian subjects, and then he pertinaciously 
 maintained his opinion), he invariably coincided with what- 
 ever appeal was made to him. Though in some instances 
 his judgment might be considered as in fault, and in others 
 his veracity compromised, by this line of conduct, yet, on the 
 whole, he found it the best measure he could adopt, for his 
 approving "yes, certainly," or "oh! to be sure," gained him 
 many a friend. 
 
 Mr. Thomson had a family of eight children. The eldest 
 was a fine showy girl of twenty, who, with no prospects to 
 build on, or fortune to allure admirers, had yet sufficient 
 knowledge of her own charms, to play the coquette to admi- 
 ration, and enchain a host of foppish admirers. She knew, 
 too, how to make herself agreeable in company, and plead 
 excuses for her father's rudeness or absence of mind ; and this, 
 
210 
 
 THE INCOGNITO. 
 
 with her many accomplishments and pretty face, was her pass- 
 port into society. Her mother confined herself to the domes- 
 tic arrangements, and never went out from one end of the 
 year to the other. They occasionally had a party or so at 
 Christmas, but not oftener than they could help. 
 
 And now proceed we with our tale. The Goodwood Races 
 were coming on, it wanted but a day of the appointed time. 
 The town v/as crowded with visitors. Every lodging-house, 
 small or great, that could in any way accommodate (or dis- 
 commode) visitors, was full, and a bed could not be procured 
 for love or money. The inns were now exorbitant in their 
 charges. Many a sporting character willingly paid a guinea 
 a night for a wretched bed in an attic, which at less urgent 
 times they would have scorned to enter. The inns were full, 
 and more than full. Private individuals had for some time 
 past, with the most gracious condescension, exhibited cards 
 in their windows, announcing " Ajpartments to let^ during the 
 Races ;" but even these had all disappeared before the rapid 
 influx of company. On the evening of the day in question, 
 a carriage and four, with a ducal coronet and arms blazoned 
 on the pannels, and several servants in splendid liveries on the 
 box and foot-board, drew up before Mr. Thomson's door, in 
 
 a retired by-street of the town of , and a footman 
 
 alighting, gave a tremendous pull at the bell. The noise rang 
 through the house, even deafening the cries of sundry squal- 
 ling children, and many a curious eye was instantly directed 
 from the window. Some confusion was for a time caused 
 as to who should answer the bell ; the servant being out, and 
 one young lady not dressed, and another not wishing to 
 appear, Mr. Thomson was at last deputed to the task. A 
 note was thmst into his hand with the direction for Mr. 
 Thomson. 
 
 Walking into the side parlour, he drew forth his spectacles. 
 
THE INCOGNITO. Sll 
 
 deliberately wiped them with the corner of his neckerchief, 
 put them on, examined the hand-writing of the direction, 
 and the seal, which he thought to be his friend George 
 Richardson's, opened the letter, and read as follows : — 
 
 "Dear Thomson, 
 "The bearer of this has unfortunately arrived so late in town, that 
 he cannot get accommodations. As it is of importance that he 
 should do so, and money is no object with him, I have taken the 
 liberty of directing him to you, fully aware that if you can make 
 it convenient to give him bed and board during the Races, you will 
 readily do so, and thereby greatly oblige him, and serve yours 
 
 very truly, 
 
 " G. Richardson." 
 " Craven Lodge, Tuesday Evening.'' 
 
 "Humph!" said Mr. T., when he had concluded the epistle ; 
 *' here's a dilemma — what's to be done ? — and Miss Thomson's 
 friend staying here, how provoking ! But the carriage is 
 waiting, so something must be decided on ;" and with these 
 words he walked to the foot of the staircase, and shouted, 
 "Tabby, Tabby, here my dear, where are you?" And down 
 stairs came Mrs. T., and then there was a consultation to be 
 held upon the subject, and the pros and cons alternately 
 weighed. And Mrs. Thomson's arrangements were to be 
 made, as to whether they should give up their bed-room to 
 the stranger (for they had no spare room), and occupy Miss 
 Thomson's ; but, no ! that could not be done, on ac-count of 
 Miss Thomson's friend. So they would be obliged to mount 
 up into the garret, for they could not sleep in the nursery, 
 there would be too much noise. And Betty, the housemaid, 
 she must be thought of; but she could make a bed for herself 
 on the floor very well. All these, and many other such neces- 
 sary arrangements, were cut short, before their final adjust- 
 ment, by another violent pull at the bell; and then Mr. 
 
212 THE INCOGNITO. 
 
 Thomson went out to the carriage-door, and, with a low bow, 
 informed the gentleman that he should do his best to accom- 
 modate him in his humble mansion. The stranger having 
 received this reply, ordered the coachman to put up at the 
 first, the best inn ; desired the footman to come to him in the 
 course of the evening for his orders ; and was then shown up 
 into the drawing-room. There, in a very short space of time, 
 the Venetian blinds were thrown open, and light admitted 
 into the, till then, dark and desolate room ; and the coverings 
 were taken off" from the sofa, and the piano, and the chairs, 
 and the pictures ; the tables dusted ; and the gentleman's 
 portmanteau and hat-box taken up stairs, and slippers pro- 
 cured for him, and his boots taken down to clean, and so 
 forth. 
 
 He wished to be shown at once to his bed-room — this could 
 not be immediately complied with, for it had not yet been 
 " put to rights." There were Mrs. Thomson's gowns to be 
 removed, and clean towels to be sought for, and scented soap 
 to be got, and many other et ceteras attended to. Then din- 
 ner was ordered to be sent up as soon as possible. Dinner, 
 indeed ! here was a pretty upsetting of the quiet routine of 
 Mr. Thomson's family. Thei/ were just going to tea, but 
 this was put off, in consequence of the attendant bustle of 
 the arrangements for the stranger's dinner. The kettle was 
 put on one side, the fire m.ade up afresh, the servant sent 
 to get fish, and beefsteaks or veal cutlets. And potatoes 
 were to be boiled, and mustard to be made, and the cloth to 
 be laid ; and then it was found out that they had no silver 
 forks. The stranger was evidently a man of title ; some duke, 
 or lord, since he came in his carriage, and the livery was so 
 grand. What was to be done? They must borrow silver 
 forks somewhere, for it could not be expected he would eat 
 fish with a steel fork ! 
 
THE INCOGNITO. 213 
 
 Meanwhile Miss Thomson was dying with curiosity to see 
 the stranger, whom there was so much fuss about. She was 
 from home when he arrived, but from the accounts she heard 
 he was some nobleman. She racked her brain to think of 
 some expedient for obtaining a sight of him, or perhaps an 
 introd'uction to him. Should she go up into the drawing- 
 room in search of a thimble, or to fetch a book ? — or — poh ! she 
 knew what she would do. So first arranging her hair at the 
 glass, and putting on one of her most bewitching smiles, she 
 ti'ipped up stairs to the drawing-room. Knocking gently at 
 the door, she was desired to come in. On entering she found 
 the stranger lounging on the sofa, turning over in an indif- 
 ferent manner the leaves of a book. She hesitated at first 
 to address him, but after observing his inquiring glance, she 
 summoned up courage, and, in a gentle tone, asked what wine 
 he would take with his dinner. "Oh! ah I — let me see — 
 Vin-de-Grave, my dear," replied he, in an affected tone, 
 " and I should like a bottle of Champagne after it. In the 
 mean while bring me a bottle of soda-water." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said she, curtseying as she retired, sensibly im- 
 pressed with the dignity and haut-ton of the individual she 
 had been addressing. He was handsome — she thought very 
 handsome, quite captivating i and had such an air of 
 fashionable elegance about him ! He had a darling little gold 
 chain thrown negligently over his neck, and attached to a 
 small French watch. He had several massy rings on his 
 fingers, with brilliant studs in his shirt bosom ; and then he 
 had such beautiful glossy dark- black curling hair and whiskers, 
 white hands, and very — very fine white teeth. His dress was, 
 what ? oh, she had not remarked that particularly, but it was 
 black, yes, certainly all black. 
 
 The intrusion of this noble guest (for such there was every 
 reason to deem him) into the family of the Thomsons, had 
 
 K 5 
 
214 THE INCOGNITO. 
 
 thrown everything into disorder. Betty the housemaid's 
 brother and sister were sent for, and engaged during the gen- 
 tleman's stay ; the former to black his shoes and boots, brush 
 his clothes, and go errands ; the latter to take the children 
 out to walk, that they might disturb the lodger as little as 
 possible with their noise. Mr. Thomson could get no tea till 
 after all the arrangements for the dinner were completed, and 
 the dinner itself sent up ; so he went out to order the wines, 
 and fearful of forgetting the name of Vin-de-Grave, he com- 
 mitted it to paper, for verdigris and vinegar kept running in 
 his head, and ten to one he had else ordered one or the other 
 of these articles. No such wine was to be had in the town, 
 although he traversed from one end to the other diligently in- 
 quiring at every wine-merchant's store. " Deuce take the 
 wine," thought Mr. Thomson. Now, though Mr. Thomson 
 was a man blessed with uncommon evenness of temper, yet 
 on this occasion he was almost tempted to swear, when he 
 found he had to pay sixteen shillings a bottle for Champagne. 
 But pay it he did, and one shilling for the soda-water, which, 
 being a small bottle, he very considerately put into his coat- 
 tail pocket, and carried the Champagne in his hand, to save 
 the vender the trouble of sending it. Now whether it hap- 
 pened that Mr. Thomson gradually fell into one of his abs- 
 tracted moods, as he jogged homewards, or whether some 
 idle scamp intentionally and designedly ran against Mr. Thom- 
 son's person, or whether the coat-tail swung against the wall, 
 or that the heat of the weather and the shaking of the bottle 
 combining, caused the fixed air contained in the bottle to 
 explode — whether each, or any, or all of these were the cause, 
 we cannot exactly say — but so it happened, that as Mr. 
 Thomson turned the comer of the street in which his dwelling 
 was situate, -po]} ! went the bottle in his pocket, and the ex- 
 plosion so terrified the little man, that the Champagne dropped 
 
THE INCOGNITO. 215 
 
 from his hands on the pavement below, and was shattered in 
 a thousand pieces. He gazed with a feeling of real pain on 
 the fragments before him, but lamentations and regrets were 
 of no avail, and could not collect the liquids again, so Mr. T., 
 having removed the broken fragments from his coat-tail 
 pocket, and taking a pinch of snuif, trudged back to secure 
 a fresh supply of soda-water and Champagne, and on his 
 return extended them at arm's length before him, stepping 
 cautiously and circumspectly, to prevent the recurrence of a 
 similar accident. 
 
 And the dinner ? during this time it had been cooked, and 
 dished, and taken up, and eaten ; and, with the exception of 
 some slight dissatisfaction about the beefsteak not being over 
 tender, and the potatoes boiled too much, it went off remark- 
 ably well. And then Mrs. T. sent up a tart, which had been 
 specially made for their own supper. This, the stranger 
 avowed was most abominable ; that the crust was doughy, and 
 the fruit acid, and a long list of other faults urged against the 
 said tart, which he yet managed to make look rather foolish. 
 Now this was an offence not easily pardoned, a libel on her 
 character not readily forgiven ; for if there was one thing more 
 than another on which Mrs. Thomson prided herself, it was in 
 making pastry, and her crusts were in general esteemed so 
 uncommonly light! she never trusted making pies and tarts 
 to servants, and she had a peculiar method of rolling the crust. 
 With a woman's pride Mrs. T. scorned to show all that she 
 felt on the occasion, or how much she was offended, but she 
 thought the more. The stranger rang for candles, and a pair 
 of moulds were taken up to him ; these were sent back with a 
 message, that he was not accustomed to anything but wax- 
 lights. " Humph !" thought Mrs. T., as the candles were 
 changed. This was another proof of the incog. 's dignity. 
 The family were at a loss how to address him ; there was no 
 
216 THE INCOGNITO. 
 
 way of coming at his real rank, his true position in society ; 
 their very particular friend had been silent on the subject, but 
 to end the matter, the servants were directed to style him, 
 *'My Lord!" 
 
 After he had remained undisturbed at his wine for an hour 
 or so, Mrs. Thomson thought she would just step up and see if 
 he wished for anything, and whether he would take tea or 
 coffee. Now this, it should be known, was a similar expe- 
 dient to that of Miss Thomson's, a sort of ruse de guerre on 
 the part of Mrs. Thomson, who could not reconcile his sup- 
 posed rank, with his bad taste in disapproving of her pastry : 
 she wished to be, if possible, convinced of his rank, and 
 judge from her own observation. On entering the room, she 
 could not help being a little fidgetty, on seeing the stranger's 
 feet rested upon her best mahogany table ; but she very pru- 
 dently suppressed her feelings, and endeavoured to be calm 
 and draw the gentleman into conversation, trusting to her 
 own shrewdness to elicit some information as to his position 
 in society. She first called his attention to her geraniums, 
 which were certainly very fine, and generally admired, as they 
 stood on the window sill, in all their variety of foliage and 
 colour. She went on to detail their names, history, age, &c., 
 with the difficulty she had had in rearing them, and keeping 
 them alive through two or three very severe successive winters. 
 And then she stopped, hoping to meet with some acknov/- 
 ledgment of their beauty, or the like. But whether it was, 
 that the stranger was not to be thus easily drawn out, we 
 cannot say, but during the whole of her flowery description, 
 he had maintained a sullen silence, except an occasional exten- 
 sion of the risible muscles, and when she concluded, he burst 
 out into a most ungentlemanly horse-laugh. Mrs. Thomson, 
 at this breach of politeness, drew herself up to her full height, 
 with a becoming dignity, while the expression of her coun- 
 
THE INCOGNITO. 217 
 
 tenance was -withering in the extreme. He had sunk many 
 degrees lower in her estimation during this interview, and she 
 turned on her heel to leave the room. The stranger, seemingly 
 a little mindful of her wrath, and glad to escape further 
 colloquy, called after her in a commanding voice to send the 
 master of the house to him. 
 
 Much offended at the ill taste of the stranger in not ad- 
 miring her geraniums, aud the rudeness manifested towards 
 herself, Mrs. Thomson descended, threw herself into a chair, 
 and began fanning herself to cool the irritation of her feelings. 
 It was plain that Mrs. T.'s temper Avas ruffled, and she did 
 not recover her equanimity that evening. But she forgot not 
 to order her husband to attend on their guest. 
 
 With a gracious smirk, and smile, and bow, Mr. Thomson 
 obeyed the summons, and presented himself before his distin- 
 guished visitor, who made inquiries as to what time the races 
 would commence on the morrow, and whether there was such 
 a thing to be had as a Guide to the town. Replying to the 
 first question, after due modest hesitation and diffidence, Mr. 
 Thomson stated, there was a very well-got-up little volume, 
 as a local Guide, some of the descriptions and illustrations 
 to which had been furnished by himself. He had also con- 
 tributed and engraved many of the embellishments to the 
 County History. These he should have much pleasure in 
 showing his visitor. Suiting the action to the word, he took 
 down forthwith a portfolio from a press near, and began 
 spreading on the table various prints, etchings, and drawings, 
 the works of his hands ; explaining each as it was exhibited, 
 and vouching for their correctness and fidelity of transcript. 
 *' Perhaps, sir, you will do me the honour of accepting this 
 
 little one," said Mr. T., presenting a small engraving of 
 
 Church. " Oh ! then you are merely an engraver," said the 
 stranger, as he took the print, and leisurely folding it up into 
 
218 THE INCOGNITO. 
 
 a small size, put it in his waistcoat pocket. Mr. Thomson 
 was completely taken aback by the *' merely an engraver!" 
 He had been heretofore justly proud of his art, but the words 
 and actions of the incog, completely astonished him. Re- 
 covering at length from his surprise, he replied, " Why — yes ! 
 — no — you see, sir, I do now and then turn my hand to these 
 sorts of things, and shall be most happy to have the honour 
 of engraving your arms, or crest, or card." The stranger 
 smiled, and Mr. Thomson proceeded : " I, in general, give 
 satisfaction, as my numerous engravings for several Literary 
 and Philosophical Societies, and the Society of Antiquaries, 
 will testify. By the bye, sir, I forgot to show you my col- 
 lection of ancient coins. This, sir, is a very curious one I 
 met with, by chance, yesterday." " Oh, indeed ! that will 
 do," said the stranger, as he rose from his chair, and threw 
 himself upon the sofa. Mr. Thomson collected his prints, 
 replaced them in the portfolio, and left the room. 
 
 Miss Thomson could not resist the temptation offered her 
 of examining the stranger's portmanteau, and his evident 
 rank was confirmed by the scrutiny, for it had a card with 
 the letters C. J. written on it. But, there was a name on the 
 reverse, through which a pen had been drawn ; yet the name 
 was not so effectually erased, but that the first and last letters 
 of the word Lord might still be traced. And the surname was 
 a long one, apparently ending in ville. Here, then, was fresh 
 food for conjecture, and Debrett's Peerage was ransacked to 
 find a title corresponding; there was Somerville, and Alton- 
 ville, and Delaville, and what seemed most like it, Hester- 
 ville. 
 
 Their lodger went each day to the races in his carriage, and 
 returned to dinner at six. The Miss Thomsons did not go, 
 as their father could ill afford the expense of a carriage, and 
 their pride would not suffer them to be seen walking. Early 
 
THE INCOGNITO. 219 
 
 on the morning of the second day of the races, a servant in 
 the same livery as those belonging to the carriage arrived on 
 a tired and jaded horse, and left a letter at Mr. Thomson's 
 door for the stranger. One of the younger Misses took it 
 in, and though she had not sufficient time to notice particu- 
 larly the direction, was yet able to ascertain that the seal was 
 a coronet or ducal crest, and that the letter was marked Hes- 
 terville, or some such name, in the corner. Immediately on 
 the receipt of this, the stranger gave directions that the car- 
 riage should be ordered, and drove off post haste. Poor 
 Miss Thomson, what would she not have given to know its 
 destination ! Her curiosity had been more than ever excited 
 by a paragraph her father had read from the Morning Chro- 
 nicle, to the effect " that a German Prince had recently 
 arrived in this country incog, and was believed to be in attend- 
 ance at the Races." This surely must be the indi- 
 vidual ; but then he had not the appearance of a foreigner, 
 spoke English too well, and had no moustaches. The stran- 
 ger returned in the evening to dinner ; the hasty intelligence 
 he had received, seemed not to have discomposed or disturbed 
 his feelings. After he had dined, and the cloth was removed, 
 and his wine taken up, he expressed a wish to see Mr. Thom- 
 son, who of course instantly obeyed the summons. " I shall 
 be most happy, old gentleman," said the stranger to Mr. T. 
 as he threw over the table to him two tickets, " to escort the 
 young ladies to the play this evening." Mr. Thomson stut- 
 tered and stammered out an acknowledgment of thanks for 
 this, to him, unexpected honour, and said he would hasten to 
 obtain Mrs. T.'s sanction for their going. Miss Thomson 
 was in ecstasies, nothing could exceed her delight at the news, 
 and it was to be patronised by the stewards of the races, 
 so there was sure to be a full house. But I\Irs. Thomson 
 checked all this rapture, by expressing her doubts as to the 
 
220 THE INCOGNITO. 
 
 prudence or propriety of permitting her daughters to accom- 
 pany a single gentleman, a perfect stranger, to a public place 
 of amusement. It was true he might be a Lord, or a Duke, 
 and all that ; but this did not lessen the impropriety — what 
 would the world say ? It was a subject that required due 
 deliberation. After a little debate and entreaty however, 
 consent was given by Mrs. Thomson, and then she was pro- 
 portionately hugged, and kissed alternately by Maria and 
 Amelia, and called a dear, kind, good mamma, till she cried 
 *'hold, enough." But then came another consideration, at 
 first overlooked ; there was Miss Thomson's friend, she could 
 not be left behind, she must be thought of, and of course 
 must accompany Miss Thomson. But to this proposal Miss 
 Amelia would by no means agree, she was not going to lose 
 the expected pleasure for the sake of Maria's friend, so after 
 another consultation, it being found that three ladies would 
 be too great a charge for one gentleman, it was proposed by 
 Mrs. T. that Mr. T. should go, and it would look better too if 
 he accompanied his daughters ; there could be no impropriety 
 then in their going. Mr. Thomson could not be prevailed 
 on at first to go in company with their noble guest, but 
 finding his wife resolute on the subject, and his daughters 
 coaxing and teasing him, to be at peace he at last consented. 
 And so all these matters being arranged, the next measure 
 with the young ladies was to adjourn to their dressing- 
 room, and hold a lengthened debate as to whether they 
 should go full dressed or not ; should they wear white, 
 or pink muslins, or silks ? flowers in their hair or not ? 
 How should their hair be dressed ? What ornaments should 
 they wear ? All these matters being at last discussed and 
 settled to their mutual satisfaction, the dressing part com- 
 menced; and then came the confusion usual on such unpre- 
 pared-for occasions. This band was not to be found, that 
 
THE INCOGNITO. 221 
 
 trinket was mislaid, there were no pins to be had. " Maria, 
 do fasten my frock." " Oh, I can't ; don't you see, I'm all 
 behind-hand as it is ?" And then the incessant calls of papa : 
 " Well, girls, am't you ready ? — it only wants five minutes of 
 the time." At last, all were dressed, and made their appear- 
 ance below stairs; and then came a little disagreement, as to 
 who should walk with the nobleman, which was decided when 
 he came down stairs, by his offering an arm to Miss Thomson, 
 and her friend. And so Miss Amelia was obliged to walk 
 with her papa behind. Miss Thomson thought, as she went, 
 that the gentleman might have ordered his carriage to take 
 them to the theatre ; but perhaps the horses were tired, but 
 after all it was but a short distance : and then there was many 
 a curious eye fixed on them as they passed, and this gratified 
 her pride. And Miss Thomson stepped as if she trod on air, 
 from the consciousness of walking arm in arm with a noble- 
 man. She would scarcely deign to bow to one or two of her 
 ardent admirers whom she passed in the street. " How do, 
 Charley, my boy ?" said some drunken coachman, in a faded 
 livery, with a most familiar nod of the head, at the same time 
 extending his hand. " Fine girls, those, you've got under 
 your arm." Miss Thomson stared, and clung closer to her 
 protector ; who, giving a most withering frown at the offender, 
 and muttering something about " confounded impudence," 
 stepped off the pavement and passed on. As they came in 
 sight of the theatre, their escort seemed to hang back, or 
 slacken his pace, and Miss Thomson thought she caught sight 
 of the well-known liveries, on a carriage which was drawn up 
 at the theatre. But she might have been mistaken, as she 
 only caught a passing glance, and the carriage almost imme- 
 diately after drove off. 
 
 The stranger was all attention to them during the per- 
 formances, but she thought it strange that he should prefer 
 
222 THE INCOGNITO. 
 
 sitting in the back part of the box to a seat near her in the 
 front. However, he continued to converse with her occa- 
 sionally, and that was sufficient — her vanity was satisfied. 
 She was for some time much annoyed by the impertinent 
 stare of a fashionable gentleman who sat nearly opposite, 
 among several lords, whom she knew by sight. He kept 
 continually gazing at her through his eye-glass. She thought 
 this very inide, and made it an excuse for retiring to a seat 
 nearer the stranger. This movement she observed did not 
 pass unnoticed by her tormentor, who burst into a loud laugh. 
 Her escort, too, she thought, seemed to shrink from that fixed 
 gaze and stare of recognition. He was not at all at his ease, 
 though he attempted to appear so, and seem wholly taken up 
 with tlie performances. But it would not do, there was a 
 restlessness of position, and wandering of his eye to the oppo- 
 site box, which Miss Thomson plainly saw, for she was more 
 attentive to her companion than the play. At last the per- 
 formances were over, and they left, of course highly delighted 
 and pleased Avith everj^thing, for how could they be otherwise ? 
 The next day, the gentleman went, as usual, to the races in 
 the carriage, and on this evening was the Race Ball. Now 
 Miss Thomson had been endeavouring to coax her mamma to 
 allow her to go, for the last week past, without effect. She 
 was the more annoyed at this as the time drew on, for she 
 fully expected the stranger would be there ; and, besides, her 
 young friend wished to go. But mamma was resolute ; it 
 was a foolish expense, and she could not think of such a 
 thing ; and, besides, Miss Thomson could not go unless 
 under some m.atron's protection. Now this, indeed. Miss 
 Thomson knew full well was the only real argument ; and she 
 had little doubt of obtaining her mother's consent, if she only 
 knew of any lady, as a chaperon, who was going. Her mother 
 could not go, and in fact she would rather not go with her, 
 
THE INCOGNITO. 223 
 
 and her old-fashioned dress. So Miss T. set her wits to work, 
 and called on one lady and then on another, to find out who 
 was going, and at last heard that Mrs. Saville and her daugh- 
 ters were to be there. Now Mrs. Saville being a friend of her 
 mother's, was per vailed on to call at Street, and ask per- 
 mission for Miss Thomson and her friend to accompany her- 
 self and daughters to the ball. Mrs. Thomson could not well 
 refuse Mrs. Saville's pressing entreaties, so at last the young 
 ladies obtained leave to go. And in proper time (not too soon 
 nor yet too late), they appeared in the ball-room. In vain 
 Miss Thomson's eyes wandered round the room in search of 
 the stranger, he was nowhere to be seen, so she was forced to 
 take up with one of her old beaux as a partner, if she wished 
 to dance at all. While going through a quadrille, her eye 
 suddenly rested on the gentleman whose rudeness had so an- 
 noyed her at the theatre. Pointing him out to her partner, 
 she asked if he knew who that was. " Oh, yes !" said he, 
 " I thought every one knew him — that is the celebrated sport- 
 ing character. Lord Hesterville." Once or twice as Miss 
 Thomson passed this individual, she thought she observed a 
 malicious and satirical smile rest upon his features, and once, 
 when seated during a dance, she saw him point her out to one 
 or two others, who were standing near him. She was evidently 
 the subject of their conversation and laughter, and she blushed 
 crimson at the thought. The ball went off dull and heavily 
 enough to her mind, for she was disappointed at not finding 
 the stranger there, and she found there were very few persons 
 whom she knew present. The company consisted principally 
 of titled personages, who associated only with those who 
 moved in their own circle of society, and would not condescend 
 to speak to any person below themselves in rank. She found 
 herself comparatively lost and neglected amid the crowd, and 
 sauntered about the room, or sat down, the greater part of 
 
S24 THE INCOGNITO. 
 
 the evening with her friend. She was glad when Mrs. Saville 
 proposed leaving. The ladies had attired themselves in their 
 shawls and boas, and other paraphernalia appertaining to 
 ladies' dress, for the usual injunctions had been given them, 
 " to be careful and wrap themselves up warm, so as not to 
 catch cold." They were loitering in the ante-room, waiting 
 the return of the gentleman who had been Miss Thomson's 
 partner during the greater part of the evening ; he had gone 
 in search of their fly. While they were thus waiting, Miss 
 Thomson's quick ears caught the following conversation : 
 her friend was at the time laughing and chatting with Mrs. 
 Saville and her daughters. The speakers by whom Miss 
 Thomson's attention was arrested, were the Lord Hesterville 
 before mentioned, and some one who was assisting him in 
 putting on his cloak. 
 
 "Why, Johnson, who the deuce were those pretty girls you 
 had with you at the theatre the other evening ? You looked 
 as sheepish as a detected criminal when I caught sight of you ; 
 and one of the girls did not seem half to relish my stare, for I 
 observed she changed her seat, and removed closer to you, as 
 if for protection. I say, what will your wife say if she gets 
 hold of your flirting proceedings ?" 
 
 " They were the daughters, my lord, of the grave old fellow 
 with whom I am at present quartered — 30U might have ob- 
 served him in the same box with us — I merely took them out 
 of civility," replied a voice which seemed familiar to Miss 
 Thomson's ears. 
 
 She tried to get a sight of the speaker, and, by a change of 
 position soon after, discovered it was the same — their lodger — 
 the incognito ! He, too, recognised her, met her indignant 
 glance, and shrunk av/ay abashed from it. Other persons 
 came into the ante-room, and he was then lost in the crowd. 
 But she caught sight of him once more ; he was attending his 
 
THE INCOGNITO. 225 
 
 master into the carriage ; that carriage, with its well-known 
 liveries, which had so frequently stopped at her father's door. 
 He was shutting up the steps. He closed the door, jumped 
 up into the seat behind, the carriage drove off, and he was 
 always immediately out of sight. She was convinced of his 
 identity ; it was certainly him ! And so faded the created 
 fancies of her brain ; the veil was removed from her eyes ; 
 she saw things as they were. And thus ended her cherished 
 prospects, her romantic notions ; the visions of title, and 
 rank, and riches had vanished like a dream. The mysterious 
 being whom she had invested with virtues, and wealth, and 
 power, was — was — she could scarcely bring herself to utter 
 the word — a footman I — or at best, a hutler ! And she had 
 been walking the streets, and been at the theatre with him — oh, 
 horrible I she sickened at the thought of the humiliation she 
 had undergone ; she could have fainted on the spot, but 
 she controlled her indignation, she suppressed her feelings, 
 and wisely, for the present, kept her own counsel. Once 
 in the carriage, on the road home, she leant back, ex- 
 hausted and oppressed by contending feelings. Disappointed 
 pride, and baffled expectations, were uppermost in her 
 breast ; she was vexed, she was angry, and maintained a 
 sullen silence during their ride. But when she was left 
 alone with her friend, in the bed-room, while they disrobed, 
 she unfolded the whole tale of her sorrows and disappoint- 
 ments. Impudent scoundrel, wretch, good-for-nothing fellov,^ 
 and other epithets of the same kind, were plentifully showered 
 upon the head of our recent incog, by Miss Thomson, till 
 weared out by her ow^n exertions, she at last fell asleep. But 
 even in dreams, the vision of the gentleman in black, with liis 
 bright rings and studs, floated before her view, and the violent 
 tone in which she ceased not to upbraid him, disturbed the 
 slumbers of her fair friend. 
 
226 THE INCOGNITO. 
 
 The next morning the breakfast things were arranged, and 
 every one assembled at table, except Miss Thomson, who 
 presently after made her appearance with a lamentable coun- 
 tenance, expressing some fears for their lodger's safety, for he 
 had not slept at home. The servant had sat up for him all 
 night, but he had not returned. 
 
 Miss Thomson here interrupted her mother by a repetition 
 of the harsh names applied to the delinquent — " the brute — 
 villain — the — " and then she burst into a flood of tears, and 
 seemed to be fainting away, which so alarmed her worthy 
 father that he jumped up from his chair, treading on Mrs. 
 Thomson's cat, and upsetting the tea-pot which stood near 
 him, in his haste to get some sal- volatile to recover his daugh- 
 ter. And Mrs. Thomson exclaimed, " Whatever is the matter, 
 Maria ?" And then in reply, interrupted by sundry sighs and 
 sobs, and fainting fits, was told the discovery with which the 
 reader is already acquainted. 
 
 There was a visible change after the recital on every coun- 
 tenance present. Mrs. Thomson looked aghast ; Mr. Thom- 
 son's phiz had lengthened amazingly, and his abstraction was 
 so great, that he put the pinch of snufF intended for his nasal 
 organ into his mouth ; Miss Amelia only laughed ; Miss 
 Thomson's friend looked grave ; and Betty, the servant-maid, 
 stopped short in the act of cutting bread and butter for the 
 children at a side-table. 
 
 Mr. Thomson first broke the awful silence that succeeded 
 with — " I was sure he was not a gentleman, since he would 
 not inspect my coins, and folded up the engraving I gave him, 
 and put it in his pocket." 
 
 " I knew he was not a gentleman, from his treatment of 
 7?ie," said Mrs. Thomson, with a scornful toss of the head, 
 that implied a great deal more than was expressed. " And 
 
THE INCOGNITO. 227 
 
 he did not like my pastry — and he would not look at my 
 geraniums," &c. 
 
 " I thought he was not a gentleman," broke in Miss Thom- 
 son's friend, " for he was anything but polite, and paid not 
 the least attention or civility to we." 
 
 " I was quite sure he was not a gentleman, ma'am," said 
 Betty, ** 'cause he wanted so much waiting on, and was always 
 grumbling. Now, right-down gentlefolks is always satisfied 
 with whatever is done for them, and never gives more trouble 
 than they can help to the servants." 
 
 When a little of the bustle and disappointment attendant 
 on the discovery had subsided, there came another considera- 
 tion, and a more serious one — the expenses that had been in- 
 curred during the incog.' s stay. There was this extra and 
 that extra, and board and lodging — and did he not intend to 
 pay for all these ? The afternoon brought George Richard- 
 son, Esq., in his carriage, to the house of the Thomsons ; and 
 this gentleman being assailed, on his entrance, by a shower of 
 abuse and reproaches, speedily betook himself to his carriage. 
 Shortly after his departure, a footman arrived with a letter 
 under the seal of Lord Hesterville, enclosing a draft for the 
 sum of ten pounds on Messrs. Ladbroke and Co., London, 
 payable to Timothy Thomson or order. The sight of the 
 cheque had a wonderful effect in softening Mrs. Thomson's 
 anger. The incog.' s portmanteau was in consequence given 
 up ; explanations and overtures made for a return of friendly 
 feelings towards G. Richardson, Esq., at whose mansion Mr. 
 Thomson was now compelled to stay to dinner. The house 
 has recovered its usual systematic arrangements ; but Mrs. 
 Thomson has resolved to take in no more lodgers at any 
 future races — at least not give up her bed-room and drawing- 
 room to them. Miss Thomson's fi-iend has left : and Miss 
 
228 THE INCOGNITO. 
 
 Thomson herself has quite recovered her disappointment: for, 
 from sundry hints on the subject, and the accounts we have 
 received from Betty, the housemaid, relative to wedding-dresses, 
 bonnets, and gloves, which have been sent home, we antici- 
 pate that a day or two will probably make her the happy bride 
 of her partner at the Race Ball. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 A GRAVE beneath — a home above, 
 
 Sweet the sleep and deep the rest, 
 Dream of unrequited love, 
 
 Never more to haunt the breast. 
 
 Quiet for the ^yearied clay, 
 
 And for the angel spirit bliss; 
 Oh ! evening of a troubled day — 
 
 Death ! — who would mourn a change like this? 
 
SIR THOMAS MORE. 
 
 As long as incorruptible integrity, genuine principle, and 
 steady resolution, accompanied by the mildest social virtues, 
 have a title to esteem, the name of Sir Thomas More -vviil be- 
 held in veneration. 
 
 This great man was born in Milk Street, London. He was 
 the son of Sir John More, one of the judges of the Court of 
 King's Bench ; a man whose virtues and abilities seem in the 
 present instance to have been entailed with large accessions on 
 his offsi^ring. 
 
 Of the early presages which this young man gave of intel- 
 lectual energy, there are some indisputable memorials, inter- 
 mixed with fabulous legends. Being taken into the family of 
 Cardinal Morton, the primate and chancellor, as was usual for 
 youths of talents or distinction in those days, his Grace had 
 discernment to see the bud of talents in him, and would often 
 say to his company, " This boy who now waits at my table, 
 whoever lives to see it, will prove a wonderful man." 
 
 Being duly initiated in classical learning, he was removed ta 
 Canterbury College, now part of Christchureh, Oxford ; where 
 he remained two years, and distinguished himself by his know- 
 ledge in languages, and his progress in the sciences. 
 
 On quitting the University, he entered of New Inn, London,, 
 where he applied to the study of the law ; and, being called to 
 the bar, was beginning to acquire a reputation proportionate 
 to his talents ; when, conceiving a sudden dislike to his pro- 
 
 L 
 
230 SIR THOMAS MORE. 
 
 fession, he retired to the Charter House, and for four years 
 secluded himself from the world, engaged in the constant 
 practice of devotion, or the prosecution of his studies. 
 
 The greatest minds are not exempt from infirmity ; they 
 have their brilliancies and their obscurations. Superstition 
 gained the asce^-dant on this illustrious character very early in 
 life : he practised some m.onastic severities on himself before 
 he was twenty years of age, and at one time had a violent 
 inclination to become a Franciscan ; but his filial piety made 
 him at last yield to the predilection of his father in favour of 
 the law. 
 
 Being naturally of a gay and volatile temper, it is probable 
 that the austerities he voluntarily submitted to were intended 
 to counteract the warmth of his passions. His friends, zealous 
 to promote his happiness and his credit, persuaded him to 
 marry. Accordingly, while on a visit to a gentleman who had 
 three daughters, he was captivated with the charms of tlie 
 second ; but when pressed to declare his choice, he named the 
 eldest, because he thought it would hurt her feelings to be 
 overlooked. With this lady he lived happily for about seven 
 years, and resumed his practice at the bar with great reputation 
 and success ; which latter circumstance in some measure 
 originated from the following incident : — 
 
 Scarcely had he completed his twenty-first year, when he 
 was returned to serve in parliament. In this great theatre he 
 soon had an opportunity of displaying his abilities and his 
 patriotism, by opposing a subsidy demanded by the king 
 (Henry the Seventh) with such force of argument and efi^'ect, 
 that it was actually rejected. One of the privy council, who 
 was present, immediately reported to the king, " that a beard- 
 less boy had frustrated all his schemes." Henry was deter- 
 mined to be revenged : but as the son had nothing to lose, and 
 had not exceeded the line of his duty, he visited his offence on 
 
SIR THOMAS MORE. 231 
 
 the guiltless father ; who, on some frivolous charge, was com- 
 mitted to the Tower, and fined a hundred pounds before he 
 could recover his liberty. This mean instance of vindictive 
 malice, which was intended to depress young Alore, only made 
 him an object of importance in the eyes of the nation ; and 
 his owni conduct was such, that his enemies neither found 
 means to ensnare him, nor had his friends reason to be 
 ashamed of their cordial patronage. 
 
 After his return to the bar, there was scarcely a cause of 
 importance in w^hich he was not solicited to be engaged ; and 
 as he never would defend a bad one, his credit rose the more 
 by the purity of the principle on which it was founded. His 
 first preferment, however, was that of being made judge of the 
 sheriffs court in London ; but having acquitted himself with, 
 distinguished reputation and abilities on various public occa- 
 sions, Wolsey was commissioned, by Henry the Eighth, to 
 engage his services. IMore, with that diffidence which is 
 peculiar to merit, and that love of independence which is 
 natural to the virtuous, declined the proffered honour ; but 
 being importunately urged, he thought it his duty to submit 
 to his sovereign's pleasure, and was appointed master of the 
 requests. A few weeks after, he was knighted, sworn one of 
 the privy council, and admitted to the greatest personal fami- 
 liarity with the king ; who was so much charmed with his 
 abilities, learning, wit, and convivial talents, that he not only 
 consulted him on affairs of state and questions of science, but 
 frequently invited him to be of his private parties, in order to 
 enjoy his rich flow of humour. 
 
 Sir Thomas was passionately attached to domestic endear- 
 ments ; and when he found that his facetious disposition was 
 one reason of his being called on to devote so much time to 
 court attendance, he began to assume a graver deportment, 
 and to dissemble his natural propensity for merriment. By 
 
 1.2 
 
232 SIR THOMAS MORE. 
 
 this innocent artifice he recovered a greater share of liberty^ 
 and was less frequently drawn from the home he loved. The 
 king, however, did not abate in his regard for his faithful 
 servant. On the death of the treasurer of the exchequer in 
 1520, Sir Thomas More was appointed, without solicitation,, 
 to that ofHce ; and three years afterwards he was chosen 
 speaker of the house of commons. In this last capacity he 
 evinced his usual intrepidity and patriotism, in frustrating a 
 motion for an oppressive subsidy, promoted by Cardinal 
 Wolsey. 
 
 Soon after he was appointed treasurer of the exchequer, he 
 settled at Chelsea ; and having lost his first wife, married a 
 second, named Middleton ; who, according to Erasmus, v/as 
 a widow, old, ill-tempered, and avaricious; yet was beloved 
 with youthful fondness by her husband. 
 
 His next promotion was to the chancellorship of the duchy 
 of Lancaster. Notwithstanding the known independence of 
 his mind, he was in such high favour at court, that the king 
 frequently visited him at Chelsea in the most unceremonious, 
 manner. After walking with him one day in the garden for 
 nearly an hour,, with his arm familiarly thrown round Sir 
 Thomas's neck, one of his sons-in-law, who saw the intimacy 
 with which he was treated, was remarking on the felicity of 
 being so distinguished by his sovereign. Sir Thomas, who 
 was no stranger to the natural baseness of Henry's heart, thus 
 expressed himself: " I thank the Lord, I find his Grace to be 
 a very good master indeed, and believe he is as partial to me 
 as to any subject within his realm : but yet I have no cause 
 to presume on his favour ; for if my head could win him but 
 a castle in France, it would not long remain on my shoulders." 
 
 Having discharged two embassies on the Continent much ta 
 the satisfaction of the king, who always treated him with more 
 tenderness and good humour than any of his other favourites,. 
 
SIR THOMAS MORE. ^33 
 
 Dii the disgrace of Wolsey, in lo29, he was entrusted with the 
 great seal, as a reward for his eminent services. 
 
 It is generally helieved that the king had previously sounded 
 Sir Thomas on the subject of his meditated divorce from 
 Queen Catherine ; but that finding him averse to lend the 
 sanction of his respectable name to such a proceeding, he 
 thought to insure his compliance by loading him with honours. 
 In regard to mankind in general, Henry's judgment in this 
 case was politically right ; but Sir Thomas More was not so 
 flexible as to bend for interest, or sacrifice his conscience for 
 gratitude. 
 
 He saw the danger and delicacy of his situation from the 
 first ; but having entered on this high office, he would not 
 shrink from the duties annexed to it. The meanest claimant 
 found ready access to the new chancellor ; no private affection 
 could bias his judgment, or influence his decrees ; no oppor- 
 tunity was given for intrigue or interested solicitation : and 
 after he had presided in the Court of Chancery for two years, 
 such was his application to business, that one day calling for 
 the next cause, he was told there was not another then de- 
 pending — a circumstance which he immediately ordered to be 
 set down on record, and it will certainly be allowed to be 
 unexampled. 
 
 Sir Thomas, though no friend to the papal usurpations in 
 England, was far from wishing for a total rupture with the 
 holy see ; and foreseeing that the measures which Henry was 
 pursuing must inevitably involve him with one or the other, 
 he anxiously pressed to have his resignation of the seals 
 accepted ; which at last was granted, though not without great 
 reluctance on the part of Henry, and the warmest professions 
 of a permanent regard. Thus, after he had filled this high 
 ■office almost three years, with exemplary application, true 
 magnanimity, and unsullied integrity, he resigned his dignity, 
 
234 SIR THOMAS MORE. 
 
 and retired to Chelsea : so little richer from the important 
 stations he had held for nearly twenty years, that his whole 
 annual income did not exceed a hundred pounds ; and after 
 the payment of his debts, it appears that he had not altogether 
 above that sum in money, exclusive of his gold chain of office 
 and a few rings. Such disinterestedness in a courtier is but 
 seldom imitated, and deserves to be remembered. 
 
 The day after his resignation, he attended his wife and- 
 family to the church ; and when service was finished, instead 
 of going out first as had been usual, he went to the door of his 
 lady's pew (as it was usual for his servant to do before), and 
 with a low bow said, " Madam, my lord is gone." This was 
 the first intimation he gave her that he was no longer chan- 
 cellor. She at first thought him in jest ; but when she found 
 it otherwise, she broke out into reproaches and lamentations 
 at his want of attention to his interest. Sir Thomas, however, 
 turned the conversation to another subject, and seemed not to 
 heed this storm. 
 
 His whole study now was to lessen his establishment in 
 proportion to his diminished resources, and to provide for his 
 family and dependents in such a manner as might show that 
 he was more solicitous about them than himself. He gave 
 himself up wholly to domestic privacy and retirement ; and 
 having'e very thing to fear from the inconstant and cruel temper 
 of the king, to whom he had been a devoted servant, but could 
 not be a slave, he prepared his mind by study and reflection 
 to meet with fortitude the worst that could befal him. 
 
 Though now reduced to a private station, and even to indi- 
 gence, so high was his reputation, and such credit was attached 
 to his legal opinions, that repeated attempts were made to 
 obtain his approbation of the king's marriage with Anne 
 Boleyn. When every contrivance, however, that policy could 
 devise or power command, proved ineffectual to warp his prin- 
 
SIR THOMAS MORE. 235 
 
 ciples, and bring him over to measures which he condemned, 
 the king, being highly exasperated, was determined to make 
 him feel his utmost vengeance ; and accordingly he was at- 
 tainted, with several others, of misprision of treason, for 
 encouraging Elizabeth Barton, commonly called the Maid of 
 Kent, in her traitorous designs ; yet at last, it appeared upon 
 record, that he had pronounced her the most false, dissembling 
 hypocrite he had ever known ; and his name was obliged to be 
 struck out of the bill. But malice entrenched behind powet 
 is not easily baffled : other imputations, equally groundless, 
 were brought against him in quick succession ; from all of 
 which his innocence protected him, and enabled him to stand 
 the severest scrutiny. 
 
 At last, however, his enemies prevailed ; for on his refusing 
 to take the oath enjoined by the Act of Supremacy, he was 
 committed to the Tower; where having lain fifteen months, he 
 was brought to trial on a charge of high treason in denying 
 that the king was the supreme head of the church. The same 
 equanimity and cheerfulness which he had evinced through 
 life, attended him in this awful scene. The only evidence 
 against him was Rich, the solicitor-general, whose credit he 
 invalidated in the most striking manner ; but as it was prede- 
 termined that he should either recant or be sacrificed, he reso- 
 lutely maintained his principles, and the fatal sentence was 
 passed upon him to suffer as a traitor. 
 
 In the interval between his condemnation and execution 
 (which latter the king softened to simple beheading), he em- 
 ployed his time in taking leave of his daughters, and preparing 
 himself for eternity. His humour and wit, however, were 
 displayed to the last : even on the scaffold his serenity of 
 mind shone in its fullest lustre ; and he seemed more like a 
 man undressing to go to bed, than like one on the brink of the 
 grave. At one blow his head was severed from his body. 
 
^S6 SIR TPIOMAS MORE. 
 
 The latter was deposited in tlie chancel of the church of Chel- 
 sea, where a monument was erected to his memory : his head, 
 after being fourteen days exposed on London-bridge, was 
 obtained by his daughter, and placed in a vault belonging to 
 the Roper family, in St. Dunstan's church at Canterbury. 
 
 It lias been observed of this illustrious character, that the 
 ignorant and the proud, however exalted, were those whom he 
 respected the least ; but he was the patron of every man of 
 science and merit, and kept up a correspondence with all the 
 learned in Europe. As a judge, he was most upright ; as a 
 man, truly amiable, facetious and pleasing ; but on the subject 
 of religion he was weak and credulous in a high degree. 
 Tinctured with superstition, and attached to the Romish 
 church with inflexible adherence, he suffered his good sense to 
 be obscured by the glosses of error and the sophisms of theolo- 
 gists, and fell a martyr perhaps to bigotry rather than to sound 
 reason. Yet none can help respecting the errors which arise 
 from principle : 
 
 *' For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight; 
 His can't be wrong whose life is in the right." 
 
 Except by his Utopia, Sir Thomas More is now little 
 known as an author: his polemic works have been carried 
 down the stream of oblivion ; for the best productions of this 
 nature are not likely to earn the wreath of immortality. 
 
LA VALLIERE. 
 
 Theue is no one so good as to be all virtue, nor any one so 
 bad as to be all vice. The admixture of good and evil is 
 pretty equal in the breast of every individual ; for -where the 
 excellence is the greatest, there will generally be found one 
 dark defonning spot which mars it all ; or, in vice the most 
 vicious, one trait of goodness will generally be found — a star 
 in the otherwise darkened hemisphere — and seeming more 
 lustrous from the deep gloom around. 
 
 J3ut, though often happening, it is a very sad thing to 
 witness all that is excellent and lovely deformed by one 
 vicious principle — one vicious habit. 
 
 Such w^as LaValliere; kind-hearted, generous, affectionate, 
 charitable — possessing many virtues, and these too of the 
 highest order, yet one stain rests upon her character — one 
 fault sullies her reputation ; for by listening to tales to which 
 she ought to have turned a deaf ear, she fell into the power of 
 the seducer — she became entangled in the w^eb of vicious 
 pleasure, and, with that pleasure, reaped the fruits which too 
 surely follow — misery and wretchedness, wuth an upbraiding 
 conscience. 
 
 At the early age of seventeen, she first appeared at the 
 court of the handsome, accomplished, and talented, but liber- 
 tine Louis XIV., as maid of honour to Henrietta, the sister 
 of Charles II. of England. She was then very pretty, very 
 gentle, very innocent. It had been well for her if the first 
 
 l5 
 
S38 LA VALLIERE. 
 
 could have been sacrificed to keep the last. As it was, how- 
 ever, her beauty was her ruin. Her hair was soft and flaxen, 
 her eyes blue and full of expressive sweetness, and her com- 
 plexion extremely beautiful. Smitten by her charms, the 
 young king became her lover ; and at length, by his pro- 
 testations of regard, persuaded her to become his mistress. 
 It was crime in her to listen ; having done so, it was sure her 
 fall would follow. But if she fell, it was by and through the 
 power of love. It was not because a king was her suitor, 
 it was not because dazzled by the splendour which then 
 would be around her, that she fell — she bartered not her 
 virtue for gold or rank ; but it was because she loved ardently 
 and truly, that she sank. If that be any extenuation of her 
 fault, her love was ardent, sincere, and real. But the con- 
 sciousness of guilt poisoned her happiness — remorse began to 
 produce trouble and anguish — and, after a short period of 
 guilty indulgence, she quitted the court and her royal lover, 
 and took refuge in the convent of Chaillot. 
 
 But though her repentance was sincere, and though her 
 flight from the scene of her guilty pleasures was the fruit of 
 that repentance, it was in vain, for the love of Louis towards 
 her was at that time at its height This passion was pro- 
 bably yet more increased when the object was removed ; 
 and, notwithstanding all entreaties, he set off on horseback 
 to the convent where the unhappy La Valliere had sought an 
 
 ylum, and, partly by entreaties and partly by force, induced 
 her to return. 
 
 He found her in the outer parlour of the convent (for the 
 nuns had refused to receive her within the gate). She was 
 lying upon the ground, weeping bitterly. For a while she 
 resisted all his entreaties ; and, when at length overcome, and 
 induced by Louis to return to the degrading life to which he 
 had condemned her, she left the convent with tears of genuine 
 
LA VALLIERE. 239 
 
 sorrow flowing down Iier cheeks ; and, as if foreboding the 
 melancholy fate which was destined to await her, exclaimed 
 to the nun who opened the door through which tlie king 
 passed with her, *' Ah ! sister, you will see me again before 
 long !" 
 
 For a little while prosperity shone upon her — if that could 
 be called prosperity which was but show and glitter, concealing 
 a heart ill at ease. The lordship of Vaujour was erected into 
 a duchy by Louis, and conferred upon her, so that she now 
 bore the rank of Duchess de la Valliere. 
 
 But this brought only fresh miseries to the unhappy La 
 Valliere. To please him v.ho had been her ruin was the sole 
 object of her life, and, accordingly, at the king's request, she 
 acted a part contrary to her very nature ; and the modest, ten- 
 der, devoted La Valliere appeared at court in full splendour, 
 and seemed, though she could not forget, to hide her fault, 
 under almost regal magnificence. 
 
 This gleam of happiness, however, was but transient. Louis 
 had not a heart capable of estimating the quiet devotedness of 
 La Valliere's attachment, and his affections were soon centred 
 upon another object. 
 
 Finding that a rival had risen up against her, and that she 
 had no longer the affections of the king, who, notwithstanding 
 his cruelty to herself, she still regarded with all the ardour and 
 warmth of a first affection, she once more left the court and 
 retired to the convent of St. Marie de Chaillot. 
 
 But though indifferent to her when near him, Louis felt all 
 his former affection for her revive when she retired, and, ac- 
 cordingly, sent two messengers — the one to persuade ; the other, 
 in case persuasions were useless, to force back La Valliere. 
 
 La Valliere accordingly returned a second time to court, but 
 not to enjoy happiness. The affection of the king decreased 
 towards herself exactly as it increased towards her rival. 
 
S40 LA VALLIERE. 
 
 Whilst no longer beguiled by splendour, her heart had time to 
 think, and her conscience to upbraid. 
 
 She now again formed the project of retiring from court, 
 not by a sudden flight, but by a retreat previously announced 
 and prepared for. Mortification and disappointed love may 
 have added to her resolution of renouncing the v/orld ; but 
 there can be no doubt that her repentance was sincere, and 
 her desire to atone for her fault in earnest. 
 
 Contrary to the wishes of many of her friends, v/ho advised 
 her either to retire from the court with her mother, and to 
 have her children brought up under lier own guardianship, or 
 merely to enter a religious house without taking the veil, she 
 formed the resolution of binding herself by an irrevocable vow, 
 saying to one of her friends, '* When anything troubles me at 
 the Carmelites, I will call to mind what these people have made 
 me suffer here!" W^ords which conveyed the truest phi- 
 losophy, since there is no better way of teaching the heart to 
 be contented under some troubles, than by calling to remem- 
 brance the greater which have been undergone. 
 
 The king in this instance did not oppose her. His thoughts 
 were now probably so engrossed by another, as to make him 
 rather pleased than otherwise with the retirement of La Val- 
 liere. But in order to preserve some appearance of regard, he 
 desired her to choose an order where she might still be distin- 
 guished by the highest dignity of Abbess. 
 
 Her answer was very noble, displaying great and unaffected 
 humility. *' I have not," said she, " been able to regulate my 
 own conduct aright, and am, therefore, but little fitted to guide 
 others." Perhaps, however, the reverse would have been true, 
 and that she who so deeply deplored her own faults would 
 have been the best monitor to others, in teaching them to avoid 
 the errors into which she herself had fallen. She chose one of 
 the severest orders — that of the Carmelites ; thus proving that 
 
LA VALLIERE. 241 
 
 her sorrow was genuine, since she willingly chose that order 
 where penance was the most rigidly enjoined as an atonement 
 for crime. Previously however to quitting tlie court, and after 
 having received the adieus of those who had courted her in her 
 days of prosperity, she proceeded to take leare of the Queen 
 of that monarch whose mistress she herself had been^ 
 
 This must have been a painful task to the unhappy La Val- 
 liere. In consenting to be the mistress of the king, she had 
 been guilty of both injury and injustice towards the queen, 
 and Maria Theresa often wept bitterly over her husband's 
 desertion and infidelity. 
 
 But though La Valliere had thus injured her royal mistress, 
 inasmuch as she had usurped her place, she had done as much 
 as she could, considering the situation in which she v.'as placed, 
 to spare the feelings of the queen. And this consideration and 
 kindliness on the part of La Valliere was not undervalued by 
 the unfortunate ]SIaria Theresa, who from the slights she fre- 
 quently received, esteemed and appreciated this kind consi- 
 deration shown towards her. 
 
 The full sense of the injustice which had been inflicted 
 through her means, appeared to rise upon the mind of La 
 Valliere as she came to bid the queen farewell ; for though re- 
 ceived on that occasion by kindness and delicacy by Maria 
 Theresa, La Valliere could not suppress the reproaches of her 
 own heart. She cast herself at the feet of her mistress, and 
 with many tears she besought her to pardon all her faults, and 
 to forgive her for the injuries she had wrought. She then bade 
 her adieu for the last time, and retiring from the scenes of 
 pomp, splendour, love, and guilt, entered the convent of the 
 Rue St. Jaques, where, on the 4th of June, 1675, she took the 
 veil, assuming the name of Louise de la Miserericorde. 
 
 Li this state of seclusion and retirement she lived for thirty- 
 five years ; practising through that period every virtue, and 
 
242 LA VALLIERE. 
 
 endeavouring to expiate her faults by those mortifications and 
 seif-inflictions enjoined by that church to which she belonged. 
 
 Though such acts may justly be regarded as superstitious, 
 still they show real and genuine repentance ; for it must have 
 been, because they arose from sincere regret, and not because 
 the acts themselves were meritorious, that La Valliere sub- 
 mitted to penance and self-mortification. The sense of sorrow 
 seems to have been ever present in her mind ; for when in- 
 formed of her son's death, which happened in the year 1C83, 
 she wept bitterly, but at the same time observed to those 
 around her, " Alas ! alas ! I weep for his death, but I had far 
 greater reason to weep at his birth." 
 
 In passing sentence upon the character of La Valliere, there 
 is no verdict so good as that which acknowledging her guilt, 
 recommends to mercy ; for one fault, one early indiscretion, 
 is the only balance against many virtues. And if that one fault 
 be forgotten, surveyed under every other point of view, there 
 is something very noble and amiable in her character. 
 
 As the Duchess de la Valliere, she maintained the same kind 
 feelings v/hich had distinguished her in earlier and happier 
 days ; neither the splendour of rank, the pomp of pageantry, 
 nor the pride of power, made her ear deaf to the cry of com- 
 passion, or steeled her heart against every other feeling, ex- 
 cept the wish for ambition and self- aggrandisement ; and that 
 she should have retained those noble and generous sentiments 
 is the more remarkable, because her elevation was sudden and 
 began in guilt. But, even then, when having such complete 
 mastery over the mind of the king, that her will would have 
 been law, she still preserved the same gentleness of conduct, 
 the same mildness of manner, the same kindness of sentiment, 
 which had previously characterised her. 
 
 Her heart was formed for softness and love — tenderly alive 
 to kindness, it was this very feeling which led her to crime. 
 
LA VALLIERE. 24:3 
 
 And Avhen tiOuis beguiled her by false vows and pro- 
 mises which almost died with the uttering, he was literally 
 " seething the kid in its mother's milk," destroying the soul 
 by the heart's best affections. Under other circumstances, the 
 character of the Duchess de la Valliere would have been one 
 to be admired and imitated ; her devotedness of spirit, her ar- 
 dent love and deep-rooted affection, her gentleness of cha- 
 racter — had these qualities belonged to a wife in place of a 
 mistress, the owner of them must have been pronounced 
 admirable. 
 
 But when sensible of guilt, and after proving how bitter is 
 the pleasure which crime purchases, her character presents 
 points very much to be praised. 
 
 She never seems to have entertained feelings of revenge to- 
 wards those who had frustrated all her hopes ; which, had am- 
 bition been her leading star, would have been but the natural 
 result of a heart stung by ha"sang its hopes blasted. 
 
 But seeming to regard the anguish which she suffered as but 
 retributive justice — the just punishment of guilt, her thoughts 
 were to repair as much as possible the disquietude she had 
 caused another to suffer, and to seek by repentance a happi- 
 ness she had not found in pleasure — a happiness w^hich was 
 looked for in another and a better land. 
 
LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 What is Life ? — and what is Death ? 
 
 A heaving- thought — the parting breath — 
 
 A brilliant star while its glory shone, 
 
 The same bright star when its glory's gone ; 
 
 A radiant lamp while the light was shed, 
 
 The lamp the same v/ith its lustre dead. 
 
 Life is a dream ! — Then various things 
 Float through the brain on varied wings : 
 Now bright sunny thoughts come floating ])y, 
 On wings vrith which the angels fly ; 
 Then dark fearful things come streaming on, 
 On tlie wing of bone — the skeleton. 
 
 And Death ! — 'Tis that settling down to sleep- 
 A sleep so calm, so still, so deep, 
 That no thought of pleasure, no throb of pain. 
 Can bring back the sleeper to dream again 
 A sleep such as the Dead Sea's waters know, 
 Without change or motion, or ebb or flow. 
 
THE INTEND ANT'S PALACE. 
 
 After leaving the upper town of Quebec by the Palace-gate, 
 you descend a steep hill immediately under the walls of the 
 city, at the bottom of which is the tliickly-peopled district of 
 the St. Roche's suburbs ; instead of taking the road which 
 lies along the shores of the St. Charles, proceed by the higher 
 street, and after continuing this course some short distance, 
 your eye is attracted by an ancient gateway built in the 
 Gothic style : being totally different not only from all that 
 surrounds it, but from every other building in the city, you 
 naturally inquire into its origin. This is the gateway of the 
 ancient Palace of the French Government, behind which are 
 the remains of the other masses of the building, though they 
 are now converted into receptacles for old stores, fit emblems 
 of the place. Here, where once echoed the sounds of revelry 
 and the sweet music of the voice of the high-born beauties of 
 the court — where have tripped the fairy feet in the voluptuous 
 mazes of the waltz — where the votaries of pleasure have shaken 
 off their ennui, and for a time have found happiness, all is 
 ruin and decay. Thus passes the grandeur and pageantry of 
 the world. As the river hurries to the ocean the little par- 
 ticles of sand that compose its bed, so does the endless 
 stream of time sweep the puny works of man into the vast 
 space of eternity. From among the numerous tales attached 
 to this palace when the rule of the French was in its zenith, 
 before the victorious Wolfe burst upon their appalled senses 
 
2i6 THE intendant's palace. 
 
 like an Alpine avalanche, I shall cull this romantic legend of 
 woman's constancy ; and how truly has the bard sung in 
 depicting her boundless love ! — 
 
 " When first her gentle bosom knows 
 Love's flame, it wanders never; 
 Dee]) in her heart the passion glows — 
 She loves, and loves for ever." 
 
 One evening during the sultry month of July sat Marga- 
 ruite at the casement of her apartment, which overlooked the 
 river ; her head was resting on her hand, and her eyes raised 
 upwards, intensely gazing on the pale moon as her silvery 
 beams danced on the stream, throwing a magic, hallowed charm 
 around. The night was still, and the song of the sailor had 
 ceased from the numerous vessels that were reposing on the 
 bosom of the river ; the cool breeze came sighing over the 
 broad estuary of the St. Charles, breathing the sweet moun- 
 tain odours, and as it played in sportive wantonness with her 
 bright tresses and fanned her blushing cheeks, she sighed. 
 Margaruite was the only daughter of the French Governor, 
 who at that time held the reins of government. She had fol- 
 lowed her father from her own sunny France, before she had 
 sipped the venom from that Upas cup, which, on mixing with 
 the cold, heartless world, soon presents itself to our lips — which 
 withers up the true feelings of the heart, till you become the 
 mere automaton of the world. Here, then, she reigned pre- 
 eminent, truth's fairest daughter ; love for all beamed in her 
 eye ; her birds, her flowers, were alike the objects of her care ; 
 her tender bosom overflowed v/ith sympathy for the distressed 
 who crossed her path, and she wept that there should be aught 
 of misery in the world Avhere nature smiled so lovely. But 
 the tyrant Love had already reached her young and fluttering 
 heart. It was not strange, for with her father came an aide-de- 
 camp, young, handsome, and manly, in whose breast beat a 
 
THE INTENDANT's PALACE. 247 
 
 heart as faithful as her own ; these two were soon entangled 
 in the invisible meshes of the net Love cast around them, and 
 their hearts beat responsive to each other. To Florian (fcr 
 such was his name) fortune had been sparing of her favour?, 
 and except a scanty patrimony, he had nothing to offer Mar- 
 garuite save his heart ; but love is always blind, and they 
 shut their eyes to the utter hopelessness of their affectiouF. 
 Her father was a cold, proud man, with the seal of nobility on 
 his brow, whose scornful lip curled with a sarcastic smile when 
 he read love's artless tale. What to him were broken hearts, 
 provided he could still ennoble his family by affecting a splen- 
 did match for his daughter ? and he kept watch with an Argus 
 eye lest her affections should be ensnared by some beggar, for 
 so he termed all who were i>ot of equal fortune with himself. 
 His scrutiny soon penetrated the lover's secret ; at first he was 
 thunderstruck at the audacity of his officer, but he veiled his 
 passion with a patronising smile, sent for the young man, then 
 expatiated on the advantages to be gained by active service, 
 spoke of the friendship he had for him, his esteem for his 
 family, and finally told him that wishing he should rise in his 
 military profession, he had determined to despatch him to the 
 army, at that time in active hostility with the English in the 
 British settlements (now United States). This sudden an- 
 nouncement fell upon the lover's dreams like the blight on 
 spring's sw^eet blossoms. On the morrow Florian w^as to 
 depart, and this night they were to take a long farewell. She 
 sighed, then gently murmured, *'He wdll surely come, and not 
 leave me without one last adieu." 
 
 " No ! dearest Margaruite," said a low voice, and Florian 
 stood amidst the evergreens that grew in wild luxuriance be- 
 neath her window. 
 
 " Ah ! Florian, I knew you would not leave me without 
 one farewell, sad as it is." 
 
248 THE intendant's palace. 
 
 " Margaruite, to-morrow I leave you perhaps for ever, for 
 I go on dangerous service ; but say, before I go, you will not 
 forget your Florian. In the hurry of the battle, the thought of 
 thee will nerve my arm." 
 
 '* Oh! Florian, how little dost thou know thy Margaruite's 
 heart ! she loves but thee, and none other shall usurp the 
 place you hold there ; but take this ring," at the same time 
 removing one with a large ruby set in a golden band from her 
 taper finger, and lowering it down to him ; '* wear it for my 
 sake — perhaps it may serve to recal the thought of one whose 
 every hope of happiness is centred in you ; and as you sit by 
 the watch-fire in the lonely hours of the night, think, as you 
 gaze upon it, that the giver's heart will be ever fixed on thee. 
 Look up also to the bright moon, and as you scan the beau- 
 teous orb remember that she you love is gazing on it also, and 
 thinking of thee." 
 
 *' My own dear Margaruite, how shall I thank you for your 
 kindness ! — but my future life shall be devoted to you by way 
 of recompense : and now, dearest, farewell !" 
 
 *' Farewell, dear, dear Florian." He rushed among the 
 shrubs, lest his overcharged feelings should give vent. When 
 next they met, the lips of one were cold, and re-echoed not the 
 joy of meeting — their last farewell was taken. Scarcely had 
 the morning lit up the beacon of day, when the roll of drums, 
 mixed with the clangour of the trumpets, called the party to 
 hasten on their route, and soon the hurried tram^) of men, 
 mingled with the rattle of the chargers' hoofs, was heard ring- 
 ing in the almost silent streets. 
 
 Florian started from his sleepless couch, hurried on his 
 clothes, and in a few moments was at the head of the jDarty. 
 Again the trumpet sounded, and the detachment was in mo- 
 tion. As they passed beneath the window where his Marga- 
 ruite slept, he looked up — a fair hand was v/aved for a moment, 
 
THE INTENDANT's PALACE. 249 
 
 and the casement %vas again vacant. The martial train swept 
 on, the sounds died in the distance, the windows of the won- 
 dering citizens were again closed, and ere the busy town was 
 roused from their slumbers, the streets were silent as before. 
 
 Poor Margaruite's days dragged on heavily ; the things she 
 had hitherto delighted in had lost their attraction, and her 
 buoyant spirits gradually assumed a sadder hue. Her father,. 
 however, pretended not to be aware of the cause, but procured 
 everything that he considered would dispel the gloom that 
 hung around her, and entertainments were frequent at the 
 palace ; but the star that once shone so brightly there had 
 lost its splendour, she roamed amidst the glittering and happy 
 throng a heartless, solitary being. Florian, however, com- 
 menced, and for some time continued in that splendid career 
 that caused him to be soon promoted. The talisman was on 
 his finger, and in the hour of danger (as he said) it nerved his 
 arm, and the thought of Margaruite caused him to exert him- 
 self, that she might hear her heart was not bestowed on a 
 worthless object. But at length, in a desperate skirmish in 
 which Florian fought nobly, he fell shot through the heart, 
 and died amidst a heap of slain. For a time the French were 
 driven back, and the English, weary of pursuing them, retired 
 also upon their own position, leaving the dead to moulder on 
 the battle-field, for in the skirmishes in the wilderness there 
 was no time to attend to the ceremony of sepulture. 
 
 There was a grand entertainment at the palace the night the 
 news of this check arrived, and as the officer who brought it 
 entered these saloons of pleasure, Margaruite's voice was war- 
 bling forth some sweet native melody. For a moment he 
 remained in one fixed posture of attention, so entranced was 
 he at its sweetness : besides, too, the thoughts of his native 
 land came over him, and as her tones melted into silence, he 
 sighed — then, suddenly recollecting himself, sought out the 
 
250 THE intendant's palace. 
 
 Governor, and delivered to him the despatches. " Ha!" he 
 he exclaimed, as he hastily glanced his eyes over them, " this 
 looks serious ; these English have given us a severe check ; 
 what officers have we lost? " After several had been named, 
 he mentioned Florian, and added, " The service has lost in 
 him one who promised to rank among its brightest orna- 
 ments." 
 
 " Hah," the Governor muttered to himself; *' so then my 
 hopes are soon accomplished, his dream of love is quickly 
 ended." 
 
 The news was so©n whispered round the apartments, and 
 the death of the handsome aide-de-camp was much regretted, 
 for but a short time had passed since he too had mingled in 
 their festivities, and now he lay bleaching under heaven's 
 canopy, without a grave. Poor Margaruite stood listening to 
 the tale in breathless anxiety ; but when her thoughtless in- 
 formant mentioned Florian's death, she grasped him tightly by 
 the arm for support : he gazed upon her in absolute astonish- 
 ment and alarm, for the blood had suddenly left her cheeks, 
 she was falling to the ground. She was carried insensible 
 from the room. 
 
 This event marred the festivity of the evening, and each 
 attributed the cause of her sudden indisposition to anything 
 but the real state of the case. The officer who had told her 
 the tale quickly guessed at it, but he kept his surmises locked 
 in his own breast. When she had recovered, no tear dimmed 
 her eyes ; she dismissed her attendants, assured them it was 
 merely the heat of the apartment, and as she now felt herself 
 so much better, she no longer needed their assistance. Morn- 
 ing came, and her father entered her apartment to inquire how 
 she was, but, to his utter astonishment, she had vanished. 
 He instantly made every inquiry : the only clue obtained was 
 from the sentinel at the palace gates, who stated that not long 
 
THE INTENDANT's PALACE. 251 
 
 after the last of the stragglers from the party had departed, a 
 lady muffled closely in a mantle had gone hastily out at the 
 gate, but he took no further notice of the occurrence. 
 
 She had procured a conveyance and departed in search of her 
 lover's body. When she reached the deserted field, she searched 
 among the horrid spectacles that presented themselves to her 
 distracted gaze — she hurried on, not terrified by the hoarse 
 scream of the vulture as he flapped his wing over his lifeless 
 and mangled prey, or the sullen howl of the gorged wolf as he 
 lazily looked on the intruder, who thus disturbed his disgust- 
 ing repast ; at length she found her Florian amongst a heap 
 of slain, and her own ruby ring marked out the object of her 
 search. She had hitherto nerved herself with a species of 
 supernatural strength ; but now that its object was accom- 
 plished, it suddenly deserted her, and with a wild scream she 
 sank upon the body. There she was discovered by some sol- 
 diers who had stolen away, in hopes of plunder, from the ad- 
 vanced outposts of the French, who were once more extending 
 their lines in advance. They raised her up and carried her to 
 the commandant's tent, when, to his utter astonishment, and 
 hardly then daring to credit his own senses, he perceived it 
 was Margaruite. She awoke once more to life, but not to 
 reason, and was removed to Quebec with the greatest care : 
 here she lived on, but never smiled — her eyes were fixed, 
 sometimes she sighed heavily, and then she would call on her 
 Florian, beckon as if she saw him, and chide him that he came 
 not sooner, and then appear disappointed, as if he had disap- 
 peared suddenly ; but at times a gleam of reason would break 
 upon her senses — she would seem aware of his death, and 
 accuse her father as the author of his fate. But this could not 
 last long — she died at length, love's fairest sacrifice ! 
 
ZE L L A. 
 
 Still — still, you roll on, dark-blue waves of the ocean^ 
 
 And little you heed my despair; 
 No feeling hast thou for their kindling emotion, 
 
 Who give themselves up to thy care. 
 
 Back, hack! roll, ye waves, and return to his Zella 
 Her lover, v%^ho lingers too long from her arms; 
 
 Oh ! near the white sail of his bark, which shall tell her, 
 Her Juan is coming, her bosom to calm I 
 
 He comes not — he comes not, the waves still increasing 
 As the shadows of ev'ning fast thicken around; 
 
 The landscape from view is now dimly receding — 
 Ah ! would in its shadow my Juan were found!" 
 
 What is borne by the waves — what is toss'd by the waters. 
 As, rising and falling, they still — still, rush on? 
 
 She sees it — she shrieks, for, alas! Greece's daughter 
 In that form sees her husband — all hope now is gone ! 
 
 Tliat look ! that last look! which she cast on the ocean — 
 In death, it has shrouded her senses and sight. 
 
 Whilst the body still moves on the waves, without motion, 
 The wife and the husband for ever unite. 
 
MARIE LABONNE. 
 
 Nearly a century has passed away, since a French squadron 
 under the command of ^I. De la Bourdonnais arrived in the 
 Roads of Pondicherry. At this period the town was governed 
 by M. Dupleix, then governor of all the French territories in 
 the East, who, when he heard of the arrival of the squadron, 
 began to fear that the well-known worth and genius of the 
 naval commander might obscure the fame he himself had won 
 for the French in Asia ; an overwhelming jealousy now seized 
 the mind of the governor, when he considered to what opu- 
 lence and honour the command of this armament might soon 
 raise M. De la Bourdonnais. As the English squadron was 
 then known to be cruising on the coast of Coromandel, M. 
 De la Bourdonnais set out in quest of it on the 24th of July, 
 1 746, but not succeeding in his search, and imagining the 
 coast clear, he immediately returned to Pondicherry, deter- 
 mined to besiege Madras. When all was prepared for this 
 important undertaking, the command of the expedition was 
 intrusted by M. De la Bourdonnais to M. Labonne, the next 
 in command, the admiral himself being compelled from severe 
 illness to remain at Pondicherry. This M. Labonne pos- 
 sessed an only daughter, whose name was Marie ; she had 
 lost her mother at an early age, and she now accompanied her 
 father wherever he went, — even while he was in active 
 service. 
 
 " You shall not go with him, my dear," said M. De la 
 
 H 
 
254 MARIE LABONNE. 
 
 Bourdonnais to Marie one day, previous to the sailing of the 
 French squadron ; " you must not encounter those dangers 
 to which you will be exposed, — stay with me, and keep me 
 company during the absence of your father." 
 
 " But, sir," replied Marie, " if anything should happen to 
 him, who will he have to comfort him, and to watch over 
 him?" 
 
 " But just consider, my dear, what a state you were in 
 during our last engagement with that English fellov/ Peyton ; 
 surely woman was not formed by nature to meet these uncer- 
 tain dangers ; you shall remain here with me for some time, 
 until I am able to join my squadron, we shall then go together 
 and greet Labonne on his successful attack." 
 
 " Well, sir, it cannot be helped, you know best," replied 
 Marie, as she reluctantly complied to remain with the good 
 old French admiral, who called himself her guardian, and for 
 whom she possessed a sincere regard. 
 
 When the squadron had left the Roads of Pondicherry, the 
 illness of M. De la Bourdonnais increased, when of course the 
 attention of Marie to his wants was highly necessary as well 
 as gratifying to him : she read to him during his illness, and 
 it must have been a pleasing sight to have observed this gallant 
 sailor, who had suffered and done much for his country, lis- 
 tening with pleasure to the recital of the glories of France by 
 this warm-hearted and beautiful girl. She had been absent 
 nearly two years from her native land, and had come out with 
 Labonne, who commanded a ship sent by the French Govern- 
 ment to augment the force of M. De la Bourdonnais. All 
 her father could do would not persuade her to remain at home 
 with her relations. 
 
 In person Marie was Vvhat the world would call " a hand- 
 some girl," she had a good figure, and a face which had once 
 been very beautiful, but having braved for some time the 
 
MARIE LABONNE. 255 
 
 rough storms and tempests of the deep, her visage now as- 
 sumed a more masculine appearance ; in mind she was a 
 picture of "womanly goodness ; " she was likewise a daughter 
 of science, and much attached to books. 
 
 At this eventful period, a war was being carried on between 
 England and France, and in India the power of the latter 
 was rising to an astonishing height. The ambitious mind of 
 M. Dupleix was planning schemes for the annihilation of 
 English power and the supremacy of the French in Asia, 
 looking around him with a skilful eye, ready to take advan- 
 tage of any outbreak that might arise, like a regiment of 
 cavalry when they have been once repulsed, ready to charge 
 again in some part of the gallant square, which may have 
 wavered on the first attack. M. Dupleix was then anxious 
 to place a relation of the much-loved family of Sadatulla 
 Khan in the Nabobship of the Carnatic, in the place of Anwar- 
 o-dean, the reigning nabob, who was detested by his subjects, 
 in which business he afterwards almost succeeded in the person 
 of Chundasaheb, whom, says the historian, if he had been 
 assisted by his countrymen, he would have established on the 
 throne of the Carnatic, and which for that period would have 
 been the destruction of British power in the East. 
 
 The squadron had been gone about three days when M. De 
 la Bourdonnais was parading the balcony of his house muffled 
 up, just having risen from his bed of sickness, supported by 
 the arm of Marie. At this time a servant appeared and stated 
 she was wanted below ; she now thoughtlessly left her guar- 
 dian and proceeded down stairs, thinking she was merely re- 
 quired for some domestic arrangements — in a few seconds she 
 was in the same room with M. Dupleix. Often, when Marie 
 was quite a child, had this stern governor rocked her in his 
 arms, — in fact, he considered her one of his young favourites. 
 What a change a few years had created on the young and the 
 
 M 2 
 
256 MARIE LABONNE. 
 
 inexperienced ! She was quite different now from that time when 
 he had seen her blooming like a young flower in her native 
 land, and he too was much changed ; his care-worn features, 
 wrinkled brow, and fiery eye impressed Marie no more with 
 tie idea of the handsome gentleman, as she used to call him 
 in France. What havoc does ambition create in a man's 
 appearance ! none of that placid tenor of countenance which 
 we find in the contented man ; there is frequently something 
 unearthly in the visage of the ambitious man, as if, according 
 to Pope, " men would be angels»" 
 
 " How is the Admiral, my dear ? " inquired Dupleix of 
 Marie ; " is he any better ?" 
 
 "Much better, sir," she replied; **we are to join the 
 squadron as soon as my father sends a report of the action." 
 
 *' You ought to persuade the Admiral to leave the entire 
 command of the squadron to Labonne ; he ought to return to 
 France, his constitution is impaired, he is not well, he has 
 seen a deal of service in his day, he is a clever fellow — a very 
 clever fellow, Bourdonnais." 
 
 " But, sir, he wishes to live as long as possible in the 
 active service of his country ; he said while I was reading to 
 him the other day about some victories France had won, 
 * Until death stares me in the face, I shall not leave the ser- 
 vice of my country.' " 
 
 " But he ought to go home, my love," said Dupleix, " and 
 take you with him; you are not enjoying yourself in this place 
 like the gay young ladies in France." 
 
 ** I shall proceed to dear France when the war is over, I 
 hope, sir," replied Marie. 
 
 ** The war will last several years yet, my dear. What would 
 you say to see all India the property of France, and I a great 
 emperor — courtiers and elephants and riches innumerable, the 
 lives of millions in my hands, totally eclipsing Solyman the 
 
MARIE LABONNE. 257 
 
 Magnificent ? Now I have a scheme in view — I know you can 
 keep a secret — it will make your father as rich as Crcesus ; 
 you will be the reigning belle in Paris then, and some hand- 
 some young marquis shall be your husband." 
 
 " Pray make haste and tell me, sir — I do not understand 
 all this intended kindness." 
 
 " Is M. De la Bourdonnais much better, Marie ? You have 
 great influence over hira ; now try and persuade him to return 
 home, as if for his own safety, and your father then shall have 
 the independent command of the squadron — I shall obtain 
 promotion for him." 
 
 *' I\I. Dupleix," replied Marie, " I now understand you — 
 I always thought highly of you until now. Do you think all 
 this dazzling trumpery you have presented before me would 
 cause me to assist you in your dishonest endeavours ? Though 
 you could raise my father to the sovereignty of France itself, 
 I would not think of aiding you in such vile treachery." 
 
 At the conclusion of this sentence, which was said with 
 great vehemence and indignation, Marie left the chamber, and 
 again joined her old guardian. M. Dupleix was as if thunder- 
 struck at the conduct of Marie ; he could not have supposed 
 the mild, gentle, timid little girl he had played with in France, 
 could have shown such a masculine]^spirit. In a sullen man- 
 ner, he retired and wended his way in deep cogitation slowly 
 to Government House. 
 
 " My dear girl, you have been long absent," said M. de la 
 Bourdonnais to Marie, when she joined him. *' Been talking 
 to some of the young gallants, eh ? I know who is called the 
 Fair Maid of Pondicherry now." 
 
 The good old Admiral smiled as he made this good-natured 
 remark, *' Now what have you been about 1 come, out with 
 it, my dear, I see you are enraged at something." 
 
 " I am, sir, at M. Dupleix; it is to him I have been talk- 
 
258 MARIE LABONNE. 
 
 ing ; I scarcely kncAv how to begin to tell you what he has 
 been saying to me," said Marie. 
 
 ** M. Dupleix ! what can he have to communicate to you ? 
 I must know all about that, my dear girl," replied M. De la 
 Bourdonnais. 
 
 " Well, sir, he inquired after you," said she ; *' I told him 
 you were much better, and that it was probable we should 
 join the fleet very soon, at which news he seemed so angry." 
 
 *' I see through it now, but go on, my sweet girl," said M. 
 De la Bourdonnais, while a storm was evidently gathering in 
 his countenance. 
 
 ** Well, sir, he said he had laid schemes for the conquest of 
 India by the French, that he expected to make my father as 
 wealthy as Croesus, and that I should live a rich lady in 
 Paris. All this he told me, sir, to induce you to deliver your 
 command to my father, and return home for the improvement 
 of your health — to cause you to do which, he thought I had 
 sufficient influence over you." 
 
 "Improve my health?" said the old sailor, his face glowing 
 with passion : " that Dupleix, with his cursed ambition, may 
 be No. 1 in this business. Never ! never ! — the treacherous 
 Dupleix to dare attempt to make you be dishonest to your 
 old guardian ! Oh, Marie, Marie ! you see what ambition does, 
 v/hat it makes men stoop to, and in a man of such great talents 
 who would have believed it? I would have gloried in taking 
 you back to France ; when I was suddenly attacked this morn- 
 ing with these cursed pains, I thought then I had better for the 
 sake of my health ; for you know health is the greatest of 
 blessings, Marie ! I thought then of returning home to spend 
 the remainder of my life amid the scenes of my childhood ; but 
 now what you have told me has almost made me well again : 
 I feel invigorated — I am determined !" 
 
 Having made this strange speech, during which the hue of 
 
MARIE LABONNE. 259 
 
 illness was usurped by the glow of rage, lie suddenly left 
 lier. She did not follow him, but sat down and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 Marie feared that this excitement would again bring on his 
 illness, and, he not appearing as soon as she expected, went in 
 search of him ; but she was informed by one of the domestics 
 that he had just left the house in full uniform. 
 
 *' He has perhaps gone to Government House," said Marie 
 to herself. " I am afraid he will suffer for his rashness ; it will 
 be no harm to go and learn if he is there." With these words, 
 she quickly slipped on her shawl and bonnet, and, preceded by 
 a native servant with a lantern, she set off for Government 
 House. But her search was ineffectual — no one she asked 
 could give her any information of where he was. She returned 
 home very sad, when she found a note upon the table in the 
 drawing-room, evidently written by M. De la Bourdonnais. 
 It ran as follows : — 
 
 "My dear Girl, 
 " I am compelled to quit you for the present. When I left j-ou so 
 suddenly, in a minute after I received a letter from your father; 
 he is quite well, and sends his kindest love. 
 
 *' The English squadron is thought to be near Madras, and this is 
 a time of the greatest moment to France ; Madras must be besieged, 
 and -vvithout me the effort would be ineffectual. The i)erson who has 
 volunteered to convey this letter to you, when I told liim to whom i* 
 was addressed, seemed as if he knew the name. I shall return in a 
 few days, and, I hope, with your father. I enclose you a draft which 
 you can use when necessary. Take care of the house. God bless 
 you, my dear girl ! 
 
 " Yours very sincerely, 
 
 " De la Bourdonnais." 
 
 " He is gone, then," she said with a sigh, after perusing this 
 eccentric epistle ; " but he is not strong enough yet for service. 
 I must live alone in misery until he comes back with my 
 
260 MARIE LABONNE. 
 
 father. Those two are all I have left me to care about in the 
 world now." 
 
 This last sentence she said v/ith a deep sigh. A servant 
 now entered, and said there was a young gentleman down 
 stairs who wished to see her, at the same time presenting his 
 card to Marie. When she read the name she startled ; 
 " Sardis ! Sardis ! T know that name ; can that be the same 
 I knew in France ?" 
 
 She ordered the servant to show him up stairs, meanwhile 
 she retired to her dressing-room previous to the meeting : she 
 was strongly inclined to think it must be the same Sardis she 
 had known and loved in France. In a few minutes she re- 
 turned, and, according to her expectation, beheld the very 
 Sardis with whom she had been forbidden to communicate, on 
 account of some dispute Labonne had had with the father of 
 her lover. She instantly recognised him. 
 
 " What, is that you?" she said; "Sardis in a foreign 
 clime?" 
 
 " It is, dear Marie," he replied ; " I brought the letter to 
 you, which I hope you have received from M. De la Bourdon- 
 nais ; I happened to be standing at the boat as he was about 
 to push off to the ship, and when I heard him mention he 
 wished some one to take a letter to you, your name brought 
 back recollections of other days, and I volunteered to take it. 
 I little thought I ever should be intrusted with such a pleasant 
 errand.'' 
 
 They both were much delighted at seeing one another again, 
 and though she knew her father would be disj)leased if he was 
 told she had spoken with Sardis, still, since he had brought 
 her the letter from M. De la Bourdonnais, she could not refuse 
 his request of being allowed to pass the evening with her. 
 He related to her how he had come to Pondicherry in the 
 capacity of clerk in a merchant's house ; they talked con- 
 
MARIE LABONNE, S61 
 
 cerning those days of courtship, those happy days of youth, 
 when love burns with the brightest flame, when young hearts 
 untainted with adversity view the sunny sides only of the 
 dark roads in life's dreary voyage, when youth gives evidence 
 whether or not it shall be an ornament to society. 
 
 They passed a very pleasant evening ; Sardis took an affec- 
 tionate adieu of Marie, and happy with having seen again the 
 object of his first love, he returned joyfully home. 
 
 Some days had now elapsed without Marie hearing any- 
 thing either from or concerning M. De la Bourdonnais and her 
 father ; the inhabitants of Pondicherry daily expected news of 
 the siege of Madras, now that the gallant commander had 
 joined the squadron. When the Admiral joined the fleet, 
 which he did on the 3d of September, 1746, he found all in 
 good order, as he anticipated from the command of such a 
 skilful seaman as Labonne. The English inhabitants of 
 Madras, at this time, were in the greatest anxiety for the 
 arrival of the English fleet to protect them in case of a bom- 
 bardment from the French. 
 
 On the 7th IM. De la Bourdonnais commenced to bombard 
 31adras, and insisted that the town should be delivered up to 
 him on his own terms, or he should make a general assault ; 
 the English soon consented to the demands of this formidable 
 Frenchman, and on the 10th of September they surrendered 
 themselves as prisoners of war to the French ; they delivered 
 up Madras, but on conditions that it was afterwards to be 
 ransomed. This assumption of power on the part of M. De 
 la Bourdonnais was extremely mortifying to Dupleix, who 
 held, that though the admiral was ordered by the French 
 government to make the best use of his squadron he could for 
 the glory of the French arms, still that he had not the power 
 to make treaties without the consent of himself and the coun- 
 cil at Pondicherry. 
 
 m5 
 
262 MARIE LABONNE. 
 
 While these sad events were threatening the British posses- 
 sions in the East, Providence came to the assistance of Bri- 
 tannia ; soon after the attack on Madras, an awful storm arose, 
 •which mined the French navy, and thus protected the English 
 colonists from further annoyance. On the day the storm had 
 commenced, the treaty of ransom had been adjusted ; *' the 
 French were to evacuate the town on the 4th of October, and 
 the artillery and warlike stores in the town were to be divided 
 between the French and English." 
 
 Marie had received intelligence of the success of M. De la 
 Bourdonnais, and of the safety of her father; the former having 
 gained treasure to no small amount by the terms of capitula- 
 tion, sent it all under the command of M. Labonne to Pondi- 
 cherry, by whom he also sent a note to Marie, with a hand- 
 some gold chain as a gift. On M. Labonne' s arrival in 
 Pondicherry with the ships containing the booty from Madras, 
 he immediately went on shore to visit his daughter, and what 
 joy possessed him, as he approached the mansion of his child, 
 from whom he had so long been absent ! but his hopes were 
 soon dashed away ; when he arrived where she resided, he was 
 informed that jNIarie vras in bed dangerously ill with a fever, 
 which had been brought on by anxiety, and too great exertion 
 at a ball which was given the previous evening by one of the 
 principal residents of Pondicheny ; she was there considered 
 the beauty of the room, and danced the whole evening, for 
 which exertion her strength at that time was not suiFicient ; 
 she had been persuaded by Sardis to attend the ball, and there 
 she stood the gayest of the gay : when the young couple 
 danced together, all eyes were fixed on them, they were cer- 
 tainly the handsomest couple in the room. Towards the 
 conclusion of the ball the spirits of Marie began to droop, she 
 said she felt a little unwell, and supported on the arm of 
 Sardis, she foolishly walked home ; he sent the doctor to her, 
 
MARIE LABONNE. 26S 
 
 bade her good night, and left her, imagining she would be 
 completely recovered on the following morning. When La- 
 bonne entered the house, the doctor who was in attendance 
 came out of her room and met him, and confirmed Avhat he 
 had already heard, that his daughter was far from well. 
 
 " My dearest Marie," said her father on entering her room. 
 ** what is the matter ? you are not unwell, I hope ?" 
 
 " Oh, dearest father, I am so glad to see you," she replied, 
 as she kissed Labonne. She spoke in a very faint voice, so 
 he thought it would be more discreet not to talk with her until 
 she was recovered ; he left her chamber in the deepest sorrow, 
 and told the doctor to bid her communicate to him what she 
 desired to say. 
 
 Labonne had observed that something was preying heavily 
 on her mind, which she wished to disclose to him. On the 
 doctor relating to Marie her father's wishes, she told him to 
 ask her father to allow Sardis to visit her occasionally, to 
 which Labonne instantly consented, having learned that the 
 young man had been so attentive to her at the commencement 
 of her illness. The next day she was a little better, when she 
 told him how Sardis had left France, and was to become a 
 merchant in Pondicherry : she also told him that he had 
 oifered her his hand, but that she had been afraid to accept it 
 on account of the union perhaps not being consented to by 
 him. 
 
 All hatred to the young m.an now vanished from the mind 
 of Labonne, he would have anything for his daughter to please 
 her in her present state of illness ; he allowed Sardis to visit 
 her, and promised when she was quite recovered to unite 
 them in happy wedlock ; but her illness gradually grew worse, 
 and on the 14th of October it assumed an alarming appearance. 
 On the 15th M. De la Bourdonnais arrived in the roads of 
 Pondicherry, when, having heard of the illness of Marie, this 
 
264 MARIE LABONNE. 
 
 good and gallant sailor went immediately to her house ; when 
 he entered in his dazzling uniform, the sweet girl's counte- 
 nance was illumed at his appearance ; his visage — pale and 
 sickly when he left her — was now ruddy and cheerful. 
 
 *' Good God, what is itr" said M. De la Bourdonnais to 
 her father, who was at her bedside in tears. 
 
 Marie fixed her eyes on the old admiral, but said nothing ; 
 he saw her hour was nearly come, that she was destined to 
 view no more the green vineyards and ripe cornfields of her 
 native France. He was right in his conjectures, she died the 
 very evening of the arrival of M. de la Bourdonnais, in the 
 presence of her father, Sardis, and the good old admiral. 
 
 It was an affecting sight to see this gallant sailor, who had 
 seldom or never wept before, weeping like a child on the death 
 of this interesting girl. Sardis was so much grieved, that it 
 was thought he would soon follow her to the " narrow cell." 
 
 When it was rumoured through Pondicherry that Marie 
 Labonne, the chief beauty, was no more, grief overclouded the 
 little city for a time ; not even the success of the French arms 
 could check the tear which then flowed for this sweet and vir- 
 tuous girl. 
 
 Soon after this, Labonne was despatched with part of the 
 shattered fleet to Achin, while M. De la Bourdonnais himself 
 proceeded to the Mauritius with the remainder, and soon after 
 left for France. To show how he was treated when he arrived 
 in his native land, I must translate partly from his memoirs 
 in French, written by one of his relations : — 
 
 " When M. de la Bourdonnais left Mauritius for France, he 
 h.ad not been long in his native country before he became a 
 victim to party rage ; that great man, who had left Mauritius 
 in a flourishing state, and had done his best for the extension 
 of the French power in Asia, was now seized and dragged to 
 prison through the jealousy of an ambitious rival, although 
 
MARIE LABONNE. 265 
 
 far away from tlie theatre of his ill-gotten fame. At length, 
 after three years' imprisonment in the Bastile, a solemn deci- 
 sion proclaimed the innocence of De la Bourdonnais ; they 
 punished his accusers, and restored him to his family, but not 
 to his country. 
 
 " He now became unfit for the service of the state; a para- 
 lysis which he obtained during his long confinement, had 
 entirely undermined his constitution. But more distress 
 awaited him ; his brother, Mahe de la Villebaque, for whom 
 he possessed the most sincere friendship, expired in prison, 
 the victim of the rage of his enemies ; and his fortune, the 
 fruits of forty years' labour, nearly all vanished in the general 
 train of misfortune. Such was his reward for the distinguished 
 services he had rendered his country. If his enemies sought 
 his death, their wish was soon granted. 
 
 " A short time after his liberation from the Bastile, sinking 
 under the weight of premature infirmity, he died on the 9th 
 day of September, 1753. France lost in M. de la Bourdon- 
 nais one of the most illustrious men she had ever produced ; 
 posterity has done justice to his memory, and condemned his 
 accusers." 
 
 If no rivalry had existed between Dupleix and De la Bour- 
 donnais, the French power in the East might have existed a little 
 longer, and the departure of those two great men from India 
 tolled the death note of French power in Asia ; the oriflamme 
 of France waved here no longer triumphantly, for the after- 
 hero of Plassey was now on the pathway to fame, burning like 
 a light rising to its full brightness, extinguishing by the 
 brilliancy of his flame the lesser lights which twittered around 
 him. 
 
 Thus then ends my simple storj- ; perhaps it is not generally 
 known that M. De la Bourdonnais was governor of the Isle of 
 
266 LINES. 
 
 France %vhen the distressing catastrophe of the wreck of the 
 St. Geran took place, when the heroine of the beautiful tale 
 by Bcrnardin de St. Pierre was washed ashore, and which 
 affecting narrative has caused many a youthful h^art to lament 
 for the untimely deaths of " Paul and Virginia." 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Mourn for the living; not the dead, 
 They rest in silent peace ! 
 
 Nor cares or sorrows rack the head — 
 With death all troubles cease. 
 
 Oh ! would that I were in my grave, 
 That I could lay my head 
 
 In calmness down :— do I not crave 
 Oblivion with the dead? 
 
DIRGE.* 
 
 Gentlest! fairest! best of creatures ! 
 
 Lo, thy cheek is red with gore, 
 Elood-stain'd are those noble features, 
 
 Sweetly wilt thou smile— no more ! 
 
 Didst thou die, alone — unheeded ? 
 
 None to soothe thy parting hour ? 
 Cowards from thy side receded. 
 
 Left thee in the foeman's power. 
 
 Left alone ! with none to aid thee ! 
 
 Daring still thy ground to stay, 
 Numbers did at length o'ercome thee, 
 
 Stiff at last the warrior lay; 
 
 Stiff! his bloody sword lay near him, 
 Stretch'd upon the ground he died. 
 
 Stiff! four Moorish chieftains near him. 
 Victims fallen by his side. 
 
 Fare thee well ! alas, for ever, 
 I must say that word — farewell, 
 
 Since again in this world never 
 With thee, Meno, I shall dwell. 
 
 * From " Tha Avenger." 
 
THE CONVENT. 
 
 On the shore some leagues below Quebec, on a promontory 
 that juts out into the river, stands an old ruin called Chateau 
 Roche, in a perfectly isolated state, without even a solitary 
 house to cheer its loneliness, frowning in gloomy majesty on 
 the rapid river whose waters wash its base — proud also in 
 appearance that it is a ruin where even ruins are scarce. The 
 only sounds that awaken its solitude are the sullen roar of the 
 river as it keeps eternally sweeping past, the crash of some 
 aged pine-tree that the hand of time has at length conquered, 
 or the laugh of an occasional visitor, but more frequently with 
 the report of the hunter's fowling-piece, for near these old 
 walls is a spot celebrated for snipe-shooting, and often, after a 
 day's toil, the sportsmen kindle their fire and rest among the 
 ruins, not however without raising their voices in a joyous 
 chorus. And how little do many think, when the walls are 
 ringing with their convivial strains, that they have ever echoed 
 to the pealing organ, and rich, mellow voices of nuns in their 
 devotion — or, above all, with the shriek of distracted women, 
 and the fierce yells of their destroyers ! Yet such things have 
 been. But the history of the place is now much confused, and 
 owes that circumstance to the want of chronicles, since the 
 tale is now handed down by tradition only, and very few at 
 present know, or seek to know, its origin. Yet there stands 
 the ruin, and though the hand of time has been laid heavily on 
 it, enough still remains to leave a trace of the truth of the 
 legend as it is now related. 
 
THE CONVENT. 269 
 
 Not long after Quebec had reared her head in queenly 
 majesty over the wondering river, which had rolled on since 
 the Creation without having her bosom ploughed till then by 
 the keel of a vessel, or her shores disturbed by the hammer of 
 the builder, yet, where before stretched a vast cajDe, named 
 Cape Diamond, whose summit was crowned with lofty pine- 
 trees, a city had been elevated, and high above all a fort looked 
 down in military grandeur. The woods had been awakened 
 from the sleep of ages, and settlements sprang up around their 
 parent city. The noble and the peasant emigrated to the 
 newly-formed colony — with these followed of course the cus- 
 toms of the Old World, and amongst others the Catholic reli- 
 gion, with all its magnificent yet superstitious pageantry; and 
 with religion, convents and monasteries sprang up — the sound 
 of the matin and vesper bell echoed amongst the hills where 
 hitherto only nature's self had whispered. Alas ! that super- 
 stition should condemn the young and beautiful to the living 
 tomb, a tomb where the spirit feels a gnawing agony — a vain 
 wish for liberty ; for what creature confined feels not that 
 wish ? Liberty is nature, yet by the convent's law to wish 
 for it is a crime deserving death. Then too late, when they 
 are covered with that sable veil, that living pall that cuts them 
 off from this world for ever, come bitter tears and discontent, 
 they sigh for the quiet tomb where no afi'ection follows them, 
 and when it comes, they smile upon its terrors and vrelcome 
 it as a friend — they droop like summer flowers, and die still 
 young ; the mildew sorrow blights their early beauties, and 
 sends them to the grave young in years, yet with all the marks 
 of premature old age ; and those who might have been bright 
 ornaments to the world sink into a nameless grave, forgotten 
 and unwept. 
 
 Among the few religious houses at that time established, 
 the one now called Chateau Roche was built on the forest 
 
S70 THE CONVENT. 
 
 verge ; it never possessed even in the height of its prosperity 
 a very large number of inmates ; but of those who did in- 
 habit it, their history would furnish a romance, — some for 
 love, others for disgust of the artless world, some for jealousy, 
 while the major part were victims of pride, beauteous sacri- 
 fices to the aggrandisement of their brothers. Among the 
 rest were two sisters who had come with their parents from 
 France ; shortly after their arrival, the severity of the climate 
 hurried their mother to an early grave, and a short time only 
 elapsed ere their father cast off his sables and married a second 
 wife, young, rich, and proud. She soon made the discovery 
 that her daughters-in-law eclipsed herself in beauty, and where 
 she had hitherto shone the brilliant star of evening gaiety, 
 they now bore the belle. Her feigned attachment turned to 
 bitterness, and after leading them for some time a weary life, 
 these two fair flowers finding that their now too late re- 
 pentant father could no longer aid them, retired to this con- 
 vent. Their noviciate was short — the day qui tkly came that 
 was to sever all earthly ties, all earthly affectic ns ; the organ 
 pealed forth the anthem, the nuns' voices were raised in a 
 hymn of thanksgiving ; the sound again was hu. yhed, all heads 
 were bowed in prayer, while these fair sisters knelt on the 
 steps of the altar, their hands clasped in each other's, their 
 eyes fixed upon the crucifix, listening to the deep tones of 
 the old monk reading the solemn vow ; then their jewelled 
 dresses were torn off, their locks (for one single tress of which 
 the young cavaliers had often sighed in vain) were severed ; 
 the veil, emblem of death, was cast over them ; the organ 
 once more pealed forth the " Jubilate," and they were the 
 brides of heaven. Cold, cold as are in general the convent 
 hearts, yet when the ceremony was concluded the holy nuns 
 clustered round to wish them happiness ; but on observing 
 their mournful resignation, all wept ; yet was there one who 
 
THE CONVENT. 271 
 
 during the ceremony had remained unmoved, and now, with 
 a bitter and sarcastic smile, turned and left the chapel without 
 a word of comfort — it was their mother ! 
 
 Here, then, these unoffending girls were buried from the 
 world ; yet even here they were doomed to find no peace, for 
 their stepmother, in her virulence of hatred, contrived to ren- 
 der this their last and sole hope of solace wretched, she havings 
 by her vile machinations, gained the too-credulous abbess to 
 her purpose, and obtained what she sought for. On these 
 poor girls at last fell all the convent duties, and penance 
 heaped on penance slowly yet surely sapped their blooming 
 years, while the stern abbess, believing the poisoned tale that 
 had been whispered in her ear, daily taunted them with the 
 decay of their boasted beauty. Yet they murmured not — 
 nightly the hymn of praise Avas heard within their lonely cell, 
 when all else was hushed to sleep within the convent except 
 the nun who watched the holy lamp — the prayer for the for- 
 giveness of their persecutors — the prayer for peace, " Yet not 
 my will, but thine be done." 
 
 Victorine, the youngest sister, first gave way under such 
 accumulated misery ; and Henriette, the elder, was for some 
 time debarred even the gloomy pleasure of ministering to the 
 wants of her suffering sister. But the patience with which 
 they had performed all their tasks at length won over the 
 abbess, who too late found out the truth and repented of her 
 credulity, but death had now taken too firm a hold to be 
 scared from his prey. Henriette watched her dying sister, 
 and prayed earnestly day by day that she too might go down 
 with her to the grave. Day after day rose and passed, Victo- 
 rine gradually sinking. 
 
 Ah ! who has not in the hour of sickness watched the ex- 
 piring lamp, or viewed the summer fading as the young year 
 declined ? At length her spirit fled. Henriette stood gazing 
 
^72 THE CONVENT. 
 
 on her sister's corpse with a vacant stare, no tear dimmed her 
 fine dark eyes, her hands were clasped as if in prayer, and 
 those who found her thus led her patiently away without a 
 murmur ; she was a maniac. The funeral of the young Vic- 
 torine was conducted at midnight with all that imposing 
 pomp with which the Catholics are accustomed to perform the 
 last sad rite, and as they lowered the coffin into the vault pre- 
 pared in the burial-ground attached to the convent (of which 
 no traces are to he discovered, and even then but thinly 
 tenanted), as the voices of the nuns broke upon the stillness 
 of the night in heavenly melody, and the glare of torches was 
 thrown upon them in their white dresses, on their knees with 
 eyes upturned in attitude of prayer, the beholder might have 
 fancied the olden patriarchal days had again returned, when 
 angels came down from heaven and ministered to mortals. 
 What means that piercing shriek ? the ceremony is suddenly 
 interrupted, and the nuns are clustered together like frightened 
 doves. 
 
 The old monk attached to the convent had paused, for he 
 saw, or thought he saw, only for a moment, several faces peer- 
 ing over the high wall ; he looked again, they had vanished — 
 his senses surely had not deceived him, for he thought in that 
 short view he had marked each lineament. He attempted to 
 proceed, but his voice faltered ; once more he raised his eyes, 
 and the same vision met his astonished gaze, — he could no 
 longer be mistaken, and instantly saw the danger that awaited 
 them, for the countenances he beheld were a party of the red 
 warriors, who, attracted by such unusual sounds, had now 
 seen the treasures which these walls contained. With this 
 race (the natives of the soil), who looked upon the settlements 
 of the whites as encroachments upon their exclusive rights, 
 the new possessors had ever been at war. Skirmishes and 
 murders were of daily occurrence, and in an unsuspecting 
 
THE CONVENT. 27oi 
 
 moment many a white was sent to his last account, his scalp 
 serving to adorn the lodge of some Indian chief. The old 
 monk was well aware of this, and instantly paused in the 
 service — tlie nuns retired quickly, and the grave was left 
 unfilled. 
 
 But one figure remained near the spot, who sat with dishe- 
 velled hair gazing on vacancy and warbling forth a melody 
 with plaintive sweetness ; no terror had disturbed her, and 
 she appeared to have been left unnoticed in the confusion* 
 The faces that still gazed over the wall were rivetted with awe 
 upon this solitary figure. It was the poor distracted Hen- 
 riette, who had wandered from her chamber during the absence 
 of her keeper at the ceremony. The Indian beholds with 
 superstitious feelings those who are any way disordered in their 
 intellect. At length she arose, and calling hurriedly and 
 impatiently on her sister, waved her hand as if beckoning her 
 to follow, and retreated to the convent. 
 
 For several days nothing was seen or heard to give the 
 least alarm ; the nuns, smiling at their fears, returned to their 
 accustomed duties, and one, as is the custom, entered the 
 cemetery and strewed flowers over the grave of the young 
 Victorine. Having concluded her melancholy task, she fell 
 upon her knees and prayed for the repose of the departed 
 sister's soul, when, as she arose, she saw the same strange 
 appearance as on the night of the funeral, disappear quickly 
 from the wall. The hour of vespers came, and the nuns 
 assembled in the chapel of the convent — their rich voices 
 joined in chaunting forth the service, w^hen suddenly a whoop 
 like the yell of demons broke upon the stillness of the forest. 
 Another and another succeeded ; the affrighted nuns paused 
 in their devotions, and ere they had time to escape, the doors 
 were burst open, and a body of fierce savages rushed in. 
 Then followed a scene not to be described. Women, in their 
 
574 THE CONVENT. 
 
 agony, used tears and supplications, but in vain ; revenge is 
 tlie Indian's creed, and truly it is a vengeance that never 
 sleeps ! 
 
 Morning broke, and the scene of terror was over ; silence 
 now reigned where late had echoed the shriek of the distracted 
 nuns, mingled with the terror-striking whoop of the savage 
 in his triumph — the walls were tenantless. The old monk 
 had escaped in the tumult and carried the horrid tidings to 
 the city. A body of military \j^as despatched, but when the 
 ^id arrived it was too late — no clue as to whither they had fled 
 was to be discovered ; whether they had become the wives of 
 their ravishers after being borne to the forest fastnesses, or 
 were finally put to death, remains a mystery — they were never 
 heard of more. One thing was certain — there were no traces 
 of blood on the pavement of the chapel where this terrific 
 scene took place. But, as they searched about, a solitary 
 being was discovered cowering among the underwood, when 
 suddenly she started up with a loud shriek and symptoms of 
 violent terror, rushed swiftly to the edge of the cliff', then 
 waving her arms wildly, uttered a long shrill scream, and 
 before it was possible to prevent it, she plunged into the 
 gurgling stream. They instantly used every endeavour to 
 save her, but in vain ; when at last they secured the body, 
 it proved to be that of the helpless Henriette. 
 
 Thus perished not only the original victims of revenge, but 
 a whole religious community, who were suddenly swept away 
 by one single person giving way to those fearful passions, 
 €nvy, hatred, and malice. Since this event took place, the 
 convent has never been occupied, but has been given up to 
 the ravages of time, which is fast crumbling it into dust. The 
 mournful sighing of the wind amongst the forest trees, and the 
 water dashing and chafing the rocks beneath, when you are 
 passing the night under the shadow of the ruin, will almost 
 
THE CONVENT. 2tO 
 
 cause your fancy to distinguish tlie distant lioly sounds that 
 once swelled up and then died away in melting cadences 
 within these walls, and cause you to breathe a prayer for the 
 unfortunate nuns whose historv' finished thus suddenly and 
 awfully, if not in blood. 
 
 We cannot better, perhaps, conclude our sad tale tlian with 
 the following beautiful description of " the Nun's Burial," by 
 Miss Montagu, admirable alike for its feeling and its poetry. 
 
 Few were the tears that fell 
 Where, in her lonely cell. 
 
 Coldly she lay, 
 Like a soft flower and fair, 
 In the still hour of pra3'er, 
 
 Fading away. 
 
 Deep had her sorrow been ; 
 Love in her heart, unseen, 
 
 Mournfnlly bound her : 
 Ever with one loved name 
 ^Memory's soft phantoms came 
 
 Floating around her. 
 
 Kow is her penance done. 
 Free hath her spirit gone, 
 
 Soaring in gladness, 
 No more to feel on earth 
 Pangs of its human birth — 
 
 Weeping and sadness. 
 
 Round by the Convent wall, 
 Night for her dusky pall, 
 
 Darkl}' they bore her ; 
 Mutely o'er mound and moss, 
 Bearing the blessed cross 
 
 Slowlj' before her. 
 
276 
 
 THE CONVENT. 
 
 Slow went their solemn pace 
 Where by her resting-place 
 
 Torches were burning ; 
 Soon o'er the trampled grass 
 We heard the mourners pass, 
 
 Swifter returning. 
 
 Lonely they left her there, 
 When on the gloomy air 
 
 Night winds were dying. 
 High o'er her gentle brow 
 Through the dim cypress-bough 
 
 Brokenly sighing. 
 
 Soft be her rest, and deep ! 
 Earth o'er her grave shall weep 
 
 Never, oh ! never ! 
 There the deep soul of woe, 
 Wearied long, long ago, 
 
 Slumbers for ever ! 
 
KNIGHTHOOD OF FRANCIS I. 
 
 It is very seldom that ambition takes a downward course ; 
 commonly speaking, the reverse is the case, and the object of 
 an aspiring mind is generally one which leads to wealth or 
 rank, or power. 
 
 But Francis seems to have thought differently. That he 
 was bom a king, he seemed to regard as a fortuitous circum- 
 stance over which he had no control, and therefore no merit 
 was due to him in holding so high a dignity. He seems to 
 have wished to distinguish himself by merit really his own, 
 and accordingly chose the honour of knighthood — a dignity 
 at that time only conferred on those who were distinguished 
 for military fame. Accordingly, with the utmost pomp the 
 dignity was conferred upon him by the Chevalier Bayard. 
 
 During the course of his life, Francis seems to have acted 
 up in the fullest sense to the character of a knight ; talented, 
 chivalrous, brave, the only drawback to his greatness was that 
 he had a rival who outshone him in all arts of policy and 
 statecraft, as much as he fell short in the nobler feelings of 
 humanity. This was no other than the celebrated Charles V. 
 Under other circumstances, the reign of Francis might have 
 presented a bright page in the history of his country : as it 
 was, though so frequently reduced by misfortune, he acquired 
 the character of " the great and wise." 
 
A MID-WINTER SONG 
 
 Oh ! come to the hearth where our young voices met 
 In the spring of the days we may never forget ; 
 'Tis the soul-stirring time of the mellowing year — 
 Sweet guide of my girlhood, thy place should be here ; 
 The fruit 's on the holly — the seed on the fern : 
 'Tis the Old Winter Time ; — then return, oh ! return ! 
 
 Hark ! the loud bells are shaking the grey village church, 
 
 The voice of the robin sounds loud in the porch. 
 
 He had wander'd away in the summer's bright track, 
 
 But he knew that our glad hearts would welcome him back. 
 
 And thou too hast wander'd,— there's care on thy brow: 
 
 'Tis the Old Winter Time ;— oh ! return to us now! 
 
 Sweet welcome awaits thee ; the pine's lordly tree. 
 Oh ! thou love of my youth, shall be blazing for thee, 
 Till thou, like our little ones, smile in its light, 
 As they wile wdth their prattle the long hours of night. 
 Since the days of the flowers thou hast left us to roam : 
 'Tis the Old Winter Time,— oh ! return to thy home ! 
 
 I will meet thy fond kiss on that time-haunted spot. 
 Where the misletoe hangs from the roof of our cot ; 
 And we'll think of the hour when, less happy than now. 
 We hallow'd that spot wilh the kiss and the vow. 
 Till we feel that our hearts, like the sun of our clime. 
 Can glow mid the frosts of the Old Winter Time ! 
 
THE VEILED LADY OF FURNESS. 
 
 Some years after the dissolution of the monasteries, when the 
 monkish superstitions of the early ages were fast fading away, 
 flourished the ancient family of Fitz-Hugh. The Lady Grace, 
 who at that time became the inheritress of the family honours, 
 was the heiress of her uncle Roger, the late possessor of Fur- 
 ness Hall. This antiquated mansion had once belonged to, 
 and was still connected with, the beautiful and majestic abbey 
 of that name, founded in the year of our Lord 1127, by Ste- 
 phen of Blois, afterwards King of England : an account of 
 which abbey may be found in ancient writings under the title 
 of St. Marye's of Furness. 
 
 It seemed by a strange fatality the Lady Grace became thus 
 possessed of the hall of her ancestors during the lifetime of her 
 father (as at the old man's death, both her parents were liv- 
 ing ;) for though, by her uncle's will, two successors were 
 named before herself, his estates had descended directly to the 
 sole, and subsequently the orphan child of his brother. 
 
 The circumstances of Sir Edward's having been banished 
 from the wealth, and, what was far more to him, the love of 
 his brother, was owing to a quarrel in their youth. The cause 
 of this disagreement, slight in itself, and trifling indeed, to have 
 separated those whom the ties of blood and aiFection should 
 have bound together, was still sufficiently strong to form the 
 groundwork of future disunion. They parted : neither ever 
 
 N 2 
 
^80 THE VEILED LADY 
 
 afterwards looked upon the other; and the Baron on his death- 
 bed bequeathed the old hall and the adjoining lands, in the 
 first place to his son, should he ever be discovered (for the 
 child had been lost, or, as his father expressed it, " spirited 
 away," when only a few years old) ; if not, to his nephew (a 
 sister's child) ; and, failing of both, to the Lady Grace. 
 
 It will perhaps be supposed that the said lady, like all 
 damsels of romance, sat in her solitary chamber mourning 
 over the captivity of some hero of her imagination ; or, like a 
 second Penelope, weaving the web of her beautiful wiles round 
 the hearts of her too numerous wooers. But it would have 
 been difficult to have made a heroine of her in this respect, for 
 her true knight was guiltless of dungeon walls, and her suitors 
 had vanished in despair ; nor, further, had the gentle Grace any 
 cruel guardian to compel her choice, for, unfortunately, as 
 those will think who " like to be persecuted," hers had been 
 that of her parents. In the presence of both she had calmly 
 — but, oh! how fervently — pronounced the solemn vows of 
 betrothal by the side of her beloved Ivo ; and now fondly and 
 trustingly she awaited his return from a journey of much 
 doubt and perplexity, but which, in the buoyant spirit of 
 youth, she questioned not would be soon and happily termi- 
 nated. 
 
 Amongst the num.erous retainers, all of whom the young 
 heiress might now call her own, was one Mistress Mildred. 
 This aged matron was a great acquisition in a mansion whose 
 owner was almost totally unacquainted with the history of her 
 progenitors ; for not only could she trace them far beyond the 
 time when they had in reality existed, but likewise borrowed 
 half the heathen deities to figure in her genealogy : — ^^not to 
 say a saint or two now and then (with reverence be it spoken !) 
 and other sacred characters, all of whose names she made sub- 
 servient to her own peculiar orthoepy. She was truly an ori- 
 
OF FURNE6S. 281 
 
 ginal — a storehouse for the accumulated legends of many cen- 
 turies — a walking library of odd volumes. 
 
 This strange amalgamation of knights and heathens, ladies 
 and goddesses, arose from this : the tapestry with which most 
 of the walls were covered, and which exhibited much of the 
 cumbrous "machinery" of classical mythology, had been the 
 work of many successive generations ; thus some of the gods, 
 Greeks, Trojans, &c., had been the creation of one fair hand, 
 and some of another. All this, for the space of nearly half a 
 century, the venerable Mildred had borne in mind ; but now 
 when the mists of a more advanced age had overswept the 
 sunny remembrances of her youth, the whole order of memory 
 was lost, and instead of the martial figures having been born 
 of the brilliant imaginations of the departed dames, they were 
 themselves named as the fathers of those who had called them 
 into life. 
 
 Often would the lovely Grace — graceful alike in name and 
 nature — good-humouredly listen to the tales of this amusing 
 genealogist. One day, having in kindness to her feeble age 
 desired her to sit down, she herself rose, and whilst strolling 
 round the apartment, busily employed in examining the gigan- 
 tic figures of the an-as, questioned her about the disappearance 
 of her infant cousin. Here, without knowing it, she touched 
 on one of the old woman's favourite topics. 
 
 " Ah !" she exclaimed, " there was a child, my lady ! The 
 beautifulest little fellow that ever had Cyclops for his ances- 
 tor. Bless his sweet face ! I'm sure he must have been for 
 all the world the very moral of his great-grandfather. Sir 
 Herschelus there in the tapstery, when his lady-mother Thetis 
 took him by the hair of his head and dipt him in the river 
 sticks." 
 
 " But tell me, good Mildred," said the Lady Grace, " how 
 and when was the poor boy lost ?" 
 
282 THE VEILED LADY 
 
 " Why here's where it was, my lady. When the late Ba- 
 ron's nephey — a sister's child — came down here, he took a 
 great fancy to his little cousin, and would always take him 
 about with him wherever he went. If he walked down to the 
 river to fish, young master must go too ; if he chose a ride, 
 cousin Hugo must always have a jaunt up and down the 
 court-yard first. In truth, so much were they together, that 
 it often used to remind me of the story of Demon and Pitti- 
 less. 
 
 *' Well, one fine morning away they went to the woods a- 
 nutting. Now, my poor mistress, the Lady Sybilla, never 
 liked to see those two so much together, and used to say of 
 Baldwin — that was her husband's nephey — that his eye never 
 looked so dark as when he had a smile on his lip. And I do 
 think she was right : he had a very odd look sometimes ; but 
 mostly I used to notice it when he had been praising and pet- 
 ting the child before anybody, and they happened to leave 
 the room. Then all of a sudden he seemed to think no more 
 about him, but frowned as black as thunder. Now all this 
 looked very bad, to say the least of it. But, as I was saying, 
 one day they went out to the woods together, a-nutting : and 
 from that time the poor boy has never been seen or heard 
 of. After about an hour or two. Master Baldwin came back 
 without him • and when his mother asked where he was, all 
 the answer she could get was, ' Oh ! he's coming — he fol- 
 lowed me close behind — he'll be here in a minute.' Now I 
 heard him say this ; and it struck me he seemed rather flur- 
 ried. However that might be, when at last the family got 
 uneasy, he was the first to go and look for him. But it was 
 no use : he was never afterwards found. My poor mistress 
 was almost crazed about it ; and nothing could get it out of 
 her head but he'd been put away by his cousin Baldwin. 
 " And what became of his kinsman ?" 
 
OF FURNESS. 
 
 '* Lord bless you, ma'am, he went abroad soon after, and 
 wasn't heard of till a little while ago, just after the Baron's 
 death, when a report came that he had died in forin parts — 
 some island beyond seas, I think, — ^perhaps the very same 
 where his forefather, Sir Ithacus and his wife Colypso came 
 from ; or where Juniper Holyimpus reigned, who was own 
 brother to Ajax Temolean, whose sister Venus married Enoch 
 of Troy, who brought the estates into the family : so that" — 
 
 " And the Lady Sybilla," interrupted Grace, " has she been 
 long dead ?" 
 
 *' Nineteen years and better, my lady. She only lived a 
 few months after her loss. 
 
 " Poor Sybilla !" thought Grace, " the house of my fathers 
 has been but a woful habitation to thee !" She however in- 
 quired no farther, but, dismissing Mildred, strove by various 
 trifling employments to erase from her mind the disagreeable 
 impressions left upon it by the tale she had just heard. But 
 all was in vain : it was not to be forgotten ; and that night, 
 when she slept, the form of the unhappy mother appeared in 
 her dreams — not, however, like those shades of night, to de- 
 part with the dawn, " and be no more seen," but again to re- 
 turn, more fearfully and more distinctly, in a vision which was 
 no dream. 
 
 Few moons had rolled over the head of Grace Fitz-Hugh 
 in her new possessions, when she was called upon to quit them, 
 in consequence of the sudden and unexpected return of her 
 kinsman Baldwin, who was supposed to have been dead. 
 
 This event rendered her longer stay at Furness Hall impos- 
 sible : for though, with all due attention to a lady and cousin, 
 he pressed her to consider the mansion her own, at least for a 
 time, there was a pride and dignity in the mind of Grace 
 that would not allow her to receive that as charity, which she 
 had been accustomed to regard as a right. All she requested, 
 
284 THE VEILED LADY 
 
 therefore, was a few days to arrange everything for her de- 
 parture : and now, when about to seek a strange home, how 
 much did she long for the advice and assistance of her best 
 friend, her betrothed Ivo ! But it was no time for wishes and 
 regrets ; and five days were named as the extent of her stay at 
 Furness. 
 
 On the second night after the return of Baldwin, the young 
 orphan, who had lately been greeted as the heiress of so many 
 wide lands, sat alone in her chamber. The room, which was 
 her sleeping apartment, was fitted up and adorned in all the 
 gloomy grandeur of the middle ages : thick and gorgeous 
 hangings of the richest arras ;— deep recesses, canopied by Go- 
 thic arches of the most beautiful fret- work ; and tables of the 
 blackest oak, and of almost sculptural carving; whilst the 
 floor, had it not been for a covering of more modern days* 
 would have been dangerous from the very perfection of its 
 polish. On one side of the room hung a full-length portrait 
 of the Lady Sybilla. There were other pictures along the 
 walls ; but none who had first gazed on this one extraordinary 
 piece of art, could ever turn their eyes with any degree of in- 
 terest on the rest. What it was that rendered this portrait so 
 peculiarly striking, no one could ever explain. It was habit- 
 ed, over a dress of the times, in a veil of such a texture, that 
 it seemed to glitter as though it were woven with threads of 
 gold. The head, which, as well as the rest of the figure, was 
 enveloped in the folds, was surmounted by a wreath of the 
 mingled flowers and berries of the deadly-nightshade ; which 
 plant gives its name to a wild glen in the immediate neigh- 
 bourhood of the Abbey, where it abounds. 
 
 Strange indeed, and almost awful, was the appearance of 
 soul that looked out from the large, dark eyes of that veiled 
 and mysterious face ; — eyes whose intellectual expression of 
 half-human, half-immortal sorrow, could be equalled in ma- 
 
GF FURNE8S. 
 
 2S5 
 
 jestic but agonised beauty only by that which the imagina- 
 tions of the painters have given to "Our Lady of Woe !" 
 
 AVhile the eyes of Grace were yet intently fixed on the 
 veiled splendour of that mist-like countenance, suddenly there 
 floated through the apartment a soft, touching strain of the 
 richest melody : now it rose slowly and solemnly through the 
 vaulted roof, and now started into wilder life, as if the chords 
 of a mountain-harp were swept by the viewless wings of some 
 spirit of the winds — 
 
 " A pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift." 
 
 Then again the wild and liquid notes melted away like the 
 falling drops of some trickling rill — 
 
 " Faintly, faintly, as the breath 
 Of a lute-song in its death ; 
 Like the sighing of a reed, 
 Longing, murmuring, to be freed," 
 
 Grace moved not, but listened, wrapt in a dream of mingled 
 wonder and delight. Fearful of losing the slightest note, she 
 at length closed her eyes, and thus, undistracted by any out- 
 ward object, gave herself up to the full enjoyment of that 
 fairy music. "When in a few moments it ceased, she at once 
 became sensible of an icy chillness that seemed to run through 
 her veins and curdle her very blood. Whether or not it was 
 fancy, upon looking up she distinctly beheld a figure, the 
 exact resemblance of the picture, standing at the far end of the 
 room, by a half-closed door, which had till now escaped her 
 notice. One hand of the phantom was pressed upon its 
 heart ; the other, slightly raised, now beckoned her to follow, 
 as slowly and noiselessly it retreated through the opening. 
 Her first effort was to spring to the opposite door : aoLaincd, 
 
 N 5 
 
286 THE VEILED LADY 
 
 however, of her fears, and trying to reason herself out of them 
 by ascribhig the apparition to her own over-excited fancy, she 
 again resumed her seat. 
 
 Scarcely had she gained some degree of composure, when a 
 gentle tap announced Mildred, who entered, bearing a pile of 
 books she had been sent for to the library below. 
 
 ** I am glad you are come, Mildred," said Grace ; " those 
 books will be a relief. It is very dreary to have nothing to 
 look at but these gloomy walls and that fearful picture." 
 
 " And so it is, my lady ; I've often wondered how you could 
 sit here for hours as you do, so lonesome-like, by yourself; and 
 this the very room where — Bless me ! what's that ? I thought 
 I heard a noise — where the poor Lady Sybilla died." 
 
 *' The Lady Sybilla ! Did she indeed die here ?" exclaimed 
 Grace, more alarmed than she would willingly have acknow- 
 ledged, at this apparent confirmation of her worst fears. 
 
 " Troth did she, ma'am ; and an awful dying she made of 
 it. I was with her to the last, and oh, dear ! how she did 
 groan, and how bitterly she cursed them that had taken away 
 her boy, as she said ! — nay, she even went so far as to say her 
 spirit wouldn't rest till he was brought back and restored to 
 his rights. Many's the time folks have said, when they heard 
 how she had taken on — 'Ay, it's like enough, it's like enough, 
 after such a confessor as she had :' and, indeed, and I don't 
 think it was for the good of her soul, somehow." 
 
 *' Nay, my good Mildred, it is uncharitable to give credit to 
 the words of every idle tongue. But what said they against 
 the holy man ?" 
 
 "Why, saving your presence, my lady, they thought he 
 wasn't a holy man at all ; and went on to tell, how, when he 
 was a monk of the old Abbey, just by here, he once made a 
 contract with the devil for some of the Abbot's wine ; and how 
 the Abbot made another with the Pope, and got it back. 
 
OF FURNESS. 287 
 
 Some, again, said he was a wizard ; and it's quite true he fore- 
 told things that had passed out of the memory of man — such 
 things as I, for one, never heard the like of." 
 
 " A strange character, indeed, for one of the sworn brother- 
 hood of Cistercians," said Grace, trying to suppress a laugh 
 which would at once have put an end to Mildred's story. " I 
 thought the monks of Furness had been celebrated for their 
 piety." 
 
 " Ah ! my lady, so they were ; but I suppose Father Er- 
 nulf was the black sheep : for you know, ma'am, there's a 
 black sheep in every flock. Some of them, no doubt, were 
 pious men ; for it is said a great many were calendered, and 
 became sanctified saints." 
 
 [Just such another piece of simplicity must it have been, of 
 her who, when she heard of the three Calenders of the Arabian 
 Nights, exclaimed, " Bless me ! Well, I wonder wherever in 
 this wicked world they found saints enough to fill them all !] 
 
 As soon as the last fold of Mistress Mildred's antique petti- 
 coat had disappeared, and Grace once more found herself 
 alone, she betook herself seriously to the perusal of the vo- 
 lumes before her. Most of them were manuscripts, beauti- 
 fully illuminated, once the property of the Abbey, aftd the 
 work of those who were now scattered abroad, to seek new 
 homes in a world from which they had been so long secluded, 
 and with whose interests they could have nothing in common; 
 a world whose ways are not all "ways of pleasantness," nor 
 its paths "paths of peace." 
 
 For a short time the contents appeared to interest her ; but 
 at length she discovered that she had been reading over a 
 single page again and again without making any sense of it, 
 and feeling that her thoughts would, in spite of herself, be far 
 differently employed, she gave up the attempt. Throwing 
 down the book, therefore, she allowed them to take their own 
 
S88 THE VEILED LADY 
 
 course ; and then came the recollection of the unaccountable 
 events of the last few hours : that wild, thrilling, and unearth- 
 ly melody ; the horrible feeling of chillness that had come over 
 her, as if from the proximity of some cold, dewy thing, newly 
 risen from the tomb ; and last and most fearful of all, that faint 
 and shadowy figure, veiled, and with its coronal of poison- 
 berries, which, had it appeared at the banquet, might have 
 been taken for the veiled mummy of a Grecian feast, crowned 
 with the festal wreath ! 
 
 Struck with a sudden wish to penetrate the mystery that 
 surrounded her, after but a moment's hesitation, she ap- 
 proached the door through which the spectre had vanished. 
 Having roused her courage so far, she now laid her hand on 
 the latch, and with a quick motion threw it open ; then as 
 quickly starting back, she stood in breathless anxiety, ex- 
 pecting again to behold the form that had so lately passed 
 through it. But all was void : no music broke upon the 
 ear ; no shadowy figure glided past her sight ; nor could she 
 discern anything beyond the spot where she stood, for, owing 
 to the brightness of both the fire and lamp in her room, the 
 space into which the door opened appeared to be in total 
 darkness. A faint glimmering of light, however, which she 
 could at length distinguish, and which evidently issued from a 
 window at some distance, led her to believe that this was the 
 entrance to a long gallery that she had heard spoken of, as 
 connecting the Hall with the Abbey. While yet undecided 
 whether to take a light and explore the passage, she fancied 
 she heard a human voice, and, listening attentively, soon re- 
 cognised it as that of her kinsman. It sounded as if raised in 
 a threatening accent ; but the answer of the person addressed, 
 if indeed it received any, was in too low a tone to be heard. 
 In a few moments the sound died away ; and giving up all 
 further thoughts of pursuing the adventure that night, Grace 
 
OF FURNESS. 289 
 
 closed and fastened the door, and, retiring to rest, soon forgot, 
 in a calm and unbroken sleep, the troubled visions of her 
 waking hours. When again the morning dawned, it brought 
 with it a charm which dispelled at once her fears, and the sha- 
 dows of that " Care," which, though but for a time, 
 
 " Disturb'dher sighs, and gave a trouble to her pray'r." 
 
 Early the next morning a packet arrived from Sir Ivo, with 
 the intelligence of his speedy return. It were needless to re- 
 cord the joy with which Grace perused the well-known cha- 
 racters of one who was now all to her, or how often she 
 retraced every word of that welcome letter. He hoped, he 
 said, to be with her by an early hour the following day, and 
 dwelt long and tenderly on the happiness of their meeting. 
 In the object of his journey, however, he had been unsuccess- 
 ful ; and this disappointment, though he evidently strove to 
 disguise it, cast a gloom over the prospect of his return which 
 somewhat saddened the heart of Grace. But who will long 
 regard the darkest side of the picture, when the brightest is 
 nearest to the eye ? The whole of that day was passed in the 
 delightful anticipation of his arrival ; and when night came, 
 Grace was surprised to find that her intention of exploring the 
 haunted gallery had been altogether forgotten. 
 
 When, therefore, darkness came on, she felt oppressed with 
 as great an excess of uneasiness as if she had neglected the 
 performance of some important duty. It seemed as though 
 she had been called on by some supernatural power to pursue 
 an adventure which belonged exclusively to her ; and blaming 
 herself for her former want of nerve, she determined, should 
 the phantom again appear, to follow it, let it lead whither it 
 would. Nor had she long to wait. In a few seconds the 
 same delicious swell of harmony once more met her ear, and, 
 fading away as before, gave place to the veiled form of Lady 
 
290 THE VEILED LADY 
 
 Sybilla. Grace gazed upon it breathlessly ; but though her 
 lip quivered and her limbs trembled with horror, the courage 
 of her race rose high in her bosom. The shade now waved its 
 arm towards the half-open door, which had till that moment 
 remained shut, and then slowly withdrew through the aper- 
 ture. Grace followed, still keeping the figure in sight : this 
 she had no difficulty in doing, for, as it glided along before 
 her, a halo of light gleamed about its head, so bright as to 
 illumine the whole gallery at once. Having led her into the 
 interior of the Abbey, with which, as she had supposed, the 
 passage communicated, suddenly the phantom disappeared, 
 leaving her in total darkness. While yet undetermined whe- 
 ther to go on or to return, a sound met her ear like the low 
 wailing voice of one in great pain. It seemed to be that of a 
 woman, and proceeded, as she now ascertained, from one of 
 the cells formerly inhabited by the brotherhood. Softly lift- 
 ing the latch, she entered, unperceived by the person within. 
 The floor of the cell was strewn with rushes ; and in the midst 
 lay a woman, long past her prime, the distorted expression of 
 whose countenance plainly showed that she was dying. Grace 
 approached, and kneeling by her side, in her sweet and gentle 
 voice asked what she could do for her. 
 
 ** Nothing — nothing : it is too late !" returned the woman. 
 " But who is it asks such a question of the wretched Ger- 
 trude ?" 
 
 Grace explained who she was, and offered to go in search of 
 assistance ; but the woman interrupted her, and seemed to 
 wish her to stay. 
 
 " No, do not go," said she, "but hear me ! — I know what 
 has brought you here." (Here she lowered her voice, as if 
 fearful of being heard.) " She led you on — I knew of her 
 coming, for my flesh grew chill — chiller than the hand of 
 death that lies heavy on my heart — chiller than the grave. 
 
OF FURNESS. ^1 
 
 Night and day has she been about my path for nineteen long 
 years. Oh ! Baldwin, Baldwin ! — but for thee — " 
 
 "Who? — What Baldwin?" interrupted Grace, deeply in- 
 terested ; for she now recollected the voice she had heard the 
 night before. 
 
 *' Bear with me, and I will tell you all ! — Yet I must be 
 brief, or he will come again to threaten, and perhaps to kill : 
 he is fiend enough for that. It is more than twenty years 
 since I first beheld him. He loved me then : at least, I be- 
 lieved so. For him I would have gone to the end of the 
 world. But why do I speak of this now ? At that time it 
 was, when I would have given my whole soul eternally for 
 one word of kindness from him, that he told me of a design he 
 had conceived of putting away the young heir of the last Baron 
 of Furness. He was himself a nephew ; and he believed that 
 if his uncle had had no son, he would have inherited. He 
 said he would entrust it to me to convey the child beyond the 
 reach of discovery. It is enough that I did not refuse. One 
 day I met them in the woods, as we had planned : I took the 
 boy, and having wrapt him in a cloak for fear of his being 
 recognised, soon bore him out of reach of all pursuit. I then 
 proceeded more leisurely, and after travelling many, many 
 weary days, at length arrived near the Castle of St. John. 
 Unseen I approached the walls, and having left the child at 
 the entrance, departed. Here, as I afterwards learnt, he was 
 taken care of, and assumed the name of his protector. What 
 became of myself, or the reason of my return hither, can have 
 no interest for you. I only tell you this, that I may rest in 
 peace : — should you now feel inclined to restore him his birth- 
 right, you can. There will be no difficulty in proving his 
 identity : on his left wrist he bears a mark which can never 
 be efiaced ; it is stained as with the berries of the deadly-night- 
 shade. Mildred, who often nursed him on her knee — if she 
 
292 THE VEILED LADY 
 
 is alive — will know it. I can tell you no more ; — and hark ! 
 he is coming ! — for the love of heaven, begone ! — haste — 
 haste !" — 
 
 Terrified at the idea of meeting Baldwin after the disclosure 
 made by the dying Gertrude, Grace started up, and, leaving 
 the cell, endeavoured to find the way to her room. She had 
 not gone far, before she perceived him coming towards the 
 cell. He was, however, at some distance, and, as she thought, 
 did not see her. The sight of him at such a time lent new 
 speed to her feet ; and as the light of his lamp enabled her to 
 see her way, she soon reached her chamber in safety. 
 
 Not more than an hour had passed before she heard a com- 
 motion in the hall below : footsteps were hurrying to and fro ; 
 and on proceeding to the staircase, she could distinguish the 
 sound of many voices whispering in tones of wonder and dis- 
 may. Fearing she knew not what, Grace descended the 
 stairs. The first person she met was an old and faithful ser- 
 vitor of the family. He shook his grey head as he passed on, 
 and pointed to a group of domestics who were huddled toge- 
 ther near the hall-door. After many vain attempts to dis- 
 cover the cause of their alarm, all she could gather was, that 
 shrieks had been heard to issue from the Abbey ; and that the 
 old man, who had just passed her, declared he had seen the 
 spirit of his departed mistress gliding through the entrance of 
 the chapel, and then disappear close to the spot where her 
 tomb had been erected. She learnt further, that Baldwin was 
 nowhere to be found. He had left the Hall secretly, and 
 gone, no one knew whither. There could be little doubt 
 about his departure, for the stable -door had been forcibly 
 thrust open, and his favourite horse was gone. 
 
 As soon as Grace found herself sufficiently collected to give 
 directions to her people, she selected a few of the most cou- 
 rageous, and led them directly to the cell where she had left 
 
OF FURNESS. 293 
 
 the miserable Gertrude. There all was still : the voice of pain 
 no longer disturbed the silence of that dreary spot, and on en- 
 tering the cell a sight presented itself which Grace would will- 
 ingly have been spared. The body of Gertrude (for she was 
 now dead) rested exactly where she had left it an hour before. 
 Her long golden hair, slightly mixed with grey, was scattered 
 abroad, and mingled its tangled streamers with the rushes on 
 the floor ; while here and there, at a little distance from the 
 body, lay a few separate locks, as if rudely torn from her 
 head by some unhallowed hand in the very helplessness of her 
 dying moments. In her neck was a deep wound, from which 
 the blood still flowed — inflicted, no doubt, by the being she 
 had loved the best on earth. It was no scene to gaze upon 
 unmoved ; and Grace, after all she had seen and heard that 
 night, felt too much overpowered to endure it any longer. 
 Giving orders, therefore, for the proper interment of the body, 
 and avoiding another glance at the unfortunate being who was 
 now at rest, she returned to the Hall. 
 
 For many an hour the next day did she stand on the ter- 
 race, anxiously awaiting the arrival of Sir Ivo. From this 
 spot she had a full view of the Nightshade Valley, which, with 
 its long rows of majestic trees, formed a beautiful approach 
 to both the Hall and the Abbey. As she now leaned against 
 the side of a projecting buttress, and now bent forward over 
 the ivied rail-work, listening for the first delightful sound of 
 the coming hoof, there w^as an expression of feverish anxiety 
 and expectation in her countenance, more even than the 
 event seemed to warrant. At length she fancied she could 
 hear the surrounding hills echo at the rebound of an approach- 
 ing steed : — ^but no, the sounds died away. Again and again 
 was she deceived, till at length the agony of suspense became 
 almost unbearable. But, hark ! — she cannot be deceived ; — 
 she knows the swift but measured step of the " blithe grey ;" 
 
294 THE VEILED LADY OF FURNESS. 
 
 and now, like the wild wing of some fluttering bird, floats on 
 the breeze his shaded mane. One moment she stayed, to as- 
 sure herself that she was not mistaken. One rapid glance at 
 the steed — another, longer and more earnest, at the rider — 
 and away flew the Lady of Furness to welcome her beloved 
 Knight. 
 
 ''Upon that meeting I need not dwell : 
 Ye may fancy it, maidens, well ! " 
 
 After the first spring of joy had given place to the quiet 
 summer of a sober and tranquil happiness, and Sir Ivo began 
 to speak of the fruitlessness of his journey, he was interrupted 
 by Grace, whose words will at once explain its object. 
 
 " Ivo, dear Ivo, seek no further, all is betrayed — all disco- 
 vered. I am no longer Lady of these lands — this old Hall : 
 you, and you only, are the heir to its honours. And, oh ! need 
 I say how joyfully 1 welcome you, not as Sir Ivo St. John, 
 but as the true and rightful Baron of Furness !" 
 
 Little more remains to be told. Sir Hugo was immediate- 
 ly recognised by others as well as Mildred, and became the 
 acknowledged heir of his father Roger. Grace, his gentle and 
 beloved cousin, however, did not, as she was once prepared to 
 do, leave the old Hall, but in a short time became mistress 
 there. 
 
 Nothing was ever afterwards heard of Baldwin : nor did the 
 spirit of the Lady Sybilla continue to disturb the quiet of that 
 ancient dwelling. Once more only was she seen ; and that 
 was at the marriage of her son, who, together with his bride, 
 distinctly beheld her approach, and extend her arms over their 
 heads as they knelt at the altar. 
 
 Some who had even professed to have seen the apparition at 
 
STANZAS. S95 
 
 other times, were yet incredulous as to the tale of this last ap- 
 pearance : those, however, who knew the young Baron and his 
 wife Grace, never doubted its truth ; for so long and so hap- 
 pily they lived together in all unity and affection, that it seem- 
 ed indeed as if the blessing of his sainted mother rested upon 
 them, then, and for ever. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 The struggle of the soul is past, 
 
 Thy heart rebels no more : 
 The innocent joy hath smiled its last ; 
 
 Emotion's life is o'er. 
 Thy once wild pulse keeps even pace, 
 
 A calm is on thy brow ; 
 But oh, sweet Nature's alter'd face ! 
 
 Where is its beauty now ? 
 
 Take back — take back thy youth again. 
 
 Thy youth, with all its tears! 
 Nor strive to greet with smiles in vain 
 
 These cold, imkindly years. 
 Like snow-drops in their icy tomb, 
 
 Alas ! each feeling lies ; 
 Buried like them beneath the gloom, 
 
 But not like them to rise. 
 
 The flower which fades may live again 
 
 In the sweet after-flowers ; 
 But who, youth's precious time ere drew 
 
 From ashes of past hom-s ? 
 Lasting and deep the rest it takes 
 
 Where once its bloom hath fled ; 
 There Memory's voice unanswer'd wakes 
 
 Like music o'er the dead. 
 
THE BEREAVED SISTER. 
 
 In the spring of 1834, I contracted an acquaintance, in one 
 of the cities of the South, with a gentleman who had removed 
 from England to this country, with two small children, the 
 one a boy of ten, and the other a girl of nine years of age. 
 These children were the most loving beings I ever saw. Their 
 extreme beauty, their deep and artless affection, and their 
 frequent bursts of childish and innocent mirth, made them as 
 dear to me as if I had been the companion of their infancy. 
 They were happy in themselves, happy in each other, and in 
 the whole world of life and nature around them. I had known 
 the family but a few months, when my friend was compelled 
 to make a sudden and unexpected voyage to America. His 
 feelings were embittered by the thought of leaving his mo- 
 therless children behind him, and as I was on the point of 
 embarking for Liverpool, I promised to take them to their re- 
 lations. 
 
 The day of our departure at last arrived, and we set sail on 
 a fine afternoon. 
 
 Soon after sunset, I persuaded my little friends to let me 
 lead them to the cabin, and then returned to look out again 
 upon the ocean. In about half an hour, as I was standing 
 musingly apart, I felt my hand gently pressed, and on turning 
 round, saw that the girl had stolen along to my side. In a 
 few moments, the evening star began to twinkle from the edg- 
 ing of a violet cloud. At first it gleamed faintly and at inter- 
 vals, but anon it came brightly out, and shone like a holy 
 
THE BEREAVED SISTER. ^97 
 
 thing upon the brow of evening. The girl at my side gazed 
 upon it, and halted it with a tone which told that a thought 
 of rapture was in her heart. She inquired, with simplicity and 
 eagerness, whether in the far land to which we were going 
 that same bright star would be visible, and seemed to regard 
 it as another friend that was to be with her in her long and 
 lonely journey. 
 
 The first week of our voyage was unattended with any im- 
 portant incident. The sea was at times wild and stormy, but 
 again it would sink to repose, and spread itself out in beauty 
 to the verge of the distant horizon. On the eighth day the 
 boy arose pale and dejected, and complained of indisposition. 
 On the following morning he was confined by a fever to his 
 bed, and much doubt was expressed as to his fate, by the sur- 
 geon of the vessel. I can never forget the visible agony, the 
 look of utter woe, that appeared upon the face of the little girl, 
 vyhen the conviction of her brother's danger came slowly upon 
 her thoughts. She wept not — she complained not — but, hour 
 after hour, she sat by the young sufferer, an image of grief 
 and beautiful affection. 
 
 The twelfth evening of our absence from land was the most 
 beautiful I had ever known, and I persuaded the girl to go for 
 a short time upon deck, that her own fevered brow might be 
 fanned by the twilight breeze. The sun had gone down in 
 glory, and the traces of his blood-red setting were still visible 
 upon the western waters. Slowly, but brilliantly, the many 
 stars were gathering themselves together above, and another 
 sky swelled out in softened beauty beneath, and the foam upon 
 the crests of the waves were lighted up like wreaths of snow. 
 There was music in every wave, and its wild sweet tones came 
 floating down from the fluttering pennon above us, like the 
 sound of a gentle wind amid a cypress grove. But neither mu- 
 sic nor beauty had a spell for the heart of my little friend. I 
 
298 THE BEREAVED SISTER. 
 
 talked to her of the glories of the sky and sea — I pointed to 
 her the star on which she had always loved to look — but her 
 only answer was a sigh, and I returned with her to the bedside 
 of her brother. I perceived instantly that he was dying. There 
 was no visible struggle — but a film was creeping over his eye, 
 and the hectic flush of his cheek was fast deepening into pur- 
 ple. I know not whether at first his sister perceived the 
 change in his appearance. She took her seat at his side, and 
 then, as usual, let her melancholy eye rest fixedly upon his 
 countenance. Suddenly his looks brightened for a moment, 
 and he spoke his sister's name. She replied with a passionate 
 caress, and looked up to my face as if to implore encourage- 
 ment. I knew that her hopes were but a mockery. A mo- 
 ment more, and a convulsive'quiver passed over the lips of the 
 dying boy — a slight shudder ran through his frame, and all was 
 still. The girl knew, as if intuitively, that her brother was 
 dead. She sat in tearless silence — but I saw that the waters 
 of bitterness were gathering at their fountain. At last she 
 raised her hands with a sudden effort, and pressing them upon 
 her forehead, wept with the uncontrollable agony of despair. 
 
 During the short residue of our voyage, the bereaved sister 
 seemed fading away as calmly and beautifully as a cloud in the 
 summer zenith. Her heart had lost its communion with na- 
 ture, and she would look down into the sea, and murmur inco- 
 herently of its cold and solitary depths, and call her brother's 
 name, and then weep herself into calmness. Soon afterwards 
 I left her with her friends. I know not whether she is still a 
 blossom of the earth, or whether she has long ago gone to be 
 nurtured in a holier realm. But I love the memory of that 
 beautiful and stricken one. Her loveliness, her innocence, 
 and her deep and holy feelings, still come back to me, in their 
 glory and quietude, like a rainbow on a summer cloud, that 
 has showered and passed ofi" for ever. 
 
THE MERRIMAC.^ 
 
 Oh, child of that white-crested mountain, whose springs 
 Gush forth in the shade of the clifF-eagle's wings, 
 Down whose slopes to the lowlands thy wild waters shine, 
 Leaping grey walls of rock, flashing through the dwarf pine. 
 
 From that cloud-curtain 'd cradle so cold and so lone, 
 From the arms of that wintry-lock'd mother of stone. 
 By hills hung with forests, through vales wide and free, 
 Thy mountain-born brightness glanced down to the sea. 
 
 No bridge arch'd the waters, save that where the trees 
 Stretch'd their long arms above thee and kiss'd in the breeze; 
 No sound save the lapse of the waves on thy shores. 
 The plunging of otters, the light dip of oars. 
 
 Green-tufted, oak-shadow'd, by Amoskeag's fall, 
 Thy twin Uncanoonucs rose stately and tall, 
 Thy Nashua meadows lay green and unshorn, 
 And the hills of Pentucket were tassell'd with corn. 
 
 But thy Pennacook valley was fairer than these, 
 And greener its grasses and taller its trees. 
 Ere the sound of an axe in the forest had rung, 
 Or the mower his scythe in the meadows had swung. 
 
 * A river in America. 
 
300 THE MERRIMAC. 
 
 In their shelter'd repose looking out from the wood, 
 The bark-builded wigwams of Pennacook stood ; 
 There glided the corn-dance— the council fire shone, 
 And against the red war-post the hatchet was thrown. 
 
 There the old smoked in silence their pipes, and the young 
 To the pike and the white perch their baited lines flung ; 
 There the boy shaped his arrows, and there the shy maid 
 Wove her many-hued baskets and bright wampum braid. 
 
 Oh, stream of the mountains ! if answer of thine 
 Could rise from the waters to question of mine, 
 Methinks through the din of thy throng'd banks a moan 
 Of sorrow would swell for the days which have gone. 
 
 Not for thee the dull jar of the loom and the wheel. 
 The gliding of shuttles, the ringing of steel ; 
 But that old voice of waters, of bird and of breeze. 
 The dip of the wild fowl, the rustling of trees ! 
 
HEIDELBERG CASTLE. 
 
 This noble castle was for many years the place of residence of 
 the Electors of Baden. The most ancient part of the structure 
 is said to have been built as early as the fourteenth century, 
 by the Elector Otto Henry : but the chief portion of the 
 present ruin consists of the remains of a more recent palace, 
 erected at the beginning of the seventeenth century, by the 
 Elector Frederick the Fourth. The castle is situated on an 
 abrupt ledge of rock overhanging the town, at the entrance to 
 the valley of the Neckar ; and, from the vast extent of the 
 ruin, and the various styles of architecture of which it is com- 
 posed — from the solid strength of the old mountain-fortress, 
 to the costly and decorated palace of the eighteenth century- 
 it forms a most imposing object. 
 
 Behind it rises, high above it, the majestic mountain called 
 the Geisberg — its sides and summit covered with a forest of 
 chestnuts, intermixed with a few beeches and firs. The 
 mountain immediately round the castle is one thick shrubbery, 
 or garden-wilderness, diversified with serpentine M-alks, steep 
 acclivities, luxuriant thickets of every kind of shrub, and a 
 few carefully-preserved spots, blooming with curious plants 
 and sweet-smelling flowers. The eastern part of the garden, 
 which hangs immediately above the Neckar, is supported on 
 an arcade of stone-work, consisting of a number of large 
 massive arches. Seen from the banks of the river, this arcade, 
 
 
 
S02 HEIDELBERG CASTLE. 
 
 supporting the hanging gardens, has a singular, striking, and 
 picturesque effect. The thick forest which covers the sides of 
 the mountains, above and round the gardens, joins with the 
 shrubberies and plantations ; and the deer of the forest some- 
 times browse among the thickets, and almost amidst the ruins 
 of the castle. 
 
 Since its first erection, the Castle of Heidelberg has fre- 
 quently suffered dreadfully from the effects of war and tem- 
 pests. It has twice been injured by lightning — the first time 
 in the year 1537. 
 
 There formerly stood a much more ancient castle, higher 
 up on the rock, which, after the erection of the later edifice, 
 was deserted, and one of its towers converted into a powder- 
 magazine. " On the 7th of April, 1537, a tremendous thun- 
 der-cloud burst over the mountains, the town, and the castle ; 
 the lightning struck the tower — in an instant the walls of the 
 castle were riven in pieces, the earth trembled, the mountain 
 tottered, the castle was laid on the earth, stones and beams 
 were precipitated into the town below, doors and windows 
 sprung from their hinges, houses were laid low, and their in- 
 habitants buried. Many lost their lives in the destruction, 
 and the dawn of the morning only discovered the extent of 
 the devastation. The present castle suffered severely from 
 the shock, and from the masses of building hurled down the 
 mountain, the Elector, Louis the Fifth, had only just left his 
 reading-cabinet when it was overwhelmed in the ruin." 
 
 The damage done to the building by this severe infliction 
 was, after some time, repaired ; but it was again much injured 
 by the attacks made upon it by the Spaniards, in the year 
 1622. But the principal causes of its devastation were two 
 bombardments by the French, under Turenne and Melac, by 
 the cruel orders of Louis XIV., on which occasion Te Deum 
 
HEIDELBERG CASTLE. SOS 
 
 was sung at Paris, and a medal struck, bearing the inscription, 
 ''Hex dixit et factum est." — " The king commanded, and it was 
 done." 
 
 At this period the famous Tun of Heidelberg, capable of 
 containing 528 hogsheads, shared the fate of the castle. This 
 enormous vessel is said to have been kept, in those times, 
 constantly full of good Rhenish wine ; but it was not until 
 1729 that this gigantic curiosity was rendered again ser- 
 viceable. 
 
 The building itself, having been rebuilt in a more splendid 
 style than ever, had become once more the palace of the 
 Elector ; but, in 1 764, it was again burned by lightning ; 
 and, since that time, it has been completely deserted. The 
 town itself still maintains its consequence, on account of its 
 University, which, although not the largest, is considered one 
 of the best in Germany. 
 
 o 2 
 
THE MOOR^S LAST SIGH. 
 
 " Farewell, farewell thou lovely land ! 
 
 My last — my fondest thought be thine ;, 
 Farewell each happy peasant band, 
 
 No more to smile on me or mine." 
 Like a dying warrior's song, 
 
 Swelling mid the mountains high, 
 Thus mournful bore the breeze along — 
 
 The Moor's last sigh. 
 
 "A little while shall see o'erthrown 
 
 Each crowning mosque ye wont to wear ; 
 While some lost Moslem wandering lone, 
 
 Shall seek in vain our place of prayer." 
 Echoing far in tones forlorn. 
 
 Beneath that soft Iberian sky, 
 Thus mournful on the breeze was borne — 
 
 The Moor's last sigh. 
 
 *' Yet, what though dim the crescent wanes, 
 
 And on my name the conqueror calls ! — 
 Scorning to wear the Christian's chains, 
 
 Not like a slave Boabdil falls ! 
 Ye winds ! go tell their victor-throng, 
 
 How well a Mooiish king can die." 
 Thus proudly bore the breeze along — 
 
 The BToor's last sigh ! 
 
WINCHESTER. 
 
 Sixty-four miles from London, situated nearly in the centre 
 of the county of Hampshire, stands the ancient city of Win- 
 chester, which now bids fair to resume some of the royal im- 
 portance so long lost. During a period of twelve years, it 
 has annually increased in number of edifices, in population, 
 and in wealth. Obscure beyond almost any other English 
 town in its origin, it is accounted by tradition one of the 
 earliest British settlements, and is thought to have subsisted, a 
 village in the woods, many centuries before the arrival of the 
 Romans. Subsequently, it became the capital of England ; 
 lost, but again recovered that proud title under the Saxons, 
 when the country was united by Egbert, king of Wessex, 
 under the same sceptre early in the ninth century. Next the 
 prey of the Danes, it was there that their savage excesses 
 first gave rise to that general massacre, which gave hope to 
 the Anglo-Saxons, and opened a way for the splendid tri- 
 umphs and beneficent government of the great Alfred. Still 
 the chief city of the realm, that monarch made it, like Canute, 
 the seat of his court, and its cathedral the mausoleum of 
 Saxon kings. 
 
 Winchester continued under the Norman princes to rival 
 the abbey and palace of Westminster, and to challenge their 
 favour in preference to Windsor and London. There William 
 Rufns was crowned, and thither his body was conveyed from 
 the fatal forest to be interred in its grand cathedral. It 
 
 o 3 
 
306 WINCHESTER. 
 
 boasted a royal mint, a treasury, public archives, its palace 
 and fortified castle, and up to the fourteenth and fifteenth 
 centuries, parliaments were held within its royal precincts. 
 Winchester was the birth-place of prince Arthur, son of 
 Henry VII. ; and the celebrated Charles V. was entertained 
 at the castle with signal pomp and ceremony by the osten- 
 tatious Henry VIII. In the chapel, now the county hall, 
 was exhibited to the eyes of the astonished monarch, the 
 famed Round Table, newly burnished for the occasion, as the 
 identical that feasted King Arthur and his knights, and it still 
 appears suspended to its walls. Even to the time of the Geor- 
 gian era, Winchester seemed to have lost none of its attrac- 
 tions ; it was the favourite residence of the misguided Stuarts, 
 and when Prince George of Denmark visited Winchester, ac- 
 companied by Queen Anne, in 1707, he urged his royal con- 
 sort to complete the palace commenced by the second Charles, 
 so delighted were both with the site and the surrounding 
 scenery. But the same interruption as that described by 
 Milton, from which there is no reprieve, again interposed, viz. 
 " the three sisters with their unpitying shears," which, like 
 that fated engine at the door, *' strikes once and strikes no 
 more." The oft resumed palace, like the walls of Jerusalem, 
 was never destined to be rebuilt, and the half finished 
 groundwork, comprehending a series of 150 rooms, was 
 first appropriated for a prison, and afterwards for soldiers* 
 barracks. 
 
 Winchester is first seen from the side of a gentle acclivity, 
 in the valley of which flows the Itchen, a river navigable for 
 barges, which loses itself in the Southampton Water. The city 
 is picturesque, and beautifully wooded in the distance, as well 
 as uniform, on a closer inspection of its streets, more particu- 
 larly the new portion ; and the principal one, not less than 
 half a mile in length, offers an admirable perspective as it 
 
WINCHESTER. 307 
 
 appears illuminated with gas, and intersected with other streets 
 nearly of equal extent, which present an imposing and splendid 
 appearance when lit up, or in a fine moonlight. Of the once 
 opulent city there is now only a single gate remaining out 
 of the four grand entrances; the walls and the old moats 
 have been almost obliterated, few traces of their ancient 
 extent and feudal strength being left to reward antiquarian 
 research. 
 
 Winchester, like some distinguished warrior quietly repos- 
 ing upon his hard won laurels, enjoys a reputation of the past ; 
 its cathedral, its college, and other public edifices being chiefly 
 appreciated for their venerable and time-worn air. It ad- 
 vances no pretensions to the commercial or manufacturing 
 interest of modern towns, but is idly busy with ample clerical 
 and county business, and added to cathedral dignitaries and 
 parochial clergy, its society is composed of members, who, pos- 
 sessing a pleasing independence, have selected its calm agree- 
 able environs, with the view of securing a cheap classical edu - 
 cation in its still ably conducted college, for their families. In 
 the Town Hall (1711), are still shown the well known Win- 
 chester Bushel, and other standard measures, first ordered to 
 be preserved there by King Edgar. Other modern structures 
 consist of the county gaol, erected on Howard's plan in 1788, 
 the county Bridewell, city Bridewell, and county Hospital, 
 erected in 1759. But out of the ninety chapels this royal seat 
 is said to have contained, previous to the dissolution of the 
 churches, nine parish churches are all that remain. Present- 
 ing an ample field for antiquarian speculation and research, 
 the older treasures and attractions of Winchester will be found 
 fully detailed in the works of eminent antiquarians, like War- 
 ner and Britton, by whom we are informed that a gaol now 
 occupies the site of Hyde Abbey, in which, before the high 
 
308 WINCHESTER. 
 
 altar, were interred the remains of the first promulgator of our 
 famed British constitution, Alfred the Great. 
 
 The foundation of the see, as well as of the cathedral, is 
 traced back as far as the second century, when King Lucius, 
 we are told, erected the first Christian church on the site of an 
 old Pagan temple. Having been destroyed by the Danes, it 
 was restored by King Alfred ; but again falling into decay 
 the succeeding century, St. Ethelwold, the bishop, had it 
 entirely removed and re-built, towards the close of the tenth 
 century. How much of this structure is yet to be seen, is 
 uncertain ; nearly the whole, it is recorded, having been re- 
 modelled the ensuing century, by Bishop Walkelyn, first ap- 
 pointed to the see after the conquest. To judge from the 
 character of the architecture, the east end and portions of the 
 transepts and the nave must be considered to belong to the 
 age of Ethelwold. Many changes and restorations were in- 
 troduced from time to time, such as would supply a complete 
 exemplification of the successive alterations in the Norman 
 architecture, from its introduction up to its discontinuance in 
 the sixteenth century. The present edifice, one of the most 
 extensive in Great Britain, is built in the form of a cross ; its 
 length is 545 feet, and the breadth of the nave and aisles is 
 87 feet. The nave is nearly of the same dimensions as that 
 of York Minster ; its roof 76 feet in height, while that of the 
 tower is 138 feet, and its breadth 50 feet by 48. The interior 
 abounds both in ancient and modern monuments, especially 
 in chantries and tombs, the work of William of Wykeham, of 
 Bishop Fox, Cardinal Beaufort, and other learned prelates, 
 exhibiting some of the grandest efforts of Gothic sculpture. 
 Behind the altar is a stone screen, erected by Bishop Fox, of 
 exquisite workmanship ; and the altar itself is decorated by 
 West's painting — the finest specimen of his powers — repre- 
 
WINCHESTER. 
 
 309 
 
 senting the Raising of Larazus. Whether lovers of modern or 
 antique art, all may find in the treasures of this noble edifice 
 ample materials to gratify their taste, and indulge the curio- 
 sity of the casual visitor. 
 
 Winchester College was founded by that indefatigable 
 church-architect, William of Wykeham, towards the close of 
 the fourteenth century. He had been educated in the General 
 Grammar School, which sprung out of a former institution, 
 and was among the last of its very numerous scholars who re- 
 ceived the benefit of its instructions. The poor scholar of the 
 Grammar School having become Bishop of Winchester, directed 
 his attention to the school ; paid the salaries out of his own 
 funds, and provided board and lodging for the students, till 
 his grand undertaking should be completed. He purchased a 
 site from the prior and monks ; began the work with spirit, 
 and six years afterwards, in 1393, made his solemn entrance 
 with the warden and priests into the new college. The society 
 consisted of a warden, ten priests, who were perpetual fellows, 
 a master and second master, seventy scholars, three chaplains, 
 three under clerks, and sixteen choristers. Its justly cele- 
 brated founder died in the year 1404, at Bishop's Waltham. 
 
 The portion of the college fronting the street presents 
 nothing splendid or imposing. You enter the court in which 
 the warden's house is situated by an arched gateway, and the 
 tower surmounting that leading inwards is richly ornamented, 
 exhibiting statues of the Virgin, the angel Gabriel, and one of 
 Wykeham, dressed in his episcopal robes and mitre. 
 
 The dining hall — a noble apartment in the ancient Gothic 
 style — extends to 63 feet in length, and 33 in breadth. Spa- 
 cious and lofty, the roof is without any ceiling, but has itp 
 beams and rafters appropriately ornamented with bosses along 
 the intersections. In the manner of the old English dining 
 halls, it is supplied with means of ventilation, so contrived as 
 
310 WINCHESTER. 
 
 to carry off the fumes of the dinner without admitting the wet 
 or a current of air inwards. You ascend into the hall by a 
 flight of steps, and near the bottom of the stairs is a lavatory, 
 where the members of the college performed their ablutions. 
 In a room near the kitchen, situated in the west wing, is seen 
 a singular figure, painted in oil, which is called " the Trusty 
 Servant," and, like the quotations from scripture, so liberally 
 distributed in our old halls, especially in the servants' halls, 
 was probably placed there as a standing exhortation to menial 
 activity and obedience. 
 
 The great east window of the cathedral presents a splendid 
 specimen of stained glass, which casts a dim religious light, 
 yet rich and shadowy — especially under the sun's rays — over 
 the entire body of the interior. The deep colours also of the 
 oak ceiling tend to give fresh relief and splendour to all sur- 
 rounding objects. The choir, which consists of three chaplains, 
 three clerks, an organist, and sixteen choristers, is performed 
 at eight in the morning and five in the evening, on Sundays 
 and holidays; and strangers may attend the chapel, M'here 
 there are tribunes substituted for the side altars, during the 
 time of vacation. The cloisters occupy the extreme south- 
 east of the college buildings, and are believed to have been 
 erected by John Fromond, in 1430, who also built a chapel 
 in the centre of the area. This was converted into a library 
 in 1629, and contains a valuable collection, besides many- 
 objects of curiosity calculated to form a museum. 
 
 The public school, to the west of the cloisters, was erected 
 in 1 687, at an outlay of £2600, received from a subscription 
 of the admirers of Wykehara. Over the entrance, figures a 
 bronze statue of the bishop, by Gabriel Gibber, which has 
 been vilely painted and gilt. The school-room is ample, and 
 along its walls are appropriately set forth the rules for scholastic 
 discipline : " Either learn, or depart, or, in the third place, be 
 
WINCHESTER. oil 
 
 flogged ; " and their exhortations are accompanied by very fit 
 but not equally attractive symbols. 
 
 The market-cross, dating from the reign of Henry VI., is 
 the most splendid monument of the kind in England. Every- 
 where raised as a memorial of the people's conversion from 
 Pagan superstition to Christianity, it is here placed, as usual, 
 in the centre of the city, upon the High Street, more conspi- 
 cuous for its situation and elevation on five stone steps. It 
 is composed of three stories, decorated with open arches, 
 niches, and pinnacles, each of which displays a smaller cross. 
 It is known that the old English market towns were generally 
 indebted for their sites to the adjacent abbeys, or other clerical 
 foundations ; and for a long period, the people who brought 
 their commodities for sale, had to pay a small toll at the cross ; 
 and during the time of assembly, they were frequently ad- 
 dressed upon some popular subject by the city orators. A 
 portion of the area was so protected as to afibrd shelter for the 
 people during the inclemency of the seasons, and it was large 
 enough, according to the historian Leland, " for poore market 
 folkes to stand dry, when rayne cummeth." 
 
 The Hospital of St. Cross, in the central part of the valley 
 of the Itchen, is, for many reasons, peculiarly deserving of 
 commemoration, and the attention of the intelligent tourist. 
 The approach to it from Winchester is exceedingly picturesque 
 and interesting ; and to those who are fond of pedestrian ex- 
 cursions, the walk thence, over hill and dale, will afi'ord views 
 of peculiar beauty. Amidst the pleasing variety of scenery, 
 the branches of the river applied to the purpose of irrigating 
 portions of the vale are seen to advantage. You soon arrive 
 at the gate on the northern side of the premises near the vil- 
 lage, and you then open upon a view of considerable extent, 
 St. Catherine's Hill, with the college play-ground, the sum- 
 mits crowned with clumps of trees seen in the distance, so as 
 
S12 WINCHESTER. 
 
 to produce an agreeable illusion of forest scenery, while, more 
 near, you trace the remains of an ancient fortification. Im- 
 mediately below the hill appears the barge river or canal, along 
 which are conveyed the heavy goods from Southampton, &c., 
 to Winchester. The country, as you advance, has all the 
 attractions of a beautiful and spacious garden, added to the 
 agreeable views from the different acclivities, blooming hedge- 
 rows, green and flowery meadows, and receding hills, losing 
 themselves in the horizon. St. Catherine's, forming the 
 western end of the grand chalk ridge, which extends from 
 Butser Hill, near the borders of Sussex, to this part of the 
 Itchen, again rises to a considerable height, from the summit 
 of which, Cromwell, after the failure of Sir William Waller, 
 attacked, and compelled the castle to surrender. 
 
 The neighbouring vale of Chilcombe is the most beautiful 
 and productive in Hampshire ; and not far off are the bridges 
 of the Roman road from Porta Magna, the modern Porchester, 
 extending to Venta Bulgarum, or Winchester. By this, the 
 Romans advanced into the interior of the country, descending 
 by the north-east of St. Catherine's Hill, over the lower part 
 of the vale of Chilcombe, and, after thus reaching Winchester, 
 proceeding by the same road, along the heights, to the strong 
 hill fort of Sorbi Odunum, or Old Sanim, one of the strongest 
 places of that period in the south-west of England. 
 
 The chapel of St. Cross is a splendid architectural monu- 
 ment of the reign of Stephen, though originally said to have 
 been appropriated only for the use of thirteen poor men, a 
 master, a steward, four chaplains, thirteen clerks, and seven 
 choristers. From the tower of the church, built in the Nor- 
 man massy style, as well as the entire edifice, you may be- 
 hold a delightful prospect, spreading far around, the far ex- 
 panding vale and meadows on either side, the South-western 
 Railway, the city, the towers of the cathedral and the college, 
 
WINCHESTER. 313 
 
 amidst a ceaseless variety and gentle undulations of hill and 
 dale. Its plain proportions, and its glittering whiteness, afford 
 a striking contrast to the deep green of the surrounding foliage, 
 and the varied colours of the hill, and vale, and meadows. 
 The work of Henry de Blois, both the eastern turrets as well, 
 as the body of the edifice, have remained a rare monument of 
 the strength of Norman architecture. The nave and aisles 
 extend nearly 150 feet, and the transeps 120, in an opposite 
 direction, approaching nearer to a perfect cross than in most 
 other cathedrals. The Norman baron was desirous to perpe- 
 tuate his great work, not less for its architectural fame, than 
 its charitable uses : and in the Hospital de Blois he has sur- 
 passed all his Norman predecessors. The most rich elaborate 
 ornaments were lavished both upon the interior and the exte- 
 rior frame-work, and in the mouldings are to be seen the che- 
 veron, the hatchet, the billet, the pellet, the fret, and every 
 combination and variety of the Norman style, which then pre- 
 vailed. 
 
 The annual revenue from St. Cross amounts to a consider- 
 able sum. The master is now the Earl of Guildford, who is 
 in holy orders ; and there is a resident chaplain, who derives 
 from it a regular income. The brethren, twelve in number, 
 have also comfortable dwellings, wdth separate gardens, and 
 about one hundred pounds a-year. They are allowed to have 
 their families with them, and to carry on their respective 
 trades ; but in public they wear black cloaks wath a large silver 
 cross on the left breast. Cardinal Beaufort, its second founder, 
 devoted his share of the charity to the support of broken-down 
 gentlemen, and was desirous it should be called " the Alms 
 House of Noble Poverty ;" but in these times, the places are 
 chiefly filled with aged servants, or decayed tradesmen. It is 
 customary to give bread to every traveller who chooses to 
 apply for it ; and a large portion of the revenue of this useful 
 
314 WINCHESTER. 
 
 institution is also devoted annually to the poor who reside 
 near, or the poorer menials attached to the Hospital. 
 
 The road from Winchester to Southampton, about twelve 
 miles, is not destitute of pleasing scenery, and some interest- 
 ing objects. Passing through St. Cross, Compton, and Otter- 
 bourne, it skirts Hursley Lodge, situated about five miles from 
 Winchester. This stands on the site of a former palace or 
 castle, erected by Bishop de Blois, which had fallen into ruins 
 so early as the fourteenth century. In the year 1639, Hurs- 
 ley was purchased from Sir Gerard Napier by Richard Major, 
 Esq., whose daughter married Richard Cromwell. After the 
 Protector's death, his own elevation, and speedy deposition of 
 power, it was the only estate that remained to him, in right of 
 his wife, and of which the government could not deprive him. 
 Having retained a life interest after her death, he permitted 
 his daughters to take possession, who, like King Lear's, re- 
 fused to relinquish it, on the ground of his superannuation, 
 and he was compelled to have recourse to the law. The court 
 decided in his favour ; and so great was the sensation caused 
 by his appearance, and his gentle and noble deportment, that 
 the Queen (Anne) was heard to express her satisfaction at the 
 marked deference shown towards one who had been a sove- 
 reign. After the death of Richard Cromwell, his daughters 
 disposed of the estate to Sir William Heathcote, who, out of 
 loyal zeal, razed the mansion to the ground, and erected the 
 present stately structure in its stead. The front has an im- 
 posing appearance, with lofty pilasters rising from the base- 
 ment, and a double flight of steps ; a finely wooded lawn, and 
 richly stocked park, add to the general effect. 
 
HOW FANNY TEACHES HER CHILDREN. 
 
 " I HAVE a favour to ask of you, my dear Catherine," said 
 William Herbert to his beautiful mistress, a blooming, thought- 
 less girl of eighteen, 
 
 ** You are always asking favours, William," replied his 
 betrothed bride, a little archly, " and there is no end of your 
 presumption ; what is it you require more than I have already 
 promised you ?" 
 
 " Catherine," said the delighted lover, tenderly but seri- 
 ously, taking her hand ; "we shall be, by God's blessing, 
 united together by bonds death alone can sever, in a few 
 weeks; you have given me a pledge, and I consider you 
 entirely my own. You know I am obliged, prior to that 
 wished-for time, to visit my uncle in the north of Scotland, 
 who demands of me this great sacrifice — for I must be sepa- 
 rated from you, dearest, at a time when every moment seems 
 doubly precious to me ; but my uncle has heavy claims on 
 my affection, and I cannot hesitate to obey him. I wish you, 
 Catherine, during this forced absence of mine, to visit my 
 sister, Mrs. Leslie, in Devonshire, You start, Catherine, and 
 I see are prepared with a hundred objections. My sweet love, 
 let me answer them all in one simple observation. We shall 
 be married, Catherine, at my return ; we shall soon have, 
 there is little doubt, offspring, whom we shall tenderly love, 
 and who will be a sacred deposit in our hands from our 
 Creator. It is my ardent desire that you should profit by my 
 
316 HOW FANNY 
 
 absence, and pay this visit now, for I shall not be able to spare 
 you by and by ; and my professional engagements will not 
 permit my leaving London again to accompany you. In short, 
 dear Catherine, for I will speak out at once, I want you to see, 
 before you are yourself a mother, ' How Fanny teaches her 
 children,^ " 
 
 Catherine Elliot had a depth of excellent feeling, beneath a 
 lively exterior. She knew that her beloved Herbert was no 
 worshipper at the shrine of fashionable folly, so she felt 
 ashamed to tell him, that she wished to stay in London until 
 his return from Scotland, in order that she might superintend 
 her wedding preparations, order her caps, and bonnets, and 
 blond laces, and elegant dresses, with due taste and attention 
 to the mode, and not run the risk of a silk or a muslin of last 
 year's make; but she loved Mrs. Leslie affectionately, and 
 though she thought her rather odd in some of her notions, 
 told her lover she had no objection to breathe the pure air of 
 Devonshire, and oblige her dear Herbert ; " but as for observing 
 the manner in which Fanny educated her brats, indeed she 
 should do no such thing, for she hated the noise of children, 
 and she trusted " 
 
 Herbert would not permit her to finish the sentence. It 
 was therefore agreed that Catherine should accompany Mr. 
 Leslie, who was then in town, to his charming residence in 
 Devonshire ; that Herbert, on his return, should visit them all 
 there, and escort his sister and his Catherine to London, where 
 they were to be married at St. George's Church, Hanover 
 Square. 
 
 " Our parent's hand 
 
 Writes in our heart the first faint characters. 
 Which time, retracing, deepens into strength 
 That nothing can efface." 
 
TEACHES HER CHILDREN. 317 
 
 Our young and happy heroine bore her journey well. She 
 laughed and chatted with Mr. Leslie all the way into Devon- 
 shire, endured his good-humoured raillery with equal good 
 humour, and was received with warm affection by his accom- 
 plished and charming wife. Fanny presented her four healthy, 
 intelligent children to her almost sister, with a mother's vir- 
 tuous pride, and then dismissed them to their evening occu- 
 pations, as a matter of course, considering that all interruptions 
 to the general rules she had laid down were ever injurious to 
 her little flock, and that however much she herself loved their 
 company and childish talk, others, not so deeply interested, 
 might soon be weary of both. The artless and sensible Fanny 
 never exhibited the acquirements or perfections of her children 
 to public notice, or suffered them to endure the shame of 
 'punishment for any little offence, before the eyes of others. 
 The joyous group disappeared from the view of Catherine, 
 before she had half enough admired their rosy cheeks, their 
 animated expressions, or learnt from their own lips their 
 respective names. 
 
 " What dear little beautiful creatures !" said Catherine ; 
 ** shall we not see them again to-night ?" 
 
 " You shall see enough of them before you leave Devon- 
 shire," kindly replied Mrs. Leslie; but she said it with a tone 
 which brought a blush into the cheek of Miss Elliot, for it 
 convinced her that Herbert had written to his sister, request- 
 ing her to impart her ideas respecting education to one who 
 might shortly be able to profit by her valuable hints and 
 experience. At the hour of seven, without apology or form, 
 Fanny absented herself from the drawing-room, and wished to 
 be unattended. On her return her face was flushed, and her 
 eyes were moist, but there was a smile of ineffable delight 
 upon her cheek — she had been to the nurseiy of her children — 
 she had heard all their confessions ; she had mildly remon- 
 
318 HOW FANNY 
 
 strated with one for a self-told fault ; witli another, for boast- 
 ing of a simple act of virtue ; she had taught them to pray to 
 their Heavenly Father, in words their infantine minds could 
 comprehend, and she had given them the maternal blessing 
 and caress. Mr. Leslie now left the room. Need it be told 
 that he also went to the sleeping-rooms of his little cherubs — 
 not to give instruction, or demand confession ; not to inter- 
 fere with a mother's province, so well performed in his family, 
 but to indulge himself in a father's privilege, that of kissing 
 and blessing his offspring before they were consigned to the 
 mysterious agency of sleep, which is so much the counterfeit 
 of the last deep sleep of death ; it is no marvel doting parents 
 should bestow the tender caress, the holy benediction, before 
 those they love are plunged into a state from whence per- 
 chance they never may awaken ; — it is like taking leave before 
 a journey — the minds are to be separated for a certain space, 
 and the bodies also of each to be bound in unconsciousness 
 and torpor. Who knows whether the parent and the child 
 may be permitted to return to action and to conscious life ; or 
 be obliged to pass away, from that neutral state of being, into 
 *' cold obstruction" and the grave. 
 
 Catherine Elliot awoke early in the morning, for her cham- 
 ber faced the east, and the rays of the sun shining full upon 
 her, forced her eyes open — she was still sleepy, and a little 
 fatigued. 
 
 " I will draw that curtain," she said, mentally, " over the 
 window, and have another nap." 
 
 As she was in the act of doing so, she heard the hum of in- 
 fant voices, and, looking out, perceived the four children of 
 Mrs. Leslie, just going out for their morning's walk with their 
 attendant. The words of William Herbert were strong in 
 her remembrance, that he had wished her to observe " hoM^ 
 Fanny taught her children." 
 
TEACHES HER CHILDREN. 319 
 
 ** I will get up," said she, ** and follow these little animals 
 in their ramble — if I am to have a family, I hope they will 
 look as pretty as these."' And she began to dress. 
 
 The voices of the children, joyous as the morning, drew the 
 steps of Catherine to the place they were visiting ; — it was in 
 the farm-yard, and they were paying their respects to a favour- 
 ite cow, who had some complaint in one of her legs, and was 
 at that moment under the hands of the operating bailiff. 
 
 " Poor pretty Bessey,'' said the little lisping Ellen, the 
 youngest of the flock, " I hope she will not die, for I love her; 
 how good of George to try to cure her poor ]egy' 
 
 " Not good at all,"' said the eldest boy, "William, whom 
 Catherine already loved the most, for his resemblance to her 
 own William, as well as his name; " not good at all, Ellen, 
 and that mamma will tell you when you are older." 
 
 " And why, is he not good, William ?" answered the pretty 
 little Fanny, his next in age ; "I am sure mamma teaches us 
 that it is always good to save pain, and George is trying to cure 
 poor Bessey, and so — " 
 
 ** Fanny," said the impatient boy, ''you know no more than 
 little Ellen, although you are four years older." 
 
 " You have made Fanny cry, William," exclaimed a noble- 
 looking little chubby fellow of six years old, '' and that 
 mamma would tell you was not good." 
 
 ** Fanny is very silly to cry," responded William, " and so 
 mamma will tell her, when she hears all our confessions to 
 night." 
 
 "And what will she say to you, William?" retorted the 
 little hero, Frederick, ** for calling her silly ? I am sure she 
 will not say that was good." 
 
 " ] know that too," said William, *' but I am so hasty. 
 Dear Fanny, come kiss me, and I will tell you why I do not 
 think George is so very good in dressing Bessey's leg. You 
 
320 HOW FANNY 
 
 know it is his duty to take care of all papa's cows and sheep, 
 and if he did not dress Bessey's leg, he would not be honest, 
 for papa pays him you know; but if he had dressed the 
 back of the poor galled ass, we saw in the pound last night, 
 when the flies teased it so, and he did not expect to be paid 
 for doing it, then, mamma would have said * George has done 
 a good action.'" 
 
 " You are right, William," said Fanny, embracing her bro- 
 ther, '* and I was wrong to be so pettish." 
 
 " And I, for having been so petulent," said William, " and 
 calling you silly, when you are so sensible." 
 
 Catherine overheard all this at the door of the cow-house, 
 and she wrote it down in her memory. 
 
 She joined the children, and her favourite William repeated 
 to her a little fable his mamma had given him to learn. 
 
 ** Will you allow me to be present at your hours of instruct- 
 ing your children, dear Fanny ?" said the conscious Catherine, 
 half ashamed of the request, and half fearing a smile of 
 ridicule from Mrs. Leslie ; but Fanny never smiled but from 
 the heart, and ridicule had no place in that pure abode. She 
 tenderly kissed the crimson cheek of her beautiful guest, and 
 led her to the nursery. 
 
 On their way] thither, Catherine enquired what books she 
 chose to assist the childrens' studies ? 
 
 " You shall see," gaily replied the happy mother ; *' some 
 of my books are very useful ones notwithstanding." 
 
 " I am so glad you are come, dear mamma," said William, 
 you are more than a quarter of an hour beyond the usual 
 time, and I am so impatient to begin. And will Miss Elliot 
 remain here all the time ? I am very glad of that too." 
 
 " And why are you glad, William, that Miss Elliot is to be 
 
TEACHES HER CHILDREN. 321 
 
 here this morning ?" said his mother, seating herself by the 
 side of a very low table, on which was placed a large circular 
 tea-tray, or something that looked very much like it, a large 
 jug of water, and a deal box full of odd looking things. 
 
 *' Come, be honest, (but that I am sure you will be,) tell me 
 why you are pleased to have company here this morning." 
 
 " I know," said Frederick, " why it is very well." 
 
 " And so do I," said Fanny. 
 
 *' I will tell you myself," interrupted William proudly, 
 " and if it is wrong, mamma may tell me so." 
 
 " And what says your own heart, William ? that has a 
 voice as well as I have." 
 
 *' Can it sing, mamma ?" said little Ellen. 
 
 The children all laughed at this question, and Ellen laughed 
 the loudest. The child was from her cradle fond of musical 
 associations, and was never so happy as when her nurses were 
 singing to her, and teaching her little melodies. 
 
 " The heart speaks in a whisper, Ellen," said Fanny, " and 
 you must do the same now, or you will disturb William — he 
 is going to begin, so sit down on your own little stool, and 
 listen." 
 
 " I must tell mamma, first, what my heart says," said 
 William, " but I don't want Miss Elliot to hear." 
 
 '* I will go out of the room a moment," said Catherine, 
 *' and you shall fetch me when you wish it." 
 
 " Are you so much ashamed of your thoughts, William ?" 
 said his mother. " Well, be it so." 
 
 " No, mother," exclaimed the boy ; " I am not much 
 ashamed, but I am a little ; Miss Elliot shall hear the whole ; 
 — T knew I should surprise her at my knowledge of geography, 
 and I felt proud that I knew so much, and I was pleased to 
 be able to display my knowledge before a stranger, and — " 
 
 " It is enough, William," exclaimed Mrs. Leslie;" but now 
 
3^2 HOW FANNY 
 
 your heart tells you that it is no merit of yours that you have 
 acquired knowledge, but that it is merely a blessing conferred 
 upon you, which demands gratitude instead of pride. Your 
 heart has spoken well ; I can say nothing better ; so now to 
 your display." 
 
 William Leslie took the large jug of water, and emptied it 
 into the circular tray, until it rose nearly to the brim. 
 
 " I wish I could make the water lie round, instead of flat," 
 said William ; " but that is impossible; I have tried it a hundred 
 times — it will always remain fiat." 
 
 " Or, on a level," said his mother. 
 
 *' And yet," said Fanny, " it must be round, when it covers 
 the earth, for the earth is round I am sure, as mamma showed 
 us the other day by the little card ships, and its masts made of 
 needles, showing their tops, and their silk pennants, before we 
 could see the ship, as mamma guided it up the great ball of 
 Indian-rubber — the water must be round there." 
 
 •'Yes," said the boy, " because the water clings fast to the 
 earth, and cannot fall off, for something which we do not know 
 the nature of keeps it close to the earth." 
 
 *' They call that attraction, William," said Mrs. Leslie. 
 
 " Yes, mother, but I must make you all suppose that this 
 Jlat is round, and then Frederick will understand too. Let me 
 find out England first, because we live there." 
 
 The boy soon discovered a sort of triangular table with 
 short legs, which he placed in the tray of water, just in the 
 proper position it holds upon the habitable globe ; and having 
 placed a bean on it, to designate where London, its capital, 
 stood, and another for Devonshire, their own county, he pro- 
 ceeded with great quickness and precision to add France, Ger- 
 many, Italy, and every other country of Europe, even with the 
 little islands belonging to each country contiguous to the sea, 
 whilst the other children assisted him in the search of the 
 
TEACHES HER CHILDREN. S23 
 
 several little odd shaped tables he wanted, which he called by 
 their respective names. After he had accurately finished 
 Europe, he went on with Asia and Africa, giving a slight ac- 
 count of every country he placed on the little ocean before 
 him, and clearly explaining why he could not proceed farther 
 •with America, unless he had another tray of the same size, 
 which would represent the other half of the supposed sphere, 
 or half of a globe, if joined to the one he had before him, but 
 he could not make it do so, for want of that attractive power 
 the earth has, which makes the water cling so close to it. 
 Many observations were made in the course of this little lec- 
 ture, on the subject of rain, mists, snow, and frosts, all illus- 
 trated by little toys of various descriptions, and made clear to 
 the understanding, through the medium of the eye ; nor was 
 there a single book used during the morning, or a single dull 
 uninteresting form of words, a jargon of sounds, devoid of 
 ideas, committed to the memory, as if it were a beast of burden, 
 to sustain a weight until its very back was breaking, v^^hen it 
 ought to be made the helpmate, and the partner of the under- 
 standing, to go hand in hand with it in the acquirement of 
 knowledge, and to be forced to do no more than what is con- 
 ducive to the same. Catherine learnt more by this morning s 
 lesson than even did the little Leslies. 
 
 Catherine Elliot was so pleased with the morning exercise 
 of the children, that she wished to be present at the evening 
 one also, but Mrs. Leslie would not permit her to enter the 
 nursery during the last examination of the day. 
 
 '* If you really are anxious, Catherine, to learn my method 
 "nath my children, I will for once depart from my general rule, 
 and allow you to be an unseen witness of their little confes- 
 sions ; w^ere you known to be present, it might be the means 
 of my children being less open, less candid ; I know they 
 would tell no untruth, but they might be prompted to conceal 
 
324 HOW FANNY TEACHES HER CHILDREN. 
 
 part of the truth, and much evil might arise. I will admit 
 them to night in my dressing-room, in which there is an 
 Indian screen ; behind this you shall be seated, and hear all 
 that passes, but let me entreat you not to betray me, or I shall 
 lose part of my childrens' confidence, and it is a thing most 
 difficult to regain." The children came, and Catherine was 
 placed. 
 
 *' Why do you have us here, dear mamma," said Frederick, 
 "instead of your coming up to us as usual? Are you 
 unwell ?" 
 
 " I prefer seeing you to night, my dear children, here, and 
 is not that a suflScient reason V 
 
 " Oh yes, certainly," said Fanny, "but it seems so odd ; I 
 thought Miss Elliot might be here." 
 
 *' Now, that is just like you, Fanny," said William, "would 
 mamma have any one here when we are going to tell all our 
 little faults to her. Do you think she wishes to expose them 
 to other people ? I am sure I would not confess anything 
 were Miss Elliot to hear me, or any one else in the world, but 
 my dear mamma." 
 
 *' Well, then," said the fond mother, a little conscience 
 struck, " begin at once, William." 
 
 The children did as their mother wished, each in turn con- 
 fessing the faults committed during the day, received their 
 mother's fervent blessing, when they all departed to bed. 
 
 Catherine, when she came forward, was in tears, but they 
 were the sacred tears of holy delight — her heart was softened, 
 and lifted up its aspiration in concert with the infant Leslies. 
 
 Before William Herbert returned from Scotland, his Cathe- 
 rine had learnt " how Fanny taught her children," and she 
 profited by the lesson. Her own were equally M^ell taught, 
 and she was the happiest of mothers. 
 
n &gra.V5 a "cry ~V. \}j:oi.tb d:tc 
 
 '^nmt •s^nijEf© ST®vs(C3a. 
 
THE YOUXG NOVICE. 
 
 There has never yet risen a nation which has been entirely 
 destitute of religion. A supreme Governor of the universe 
 has always been acknowledged, by whose order and through 
 whose permission all the events which have taken place upon 
 this earth have been brought about. 
 
 Consequent upon this feeling followed prayer and sacrifice, 
 offered up either that the anger of the Deity who might be 
 supposed to be offended might be appeased, or else to secure 
 favour and protection. The temple and altars upon which these 
 prayer sacrifices were offered, thus became hallowed and sacred 
 spots, set apart from common uses, and consecrated to the 
 service of the Deity. In earlier and pagan days, when many 
 temples rose to many gods, each of whom was regarded as the 
 presiding guardian over a particular city, this feeling vras 
 very strong; the temple reared to the honour of the god was 
 regarded with veneration, and to profane with unholy hands 
 the sacred edifice was regarded as a crime of the deepest dye, 
 "which life alone could atone for. Accordingly, in times of 
 danger, the temples were fled to as sanctuaries of safety, and 
 from those sacred retreats the fugitive was not allowed to be 
 taken. 
 
 Under the Jewish dispensation, law, as well as natural 
 feelings, raised, the temple to a holy structure, and a place of 
 refuge and safety. Under the Christian scheme the same 
 feeling prevailed ; and in process of time monasteries and 
 
 p 
 
326 THE YOUNG NOVICE. 
 
 nunneries multiplied : buildings set apart for retirement, in 
 order that withdrawn from the world the dweller in those quiet 
 places might hold closer communion with their Maker. 
 
 From thence monasteries and nunneries themselves began 
 to be regarded as holy places. That church under whose 
 auspices they rose regarded them as holy, and the peDple were 
 not long in following the example. 
 
 Thus impressed with the feelings of veneration for these 
 edifices, it was not likely that the people would commit out- 
 rage upon what they themselves regarded as sacred, and thus 
 these houses became, as the heathen temples were, the deposi- 
 tories of costly treasure, and the places of retreat for those 
 over whom danger hung. In our own country this was the 
 case in a great degree ; and during all the civil wars which 
 took place, the defeated party took refuge in a monastery, 
 as the place of greatest security ; and thus, also, previous to 
 engaging in any very hazardous undertaking, the nobles 
 themselves placed their children within an abbey's walls, cer- 
 tain that protection would be afforded them. 
 
 It was tlius that v/hcn the reign of Edward IV. was ended, 
 his queen, fearing the enmity of her ambitious brother-in-law, 
 afterM'ards Richard III., took refuge in the monastery with 
 her infant children. From thence the usurper enticed her se- 
 cond son, who too soon became a victim to his relentless 
 cruelty. Her daughters, hov^ever, profited by the protection 
 thus afforded, one of whom took the veil, and finally rose to 
 fie dignity of Abbess. 
 
GUILTY FEAR. 
 
 A PENITENT, in cowl of grey, 
 
 To yonder minster went, 
 A dismal penance doom'd to pay: 
 An horn- at midnight he must pray, 
 
 A mm-der to repent. 
 
 He pass'd the churchyard path along, 
 
 The gloomy bat flew by, 
 The owlet hoots a dismal song, 
 When, hark! the Abbey bell tolls one! 
 
 He starts and heaves a sigh. 
 
 Why hastens he his wonted pace ? 
 
 What kens he thro' the gloom? 
 Why hide within the cowl his face? 
 Does he some gliding spectre trace ? — 
 
 He sees his brother's tomb. 
 
 Ah me ! how greatly fear deceives, 
 When guilty thoughts are known ! 
 
 The grave-stone he a ghost believes ; 
 
 The wind that chides the rustling leaves. 
 He fancies is a groan. 
 
A SMUGGLER'S TALE. 
 
 In a little village on the coast of Sussex (known by the- 
 name of '* Algerine Bay" among the fishermen of that place), 
 stands a small public-house, whose principal support, at one 
 time, was derived from the purses of those engaged in the 
 contraband trade. The seclusion of the situation, and the 
 nautical conversation of its inmates, was, to me, an entire 
 change, and often afforded me more real diversion than I might 
 meet with amid the society of men whose education had been 
 less circumscribed, and yet whose conversation too often par- 
 took of common-place and monotony. 
 
 In my simple travels, anything relative to hazard was to 
 me an adventure ; and as I appeared to be interested without 
 meddling, I was a frequent, and not often an unwelcome vi- 
 sitor to this society ; for I could listen without impertinence, 
 and when they were tired 1 could sing, what they termed — a 
 good song. 
 
 The room that we sat in was on one occasion nearly filled 
 by about a dozen of those hardy and weather-beaten *' sons, 
 of the ocean," whose countenances alone might well bespeak 
 the hazardous and lawless profession to which they belonged. 
 The grog had taken its nightly round, when one of the com- 
 pany, a grey-headed, sturdy seaman, was desired to give the 
 account of the christening of the Phantom schooner, of which 
 he was, years ago, one of the crew, and the manner in which 
 
A smuggler's tale. 329 
 
 her captain met his fate. After replenishing his pipe, and 
 taking a hearty swill at the grog, he thus commenced : — 
 
 "This is the very room where we used to meet our masters, 
 to hear what sort of a crop we were to start for. They had 
 given us the rhino, and as Hilson said this was to be his last 
 trip, our cargo was to be a smart one. Well, the skipper sat 
 in yonder corner — for we always used to call Hilson skipper, 
 although Scanty Glase could box a compass as well as ever 
 Hilson could, and for what I know was as much captain. 
 Well, Hilson, as I said before, sat in that corner, and had 
 been burning his blue lights all day, which was no uncommon 
 thing for him to do ; for all who knew him, knowed that he 
 used as much to enjoy his gloomy hours as ever he did his 
 merry ones, for you might interrupt him in the latter, but I'll 
 be bothered if you dared in the former. 
 
 " The captain had often told us that he would, some day or 
 other, give us an account of the launching of the Phantom, 
 and how the schooner became so named. So I thought this 
 v/ould be a good opportunity of gaining the information. A 
 snugger or a faster sailing vessel than our schooner never 
 crossed the channel ; and there is not a lubber along the coast, 
 that ever tasted the spirits that she brought over, but what is 
 familiar with the name of the Phantom schooner, or the 
 " Flying Fish," as they used to call her : but none but the cap- 
 tain, by his account, could tell why she was so called. This 
 I know, that many of the crew of Newland's cutter believed she 
 was a Phantom, and declared that she used to appear and dis- 
 appear as regularly at Hilson's command, as ever a crew did 
 on deck by the boatswain's whistle. For my own part, I 
 knew it was little use for him to chase her, and believe that 
 she could sail nearly as fast under reefs as ever they could 
 with a gafF-topsail. 
 
 "Well, captain," said I, "suppose you tell us about the 
 
S30 A smuggler's tale. 
 
 christening of the Phantom ; you have often said you would ; and 
 if we are to have as rough a voyage this time as you promise us, 
 why, we may never sit here again to listen to it." I shall never 
 forget Hilson's look when I asked him — he started round, 
 stared, and his long black curly locks seemed electrified by 
 the question ; his eyes, too, looked as wild as if they had lost 
 their compass. He bit his lip — paced the room — and we could 
 see that a gale was brewing ; in short, I expected that he 
 would let fly some of his forty-pounders, as Scanty used to 
 call the captain's oaths ; but we were agreeably mistaken, for 
 Hilson took his pipe, and began his tale, after this fashion. 
 
 "' You must know then, my boys," said he, " about 20 years 
 ago, one of my most intimate companions was a young fellow, 
 named Charles Haughton, but we always called him Tim 
 Harper. He was a lad that had spent the flower of his youth 
 serving the King, on board of a seventy-four, as middy ; but, 
 by some accident, he fell in with a young girl, with more 
 beauty than fortune, and, as she had grappled Tim's heart, 
 he soon hove to, and at length cast anchor ; — to be plain, Tim 
 married ! and that so offended his family, that the old man 
 disinherited him. The poor fellow, however, seemed content 
 with his little snow-drop, as he used to call his wife, and being 
 disappointed in serving his King with any advantage to him- 
 self, he tacked about, and began to serve his country, by run- 
 ning over with me to Holland ; and a better sailor never kept 
 his weather-eye up, to see who was out. 
 
 ** Now Tim and I had taken many a trip together, and he 
 seemed^ always merry when at sea, and happy with his little 
 snow-drop when ashore. We had landed a good many safe 
 crops, sometimes eastward, and sometimes here ; for Duke was 
 by no means the worst fellow that ever wore a belt for the 
 Customs, and he had no reason to repent of it ; for it was no 
 uncommon thing for him to find a couple of tubs, a bag of tea. 
 
A smuggler's tale. 331 
 
 and a quid of tobacco at his door after a trip. Well, the last 
 voyage that we had together I shall not easily forget. We were 
 coming home ; the cutter had five hundred tubs, besides dry 
 goods, for her cargo ; and a Dutch lugger in consort, which 
 meant to work, the same night, provided we could find hands 
 enough. Now Scanty Glase, with one star aloft, could always 
 tell the shore from Beachy-head to Selsey-bill ; so we kept 
 Scanty for spotsman, and put Tim Harper ashore, to tell Gory 
 AVeedon, and the rest of the Masters, to have the hands in 
 motion. We told Tim where we meant to cave in, and he 
 agreed, if all was not right, to give us a light off the Church, 
 down by the beach yonder, and we were to put out to sea 
 again. 
 
 " Well, to make short, Newland was out with the cutter, the 
 galleys were close along shore ; there was Duke, or Sappey, as 
 we used to call him, with a few of his sharks, and Waters and 
 his gang. In, however, we drove, for seeing no light on the 
 church, we thought that Tim had made it all right ; in this, you 
 will see, we were mistaken ; for not a man of ours was there, and 
 nearly all of theirs were. The galleys began firing each side; 
 the tide was running out, and the wind being off the land, to 
 get her out to sea again speedily was impossible. We had 
 just time to bring the boat alongside, and give the Ingger a 
 signal ; she sheered off, and we pulled hard to save ourselves. 
 But our craft, and all her crop, fell into the hands of New- 
 land ; and the next day, as fine a cutter lay by the Custom- 
 house, in Shoreham harbour, as ever brought flagon from 
 Flushing, or bale from Jersey, and all, as I thought, the treach- 
 ery of Tim Harper. 
 
 " Well, you must know, we guessed by this time that our 
 business was being done for us ; so finding that the sea was 
 turning the white of her eye up, for the want of better em- 
 ployment we kept her company for a few hours ; and there we 
 
S32 A smuggler's tale. 
 
 rolled about, like porpoises before a squall, and in the morn- 
 ing early we got ashore. But we hadn't" been ashore long, be- 
 fore I was met by Scanty's brother, telling me, that he had re- 
 ceived a message from Gory Weedon, informing him that the 
 cutter and her cargo had been sold to Sappey and Waters, 
 and that the masters thought that Tim Harper had sold her. 
 Now, I had often heard Tim say that he should like to have 
 a cutter of his own, so I immediately began to think so too. 
 
 " I never was much of a chap for keeping an old grudge on 
 my log-book ; short reckonings make long friends, as the folks 
 say ; so I had made up my mind, fall in with Tim wherever 
 I might, to give him a broadsider, sink or swim. So me and 
 the lads, not being well pleased with our loss over night, sat 
 down the better part of the next day with some of the Hol- 
 lands that had seen better luck in a former cruise ; and by the 
 afternoon, I was v>-ell trimmed and iu good sailing order. To- 
 wards evening, however, I left them, and steered away for the 
 eastward, and I fell in with Tira, sooner than I expected ; for 
 the same evening I saw him standing on the high cliff, by Black 
 Ptock ; so I made for the spot, and we soon came alongside. 
 It was no use for me to patter much about the job : for I 
 knowed well, if I engaged that way, Tim carried too many 
 guns for me. ' So you have lent a hand to the service again, 
 Tim,' said I. Tim stared, and answered, ' What do you 
 mean, Hilson?' * Don't be too soft, Tim,' said I ; ' we are 
 well met; your boat, I suppose, by this time is on the stocks.' 
 ' Not that I know of,' said he cautiously. ' I thought she 
 was,' I answered, * as you have bespoke the ballast at the 
 Custom-house.' That was sufficient, he took the hint; but 
 like your gentles of the present day, Tim felt too proud to ex- 
 plain, or even give himself the trouble to deny it — so to make 
 short, at it we went ; and being rather tighter built than Tim, 
 the action ftnished by Tim going over the clifr ; and the spring- 
 
A smuggler's tale. SoS 
 
 tide being up, I suppose, he went to sea, for the first time in 
 his life, without his compass." 
 
 We had all been silent enough, while the skipper had been 
 telling his tale ; but after he had got thus far, lie began to 
 haul in a bit, and you might tell by his jib, that he had been 
 weathering a gale, all the time he was talking ; for his face 
 turned pale, and he bent his brow, and by the look of his fore- 
 head, every pore in his skin had sprung a leak : so, after rais- 
 ing his hand to push his black hair aside, which hung in damp 
 clusters like muscles on a ship's bottom, he again lighted his 
 pipe, and went on. 
 
 '* Well, Gory Weedon had taken great pains to put his tale 
 in circulation, about Tim selling the crop ; he also lost no op- 
 portunity in keeping it in motion, so not many missed Tim ; 
 and those who did thought he had gone out of the way for a 
 time, but his little snow-drop, not understanding his absence, 
 died of grief in less than three months after." 
 
 "Why, it strikes me vastly, Hilson," said I, " that Tim was 
 innocent." " Tim," said the captain, *' was as innocent as he 
 was headstrong ; for had he but mentioned that Gory had 
 somehow planned it with Waters, to have him stowed away 
 that night, I should have read it all in a minute, and he might 
 have been alive now, making one with his equals ; but it is all 
 over now — so it's of no use to be caring about it. Yes, yes ; 
 Gory Weedon was getting tired of the trade, and thought he 
 might as well make a good finish as run the hazard of a bad 
 one. I meant, however, to have had a reckoning with Gory 
 about it, but his hour-glass run out before he expected it ; and 
 so he went to balance the account elsewhere. But Gory did 
 the business, Ned, and poor Tim Harper took the reckoning 
 for it." 
 
 " Then of course," said I, " no one ever savr poor Tim 
 again ?" "^ Oh ! yes, they have," said he, looking at me very 
 
 r5 
 
234 A smuggler's tale. 
 
 mysteriously, " one has ; I have seen him, and that no longer 
 than two nights ago ; and then he told me that this would be 
 my last voyage. Nor is that all ; I have never had a cruise 
 since that unlucky affair but what I have seen him, some time 
 or other." " Seen Tim," said I ; why then you mean to say 
 that you have seen his ghost !" *' Ay," replied he, " his ghost, 
 or phantom, or spirit, or whatever else you like to call it. De- 
 pend upon it, Tim's spirit is not at rest, nor will it let mine, 
 until we both meet in another world. But, however, it was 
 several years after this unfortunate affair before I could raise 
 the wind to have another craft put on the stocks ; but, as soon 
 as I could, I had this schooner built. Well, the night before 
 she was launched, the builder, by way of wishing me success, 
 invited me, and a few of the masters, as well as the lads that 
 had cast their lot in her, to share in a jollification at his house. 
 So we did, and the bottle went round pretty merrily ; we were 
 all gay enough ; and nothing would do but I must say what 
 name she was to be. Now I had been musing upon that 'my- 
 self, and thought, by way of paying a compliment to Tim's 
 wife's memory, to have her called Snow-drop. Wei], I lifted 
 up my head, and was about to name her, when, to my asto- 
 nishment, at the end of the room, stood Tim's ghost. ' Oh ! the 
 Phantom,' said I, for the sight of it at that time so shifted my 
 balance that I was nearly capsized. But it appeared that none 
 saw it but me, and I soon recovered myself. The builder 
 laughed, and said it should be so, and the next day she was 
 launched, and christened The Phantom." 
 
 This was the finish of the skipper's tale, and now I'll tell 
 you the finish of the skipper : — 
 
 That very same night we set sail ; the schooner was lying 
 at the back of the rocks, and a fair wind being up, we weighed 
 anchor, and, stretching our sails, steered for Holland. We had 
 not, however, been out at sea more than three hours when the 
 
A smuggler's tale. S35 
 
 sea rolled heavily, and the wind freshened. " We had better 
 take in her canvass a bit," said I to Hilson, who was at the 
 helm. "No, Ned," said he, " she'll carry it." The moon 
 was then just peering above a large black cloud, and threw 
 her light along the deck. " Look here," cried the skipper, in 
 a tone that made us all hurry to him, when lo ! we all saw the 
 figure of a sailor, seated in the schooner's boat as she hung 
 astern ; his face was pallid and deathly, and his bright eyes 
 fixed upon us, as he tossed up and down, as if the boat and he 
 were going to the bottom. We were all speechless ; but Hil- 
 son laid hold of a small axe that hung by the side of the ves- 
 sel, and instantly cutting the painter, meant to let the boat go 
 adrift ; but you may guess our surprise, for the moment the 
 rope was cut, the boat came up on the starboard side. "Ah!" 
 said Hilson — "is it so? then we will again sail together, 
 Tim." So saying, he jumped over her side, and the boat 
 drifted to sea immediately. 
 
 Before we could cry " About ship," we lost sight of boat and 
 Hilson, and never saw him again — we were, however, soon 
 av.oke from our surprise, by finding the vessel in a heavy gale, 
 which lasted for several hours. The moon was lost in the 
 clouds, the rain fell in torrents, and in fact we all expected 
 soon to follow Hilson. After lying-to for some time, we then 
 tried to scud under maintop-sail ; but about four in the morn- 
 ing, a tremendous sea struck her, and threw her upon her beam 
 ends ; she sprung a leak, and the sea was making a clean 
 sweep from stem to stern. We were now half under water — 
 five poor fellows found a watery grave, and the rest never ex- 
 pected to see Old England again : but fortunately, at day- 
 break, a brig descried us, and we were picked up. In less than 
 half an hour not a bit of the Phantom schooner was to be seen 
 above water. Two days after, four of us were landed at St. 
 
boo THE GIFSY BOY. 
 
 Malo, and that was all that remained of her crew and the 
 Phantom schooner. 
 
 The smuggler now had finished his tale, I had finished my 
 grog ; and hurrying home to bed, not very strange to say, I 
 dreamt of Tim Harper's ghost. 
 
 THE GIPSY BOY. 
 
 Oil lady, good lady, pray pity the fate 
 Of a poor wretched wand'rer, deprived of all joy; 
 
 Oh list his sad plaints, while he begs at your gate ; 
 But oh ! your dog howls at the poor gipsy boy ! 
 
 Cease, cease, cruel dog ! I your pity implore, 
 
 'Tis my rags I perceive that your slumbers annoy ; 
 
 But can't I be honest, good dog, tho' I'm poor? 
 Oh yes ; I ne'er rob, though a motherless boy ! 
 
 This coat, do but view it, so tatter'd and worn, 
 
 Three winters has shielded from rain and from snow; 
 
 Tho' my poor naked feet are quite harden 'd to horn, 
 Yet my bosom can feel the full weight of my woe ! 
 
 How hard is my fate when the ev'ning appears. 
 For, alas ! I've no cov'ring to shelter my head : 
 
 Then under some haystack I stifle my tears. 
 Till falling in slumber I sink en my bed ! 
 
THE GIPSY BOY. 337 
 
 Ten full moons have shone since mj'^ good mother died, 
 
 Left me with my father to traverse the plain ; 
 But he, cruel man, ne'er my cravings supplied, 
 
 But left me one morning asleep in a lane ! 
 
 In vain have I sought him o'er moorland and steep. 
 
 But never been able his footsteps to trace ; 
 Wherever I rest, 'tis, alas ! but to weep ; 
 
 For they who have plenty all frown in my face ! 
 
 Full oft I've entreated the rich and the great. 
 To yield me some labour my hands to employ; 
 
 But heedless they've bid me begone from their gate, 
 And call'd me dishonest, 'cause I'm a poor bo)''! 
 
 E'en now to yon mansion I happen'd to go, 
 And for crumbs from the cupboard did anxiously stay, 
 
 When a footman, a savage, to treat a child so, 
 Call'd out a fierce bull-dog, that drove me away ! 
 
 Then, oh, my good lady, pray pity the fate 
 
 Of a poor wretched wand'rer, deprived of all joy ; 
 
 Oh, drive not the motherless child from your gate, 
 But pity the plaints of a poor gipsy boy ! 
 
A SKETCH OF NEWFOUNDLAND. 
 
 The Island of Newfoundland, although but little thought of 
 in Great Britain, is one of the most wealthy and valuable 
 dominions in the whole of the British possessions. The 
 island has little or no resources within itself, and is entirely 
 dependent upon its fisheries — namely, that of the seal and cod 
 fishery. The first-named is the one that may be considered 
 the mainstay of the island, and although attended with con- 
 siderable risk, is much sought after on account of the ex- 
 ceeding lucrative gains, when vessels are fortunate. It com- 
 mences early in the month of March, at which time the coast 
 of Newfoundland is usually surrounded by immense quantities 
 of ice, on which the seals are found. It will perhaps be scarcely 
 credited when I state, that there are upon an average 800,000 
 of these animals taken every spring, and that in the short 
 space of three or four weeks ; in taking of them 150 vessels 
 are employed, all built purposely for going into the ice, being 
 cased with iron. A person on the otherside of the Atlantic 
 can form no idea of the ice that we have upon this coast in 
 the spring. It is not unusual that the ocean is seen as though 
 one solid mass of ice, which extends perhaps for a distance of 
 300 miles from the land into the main ocean. This is what 
 is termed field ice ; but I have seen some pieces that appeared 
 like immense mountains, and unless you knew to the con- 
 trary, you would take them for islands in the ocean covered 
 with snow\ These float about, or are rather carried along by 
 
NEWFOUNDLAND. 339 
 
 the field of ice. It can readily be fancied what must be the 
 fate of vessels that are not built to withstand it, should they 
 fall into it. There is never a spring but a number of foreign 
 ships are lost in it; indeed, if they once become jammed in, 
 they may remain so for months, with the prospect of being 
 any moment crushed to pieces by the rolling mountains, or on 
 the other hand starved to death from cold. I have seen 
 vessels out at sea, not more than four miles from the harbour, 
 that have been frozen up for weeks and weeks, and have 
 known their crews to leave them and walk upon the ice to 
 their intended and destined haven. Seals are to be seen in 
 endless thousands upon the small ice, and are usually killed 
 by a blow upon the head ; they are then skinned, the fat 
 taken from them, and the skin saved. Their value is from 
 8s. to 12s. a head. It is not unusual for a man to kill in 
 six weeks as many as will serve him to live for twelve months 
 upon the profits he may derive from the sale of them. After 
 they are brought home, they are stowed in large vats, where 
 they remain until they become oil, which is then shipped to 
 the home country. A merchant here who fits out five or six 
 vessels, should they prove fortunate, will perhaps realise 
 £2,000 upon the cargo of each, clear ; but then there is a 
 desperate risk of their being lost, &'c., which is not of unfre- 
 quent occurrence, and then they lose quite as much, or more, 
 so that it may be termed a complete lottery. 
 
 I will now say a few words upon the trade of St. John's. 
 The business is confined to about six months in the year — 
 three in the spring and three in the winter. The spring 
 trade usually commences about the middle of March, and 
 continues until June, during which period the people from the 
 numerous out-harbours and small islands come to St. John's 
 to purchase their supplies for the summer. At this time you 
 would be astonished to see the immense quantities of goods 
 
340 A SKETCH OF 
 
 that are sold of every description. A merchant here deals in 
 everything, and in his shop, or " store," as it is called, are to be 
 found all the necessaries of life. If you go into a shop here, 
 you cannot ask for anything but you will find it, in the way 
 of merchandise — drapery, hats, boots and shoes, glass-ware, 
 grocer}', hardware — in fact anything, from a needle to an 
 anchor. A merchant here imports everything — flour, biscuits, 
 pork, beef, molasses, spirits, wines, drugs, &c., and every article 
 used in ship-building, such as rope and cordage, chains, cables, 
 anchors, &c. It is highly amusing to see the curious scenes 
 that we sometimes have in making sales of the above-named 
 articles. 
 
 I must now say something about the mode of living in St. 
 John's. There is little or no difference, generally speaking, 
 from that in England, with the exception of a scarcity of fresh 
 meat in certain seasons, but this is of seldom occurrence. Pro- 
 visions here are much cheaper than in the home country ; a 
 person here may live sixty per cent, cheaper than at home, 
 and enjoy many luxuries that would be denied to a man of 
 moderate income in Great Britain. Wines, spirits, &c., are 
 exceedingly low — not a quarter the price you have to pay. 
 Brandy is sold for 6s. a gallon ; whisky, the same price ; rum, 
 3s. 6d. to 5s. ; sherry and port wine you can buy for 2s. 6d. 
 a bottle — 2s. Id. English money ; tobacco and cigars are little 
 or nothing thought of — the former is from lOd. to Is. a pound, 
 the latter you may purchase for eight dollars a thousand — £2 
 13s. 4d. of your money. There is perhaps no part of the 
 world where there are so many cigars smoked as in New- 
 foundland, but in St. John's more particularly. The reason 
 is this — in the summer of every year an immense number of 
 Spanish vessels come here for fish, in payment for which they 
 usually bring molasses, sugar, and rum ; they bring these 
 cargoes from the West Indies, where they all purchase an im- 
 
NEWFOUNDLAND. 
 
 141 
 
 mense quantity of cigars, being able to buy tbem for a mere 
 trifle, and when they come here only enter about half the 
 quantity they bring, and smuggle the remainder. 
 
 As regards the town, there is little or nothing in it to attract 
 the eye of a stranger. The town itself consists of one long 
 street, built upon the banks of a fine wide harbour, the entrance 
 to which is surrounded by high hills, strongly fortified, as also 
 on its banks are numerous batteries. It would be all but 
 impossible to take the town by sea, for before a ship or even 
 a fleet could enter the harbour they would have to contend 
 M-ith the fire of some two hundred pieces of cannon, not one 
 of which is visible from the water. Vessels of any class may 
 find fine anchorage and shelter. All the places of business are 
 built close to the water, and vessels lie within a few feet of the 
 store doors. 
 
 This is an astonishing place of business, and I am sure 
 strangers can form no idea of Newfoundland, unless they could 
 see and judge for themselves. People at home think it is of 
 little or no moment, and think of it as a country celebrated 
 only for its fine dogs ; but I assure you that they labour 
 under a great mistake, for I consider it as one of, if not the 
 most, flourishing countries in the whole of British North 
 America. 
 
 The climate differs some little from that of England, by 
 being almost the two extremes — either very warm or very cold. 
 In summer the heat is at times almost suffocating, and were it 
 not that the town is open to the breezes of the Atlantic, would 
 be very bad to bear : what adds to the warmth is the houses 
 being chiefly built of wood, w^hich is more susceptible of heat 
 than brick or stone would be. The streets are also paved with 
 wood in parts ; but that is rarely found, except opposite the 
 various places of business. It is not an uncommon thing to 
 see the thermometer between 80'' and 90"^, at eiojht o'clock in 
 
342 A SKETCH OF 
 
 the morning, so it may be imagined how it will feel by noon ; 
 this is in the months of June, July, and August. In addition 
 to this, if you go a short distance into the country, you have 
 the satisfaction of allowing the musquitoes to make a meal 
 upon the blood they draw from your face and hands. They 
 are very troublesome, and unless you are prepared for them, 
 by having your face rubbed with a preventive, they will bite 
 you desperately. The first summer I was here I had a terrible 
 face from the effects of being bitten by them, and was so bad 
 that I had to keep my bed for three days, during which time 
 I could not see : I got this by going a short distance into the 
 woods for a day's trouting, a sport you can enjoy to your 
 heart's content ; the country abounds with them, and they are 
 to be found in any little brook or running stream. Perhaps 
 it will hardly be believed when I say, that I have in about six 
 hours killed thirty dozen trout with rod and line. There is 
 also any quantity of shooting, and no Game Laws here — 
 knock down anything you come across. Partridges are very 
 plentiful, also snipe. You may sometimes get a chance of a 
 shot at a fox or a bear, both of which are found in the woods 
 at no great distance from the town. These are the only 
 amusements you have, with the exception of boating. 
 
 Winter is the time of year when the most enjoyment is to 
 be found; after the 1st January you have nothing to do but 
 to think of passing your time in the best and merriest way you 
 can until the middle of April, at which period the spring 
 goods arrive from England. Without actual experience, no 
 one can form an idea of a Newfoundland winter — for months, 
 nothing to be seen but frost and snow. We have usually a 
 heavy fall of snow early in January, which will lie on the 
 ground until spring ; this becomes frozen, and is as hard as 
 ice. You will see as much snow fall in an hour as will lie six 
 to seven feet deep ; and often, after a fevv^ hours snowing, you 
 
NEWFOUNDLAND. 343 
 
 will require to dig yourself out of doors. Then is the time for 
 fun in sleighing, the favourite amusement of the country. 
 You may go for miles and miles over fields of frozen snow, 
 across ponds and rivers, in your sleigh, without the least fear 
 of danger. The sleighs are drawn by dogs and horses, around 
 the necks of which are hung bells as a preventive for running 
 foul of each other, as they make not the least noise in moving 
 along, and travel at a very rapid rate. The sleighs are usually 
 painted in very gaudy colours, and are covered with furs of 
 various descriptions ; the horses are dressed in like manner. 
 You see vast numbers of these vehicles running in proces- 
 sion, each one armed with an immense ring of bells, as 
 before named, v/hich to a stranger has a very strange appear- 
 ance. 
 
 At this period, it is customary for the poorer classes to go 
 into the woods and cut timber, which is drawn over the snow 
 by dogs ; this is used for ship-building, also for firewood, as 
 they have little or no coal to burn, and unless they lay in a 
 large stock at this season, they will not be able to procure any 
 during the summer, owing to the access being so difficult into 
 the woods. Every one has heard of the prairies in America. 
 You see vast extents of waste land covered for miles with fo- 
 rests of wood, the greater part of which is spruce, or what 
 we call in England fir ; the tree grows to an immense height, 
 and as close as nature and the soil will permit. It is in such 
 places as these that hundreds of the poor seek their livelihood, 
 depending chiefly upon what they procure by fishing, shooting, 
 and taking furs of various kinds; these they bring to St, 
 John's, and sell or barter for articles of clothing, &c. &c. 
 
 It is not an uncommon thing, during the summer, to witness 
 fires of an alarming extent, which take place in the woods, and 
 are occasioned by parties kindling fires for the purpose of 
 
344 A ^SKETCH OF 
 
 cooking, '.vliich tliey often leave burning, and thereby extend 
 to the brushwood, and so on to trees. I was witness to one 
 of these terrible conflagrations this summer ; the fire was about 
 four miles out of town, and it was considered by persons who 
 are well able to judge, that it covered a space of not less than 
 six or seven miles. This was one mass of burning trees ; 
 the sight it would be impossible to describe, and may be 
 more easily imagined. The heat given to the atmosphere 
 was intense, and was almost unbearable at many miles' 
 distance. 
 
 I must also tell you that we have occasional visits paid us 
 by some of the Indians, who come from many miles into the 
 interior — some as far as 200 to 300 miles ; they usually come 
 in the winter, when they can travel across mountain, river, 
 and plain, with greater ease than at any other period of the 
 year. They come across the country with no other guide than 
 the sun, and that natural instinct with which the Indian is 
 knov/n to be gifted. The race of North American Indians 
 is now nearly extinct, having been driven from these shores 
 by the English, French, and other traders, Vv-ho, sad to say, in 
 years that are past have killed, robbed, and deceived them 
 for the sake of their furs. I have seen three since my resi- 
 dence in St. John's ; one was a fine fellow, and just what you 
 vrould imagine from the accounts you read of them. He came 
 to trade in furs, and then bought what he needed, such as 
 powder, shot, and articles of clothing. He came here also 
 with a party of shipwrecked sailors, who had been cast ashore 
 a long way up the country, from which they had no means 
 of rescuing themselves, had they not been fortunate in meet- 
 ing with this Indian, who undertook to convey them to St. 
 John's although he had never been here in his life ; he suc- 
 ceeded in bringing them through the woods for more than 350 
 
NEWFOUNDLAND. 345 
 
 miles, in travelling M-hich they took seventeen days, v/ith 
 no other guide save their Indian friend, with no place of 
 rest but the ground, at that time covered with snow, depen- 
 dent also upon the Indian's rifle for procuring them food. In 
 fact I never heard of so wonderful a performance. It may be 
 imagined what a forlorn-looking set of beings they were when 
 they arrived at their desired haven ; the poor fellows were 
 nearly dead, but the Indian appeared no more fatigued than 
 if he had only come from oif one day's journey, although he 
 had carried his gun and a quantity of furs. They were three 
 days at a time without tasting food, but 'then had the good 
 fortune to kill a deer, which served them some time, or else 
 they would have perished in the snow. How should we 
 fancy travelling across a country of that kind, under similar 
 circumstances ? But what suffering will not man endure to 
 save life ? 
 
CHRISTIAN FORTITUDE. 
 
 Believing, as we do, that nothing has better proved the 
 truth of reh'gion than the history of the Martyrs, since tlie 
 promulgation of tlie Gospel, a few words to enforce the truth 
 of this subject may not be misplaced. 
 
 Christian heroism has in it something truly divine, and 
 possesses a character peculiar to itself — that of unalterable 
 mildness in the midst of persecution. Regulus, the most 
 admired hero of antiquity, submitte^l to death, and a thousand 
 torments, without betraying the slightest marks of weakness. 
 But he likewise insulted his executioner, and cursed Car- 
 thage ; and had his wife and children been present, he doubt- 
 less, armed with inflexible firmness, would have beheld them 
 without emotion. He could not, in fact, have been softened 
 without losing part of his courage; and to be great, it was 
 necessary he should be insensible. Whilst, on the contrary, 
 a Christian martyr, in the midst of his torments, unites the 
 most magnanimous fortitude to the most tender sensibility : 
 he embraces, exhorts, consoles his friends, and prays for his 
 persecutors. 
 
 Of the fortitude and patience displayed by the primitive 
 Christians, we shall take one example out of a multitude — 
 namely, Polycarp, bishop of Smyrna. When the officers of 
 the proconsul entered the house where he was, he immedi- 
 ately ordered meat and drink to be set before them, and 
 begged them to allow him one hour to pray without molesta- 
 
CHRISTIAN FORTITUDE. i>47 
 
 tion ; which being granted, he prayed standing, and was so 
 full of the grace of God, that he could not cease speaking for 
 two hours. On his way to the city, he was met by the tctrarch 
 Herod, and his father Nicetus, who began to advise him, ask- 
 ing, " What harm is it to say, * Lord Caesar !' and to sacrifice 
 and be safe?" At first he was silent, but being pressed, he 
 said, " I will not follow j^our advice." 
 
 "When he was brought before the tribunal, there was a great 
 tumult, and the proconsul having asked if he was Polycarp, 
 and receiving an answer in the affirmative, began to exhort 
 him to take pity on his own great age, to repent, and swear 
 by the fortune of Caesar. "I am a Christian," said Foly- 
 carp ; I cannot comply with your request." " I have wild 
 beasts," said the proconsul ; *' I will expose you to them, un- 
 less you repent." "Call them," replies the martyr; "our 
 minds are not to be changed from the better to the worse ; but 
 jt is a good thing to be changed from evil to good." " I will 
 tame your spirit by fire," said the other, "since you despise 
 the wild beasts." This threatening was put into execution. 
 His spirit, however, continued calm and undismayed, full of 
 devotion, charity, and zeal, to the last. When they were go- 
 ing to fasten him to the stake, he said, " Let me remain as I 
 am ; for He who giveth me strength to sustain the fire will 
 enable me also, without your securing me with nails, to remain 
 unmoved in the fire." Nor was his confidence misplaced ; for 
 he exhibited the power of religion in bearing with heroic mag- 
 nanimity the agonies of a violent death. 
 
 Nor need we go back to the olden times for illustrations, or 
 select as instances the veteran Christian. The following anec- 
 dote will show that while the dew of youth yet glistens on the 
 brow, the mind may be stored with the fruits of Christianity. 
 
 A poor little African negro, only ten years old, went to 
 hear one of the Missionaries, and became a convert to the 
 
348 CHRISTIAN FORTITUDE. 
 
 Christian faith. His master forbade him to attend the preacher, 
 and his prohibition being transgressed, he was summoned into 
 his master's presence, and, after much violent language, re- 
 ceived five-and-twenty lashes ; then, in a sarcastic tone of 
 blasphemous ridicule, the tyrant exclaimed, *' What can Jesus 
 Christ do for you now^" "He enables me to bear it pa- 
 tiently," said the poor child. *' Give him five-and-twenty 
 lashes more !" cried the cruel wretch. He was obeyed. " And 
 what can Jesus Christ do for you now ?" asked the- unfeeling 
 monster. " He helps me to look forward to a future reward," 
 replied the little sufferer. '* Give him five-and-twenty lashes 
 more !" They complied ; and while he listened with delight 
 to the extorted groans of his dying victim, he again demanded, 
 *'What can Jesus Christ do for you now?" The youthful 
 martyr, with the last effort of expiring nature, meekly an- 
 swered, "He enables me to pray for you, massa,^' and instantly 
 breathed his last ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED BY II. I. STEVENS, 
 8, nilLPOT LANE, FENCHURCH STREET, LONDON. 
 

 
 W:.:^