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PREFACK 
 
 TIST the new volume now offered to tlie 
 -*- reading public, the editor has the plea- 
 sure of presenting some of the finest produc- 
 tions of the popular writers of the present 
 day — writers who are now in the field, 
 actuated by the impulses of the j)i^esent 
 stirring age, and keeping up to the pre- 
 sent high standard of moral and artistical 
 merit required in works of fiction, even of 
 the lighter and livelier description. 
 
 In the choice and arrangement of mate- 
 rials for the volume, it has been the editor's 
 aim to exhibit a great variety of subjects 
 and of styles, so as to render the contents 
 of the voume " ever pleasing ever new." 
 
 The embelhshments are engraved in the 
 
 MG4i88 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 best style of art, from designs of the ablest 
 artists. 
 
 To some persons tlie preparation of books 
 of tbe class to wliicli this volume belongs, 
 may seem a very limiible and trivial occu- 
 pation : but it lias an important use. Dif- 
 fused among a numerous class of readers in 
 the higher ranks of society, these tasteful 
 and elegant volumes are generally read for 
 amusement solelv. But where, as in the in- 
 stance of the Eose, it has been the editor's 
 aim to mingle with entertainment, a large 
 amount of instruction in moral virtue and 
 the conduct of life, the reader who has 
 taken up the volume merely to amuse an 
 idle hour, often lays it down with the con- 
 sciousness that he has learnt lessons which 
 will serve to direct his course in many of the 
 relations of life, and which may exert a 
 salutary influence on his whole future ex- 
 istence. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page . 
 
 MoRxrxG TT^viK, 9 
 
 The Grouxd Ash, 11 
 
 Sea, Eaeth, axd Heaven, 34 
 
 The Poor, 37 
 
 The lost Dahlia, 38 
 
 EvExixG Hours, 57 
 
 LovixG Hearts, 61 
 
 Aunt Deborah, 63 
 
 Verses, 97 
 
 My Early Days, 99 
 
 Captain PoPHAii at his Country House, . 101 
 
 The Sleeping Child, 129 
 
 The Exiles of Capri, 131 
 
 She's Dead, ...... 155 
 
 The Inn-keeper's Son, 157 
 
 The Heiress and her Wooers, .... 160 
 
6 fONTKNTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Sonnet, 208 
 
 The Queen of the Houk, 209 
 
 MOEWELL, 211 
 
 The Cavalier's Whispeb, 230 
 
 The Warrior's Departure, 231 
 
 A Peep into the Office of a Savings' Bank, • 233 
 
 Mignonette, 253 
 
 Autumn's Last Flowers, 256 
 
 An Evening Walk, 257 
 
 His Only A:itBiTioN, 259 
 
 The Bells of Lorloches, 274 
 
 Maey Eussell Mitford, 282 
 
 % 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTEATIOXS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 MoE>TXG Walk, .... Frontispiece. 
 
 The Poor, 
 Lovcca Heaets, 
 My Eaelt Days, 
 
 37 
 69 
 99 
 
 The Sleepin-g Child, ... * 121 
 
 The Ixxkeepee's So:>5', . . . • ^^* 
 
 209 
 
 The Quee:>* or the Houb, . . • • 
 
 The "Waerior's Depaktuke, . . • 231 
 
 An EvEyrsa Walk, .... 257 
 
^ 
 
3 -> 
 
 3 > ' 
 
 ) 
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 ',?, 
 
 THE MORNING WALK. 
 
 BY HENRY VAUGHAX — 1695. 
 
 Y\7HEN" first thy eyes unveil give thy soul leave 
 ^ ' To do the like ; our bodies but forerun 
 The spirit's duty ; true hearts spread and heave 
 Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun ; 
 Give him thy first thoughts, then, so shalt thou keep 
 Hiin company all day, and in Him sleep. 
 
 Yet never sleep the sun up ; prayer should 
 Dawn with the day : there are set awful hours 
 'Twixt heaven and us ; the manna was not good 
 After sun rising ; far day sullies flowers ; 
 Eise to prevent the sun ; sleep doth sins glut. 
 And Heaven's gate opens when the world is shut. 
 
 Walk with thy fellow-creatures ; note the hush 
 And wliispering among them. jSTot a sprig 
 Or leaf but hath its morning hymn ; each bush 
 And oak doth know I Am — Canst thou not sing ? 
 1 
 
10 THE MORNING WALK. 
 
 Oh leave thy cares and follies ! go this way, 
 And \t^m 'art sure te pvosD(;.r \dl the day. 
 
 Se.rye GrQd hefor^.the. wqrlc^; let Ilim not go 
 Urlt'il.'thoti .h'sfst .a'b1f^sing:;/'^'Stie,n resign 
 The whole untojiim, and remember who 
 Prevailed by wrestling, ere the sun did shine. 
 Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin, 
 Then journey on, and have an eye to heav'n. 
 
 Mornings are mysteries, the first world's youth, 
 
 Man's resurrection, and the future's bud, 
 
 Shroud in their births ; the crown of life, light, 
 
 truth, 
 Is styled their star, the stone and hidden food : 
 Three blessings rest upon them, one of which 
 Should move — they make us holy, happy, rich. 
 
 When the world's up, and every swarm abroad, 
 Keep well thy temper, mix not with each day ; 
 Dispatch necessities ; life hath a load 
 Wliicli must be carried on, and safely may ; 
 Yet keep those cares without thee ; let thy heart 
 Be God's alone, and choose the better part. 
 
THE GEOUXD-ASH. 
 
 AMOXGST the many pleasant circumstances 
 attendant on a love of flowers — that sort of 
 love which leads us into the woods for the earhest 
 primrose, or to the river side for the latest forget- 
 me-not, and carries us to the parching heath or 
 the watery mere to procure for the cultivated, or, 
 if I may use the expression, the tame beauties of 
 the parterre, the soil that they love ; amongst the 
 many gratifications which such pursuits bring with 
 them, such as seeing in the seasons in which it 
 shows best, the prettiest, coyest, most unhackneyed 
 scenery, and taking, with just motive enough for 
 stimulus and for reward, drives and walks which ap- 
 proach to fatigue, without being fatigued ; amongst 
 all the dehghts consequent on a love of flowers, I 
 know none m-eater than the half unconscious and 
 wholly unintended manner in which such expedi- 
 
12 THE GROUND-ASH. 
 
 tions make us acquainted witli the peasant children 
 of remote and out-of-the-way regions, the inhabit- 
 ants of the wild woodlands and still Avilder com- 
 mons of the hilly part of the north of Hampshire, 
 wdiich forms so strong a contrast wdth this sunny 
 and populous county of Berks, whose very fields 
 are gay and neat as gardens, and whose roads are 
 as level and even as a gravel w^alk. 
 
 Two of the most interesting of these flow^er- 
 formed acquaintances, w^ere my little fiiends Hariy 
 and Bessy Leigh. 
 
 Every year I go to the Everley w^oods to gather 
 wild lilies of the valley. It is one of the delights 
 that May — the charming, ay, and the merry 
 month of May, which I love as fondly as ever that 
 bright and joyous season was loved by our older 
 poets — regularly brings in her train ; one of those 
 rational pleasures in w^hich (and it is the great 
 point of superiority over pleasures that are artificial 
 and w^orldly) there is no disappointment. About 
 four years ago, I made such a visit. The day was 
 glorious, and we had driven through lanes per- 
 fumed by the fresh green birch, with its bark 
 silvery and many-tinted, and over commons where 
 the very air was loaded with the heavy fi-agrance 
 
THE GROUND-ASH. 13 
 
 of the furze, au odor resembling in richness its 
 golden blossoms, just as the scent of the birch is 
 cool, refreshing, and penetrating, like the exquisite 
 color of its young leaves, until we reached the top 
 of the hill, where, on one side, the inclosed wood, 
 where the lilies grow, sank gradually, in an amphi- 
 theatre of natural terraces, to a piece of water at 
 the bottom ; whilst on the other, the wild open 
 heath formed a sort of promontory overhanging a 
 steep ravine, through which a slow and sluggish 
 stream crept along amongst stunted alders, until it 
 was lost in the deep recesses of Lidhurst Forest, 
 over the tall trees of which we hterally looked 
 down. We had come without a servant ; and on 
 arri\dnof at the 2'ate of the wood with neither hu- 
 man figure nor human habitation in sight, and a 
 high-blooded and high-spirited horse in the phae- 
 ton, we began to feel all the awkwardness of our 
 situation. My companion, however, at length 
 espied a thin wreath of smoke issuing fi-om a small 
 clay-built hut thatched with fiirze, built against 
 the steepest part of the hill, of which it seemed a 
 mere excrescence, about half-way down the decli- 
 vity ; and, on calling aloud, two children, who had 
 been picking up dry stumps of heath and gorse. 
 
14 THE GROUND-ASH. 
 
 and collecting them in a heap for fuel at the door 
 of their hovel, first carefully deposited tlieir little 
 load, and then came running to know what we 
 wanted. 
 
 If we had wondered to see human beings Hving 
 in a habitation, which, both for space and appear- 
 ance, w^ould have been despised by a pig of any 
 pretension, as too small and too mean for his ac- 
 commodation, so we were again surprised at the 
 strange union of poverty and content evinced by 
 the apparel and countenances of its yoimg inmates. 
 The children, bareheaded and barefooted, and with 
 little more clothing than one shabby-looking gar- 
 ment, were yet as fine, sturdy, hardy, ruddy, sun- 
 burnt urchins, as one should see on a summer day. 
 They were clean, too : the stunted bit of raiment 
 was patched, but not ragged ; and when the girl 
 (for, although it was rather difficult to distinguish 
 between the brother and sister, the pair were of 
 difi'erent sexes), when the bright-eyed, square-made, 
 upright little damsel clasped her tw^o brown hands 
 together, on the top of her head, pressed down her 
 thick curls, looking at us and listening to us with 
 an air of the most intelligent attention that returned 
 our curiosity with interest ; and when the boy, in 
 
THE GROUND-ASH. 15 
 
 answer to our inquiry, if he could hold a horse, 
 clutched the reins with his small fingers, and planted 
 himself beside our high-mettled steed with an air 
 of firm determination, that seemed to say, " I'm 
 your master ! Run away if you dare !" we both 
 of us felt that they were subjects for a picture, 
 and that, though Sir Joshua might not have 
 painted them, Gainsborough and our own Colhns 
 
 would. 
 
 But besides their exceeding picturesqueness, the 
 evident content, and helpfulness, and industry of 
 these httle creatures was delightful to look at and 
 to think of. In convei-sation they were at once 
 very civil and respectful (Bessy dropping her little 
 curtsey, and Hany putting his hand to the lock of 
 hair where the hat should have been, at every 
 sentence they uttered), and perfectly frank and un- 
 fearing. In answer to our questions, they told us 
 that " Father was a broom-maker, from the low 
 country; that he had come to these parts and 
 married mother, and built their cottage, because 
 houses were so scarce hereabouts, and because of 
 its convenience to the heath ; that they had done 
 very well till the last winter, when poor father had 
 had the fever for five months, and they had had 
 
16 THE GROUND-ASII. 
 
 much ado to g-et on ; l)iit that fothcr was brave 
 again now, and was building another house 
 (bouse ! !) larger and iiner, upon Squire Benson's 
 lands : the squire bad promised tbem a garden 
 from the waste, and mother hoped to keep a pig. 
 They were trying to get all the money they could 
 to buy the pig : and what his honor had promised 
 them for holding the horse, was all to be given to 
 mother for that purpose." 
 
 It was impossible not to be charmed with these 
 children. We went again and again to the Everley 
 Avood, partly to gather lilies, partly to rejoice in 
 the trees with their young leaves so beautiful in 
 texture as well as in color, but chiefly to indulge 
 ourselves in the pleasure of talking to the children, 
 of adding something to their scanty stock of cloth- 
 ing (Bessy ran as fast as her feet could carry her 
 to the clear pool at the bottom of the wood, to look 
 at herself in her new bonnet), and of assisting in 
 the accumulations of the Grand Pig Savings' 
 Bank, by engaging Harry to hold the horse, and 
 Bessy to help fill the hly basket. 
 
 This employment, by showing that the lilies had 
 a money value, put a new branch of traffic into 
 the heads of these thouo'htful children, already ac- 
 
THE GROUND-ASH. 1*7 
 
 customed to gather heath for their father's brooms, 
 and to collect the dead furze which served as fuel 
 to the family. After gaining permission of the 
 farmer who rented the wood, and ascertaining that 
 we had no objection, they set about making nose- 
 gays of the flowers, and collecting the roots for 
 sale, and actually stood two Saturdays in Belford 
 market (the smallest merchant of a surety that 
 ever appeared in that rural Exchange) to dispose of 
 their wares ; havino* obtained a cast in a wao^on 
 there and back, and carrying home faithfully every 
 penny of their gainings, to deposit in the common 
 stock. 
 
 The next year we lost sight of them. Xo smoke 
 issued from the small chimney by the hiil-side. 
 The hut itself was half demolished by wind and 
 weather ; its tenants had emigrated to the new 
 house on Squire Benson's land ; and after two or 
 three attempts to understand and to follow the di- 
 rections as to the spot given us by the good farmer 
 at Everley, we were forced to give up the search. 
 
 Accident, the great discoverer and recoverer of 
 lost goods, at last restored to us these good little 
 children. It happened as follows : — 
 
 In new potting some large hydrangeas, we were 
 
18 THE GROUND-ASII. 
 
 seized with a desire to give the Llue tinge to the 
 petals, which so greatly improves the beauty of that 
 fine bold flower, and which is so desirable when 
 they are placed, as these were destined to be, in 
 the midst of red and pink blossoms, fuchsias, sal- 
 vias, and geraniums. Accordingly, w^e sallied forth 
 to a place called the Moss, a wild tract of moor- 
 land lying about a mile to the right of the road to 
 Everley, and ffimous for the red bog, produced, I 
 presume, by chalybeate springs, which, when mix- 
 ed with the fine Bagshot silver sand, is so effectual 
 in changing the color of flowers. 
 
 It w^as a bleak gusty day in February, raining 
 by fits, but not with sufficient violence to deter me 
 from an exj^edition to which I had taken a fancy. 
 Putting up, therefore, the head and apron of the 
 phaeton, and followed by one lad (the shrewd boy 
 Dick) on horseback, and another (John, the steady 
 gardening youth) in a cart laden wdth tubs and 
 sacks, sj^ades and watering.pots, to procure and con- 
 tain the bog mould (for we were prudently deter • 
 mined to provide for all emergencies, and to carry 
 with us fit receptacles to receive our treasure, whe- 
 ther it presented itself in the form of red eailh or 
 of red mud), our little procession set forth early in 
 
THE GROUND-ASH. 19 
 
 the afternoon, towards the wildest and most dreary 
 piece of scenery that I have ever met with in this 
 part of the country. 
 
 Wild and dreary of a truth was the Moss, and 
 the stormy sky, the moaning wind, and the occa- 
 sional gushes of driving rain, suited well Avith the 
 dark and cheerless reo-ion into which we had en- 
 tered by a road, if a rude cart-track may be so 
 called, such as shall seldom be encountered in this 
 land of Macadamization. And yet, partly perhaps 
 from their novelty, the wild day and the wild scene- 
 ry had for me a^strange and thrilling charm. The 
 ground, covered with the sea-green moss, whence it 
 derived its name, mingled in the higher parts with 
 brown patches of heather, and dark bushes of 
 stunted furze, was broken with deep hollows full of 
 stao-nant water ; some almost black, others covered 
 with the rusty scum which denoted the presence of 
 the powerful mineral, upon whose agency we relied 
 for performing that strange piece of natural magic 
 which may almost be called the transmutation of 
 flowers. 
 
 Towards the ruddiest of these pools, situated in 
 a deep glen, our active coadjutors, leaving phaeton, 
 cart, and horses, on the brow of the hill, began roll- 
 
20 THE GROUND-ASII. 
 
 ing and tossing the several tubs, buckets, watering- 
 pots, sacks, and spades, which were destined for 
 the removal and conveyance of the much coveted 
 bog ; we followed, amused and pleased, as, in cer- 
 tain moods, physical and mental, people are pleas- 
 ed and amused at self-imposed diflficulties, down 
 the abrupt and broken descent ; and for some time 
 the process of digging among the mould at the 
 edge of the bank went steadily on. 
 
 In a few minutes, however, Dick, whose quick 
 and restless eye was never long bent on any single 
 object, most of all when that object presented itself 
 in the form of work, exclaimed to his comrade, 
 
 " Look at those children wandering about amongst 
 the firs, like the babes in the wood in the old bal- 
 lad. What can they be about ?" And looking 
 in the direction to which he pointed, we saw, 
 amidst the gloomy fir plantations, which formed a 
 dark and massive border nearly round the Moss, 
 our old friends Harry and Bessy Leigh, collecting, 
 as it seemed, the fir cones with which the ground 
 was strewed, and depositing them carefully in a 
 large basket. 
 
 A manful shout from my companion soon brought 
 the children to our side — good, busy, cheerful, and 
 
THE GROU>'D-ASH. 21 
 
 healthy-looking as ever, and marvellously improved 
 in the matter of equipment. Harry had been pro- 
 moted to a cap, which added the grace of a flour- 
 ish to his brow ; Bessy had added the luxury of a 
 pinafore to her nondescript garments ; and both 
 pairs of little feet were advanced to the certain cMg- 
 nity, although somewhat equivocal comfort, of 
 shoes and stockino-s. 
 
 The world had gone well with them, and with 
 their parents. The house was built. Upon re- 
 mounting the hill, and advancing a little tarther 
 into the centre of the Moss, we saw the comfort- 
 able low-browed cottao;e full of Uo-ht and shadow, 
 of juttings out, and corners and angles of every 
 sort and description, with a garden stretching along 
 the side, backed and sheltered by the tall impene- 
 trable plantation, a wall of trees, against whose 
 dark masses a wreath of lio-lit smoke was curlino- 
 whose fragrance seemed really to perfume the win- 
 ter air. The pig had been bought, fatted, and kill- 
 ed ; but other pigs were inhabiting the sty, almost 
 as larofe as their former dwellino-, which stood at 
 the end of their garden ; and the children told Avith 
 honest joy how all this prosperity had come about. 
 Their father, takino^ some brooms to mv kind 
 
22 THE GROUND-ASII. 
 
 friend Lady Denys, liad seen some of the orna- 
 mental baskets used for flowery upon a lawn, and 
 liad been struck with the fancy of trying to make 
 some, decorated with fir cones ; and he had been 
 so successful in this profitable manufacture, that he 
 had had more orders than he could execute. Lady 
 Den3^s had also, with characteristic benevolence, 
 put the children to her Sunday-school. One mis- 
 fortune had a little overshadowed the sunshine. 
 Squire Benson had died, and the consent to the 
 erection of the cottage being only verbal, the at- 
 torney who managed for the infant heir, a ward in 
 Chancery, had claimed the property. But the 
 matter had been compromised upon the payment 
 of such a rent as the present prospects of the fam- 
 ily would fairly allow. Besides collecting fir cones 
 for the baskets, they picked up all they could in 
 that pine forest (for it was little less), and sold 
 such as were discolored, or otherwise unfit for work- 
 ing up, to Lady Denys and other persons who 
 liked the fine aromatic odor of these the pleasant- 
 est of pastilles, in their dressing-room or drawing- 
 room fires. " Did I like the smell ? We had a 
 cart there — might they bring us a hamper full ?" 
 And it was with great difiiculty that a trifling pre- 
 
THE GROUND-ASH. 23 
 
 sent (for we did not think of offering money as 
 2Kiyment) could be forced upon the grateful chil- 
 dren. ^ " We," they said, " had been their first 
 friends." For what very small assistance the poor 
 are often deeply, permanently thankful I Well says 
 the great poet — 
 
 "I've heard of hearts unkind, good deeds 
 With ill deeds still returning ; 
 Alas, the gratitude of mau 
 Hath oftener left me mourning !" 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Again for above a year we lost sight of our little 
 fovorites, for such thev were with both of us ; thouo-h 
 absence, indisposition, business, company — engage- 
 ments, in short, of many sorts — combined to keep 
 us from the Moss for upwards of a twelvemonth. 
 Early in the succeediug April, however, it happen- 
 ed that, discussing with some morning visitors the 
 course of a beautiftil winding brook (one of the 
 tributaries to the Loddon, which bright and brim- 
 ming river has nearly as many sources as the Xile), 
 one of them observed that the well-head was in 
 Lanson Wood, and that it was a bit of scenery 
 more like thg burns of the Xorth Countrie (my 
 
24 THE GROUND-ASII. 
 
 visitor was a Northumbrian) than any thing he had 
 seen in the south. Surely I had seen it ? I was 
 half ashamed to confess that I had not — (how of- 
 ten are we obliged to confess that we have not seen 
 the beauties wliieh lie close to our doors, too near 
 for observation ?) — and the next day proving fine, 
 I determined to repair my omission. 
 
 It was a soft and balmy April morning, just at 
 that point of the flowery spring when violets and 
 primroses are lingering under the northern hedge- 
 rows, and cowslips and orchises peeping out upon 
 the sunnv banks. Mv driver was the clever, shrewd, 
 arch boy Dick ; and the first part of our way lay 
 along the green winding lanes which lead to Ever- 
 ley ; we then turned to the left, and putting up our 
 phaeton at a small farm-house, where my attendant 
 (who found acquaintances every where) was inti- 
 mate, we proceeded to the wood ; Dick accompany- 
 ing me, carrying my flower-basket, opening the 
 gates, and taking care of my dog Dash, a very 
 beautiful thorough-bred Old English spaniel, who 
 was a little apt, Avhen he got into a wood, to run 
 after the game, and forget to come out again. 
 
 I have seldom seen any thing in woodland 
 scenery more picturesque and attractive than the 
 
THE GROUND-ASH. 25 
 
 old coppice of Lanton, on that soft and balmy 
 April morning. The underwood was nearly cut, 
 and bundles of long split poles for hooping barrels 
 were piled together against the tall oak trees, 
 bursting with their sap ; whilst piles of faggots 
 were built up in other parts of the copse, and one 
 or two saw-pits, with light open sheds erected over 
 them, whence issued the measured sound of the 
 saw and the occasional voices of the workmen, 
 almost concealed by their subterranean position, 
 were placed in the hollows. At the far side of the 
 coppice, the operation of hewing down the imder- 
 wood was still proceeding, and the sharp strokes of 
 the axe and the bill, softened by distance, came 
 across the monotonous jar of the never-ceasing 
 saw. 
 
 The surface of the ground was prettily tumbled 
 about, comprehending as pleasant a variety of hill 
 and dale as could well be comprised in some thirty 
 acres. It declined, however, generally speaking, 
 towards the centre of the coppice, along which a 
 small, very small rivulet, scarcely more than a run- 
 let, wound its way in a thousand sraceful meanders. 
 Tracking upward the course of the little stream, 
 we soon arrived at that which had been the osten- 
 
26 THE GROUND-ASH. 
 
 sible object of our drive — the spot whence it 
 sprung. 
 
 It was a steep irregular acclivity on the highest 
 side of the wood, a mound, I had almost said a 
 rock, of earth, cloven in two about the middle, but 
 with so nari'ow a fissure that the brushwood which 
 grew on either side nearly filled up the opening, so 
 that the source of the spring still remained con- 
 cealed, although the rapid gushing of the water 
 made a pleasant music in that pleasant place ; and 
 here and there a sunbeam, striking upon the spark- 
 ling stream, shone with a bright and glancing 
 light amidst the dark ivies, and brambles, and 
 mossy stumps of trees, that grew around. 
 
 This mound had apparently been cut a year or 
 two ago, so that it presented an appearance of 
 mingled wildness and gayety, that contrasted very 
 agreeably with the rest of the coppice ; whose 
 trodeen-down flowers I had grieved over, even 
 whilst admiring the picturesque effect of the wood- 
 cuttei-s and their several ojierations. Here, how- 
 ever, reigned the floAvery spring in all her glory. 
 Violets, pansies, orchises, oxslips, the elegant wood- 
 sorrel, the delicate wood anemone, and the enam- 
 elled wild hyacinth, were sprinkled profusely 
 
THE GROUND-ASH. 27 
 
 amongst the mosses, and lichens, and dead leaves, 
 which formed so rich a carpet beneath our feet. 
 Primroses, above all, vrere there of almost every 
 hue, from the rare and pearly white, to the deepest 
 pinkish purple, colored by some diversity of soil, 
 the pretty freak of nature's gardening ; whilst the 
 common yellow blossom — commonest and prettiest 
 of all — peeped out from amongst the boughs in 
 the stump of an old willow, like (to borrow the 
 simile of a dear friend, now no more) a canar}' 
 bird from its cage. The wild geranium was al- 
 ready showing its pink stem and scarlet-edged 
 leaves, themselves almost gorgeous enough to pass 
 for flowers ; the periwinkle, with its ^\Teaths of 
 shining foliage, was hanging in garlands over the 
 precipitous descent ; and the lily of the valley, the 
 fragrant woodroof, and the silvery wild garliek, 
 were just peeping from the earth in the most 
 sheltered nooks. Charmed to find myself sur- 
 rounded by so much beauty, I had scrambled, 
 with much ado, to the top of the woody cliff (no 
 other word can convey an idea of its precipitous 
 abruptness), and was vainly attempting to trace by 
 my eye the actual course of the spring, which was, 
 by the clearest evidence of sound, gushing from 
 
28 THE GROUND-ASH. 
 
 the fount many feet below me ; when a pecuhar 
 whistle of delight (for whistling was to Dick, al- 
 though no ordinary proficient in our common 
 tongue, another language), and a tremendous 
 scrambling amongst the bushes, gave token that my 
 faithful attendant had met with something as agree- 
 able to his fancy, as the primroses and orchises 
 had proved to mine. 
 
 Guided by a repetition of the whistle, I soon 
 saw my trusty adherent spanning the chasm like a 
 Colossus, one foot on one bank, the other on the 
 opposite — each of which appeared to me to be 
 resting, so to say, on nothing — tugging away at a 
 long twig that grew on the brink of the precij^ice, 
 and exceedingly likely to resolve the inquiry as to 
 the source of the Loddon, by plum^jing souse into 
 the fountain-head. I, of course, called out to warn 
 him ; and he equally, of course, went on with his 
 labor, without paying the slightest attention to my 
 caution. On the contrary, having possessed him- 
 self of one straight slender twig, wbich, to my great 
 astonishment, he wound round his fingers, and de- 
 posited in his pocket, as one should do by a bit of 
 pack-thread, he apparently, during the operation, 
 caught sight of another. Testifying his delight by 
 
THE GROUND-ASH. 29 
 
 a second whistle, which, having his knife in his 
 mouth, one wonders how he could accompHsh ; 
 and scrambHno; with the fearless darino- of a 
 monkey up the perpendicular bank, supported by 
 strings of ivy, or ledges of roots, and clinging by 
 hand and foot to the frail bramble or the slippery 
 moss, leaping like a squirrel from bough to bough, 
 and yet, by happy boldness, escaping all danger, 
 he attained his object as easily as if he had been 
 upon level ground. Three, four, five times was the 
 knowing, joyous, triumphant whistle sounded, and 
 every time with a fresh peril and a fresh escape. 
 At last, the young gentleman, panting and breath- 
 less, stood at my side, and I began to question him 
 as to the treasure he had been pursuing. 
 
 " It's the ground-ash, ma'am," responded master 
 Dick, taking one of the coils from his pocket ; 
 "the best riding-switch in the world. All the 
 whips that ever were made are nothing to it. 
 Only see how strong it is, how light, and how sup- 
 ple ! You may twist it a thousand ways without 
 breaking. It won't break, do what you will. Each 
 of these, now, is worth half-a-crown or three shil- 
 ling's, for they are the scarcest things possible. 
 They grow up at a little distance from -the root of 
 
30 THE GROUXD-ASH. 
 
 an old tree, like a sucker from a rose-bush. Great 
 luck, indeed !" continued Dick, putting up his 
 treasure with another joyful whistle; "it was but 
 t'other day that Jack Barlow offered me half-a- 
 guinea for four, if I could but come by them. I shall 
 certainly keep the best, though, for myself — unless, 
 ma'am, you would be pleased to accept it for the 
 purpose of whipping Dash." Whipping Dash ! ! ! 
 Well have I said that Dick was as saucy as a lady's 
 page or a king's jester. Talk of whipping Dash ! 
 Why, the young gentleman knew perfectly well 
 that I had rather be whipt myself twenty times 
 over. The very sound seemed a profanation. Whip 
 my Dash ! Of course I read master Dick a lecture 
 for this iri-everent mention of m}^ pet, who, poor 
 fellow, hearing his name called in question, came 
 up in all innocence to fondle me ; to wdiich grave 
 remonstrance the hopeful youth replied by another 
 whistle, half of penitence, half of amusement. 
 
 These discoui-ses brought us to the bottom of 
 the mound, and turning round a clump of haw- 
 thorn and holly, we espied a little damsel with a 
 basket at her side, and a large knife in her hand, 
 carefully digging up a large root of Avhite prim- 
 
THE GROUND-ASH. 31 
 
 roses, and immediately recognized my old acquaint- 
 ance, Bessy Leigh. 
 
 She was, as before, clean, and healthy, and tidy, 
 and unaffectedly glad to see me ; but the joyous- 
 ness and buoyancy which had made so much of 
 her original charm, were greatly diminished. It 
 was clear that poor Bessy had suffered worse griefs 
 than those of cold and hunger ; and upon ques- 
 tioning her, so it turned out. 
 
 Her father had died, and her mother had been 
 ill, and the long hard winter had been hard to get 
 through ; and then the rant had come upon her, 
 and the steward (for the young gentleman himself 
 was a minor) had threatened to turn them out if 
 it were not paid to a day — the very next day after 
 that on which we were speaking ; and her mother 
 had been afraid the}' must go to the workhouse, 
 which would have been a sad thing, because now 
 she had got so much washing to do, and Harry 
 was so clever at basket-makino;, that there was 
 every chance, this rent once paid, of their getting 
 on comfortably. '• And the rent will be paid now, 
 ma'am, thank God I" added Bessy, her sweet face 
 brio^hteniniT ; "for we want only a o-uinea of the 
 whole sum, and Ladv Denys has employed me to 
 
32 THE GROUND-ASH. 
 
 get scarce wild-flowers for lier Avood, and has pro- 
 mised me luilf-a-guinea for what I have carried her, 
 and this last parcel, which I am to take to the 
 lodge to-night ; and Mr. John Barlow, her groom, 
 has offered Harry tw^elve and sixpence for five 
 ground-ashes that Harry has been so lucky as to 
 find by the spring, and Hariy is gone to cut them : 
 so that now we shall get on bravely, and mother 
 need not fret any longer. I hope no harm will 
 befall Harry in getting the ground-ash, though, for 
 it's a noted dangerous place. But he's a careful 
 boy." 
 
 Just at this point of her little speech, poor Bessy 
 was interrupted by her brother, who ran dowm the 
 declivity exclaiming, " They're gone, Bessy ! — 
 they're gone ! somebody has taken them ! the 
 ground-ashes are gone !" 
 
 Dick put his hand irresolutely to his pocket, and 
 then, uttering a dismal whistle, pulled it resolutely 
 out again, with a hardness, or an affectation of hard- 
 ness, common to all lads from the prince to the 
 stable-boy. 
 
 I also put my hand into my pocket, and found, 
 with the deep disappointment which often punishes 
 such carelessness, that I had left my purse at home. 
 
THE GROUND-ASH. 33 
 
 All that I could do, therefore, was to bid the poor 
 children be comforted, and ascertain at what time 
 Bessy intended to take her roots, which in the midst 
 of her distress she continued to dig up, to my ex- 
 cellent friend Lady Denys. I then, exhorting them 
 to hope the best, made my way quickly out of the 
 wood. 
 
 Ai-riving at the gate, I missed my attendant. 
 Before, however, I had reached the farm at which 
 we had left our phaeton, I heard his gayest and 
 most triumphant whistle behind me. Thinking of 
 the poor children, it jarred upon my feehngs. 
 " Where have you been loitering, sir ?" I asked, in 
 a sterner voice than he had probably ever heard 
 from me before. 
 
 " Where have I been ?" repUed he ; " giving lit- 
 tle Harry the ground-ashes, to be sure : I felt just 
 as if I had stolen them. And now, I do beheve," 
 continued he, with a prodigious burst of whisthng, 
 which seemed to me as melodious as the song of 
 the nightingale, " I do believe," quoth Dick, " that 
 I am happier than they are. I would not have 
 kept those ground-ashes, no, not for fifty pounds !" 
 2 
 
SEA, EAETH, AND HEAYEN. 
 
 BY MRS. T. K. HERVEY. 
 
 I. 
 
 T OlsG fathoms down beneath the deep, 
 •^ To know how many corses sweep 
 TVith streaming hair, — each one alone, 
 By billow rock'd or tempest strown, 
 
 Tossing for ever; 
 "Where the land-breeze sounds no sigh, 
 "Where the redden'd corals lie, 
 Upon whose summits peak'd and high 
 
 The doom'd barks shiver ; 
 Oh, Sea ! it is a fearful thing ! — 
 To hear the birds above thee sing. 
 Yet know how many a hope is furl'd 
 That flew beyond thy watery world 
 
 To the tropic's glow ! 
 Or, northward plumed, the storm defying, 
 Still the outworn pinion plying 
 Towards some cold land where love undying 
 
 Should melt the snow ! 
 
SEA, EARTH, AND HEAVEN. 35 
 
 n. • 
 
 To know, on every shore we tread, 
 That some to stranger-graves are led. 
 And deem — poor joy ! — the grass grows best 
 "Where never loving foot hath press'd 
 
 In sorrow's crushing ; 
 By East, — by "West, — far isles away, 
 To wist not where Death next may lay 
 His icy touch, — till none i' the clay 
 
 Hears the heart rushing ! 
 Oh, Earth ! it is a thing of woe ! — 
 To feel sweet gales around thee blow. 
 Yet know that there be some who ne'er 
 Shall feel again that breathsome air, 
 
 Joyful or sad ; 
 ^N'e'er mark again the hues that streak 
 Thy nighted brow or sunbright cheek : 
 Dear Earth '.—dear Earth ! the thought to speak 
 
 Makes the heart mad 1 
 
 ni. 
 
 To know there is a land far off, 
 Bevond the doubter's, scorner's scoff. 
 Too high for mortal bhss to deem — 
 Out of the region of all dream, 
 
 "Where not a pang 
 Shall wring the pulse that maddens here ; 
 "Where there are joys that ask no tear, 
 And sorrow's serpent ne'er shall rear 
 
 Its poison-fang ; 
 
36 SEA, EARTH, AND HEAVEN. 
 
 Oil, IJeaven! it is a blessed thing! — 
 To wait yon trumpet's summoning, 
 When, life's fierce battle lost and won, 
 mff That peal shall shake the steadfast sun ! 
 
 And all shall meet 
 Where IIis great way the angels keep, 
 Who " giveth his beloved sleep" — 
 Where is nor grave, nor storm, nor deep- 
 At God's own feet I 
 
u 
 
 THE POOR 
 
 HxYVE pity on them, for their life 
 Is full of grief and care ; 
 •You do not know one half the woes 
 
 The very poor must bear ; 
 You do not see the silent tears, 
 
 By many a mother shed, 
 As childhood offers up the prayer 
 'Give us our daily bread.' " 
 
THE LOST DAHLIA. 
 
 IF to have " had losses " be, as affirmed by Dog- 
 berry in one of Shakspeare's most charming 
 plays, and corroborated by Sir Walter Scott in one 
 of his most charming romances — (those two names 
 do well in juxtaposition, the great Englishman ! the 
 great Scotsman !) — If to have " had losses " be a 
 main proof of credit and respectability, then am I 
 one of the most responsible persons in the whole 
 county of Berks. To say nothing of the graver 
 matters which figure in a banker's book, and make, 
 in these days of pounds, shillings, and pence, so 
 large a part of the domestic tragedy of life — put- 
 ting wholly aside all the grander transitions of 
 property in house and land, of money on mortgage, 
 and money in the funds — and yet I might put in 
 my claim to no trifling amount of ill luck in that 
 way also, if I had a mind to try my hand at a dis- 
 
THE LOST DAHLIA. 39 
 
 mal story) — counting for nought all weightier 
 grievances, there is not a lady within twenty miles 
 who can produce so large a hst of small losses as 
 my unfortunate self. 
 
 From the day when, a tiny damsel of some four 
 years old, I first had a pocket-handkerchief to lose, 
 down to this very night — I will not say how many 
 years after — when, as I have just discovered, I have 
 most certainly lost from my pocket the new cam- 
 bric kerchief which I deposited therein a little before 
 dinner, scarcely a week has passed without some 
 part of my goods and chattels being retm-ned miss- 
 ing. Gloves, muffs, parasols, reticules, have each 
 of them a provoking knack of falling from my 
 hands ; boas glide from my neck, lings slip from 
 my fingers, the bow has vanished from my cap, the 
 veil from my bonnet, the sandal from my foot, the 
 brooch from my collar, and the collar from my 
 brooch. The trinket which I liked best, a jewel- 
 led pin, the fii'st gift of a dear fiiend (luckily the 
 friendship is not necessarily appended to the token), 
 dropped from my shawl in the midst of the high 
 road ; and of shawls themselves there is no end to the 
 loss. The two prettiest that I ever had in my hfe, 
 one a splendid specimen of Glasgow manufacture — 
 
40 THE LOST DAHLIA. 
 
 a scarlet hardly to be distinguished from Cashmere, 
 the other a lighter and cheaper fabric, white in the 
 centre, with a delicate sprig, and a border harmoni- 
 ously compounded of the deepest blue, the brightest 
 orange, and the richest brown, disappeared in two 
 successive summers and winters, in the very bloom 
 of their novelty, from the folds of the phaeton, in 
 which they had been deposited for safety — feirly 
 blown overboard ! If I left things about, they were 
 lost. If I put them away, they were lost. They 
 were lost in the drawers — they were lost out. And 
 if for a miracle I had them safe under lock and 
 key, why, then, I lost my keys ! I was certainly 
 the most unlucky person under the sun. If there 
 was nothing else to lose, I was fain to lose myself 
 — I mean my way ; bewildered in these Aberleigh 
 lanes of ours, or in the woodland recesses of the 
 Penge, as if haunted by that ftiiry, Robin Goodfel- 
 low, who led Hermia and Helena such a dance in 
 the Midsummer Night's Dream. Alas ! that there 
 should be no Fairies now-a-days, or rather no true 
 believers in Fairies, to help us to bear the burthen 
 of our own mortal carelessness. 
 
 It was not quite all carelessness, though ! Some 
 ill luck did minorle with a o-reat deal of mismanaofe- 
 
THE LOST DAHLIA. 41 
 
 raent, as the " one poor liapp'orth of bread " with 
 the huge gallon of sack in the bill of which Poins 
 picked Falstatf 's pocket when he was asleep behind 
 the arras. Things belonging to me, or things that 
 I cared for, did contrive to get lost, without my 
 having any hand in the matter. For instance, if 
 out of the variety of "talking birds," starhngs, 
 jackdaws, and magpies, which my father delights 
 to entertain, any one particularly diverting or ac- 
 complished, more than usually coaxing and mis- 
 chievous, happened to attract my attention, and to 
 pay me the compHment of following at my heels, 
 or perching upon my shoulder, the gentleman was 
 sure to hop oif. My favorite mare. Pearl, the 
 pretty docile creature, which draws my httle phae- 
 ton, has such a talent for leaping, that she is no 
 sooner turned out in either of our meadows, than 
 she disappears. x\nd Dash himself, paragon of 
 spaniels, pet of pets, beauty of beauties, has only 
 one shade of imperfection — would be thoroughly 
 faultless, if it were not for a slight tendency to run 
 away. He is regularly lost four or five times 
 every winter, and has been oftener ciied through 
 the streets of Belford, and advertised in the county 
 newspapei*s, than comports with a dog of his dig- 
 
42 THE LOST DAHLIA. 
 
 nity. Now, these mischances clearly belong to 
 that class of accidents commonly called casualties, 
 and are quite unconnected with any infirmity of 
 temperament on my part. I cannot help Pearl's 
 proficiency in jumping, nor Dash's propensity to 
 wander through the country; neither had I any 
 hand in the loss which has given its title to this 
 paper, and which, after so much previous dallying, 
 I am at length about to narrate. 
 
 The autumn before last, that is to say, above a 
 year ago, the boast and glory of my little garden 
 was a dahlia called the Phoebus. How it came 
 there, nobody very distinctly knew, nor where it 
 came fi-om, nor how we came by it, nor how it 
 came by its own most appropriate name. Neither 
 the lad who tends our flowers, nor my father ,the 
 person chiefly concerned in procuring them, nor I 
 myself, who more even than my father or John 
 take delight and pride in their beauty, could recol- 
 lect who gave us this most splendid plant, or avIio 
 first instructed us as to the style and title by which 
 it was known, Certes never was blossom fitlier 
 named. Regular as the sun's face in an almanac, 
 it had a tint of golden scarlet, of ruddy yellow, 
 which realized Shakspeare's gorgeous expression of 
 
THE LOST DAHLIA. 43 
 
 " flame colored." The sky at sunset sometimes 
 put on such a hue, or a fire at Christmas when it 
 burns red as well as bright. The blossom w^as 
 dazzling to look upon. It seemed as if there were 
 light in the leaves, hke that colored lamp of a 
 flower, the Oriental Poppy. Phcebus was not too 
 glorious a name for that dahlia. The Golden- 
 haired Apollo might be proud of such an emblem. 
 It was worthy of the god of day ; a very Phoenix 
 of floral beauty. 
 
 Everv dahha fancier who came into our p-arden, 
 or who had an opportunity of seeing a bloom else- 
 where; and, sooth to say, we were rather ostenta- 
 tious in our display ; John put it into stands, and 
 jai-s, and baskets, and dishes ; Dick stuck it into 
 Dash's collar, his own button-hole, and Pearl's bri- 
 dle ; my father presented it to such lady visitors 
 as he delighted to honor ; and I, who have the 
 habit of dangling a flower, generally a sweet one, 
 caught myself more than once rejecting the spicy 
 clove and the starry jessamine, the blossomed myr- 
 tle and the tuberose, my old fragrant favorites, 
 for this scentless (but triumphant) beauty ; every 
 body who beheld the Phoebus begged for a plant 
 or a cutting ; and we, generous in our ostentation, 
 
44 THE LOST DAHLIA. 
 
 willing to redeem the vice by the virtue, promised 
 as many plants and cuttings as we could reasonably 
 imagine the root might be made to produce* — 
 perhaps rather more ; and half the dahlia growei-s 
 round rejoiced over the glories of the gorgeous 
 flower, and speculated, as the wont is now, upon 
 seedling after seedling to the twentieth generation. 
 Alas for the vanity of human expectations ! Feb- 
 ruary came, the twenty-second of February, the 
 very St. Valentine of dahlias, when the roots which 
 have been buried in the ground during the winter 
 are disinterred and placed in a hot-bed to put forth 
 their first shoots previous to the grand operations of 
 potting and dividing them. Of course, the first object 
 of search in the choicest corner of the nicelv-labelled 
 hoard, was the Phoebus ; but no Phoebus was forth- 
 coming: root and label had vanished bodily! 
 There was, to be sure, a dahha without a label, 
 
 * It is wonderful how many plants may, by dint of forc- 
 ing, and cutting, and forcing again, be extracted from one 
 root. But the experiment is not always safe. Nature some- 
 times avenges herself for the encroachments of art, by weak- 
 ening the progeny. The JSTapoleon Dahlia, for instance, 
 the finest of last year's seedlings, being over-propagated, 
 this season has hardly produced one perfect bloom, even in 
 the hands of the most skilful cultivators. 
 
THE LOST DAHLIA. 45 
 
 which we ^yollld gladly have transformed into the 
 missing treasure; but as we spedily discovered a 
 label without a dahlia, it was but too obvious that 
 they belonged to each other. Until last year we 
 might have had plenty of the consolation which 
 results from such divorces of the name fi-om the 
 thing ; for our labels, sometimes written upon parch- 
 ment, sometimes upon leather, sometimes upon 
 wood, as each material happened to be recommend- 
 ed by gardening authorities, and fastened on with 
 packthread, or whip-cord, or silk twist, had gene- 
 rally parted company from the roots, and frequent- 
 ly become utterly illegible, producing a state of 
 confusion which most undoubtedly we never ex- 
 pected to regret ; but this year we had followed 
 the one perfect system of labels of ungiazed china, 
 highly varnished after writing on them, and fasten- 
 ed on by wire ; and it had answered so completely 
 that one, and one only, had broken from its moor- 
 ing"s. No hope could be gathered fi-om that quar- 
 ter. The Phoebus was gone. So much was clear ; 
 and our loss beinor fully ascertained, we all be2:an, 
 as the custom is, to divert our grief and exercise 
 our ingenuity by different guesses as to the fate of 
 the vanished treasure. 
 
46 THE LOST DAHLIA. 
 
 My father, althoiio-h certain that he had wntten 
 the hihel, and wired the root, had his misgivings 
 about the place in which it had been deposited, 
 and half suspected that it had slipt in amongst a 
 basket which he had sent as a present to Ireland ; 
 I myself, judging from a similar accident w^hich 
 had once happened to a choice hyacinth bulb, part- 
 ly thought that one or other of us might have put 
 it for care and safety in some such very snug cor- 
 ner, that it would be six months or more before it 
 turned up ; John, impressed with a high notion of 
 the money-value of the property, and estimating it 
 something as a keeper of the regalia might esti- 
 mate the most precious of the crown jewels, boldly 
 affirmed that it was stolen ; and Dick, who had 
 just had a demele with the cook, upon the score of 
 her refusal to dress a beef-steak for a sick grey- 
 hound, asserted, between jest and earnest, that that 
 hard-hearted official had either ignorantly or ma- 
 liciously boiled the root for a Jerusalem artichoke, 
 and that we, who stood lamenting over our regret- 
 ted Phoebus, had actually eaten it, dished up wdth 
 white sauce. John turned pale at the thought. 
 The beautiful story of the Falcon, in Boccaccio, 
 which the young knight killed to regale his mis- 
 
THE LOST DAHLIA. 47 
 
 tress, or the still more tragical history of Coiici, 
 who minced his rival's heart, and served it up to 
 his wife, could not have affected hira more deeply. 
 We grieved over our lost dahlia, as if it had been 
 a thino- of life. 
 
 Grie^^ng, however, would not repair our loss; 
 and we determined, as the only chance of becom- 
 ing again possessed of this beautiful flower, to visit, 
 as soon as the dahlia season began, all the celebrat- 
 ed collections in the neighborhood, especially all 
 those from which there was any chance of our hav- 
 ing procured the root which had so mysteriously 
 vanished. 
 
 Early in September, I set forth on my voyage of 
 discovery — my voyages, I ought to say ; for every 
 day I and my pony-phaeton made our way to 
 whatever garden within our reach bore a suffi- 
 ciently high character to be suspected of harboring 
 the good Dahlia Phoebus. 
 
 Monday we called at Lady A.'s ; Tuesday at 
 General B.'s ; Wednesday at Sir John C.'s ; Thurs- 
 day at Mrs. D.'s ; Friday at Lord E.'s ; and Satur- 
 day at Mr. F.'s. We might as well have staid at 
 home ; not a Phoebus had they, or any thing like 
 one. 
 
48 THE LOST DAHLIA. 
 
 We then visited the nurseries, from Browns, at 
 Slough, a princely establishment, worthy of its re- 
 gal neighborhood, to the pretty rural gardens at 
 South Warnborough, not forgetting our own most 
 intelligent and obliging nurseryman, Mr. Sutton of 
 Reading — (Belford Regis, I mean) — whose collec- 
 tion of flowers of all sorts is amongst the most 
 choice and select that I have ever known. Hun- 
 dreds of maofnificent blossoms did we see in our 
 progress, but not the blossom we wanted. 
 
 There was no lack, heaven knows, of dahlias of 
 the desired color. Besides a score of " Orange 
 Perfections," bearing the names of their respective 
 growers, we were introduced to four Princes of 
 Orange, three Kings of Holland, two Williams the 
 Third, and one Lord Roden.* We were even 
 
 * The nomenclature of dahlias is a curious sign of the 
 times. It rivals in oddity that of the Eacing Calendar. 
 Next to the peerage, Shakspeare and Homer seem to be the 
 chief sources whence they have derived their appellations. 
 Thus we have Hectors and Diomedes of all colors, a very 
 black Othello, and a very fair Desdcmona. One beautiful 
 blossom, which seems like a white ground thickly rouged 
 with carmine, is called "the Honorable Mrs. Harris ;" and 
 it is droll to observe how punctiliously the working garden- 
 ers retain the dignified prefix in speaking of the flower. I 
 heard the other day of a serious dahlia grower who had call- 
 
THE LOST DAHLIA. 49 
 
 shown a bloom called the Phoebus, about as like to 
 our Phoebus, " as I to Hercules." But the true 
 Phoebus, " the real Simon Pure," was as far to seek 
 as ever. 
 
 Learnedly did I descant with the learned in dah- 
 lias over the merits of my lost beauty. "It was a 
 cupped flower, Mr. Sutton," quoth I, to my agree- 
 able and sympathizing listener ; (gardeners are a 
 most cultivated and gentlemanly race ;) " a cupped 
 dahlia, of the genuine metropolitan shape ; large 
 as the Criterion, regular as the Springfield Rival, 
 perfect as Dodd's Mary, with a long bloom stalk 
 like those good old flowers, the Countess of Liver- 
 pool and the Widnalls Perfection. And such a 
 free blower, and so true ! I am quite sure that 
 there is not so good a dahlia this year. I prefer it 
 to ' Corinne,' over and over." And Mr. Sutton 
 
 ed his seedlings after his favorite preachers, so that -we shall 
 have the Eeverend Edward So-and-so, and the Reverend 
 John Such-an-one, fraternizing with the profane Ariels and 
 Imogenes, the Giaours and Medoras of the old catalogue. 
 So much the better. Floriculture is amongst the most inno- 
 cent and humanizing of all pleasures, and every thing which 
 tends to diifusesuch pursuits amongst those who have too 
 few amusements, is a point gained for happiness and for 
 virtue. 
 
60 THE LOST DAULIA. 
 
 assented and condoled, and I was as near to being 
 comforted as anybody could be, wlio bad lost such 
 a flower as the Phoebus. 
 
 After so many vain researches, most persons 
 would have abandoned the pursuit in despair. But 
 despair is not in my nature. I have a comfortable 
 share of the quality which the possessor is wont 
 to call perseverance — whilst the uncivil world is 
 apt to designate it by the name of obstinacy — and 
 do not easily give in. Then the chase, however 
 fruitless, led, like other chases, into beautiful scen- 
 ery, and formed an excuse for my visiting or re- 
 i^isiting many of the prettiest places in the county. 
 
 Two of the most remarkable spots in the neigh- 
 borhood are, as it happens, famous for their collec- 
 tions of dahlias — Strathfield-saye, the seat of the 
 Duke of WelHngton, and the ruins of Reading 
 
 Abbey. 
 
 Nothing can well be prettier than the drive to 
 Strathfield-saye, passing, as we do, through a great 
 part of Heckfield Heath,* a tract of wild woodland, 
 
 * It may be interesting to the lovers of literature to hear 
 that my accomplished friend Mrs. Trollope was " raised," 
 as her friends the Americans would say, upon this spot. 
 Her father, the Eev. William Milton, himself a very clever 
 man, and an able mechanician and engineer, held the living 
 of Heckfield for many years. 
 
 4 
 
THE LOST DAHLIA. 51 
 
 a forest, or ratlier a cliase, fiill of fine sylvan beauty 
 — thickets of fern and holly, and hawthorn and 
 birch, surmounted by oaks and beeches, and inter- 
 spersed with lawny glades and deep pools, letting 
 light into the picture. Nothing can be prettier 
 than the approach to the duke's lodge. And the en- 
 trance to the demesne, through a deep dell dark 
 with magnificent firs, fi-om which we emerge into 
 a finely wooded park of the richest verdure, is also 
 striking and impressive. But the distinctive fea- 
 ture of the place (for the mansion, merely a com- 
 fortable and convenient nobleman's house, hardly 
 responds to the fame of its owner) is the grand 
 avenue of noble elms, three quarters of a mile long, 
 which leads to the front door. It is difiicult to 
 imag-ine any thing which more completely realizes 
 the poetical fancy, that the pillars and arches of a 
 Gothic cathedral were borrowed from the interlac- 
 ing of the branches of trees planted at stated inter- 
 vals, than this avenue, in which Xature has so com- 
 pletely succeeded in outrivalling her handmaiden 
 Art, that not a single trunk, hardly even a bough 
 or a twig, appears to mar the grand regularity of 
 the design as a piece of pei-spective. No cathe- 
 dral aisle was ever more perfect; and the effect, 
 
52 THE LOST DAHLIA. 
 
 under every variety of aspect, the magical light and 
 shadow of the cold white moonshine, the cold 
 green light of a cloudy day, and the glancing sun- 
 beams which pierce through the leafy umbrage in 
 the bright summer noon, are such as no words can 
 convey. Separately considered, each tree (and the 
 north of Hampshire is celebrated for the size and 
 shape of its elms) is a model of stately growth, and 
 they are now just at perfection, probably about a 
 hundred and thirty yeai*s old. There is scarcely 
 perhaps in the Jdngdom such another avenue. 
 
 On one side of this noble approach is the garden, 
 where, under the care of the skilful and excellent 
 gardener, Mr. Cooper, so many magnificent dahlias 
 are raised, but where, alas ! the Phcebus was not ; 
 and between that and the mansion is the sunny, 
 shady paddock, with its rich pasture and its roomy 
 stable, where, for so many years, Copenhagen, the 
 charger who carried the Duke at Waterloo, formed 
 so great an object of attraction to the visitors of 
 Strathfield-saye.* Then came the house itself, and 
 then I returned home. 
 
 * Copenliagen — (I had the honor of naming one of Mr. 
 Cooper's dahlias after him — a sort of 'bay dahUa, if I may be 
 permitted the expression) — Copenhagen was a most inter- 
 
THE LOST DAHLIA. 53 
 
 Well ! this was one beautiful and fi-uitless drive. 
 The ruins of Reading Abbey formed another as 
 fruitless, and still more beautiful. 
 
 esting horse. He died last year at the age of twenty-seven. 
 He was therefore in his prime on the day of Waterloo, when 
 the duke (then and still a man of iron) rode him for seven- 
 teen hours and a half without dismounting. When his Grace 
 got off, he patted him, and the horse kicked, to the great de- 
 light of his brave rider, as it proved that he was not beaten by 
 that tremendous day's work. After his return, this paddock 
 was assigned to him, in which he passed the rest of his life 
 in the most perfect comfort that can be imagined ; fed twice 
 a day (latterly upon oats broken for him), with a comforta- 
 ble stable to retire to, and a rich pasture in which to range. 
 The late amiable duchess used regularly to feed him with 
 bread, and this kindness had given him the habit (especially 
 after her death) of approaching every lady with confiding 
 familiarity. He had been a fine animal, of middle size and 
 a chestnut color, but latterly he exhibited an interestiiig 
 specimen of natural decay, in a state as nearly that of na- 
 ture as can well be found in a civilized country. He had 
 lost an eye from age, and had become lean and feeble, and, 
 in the manner which he approached even a casual visitor, 
 there was something of the demand of sympathy, the ap- 
 peal to human kindness, which one has so often observed 
 from a very old dog towards his master. Poor Copenhagen, 
 who, when alive, furnished so many reliques from his mane 
 and tail to enthusiastic young ladies, who had his hair set 
 in brooches and rings, was, after being interred with mili- 
 tary honors, dug up by some miscreant (never, I believe, 
 discovered), and one of his hoofs cut off, it is to be pre- 
 sumed, for a memorial, although one that would hardly go 
 
K 
 
 4 THE LOST DAHLIA. 
 
 Whether in the " palmy state " of the faith of 
 Rome, the pillared aisles of the Abbey church might 
 have vied in grandeur with the avenue at Strathfield- 
 saye, I can hardly say ; but certainly, as they stand, 
 the venerable arched gateway, the rock-like masses 
 of wall, the crumbling cloisters, and the exquisite 
 finish of the surbases of the columns and other frag- 
 ments, fresh as if chiselled yesterday, which are 
 reappearing in the excavations now making, there 
 is an interest which leaves the grai^deur of life, 
 palaces and their pageantry, parks and their adorn- 
 ments, all grandeur except the indestructible gran- 
 deur of nature, at an immeasurable distance. The 
 place was a history. Centuries passed before us 
 as we thought of the magnificent monastery, the 
 third in size and splendor in England, with its area 
 of thirty acres between the walls — and gazed upon 
 it now ! 
 
 And yet, even now, how beautiful ! Trees of 
 every growth mingling with those gray ruins, 
 creepers wreathing their fantastic garlands around 
 
 in the compass of a ring. A very fine portrait of Copen- 
 hagen has been executed by my young friend Edmund 
 Havell, a youth of seventeen, whose genius as an animal 
 painter, will certainly place liim second only to Landseer. 
 
THE LOST DAHLIA. 55 
 
 the mouldering arches, gorgeows flowers flourisliing 
 in the midst of that decay ! I almost forgot my 
 search for the dear Phoebus, as I rambled with my 
 friend Mr. Malone, the gardener, a man who would 
 in any station be remarkable for acuteness and 
 acquirement, amongst the august remains of the 
 venerable abbey, with the history of which he was 
 as conversant as with his own immediate profession. 
 There was no speaking of smaller objects in the 
 presence of the mighty past ! 
 
 Gradually chilled by so much unsuccess, the ar- 
 dor of my pursuit began to abate. I began to ad- 
 mit the merits of other dahlias of divers colors, and 
 actually caught myself committing the inconstancy 
 of considering which of the four Princes of Orange 
 I should bespeak for next year. Time, in short, 
 was beginning to play his part as the great com- 
 forter of human afflictions, and the poor Phoebus 
 seemed as likely to be forgotten as a last year's 
 bonnet, or a last week's newspaper — when, happen- 
 ing to walk with my father to look at a field of 
 his, a pretty bit of upland pasture about a mile off, 
 I was struck, in one comer where the manure for 
 dressing had been deposited, and a heap of eai-th 
 and dung still remained, to be spread, I suppose, 
 
56 THE LOST DAHLIA. 
 
 next spring, witli some tall plant surmounted with 
 bright flowers. Could it be ? — was it possible ? — 
 did my eyes play me false ? — No ; there it was, 
 upon a dunghill — the object of all my researches 
 and lamentations, the identical Phoebus! the lost 
 dahlia ! 
 
EVENma HOUKS. 
 
 A FEAGMEXT. 
 BY THE LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY. 
 
 tK pale hours of evening often, thoughts grow calm 
 X and feelings soften; 
 
 Memory's reign beginneth then, 
 Spirit-stars then 'gin their shining, with those proud 
 ones that are lining 
 
 Yon cerulean, mystic Plain. 
 
 Then we start from Life's gay folly, while the Dream- 
 er Melancholy 
 Teacheth lessons true and sage ; 
 Each time that her voice she raises, diamond-words 
 and pearled phrases 
 Drop — as tells the fairy page. 
 
 Pangs and griefs and fears and terrors, doubts and 
 deep repented errors, 
 Build the Soul's great altar-stairs ; 
 3 
 
58 EVENING HOURS. 
 
 Each dire sorrow of our bosoms, from its thorns 
 shoots lovely blossoms, — 
 Flowers and fruits spring up from cares. 
 
 Cares have flowers and fruit excelling, and within 
 our spirits dwelling 
 Make them nobl j pure and high ; 
 They teach patience and reflection, they exalt and 
 light Afiection, 
 Climbing nearer toward the sky. 
 
 Thus in Eve's calm hours it seeraeth, many a truth- 
 light gravely gleameth, 
 Buried in the blaze of Day ; 
 Then scarce heard are heart-deep histories — blazing 
 grave of worlds and mysteries! — 
 Day ! thou scatterest those away. 
 
 But in hours of evening often, when the thoughts 
 and feelings soften, ' 
 
 High and solemn truths are shown; 
 More we know of our own Being, when Earth's 
 vain distractions fleeing, 
 Leave our Souls again our own ! 
 
 * 
 
 Still the Heart, intense and fervent, is, like Fire, a 
 noble servant, 
 Ever prompt, and keen, and strong ; 
 
EVENING HOURS. 59 
 
 But it is a fearful Master, spreading danger and 
 Disaster ; 
 If ve yield, \q rue it lona: ! 
 
 Governed and controlled, it spreadetli light and life 
 around, and aideth 
 In each brave and glorious deed ; 
 But, Oh ! watch and rule it ever, for it seeks, with 
 strong endeavor, 
 Still to govern thee, and lead. 
 
 And that Heart so quick and fervent, is, like Fire, a 
 generous servant. 
 Fresh and strong, and prompt and true ; 
 But, hke Fire, a dreadful master I spreading doom 
 and dire disaster. 
 Mighty, mighty to undo ! 
 
 Sorrow is a sovereign Teacher, Sorrow is a golden 
 Preacher ; 
 She can tame it best, and school: 
 When her solemn yoke it beareth, when her awful 
 voice it heareth, 
 'Twould no longer wish to rule. 
 
 Sorrow is a wondrous Teacher, Sorrow is a gracious 
 Preacher, 
 All her arrowy pangs have tongues ; 
 And they utter rich revealings, talking to the 
 thoughts, the feelings, 
 Chanting deeply mighty songs. 
 
60 EVENING HOURS. 
 
 Life ! thou Ladder, all of fire, as we still are strug- 
 gling higher, 
 Shrinking, we thy terrors learn; 
 Every step we tread with trembling — oft unto our- 
 selves dissembling 
 How, perchance, they scorch and burn. 
 
LOYING HEARTS. 
 
 BY ATJGrSTINE DUGANNE. 
 
 A TELL me not the world is dark, 
 
 ^ With shadows lengthening to the tomb ; 
 
 Mine eyes would rather fondly mark 
 
 Where sunlight flashes through the gloom ; 
 And I would fain in error dwell, 
 
 If truth such darksome lore imparts, 
 And rather die than e'er dispel 
 
 My dream of loving hearts. 
 
 Their perfume would forsake the flowers. 
 
 The golden hues of summer fade, 
 The hushed birds droop in withered bowers. 
 
 And sunny brooklets sink to shade ; 
 And o'er the soul of living things 
 
 Would fall the gloom that ne'er departs. 
 If from my bright imaginings 
 
 Were banished loving hearts. 
 
62 LOVING HEARTS. 
 
 They are around us and above, 
 
 Half hidden as in wild-wood leaves, 
 Close nestled some white-breasted dove ; 
 
 And he is happy who believes 
 That they are living, though unseen, 
 
 Like light, ere from the cloud it starts, 
 And he is truly blest, I ween. 
 
 Who loves those loving hearts. 
 
AUNT DEBORAH. 
 
 4 GROSSER old woman than Mrs. Deborah 
 -^ Thornby was certainly not to be found in the 
 whole village of Hilton. Worth, in country phrase, 
 a power of money, and living (to borrow another 
 rustic expression) upon her means, the exercise of 
 her extraordinary faculty for grumbling and scold- 
 ing seemed the sole occupation of her existence, 
 her only pursuit, solace, and amusement; and 
 really it would have been a great pity to have de- 
 prived the poor woman of a pastime so consolatory 
 to herself, and which did harm to nobody : her 
 family consisting only of an old laborer, to guard 
 the house, take care of her horse, her cow, and her 
 chaise and cart, and work in the garden, who was 
 happily, for his comfort, stone deaf, and could not 
 hear her vituperation, and of a parish girl of twelve, 
 to do the indoor work, who had been so used to 
 
64 AUNT DEBORAH. 
 
 be scolded all her life, that she minded the noise 
 no more than a miller minds the clack of his mill, 
 or than people who live in a churchyard mind the 
 sound of the church bells, and would probably, 
 from long habit, have felt some miss of the sound 
 had it ceased, of which, by the way, there was 
 small danger, so long as Mrs. Deborah continued 
 in this life. Her crossness was so far innocent 
 that it hurt nobody except lierself. But she was 
 also cross-grained, and that evil quality is unluckily 
 apt to injure other people ; and did so very ma- 
 terially in the present instance. 
 
 Mrs. Deborah was the only daughter of old 
 Simon Thornby, of Chalcott great farm ; she had 
 had one brother, who having married the rosy- 
 cheeked daughter of the parish clerk, a girl with no 
 portion except her modesty, her good-nature, and 
 her prettiness, had been discarded by his father, 
 and after trying various ways to gain a living, and 
 failing in all, had finally died broken-hearted, leav- 
 ing the unfortunate clerk's daughter, rosy-cheeked 
 no longer, and one little boy, to the tender mercy 
 of his family. Old Simon showed none. He drove 
 his son's widow from the door as he had before 
 driven off his son ; and when he also died, an event 
 
AUNT DEBORAH. 65 
 
 which occurred within a year or two, bequeathed 
 all his property to his daughter Deborah. 
 
 This bequest was exceedingly agreeable to Mrs. 
 Deborah (for she was already of an age to assume 
 that title), who valued money, not certainly for the 
 comforts and luxuries which it may be the means 
 of procuring, nor even for its own sake, as the 
 phrase goes, but for that which, to a woman of her 
 temper, was perhaps the highest that she was 
 capable of enjoying, the power which wealth con- 
 fers over all who are connected with or dependent 
 on its possessor. 
 
 The principal subjects of her despotic dominion 
 were the young widow and her boy, whom she 
 placed in a cottage near her own house, and "with 
 whose comfort and happiness she dallied pretty 
 much as a cat plays with the mouse which she has 
 got into her clutches, and lets go only to catch 
 a2:ain, or an ancrler with the trout which he has 
 fairly hooked, and merely suffers to struggle in the 
 stream until it is sufficiently exliausted to bring to 
 land. She did not mean to be cruel, but she could 
 not help it ; so her poor mice were mocked with 
 the semblance of liberty, although suiTOunded by 
 restraints ; and the awful paw seemingly sheathed 
 3* 
 
66 AUNT DEBORAH. 
 
 in velvet, whilst they were in reality never out of 
 reach of the horrors of the pat. 
 . It sometimes, however, happens that the little 
 mouse makes her escape from madam pussy at the 
 very moment when she seems to have the unlucky 
 trembler actually AA'ithin her claws ; and so it 
 occurred in the present instance. 
 
 The dwelhnir to which Mrs. Deborah retired after 
 the death of her father, was exceedingly romantic 
 and beautiful in point of situation. It was a small 
 but picturesque farm-house, on the very banks of 
 the Loddon, a small branch of which, diverging 
 from the parent stream, and crossed by a pretty 
 footbridge, swept round the homestead, the orchard 
 and garden, and went winding along the water 
 meadows in a thousand glittering meanders, until 
 it was lost in the rich woodlands which formed 
 the back-ground of the picture. In the month of 
 May, when the orchard was full of its rosy and 
 pearly blossoms, a forest of lovely bloom, the 
 meadows yellow with cowslips, and the clear brim- 
 ming river, bordered by the golden tufts of the 
 water ranunculus, and garlanded by the snowy 
 flowers of the hawthorn and the wild cherry, the 
 thin wreath of smoke curling from the tall, old- 
 
AUNT DEBORAH. 67 
 
 fashioned chimneys of the pretty irregular building, 
 with its porch, and its bay-windows, and gable- 
 ends full of light and shadow, — in that month of 
 beauty it would be difficult to imagine a more 
 beautiful or a more English landscape. 
 
 On the other side of the narrow winding road, 
 parted from Mrs. Deborah's demesne by a long low 
 bridge of many arches, stood a little rustic mill, 
 and its small low-browed cottage, with its own 
 varied back-ground of garden and fruit trees and 
 thickly wooded meadows, extending in long per- 
 spective, a smiling verdant valley of many miles. 
 
 Now Chalcott mill, reckoned by every body else 
 the prettiest point in her prospect, was to Mrs. De- 
 borah not merely an eye-sore, but a heart-sore, not 
 on its own account ; cantankerous as she was, she 
 had no quarrel with the innocent buildings, but for 
 the sake of its inhabitants. 
 
 Honest John Stokes, the miller, was her cousin- 
 german. People did say that some forty years be- 
 fore there had been question of a marriage between 
 the parties ; and really they both denied the thing 
 with so much vehemence and fury, that one should 
 almost be tempted to believe there was some truth 
 in the report. Certain it is, that if they had been 
 
68 AUNT DEBORAH. 
 
 that wretclied thing a mismatched couple, and had 
 gone on snarUng together all their lives, they could 
 not have hated each other more zealously. One 
 shall not often meet with any thing so perfect in 
 its way as that aversion. It was none of your silent 
 hatreds that never come to words; nor of your 
 civil hatreds, that veil themselves under smooth 
 phrases and smiling looks. Their ill-will was fi-ank, 
 open, and above-board. They could not afford to 
 come to an absolute breach, because it would have 
 deprived them of the pleasure of quarrelling ; and 
 in spite of the frequent complaints they were wont 
 to make of their near neighborhood, I am convinced 
 that they derived no small gratification from the 
 opportunities which it afforded them of saying dis- 
 agreeable things to each other. 
 
 And yet Mr. John Stokes was a well-meaning 
 man, and Mrs. Deborah Thornby was not an ill- 
 meaning woman. But she was, as I have said be- 
 fore, cross in the grain ; and he — why he was one 
 of those plain-dealing personages Avho will speak 
 their whole mind, and who pique themselves upon 
 that sort of sincerity which is comprised in telling 
 to another all the ill that they have ever heard, or 
 thought, or imagined concerning him, in repeating. 
 
7 , i i 
 
 1 5 5 > 
 
 i -y t ; 
 » » > 
 
 > J > J 
 
 3i "> y 
 
 5 
 
 » » 3 5 
 
 5 J -> ■> 
 
 • J 3 J 
 J > > > 
 
AUNT DEBORAH. 69 
 
 as if it were a point of duty, all the harm that one 
 neio-hbor says of another, and in denouncing, as if 
 it were a sin, whatever the unlucky person whom 
 they address may happen to do, or to leave undone. 
 
 " I am none of your palavering chaps, to flummer 
 over an old vixen for the sake of her strong-box. 
 I hate such falseness. I speak the truth and care 
 for no man," quoth John Stokes. 
 
 And accordingly John Stokes never saw Mrs. 
 Deborah Thornby but he saluted her, pretty much 
 as his mastiff accosted her favorite cat ; erected his 
 bristles, looked at her with savage, bloodshot eyes, 
 showed his teeth, and vented a sound something 
 between a snarl and a growl ; whilst she (like the 
 four-footed tabby) set up her back and spit at him 
 in return. 
 
 They met often, as I have said, for the enjoy- 
 ment of quarrelling ; and as whatever he advised 
 she was pretty sure not to do, it is probable that 
 his remonstrances in favor of her friendless re- 
 lations served to confirm her in the small tyranny 
 which she exercised towards them. 
 
 Such being the state of feehng between these 
 two jangling cousins, it may be imagined with 
 what indio-nation Mi*s. Deborah found John Stokes, 
 
10 AUNT DEBORAH. 
 
 upon the death of his wife, removing her widowed 
 sister-in-law from the cottage in which she had 
 placed her, and bringing her home to the mill, to 
 officiate as his housekeeper, and take charge of a 
 lovely little girl, his only child. She vow^ed one of 
 those vows of anger which I fear are oftener kej)t 
 than the vows of love, to strike both mother and 
 son out of her will (by the way, she had a super- 
 stitious horror of that disagreeable ceremony, and 
 even the temptation of choosing new legatees 
 whenever the old displeased her, had not been 
 sufficient to induce her to make one, — the threat 
 did as well), and never to speak to either of them 
 again as long as she lived. 
 
 She proclaimed this resolution at the rate of 
 twelve times an hour (that is to say, once in five 
 minutes), every day for a fortnight ; and in spite of 
 her well-known caprice, there seemed for once in 
 her life reason to believe that she would keep her 
 word. 
 
 Those prudent and sagacious persons who are so 
 good as to take the superintendence of other peo- 
 ple's affairs, and to tell by the look of the foot 
 where the shoe pinches and where it does not, all 
 united in blaming the poor widow for withdrawing 
 
AUNT DEBORAH. Vl 
 
 herself and her son from Mrs. Deborah's protection. 
 But besides that no human being can adequately 
 estimate the misery of leading a life of dependence 
 upon one to whom scolding was as the air she 
 breathed, without it she must die, a penurious 
 dependence too, which supplied grudgingly the 
 humblest wants, and yet would not permit the 
 exertions by which she would joyfully have en- 
 deavored to support herself; — besides the tempta- 
 tion to exchano-e Mrs. Deborah's incessant maun- 
 dering for the Miller's rough kindness, and her 
 scanty fare for the coarse plenty of his board, — 
 besides these homely but natural temptations — 
 hardly to be adequately allowed for by those who 
 have passed their hves amidst smihng kindness 
 and luxurious abundance ; besides these motives, 
 she had a stronger and dearer in her desire to 
 rescue her boy from the dangers of an enforced and 
 miserable idleness, and to put him in the way of 
 earning his bread by honest industry. 
 
 Through the interest of his grandfather the pa- 
 rish clerk, the little Edward had been early placed 
 in the Hilton free school, where he had acquitted 
 himself so much to the satisfaction of the master, 
 that at ' twelve years old he was the head boy on 
 
72 AUNT DEBORAH. 
 
 the foundation, and took precedence of the other 
 nine-and-twenty wearers of the full-skirted blue 
 coats, leathern belts, and tasseled caps, in the va- 
 rious arts of reading, writing, ciphering, and men- 
 suration. He could flourish a swan without ever 
 taking his pen from the paper. Nay, there is little 
 doubt but from long habit he could have flourished 
 it blindfold, like the man who had so often model- 
 led the wit of Ferney in breadcrumbs, that he could 
 produce little busts of Voltaire with his hands 
 under the table ; he had not his equal in Practice 
 or the Rule of Three, and his piece, when sent 
 round at Christmas, w^as the admiration of the 
 whole parish. 
 
 Unfortunately, his arrival at this pre-eminence 
 was also the siofnal of his dismissal from the free 
 school. He returned home to his mother, and as 
 Mrs. Deborah, although hourly complaining of the 
 expense of supporting a great lubberly boy in idle- 
 ness, refused to apprentice him to any trade, and 
 even forbade his finding employment in helping 
 her deaf man of all work to cultivate her garden, 
 which the poor lad, naturally industrious and active, 
 begged her permission to do, his mother, consider- 
 ing that no uncertain expectations of money at the 
 
AUNT DEBORAH. 73 
 
 death of his kinswoman could counterbalance the 
 certain evil of dragging on his days in penury and 
 indolence during her life, wisely determined to be- 
 take herself to the mill, and accept John Stokes's 
 offer of sending Edward to a friend in town, for the 
 purpose of being placed with a civil engineer ; — a 
 destination with which the boy himself — a fine, 
 intelligent youth, by the way, tall and manly, -svith 
 black eyes that talked and laughed, and curling- 
 dark hair, — was delighted in every point of ^-iew. 
 He longed for a profession for which he had a 
 decided turn ; he longed to see the world as per- 
 sonified by the city of cities, the unparagoned 
 London ; and he longed more than either to get 
 away from Aunt Deborah, the storm of whose 
 vituperation seemed ringing in his ears so long as 
 he continued within sight of her dwelling. One 
 would think the clack of the mill and the prattle 
 of his pretty cousin Cicely might have drowned it, 
 but it did not. Nothing short of leadng the spin- 
 ster fifty miles behind, and setting the great city 
 between him and her, could efface the impression. 
 
 " I hope I am not ungrateful," thought Edward 
 to himself, as he was trudging London-ward, after 
 taking a tender leave of all at the mill ; I hope I 
 
74 AUNT DEBORAH. 
 
 am not ungrateful. I do not think I am, for I 
 would give my right arm, ay, or my life, if it would 
 serve master John Stokes, or please dear Cissy. 
 But really I do hope never to come within hearing 
 of Aunt Deborah again, she storms so. I wonder 
 whether all old Avomen are so cross. I don't 
 think my mother will be, nor Cissy. I am sure 
 Cissy won't. Poor Aunt Deborah ! I suppose 
 she can't help it." And with this indulgent con- 
 clusion, Edward wended on his way. 
 
 Aunt Deborah's mood was by no means so pa- 
 cific. She staid at home, fretting, fuming, and 
 chafing, and storming herself hoarse — which, as the 
 people at the mill took good care to keej^ out of 
 earshot, was all so much good scolding thrown 
 away. The state of things since Edward's depar- 
 ture had been so decisive, that even John Stokes 
 thought it wiser to keep himself aloof for a time ; 
 and although they pretty well guessed that she 
 would take measures to put in effect her threat of 
 disinheritance, the first outward demonstration 
 came in the shape of a young man (gentleman I 
 suppose he called himself — ay, there is no doubt 
 but he wrote himself Esquire) who attended her to 
 
AUNT DEBORAH. 75 
 
 chureli a few Sundays after, and was admitted to 
 the honor of sitting in the same pew. 
 
 Nothinof could be more unlike om* fiiend Ed- 
 ward than the strano;er. Fair, freckled, lio-ht- 
 eyed, with invisible eyebrows and eyelashes, in- 
 significant in feature, pert and perking in expres- 
 sion, and in fisfure so dwarfed and stunted, that 
 though in point of age he had evidently attained 
 his full gi'ow^th (if one may use the expression to 
 such a he-doll), Robert at fifteen would have made 
 two of him, — such was the new favorite. So far 
 as appearance went, for certain Mrs. Deborah had 
 not chanored for the better. 
 
 Gradually it oozed out, as, somehow or other, 
 news, like water, will find a vent, however small 
 the cranny, — by slow degrees it came to be under- 
 stood that ^Irs. Deborah's ^•isitor was a certain Mr. 
 Adolphus Lynfield, clerk to an attorney of no great 
 note in the good town of Belford Regis, and nearly 
 related, as he affirmed, to the Thornby family. 
 
 Upon hearing these tidings, John Stokes, the 
 son of old Simon Thornby's sister, marched across 
 the road, and finding the door upon the latch, en- 
 tered unannounced into the presence of his enemy. 
 
 " I think it my duty to let you know, cousin 
 
76 AUNT DEBORAH. 
 
 Deborah, that this here chap's an impostor — a 
 sham — and that you are a fool," was his conciha- 
 tory opening. " Search the register. The Thorn- 
 bys have been yeomen of this parish ever since the 
 time of Elizabeth — more shame to you for forcing 
 the last of the race to seek his bread elsewhere ; 
 and if vou can find such a name as Lynfield 
 amongst 'era, I'll give you leave to turn me into 
 a pettifogging lawyer — that's all. Saunderses, and 
 Symondses, and Stokeses, and Mays, you'll find in 
 plenty, but never a Lynfield. Lynfield, quotha 1 it 
 sounds like a made-up name in a story-book ! 
 And as for 'Dolphus, why there never was any thing 
 like it in all the generation, excqpt my good old 
 great aunt Dolly, and that stood for Dorothy. 
 All our names have been Christian-hke. and Eng- 
 lish, Toms, and Jacks, and Jems, and Bills, and 
 Sims, and Neds — poor fellow ! None of jour out- 
 landish 'Dolphuses. Dang it, I believe the foolish 
 woman likes the chap the better for having a name 
 she can't speak ! Remember, I warn you he's a 
 sham !" And ofi" strode the honest miller, leaving 
 Mrs. Deborah too angry for reply, and confirmed 
 both in her prejudice and prepossession by the 
 natural effect of that spirit of contradiction which 
 
AUNT DEBORAH. / / 
 
 formed so large an ingTedient in her composition, 
 and was not "vvhollv wantina; in that of John 
 Stokes. 
 
 Years passed away, and in spite of frequent 
 ebbs and flows, the tide of Mrs. Deborah's favor 
 continued to set towards Mr. Adolphus Lynfield. 
 Once or twice indeed, report had said that he was 
 fairly discarded, but the very appearance of the 
 good miller, anxious to improve the opportunity 
 for his protege, had been sufficient to determine 
 his cousin to reinstate Mr. Adolphus in her good 
 graces. Whether she really liked him is doubtful. 
 He entertained too good an opinion of himself to 
 be very successful in gaining that of other people. 
 
 That the gentleman was not deficient in "left- 
 handed wisdom," was proved pretty clearly by 
 most of his actions ; for instance, when routed by 
 the downright miller from the position which he 
 had taten up of a near kinsman by the father's 
 side, he, hke an able tactician, wheeled about and 
 called cousins with Mrs. Deborah's mother; and as 
 that good lady happened to have borne the very 
 general, almost universal, name of Smith, which is 
 next to anonymous, even John Stokes could not 
 dislodge hhn from that intrenchment. But he was 
 
18 AUNT DEBORAH. 
 
 not always so dexterous. Cunning in him lacked 
 the crowning perfection of hiding itself under the 
 appearance of honesty. His art never looked like 
 nature. It stared you in the face, and could not 
 deceive the dullest observer. His very flattery had 
 a tone of falseness that affronted the person flatter- 
 ed ; and Mrs. Deborah, in particular, w'ho did not 
 want for shrewdness, found it so distasteful, that 
 she would certainly have discarded him upon that 
 one ground of offence, had not lier love of power 
 been unconsciously propitiated by the percej)tion 
 of the eftbits which he made, and the degradation 
 to which he submitted, in the vain attempt to 
 please her. She liked the homage offered to " les 
 beaux yeiix de sa cassette,'''' pretty much as a young 
 beauty likes the devotion extorted by her charms, 
 and for the sake of the incense tolerated the wor- 
 shipper. 
 
 Nevertheless there were moments when the con- 
 ceit which I have mentioned as the leading char- 
 acteristic of Mr. Adolphus Lynfield had well nigh 
 banished him from Chalcott. Piquing himself on 
 the variety and extent of his knowledge, the uni- 
 versality of his genius, he of course jDaid the penalty 
 of other universal geniuses, by being in no small 
 
AUNT DEBORAH. 79 
 
 degree superficial. Not content with understand- 
 ing every trade better than those who had followed 
 it all their lives, he had a most unlucky propensity 
 to put his devices into execution, and as his infor- 
 mation was, for the most part, picked up from the 
 column headed " varieties," in the county newspa- 
 per, where of course there is some chaff mingled 
 with the grain, and as the figments in question 
 were generally understood and imperfectly recol- 
 lected, it is really surprising that the young gentle- 
 man did not occasion more mischief than actually 
 occurred by the quips and cpiiddities which he de- 
 hghted to put in practice whenever he met with 
 any one simple enough to peiTuit the exercise of 
 his talents. 
 
 Some damage he did effect by his experiments, 
 as Mrs. Deborah found to her cost. He killed a 
 bed of old-fashioned spice cloves, the pride of her 
 heart, by salting the ground to get rid of the 
 worms. Her broods of geese also, and of turkeys, 
 fell victims to a new and infalHble mode of feeding, 
 which was to make them twice as fat in half the 
 time. Somehow or other, they all died under the 
 operation. So did half a score of fine apple-trees, 
 under an improved method of grafting ; whilst a 
 
80 * AUNT DEBORAH. 
 
 magnificent brown Bury pear, that covered one end 
 of the house, perished by the grand discovery of 
 severing the bark to increase the crop. He lamed 
 Mrs. Deborah's old horse by doctoring him for a 
 prick in shoeing, and ruined her favorite cow, the 
 best milch cow in the county, by a most needless 
 attempt to increase her milk. 
 
 Now these mischances and misdemeanors, ay, 
 or the half of them, w^ould undoubtedly have oc- 
 casioned Mr. Adolphus's dismission, and the recall 
 of poor Edward, every account of whom was in 
 the highest degree favorable, had the worthy mil- 
 ler been able to refi'ain from lecturing his cousin 
 upon her neglect of the one, and her partiality for 
 the other. It was really astonishing that John 
 Stokes, a man of sagacity in all other respects, never 
 could understand that scolding was of all devisable 
 processes the least likely to succeed in carrying 
 his point with one who was such a proficient in 
 that accomplishment, that if the old penalty for 
 female scolds, the ducking-stool, had continued in 
 fashion, she would have stood an excellent chance 
 of attaining to that distinction. But so it was. 
 The same blood coursed through their veins, and 
 
AUNT DEBORAH. 81 
 
 his tempestuous good-will and her fiery anger 
 took the same form of violence and passion. 
 
 Nothing but these lectures could have kept 
 Mrs. Deborah constant in the train of such a trum- 
 pery, jiggetting, fidgetty little personage as Mr. 
 Adolphus, — the more especially as her heart was 
 assailed in its better and softer parts, by the quiet 
 respectfulness of Mrs. Thornby's demeanor, who 
 never forgot that she had experienced her protection 
 in the hour of need, and by the irresistible good- 
 nature of Cicely, a smihng, rosy, sunny-looking 
 creature, whose only vocation in this world 
 seemed to be the trying to make every body as 
 happy as herself. 
 
 Mrs. Deborah (with such a humanizing taste, she 
 could not, in spite of her cantankerous temper, be all 
 bad), loved flowers : and Cicely, a rover of the woods 
 and fields from early childhood, and no despicable 
 practical gardener, took care to keep her beaupots 
 constantly supplied from the first snowdrop to the 
 last china rose. Nothing was too large for Cicely's 
 good-will, nothing too small. Huge chimney jars 
 of lilacs, laburnums horse-chestnuts, peonies, and 
 the golden and gorgeous double furze ; china jugs 
 filled with magnificent double stocks, and rich wall- 
 4 
 
82 AUNT DEBORAH. 
 
 flowers,* with their bitter-sweet odor, hke the taste 
 of orange marmalade, pinks, sweet-peas, and mig- 
 nonette, from her own Httle garden, or woodland 
 posies that might beseem the hand of the faerie 
 queen, comjDosed of those gems of flowers, the scar- 
 let pimpernel, and the blue anagaUis, the rosy star 
 of the wild geranium, with its aromatic crimson- 
 tipped leaves, the snowy star of the white ochil, 
 and that third starry flower the yellow loose-strife, 
 the milk vetch, purple, or pink, or cream colored, 
 backed by moss-like leaves and lilac blossoms of 
 
 * Few flowers (and almost all look best when arranged 
 eacli in its separate vase), — few look so well together as 
 the four sorts of double wallflowers. The common dark 
 (the old bloody warrior— I have a love for these graphic 
 names— wordsjwhich paint), the common dark, the common 
 yellow, the new and more intensely colored dark, and that 
 new gold color still so rare, which is in tint, form, growth, 
 hardiness, and profusion, one of the most valuable acqui- 
 sitions to the flower-garden. "When placed together in a jar, 
 the brighter blossoms seem to stand out from those of the 
 deeper hue, with exactly the sort of relief, the harmonious 
 combination of light and shade, that one sometimes sees in 
 the rich gilt carving of an old flower-wreathed picture-frame, 
 or, better still, it might seem a pot of flowers chased in 
 gold, by Benvenuto Cillini, in which the workmanship out- 
 valued the metal. Many beaupots are gayer, many sweeter, 
 but this is the richest, both for scent and color, that I have 
 ever seen. 
 
AUNT DEBORAH. 83 
 
 the loiisewort, and overhung hy the fi-agrant bells 
 and cool o^reen leaves of the lily of the vallev. It 
 would puzzle the gardener to surpass the elegance 
 and delicacy of such a nosegay. 
 
 Ofterings like these did our miller's maiden de- 
 light to bring at all seasons, and under all circum- 
 stances, whether of peace or war between the heads 
 of the two opposite houses ; and whenever there 
 chanced to be a lull in the storm, she availed her- 
 self of the opportunity to add to her simple tribute 
 a dish of eels fi-om the mill-stream, or perch from 
 the river. That the thought of Edward (" dear 
 Edward," as she always called him) might not add 
 somewhat of alacrity to her attentions to his way- 
 ward aunt, I will not venture to deny, but she 
 would have done the same if Edward had not been 
 in existence, from the mere effect of her own peace- 
 making spirit, and a generosity of nature which 
 found more pleasure in giving than in possessing. 
 A sweet and happy creature was Cicely ; it was 
 difficult even for Mrs. Deborah to resist her gentle 
 voice and artless smiles. 
 
 Affairs were in this posture between the belliger- 
 ents, sometimes war to the knife, sometimes a truce 
 under favor of Cissy's white flag, when one Octo- 
 
84 AUNT DEBORAH. 
 
 ber evening, John Stokes entered the dwelling of 
 his kinswoman to inform her that Edward's appren- 
 ticeship had been some time at an end, that he 
 had come of age about a month ago, and that his 
 master, for whom he had continued to work, was 
 so satisfied of his talents, industry, and integrity, 
 that he had offered to take him into partnership 
 or a sum incredibly moderate, considering the 
 advanta2:es which such a connection would insure. 
 " You have more than the money wanted in the 
 Belford Bank, money that ought to have been his," 
 quoth John Stokes, " besides all your property in 
 land and houses and the funds ; and if you did 
 advance this sum, which all the world knows is 
 only a small part of what should have belonged to 
 him in rip-ht of his father, it would be as safe as if 
 it was in the Bank of England, and the interest 
 paid half-yearly. You ought to give it him out 
 and out ; but of course you won't even lend it," 
 pursued this judicious negotiator; "you keep all 
 your money for that precious chap, Mr. 'Dolphus, 
 to make ducks and drakes with after you are dead ; 
 a fine jig he'll dance over your grave. You know, 
 I suppose, that we've got the fellow in a cleft stick 
 about that petition the other day ? He persuaded 
 
AUNT DEBORAH. 85 
 
 old Jacob, who's as deaf as a post, to put his mark 
 to it, and when he was gone, Jacob came to me 
 (I'm the only man in the parish who can make 
 him hear) to ask what it was about. So upon my 
 explaining the matter, Jacob found he had got into 
 the wrong box. But as the chap had taken away his 
 petition, and Jacob could not scrat<:'h out his name, 
 what does he do but set his mark to ours o' t'other 
 side ; and we've wrote all about it to Sir Robert 
 to ex-plain to the Parhament, lest seeing Jacob's 
 name both ways like, they should think 'twas he, 
 poor fellow, that meant to humbug 'em. A pretty 
 figure Mr. 'Dolphus '11 cut when the story comes to 
 be told in the House of Commons! Buli that's 
 not the worst. He took the petition to the work- 
 house, and meeting with little Fan Ropley, who 
 had been taught to write at our charity-school, 
 and is quick at her pen, he makes her sign her 
 name at full leno-th, and then strikes a dot over 
 the e to turn it into Francis, and persuade the 
 gTeat folk up at Lunnun, that little Fan's a growTi- 
 up man. If that chap won't come some day to be 
 transported for forgery, my name's not John 
 Stokes ! Well, dame, will you let Xed liave the 
 money ? Yes or no ?" 
 
8G AUNT DEBORAH. 
 
 That Mrs. Deborah should have suffered the 
 good miller to proceed with his harangue without 
 interruption, can only be accounted for on the score 
 of the loudness of tone on which he piqued himself 
 with so much justice. When she did take up the 
 word, her re^lj made up in volubility and virulence 
 for any deficiency in sound, concluding by a formal 
 renunciation of her nephew, and a command to his 
 zealous advocate never again to appear within her 
 dooi-s. Upon which, honest John vowed he never 
 would, and departed. 
 
 Two or three days after this quarrel, Mr. Adol- 
 phus ha\4ng arriv^ed, as happened not unfrequently, 
 to spent the afternoon at Chalcott, persuaded his 
 hostess to accompany him to see a pond drawn at 
 the Hall, to which, as the daughter of one of Sir 
 Robert's old tenants, she would undoubtely have 
 the right of entree ; and Mrs. Deborah assented to 
 his request, partly because the weather was fine, 
 and the distance short, partly, it may be, from a 
 lurking desire to take her chance as a bystander of 
 a dish of fish ; they who need such windfalls least, 
 being commonly those who are most desirous to 
 put themselves in their way. 
 
 Mr. Adolphus Lynfield's reasons were obvious 
 
AUNT DEBORAH. 8*7 
 
 eiiougli. Besides the ennui of a tete-a-tete, all flat- 
 tery on one side and contradiction on the other, he 
 was naturally of the fidgetty restless temperament 
 which hates to be long confined to one place or one 
 occupation, and can never hear of a gathering of 
 people, whatever might be the occasion, without 
 lono-ino- to find himself amono;st them. 
 
 Moreover, he had, or professed to have, a passion 
 for field sports of every description; and having 
 that very season contrived, with his usual curious 
 infehcity, to get into as many scrapes in shooting 
 as shall last most sportsmen their whole lives — 
 having shot a spaniel instead of a hare, a keeper 
 instead of a partridge, and his own foot instead of 
 a pheasant, and finally, having been taken up for 
 a poacher, although wholly innocent of the death 
 of any bird that ever wore feathei*s, — after all these 
 woeful experiences (to say nothing of mischances 
 in angling which might put to shame those of our 
 friend Mr. Thompson), he found himself particularly 
 well disposed to a diversion which appeared to 
 combine in most choice union the appearance of 
 sporting, which he considered essential to his re- 
 putation, with a most happy exemption from the 
 usual sporting requisites, exertion or skill. All that 
 
88 AUNT DEBORAH. 
 
 he would have to do would be to look on and talk, 
 — to throw out a hint here and a suggestion there, 
 and find fault with every thing and every body, 
 like a man who imderstood what was going forward. 
 The weather was most propitious; a bright 
 breezy sunny October day, with light snowy clouds, 
 chased by a keen crisp wind across the deep blue 
 heavens, — and the beautiful park, the turf of an 
 emerald green, contrasting ^vith the brown fern 
 and tawny woods, rivalling in richness and bright- 
 ness the vivid hues of the autumnal sky. Nothing 
 could exceed the gorgeous tinting of the magnifi- 
 cent trees, which, whether in detached clumps or 
 forest-like masses, formed the pride and glory of 
 the place. The oak still retaining its dark and 
 heavy verdure ; the elm letting fall a shower of 
 yellow leaves, that tinged the ground beneath ; the 
 deep orange of the horse-chestnut, the beech vary- 
 ing from ruddy gold to greenish brown ; and above 
 all, the shining green of the holly, and the rich 
 purplish red of the old thorns, those hoary thorns, 
 the growth of centuries, gave to this old English 
 gentleman's seat much of the variety and beauty 
 of the American backwoods. The house, a stately 
 ancient mansion, from the porch of which you 
 
AUNT DEBORAH. 89 
 
 might expect to see Sir Eoger de Coverley issue, 
 stood lialf-way np a gentle liill, finely backed by 
 woods of great extent ; and the pond, which was 
 the object of the visit, was Avithin sight of the 
 windows, but so skiUully veiled by trees, as to 
 appear of much greater extent than it really was. 
 
 The master and mistress of the Hall, with their 
 pretty daughters, were absent on a tour : — Is any 
 Enghsh country family ever at home in the month 
 of October in these days of fashionable enterprise ? 
 They were gone to visit the temples of Thebes, or 
 the ruins of Carthage, the Fountains of the Nile or 
 the Falls of Niagara, St. Sophia, or the Kremhn, or 
 some such pretty little excursion, which ladies and 
 gentlemen now talk of as familiarly " as maids of 
 puppy dogs." They were away. But enough of 
 the household remained at Ghalcott, to compose, 
 with a few visitoi*s, a sufiSciently numerous and ani- 
 mated group. 
 
 The first person whom Mrs. Deborah espied (and 
 it is remarkable that we always see first those whom 
 we had rather not see at all), was her old enemy, 
 the miller, — a fisherman of so much experience and 
 celebrity, that his presence might have been reckon- 
 ed upon as certain — busily engaged, together with 
 4* 
 
90 AUNT DEBORAH. 
 
 some half-dozen stout and active coadjutors, in 
 dragging the net ashore, amidst a chorus of excla- 
 mations and cautions from the various assistants, 
 and the breathless expectation of the spectators on 
 the bank, amongst whom were Mrs. Thornby and 
 Cicely, accompanied by a tall, athletic young man 
 of dark complexion, with peculiarly bright eyes and 
 curling hair, whom his aunt immediately recognized 
 as Edward. 
 
 " How improved he is !" was the thought that 
 flashed across her mind, as with an air of respectful 
 alacrity he stepped forward to meet her ; but the 
 miller, in tugging at his nets, happened to look to- 
 wards them, and ashamed that he of all men should 
 see her change of feeling, she turned away abruptly 
 without acknowledging his salutation, and walked 
 off to the other side ^ith her attendant, Mr. Adol- 
 phus. 
 
 " Drat the perverse old jade !" exclaimed John 
 Stokes, involuntarily, as he gave a mighty tug, 
 which brought half the net ashore. 
 
 " She's heavy, my good sir !" observed the pom- 
 pous butler, conceiving that the honest miller's ex- 
 clamation had reference to the sport ; " only see 
 
 -.*i 
 
 m 
 
AUNT DEBORAH. 91 
 
 how full she is! We shall have a magnificent 
 
 haul !" 
 
 And the spectators, male and female, crowded 
 round, and the fishermen exerted themselves so ef- 
 ficiently, that in two minutes the net was on dry 
 land. 
 
 " Nothing but weeds and rubbish !" ejaculated 
 the disappointed butler, a peculiarly blank look 
 taking the place of his usual self-importance. 
 "What can have become of the fish?" 
 
 '' The net has been improperly drawn," observed 
 Mr. Adolphus ; " I myself saw four or five large 
 carp just before it was dragged ashore I" 
 
 " Better fling you in. Master 'Dolphus, by way 
 of bait !" ejaculated our friend the miller ; " I've 
 seen jacks in this pond that would make no more 
 bones of swallowing a leg or an arm of such an 
 atomy as you, if they did not have a try at the 
 whole body, than a shark would of bolting down 
 Punch in the show ; as to carp, every body that 
 ever fished a pond knows their tricks. Catch them 
 in a^ net if you can. They swim round and round, 
 just to let you look at 'em, and then they drop 
 plump into the mud, and lie as still and as close as 
 so many stones. But come, Mr. Tompkins," con- 
 
92 AUNT DEBORAH. 
 
 tinned honest John, addressing the bntler, " we'll 
 try again. I'm minded that we shall have better 
 hick this time. Here are some brave large tench, 
 which never move till the water is distnrbed ; we 
 shall have a good chance for them as well as for 
 the jacks. Now, steady there, you in the boat. 
 Throw her in, boys, and mind you don't draw too 
 fast !" So to work they all went again. 
 
 All was proceeding prosperously, and the net, 
 evidently well filled with fish, was dragging slowly 
 to land, when John Stokes shouted suddenly from 
 the other side of the pond — " Dang it, if that un- 
 lucky chap, Master 'Dolphus there, has not got hold 
 of the top of the net ! He'll pull it over. See, 
 that great jack has got out already. Take the net 
 from him, Tom ! He'll let all the fish loose, and 
 tumble in himself, and the water at that part is 
 deep enough to drown twenty such mannikins. 
 Not that I think drowning likely to be his fate, — 
 witness that petition business," muttered John to 
 himself in a sort of parenthesis. "Let go, I say, 
 or you will be in. Let go, can't ye ?" added he, 
 in his loudest tone. 
 
 And with the word, Mr. Adolphus, still strug- 
 gling to retain his hold of the net, lost his balance 
 
 ■^ 
 
AUXT DEBORAH. 93 
 
 and fell in, and catching at the person next him, 
 who happened to be Mrs. Deborah, with the hope 
 of savin o; himself, di-a^ored her in after him. 
 
 Both sank, and amidst the confusion that en- 
 sued, the shrieks and sobs of the women, the oaths 
 and exclamations of the men, the danger was so 
 imminent that both might have been drowned, 
 had not Edward Thornby, hastily flinging off his 
 coat and hat, plunged in and rescued Mi-s. Deborah, 
 whilst good John Stokes, running round the head 
 of the pond as nimbly as a boy, did the same kind 
 office for his prime ayei-sion, the attorney's clerk. 
 What a sound kernel is sometimes hidden under a 
 rouo'h and ruQ^o-ed rind I 
 
 Mr. Adolphus, more fi-ightened than hurt, and 
 with so much of the conceit washed out of him 
 by his involuntary cold bath, that it might be ac- 
 counted one of the most fortunate accidents in his 
 life, was conyeyed to the hall; but her own house 
 being almost equally near, Mrs. Deborah was at 
 once taken home, and put comfortably to bed in 
 her own chamber. 
 
 About two hours afterwards, the whole of the 
 miller's family, Mrs. Thornby still pallid and trem- 
 bling, Cicely smiling through her tears, and her 
 
94 AUNT DEBORAH. 
 
 father as blunt and free-spoken as ever, were assem- 
 bled round tlie homely couch of their maiden cousin. 
 
 " I tell you I must have the lawyer fetched di- 
 rectly. I can't sleep till I have made my will ;" 
 said Mrs. Deborah. 
 
 " Better not," responded John Stokes ; " you'll 
 want it altered to-morrow." 
 
 " What's that you say, cousin John ?" inquired 
 the spinster. 
 
 "That if you make your will to night, you'll 
 change jour mind to-morrow," reiterated Jolin 
 Stokes. 
 
 " Ned's going to be married to my Cicely," add- 
 ed he, " and that you mayn't like, or if you did 
 like it this week, you might not like it next. So 
 you'd better let matters rest as they are." 
 
 " You're a provoking man, John Stokes," said 
 his cousin — "a very provoking obstinate man. 
 But I'll convince you for once. Take that key, 
 "Mrs. Thornby," quoth she, raising herself in bed, 
 and fumbling in an immense pair of pockets for a 
 small old-fashioned key, " and open the 'scrutoire, 
 and give me the pen and ink, and the old narrow 
 brown book, that you'll find at the top. Not like 
 his man-ying Cicely ! Why I always have loved 
 
AUNT DEBORAH. 95 
 
 that child — don't cry Cissy ! — and have ahvays 
 had cause, for she has been a kind Httle creature to 
 me. Those dahhas came from her, and the sweet 
 posy," pursued Mi-s. Deborah, pointing to a nose- 
 gay of autumn flowers, the old fragrant monthly 
 rose, mignionette, heliotrope, cloves, and jessamine, 
 which stood by the bedside. " Ay, that's the book, 
 Mrs. Thornby ; and there. Cissy," continued Aunt 
 Deborah, filling up the check, with a sum far larger 
 than that required for the partnei-ship — "there, 
 Cissy, is your mamage portion. Don't cry so, 
 child I" said she, as the affectionate girl hung round 
 her neck in a passion of grateful tears — " don't cry, 
 but find out Edward, and send for the lawyer, for 
 I'm determined to settle ray aff'airs to night. And 
 now, John Stokes, I know I've been a cross old 
 woman, but . . . . " 
 
 " Cousin Deborah," interrupted John, seizing her 
 withered hand with a gripe like a smith's vice, — 
 " Cousin Deborah, thou hast acted nobly, ainl I 
 beg thy pardon once for all. God bless thee ! — 
 Dano' it," added the honest miller to himself, " I do 
 verily believe that this squabbling has been mainly 
 my fault, and that if I had not been so provoking- 
 she would not have been so contrary. Well, she 
 
90 AUNT DEBORAH. 
 
 has made us all happy, and we must try to make 
 her happy in return. If we did not, we should de- 
 serve to be soused in the fish pond along with that 
 unhappy chap, Master 'Dolphus. For my part," 
 continued the good yeoman, forming with great 
 earnestness a solemn resolution — " for my part, I've 
 fully made up my mind never to contradict her 
 again, say what she will. No, not if she says 
 black's white ! It's contradiction that makes wo- 
 man contrary; it sets their backs up, like. I'll 
 never contradict her again so long as my name's 
 John Stokes." 
 
VEESES. 
 
 BY ADA TREVAXION. 
 
 THE leaves are falling on the ground, 
 ■^ The vale is damp and chill ; 
 The wheat is gathered to the store, 
 
 "Which waved upon the hill : 
 The summer birds have taken wing. 
 
 The sky looks wan and gray ; 
 And from the coppice calls the crow 
 
 Through all the gloomy day. 
 
 The joyous bee is heard no more 
 
 Amid the faded bowers ; 
 Low lying in their silent graves 
 
 Are all the gentle flowers : 
 The azure fount is choked and dumb, 
 
 And 'neath the rivulet 
 The water-blooms have left the stalks 
 
 On which thev late were set. 
 
 t^ 
 
98 VERSES. 
 
 The fall of leaves, and wane of flowers, 
 
 Make sad a lonely heart; 
 Tliey, like the loveliest of our race, 
 
 From this world soon depart : 
 But as the dark is changed to light 
 
 When morning's dawn-beams pour, 
 So death's long night shall turn to-day 
 
 When Time itself is o'er. 
 
'1)1 i 5 ^ > 
 
 t 1 
 ■'■*■»■> 
 
 1 1 > 9 
 
 i > » J 
 53 9 » 
 
 > ■> J > 
 
 J ' J 
 
MY EAELY DAYS. 
 
 MY early days, my early days, 
 
 Ye morning stars that linger yet ; 
 And beam as dear departing rays, 
 When every other star has set : 
 
 Spray of the ocean of my life. 
 
 Blossoms of fruit all faded now ; 
 Ye golden sands in old Time's glass, 
 
 Ye green leaves on a withered bough ; 
 
 Oh ! where are ye^ and where am I ? 
 
 Where is that happy, sinless child ? 
 That chased the gaudy butterfly, 
 
 As gay as that, and far more wild. 
 
 Am / that bold and fearless boy. 
 
 That fished the flood and climbed the height ? 
 All health and truth, all life and joy, 
 
 First in the frolic or the fight. 
 
100 MY EARLY DAYS. 
 
 Ah no! — where once the sunlight shone 
 I wander now^ amid the shade ; 
 
 The hopes that led my boyhood on, 
 Are wither'd all, or all betray'd. 
 
 I cannot bear to gaze again, 
 
 On visions that could fade so fast ; 
 
 Nor 'mid a present scene of pain, 
 Cast back a thought on blisses past. 
 
 I 
 
"•"l", , 
 
 
 
 CAPTAm POPHAM AT HIS 
 COUNTEY-HOUSE. 
 
 BY WILLIAM HOWITT. 
 
 /\UR friend Popliam had. seen pretty well of 
 ^ service. Being the only child of an old officer, 
 whose only property consisted of his commission, 
 his wife, sundiy chests of baggage, and our embryo 
 captain, he had, at the earliest possible age, obtained 
 an ensign's commission in a foot regiment, through 
 the especial representations at the Horse Guards of 
 the services of his father by a superior officer. 
 Popham might truly enough be said to have 
 literally fought his way through the world, for he 
 had been sent out to all quarters of it. He had 
 passed some years in the purgatory of Gibraltar 
 and the Peak of Teneriffe, — had shot Caffres at 
 the Cape, broiled in India, and frozen in Canada. 
 
/ 
 
 102 CAPT. I'OPIIAM AT "HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 
 
 . He^ was well acquainted with Nova Scotia, New 
 BiTinswick; Jampica" a^id Demerara. As he never 
 expected to possess more than his father had done, 
 at forty he was r. captain and a bachelor; but at 
 that age fortune had taken an unexpected turn. 
 There was an old aunt who was as rich as a Jewess. 
 She had neither child nor chick, and Popham had 
 always been advised to make himself particularly 
 agreeable to her ; but it did not by any means ac- 
 cord with his peculiar genius. On the contrary, 
 he had always, before going abroad, and on any little 
 intervals of home service, that he had takenn particu- 
 lar delight in quizzing her, playing oflf tricks upon 
 her, and behaving to her in a very cavalier fashion. 
 His father had said to him, twenty times "Bob, 
 what a fool you are ! Don't you see that your aunt 
 is the only creature in the family that has a doit? 
 and she could make a man of you at once." It 
 was all in vain. Bob Popham enjoyed nothing so 
 much as a joke at the expense of his aunt, and of 
 contradicting her, when all the world besides was 
 caressing and flattering her. " There's nothing 
 for it," said his father; "but Bob's roughing it 
 abroad ; lie has not the least white in his eye, and 
 
CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 103 
 
 will be as poor a3 a rat, or as T am, to the day of 
 his death." 
 
 Well, Bob weut abroad, to the north and the 
 south, the east and the west, and in the meantime 
 his father and mother went into the other world. 
 His annt still lived on, beloved and cherished by 
 every body. She was a very plain old lady ; no 
 matter, — she had a large estate, and every body de- 
 clared she was young and handsome as ever. She 
 was of a penurious and rather crabbed temper ; no 
 matter, — the good-natured world around never suf- 
 fered itself to be annoyed at it. People rather liked 
 it. They did not care a straw for chips in ponidge ; 
 they liked something piquant and original. So 
 the old lady only kept very shabby Httle lodgings 
 in town, and an old man and w^oman in her house 
 at Crackskull Common, in Suriy, w^here she seldom 
 went. In fact, she had no need of a house at all, 
 for all sorts of houses were open to her. She 
 always took cai-e to have a handsome carriage, and 
 a couple of fine fellows in Hvery. That was her 
 sole extravagance, and it answered well. During 
 the season she was surrounded by friends, old and 
 young, and might have spent all her days amongst 
 them. In the daytime, shopping and making 
 
 Y" 
 
104 CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 
 
 calls ; in the evening, to dinners and places of 
 amusement. It cost her nothing*. Opera boxes, 
 boxes at theatres, tickets for all sorts of concerts 
 and exhibitions were showered upon her ; and it 
 was so very nice for a number of young ladies to 
 have places in her carriage on all these occasions. 
 The -old lady took as much pleasure as her con- 
 stitution was capable of, for she never lost sight 
 of that. She was very chary of her health, — hated 
 doctors, and cherished her own soul and body in 
 an admirable manner. Every thing, in fact, that 
 could make a little old lady comfortable was at her 
 command. She did not luxuriate much, it is true, 
 in her own lodgings, but a score of wealthy houses 
 were open to her. She was pressed to live in them 
 altogether — the best place in the drawing-room 
 and at the dinner-table — the softest easy chair and 
 foot-stool — the snuggest bed-room — and the most 
 bountiful attentions were bestowed upon her ; and 
 long before the season closed, her engagements for 
 the country had filled up all the time till the fol- 
 lowing one. The moment that the queen had 
 dismissed parliament, and the fashionable world, 
 to their delimits of distant halls and castles, the 
 old lady was on her way amongst the very first de- 
 
CAPT. POFHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 105 
 
 partures. She was bound on a round of visits and 
 hospitalities of the most cordial kind, — and she 
 had a charm about her that never lost its fasci- 
 nation. Grave senators, great lords and dukes too, 
 ladies of the hio-hest rank and of the most eminent 
 talents and accomplishments, and yoimg men and 
 maidens of the most amiable quahties, all united in 
 rendering the old lady's hfe as agreeable as possible. 
 What was her gi*and charm ? Was she witty, 
 learned, generous, brilliant or pathetic in her 
 powers of conversation ? — was she remarkable for 
 her feeling of the beautiful, and for angelic poetiy ? 
 No : the secret of her delio'htfulness did not He 
 
 7 O 
 
 in any of these, — she was always to be found 
 li\-ing on the clover of high life, — her two stout 
 men and her maid flourished in the most plentifid 
 of servants' halls, — her horses were always as sleek 
 and fat as the best stables and grooms could make 
 them ; but nobody ever heard her saying any thing 
 wondei-fal, or doing any thing wonderful. People 
 who did not know her often wondered what such 
 a queer old fi-ight was doicg in the company and 
 places they found her in. She had, however, a 
 talisman that kept all pleasant and affectionate 
 around her, and was capable of converting the most 
 5 
 
106 CAPT. rOPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 
 
 supercilious puppy or disdainful dame from con- 
 tempt to adoration in a second. It consisted of a 
 single and very simple sentence, " Well, I don't 
 know whom I must leave my money to, after all." 
 With that " open sesame," the old lady travel- 
 led in triimaph all round the country for thirty 
 years. There were a score or two of people who 
 were either marked out bv themselves or others as 
 quite certain to have all the old lady's Avealth. 
 There were, in fact, some hundreds who had so 
 feasted and feted her, — had made their houses her 
 home, for months, for so many years together, — 
 who had spent so much, and put themselves so 
 much out of the way to convince the old lady of 
 their entire and eternal devotion to her, that for 
 her to do any thing but leave them all she had, 
 would be to prove herself a perfect monster. If, 
 therefore, the old woman did not prove a perfect 
 monster, at least with some hundred or more of her 
 worshippers, why, then she must have been a most 
 wonderful woman indeed 1 
 
 At length she died ! All old ladies must die 
 some time, however extraordinary and necromantic 
 in their sphere they may be. She died at the 
 goodly age of eighty-seven, and after having lain 
 
('APT. POrilAM AT HIS COUNTKY-HOUSE. 107 
 
 at a dear friend's house for nine months, with 
 nurses, doctors, and sitters-up proper for so dear an 
 old lady, her physician had kindly inquired whether 
 she had made her Avill. Her kind friends were too 
 disinterested to ask this aw^kward question them- 
 selves, except through the bland man of medicine, 
 and she had rephed with a heavenly smile and an 
 affectionate pressure of the hand to her dear host- 
 ess, who sat at her bed-side, " that she had ; it was 
 at her lawyers', Messrs. Catch and Hold, in towTi, 
 and those dearest to her would find all right." 
 
 She died as we have said. The will was opened ; 
 and, oh I what a monster of ino-ratitude that old 
 woman really was ! There w^as not a name in the 
 document but one, and it was that of the quizzing, 
 teazing, ungracious, and ungrateful Bob Popham I 
 
 All the world was astonished ; and Captain Pop- 
 ham most of all ! " What an artful old Jezebel I" 
 exclaimed a hundred and fifty of her kind and in- 
 defatigable friends. " "\^^lat a funny old girl !" 
 said Captain Popham ; " what a famous dead take- 
 in for all those fussy sycophants !" These ejacula- 
 tions he uttered over a letter which he had just re- 
 ceived as he entered the door of the mess-room at 
 Fermoy, in Ireland, where his regiment was lying. 
 
108 CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 
 
 His man had run after him, out of breath, to giv^e 
 it him, for the honest fellow had an instinctive feel- 
 ing that there was luck in it, and there was need 
 of it. The Captain tliat day had had a scurvy 
 trick played oft" upon him. That morning, before 
 going out to parade, he had taken out his gold 
 watch, which cost him sixty guineas — one of those 
 few luxuries which he had indulged in at lucky 
 moments in the course of his career ; and, with a 
 melancholy look, had said, " That goes to my un- 
 cle ; there's nothing else for it !" lie had been 
 astoundingly out of luck of late. Before leaving 
 England he had lost some heavy bets. Here he 
 had lost two of his finest horses by an epidemic, 
 and as he had nothing but his pay, as was well 
 known, and no expectations, — for he could as soon 
 have calculated on a fortune-telling gipsy as on 
 his aunt, — he was in very bad cue indeed. He had 
 tried for a loan every possible old acquaintance 
 that he could call to mind within the rang'e of a 
 most excellent memory, and being confoundedly 
 dunned, as is always the case when a man is a- 
 ground, — and the only letters he had for some 
 weeks received being either from old friends, press- 
 ing for repayment of old debts, or from the inex- 
 
CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 109 
 
 orable race of attorneys, threatening all manner of 
 desperate proceedings, — liis mind was made up, 
 and liis ^Yatcll must go to pay for lodgings and for 
 sundry other petty aifairs. 
 
 When Captain Popham returned from parade, 
 he was going to cast his eyes for a farewell look on 
 his watch, and then send it off by his man Tom ; 
 but the watch was not there. " Tom thinks I am 
 careless," said Popham, " in leaving my watch 
 about," and he rang the bell. " Tom," said he, as 
 that individual appeared, " where did you put my 
 watch?" "Watch, sir!" said Tom, with an evi- 
 dent consternation. "Why, sir, you sent for it 
 from parade." 
 
 " Never !" said the Captain, turning deadly 
 pale. " Never ! What makes you say so ?" 
 
 "Say so!" repeated Tom, as if his faculties had 
 been knocked down into his heels, and wanted a 
 good while to get up again. " Why, sir, there 
 came a man, — he looked like a groom, — and he 
 said you had called him to you on the parade 
 ground, and bade him fetch your watch, which lay 
 on the c/u'wi/ey-piece." 
 
 " Chimney-piece !" exclaimed the Captain ; "how 
 
110 CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 
 
 could any body know that ? T do not recollect ever 
 laying it there before." 
 
 " Well, sir, sure as I'm alive sir, that's what he 
 said ; says he, ' it lies on the chimley -piece, and the 
 Captain wants his great coat, for he thinks it will 
 rain.' " 
 
 " And did you let him have them ?" 
 
 " Of course, sir ; what else could I do ?" 
 
 " Good God !" said the Captain ; " then you've 
 ruined me, Tom. I have not a ftirthing left. But 
 you must have seen the man ; you would soon 
 know him !" 
 
 " Gad ! I'll run out and see ; but as I'm alive I 
 never seed the man afore; and, Oh Lord! Oh, 
 Lord ! if he's otF, what shall I do ?" 
 
 Tom absquatulated, as our American fi-iends 
 say, most piteously and precipitately, and was soon 
 at all likely quarters of inquiry, but in vain. All 
 the grooms and officers' servants were lirst astound- 
 ed, and then thought it a " deuced clever sell," and 
 Tom and his Captain remained disconsolate. 
 
 When fortune's wheel has brought you to the 
 bottom, if it goes on, as the wise of all ages have 
 assured us, it must turn you up again, — and this 
 was precisely Captain Popham's experience. The 
 
CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. Ill 
 
 letter that Tom had scoured after him ^^-ith, on be- 
 ing opened, occasioned Popham to laugh aloud and 
 utter the exclamations which we have recorded 
 above. The Captain soon gratified the curiosity of 
 his brother officers, and now no longer afraid of 
 any body knowing the poverty that was past, he 
 added, for their edification, the adventure of the 
 ■watch and great coat. The two strange incidents 
 comino- too-ether threw a wonderful exhilaration 
 over the mess. It was voted that it could not do 
 less than drink everlasting happiness to Popham's 
 excellent aunt — the cleverest old woman, according 
 to the unanimous opinion of the whole regimental 
 staff, that had gone to heaven for years past ; and 
 Pophara was only too happy to order a handsome 
 supply of champagne. There never was a merrier 
 mess in any age or nation ; and the Captain found 
 no difficulty in preparing for his hasty departure to 
 England to take possession of his property, except 
 in deciding which of the many purses thrust upon 
 him he should accept the loan of. 
 
 A few days saw him at his estate in Surrey. He 
 had seen his lawyer, his banker, his bailiff, and had 
 ridden over his farms and throuo-h his woods. All 
 was extremely satisfactory. It was a splendid 
 
112 CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 
 
 autumn, about the middle of September, extremely 
 dry and ^varm. The Captain had well tired him- 
 self with shooting, in company with the keeper ; 
 and one night, sleeping Avith his windoAv open, as 
 he was accustomed to do to a very late season of 
 the year, he was awohe about two o'clock in the 
 morning by a rustling sound in the garden into 
 which his room looked. " The wind must be ris- 
 ing," thought the Captain, half waking, and turning 
 over. Another more vigorous shake, as of a tree, 
 roused him up, and listening, he felt convinced that 
 some one was paying a visit to a splendid pear- 
 tree, full of fi-uit^ just ready for plucking, on the 
 lawn before his windoAV. The next moment Cap- 
 tain Popham was out of bed, and with admirable 
 quietness had approached the window and fixed 
 his eye on the pear-tree. There was a piece of a 
 moon lingering low in the west, but enough to 
 show him a man in the very middle of his tree, 
 letting down a basket full of his pears by a rope to 
 another fellow below. 
 
 " Oho ! " thought the Captain ; " I must give 
 these felloAvs a friendly warning not to come here 
 again. Just send them an intelligible message that 
 we think we have quite leisure enough to collect 
 
CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 113 
 
 our own Windsor burgundies. No harm done ; 
 but an effectual fright. A small offence — quite a 
 small offence — and sufficiently punished with a lit- 
 tle small shot." 
 
 Po^Dham did not say this ; he only thought it ; 
 and while another might have said it, he had found 
 his gun which stood ready charged in the corner 
 near his bed, drew half the charge, and, approach- 
 ing the window, took deliberate aim at the legs of 
 the fellow in the tree. Popham never missed : 
 down dropped the man, crashing through the 
 boughs, and attended by a hurricane of pears, tum- 
 bled with a thump to the earth. 
 
 The Captain's ears, rather than his eyes, informed 
 him of this, for the latter organs were in quest of 
 the fellow below, as well as the smoke of his piece 
 would allow. When he caught sight of him, he 
 was already in ftill flight across the lawn. " Bang ! " 
 went the second barrel, and a wild shriek of " Oh, 
 Lord ahve ! I'm a dead man ! " assured him that 
 there, too, his discharge had taken effect. For 
 dead men, however, the two pear-gatherers managed 
 to get off at a surprising rate, and the Captain, 
 chuckling to himself, said, " Well, those fellows 
 won't volunteer their aid to gather my burgundies 
 5* 
 
114 CAPT. POPIIAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 
 
 again this year. They will have their own crop 
 of No. 4 to gather out of their legs ; but I am 
 afraid I must have alarmed old John and Betty." 
 While saying this, the Captain was turning com- 
 fortably into bed to finish his sleep, and in less than 
 five minutes was dreaming of chasing Bosjesmen 
 at the Cape. When he awoke in the morning, he 
 looked out, and to his astonishment saw a splendid 
 ass, loaded with a pair of panniers, under his pear- 
 tree, eating the fallen pears with a peculiar relish. 
 The Captain hastened down stairs, meeting in the 
 hall Betty Brantingham, the housekeeper, carrying 
 the tray into the breakfast-room. 
 
 " Law, sir ! how you did frighten us," said Betty, 
 " with letting off your gun in the night. It made 
 our old hearts jump into our mouths." 
 
 "I was afraid I might disturb you," said the Cap- 
 tain, taking his hat and going towards the garden ; 
 " but where are the men I shot ?" 
 
 " Men ! " cried Betty, giving a start, as if electri- 
 fied, and letting the tray fall, but only upon the 
 hall-table, which she had just reached. " Oh, sir ! 
 how you do like to frighten a poor old body." 
 
 But the Captain was by this time out, and advanc- 
 ing towards the pear-tree, for it was his cue to ap- 
 
CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 115 
 
 pear very savage, and make old Jolm and Betty 
 believe he had nearly, if not all out, killed the men. 
 He was, therefore, looking about with a very eager 
 air, as if in quest of dead bodies. Meantime, John 
 and Bettv Brantino-ham had hurried out after him, 
 and found him surveying the scores of fallen pears, 
 broken boughs, and scattered leaves, with a solemn 
 look. " There is blood on these leaves," said he ; 
 "but I fear the comrades of the rascals have carried 
 
 them ofiV 
 
 " Lord above, save us ! " said Betty, all of a trem- 
 ble. "How dreadful!" 
 
 The Captain now advanced to the wooden fence 
 at the end of the garden. There it was easy to 
 see, by the dirt from their shoes, wdiere one at least 
 had clambered over : and there, too, some blood was 
 reallv discernible. 
 
 " Let us search the field," said the Captain. " They 
 may be dead in a ditch." 
 
 He sprang over the fence, and old John clam- 
 bered all of a tremble after him. They searched 
 all round the field, but found no dead men. 
 
 " But Avhat a capital ass ! " said old John, when 
 they were come back again. "And what fruit!" 
 examining the panniers. And, in fact, never was 
 
lie CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 
 
 an ass laden with so superb a load of fruit. " Why, 
 it is the pick," said John, " of all the gentlemen's 
 garden's round." There were peaches, nectarines, 
 apricots, plums and pears, of the most magnificent 
 description. 
 
 " AVell," said the Captain laughing, " it is no 
 such bad exchange after all. The rogues have got 
 their dessert, and yet they have left us a fine assort- 
 ment of fruit for ours. And what an ass ! Why 
 they must have stolen it, too. Turn it into the 
 paddock ; such a fine fellow is sure to be inqui]-ed 
 after." 
 
 But, as it turned out, nobody ever did inquire 
 after it. The Captain's exploit made a stupendous 
 noise in the country. The Captain always made 
 the worst of it, althouo-h at the risk of o'ettino- the 
 character of a cruel fellow\ No information ever 
 was obtained of the thieves ; and, years after, that 
 finest specimen of the asinine race might be seen 
 with old John Brantingham on his back, going on 
 his errands, or it was drawinof a handsome little 
 chaise with the Captain's two eldest children in it. 
 
 That sanie autumn, however, but in the begin- 
 ning of November, the Captain, after an absence in 
 town attending to various matters connected with 
 
CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 11 T 
 
 the will and the property, was again at his country- 
 house. As he was reading his morning paper, 
 while Betty Brantino-ham was arrano-ino- his tea- 
 table, he said, — 
 
 " Lord bless me, Mrs. Brantingham, what num- 
 bers of burglaries there are all about here. I 
 wonder the scoundrels don't visit us." 
 
 " Xo, sir," said Betty, shaking her head, '' they'll 
 not come here, sir, I'll warrant 'em." 
 
 " Why not :" said the Captain. 
 
 " Because," said Betty, " you've got such a name, 
 sir. They say all round here — you'll excuse me, sir, 
 — that you like nothino- so well as shootino- men." 
 
 "Do they say that?" said the Captain. 
 
 " They do, sir," said Betty. " Squire Sandiland, 
 out there by Farnborough, told the postman that 
 he had dined with a gentleman that once dined 
 with the officers of your reo-iment, and they told 
 him that you were very fond of shooting bears, 
 quite wild about shooting lions, but that you had 
 rather shoot a man than any thing." 
 
 '' Did he say that ?'' added the Captain, with a 
 smile. 
 
 "He did really," added Betty; "but I said I 
 was sure that it was not true." 
 
118 CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 
 
 " Why," said tlie Captain, " it dopeiuls on what 
 sort of a man it is." 
 
 Betty looked a very queer look at the Captain ; 
 and then added, " Well, bless the Lord, excej:>t for 
 a few apples or pears, or a fowl or two, or so, no 
 robbers never came to this house in Madam Pop- 
 ham's time. They soon get to know — they are 
 cunning customers are those robbers — where there 
 is any thing worth stealing, and where they are 
 good, easy people that w^on't hurt 'em. Madam 
 Popham never kept no plate here. It's all in a 
 strong box at the Bank at Guildford." 
 
 " Ah ! true," said the Captain. " I had forgotten 
 that : but we will have it here directly." 
 
 " Oh, Lord, sir !" said Betty ; " why you would 
 not tempt them ? You don't w^ant 'em to come 
 here ?" 
 
 " Well, as to that," said the Captain, " don't you 
 think, Mrs. Brantingham, that the rogues had 
 better come than go and frighten defenceless ladies 
 and quiet inoffensive clergymen ? For ray part, I 
 am always ready for them ; and I rather like it," 
 continued the Captain, looking firmly at Bett}'. 
 "Vermin should be cleared off, and especially 
 vermin that ought to know better." 
 
CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 119 
 
 Betty Brantingliam stood astonished. " But they 
 don't know better, sir," said she at length, " a many 
 of 'em. They are poor nnenhghtened wretches." 
 "Then suppose we enhghten them," said the 
 Captain, taking a quantity of bullets out of his 
 pocket. " We must put a window thi-ough a few 
 of them, with these." 
 
 " Oh Lord, sir," said Betty, looking quite fi-ighten- 
 ed, " why you're like that gentleman that they say 
 hves at Carhsle, that drops all rogues he can catch 
 into his well, and shuts a strong oak door down 
 over them ; for that's the only cure for them, he 
 says. But, Heaven bless us, what a hard, fistycuff 
 man it must be." 
 
 "Upon my word! a grand fellow!" said the 
 Captain, laughing. " Tell John to saddle the ass, 
 and carry a note to Guildford." 
 
 Betty gave another queer look, as she made a 
 very solemn curtsey, saying, " Yes, sir !" and with- 
 drew. 
 
 The Captain soon had his plate at home. It was 
 a splendid sight to see it, though rather old fashion- 
 ed. He had it rather paraded, too ; for he sent it 
 in open baskets to a man in the next village fa- 
 mous for waiting at gentlemen's houses, and for 
 
120 CAPT. I'Ol'IIAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 
 
 cleaning plate. Every basket had a pillow in the 
 bottom, and the plate, which thus looked much 
 more than it really was, was piled up loftil}^ 
 Basket after basket went, and came back glittering 
 like fire in the sun. It is said that he really had it 
 cleaned twice over. At all events, never had such 
 a display of silver and gold been seen down there, 
 and great was the talk about it. It was enough to 
 tempt all the thieves in the country, and Betty 
 Brantingham seriously, though respectfully, sug- 
 gested whether it were not a tempting of Prov- 
 idence too. 
 
 But it did not take. The Captain's name was 
 up, and we verily believe that he might have left 
 his plate in the road before his house, or on Crack- 
 skull Common itself, as freely as potboys leave their 
 pots in the care of Providence hung on pallisadoes 
 or lying on steps in the streets of London every 
 where. Robberies, and even murders, there were 
 all round the country, but nobody came near the 
 Captain. 
 
 At length — it was in the depth of winter — the 
 Captain was awoke with a noise. He felt sure that 
 somebody at length had broken in. He put out 
 his hand to liis gun, which stood as usual ready 
 
CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 121 
 
 loaded, felt in his waistcoat pocket on the chair by 
 his side for a couple of caps, and listened. It ^vas 
 a fact — somebody was astir in the house. He heard 
 dooi-s open and shut below : he lieard footsteps on 
 the stairs. He sprung from his bed, cautiously- 
 opened his door, and hstened. At that instant 
 there came a dreadful cry from the room of the old 
 couple. " Oh, Lord help us ! Oh I ugh ! ugh ! 
 ugh 1" It was the agonized voice of Betty Brant- 
 ingham. " The rogues are murdering her," said 
 the Captain to himself. " This is no joking matter." 
 He dropped a couple of bullets down his barrels, 
 and darted up the flight of stairs to her assistance. 
 As he reached the landing-place opposite to her 
 room, he perceived the door open ; it was so near 
 mornino- that there was a little lio-bt from the 
 window on the far side of the room ; he could see 
 a figure moving by the bed, and the old woman's 
 voice was now audible only in low and lower 
 groans. 
 
 " They have murdered her I" exclaimed the 
 Captain aloud, simultaneously pulling the trigger 
 of his piece. It flashed in the pan, and at the 
 same moment a piercing shriek in Betty Branting- 
 
 
122 CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-IIOUSK. 
 
 ham's own voice startled him with these woi'ds — 
 " Oh Lord, sir ! what are you doino- ?" 
 
 The Captain stood ])etrified to the spot. " But 
 what in lieaven's name is the matter ?" he exclaim- 
 ed, as he recovered his speech, but still .feeling as 
 if he were standing* in a horsepond. "Are not 
 they killing you ?" 
 
 " Good gracious, no !" exclaimed Betty ; " but 
 I've had such a racking fit of toothache ; and I've 
 been down for a di-op of peppermint-water ; and I 
 was just holding on to the bed-post to enable me 
 to abide." 
 
 The Captain felt his blood run still colder. If 
 his gun had not providentially missed fii-e, Betty 
 Brantingham at this moment had been dead by 
 his hand ! 
 
 For a lono- time the horror of this frio-htful affair 
 hung on the Captain ; and he really thought if all 
 the thieves in the country came, he should not 
 have a heart to point a gun at them. 
 
 But vet, a few weeks afterwards, comino- home 
 late and unexpectedly from town, he found that 
 Mrs. Bi-antingham had taken the opportunity of 
 his absence to have a i-eo-ular clearino- out of his 
 bed-room. The cai-pet was up, the floor scoured, 
 
CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 123 
 
 and all the furniture either turned out into the pas- 
 sage or piled upon the bed, in that blessed confu- 
 sion which prevails on such occasions. There was 
 nothing for it but taking up his quarters in a room 
 on the third story, without danger of a damp bed. 
 Jjut the Captain was an old campaigner. He 
 found the room all veiy well, and was presently 
 asleep. Out of this sweet sleep, however, he was 
 roused at midnight by the wildest and most awful 
 cry of murder. It rung clearly and frightfully 
 through the house. It seemed to proceed from 
 the room below him. That could not be a mere 
 fit of Mrs. Brantingham's toothache. He sprung 
 from his bed, but it was pitch dark. The room 
 was perfectly strange to him ; he had no means of 
 procuring a light ; and groping for the door, for 
 liis Hfe he could not find it ! 
 
 If there be a bewilderment in this world, it is 
 precisely that in which the Captain found himself. 
 He went round and round the room ; stumbled 
 over chairs ; struck his forehead against the sharp 
 edo^e of a wardrobe ; broke his shins as^ainst a 
 chest of drawers, and every moment became 
 more and more confounded. All the time the 
 cries of murdei' resounded in his ears. Then all 
 
124 CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 
 
 became as suddenly still. " It's all over !" ex- 
 claimed the Captain ; " and that cursed door, the 
 devil himself must have conjured it away." 
 
 AVitli this, quite satisfied that the old people 
 were now lying with their thi'oats cut from ear to 
 ear, and not having any fire-arms in this room, he 
 placed a chair by his bedside as a means of de- 
 fence if he Avere attacked ; and plunging into bed, 
 resigned himself to his fate. Nobody came : the 
 Captain, after a while, dropped asleep, and when 
 he awoke it was about nine in the mornino;. Re- 
 membering the horrid outcries of the night, he got 
 up hastily, and went down stairs to ascertain the 
 extent of the mischief. That the old people were 
 murdered he felt quite certain. Their bed-room 
 door was open : he looked in, but saw no ^bloody 
 corpses. " Can it i-eally be that old woman's 
 toothache again ?" said the Captain ; " why it's 
 quite a nuisance !" He descended to the ground- 
 floor, and there sat Mr. and Mrs. Brantingham at 
 breakfast, as coollv as tliouo-h nothino; whatever 
 had happened. 
 
 " Why, bless me, Mrs. Brantingham," said the 
 Captain, rather tartly, " I quite believed that you 
 were both murdered." 
 
CAPT. POPIIAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 125 
 
 "• Murdered, sir ?" 
 
 " Yes, you cried ' murder' lustily." 
 
 " Oh !" said Mrs. Brantingham, looking strangely 
 at her husband. " What a pity we did not think 
 to tell the Captain. I ask you a thousand pardons, 
 sir ; but it was only John's cousin, out of Hamp- 
 shire, — Mr. Roxbv, the shoemakei-, — who came 
 yesterday to bring John a bit of interest he owes 
 him. He's troubled with dreams, sir, and always 
 cries ' murder' in them ; but, bless you ! except 
 for that, he's as innocent as a child." 
 
 " Where is he, then ?" asked the Captain. 
 
 " Oh, he's half way home bv this time. He 
 knocked at our door at four o'clock, and said he 
 had been much plagued with dreams, and, being 
 awake, he would set off." 
 
 "Never let him sleep here again," said the 
 Captain. 
 
 Such were Captain Popham's adventures in his 
 country-house the first winter of his possession of 
 it. Before the next winter he had made an exten- 
 sive acquaintance in town and country; had 
 formed a laro-e and handsome establishment, and 
 finally got married. 
 
 The Captain has lived now for some years at 
 
120 CAl'T. POPHAM AT IIIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 
 
 Crackslvull Manor, on the very edge of CrackskiiU 
 Common. Buro-laries and robberies abound there- 
 about, and the Captain afiects to wonder that no- 
 body ever thinks of robbing- him, for his plate is 
 worth thousands ; but Betty Brantingham says, 
 " No, they'll never come here." 
 
 At a great dinner-party, an oracular old Protec- 
 tionist baronet gave it as his opinion regarding so 
 much house-breaking, that the Whigs have done 
 it all. " They have," said he, " undermined all the 
 institutions of the country, and given the rogues a 
 taste for luxury by teaching them to read. They 
 are so cunning now-a-days that they can tell to an 
 inch and to an ounce where plate and money are." 
 
 " No," said Captain Popham, " we have done it 
 all ourselves. Carelessness in our own camp is 
 sure to expose us to the attacks of the enemy. 
 We know that there is a sad mass of ignorance 
 and poverty in the country, and if we mean to be 
 safe, we must exert ourselves to root it out. If we 
 are fat and lazy, there are plenty that are lean and 
 on the alert. If we will have tempting heaps of 
 plate and money, we should take vigilant and suf- 
 ficient means to secure them. Have an efficient 
 police, and keep it so by looking well after it. See 
 
 Vy&r^ 
 
CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COL^'TRY-HOUSE. 127 
 
 that vour doors and windo\YS are well secure, sir. 
 There is no greater truth, take my word for it, 
 than that where thieves can't get in they won't get 
 in. Hang bells to your shutters and doors. Keep 
 a watchman's rattle in your bed-room. Eat lio-ht 
 suppers, or none at all, and don't let your seiTants 
 muddle their brains with strong beer before they 
 go to bed, and then they won't sleep like so many 
 stones on a moor. Keep a little yaffing dog in- 
 dooi-s as well, or in preference to a big mastiff 
 Avithoiit ; and if roo'ues will come and make an 
 attack on yom- house, g-ive them a vioforous salute 
 from the windows, but don't let them find you 
 lying on your backs in your night-shu-ts while they 
 hold a pistol or a huo-e rustv knife to your nose. 
 That is a very awkward and humiliating situation, 
 and no really good tactician will suffer himself to 
 be caught napping in that way." 
 
 "That's true enough," said a clergyman at table. 
 " I don't want to flatter Captain Popham, but I 
 believe him, from facts within my knowledge, to 
 be one of the most merciful men in our counti-y ; 
 and I think it veiy likely that the touch of severity 
 which he showed when he first came down amono-st 
 us, has prevented more crimes and the effusion of 
 
128 CAPT. POPHAM AT HIS COUNTRY-HOUSE. 
 
 more innocent blood than can readily be calcu- 
 lated." 
 
 "Ay, ay," said the ol.l baronet, "it's all very 
 well. Vicar, but the Captain verifies the old saw — 
 ' When a man's name is up, he may sleep.' " 
 
 " Precisely so," said the Vicar. 
 
THE SLEEPING CHILD. 
 
 w 
 
 BY MISS BAERETT. 
 
 ?TIS aye a solemn thing to me 
 ■^ To look upon a babe that sleeps; 
 
 "Wearing in its spirit-deeps 
 Tbe unrevealed mystery 
 
 Of its Adam's taint and woe, 
 "Wbicb, when they revealed be, 
 
 "Will not let it slumber so! 
 Lying new in life beneath 
 
 The shadow of the coming death, 
 
 TVith that soft low quiet breath, 
 As if it felt the sun ! 
 Knowing all things by their blooms 
 
 Not by their roots! Yea! sun and sky 
 Only by the warmth that comes 
 
 Out of each I — earth only by 
 The pleasant hues that o'er it run ! 
 And human love, by drops of sweet 
 6 
 
130 THE SLEEPING CHILD. 
 
 White nourishment still hanging round 
 The little mouth so slumber bound ! 
 
 All which broken sentiency 
 
 Will gather, and unite, and climb, • 
 
 To an immortality 
 Good or evil, each sublime, 
 
 Through life and death, to life again. 
 Oh little lids, now closed fast, 
 Must ye learn to droop at last, 
 
 Over large and burning tears? 
 Oh warm quick body! must thou lie ^1^ 
 
 "When is done the round of years, ^^F 
 
 Bare of all the joy and pain. 
 Dust in dust, — thy place up-giving 
 To creeping worms in sentient living? 
 
 O small frail being, wilt thou stand 
 At God's right hand. 
 Lifting up those sleeping eyes, 
 
 Dilated by subhmest destinies. 
 In endless waking ? Thrones and Seraphim, 
 
 Through the long ranks of their solemnities, 
 Sunning thee with calm looks of Heaven's surprise, 
 
 Thy look alone on Him? 
 Or else self-willed to the godless place — 
 
 (God keep thy will!) — feel thine own energies, 
 Cold, strong, objectless, like a dead man's clasp, 
 The sleepless, deathless life within thee, grasp, I 
 
 While myriad faces, like one changeless fiice, 
 
 With woe, not love's, shall glass thee every where, 
 
 And overcome thee with thine own despair? 
 
THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 
 
 A TRUE STORY OF MODERX ITALY. 
 
 BY MRS. DAVID OGILVY. 
 Author of " Traditions of Tuscany," &c., &c. 
 
 T^ISSIXG goes by favor," saitli the old pro- 
 
 ■^^ verb, and so does praising. The " Continental 
 Bradshaw " devotes half-a-dozen pages to that Cock- 
 ney-Paris Bnissels, and a column of enthusiasm 
 to Capri ; while Florence and Venice are disposed 
 of in three lines, naming the Envoy, and the zvoisf, 
 not the best, medical men. 
 
 Who obtained for Capii that honorable mention ? 
 
 Quoth Bradshaw, "the climate is particularly 
 favorable to all complaints of the bronchia." May 
 be — all I know is, that being myself by habit and 
 repute a victim to that complaint, Capri affected 
 me with a severer return thereof than t had expe- 
 
 •■•«•;!* 
 
132 THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 
 
 rienced since I encountered the east winds of onr 
 foggy isle of England. 
 
 Quoth Bradshaw, " food is there abundant and 
 cheap." May be ; but I knew three respectable 
 ladies nearly starved because they could not live 
 upon cuttle fish and pumpkins. 
 
 Truly Capri is a land flowing with oil and wine, 
 but the solid flesh is rare. Brahminical cows, that 
 die unmolested in a good old age, are its beef ; its 
 mutton travels over from Naples, eight hours under 
 a burning sun — a method of cooking not quite 
 agreeable. Its fowls have a mixture of bone and 
 yellow fat, utterly destitute of white meat, which 
 our host used to ascjibe to their diet of Indian 
 corn, and which certainly rendered them interest- 
 ing ornithological specimens, but very bad fare. 
 
 In short, fish is the staple resource of Capri, as 
 it is of the Hebrides ; its fertility reduces its inhab- 
 itants to the same diet as does the barrenness of 
 the Scottish isles. Little delicate anchovies, rich 
 cephalopods, eels curly as small snakes, red glisten- 
 ing mullet, and sarpe, a fish that tastes strongly of 
 the sea-weed on which it feeds ; these were our din- 
 ner materials. When these failed, our host dis- 
 played inexhaustible invention in the concoction of 
 
 m 
 
 
THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 133 
 
 entr^es^ consisting generally of fries. To-day fried 
 potatoes, disguised beyond recognition even by an 
 Irishman ; to-morrow fried Frencli beans, cut into 
 fantastic forms; now a fry of cucuzzoli (a sweet- 
 tasted green sort of gherkin) ; another time of ri- 
 cotto, or curdled cream. But a meal off the joint 
 dear to hungry Britons is not attainable in Capri. 
 This much, O Continental Bradshaw, I write, be- 
 cause due to the sacred cause of truth : I must say 
 amen to all praises of its scenery. I used often to 
 think that in the after-life alone could such eye-joy 
 be surpassed. We lived in a low-roofed house, 
 one single story towards the land, but on the se#- 
 ward side sinking abruptly in a precipice, with a 
 range of offices under a broad airy terrace. 
 
 On that terrace we sj^ent our days. A large 
 swing lamp hanging from its matted roof acted 
 the part of The Salt. Below it was set a table for 
 servants and children ; above it we ate our own 
 meals like eastern sultans. 
 
 The matting overhead kept off the sun, while 
 the air came freely in from the sea, and the view 
 unbroken lay before us. The tongues of men and 
 angels could not describe it ; Xaples, twenty-three 
 miles off, was distinctly visible. St. Elmo's Castle, 
 
134 THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 
 
 like a barometer, registered on its tall crest every 
 atmospheric change. Vesuvius, no longer a twin 
 pair as it appears from the city, at Capri rises in a 
 single cone, with such a gradual slope from the 
 level purple plain, that one fancies it to be a work 
 of man raised step by step above the greensward. 
 Not once during our stay in those vicinities did 
 the hell-mouth send out a flame. "Weary with the 
 gi-eat eruption of March, it lay all July in a dead 
 slumber, only a white puff of cloud hovering as a 
 remembrancer over the crater's top. You did not 
 trace it ascending from the lip ; you only saw it 
 hanging motionless in the clear, blue air. And 
 fearless white villas hung on the skirts of that de- 
 structive volcano, as children cling on to the sabre- 
 tache and sword-belt of a redoubted w^arrior. And 
 a hugh arm of Capri thrust itself out into the blue 
 sea on our right : while in the shadoAV of its per- 
 pendicular rock face, brown naked boys disported 
 themselves among the transparent waters, and the 
 weedy ruins of Roman palaces. 
 
 Much, much more did that terrace show us, 
 which sank into our heart of hearts, but which 
 refuses to come drily forth and deposit itself on this 
 prosy page. In the evenings we sallied out and 
 
THE EXILES OF CAPRl* 135 
 
 climbed the steep path leading to tfwn of 
 
 Capri— a path made for the behoof of shoemshors ; 
 to go up it and to go down it would make an end 
 of the finest and strongest boots sold between Tem- 
 ple Bar and the Crystal Palace. It is composed 
 partly of rough shingle, partly of rude steps more 
 than half worn away. Ohves rise above you, vine- 
 yards and orchards below-you, and every step gives 
 a different and a lovelier view of the Bay, of the 
 promontory of Massa and Campanella, of the wild 
 masses of St. Angelo towering behind, and the far- 
 off Abruzzi peats, and the soKtary mount of Mon- 
 dragone, until, as you reach the old town gate, you 
 turn and behold Ischia, Procida, and Nicita, gleam- 
 ing like topazes in the setting sun. However hot 
 might be the evening, always a cold blast rushed 
 through that dark and ancient archway; conse- 
 quently its two stone benches were more than com- 
 fortably full. Peasants and vine-dressers, fisher- 
 men and loungers, and a number of melancholy 
 men, to whom, Italians as they evidently were, 
 idleness did not seem to bring its own all-sufficient 
 reward. I have been so used to see the southrons 
 enjoying their existence, taking in the sense of be- 
 ing at every pore, that I felt rivetted by these lack- 
 
136 THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 
 
 lustre faces and aimless wandering eyes. To them 
 the exquisite beauty all around was as a blank. 
 They pined — and for what? For liberty — they 
 
 were exiles. 
 
 Then we rambled through the odd old piazza, 
 with its rusty, absurd old jail, in which I once saw 
 a prisoner, who had a just appreciation of the ad- 
 vantages of his lot, staring eagerly at a triumphal 
 arch erected close before his grating, and an illu- 
 minated display of fireworks let off just under his 
 rejoicing eyes ; past the sumptuous and unpictu- 
 resque cathedral, up whose steps were hastening, 
 at the vesper-bell, women with white veils on their 
 black plaits, and swaddled babes on their swarthy 
 shoulders ; and so diving down a narrow water- 
 course, pebbly and rocky, and a torture to all with 
 thin shoes and corns, we came on a lonely descend- 
 ing path, down among fields of poppied grain, and 
 by the gnarled roots of aged olives, through wilder- 
 nesses of myrtles and aniseed, and scabious, and 
 clematis, and lovely little campanulas and saxifrage, 
 down to a round projection of the cliffs jutting out 
 into the sea, walled and provided with stone seats. 
 It was a wild and lonely scene. On our right a 
 lofty rock rose sheer from the strand, sloping land- 
 
THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 137 
 
 ward towards the town of Capri, but presenting to 
 the ocean a red, furrowed, unscalable precipice, 
 broken only by a cavern midway, inaccessible save 
 to winged fowl. Its highest peak was surmounted 
 by a ruined castle, strongly fortified by the French, 
 and said to be haunted by s'pirits for the sake of its 
 buried treasures. 
 
 Right in fi'ont of us, cleaving the calm blue wa- 
 ters, were those remarkable rocks, the Farra Leone, 
 three in number, but two of them standing so near 
 that it is only at particular angles you can per- 
 ceive the didsion. In one of them is a hio-h natu- 
 ral arch, under which large boats can pass. Her 
 Majesty's frigate Thetis, with all sails set, was steer- 
 ed in betwixt the shore and the nearest of these 
 rocks. The inhabitants could hardly beheve their 
 eyes when they beheld the success of this rash ex- 
 periment. It proved, however, the immense depth 
 of the water in shore, and the extraordinary height 
 of these loftv rocks, measured from their founda- 
 tion at the bottom of the sea. A ship seen near 
 them foils to the size of a child's toy : their color 
 is a rich brown, their shape fantastically Gothic. 
 All along this side of the island the clifis take the 
 strangest forms — pinnacles, arches, spires, flying 
 6* 
 
138 THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 
 
 buttresses, all sorts of combinations, suggest them- 
 selves to the imaginative wanderer. Beyond the 
 Farra Leone lay the Great Sea, rolling down to- 
 wards unseen Sicily and Africa, felt only too palpa- 
 bly in its nightly sirocco blasts. And there on the 
 low beacb of rock a young man sat, and gazed 
 over the trembling surf which whitened the narrow 
 strand below, with such an intense yearning, such 
 a piteous appeal to the unchecked seas and tameless 
 winds, that my heart ached for him — an exile ! I 
 thought of Campbell's exquisite poem, "There 
 came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin," and 
 from that moment the scene became consecrated 
 to me with a higher spell than that of mere natu- 
 ral beauty. 
 
 We stayed long at Capri, roaming nightly over 
 its rocky paths ; and ever as we went, the place 
 seemed haunted by these mournful-eyed exiles. 
 They saw the myrtle plain, and the rock-wall sil- 
 vered by moonlight, with far different emotions 
 from ours. We had chosen to live in that lonely 
 island ; they were chained down to it like so many 
 little Xapoleons. 
 
 We could ramble freely even till midnight ; but 
 the drum called them into their hot. cheerless 
 
THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 139 
 
 quarters just when the outer world was most at- 
 tractive. 
 
 Some of them were not ashamed to beg, being 
 forbid to dig. 'We inquired their story from the 
 judge, who was often with us in our walks, and he 
 told us the following : — They had formed part of 
 a brigade of volunteers, organized in 1848 to march 
 against the Austrians in Lombardy. They were 
 the free gift of the nation ; and the kino-, sittino- 
 uneasily, like all his confraternity in those days, 
 whose place was upon thrones, outwardly approv- 
 ed of their demonstrative patriotism, and himself 
 saw them embark — thus sanctioning the enterprise. 
 But alas ! Austria triumphed ; and the volunteers, 
 as many as survived, trooped homewards, sorrow- 
 ful and crestfallen. But little knew they what 
 treachery awaited them at their sovereign's hands ! 
 " The same mouth," said St. James, " doth not send 
 forth blessing and cursing ;" but the apostle lived 
 before the days of the Bourbons. 
 
 The king, quaking as much before the stern 
 Austrian as he had done before the heady populace, 
 ordered these remnants of a sanguinary defeat to 
 be seized and flung into prison. War had pitied 
 their fall from rapturous hope into black despair — 
 
140 THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 
 
 had abstained from smiting tlieir body, even as 
 Satan lono- dealt with Job; but the Bourbon 
 claimed " skin for skiri." At length in a merciful 
 mood, he had seventy-five of them swept like gar- 
 bage out of his city, and cast on the lonely, isola- 
 ted little Capri, there to subsist on fourpence a-day, 
 strictly overwatched by the military there. " Four- 
 pence a-day !" said one of the exiles to us ; " why 
 it does not keep us in shoes !" and I beheve him. 
 I know we all wore out an incalculable number of 
 strong shoes made on purpose for those stony 
 tracts, during our month's residence on the island. 
 The story of the young officer whom w^e had seen 
 near the Farra Leone was still more touching. 
 
 He was of good family, and not personally com- 
 promised in any of the political questions. On 
 the contrary, he had served the king on the bloody 
 18th of Mav, doino- his dutv conscientiously: 
 thouofh aware that his friends and relations were 
 in the Garde Nation ale, he had not* withdrawn 
 from the misery of meetino- them in conflict ; but 
 shortly afterwards he w^as arrested, and sent a pris- 
 oner to Ponza, where for one whole year he was 
 shut up in a town. He knew not how he had 
 g-iven offence to the government. His name was 
 
THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 141 
 
 Pomerini Santomaso. From Ponza he was dis- 
 patched to Capri, and there kept at large. I pitied 
 hira all the more for being in so gorgeous a prison. 
 What an aggravation of captivity to see his home 
 daily before him ! Naples — so far, yet so distinct 
 — separated from him by woree barriei-s than miles 
 of fathomless waters, yet so clear in all its details, 
 that perhaps his keen eye could discern the street 
 in which his father dwelt ; the ranges of white bal- 
 cony, in one of which perhaps his mother might 
 come to lean, and gaze across the Bay to that gol- 
 den clasp at its outlet, the island of her son's exile ! 
 No wonder the captive man preferred to sit on the 
 southern side, where only the wide sea-line spread, 
 cheating his confined spirit with a glimpse of infi- 
 nity. Perhaps he sent his thoughts madly over 
 those seas to the great wild deserts of Sahara far 
 beyond, and longed rather to run freely on its 
 savage sands, than to live a prisoner in the torpid 
 loveliness of Capri. 
 
 He was a gentlemanly youth to behold, 
 cleanlv, well-shaven, and well-mannered. The 
 judge — a Corsican by birth, and not very tame of 
 blood — had probably some sympathy with his 
 hard case ; he consorted openly with him, playing 
 
142 THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 
 
 draughts with him in a certain wretched Httle cq/e, 
 or smoking amicably bad tobacco in the open air. 
 
 Every evening we used thus to find them, if 
 Sig. Bourgeois, the judge, w^ere not officially em- 
 ployed ; and they gi-eeted us with all the Italian 
 courtesy as we passed through the old arch of the 
 city gate, on our way to visit three ladies of our 
 own country. These ladies had repaired to Capri 
 on the strength of its fine air and cheap living. 
 But they had a preference for English fare, and 
 " butcher meat ;" and I have already told you how 
 the market prospered. Moreover, to enjoy the 
 scenery of this rugged rock, you must have tire- 
 less limbs as well as sound lungs ; and one of the 
 sisters was asthmatic, the other rheumatic, besides 
 having greatly impaired eyesight. 
 
 Amiable, lively, and hospitable, they were ill- 
 fitted for the indolent solitude which Tiberius so 
 much loved ; and the experiment, so far as their 
 happiness was concerned, was a failure. They had 
 gone to a house previously engaged for them by a 
 gentleman well known in Campania as " the King 
 of Capri," — a whimsical invalid, who having found 
 the place agree with his own peculiar constitution, 
 recommended it for the most opposite complaints. 
 
THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 143 
 
 He did not find the island lonely, for he possessed 
 ^'ineyards and land, and took all the minute 
 interest of an hereditary proprietor in his acquisi- 
 tions and his crops. 
 
 He had chosen for his friends a house looking, 
 not towards Naples the distinct, but Sicily the 
 invisible. Moreover, it had small, low rooms; 
 and if you opened the window you were deafened 
 by the noisy rabble of children playing in the 
 street, and by dawdling mothers disputing from 
 window to window across the dirty narrow alleys. 
 
 I much preferred our terrace low down upon 
 the shore. Formerly the island-metropolis was 
 also built upon the beach on the only littlle harbor 
 which the place possesses. But the perpetual 
 inroads of the Turks obliged the inhabitants to re- 
 treat upwards to the ridge or spine of rock which 
 commands both seas, and which, when girded with 
 ramparts and towers, proved nearly impregnable. 
 The Eno'lish and French found this in the davs of 
 Nelson, when they struggled together to possess 
 the golden seal of the Neapolitan Bay. 
 
 But elderly maiden ladies can hardly be sen- 
 sible of these advantages ; and the fortified little 
 city was full, alas ! of evil smells, bad drains, and 
 
144 THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 
 
 loud quarrelling voices, from which you could not 
 escape. I think the extreme beauty of many of 
 the young \aragos rather aggravated the annoy- 
 ance ; you were provoked doubly, by the charm 
 and by its incessantly breaking before your eyes. 
 
 At length there came something to interest 
 our countrywomen, just as they were fairly tired of 
 Capri and its stony magnificence. One evening 
 as they sat at work on their terrace (which com- 
 manded a fine prospect of gray roofs and red 
 chimney -pots), they saw a fire suddenly bursting 
 forth in a house not far ofi". 
 
 Now, generally speaking, in Italy w^e are not 
 much afraid of fire. The thickness of the house 
 walls, the massive stone staircases, the solid stone 
 floors, the paucity of fiirniture, and largeness of 
 the rooms ; these causes combine to diminish in 
 great measure the perils of a conflagration. 
 
 The same accident which burned to the ground 
 Raggett's Hotel in London, only burnt a set of 
 bed-curtains and a chair in Florence. And I have 
 more than once seen the beginning of a conflagra- 
 tion which in England would have spread from 
 house to house, and from street to street, in Italv 
 
THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 145 
 
 got under in an hour, lea^dng one scorclied room 
 as proof of its prowess. 
 
 Were it otherwise, human life would be in 
 continual danger, for no people are more habitually 
 careless of fire than are the Italians. They burn 
 it on low hearths, unprotected by fender, or g-uard, 
 or bar ; they carry it about in earthen baskets, 
 spilling many a red-hot cinder on their path : they 
 stoop over it with flo^dng petticoats, as it smoul- 
 ders in the open brazier ; nay the women keep it 
 under their clothes as they sit, often rising up for- 
 getfully, and upsetting the hot ashes on the floor. 
 
 Imagine the consequence in houses where 
 wood is the predominating material ! 
 
 There must have been somethino- unusual in 
 this Capri fire, for very soon the building was in 
 flames, the wind blew in the direction of the 
 English ladies' house, and their alarm was not 
 unreasonable. They sent for the judge, Sig. Bour- 
 geois : he was absent on business at the other end 
 of the island — nay, I believe he had gone over to 
 Sorrento. 
 
 The women were shriekinof on the " Maronna^'' 
 as the Capriote dialect hath it : the men stood 
 
146 THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 
 
 paralyzed, gazing at tlie torrents of flame which 
 every moment burst out in stronger gushes. The 
 hot breath of the devouring element came nearer 
 and nearer to the English ladies, till they felt it on 
 their cheeks. 
 
 The young exiled officer, Pomerini Santomaso, 
 saw the accident. He called rapidly on his fellow- 
 exiles. With all the sudden energy of a strong 
 man roused, he directed how they were to act. 
 Without hesitation, seventeen of these rushed into 
 the flames. A woman and a child were shut up 
 in a room so surrounded by smoke and Are that 
 escape seemed impossible ; but the exiles succeeded 
 in rescuing them, and finally put out the fire by 
 pulling down the whole of the woodwork, and thus 
 depriving the flames of further fuel. If we consider 
 the site of this conflagration, on the top of a strong 
 ridge, on an island that has only one w^ell within 
 reach (for the othei-s are either low down on the 
 beach, or far away at Ana-capri the inaccessible), 
 we shall better appreciate the heroism of the 
 banished men. Thei-e w^as no appliance as in 
 cities, no fire-engines, nor even fire-buckets, ranged 
 in comely rows at the town portal, as I saw at 
 Nuremberg : the only water to be had came from 
 
THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 147 
 
 a little distance, and was carried in little heavy 
 earthen jars. 
 
 It \youkl have tasked too much all their ener- 
 gies, had not a little rain fallen towards the close 
 of their labors, which prevented the wind from 
 carryino- the flames any further ; as it was, the 
 house, a laro;e one, of many stories, as is common 
 abroad, was utterly destroyed. '\\^en it was all 
 over, and the English ladies felt safe, great was 
 their gi-atitude. But one of them, whom I shall 
 call Miss Letitia, was of that order of minds who 
 cannot expend feeling in mere words. She was 
 longing to act, and in her own generous heart im- 
 puted to othei"s the same vivid emotions as she felt. 
 
 " K the king," cried she, '• knew the gallant con- 
 duct of these poor men, whom he has torn from 
 family and home, surely he would see that they are 
 good subjects, he would gi-ant them gTace." Aye, 
 but who was to inform him ? OiBeials of a despotic 
 government are more used to informing against 
 individuals than in favor of them. The Bourbon 
 has many spies to tell him of his children's errors, 
 none to bring to light their Wrtues. The restoration 
 of one disgraced is not an every-day event in Cam- 
 pania. 
 
148 THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 
 
 These poor men, too poor to bribe, too insig- 
 nificant to threaten, might have done a thousand 
 such heroic deeds ere their jailors cared to make it 
 known. But there was a brave-hearted woman 
 there, with more moral courage under her cap- 
 ribbons than exists under all the shakos and 
 helmets of the Neapolitan army. 
 
 " Rather than let such spirits pine away their 
 lives here, I will write myself," quoth she ; and 
 write she did. 
 
 She sent for all the names of those personally 
 eno;ao-ed at the fire: fourteen were all that she 
 could procure. She enclosed the piece of paper 
 containing these names, exactly as they put them 
 into her supplica, or petition ; and the whole was 
 duly forwarded to his majesty. I can fancy Miss 
 Letitia's anxiety when the bark pushed fairly off. 
 
 Ten days elapsed, and then came a boat full of 
 gens d'armes, with an order to the judge of the 
 island, that those fourteen were free. The one wdio 
 had supplied the names to Miss Letitia, a fine young 
 Calabrian, came to thank her ; they were called 
 over, he said, in rotation, to hear the good news 
 from the judge, exactly as the names were written 
 in Miss Letitia's list. 
 
THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 149 
 
 The judge, however, would not believe that the 
 " Signora Inglise" had any thing to do with it. 
 
 Miss Letitia and her sister, with happy hearts, 
 went down to the beach to see the embarkation of 
 the liberated ones. O, how I would have liked to 
 have seen the sight ! but long ere that I had left 
 the island in ill health. 
 
 The young men crowded round their benevolent 
 friend, and kissed her hands repeatedly ; in the 
 warmth of their gratitude they did the same to her 
 sister, who, if less energetic, was to the full as sym- 
 pathizing. There was a woman among them, hap- 
 pier even than the respited prisoners. She was the 
 mother of one ; she had fallen sick, probably from 
 long anxiety and hope deferred, and had been per- 
 mitted to come over to Capri to see him. Now she 
 was returning with him to freedom, at least to that 
 diluted freedom which despots bestow upon their 
 subjects. Another of the exiles was the nephew 
 of the famous singer, Lablache, the son of his 
 sister. 
 
 But in the middle of this joy were some sad 
 faces — the other three, whose names had been 
 omitted from the pardon. Seventeen had dis- 
 tinguislied themselves at the lire, but only fourteen 
 
150 THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 
 
 had been mentioned in the list. Tliey reminded 
 Miss Letitia of this. 
 
 " You furnished me with only fourteen names," 
 she replied ; " but I am willing to try once more 
 to melt the royal heart." 
 
 And this noble woman, who never w^earied in 
 well doing, prepared herself for what is always an 
 obnoxious task, the repetition of a request. On the 
 beach there, in presence of all the exiles, she had 
 the three omitted names scribbled on a dirty slip of 
 paper, the best produce of a Capnote escritoire. 
 Then in a joyous httle party, the fourteen set sail 
 for Naples, their hearts bounding in them that they 
 were free. 
 
 And do you really think they were, my dear 
 readers ? Alas ! they had found favor in the eyes 
 of the King, but "they were still in the clutches of 
 his vile harriers. 
 
 They landed at Naples, not to reach home and 
 embrace rejoicing relatives — oh, no ; simply to go 
 to prison ! 
 
 You see the Bourbon definition of liberty ! It 
 was a great favor to allow them to exchange the 
 large prison of Capri, vaulted by the sky, for one 
 of the gloomy, damp dungeons of the Castel del 
 
THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 151 
 
 Ovo, ou whose weedy walls the waves beat iin- 
 resistino-lv. 
 
 Miss Letitia was in agony. After all her exer- 
 tions, was this the result ? She wrote to the King- 
 again, with the other three names, and another 
 boat with gens d\irmes came and fetched them, 
 and took them to the pleasant variety of a metro- 
 politan jail. I suspect, on this latter embarkation, 
 the raptures were less demonstrative. They had 
 already had a sermon on the text, " Put not your 
 trust in princes." Miss Letitia applied to the po- 
 hce. She was informed that it was requisite for 
 each pardoned exile to find some respectable per- 
 son, willing to answer as caution or bail, for their 
 future good conduct. You may beheve how diffi- 
 cult this was of attainment in a nation of spies and 
 of concealed traitors, where every man suspected 
 his neighbor, and friends were betrayed by familiar 
 fiiends. Read the defence of Carlo Poerie, and 
 say, my English brother, how you would like to 
 answer for the a;ood conduct of anv man amono- a 
 society such as he depicts, from fatal experience of 
 its treachery. One or two, however, did obtain 
 this bail ; most of them languished till Christmas, 
 the fii-e having occurred about the end of August. 
 
152 THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 
 
 But tlieir good angel flagged not in her care ; she 
 went herself to the pohce office ; she had an interview 
 with the director of the police. Ah ! it must have 
 been a fine contrast — those two human spirits thus 
 brought into contact. The British woman, honest, 
 fearless, self-forgetting, pleading ardently the cause 
 of the oppressed; and the Neapolitan man, cun- 
 ning, courteous, and remorselessly untruthful, gloss- 
 ing over the vices of the administration, with 
 smooth lies and quicksand promises ! 
 
 At last, however, the good genius triumphed, 
 and Miss Letitia had her reward. The seventeen 
 were free! offering up thanksgivings in all the 
 churches, I can answer for them, for the mercies 
 vouchsafed by the Madonna, the King, and the 
 Signora Inglise ! 
 
 But woe that there is still a dark place ! — that 
 after all I dare not say freely, " Well done, Ferdi- 
 nando Secondo !" 
 
 He who directed the whole exertions at the fire, 
 who summoned his fellow-exiles, who superintended, 
 encouraged, and shared their danger, the brave and 
 gentle Pomerini Santomaso is still an exile and a 
 prisoner. For him no grace, for him no return : 
 his mother may sit in vain at her balcony, and 
 
THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 153 
 
 gaze across tlie seas; no little boat-full of gens 
 d'armes brino-s back lier banished son. 
 
 His fate must be sadder than ever now, left alone 
 in tbat solitary isle, from whose beach he has twice 
 seen men more deeply implicated in rebellion than 
 himself return to liberty and home. 
 
 You must not think that Miss Letitia deserted 
 him : she TVTote again and again, petitioning the 
 King and the Police (I w^onder which of these 
 twain are the more arbitrary). The officer himself 
 feels comdnced that there is some secret enemy of 
 his, who has the royal ear, and who prejudices the 
 sovereigii against him. Happy country, where the 
 ti-eedom of an innocent man hangs in such a 
 balance ! 
 
 I have ended. No doubt it was a royal deed, 
 the pardoning of those seventeen ; I cannot call it 
 generous, for the previous act of sending them there 
 involved as much baseness and treachery as would 
 blacken a whole lifetime. But it was just. And 
 it is a more sublimely difficult thing for a Bourbon 
 to be just than for a Victoria to be magnanimous. 
 
 We cannot in our land comprehend the dire in- 
 fluences of evil education, wicked courtiers, mean 
 advisers, and a degrading superstition bearing on 
 1 
 
154 THE EXILES OF CAPRI. 
 
 the character of a Neapohtan king. The best of 
 them have been faineants^ the worst have been 
 tyrants. Honor then to Ferdinando Secondo, that 
 he could for once push aside the hea^y trappings 
 of his mischievous government, and answer directly 
 a direct and simple aj^peal to his better feelings. 
 He has shown us that even for him it is possible to 
 be a good king, once in a way ; and we could weep 
 tears of blood to think how seldom, how very sel- 
 dom he has been allowed to have that opportunity. 
 Vice, licentiousness, and frivolity are the charac- 
 teristics of his court ; falsehood, cruelty, and rapa- 
 city the engines of his government ; brute igno- 
 rance, hopeless slaveiy, an utter incapacity for truth 
 or honor the effects upon his people ! How can I 
 say, "Well done, Ferdinando Secondo, without a 
 sigh, when I remember thee, Pomerini Santomaso? 
 
SHE'S DEAD 
 
 BY W. C. BENNETT. 
 
 THE sycamore shall hear its bees again — 
 
 The willow droop its green adown the sun ; 
 But thou, O heart, shalt yearn for spring in vain ! — 
 Thy Mays are done ! 
 
 Even from the graveyard-elms the rook shall caw 
 Of love ; of love the dove shall make its moan ; 
 New Springs shall see the bliss my glad Spring saw — 
 I, grief alone. 
 
 O heart ! to whose sweet pulses danced the year, 
 The dirge above thy gladness hath been sung ; 
 The faded hours upon thy youth's sad bier 
 Have grave-flowers flung ! 
 
 She died — and with her died, O life, for thee. 
 
 The flush of love, and all hope's cloudless dreams! 
 Sunless — of mirth henceforth thou, heart, must see 
 But moonhght-gleams. 
 
156 she's dead. 
 
 O, shrouded sweetness ! Lo! those lips are Avliite; 
 
 The roses of the year no more are red! 
 What is the silver lily to our sight ? 
 Thou— thou art fled ! 
 
 O, life ! O, sadness ! thou the deepening gloom 
 
 Of dying Autumn for thy skies would'st crave — 
 Would'st see all beauty, withering to the tomb, 
 Fade oVp her grave ! 
 
3 !■ i . 
 
 > ' I 
 
 111? 
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 • • 
 
 3 » 
 
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•ii';;r„,M.., J,, "ii.,>. 
 
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 c r c f 
 
THE INXKEEPEE'S SOjST. 
 
 BY W. M. 
 
 THE night was dark, the storm was loud, 
 ^ The ground was shrouded white ; 
 The weary horseman spurred his steed 
 Swift towards the distant light. 
 
 His way had been a toilsome one ; 
 
 He sought the roadside inn. 
 As pilgrims on life's dreary road 
 
 Oft seek a heav'n to win. 
 
 He reached the door and loudly knocked, 
 Yet long was forced to wait — 
 
 For sleep had seized on all within — 
 The hour was very late. 
 
 But roused at length the landlord rose, 
 "With many a snarl and yawn, 
 
 And let the stranger seek his fire, 
 And rest until the dawn. 
 
158 THE innkeeper's son. 
 
 The dawn came round — yet still the horse 
 
 Was in the stable found — 
 And ne'er again did meet his ear 
 
 His master's footsteps' sound. 
 
 The innkeeper was grim and old — 
 
 A man of bad renown ; 
 'T was said by many, far and near, 
 
 That death was in his frown. 
 
 Wild stories were abroad — men said 
 
 However bleak the night, 
 The traveller should keep away 
 
 From Bullraan's house of fright. 
 
 The neighbors met in conference. 
 
 And loud the clamor grew ; 
 They said the innkeeper should bide 
 
 The law's deep-searching view. 
 
 But ere their purpose could be shown, 
 
 The innkeeper in bed 
 Was found one morning, in his gore — 
 
 All ghastly— stony— dead. 
 
 And by his side a paper lay, 
 Enough all hearts to fright ! — 
 
 Confessing slaughter of his son — 
 The traveller of that night. 
 
THE innkeeper's SON. 159 
 
 The son had long been o'er the wave ; 
 
 Estranged had be become — 
 And thus at his own father's inn, 
 
 He found a bloody home ! 
 
 They buried Bullman near his son— 
 
 Aveng'd by his own hand ; 
 The roadside inn stood idle there, 
 
 And shunn'd on ev^ry hand. 
 
m 
 
 THE HEIRESS AN"D HER WOOERS : 
 
 OR 
 
 TELL THE TRUTH ALWAYS. 
 
 BY Mils. ABDY. 
 
 " As the Diamond excels every jewel we find, 
 So Truth is the one peerless gem of the mind !" 
 
 ANEW tragedy was about to be brouglit forth 
 at the Haymarket Theatre. Report spoke 
 loudly of its merits, and report touched closely on 
 the name of its author. Either Talbot or Stratford 
 must have written it ; those regular attendants at 
 rehearsal, who seemed equally interested in every 
 situation, equally at home in every point, through- 
 out the piece. Some said that it was a Beaumont 
 and Fletcher concern, in which both parties were 
 equally implicated; and this conjecture did not 
 appear improbable, for the young men in question 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 161 
 
 were indeed united together in bonds of more tlian 
 ordinary friendship. They had been schoolfellows 
 and brother-collegians ; each was in the enjoyment 
 of an easy indej^endence, and their tastes, pursuits, 
 and ways of h^dng were very similar. So congen- 
 ial, indeed, were they in taste, that they had both 
 fixed their preference on the same lady ! Adelaide 
 Linley was an accomplished and pretty heiress, 
 -who, fortunately for them, was the ward of Mr. 
 Grayson, an eminent solicitor, with whom they had 
 recently renewed an early acquaintance. Rivalry, 
 however, failed of its usual effect in their case, it 
 created no dissension between them; indeed the 
 manner of Adelaide was very far removed from 
 coquetry, and although it was evident that she pre- 
 fen-ed the friends to the rest of her wooers, she 
 showed to neither of them evidence of any feeling 
 beyond those of fiiendship and good will. 
 
 The night of the tragedy arrived. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Grayson, their ward, and two or three of her 
 " wooers," were in attendance before the risino- of 
 the curtain ; they were just as ignorant as other 
 people touching the precise identity of the drama- 
 tist about to encounter the awful fiat of the pubhc. 
 Talbot and Stratford were sheltered in the deep re- 
 7* 
 
1G2 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 cesses of a private box : had tliey been in a public 
 one, nobody could have doubted which was the 
 hero of the evening. Talbot's flushed cheek, eager 
 eye, and nervous restlessness, plainly indicated that 
 the tragedy was not written on the Beaumont and 
 Fletcher plan, but that it owed its existence entire- 
 ly to himself. 
 
 The curtain rose; the tragedy was admirably 
 performed, and many of the speeches were beauti- 
 fully written ; but it lacked the indescribable charm 
 of stage effect, so necessary to stage success ; the 
 last act was heavy and uninteresting, great disap- 
 probation was expressed, and finally another piece 
 was announced for the succeeding evening ! 
 
 Adelaide w^as much concerned ; it mattered no- 
 thing to her whether the play was written by Tal- 
 bot or Stratford : she Avished well to each of them, 
 and sympathized in the disappointment of the au- 
 thor. Talbot, who had anticipated stepping for- 
 ward to the front of the box, and gracefully bowing 
 his acknowledgments to the applauding audience, 
 now found himself under the necessitv of m akin 2: 
 an abrupt exit, muttering invectives on their stupid- 
 ity ; and Stratford repaired to his own lodgings, 
 aware that Talbot, in the present state of his mind, 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 163 
 
 was unfitted for the society even of his favorite 
 friend. The next morning, Stratford had half fin 
 ished breakfost when Xalbot entered the room. 
 Stratford was about to accost him with a hvelv 
 remark, that " he hojDcd the severit}^ of the audi- 
 ence had not spoiled his night's rest ;" but a mo- 
 mentary glance at his friend told him that such a 
 remark would be cruelly sarcastic : it was quite 
 clear that his night's rest had been spoiled ; it was 
 quite clear that what had been " sport " to the pub- 
 lic had been " death " to the dramatist ; it was 
 quite clear that the " Russian Brothers," althouo-h 
 they had ceased to exist on the boards of the Hay- 
 market theatre, were still hovering about like sha- 
 dowy apparitions, " to plague the inventor !" 
 
 "Read these papers," said Talbot, placing four 
 or five newspapers in the hands of Stratford, "and 
 do not wonder that I look and feel miserable at 
 having thus exposed myself to the derision of the 
 world." 
 
 Stratford hastily finished a cup of coffee, and 
 pushed away a just broken egg; it seemed quite 
 unfeehng to think of eating and drinking in the 
 presence of so much wretchedness. He turned to 
 the dramatic article of one newspaper after another, 
 
164 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 expecting to find his friend victimized, slandered, 
 and laughed to scorn ; but in reality, as my read- 
 ers may perhaps be prepared to hear, the critiques 
 were very fair, reasonable critiques, indeed ; and it 
 was only the sensitiveness of the author which had 
 converted them into weapons of offence. 
 
 " I am sure," said Stratford, after the scrutiny 
 was concluded, " the dramatic critic of the ' Times ' 
 speaks very kindly of you ; does not he say that 
 there is much beauty in many of the speeches, 
 only that the drama is unsuited for representa- 
 tion?" 
 
 " Exactly so," replied Talbot, drily ; " the only 
 defect he finds in it is, that it is perfectly unsuited 
 for the purpose for which it was written !" 
 
 " But," persisted Stratford, " he says that he is 
 certain you would succeed better in a second 
 attempt." 
 
 "As I shall most assuredly never make a second 
 attempt," replied Jalbot, " his opinion, or that of 
 any one else on the subject, is of very little im- 
 portance to me." 
 
 " Surely, however," said Stratford, " it is better 
 to receive the commendation of writers of judg- 
 ment and ability, than the applause of the one- 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 165 
 
 shilling gallery. Arbuscula \yas an actress on the 
 Roman stage, who laughed at the hisses of the 
 populace, while she received the applause of the 
 knio-hts." 
 
 Talbot only replied to this anecdote by a muttered 
 exclamation of impatience. 
 
 And here let me give a few words of advice to 
 my readers. Whenever you condole with those 
 in trouble, do it in the old-t'ashioned cut-and-dried 
 way ; it is true that your stock phrases and tedious 
 truisms may cause you to be called a bore, but 
 thousands of highly respectable condoling friends 
 have been called bores before you, and thousands 
 will be called so after you. But if you diverge at 
 all fi-om the beaten track, and attempt to introduce 
 a literary allusion, or venture on a classical illustra- 
 tion, depend upon it you will be cited ever after- 
 wards as an extremely hard-hearted pei-son, intent 
 alone on displaying your own wit or wisdom, in- 
 stead of properly entering into the sorrows of your 
 friend. 
 
 " The 'Morning Chronicle,' " resumed Stratford, 
 "speaks bighly of the scene between the brothers 
 at the end of the second act." 
 
 " Yes," replied Talbot, " and the ' Morning Chron- 
 
IG(3 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 icle' winds up its critique by advising me never to 
 write another drama." 
 
 " Did you not say just now that you never in- 
 tended to do so ?" asked Stratford. 
 
 " How I wish, Stratford," exclaimed Talbot, im- 
 petuously, " that I could make you enter into my 
 feelings. How very differently you would think 
 and speak if ijou were the author of a condemned 
 tragedy ! " 
 
 " I do not consider," said Stratford, " that if such 
 were the case, I should in any resj)ect think or 
 speak differently. I should feel far more pleasure 
 in knowing that I had written a work which de- 
 served to be successful, than mortification at the 
 want of good taste in a mixed and misjudging au- 
 dience w^hich had caused it to fail of success." 
 
 Stratford having been unfortunate in his previous 
 attempts at consolation, had taken some pains to 
 devise a prettily turned speech ; but he little thought 
 how completely successful it would prove — the coun- 
 tenance of Talbot actually lighted up with pleasure. 
 
 " Are you really sincere in what you have said ?" 
 he replied. "I have a particular reason for wish- 
 ing to know ; do not reply to me in a hurry ; take 
 a few minutes for consideration." 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 16 Y 
 
 Somewhat surprised, Stratford began the course 
 of mental examination prescribed by Jiis friend ; 
 and the result of it was, that although he had only- 
 meant to speak civilly, he found that he had been 
 speaking truly ; for Stratford had a great admira- 
 tion for Kterary talents, and a gTeat wish to possess 
 them ; he also knew that Adelaide Linley was a 
 warm admirer of dramatic poetry ; he could not 
 doubt that her judgment would lead her to approve 
 of the " Ptussian Brothers ;" and in regard to its 
 condemnation, she, like every other intelligent per- 
 son, must be fully aware that the plays that read 
 best in the closet are often least adapted to the 
 stao-e. 
 
 " I have considered the matter again," said Strat- 
 ford, after a pause, " and I repeat what I pre^dously 
 said; I should be glad to be the author of the 
 ' Russian Brothers,' even although it has been con- 
 demned ; but after all, Talbot, how useless is this 
 convei-sation ! no good wishes on your part, or 
 aspiring wishes on my own, can make me the 
 author of a drama to which I never contributed an 
 idea or a line." 
 
 " Yet," said Talbot, " I do not see why the busi- 
 ness might not be arranged to our mutual satisfac- 
 
168 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 tion. You -wish to be known as the author of this 
 play ; I, perhaps foohshly and irritably, repent that 
 I ever wrote it ; no one but ourselves is aware 
 which of us is the author : why should you not 
 own it ? I will most joyfully give up my claim to 
 you." 
 
 Stratford was a little startled at this proposi- 
 tion. 
 
 " But, should the deception be discovered," he 
 said, "people will allege that, like the jay, I have 
 been strutting in borrowed plumes." 
 
 " Not at all," replied Talbot ; " your plumes are 
 not borrowed, but are willingly bestowed upon you 
 by the owner ; besides, how should any discovery 
 ensue, except from our own disclosures ? You, of 
 course, will not wish to disown what you consider 
 it a credit to gain ; and for myself, I give you my 
 word, that should the ' Russian Brothers ' be des- 
 tined to attain high celebrity at a future day, I shall 
 never assert my rights of paternity — they are the 
 children of your adoption ; but remember, you 
 adopt them for life." 
 
 " Willingly," replied Stratford ; " and now let us 
 pay a visit at Mr. Grayson's house. Doubtless, the 
 fair Adelaide will be impatient to pour balm into 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 169 
 
 the wounds suffered by one of her adorers ; pity is 
 sometimes aldn to love." 
 
 " It is more frequently akin to contempt," mur- 
 mured Talbot, in too low a voice to be heard ; but 
 nevertheless the friends proceeded on their way, 
 talkino- much less cheerfullv, and lookino; much less 
 contented than might be supposed, when it is con- 
 sidered that they had recently entered into a com- 
 pact so satisfactory to both of them. I wish I 
 could say that conscience bore any share in their 
 disquietude, and that each felt grieved and humili- 
 ated at the idea that he was violatino- the sacred 
 purity of truth ; but such was not the case. Either 
 Talbot or Stratford would have shrunk from the 
 idea of telling; a falsehood of malio-nity or dishon- 
 esty ; but the polite untruths of convenience or 
 flattery were as " household words" in their voca- 
 bulary. A dim foreboding of evil, however, now 
 seemed to ovei*shadow them. Talbot had some- 
 thing of the same sensation which a man may be 
 supposed to have, who has cast off a troublesome 
 child in a fit of irritation. His trao-edv had been 
 a source of great disappointment and mortification 
 to him ; but still it was his own, it had denved 
 existence fi-om him ; he had spent many tedious 
 
170 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 days and nights watching over it before lie could 
 bring it to perfection ; he was not quite happy in 
 the idea that he had for ever made over all right 
 and title in it to another. Stratford also was some- 
 what dispirited ; he could not help thinking about 
 a paper in the ' Spectator ' concerning a " Mountain 
 of Miseries," where Jupiter allowed eveiy one to 
 lay down his own misery, and take up that of 
 another person, each individual in the end being 
 bitterly dissatisfied with the result of the experi- 
 ment. Stratford had laid down his literary insig- 
 nificance, and taken up the burden of unsuccessful 
 authorship : should he hve to repent it ? This in 
 the course of a little time will appear. 
 
 Adelaide Linley sat in the drawing-room of her 
 guardian, eagerly awaiting a visit from her two 
 favorite admirers. She was not alone, neither was 
 one of her "wooers" with her. Her companion 
 was a quiet-looking young man, Avhose i^ersonal 
 appearance had nothing in it to recommend him to 
 notice, although a physiognomist would have been 
 struck with the good expression of his countenance. 
 His name was Alton, and he was the confidential 
 clerk of her guardian. He had never presumed 
 to address the heiress, save with distant respect ; 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. l7l 
 
 but she valued him for the excellent qualities which 
 had made him a high favorite with Mr. Grayson, 
 and always treated him with kindness and consid- 
 eration. On the present occasion, however, she 
 was e\'idently somewhat out of humor, and ac- 
 cepted the sheet of paper from him, on which he 
 had been transcribing for her some passages from a 
 new poem, with a cold expression of thanks. 
 Alton. lino-ered a moment at the door of the room. 
 " There is peculiar beauty," he said, " in the clos- 
 ing lines of the last passage." 
 
 " There is," rephed the heiress, carelessly ; " but 
 I should scarcely have thought, Mr. Alton, that 
 you would have taken much interest in poetry : 
 why did you not accompany us last night, to see 
 the new tragedy, although so repeatedly pressed to 
 do so ?" 
 
 "I had a reason for declining to go, Miss Lin- 
 ley," said Alton. 
 
 "Probably you disapprove of dramatic repre- 
 sentations," said Adelaide ; '' in which case I ap- 
 prove your consistency and conscientiousness in' 
 refusing to frequent them." 
 
 Alton would have liked to be approved by Ade- 
 laide ; but he Hked to speak the truth still better. 
 
172 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 " That was not my reason," he replied ; " I do 
 not disapprove of the drama, nor could I expect 
 any thing that was not perfectly excellent and \m- 
 exceptionable from the reputed authors of the tra- 
 gedy in question — I had another reason." 
 
 " May I beg to know it ?" said xVdelaide, half in 
 jest and half in earnest. 
 
 Alton's cheek became flushed, but he replied, 
 "I am not in the habit of withholding the truth, 
 when expressly asked for it. I never go to pubhc 
 amusements, because I object to the expense." 
 
 Alton could scarcely have made any speech that 
 would more have lowered him in Adelaide's esti- 
 mation. The young can make allowance for " the 
 good old gentlemanly ^dce" of avarice, in those 
 who have lived so many years in the world that 
 gathering gold appears to them as suitable a pas- 
 time for age as that of gathering flowers for child- 
 hood ; but avarice in youth, like a lock of white 
 hair in the midst of sunny curls, seems sadly out 
 of its place. Adelaide knew that Alton received 
 a liberal stipend from her guardian, and that he 
 had also inherited some property from a cousin ; 
 he had not any near relations, he was doubtless 
 hoarding entirely for his own profit; he was a 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 173 
 
 gold worsliipper in a small way, accumulating- the 
 precious metal by petty economies* in London, in- 
 stead of going out manfully to dig it up by lumps 
 in California ! She therefore merely repHed, " Yen 
 are very ^?-?fc?r/i^, ^Ir. Alton," with a marked and 
 meanino- intonation of the last word, which con- 
 verted it into a severe epigram, and took up a book 
 with an air of such unmistakable coldness, that 
 the discomfited economist was o-lad to beat a re- 
 treat. Adelaide's solitude was soon more agreea- 
 bly enlivened by the arrival of Talbot and Strat- 
 ford. Talbot Cjuickly dispelled all emban-assment 
 as to the subject of the tragedy, by playfully say- 
 ing, " I bring with me an ill-fated author, who I 
 am sure you ^vill agree with me deserved much 
 better treatment than he has met with." 
 
 Hereupon, Adelaide offered words of consolation, 
 and very sweet, kind, and winning words they 
 were ; indeed, Stratford deemed them c^uite sufii- 
 cient to compensate for the failure of a tragedy ; 
 but then, we must remember that Stratford was 
 not really the author of the " Russian Brothers ;" 
 his wounds were only fictitious, and therefore it 
 was no very difiicult task to heal them. Possibly 
 Talbot mio-ht have felt a little uneasv at Adelaide's 
 
174 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 excess of kindness, had he been present during the 
 whole of Stratford's visit ; but Talbot had soon 
 made his escape to his club ; he had several friends 
 there, who suspected him of having written the 
 tragedy of the jDreceding night ; a few hours ago 
 he had dreaded the idea of meeting them ; but 
 now he encountered them ^vith fearless ojDenness, 
 expressing his concern for the failure of Stratford's 
 tragedy, and remarking that " the poor fellow was 
 so terribly cut up about it, that he had advised him 
 to keep quiet for a few days, and let the affair 
 blow over." 
 
 Talbot and Stratford dined together ; both were 
 in good s^Dirits ; neither of them had yet begun to 
 feel any of the evils of the deceptive course they 
 were pursuing. A week passed, and the sky was 
 no longer so fair and cloudless. Adelaide's pity for 
 Stratford was evidently far more akin to love than 
 contempt ; she was an admirer of genius, and was 
 never wearied of talking about the tragedy, which 
 had really made a deep impression upon her. She 
 requested Stratford to let her have the rough copy 
 of it ; the request was not so embarrassing as 
 might be supposed, for Stratford had been obliged 
 to ask Talbot to give it to him, that he might be 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 175 
 
 able to answer Adelaide's continual questions as to 
 the conduct of the story and development of the 
 characters : the handwriting of the friends was 
 very similar, and the blotted, interhned manuscript 
 revealed no secrets as to its especial inditer. " Ee- 
 member," said Adelaide, as she playfidly received 
 it, " that I consider this as a gift, not as a loan ; it 
 will probably be introduced into various circles." 
 
 Talbot was present at the time, and felt a pang 
 of inexpressible acuteness at the idea of the off- 
 spring of his own brain being paraded in " various 
 circles" as the production of Stratford. He could 
 not offer any opposition to Adelaide's intentions ; 
 but he revenged himself by constant taunting 
 allusions to the mortifications of an unsuccessful 
 dramatist, shunned by the manager, scorned by 
 the performers, and even a subject of sarcastic pity 
 to the scene-shifters ! 
 
 These speeches hurt and oftended Stratford, 
 especially as they were always made in the 
 presence of Captain Nesbitt, another of the 
 " wooers" of the heiress, who shared Talbot's 
 newly-born jealousy of Stratford, and consequently 
 was delighted both to prompt and keep up any line 
 of conversation likely to humiliate him in the 
 
176 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 presence of bis lady-love. A sliort time ago Talbot 
 and Stratford bad been generous and amicable 
 rivals ; but tbey bad ceased to walk togetber in 
 peace from tlie period wben tbey entered on tbe 
 crooked patbs of dissimulation. Wben Adelaide 
 bad attentively read tbe manuscript tragedy, slie 
 transcribed it in a fair band'; sbe bad already fixed 
 on a destination for it. One of tbe oldest friends 
 of Adelaide's late fatber was a fasbionable London 
 publisber. Adelaide bad kejDt up frequent inter- 
 course witb bim, and waited on bim witb ber 
 manuscript, secure of being kindly received, even 
 if be did not grant ber request. Fortunately, bow- 
 ever, for ber, be bad been present at tbe represen- 
 tation of tbe " Russian Brotbers," and bad been 
 extremely struck witb tbe beauty of tbe dialogue, 
 and be readily agreed to print it. Wben tbe 
 proofs were ready, Adelaide, quite sure that sbe 
 sbould be giving great pleasure to Stratford, an- 
 nounced to bim wbat sbe bad done. 
 
 Stratford nervously started, and gave a burried, 
 apprebensive glance at Talbot. 
 
 " It will be certain to be a favorite witb tbe 
 reading pubbc, will it not ?" said Adelaide, ad- 
 dressing Talbot. 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. Ill 
 
 '"■ I am sure it will," answered Talbot, with ani- 
 mation, forgetting for the moment every thing but 
 that he was the author of the " Russian Brothers," 
 and that the " Russian Brothers " was going to be 
 printed. " How well the scene will read between 
 the brothers at the end of the second act !" 
 
 " It will indeed," returned Adelaide, with an 
 approving glance at Talbot, whom she had lately- 
 suspected of being somewhat envious of the genius 
 of his rival ; " really we must tiy and inspire our 
 friend with a little more confidence. I don't think 
 he is at all aware of his own talents." 
 
 " I don't think he is, indeed," said Talbot, with 
 a distant approach to a sneer. 
 
 "But my favorite passage," pursued Adelaide, 
 " is the soliloquy of Orloif in the third act. Will 
 you repeat it Mr. Stratford T' 
 
 Stratford began to repeat it as blunderirgly and 
 monotonously as he had been wont to repeat " My 
 name is jSTorval " in his schoolboy days ; but Talbot 
 quickly took possession of it, and recited it with 
 feeling and spirit. 
 
 " How strange it is," said Adelaide, " that 
 authors rarely give effect to their own writings! 
 But how beautiful is the sentiment of that speech 
 8 
 
178 Tin: HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 — more beautiful, I tliink, every time one hears it. 
 How did you feel, Mr. Stratford, when you wrote 
 those lines ?" 
 
 Stratford declared, with sincerity, that he had 
 not the slightest recollection how he felt; and 
 Adelaide asked Talbot to repeat another speech, 
 and praised his memory and feehng, in return for 
 which he praised her good taste. Poor Talbot, he 
 was somewhat in the position of the hero of a 
 German tale : a kind of metempsychosis seemed 
 to have taken place in relation to himself and 
 his friend, and he did not know whether to be 
 dehghted that his tragedy should be admired, 
 or angry that it should be admired as the 
 composition of Stratford. All contradictory feel- 
 ings, however, merged into unmistakable re- 
 sentment and discontent when the tragedy was 
 pubhshed : it became decidedly popular ; the Re- 
 views accorded wonderfully in their commendation 
 of it, and the first edition was speedily sold off. 
 Stratford's name was not prefixed to it, at his own 
 especial request ; he did not want to plunge deeper 
 into the mazes of falsehood than he had already 
 done. But Talbot had proclaimed with such un- 
 wearied persrverance that Stratford was the author 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 1*79 
 
 of the condemned traojedy, that his name on the 
 title-page would have been quite an unnecessary 
 identification. Poor Talbot I he certainly had 
 much to try his patience at present. Stratford re- 
 ceived abundance of invitations in virtue of his 
 successful authorship ; he went to many parties in 
 the character of a hon, where he was treated with 
 much solemn reverence, and his most common- 
 place remark was evidently treasured as the quint- 
 essence of wit and judgment. These festivities 
 Talbot did not wish to share. But frequently 
 Stratford was invited to literarv, real literary 
 parties, where every body in the room was cele- 
 brated for doino' somethino; better than it is done 
 by people in general ; and were any halt-dozen 
 giiests taken at random from the assemblage, they 
 would have sufficed to stud an ordinary party with 
 stars. Here Stratford was introduced to brilhant 
 novelists, exquisite poets, profound scholars, and 
 men of searchino- science. Here also he met with 
 literary women as gentle and unassuming as they 
 were gifted and celebrated, who wore their laurels 
 with as much simplicity as if they had been wild 
 flowers ; and who, so far from possessing any of 
 the old-fashioned pedantry which has aptly been 
 
180 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 defined as "intellectual tight lacing," were ready 
 to converse on the most trite and every-day sub- 
 jects — casting, however, over every suLject on 
 which they conversed the pure and cheering sun- 
 shine of genius. 
 
 All these new acquaintances of Stratford's were 
 extremely kind and encouraging in their manner 
 towards him, in<]uiring into his tastes and employ- 
 ments, praising him for that which he had already 
 done, and encoui-ao'ino; him to do more in future. 
 Such society and such conversation would have re- 
 alized Talbot's earliest aspirations, and he could not 
 wilhngly cede those privileges to a man who had 
 never Avritten half-a-dozen lines to deserve them. 
 Yet Talbot was not a vain nor a selfish man ; had 
 Stratford been really gifted by nature with superior 
 abilities to his own, he w^ould have been quite satis- 
 fied that he should have reaped the harvest of 
 them. But that Stratford should be distinguished 
 at once by the notice of the gifted ones of earth, 
 and by the smiles of Adelaide Linley, and that he 
 might himself have been occupying that doubly 
 enviable position, had he only kept in the simple 
 path of truth — it was indeed a trial to the nerves 
 and to the temper. At length, one day, when the 
 rivals were alone, the smouldering fire burst foi'th. 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 181 
 
 "I am very much surprised, Stratford," said Tal- 
 bot, flattering himself that he was speaking in a 
 remarkably cool, self-possessed tone, when in reahty 
 his cheeks were flushed with excitement, and his 
 voice trembled with irritation — " I am very much 
 surprised that you can continue from day to day to 
 eniov literary celebrity to which you must feel that 
 vou have not the shadow of a claim." 
 
 Stratford did not return an angry answer to his 
 friend ; he was on the winning side, and successM 
 people can always afibrd to be good-tempered. " I 
 do not see," he replied, " how I can possibly escape 
 all the marks of kindness and distinction that are 
 shown to me." 
 
 " Have you any wish to escape them ?" asked 
 Talbot, sneeringly. 
 
 "Before you reproach me," said Stratford, "I 
 think you should remember at whose suggestion 
 the deception was first entered into." 
 
 " I did not foresee the consequences," said Tal- 
 bot. 
 
 " Pardon me," said Stratford ; " the consequences 
 %vere foreseen by both of us. I remarked that I 
 was unwilling to strut, like the jay, in borrowed 
 plumes; and you replied that if the 'Russian 
 
182 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 Brothers ' attained the greatest celebrity, you ^YOllld 
 never assert your rights of paternity." 
 
 "You certainly possess an excellent memory," 
 said Talbot, sarcastically, " whatever other inental 
 attributes you may be deficient in. I remember 
 the promise of secrecy to which you allude, but no 
 promise was made on ijour part ; therefore if you 
 are inclined to descend from youi- usurped position, 
 and give it up to the rightful owner, there is no 
 cause why you should refrain from doing so." 
 
 "And can you really," asked Stratford, with sur- 
 prise, " expect that I should expose myself to the 
 censure and ridicule of society for the purpose of 
 reinstating you in rights which you voluntarily 
 made over to me ?" 
 
 Talbot paused some time before he replied. " I 
 feel," he said, " that I have expected too much. I 
 rescind my proposal. I ^^^ll only require you to 
 make known the truth under a strict promise of 
 secrecy to one individual." 
 
 " And that individual is Adelaide Linley, I con- 
 clude," said Stratford. 
 
 " It is," rephed Talbot : " let Adelaide but know 
 me as I really am, and I do not heed — at least I 
 will endeavor not to heed — the opinion of the 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 183 
 
 world ; besides, Stratford, recollect that if you 
 many Adelaide, she must certainly find out the 
 deception eventually; she can never believe that 
 the fount of poetry has suddenly dried up within 
 vou : no doubt, indeed, she has already beo-un to 
 wonder that vou have not oiven vent to ' a woful 
 sonnet made to your mistress's eyebrow.' " 
 
 Stratford returned no answer, but the conversa- 
 tion left a deep impression on his mind ; and he 
 felt that it would indeed be the most honest and 
 upright course that he could pursue, to confess the 
 whole truth to Adelaide, and then silently to with- 
 draw himself from the hterary society of which he 
 was so httle calculated to be a member. Xor was 
 this resolution of Stratford's so great a sacrifice as 
 mio-ht be imao^ined ; he had for some time felt 
 himself verv little at ease amono- his brilhant new 
 associates ; he was aware that he was only " cloth 
 of frieze," although circumstances had for a time 
 matched him with " cloth t)f gold." He could not 
 respond to the hterary quotations and allusions con- 
 stantly made in his presence. He had heard some 
 wonder expressed that he had no scraps in his port- 
 folio to show confidentially to admiring friends ; and 
 the editor of a leading periodical had kindly suo- 
 
184 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 gested to him a subject for a tale in blank verse, 
 wliich, if written at all in tlie style of the tragedy, 
 should, he said, receive immediate attention from 
 him. Then, in other circles, young ladies had re- 
 quested contributions for their albums, and Ade- 
 laide had more than once exj^ressed her wish to have 
 new words written for some of her favorite old airs. 
 
 Stratford, the morning after his conversation 
 with Talbot, sought the presence of Adelaide, 
 resolved that, if his courage did not fail him, he 
 would make a confession of his misdeeds, and 
 an offer of his hand and heart before he left the 
 house. He found Adelaide, as he had wished, 
 alone ; she was reading a letter when he entered, 
 and it dropped on the ground as she rose to receive 
 him ; he lifted it up, and recognized the hand in 
 which it was written ; it was that of Captain jS'es- 
 bitt, and the letter appeared to be of some length. 
 Stratford felt disposed to be rather jealous ; Cap- 
 tain Nesbitt was well connected, remarkably hand- 
 some, very hvely, and had, like Captain Absolute, 
 " an air of success about him which was mighty 
 provoking." 
 
 " Do not let me inteiTupt your perusal of that 
 letter," he said, rather coldly and stiffly. 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 185 
 
 " You have doubtless," said 'Adelaide with a 
 smile, '' seen the handwriting ; you do not pre- 
 vent me from reading the letter — I have just 
 finished it : and although 3'our visit may cause my 
 answer to it to be delayed a little while longer, 
 the delay is of no manner of importance, since I 
 shaU only write a few line-^ of no very agreeable 
 purport." 
 
 " I pity the poor fellow from my heart," exclaim- 
 ed Stratford, and he spoke with sincerity ; he could 
 afford to pity Captain Xesbitt when he knew that 
 Adelaide was about to reject him. 
 
 " He does not deserve your pity," said Adelaide. 
 
 " Can the o'entle and kind-hearted Adelaide ex- 
 press herself so harshly ?" asked Stratford, feeKng 
 more and more generously inclined towards his 
 rival, when he saw how much he was disdained. 
 
 " I must explain myself," said Adelaide ; " for I 
 should be very soriy tliat you (and the delighted 
 lover actually fancied that he detected a slight em- 
 phasis on the word you) should believe me to be 
 hard-hearted and unkind. Captain Xesbitt has 
 considerably fallen in my estimation during- the last 
 few days. I have received abundant proofs that he 
 does not always love and resgect the truth." 
 8* 
 
186 THE HEIRESS AND ITER WOOERS, 
 
 Stratford began to feel rather nervous ; he had a 
 parti ciilar dishke to conversation which turned on 
 the subject of love and respect for the truth. 
 
 " Captain Nesbitt," continued Adelaide, " Avhen 
 he first became acquainted with me, informed me, 
 that although his present property was but limited, 
 he expected to succeed to the estates of an old and 
 infirm uncle residing in Wales. I was lately in 
 company with a family who happened to live in the 
 immediate neighborhood of this wealthy old uncle ; 
 he has indeed large estates, but he has two sons in 
 excellent health, to inherit them." 
 
 Adelaide here paused, expecting to hear an ex- 
 clamation of indignant surprise from Stratford; 
 but it was not uttered. Stratford was by no means 
 troubled with an over development of conscientious- 
 ness, and it appeared to him that Captain Nesbitt 
 had committed a very venial offence in keeping two 
 Welsh cousins in the background, who might have 
 interfered so materially with his interests. 
 
 " Doubtless," he at length remarked, " this sub- 
 terfuge on Captain Nesbitt's part was owing to the 
 excess of his affection for vou." 
 
 " I doubt it very much," said Adelaide ; " affec- 
 tion is always prone to overrate the good qualities 
 
M 
 
 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 187 
 
 of its object; now Captain Nesbitt must have 
 greatly underrated mine, if lie could deem it likely 
 that, possessing as I do an ample sufReiency of tlie 
 goods of fortune, it could make any difference to 
 me whether the lover of my choice were wealthy 
 or otherwise." 
 
 " Could you not in any case deem an untruth 
 excusable V asked Stratford. 
 
 "In none," rephed Adelaide; "but there are 
 cases in which I deem it particularly inexcusable : 
 the falsehoods of pride or vanity, the assumption of 
 being better, or richer, or wiser than we really are 
 — these are, in my opinion, as contemptible as they 
 are reprehensible." 
 
 " Men of the world," pursued Stratford, " are apt 
 to think very Httle of an occasional deviation from 
 truth." 
 
 " Pardon me," said Adelaide, " if I entirely differ 
 from you. Should one man of the world tax an- 
 other with the violation of ti-uth in homely, down- 
 right phrase, what is the consequence ? the insult 
 is considered so unbearable, that in many cases the 
 offender has even been called on to expiate his 
 words with his life. JS'oav, if a departure from 
 truth be so mere a trifle, why should not the accu- 
 
188 THE HEIRESS AND IIEK WOOERS. 
 
 sation of having departed from trutli be also con- 
 sidered as a trifle ?" 
 
 Stratford was silent ; liis shallow sophistry could 
 not contend Avith Adelaide's straightforward right- 
 mindedness, and he was rejoiced when the entrance 
 of visitors put an end to the conversation. A tete- 
 a-tete with Adelaide had on that morning no 
 charms for him ; he lacked nerve for either a con- 
 fession or a proposal ! Perhaps, however, it would 
 have been better for Stratford if he could have sum- 
 moned courao-e to have outstaid the visitoi's, and 
 revealed every thing to Adelaide ; for discovery was 
 impending over his head from a quarter where he 
 could not possibly expect it, inasmuch as he was 
 ignorant of the very existence of the person about 
 to give the information. Every one must have 
 been repeatedly called on to remark, that in societj^ 
 there seems to be a mysterious agency perpetually 
 .at work, bearing news from one quarter to another 
 apparently quite unconnected with it. In every 
 class or set we meet with some person who makes 
 us cognizant of the sajdngs and doings of another 
 class oi« set, from which we have been hitherto re- 
 removed at an immeasurable distance. Often the 
 information thus p-ained is desultory and uninterest- 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 189 
 
 ing, and it passes away from our mind almost as 
 soon as we receive it ; occasionally it strikes upon 
 some connecting chord, and we eagerly listen and 
 respond to it. 
 
 When Adelaide Linley left school, she had, like 
 most vouno' o-irls, a favorite friend, with whom she 
 kept up a regular correspondence, at the rate of 
 three sheets of rose-colored note-paper a week. 
 Emma Penryn, however, lived in Cornwall ; and 
 as year after year passed by, and the friends never 
 met, the correspondence decidedly slackened. Still, 
 however, it was never wholly given up, and Ade- 
 laide had written to her friend shortly after the in- 
 troduction of Talbot and Stratford to her, mention- 
 ing their names, and speaking of them as likely to 
 prove pleasant and desirable acquaintances. The 
 day after Adelaide's interview with Stratford, a 
 letter anived for her from Emma Penryn. She 
 apologized for her long silence, and gave an excel- 
 lent reason for it ; she had been receiving the ad- 
 dresses of a very desirable admirer, who had at 
 length proposed, and been accepted ; he was a 
 Cornish man, and his property lay within a few 
 miles of that of her father. After entering into 
 numerous details regarding the carnage, the trous- 
 
190 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 seau, and the marriage settlement (young ladies in 
 tlie nineteenth century are very apt to talk and 
 write about the marriage settlement), the bride- 
 elect continued : 
 
 " I am quite sure you will hear an excellent 
 character of my dear Trebeck, if you mention his 
 name to Mr. Talbot ; only think of their being 
 great friends ; indeed Mr. Talbot was quite confi- 
 dential with Trebeck a year ago, when staying with 
 him in the country-house of a mutual friend, and 
 actually was so kind as to read to him the beauti- 
 ful tragedy of the 'Russian Brothers,' to which he 
 had just put the finishing-stroke. Mr. Talbot did 
 not let any one else know a word about it, and in 
 fact extracted a promise of the strictest secrecy from 
 Trebeck ; the reason was, that he meant to produce 
 the tragedy on the stage, and had a terrible nerv- 
 ous fear of failure, a fear which was unfortunately 
 realized by the event ; I suppose because it was too 
 good for the audience to understand. Trebeck 
 kept the secret most admirably, never breathing a 
 word of it even to me, till the brilliant success of 
 the published play of course took off the embargo 
 of silence, and now we tell it to every body ; and 
 Trebeck, I assure you, is not a little proud of 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER "WOOERS. 191 
 
 the confidence reposed in him by his Hteraiy 
 friend." 
 
 Adelaide read this part of the letter with incre- 
 dulous surprise, imagining that Emma was under 
 some misapprehension ; but when she came to re- 
 flect on past events, she could not but see that it 
 was very likely to be true ; she had several times 
 been much struck "v\'itli the inconsistency of Strat- 
 ford's conversation and his reputed literary talents, 
 and had felt surprised that he should so invariably 
 have resisted all persuasion, even from herself, to 
 give any further proof of his poetical abilities. It 
 might seem astonishing that Talbot should so freely 
 have acquiesced in this usurpation ; but Emma's 
 letter threw light on the subject, by alluding to 
 Talbot's nervous horror of failure, and Adelaide's 
 quick apprehension soon enabled her to see the 
 real state of the case, and to become sorrowfully 
 convinced that Captain Xesbitt was not the only 
 one of her "wooers" who had shown himself re- 
 gardless of the sacred laws of truth. 
 
 Reluctantly, but steadily, did the young heiress 
 prepare herself to act as she considered for the best 
 under the circumstances. She wrote to Talbot and 
 to Stratford, requesting that they would each wait 
 
192 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 upon her at the same time on the followang clay. 
 Neither of them suspected the reason of this sum- 
 mons ; Talbot had indeed ahnost forgotten the 
 existence of the silly, good-natured Trebeck : he 
 had read the " Russian Brothers" to him, because, 
 like most writers, he felt the wish, immediately 
 after completing a work, to obtain a hearer for it ; 
 and because, like some writers, he had a great deal 
 of vanity, and had been flattered by the deferential 
 admiration of a man much inferior to him, and 
 from whom he need not fear any distasteful criti- 
 cism. Talbot knew Trebeck to be perfectly honor- 
 able, and if he had ever thought of him at all, he 
 would have remembered the. promise of secrecy he 
 had exacted from him, and would have felt quite at 
 ease. It never entered his mind that circumstances 
 might happen which would induce Trebeck to con- 
 sider himself absolved from his promise, and that, 
 as the " Russian Brothers" had been published with- 
 out a name, it was perfectl}^ natural and probable 
 that the Cornish squire might be ignorant that the 
 London world of letters imputed the authorship of 
 it to Stratford, and not to Talbot. The rivals w^ere 
 punctual to their appointment, anticipating nothing 
 more important than that they should be invited to 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 193 
 
 join a party to a flower-sliow or the oj)era-house. Ade- 
 laide did not keep them in suspense, but said that 
 she wished to read to them part of a letter which 
 she had recently received. When she had finished, 
 she told them that she had considered it right to 
 make them acquainted with this statement, and 
 asked if they had any thing to say in refutation of 
 it. They looked confused, and were silent. Strat- 
 ford was the first to speak. " Forgive me for my 
 seeming assumption of talents not my own," he 
 said ; " and remember that my motive was to save 
 a fi'iend from the mortification of acknowledoino; a 
 defeat." 
 
 "I cannot conceive that such was your only 
 motive," replied Adelaide : " you evidently took 
 pride and pleasure in your new character. Did 
 you attempt to suspend the publication of the 
 drama ? Did you shrink fi-om the distinctions that 
 followed it ? Xo : you courted popularity, and en- 
 joyed it, knowing all the time that you had done 
 nothing to merit it, and that the whole of the ap- 
 plause that you received was in reality the right of 
 your fiiend 1" 
 
 Adelaide's words sounded a knell to the hopes 
 of Stratford, but they seemed " merry as a mar- 
 
194 THE IlfilRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 riage-bell " to the eager ears of Talbot. " Dearest 
 Adelaide," he said, " how kindly, how gratifyingly 
 do you speak of my talents ! They are entirely ded- 
 icated to you : all the laurels that they may here- 
 after gain for me shall be laid at your feet !" 
 
 " Do not trouble yourself to be so very grateful, 
 Mr. Talbot," rejDlied Adelaide. " Yon will be httle 
 obhged to me when you have listened to all that I 
 have to say to you. Your talents are undoubtedly 
 great, but I do not consider that vividness of im- 
 agination and elegance of composition constitute a 
 man of really fine mind, any more than a suit of 
 regimentals and acquaintance with military tactics 
 constitute a brave soldier. I may continue the 
 parallel. You entered the field of battle by your 
 own choice, knowing that it was possible you might 
 meet with defeat. Your first defeat came, and 
 what was the course you pursued ? Did you resolve 
 to try again with added vigor ? No, you deter- 
 mined to conceal that you had tried at all ; you 
 deserted the noble ranks to which you belonged, 
 to sink into the mass of common-place beings ; and 
 should your conduct ever become generally known, 
 rely upon it that all literary men who sit in judg- 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 195 
 
 ment upon you will imanimously sentence you to 
 be cashiered for cowardice !" 
 
 Stratford breathed a little more freely during 
 this speech : it was a great relief to his feehngs to 
 hear his friend so severely reproved. 
 
 " I will not," pursued Adelaide, " dwell upon the 
 offence that you have mutually committed in 
 departing from the straight, clear and beautiful 
 path of truth ; you well know my opinion on the 
 subject. I could never feel happy in a near con- 
 nection, or even in an intimate friendship, with any 
 one who did not know and revere truth as I have 
 always done. I shall probably occasionally meet 
 again with both of you, but we must meet hereafter 
 only on the footing of common acquaintance." 
 
 The disconcerted " wooers," now no longer rivals, 
 took a speedy departure : they exchanged a few^ 
 sentences on their w^ay, in Avhich there was much 
 more of recrimination than of condolence, and then 
 coldly separated. Their friendship had long been 
 at an end. And in the midst of their recent mor- 
 tification, each felt consoled by the thought that he 
 was not compelled to cede Adelaide to the other ! 
 It Avas easy for Adelaide to avoid future intimacy 
 
196 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 with her two rejected lovers, without causing any 
 remark among her cii-cle of acquaintance. 
 
 It was now nearly the end of June ; Mr. Gray- 
 son ^vas quite a man of the old school : he did 
 not stay in London till the middle of August, 
 and then repair to Kissengen or Interlachen. He 
 had a pretty country-house a few miles from Lon- 
 don, and always removed to it at Midsummer. 
 Mrs. Grayson, who enjoyed nothing so much as 
 her flower garden, was delighted to escape from the 
 brow^n dusty trees of a London square : and Ade- 
 laide, although she liked public amusements, liked 
 them as " soberly " as Lady Grace in the " Provok- 
 ed Husband," and always professed herself ready 
 to rusticate as soon as the roses were in bloom. 
 Three days after her interview with Talbot and 
 Stratford, she removed from the bustle of London 
 to a region of flow^ers, green trees, and singing- 
 birds. The former friends — now, alas ! friends no 
 longer — travelled abroad. They had each studi- 
 ously contrived to depart on a different day, and 
 to visit a different point of the continent ; but they 
 happened accidentally to meet on a mountain in 
 Switzerland. They passed each other merely with 
 the remarks that " the scenery w^as very grand," 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 197 
 
 and that " tlie panorama of the Lake of Thun, 
 at the Cohseum, had given one 3, capital idea of 
 it !" 
 
 Stratford returned to London in Januaiy ; Cap- 
 tain Nesbitt was the first person of his acquaint- 
 ance whom he encountered. Now Captain Nesbitt 
 possessed an infallible characteristic of a narrow- 
 minded, mean-spirited man : he never forgave a 
 woman who had refused him, and never omitted 
 an opportunity of speaking ill of her. After hav- 
 ing anathematized Adelaide and her coquetries for 
 some time, he proceeded: "Her marriage, how- 
 ever, will shortly take place, and it is, I think, a 
 fitting conclusion to her airs and graces. Perhaps, 
 as you have only just arrived in Eugland, you are 
 not aware that she is engaged to her guardian's 
 clerk ?" 
 
 "To Alton!" exclaimed Stratford--" to that 
 Cjuiet^ duU young man.! Impossible ! She used 
 to ridicule his unsocial habits, and also was very 
 severe on his propensity for hoarding money." 
 
 " However that might be," replied Captain Xes- 
 bitt, " he has proved himself not too dull to devise 
 and succeed in an admirable matrimonial spec- 
 ulation : and as for his system of hoarding, per- 
 
198 1H1-: HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 haps the fair Adelaide, although she objected to it 
 in an indifferent 'person, may not disapprove of it 
 in a husband. Heiresses are always terribly afraid 
 of marrying men Avho are likely to dissipate their 
 money." 
 
 " When is the marriage to take place ?" asked 
 Stratford, with an affected carelessness. 
 
 " I believe in a few weeks," said Captain Nesbitt 
 — " that is, if nothing should happen to prevent it. 
 I think I could set it aside at once, if I took inter- 
 est enough in Adelaide to make it worth my whil^ 
 to do so. I could communicate to her something 
 respecting Alton which would decidedly lower him 
 in her opinion." 
 
 " Indeed !" exclaimed Stratford, eao-erlv. " Has 
 Alton, then, been guilty of any deviation from the 
 truth ?" 
 
 Poor Stratford ! " He that is giddy thinks the 
 world turns round ;" and he had no idea that a 
 lover could offend in any other way than by devi- 
 atino- from the truth. 
 
 " I do not know that Alton has told any un- 
 truth," said Captain Nesbitt ; " but I have reason 
 to think that he has kej)t back the truth." 
 
 " That may do quite as well," thought Stratford, 
 
THE HEIRESS A>-D HER WOOERS. 199 
 
 " \Ylien one has to deal with so scrupulous a person 
 as Adelaide ;" and lie requested Captain Xesbitt 
 to explain himself. 
 
 "Alton's father," said Captain Xesbitt, "did not 
 resemble the father in an old sons; of O'Keefe's — 
 
 " Who, dying, bequeathed to his son a good name !" 
 
 He was, like his son, a confidential clerk — not, 
 however, to a solicitor, but to a Liverpool merchant. 
 He repaid the confidence of his em2)loTer by em- 
 bezzling simdiT sums of money, which he hazard- 
 ed at the gaming-table. At length the fi-equency 
 of his losses occasioned him to commit a more 
 darino; act than a breach of trust : he foro-ed the 
 name of the merchant to a banking-house check : 
 discoveiy ensued, and he only escaped the punish- 
 ment of the law by committing suicide. This 
 event happened five years ago, and is fresh in the 
 remembrance of many persons in Livei-pool." 
 
 " But do you not think it likely that Alton may 
 have revealed these facts to Adelaide?" asked 
 Stratford. 
 
 " I do not think it in the least likely that he should 
 have proved himself such a blockhead I" replied 
 
 «4r 
 
200 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 Captain Nesbitt. "Adelaide would never marry 
 the son of a man who only escaped hanging by 
 suicide !" 
 
 " They do not hang for forgery in these days !" 
 said Stratford. 
 
 "So much the worse," said Captain Nesbitt. 
 " It is a crime that cannot be too severely punish- 
 ed. I remember hearing that many years ago a 
 man was hanged for forging the ace of spades ; I 
 wish those good old times would come- back again." 
 
 Stratford was silent ; not all his pique, nor all 
 his jealousy, could induce him to think that it 
 would be desirable for the times to come back 
 again, when a man was hanged for forging the ace 
 of spades ! 
 
 The next day Stratford called at Mr. Grayson's, 
 and found Adelaide alone in the drawing-room. 
 She looked a httle surprised at seeing him, but re- 
 ceived him as she would have done a common 
 acquaintance. Stratford congratulated her on her 
 future prospects, and uttered some forced commen- 
 dations on the excellence of Alton's character. 
 " He affords a convincing proof," he said, with a 
 little trepidation, "that the son of an unworthy 
 father need not necessarily tread in his steps." 
 
THE IIEIKESS AND HER WOOERS. 201 
 
 *' There are so many similar instances of that 
 fact," said Adelaide, " that I think there is nothing- 
 astonishing in them. The good or bad qualities 
 of a father are not, like landed estates, entailed 
 upon his son !" 
 
 " Then you do know," said Stratford, " that 
 Alton's father was an unworthy man ?" 
 
 Adelaide looked at him with grave, earnest sur- 
 prise. " You have chosen a strange subject of con- 
 vei-sation," she said ; " but I have no objection to 
 satisfy your curiosity. I beard of the circumstance 
 to which you allude from Alton himself." 
 
 " I conclude," said Stratford, " that Mr. Grayson 
 insisted on his being candid with you, previous to 
 your engagement being concluded ?" 
 
 " You are quite in the wrong," returned Ade- 
 laide. " Mr. Grayson is much attached to x\lton 
 (whom he is on the point of taking into partner- 
 ship), and was very desirous that he should propose 
 to me. He enjoined him to keep secret the melan- 
 choly circumstances connected with his father, as 
 they could only tend to give me uneasiness ; and 
 it was quite certain that no one else would be so 
 deficient in kind feeling as to mention them to me." 
 
 Stratfui-d ielt rather embarrassed and uucom- 
 9 
 
202 THE HEIRESS and her wooers. 
 
 fortable as Adelaide uttered these words. "Al- 
 ton's • strict and honorable love of truth, how- 
 ever," pursued Adelaide, " led him to disregard 
 this counsel ; some weeks before he proposed to 
 me he made known to me every particular of his 
 father's transgression ; and I assured him, in reply, 
 that I did not consider him in the smallest degTee 
 lowered in excellence by having become good, con- 
 scientious, and truthful, without the aid of parental 
 precept or example." 
 
 Stratford was determined to discharge a parting 
 aiTOW at the provoking heiress. " You have shown 
 yourself extremely liberal in your opinions," he 
 said ; " and you have the very comforting reflection 
 that, from Mr. Alton's known and remarkable hab- 
 its of frugality, he is never likely to fall into the 
 same snares that proved fatal to his father, but 
 will distinguish himself rather by saving money 
 than by squandering it." 
 
 " As you appear," said Adelaide, " to speak in 
 rather an ironical tone concerning Alton's econo- 
 mv, I think it due to him to enter into a short ex- 
 planation of his motives. ^YheTi Alton first paid 
 me those marked attentions which I knew must 
 lead to a proposal, I sometimes rallied him on his 
 
THE HEIKESS AND HER WOOERS. 203 
 
 strict frugality, and sometimes gently reproved him 
 for it : he was not only sparing to himself, hut I 
 felt grieved to remark that, although ever willing 
 to devote time and thought to the poor, he rarely 
 assisted them with monev. He assured me that he 
 had a reason for his conduct, and that he was cer- 
 tain that I should not blame him if I knew it. 
 He added, that the necessity for economy would 
 soon cease, and that he should then have the plea- 
 sure of indulging his natural feehngs of liberality. 
 I was not satisfied with this reply : I required him 
 to give a direct answer to a direct question, and to 
 tell me what were his motives for saving, and why 
 they should exist at one time more than another." 
 
 " It was very merciless of you," said Stratford. 
 
 " :N'ot in the least," replied Adelaide. " Alton 
 had given me such proofs of his truthful and hon- 
 orable nature, that I knew, if he held back any com- 
 munication from me, he could only do so because 
 it Avas creditable to him, and because he wished to 
 avoid the appearance of boasting of his own good 
 deeds : and so it indeed proved to be. Alton had 
 for five years been denying himself every enjoy- 
 ment suitable to his age and tastes, for the purpose 
 of saviiio- the sum of monev of which his father 
 
204 THE JIEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 had defrauded his employer. When he first began 
 this undertaking, it seemed likely to prove a very 
 tedious one ; but two years ago he happily received 
 a legacy from a relation, which more than half 
 realized the amount that he required ; still, how- 
 ever, he did not slacken in his laudable energy, 
 and shortly after the conversation to which I have 
 alluded, he was enabled to pay over the Avhole 
 sum, with the accumulated interest, to the Liver- 
 pool merchant, who sent him a lettei' full of the 
 kindest expressions of approbation, concluding with 
 the assurance that he should make his noble act of 
 atonement generally known among all his friends. 
 Therefore by this time every one who has censured 
 the faults and frailties of the father, is engaged in 
 lauding the honor and honesty of the son." 
 
 Stratford had heard quite enough ; he took a 
 hasty leave, sincerely repenting that he had ever 
 thouo'ht of troublino: the bride-elect with a morn- 
 ing call. 
 
 Alton and Adelaide were mari-ied in the course 
 of a few weeks ; two years have elapsed since that 
 time, and I am of opinion that the unusual happi- 
 ness they enjoy is greatly to be attributed to the 
 truthfulness which is the decided characteristic of 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS, 205 
 
 both of them. I am aware that many of my read- 
 ers will say that it is of little importance whether a 
 married couple, whose interests necessarily bind 
 them together, should mutually love truth, or mu- 
 tually agree in sanctioning the thousand-and-one 
 little falsities of worldly expediency ; but I think 
 that those who hold such an opinion cannot have 
 had many opportunities of closely observing the 
 domestic circles of their friends and neighboi-s. 
 Had they done so, they would have been aware 
 that the beginning of matrimonial unhappiness 
 repeatedly arises from the detection by one party 
 of some sho'ht violation of truth on the part of the 
 other. Often such a ^nolation is committed with 
 no ill intent ; nay, often indeed is it done with the 
 kind motive of sparing some little trouble or anxi- 
 ety to the beloved one. A trifling trouble is con- 
 cealed, a small expense kept in the background, 
 the visit of an intrusive guest unmentioned, or a 
 letter read aloud with the omission of a short part 
 of it, which might be supposed to be unpleasant 
 to the listener. These concealments and misrepre- 
 sentations, in themselves so seemingly slight, be- 
 come of terrific account when frequently repeated ; 
 confidence is shaken, and when once that is the 
 
206 THE HEIRESS AND IIEIl WOOERS. 
 
 case, conjugal happiness is soon at an end. Ade- 
 laide and her husband are on the most confidential 
 terras, because neither of them ever thinks whe- 
 ther a true remark or communication is agreeable 
 or not ; they speak it because it is the truth ; and 
 if a moment's pain be thus given, the passing cloud 
 breaks almost as soon as it is perceived ; no tem- 
 pests are suffered to gather in the distance, and 
 the heiress constantly congratulates herself that 
 she chose not the handsomest, the cleverest, or the 
 most fashionable, but the most truthful of her 
 " wooers." Of these wooers I have but little to 
 say. Captain Nesbitt is on the point of marriage 
 with a middle-aged widow of good fortune; he 
 was successful in impressing her with the belief 
 that he must ultimately inherit his uncle's pro- 
 perty ; but she was more cautious than ladies of 
 fewer years and less experience might have been, 
 and made so many inquiries about the state of 
 health of the old gentleman, that his nephew was 
 obliged to improvise an apoplectic fit for him ! 
 This intelligence caused the widow to fix the day, 
 but she is providing a very limited trousseau, since 
 she anticipates the " melancholy pleasure" of giv- 
 injx larofe orders in the course of a few weeks at 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 207 
 
 one of tlie " Mansions of Grief" in Regent- 
 street ! 
 
 Talbot and Stratford seldom meet; indeed, if 
 one becomes introduced into a family, the other 
 almost invariably ceases to \^Isit there. However, 
 there are two points in which they show great 
 sympathy and congeniality of mind. They par- 
 ticularly dislike to hear of the failure of a new 
 piece at the theatre ; and there is no work for 
 which they feel such unmitigated detestation, as 
 one which still engrosses much of the public notice 
 —the tragedy of the " Eussian Brothei-s 1" 
 
 # 
 
*^ 
 
 SONNE'T. 
 
 BY EUPHRASIA FANNY IIAWOETH. 
 
 T ET the pnre garments of the cool gray eve 
 
 ^ Float o'er thee, like a mother's shelterinir vest 
 
 Drawn round the child she cradles on her hreast 
 To hush its sobbings ; in thy heart receive 
 Her balmy breathings, like some precious truth 
 
 A saint dies speaking — or the answering sigh 
 
 Some lover listens for from lattice high, — 
 Or Fame's first murmur to the eager youth. 
 Listen, and gaze, and draw into thy soul 
 
 These influxes of earth's selectest bliss ; 
 
 Let thy worn brow meet Evening's holy kiss 
 With reverence calm ; accept the mild control 
 
 That for one hour bids grief and passion cease ; 
 
 An angel treads the earth whose name is Peace ! 
 
> > 1 . 
 
 > J 1 1 
 
 > > 
 
 • » . 
 
 ' > J > 
 
 ) 1 J J 
 
 ' > > > 
 
 ,,,, 
 
 J J J » 
 ' > ' J 
 
C f c < 
 
 c e t f 
 e ■ ' ' 
 
 « c 
 
 t c 
 
 f ■ < ' 
 
 e c c c 
 
 ' c ' 
 
 c 
 
 C • J 
 
 • ••c 
 
 t c t f 
 
THE QUEEN OF THE HOUR. 
 
 BY HEXET C. WATSON. 
 
 IVE wander'd to a pleasant grove, 
 ' ' Beside a dancing rill — 
 A throng of youth I — of light and love 
 
 Each lieart had drunk its fill. 
 Sweet faces were in plenty there— 
 
 As fair as June's first flower; 
 But Clara beamed in beauty rare, 
 
 The queen of that bright hour. 
 
 We gathered round her when she sang 
 
 A song of olden days ; 
 And as each word through woodlands rang, 
 
 We looked unspoken praise. 
 Ah I long our frolic sports were stay'd 
 
 Beneath that spell of pow'r ; 
 And long we gazed upon the maid — 
 
 The queen of that blest hour! 
 9* 
 
210 THE QUEEN OF THE HOUR, 
 
 Tve seen the lovely oft since then, 
 
 I've dreamed of lovelier still ; 
 But ne'er shall I behold again 
 
 Sweet Clara by that rill. 
 And though I seek the courtly hall, 
 
 And e'en the fairest bow'r, 
 One image shines above them all — 
 
 The queen of youth's bright hour ! 
 
MOB WELL ; 
 
 OR, 
 THE MODERN PYGMALION. 
 
 a 9^al£ for th 2usk. 
 
 m 
 BY EUPHKASIA FAXNY HA'R'ORTH. 
 
 I. 
 
 " He stay'd his prayer, and on the statue gazed. 
 Behold, a gentle heaving stirred its brea»t; 
 O'er all the form a flush of rose-light passed ; 
 Along the limbs the azure arteries throbbed. 
 A golden lustre settled on the head, 
 And gleamed amid the mazes of the hair; 
 The rounded cheeks grew vivid with a blush: 
 Ambrosial breathings cleft the curved lips. 
 And softly through the arched nostril stole : 
 Slow rose the silken fringed lids, and eyes, 
 Like violets wet with dew, drank in the light !" 
 
 Pygmalion. — G. Grbkxwood. 
 
 u 
 
 WHY, Horton, old fellow ! is that really you ? 
 where did you spring from ?" 
 
 " Morris, how glad I am to see you ! Yes, here 
 I am ; at least what is left of me, after the hoiTors 
 of five vears in Calcutta." 
 
212 MORWKLL. 
 
 Such were the liearty greetings that took place 
 at the Piccadilly corner of Albemarle Street, one 
 sleety, gusty day, in February. Paul Horton had 
 just returned on sick leave from India, where he 
 held a very good civil appointment. His old 
 schoolfellow, Frank Morris, was almost the first 
 person, besides waiters and porters, to whom he 
 had spoken in London ; and Paul had not 
 much difficulty in persuading him to return with 
 him to the hotel close by, where he had taken up 
 his quarters ; the Aveather was too unpropitious to 
 allow of much delay in seeking shelter. 
 
 "Well," said Paul Horton, when they were 
 fairly housed, again shaking Morris by the hand, 
 " I am so glad to have chanced upon you ! — you 
 can tell me all about every body — first, yourself; — 
 what are you about ? You look as sleek and as 
 fat as if you had all the world your own way, and 
 nobody ever contradicted you !" 
 
 " And yet I am married," said ISIorris, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 " Indeed ! that is news ; and to which of the 
 fair enslavers you have been always raving about 
 these ten years ?" 
 
 " Oh ! nobody I ever raved about before you 
 
MORWELL. 213 
 
 went out — it was quite sudden, at last — yet I have 
 never repented I" 
 
 " That's all right," said Paul. " ^'"ow tell me 
 about some of our fiiends. I am very anxious to 
 hear somethino- of Morwell — he wrote me the 
 oddest letter out to India some time ago — it quite 
 mystifies me." 
 
 " Oh, you are not the only one mystified about 
 Morwell ! I wish I could tell you any thing of him, 
 poor fellow — any thing satisfactory I mean. It is 
 curious enouo-h vou should ask me about him, for 
 I was just on my way determined to go and see 
 what he is doino;." 
 
 " Let us go together, then," said Horton ; " and 
 you can tell me what you know as we walk. Is 
 he in town V 
 
 " He has got a studio in the most unlikely 
 localitv to be molested with visitors — a strano-e 
 place it is — it might have been a palace of a 
 Lombardy duke once. It is at the back of Lom- 
 bard Street. But I must tell you the story. You 
 know, of course, of his great success in that group 
 of ' Cain and Abel ! ' It brought him immediately 
 into notice : his next was ' Herodias,' and then a 
 group of the ' Graces.' " 
 
214 MORWKLL. 
 
 " I heard something of this," said Ilortoii. 
 
 " You should have seen him then !" resumed 
 Morris ; " he was so happy, so full of life and 
 genius ! But it did not last long. At that time — 
 about two years ago — I often saw him ; it was just 
 after I married ; and he was paying great attention 
 to my wife's sister, Lucy, as pretty a girl as you 
 could wish to see. I am afraid she thought him 
 more in earnest than he was, and you know what 
 a good-looking fellow he is. Well ! — all at once 
 he grew uncertain in his spirits and in his temper ; 
 more eao-er than ever after his art, and sometimes 
 as desponding about it, and dissatisfied with all he 
 did. Instead of railing against the Royal Academy, 
 and the cellars where the sculpture is exhibited, as 
 he used, he now said he had hardly refrained some- 
 times from breaking his models to atoms, so 
 wretched a caricature of nature they seemed to him. 
 After a time he scarcely noticed Lucy, and at last 
 he never came near us. 
 
 " I went to his studio once or twice, but he would 
 not let me in to see what he was doing ; he came 
 out to speak to me, and I'll be bound he does the 
 same to-day. 
 
 "He had taken hold of strange fancies about 
 
MORWELL. 215 
 
 mesmerism and electricity, and once told me, with 
 a wild look tliat quite alarmed me, tliat lie had 
 been studying- the principles of life and motion, and 
 that if he should pm-sue his experiments like Fran- 
 kenstein, it would not be to make a monster. 
 
 " After this I saw a model he was beginning : it 
 was of a nymph of Diana, and the most exquisite 
 thing I ever beheld. He was not satisfied himself, 
 and the next time I saw him he had destroyed it. 
 He was going to begin a Yenus, he said ; and when 
 I afterwards saw him told me he was going on with 
 it. I asked him to show me the model, but no- 
 thin 2: would induce him to do so. But here we 
 are in the dingy old street." 
 
 They rang, and were admitted into a kind of 
 ground-floor parlor — a strange chaos of a place. It 
 contained a large bookcase, full of dusty and antique- 
 lookino- volumes ; on the table Avas a desk and 
 writing materials. In one corner an electrical ma- 
 chine, some anatomical drawings and a skull : also 
 several phials and cmcibles, as if for chemical uses. 
 The fireplace, with its cold embers, looked cheerless 
 enough, and the whole place had an air of mel- 
 ancholy abandonment. 
 
 When at length, almost tired of waiting, Horton 
 
216 MOKWELL. 
 
 resolved to proceed to tlie studio^ the sculptor en- 
 tered the room. He had been a noble-looking 
 creature when his friend Paul saw him last, but 
 now he would scarcely have recognized him, so 
 changed was his appearance : his figure was worn 
 and thin, and the hair which fell about his high 
 forehead in luxuriant curls was sprinkled with pre- 
 mature gray ; yet his face, though fallen and sharp- 
 ened, ^vas more full of expression and genius than 
 ever. 
 
 You saw in his deep, melancholy eye fitful flashes 
 of that fire which w^as consuming him — the bright 
 steel of the sword that was wearinjx out its scab- 
 bard. He w^ore a kind of loose morning gown, and 
 he had a listless, saddened look ; but as soon as he 
 recognized Horton, his whole countenance lighted 
 up. He scarcely looked at Morris ; and after 
 wringing the hand Horton held out to him, he an- 
 swered not a word to his warm greeting, but fling- 
 ing his arms round him, he feirly wept upon his 
 shoulder like a woman. 
 
 He quickly mastered his emotion, which he seemed 
 ashamed that Morris should observe, and after or- 
 dinary inquiries had been made and answered, the 
 
M ORWELL. 217 
 
 latter asked how his " Vemis" was, and if she were 
 in a state to be seen. 
 
 " You shall see," said the artist ; and without 
 the slightest hesitation he led the way to his studio ; 
 after going down a narrow passage, he opened a 
 door which seemed to lead into the interior of 
 another house. 
 
 They were in a lofty hall, lighted from a dome 
 at the toj), fi'om which they perceived a wide stone 
 staircase, with exquisitely carved banisters. 
 
 Crossing the hall, the artist led them to a spa- 
 cious apartment on the gTound-floor, also lighted 
 from above ; it was filled with models from antique 
 sculpture. " This," said he, as they passed through, 
 " is my oratory ; these are to make me, as I go to 
 my work, humble yet hopeful, meek and strong. 
 I cannot look on them now, for they have frowned 
 on me of late." 
 
 Morris stole a look at Horton as the artist said 
 this ; the latter was gazing at Morwell, and expect- 
 ing him to smile, but he was perfectly grave and 
 solemn, and walked through the room as if he had 
 been an acolyte j)assing the altar. The jest died 
 on Horton's lips, and he looked back at Morris with 
 wonder. 
 
218 MORWELL. 
 
 They went throiigli to tlie studio, whicli was a 
 finely-proportioned room, filled with half-finii^hed 
 models and various implements of art. 
 
 " And where is the ' Venus V " said Morris, look- 
 ing round. 
 
 " There !" replied Morwell, calmly pointing to a 
 broken mass of fi*agments. 
 
 " You do not mean to say you have broken the 
 statue ?" exclaimed Morris ; " why, it was in 
 marble !" 
 
 "Yes!" said the sculptor, picking up an arm, 
 " this was well enough." 
 
 " It is perfectly exquisite !" said Horton : " what 
 could induce you to destroy it ? — where is the 
 head ?" 
 
 " Ah ! there was the failure : look at those lips 
 and chin !" 
 
 " Well," said Horton, " they are beautiful." 
 
 " You think so, perhaps, but they are no more 
 like Porphyria than — " 
 
 " Who is Porphyria ?" exclaimed both his 
 friends. 
 
 " No matter : look a<rain at that mouth and 
 chin ; has it not a sensual expression ? The eye and 
 forehead are better; but it won't do!" and he 
 
MORWELL. 219 
 
 tossed the head on the ground with ineffable 
 contempt. * 
 
 " And what are you about now — a new ' Venus ' 
 — or ' Diana,' — or what ?" 
 
 " Ah !" said the artist, his face Hghting up ; 
 " ah ! now the time is come ; I shall be happy at 
 last. I have discovered a new plastic material — 
 no more hard marble — I am quite sure that the 
 ancients never made a model and then reproduced 
 it in marble — the spirit flies between the two — no ; 
 they were grand stalwart fellows ; they worked 
 throuo'h the whole block with their own hands. 
 No second thoughts, no copying and shaping with 
 rule and compass. Is it not absurd to suppose 
 that the spirit of any form will submit to it ? — of 
 course it disappears, and leaves the statue a mere 
 dead corpse." 
 
 " May we see your new process ?" said Morris. 
 
 " Xo, not yet — perhaps never — they are such 
 subtle things, those spirits of beauty ! It is only 
 since I have found out their ways a little, that I 
 have the least chance of retainino- them." 
 
 He pointed towards a lofty door at the end of 
 the room, which was partly concealed by a curtain. 
 
 " I have resolved no human eye shall penetrate 
 
220 MORWELL. 
 
 there till the shape is perfect — the one shape — no 
 models — no reproduction. A copy might offend 
 the spirit, as much as to offer a sight of the imper- 
 fect shape. It shall not be my fault this time !" 
 
 The friends again looked at each other, and 
 !M orris, who was more nsed to hear Morwell of late 
 talk in this wild strain, said, — 
 
 " And what is yom- material ?" 
 
 " An invention of my own, or perhaps an inspi- 
 ration of hers — of Porphyria's. You would not be 
 the wiser if I told you the ingredients ; but here is 
 an experiment I have made ; I did not dare to try 
 it on a human figure; they might not like it. 
 Look at this, and feel it." 
 
 He lifted a silk handkerchief that lay on a table, 
 and underneath appeared a coiled-up snake, with 
 the head erect, in the act to spring. The effect 
 was so perfect that both his friends involuntarily 
 started back. Not only was the form perfectly 
 life-like, but it was life-like in color; every spot 
 and streak seemed almost of a changing hue, and 
 the eye appeared to dart fire. 
 
 " Touch it," said Morwell. Morris declared he 
 was humhuc/ging them, and that it was a real 
 snake. 
 
MOKAYELL. 221 
 
 Horton felt it, and started back. " Why, it is 
 soft," said he; "pliable!" 
 
 Morwell laughed wildly, and covered the snake 
 again with the handkerchief. He then led them 
 back throngh the room, with the Greek statues, 
 ■walking, as before, with his head reverently bent 
 downwards. T\Tien they had passed the room, he 
 took them ao-ain to the door which led to the 
 dingy outer-house opening to the back street, and 
 left them, having positively refused Moriis's invita- 
 tion to Aisit him. As they went, however, he 
 called Horton back. 
 
 " I will send to you," said he, " when the time 
 is come. It is near at hand; but come alone, and 
 do not come before I send. Give me your address. 
 I have often wished, Horton, to see you. I have 
 had strange things occur to me lately ; so strange 
 that I sometimes thouo-ht a mortal brain could not 
 bear them, alone, without sympathy, — without^ 
 some one to whom to say, ' Is this real, or am I 
 mad?' 
 
 " Such as he, dear good fellow as he is, could 
 never comprehend them, and would have driven 
 me mad at once ; and after all, what need I more ? 
 I have /itv/" 
 
222 MORWELL. 
 
 The Avild gleam again shot into his eyes, and 
 his countenance looked radiant witli uneai-thly 
 beauty. 
 
 " Farewell !" said he, •' come when I send for 
 you." 
 
 II. 
 
 "Did you ever see any body so mad?" was Mor- 
 ris's exclamation, as soon as they got into the 
 street ; and he laughed. 
 
 Horton rej^lied, " I am quite bewildered at the 
 strangeness of all about him; but there is, at 
 least, method in his madness, and I cannot laugh 
 at him, nor even pity him, were it not that he 
 looks so thin and altered, — for he seems full of en- 
 thusiasm about his art." 
 
 " Yes ; now he has got a new fancy, and a new 
 statue is begun ; but, mark my words, he will 
 break it to atoms, hke the last. Poor devil ! If 
 this is not madness, I don't know what is. I am 
 very glad he did not marry Lucy. Luckily he is 
 not dependent on his art for his living. He came 
 into a handsome fortune from a distant cousin, 
 quite unexpectedly, and that helped to turn his 
 
MORWELL. 223 
 
 brain. It released him, he said, from the slavery 
 of Avorking to please other people ; and so he gave 
 himself up entirely to his oavu wild fancies, and 
 took that queer old house ^vhere he lives, like a 
 necromancer in the middle ages, shut up by him- 
 self." 
 
 III. 
 
 Three weeks had elapsed, and Paul Horton had 
 no news of Morwell. He could no longer delay 
 going into the country to visit his relations, and 
 on the eve of his departure wrote a note to Mor- 
 well to inform him of it. He dined alone at his 
 hotel, and intended spending an hour of the even- 
 ino- with Morris. He sat ruminatino- over the fire, 
 debatino- if he should call on Morwell. and at least 
 attempt to see him before leaving town. He was 
 in a dreamy, dozy state, looking for shapes in the 
 embers, and thinkino- of Morwell and his strano-e 
 studio. He was o-oino- to visit some old friends of 
 both, who had invited Morwell to go wdth him, 
 and he had told him this in his note ; feeling, how- 
 over quite sure, it was in vain to write it. 
 
224 MOllWELL. 
 
 *' Suddenly he heard a tapping, 
 As of some one gently rapping, rapping at his clianibcr- 
 door." 
 
 He called out, " Come in ! Come in !" and an 
 Italian boy entered, whom lie thought he had seen 
 working at the studio of Morwell. 
 
 " I come," said he " from mio imdrone^ who 
 wish to see you quick, directly." 
 
 Horton started up, and was soon in a cab, with 
 the Italian boy outside, on his way to Morwell's 
 abode. 
 
 The youth opened the door with a private key, 
 when they had arrived, and showed Horton into 
 the little parlor, which had assumed quite a cheer- 
 ful look. A fire was burning in the grate. Can- 
 dles were on the table, and it was not long before 
 Morwell entered, with a quick cheery step, — quite 
 unlike his former slouching gait. His dress, too, 
 was rich and elegant, — his hair arranged with care, 
 — and Horton could hardly fancy him the same 
 person. 
 
 " Come," said he, " dear friend ! the hour is at 
 hand. You must be a witness — a human witness 
 — of the reality of my strange destiny. The work 
 is dune. Come and see !" 
 
MORWELL. 225 
 
 So saying, lie took a lamp from the table, and 
 led the way into the inner nftnsion. It was bril- 
 liantly hghted, and all wore an air of festival. 
 They passed the chamber of the statues, which 
 was also lighted. 
 
 " Yes ! proud ones !" said Morwell, as he passed ; 
 "" I dare look on ve now ! I have made you, even 
 you, wonder !" 
 
 They entered the studio, and the door at the 
 upper end was open — the curtains drawn aside. 
 
 " Look there !" cried Morwell. "But stop — not 
 nearer : look !" 
 
 Horton looked into the inner room, which was 
 in a blaze of light ; and there, on a low pedestal, 
 stood a figure ; he could have said a living being, 
 but for the perfect stillness. 
 
 It was clothed in strange garments of most 
 graceful drapery, and apparently of rich lace, light- 
 ly concealing the form. It had not the unnatural 
 appearance of wax ; but was, to every appearance, 
 a living and most exquisitely beautiful female foiTQ. 
 
 " There is Porphyria I" said the sculptor. " Come 
 quite to the door; she will bear scrutiny: but do 
 not enter ! no human foot has entered here but 
 
 mine." 
 
 10 
 
22 G M ORWELL. 
 
 With a strange feeling of awe, Horton approach- 
 ed the door. He cotlld not beheve Lut that the 
 figure was real, — so exquisite were the proportions, 
 so perfect the coloring. 
 
 "Now," said Horton, "you, my friend, must 
 help me. The last proof is to be made. If it suc- 
 ceed, I scarcely know how I shall bear my joy : if 
 it fail — why, there is a remedy still. Look here !" 
 
 He then uncovered the snake which he had be- 
 fore shown his two fiiends. " On this I make the 
 first experiment ; watch it well — never take your 
 eyes off it, and when you see it move, — mark me ! 
 at the slightest motion strike that hand-bell by 
 your side !" 
 
 He retreated to the inner apartment, of which 
 he closed the door, leaving Horton alone to his 
 strange vigil. 
 
 He sat down opposite the table, and intently 
 gazed on the snake. He watched it till his eyes 
 were dazzled, and took them off, and passed his 
 hand over his forehead, and then watched again — 
 right into the creature's eyes he gazed ; five min- 
 utes, ten minutes, passed. He began to wonder 
 at his folly, and his own credulity at the dreams of 
 a madman. Again he looked at the snake— 
 
MORWELL. 22*7 
 
 could it be possible? or did the lamp flicker 
 and produce the eflect ? He thought the snake 
 moved, that it sloAvly uncoiled. He was sure it 
 was fancy ; he put out his hand to touch it ; then 
 the head moved, and turned towards his hand ! 
 
 He struck upon the bell, still watching the snake, 
 which now coiled and rolled itself about : there 
 was no answering sound from within. He waited 
 in intense agitation, not daring to take his eyes 
 from the snake. 
 
 Five minutes had elapsed since he had struck the 
 bell — it seemed to him hours — and then a fearful 
 sound was heard. It was the report of a pistol — 
 once — ^twice — then a shriek, as from a woman, and 
 a heavy fall. Horton rushed to the door, which 
 resisted his fi-antic eflbrts to open it. At length it 
 yielded to his strength. 
 
 What a sight was there 1 The statue had fallen 
 from its pedestal. It lay on the ground, covered 
 with blood ; while Morwell, half kneeling, half re- 
 clining by its side, lay in his death-agony. 
 
 " Horton !" gasped he, — " Horton ! witness — 
 'tis her blood — she lived — she lived, and I have 
 killed her ! Surely 'tis her blood — not mine — 
 Porphyria ! not once to have heard her speak ! 
 
228 MOUWELL. 
 
 Oh ! why could I not wait ? — but surely 'tis an 
 hour since you struck that bell, and she moved not 
 — and — now — now " 
 
 ^ % % % 
 
 "AVhy, Horton — Paul Horton — what is the 
 matter ?" sounded the w^ell-known voice of Morris 
 in the dreamer's ear. " I have come to look after 
 you, as you did not come this evening ; and here 
 I find you at home, sound asleep ! Here is Morwell 
 come with me." 
 
 Horton shook off the heavy slumber, and looked 
 intently at Morwell, wdio smiled and said — 
 
 " So you have waited for my grand experiment 
 till you are tired. I tell you what, Horton, I have 
 grown almost crazy in that dreary old house." 
 
 " And wdiat is become of Porphyria ?" said 
 Morris: for Paul was still too much impressed 
 with his dream to speak. 
 
 " Gone ! gone !" said the sculptor with some- 
 thing of the wild look. " She never comes to ray 
 dreams now — she could not abide that snake ! I 
 should have tried the process at once upon her, 
 and not upon the snake first ; and so I shot her to 
 atoms this verv nio-lit, and her ashes lie with my 
 
MORWELL. 229 
 
 ' Venus.' Some of these days I may try again, but 
 iio\y, if you will let me, Horton, I'll go out of town 
 to-moiTOw witli you, and if you have time, and like 
 it, we'll go to Italy and to Greece, together, after- 
 wards." 
 
THE CAYALIER'S WHISPER. 
 
 BY W. G. BENNETT. 
 
 'TIS a cloudless noon of sultry June, 
 ■^ And pleasant it is to win 
 The cool thick shade by the chestnut made 
 
 In front of the way-side inn ; 
 And a pleasant sight with his feather white 
 
 Is the mounted Cavalier, 
 Who stoops for the cup that the maid gives up, 
 
 With a word none else can hear. 
 
 A moment more, from that shady door 
 
 That horseman rides away ; 
 And httle, I guess, he thinks — and less 
 
 Of the word he bent to say. 
 But many a noon of many a June 
 
 Must pass, with many a year, 
 Ere the maiden who heard that whispered word 
 
 Forgets that Cavalier. 
 
> 1 i 
 
 > > > 
 
 > > » 
 
 1 •• J 
 
 J ; 
 
 > > 1 > 
 
 1 > > 1 
 > 
 
 » 1 J 1 
 
 > ) ) > 
 
m' 
 
 # 
 
THE WARPJOE'S DEPARTURE. 
 
 BY PKOTECS. 
 
 A HI Edith, dear, I must away, 
 
 The bugles to the battle call, 
 And I must mingle with the fray, 
 
 The end of which may see my fall. 
 But fear not, Edith ; never fear, 
 
 !N"or damp my spirits with despair. 
 For liope smiles through this hour's tear ; 
 
 There's heav'n above — we mav meet there. 
 
 And if we win the victory, 
 
 And laurels crown thy true knight's brow, 
 I'll share my honors here with thee — 
 
 So, Edith, love, be cheerful now. 
 Oft take young Harold on thy knee, « 
 
 And tell him of his father's deeds ; 
 Y Teach little I^laflche to love like thee — 
 
 'T is all the love a woman needs. 
 
 I ^ 
 
232 THE warrior's departure. 
 
 So spake the bold and dauntless knight, 
 
 Then sprang upon his matchless steed. 
 And as his armor gleam'd with light, 
 
 Spurred on with dashing speed. 
 And Edith saw him disappear 
 
 Among the gorgeous, armed band, 
 And long she look'd — through bright and drear. 
 
 But never clasped again his hand. 
 
 ♦n^ 
 
 % 
 
A PEEP INTO THE OFFICE OF A 
 SAYINGS' BANK. 
 
 BY MRS. DAVID OGILVT. 
 Author of " TradiiioM of Tuacan'j," "Hiffkland Mtnstrehy," £c., <tc. 
 
 "Take care of the pence; the pounds will take care of themselves." 
 
 Old Proverb. 
 
 rpHERE are no places in London more provoca- 
 -^ tive of speculation to the thoughtful stranger 
 than the public buildings and offices of business. 
 Their huge doors, banging continually ^vith the 
 impress and eo-ress of visitors, the laraje-lettered 
 names on their faces — cabalistic to the stranger, 
 familiar as household words to " the city man" — 
 their mysterious blinds, the grave faces of the folks 
 who hurry in and out, and particularly the utter 
 impossibility of knowing what they went in to do, 
 or what they have done coming out ; these are all 
 so many stimulants to the appetite of the curious 
 10* 
 
234 A PEEP INTO A savings' BANK. 
 
 gazer, and stir liim up the more to a longing desire 
 to penetrate their solemn fastnesses. 
 
 " But are you going in here to this small, shab- 
 by, brown-blinded house ?" 
 
 " Yes — I have some money to get there, for a 
 sick servant. Come in — you will see a page not 
 unchequered in the daily history of this wonderful 
 metropolis." 
 
 You see at once this is no bank for the moneyed 
 keepers of carriages, wherein to deposit their thou- 
 sands, and their tens of thousands. It bears legi- 
 bly on its front, " For the Poor," written in the 
 dingy wire blinds, tliiekened by layers of impene- 
 trable dust — in its narrow entrance — its unportered 
 passage. Here are no SAving-doors glaring with 
 brass plates, no carpeted ante-room, no plate-glass 
 windows and airy office. You find the straitened 
 passage still further straitened by a greasy wooden 
 railing ; your foot passes over a fozy old mat ; the 
 well-handled door at the further end is dark and 
 repelling — every thing speaks of the Poor. The 
 very air is scented with a memory of their various 
 trades : the o-room has brouo-ht here a hint from 
 the stable, the washerwoman gave a whifF of soap- 
 suds, the dyer his most fragrant weeds ; and, to 
 
A PEEP INTO A savings' BANK. 235 
 
 crown all, the pipes and the mock Havanas have 
 left records of their visit to the savings' bank — yes, 
 the place smells of the Poor ! 
 
 You have now entered by the half-door, the 
 other side of which conducts the passers out along 
 the other path from which you, coming in, are 
 di^^ded by the aforesaid greasy wooden railing. 
 The room is lighted — like a melon-bed — by sk\^- 
 hghts of very small panes ; it is as hot as a melon- 
 bed, and as close, for this is June, and the attend- 
 ance is very numerous. All round the walls runs 
 a bench, which owes its glossiness not to French 
 polish, but to the ever-changing crowd of occu- 
 pants. It is at present crowded, but you and I 
 having given in the book of the bank, belonging 
 to the absent depositor, must find a cranny some- 
 where to bestow our persons, until the unknown 
 operations, hidden from our ^-iew by that high 
 balustrade, have put our affair in train for our fur- 
 ther assistance. This is the day for withdrawing 
 deposits, and there is much to make us melancholy 
 im the sio-ht before us. Far diflferent is the dav for 
 putting in money ; how happy then look the proud 
 possessors of superfluous cash ! — how they fling- 
 down the money, and feel, for the moment, as 
 
2 30 A VEEP INTO A SAVINGS' BANK. 
 
 gre.it men as Rothschild or Coiitts ! Why it was 
 only last week that little boy, with his clothes so 
 neatly darned, brought ten shillings of his own 
 earnino; — and retired with the air of a man of 
 capital — one who might expect a visit from the 
 commissioners of the property-tax. To-day he is 
 in chano-ed mood. 
 
 " How much do you want, my little fellow V 
 says the clerk, kindly. 
 
 " Ten shillings," falters the urchin, and his eyes 
 look very much as if he could cry, but Avouldn't. 
 
 " Why that is all you have put in," says the man 
 of office. 
 
 " I knows it, but can't help ; mother's had a 
 lace gown she had to wash stole at the bleaching, 
 and she's got to pay it." 
 
 " Then you are not likely to put again into the 
 bank ?" pursued the interrogator. 
 
 " I don't — don't know," said the boy, his distress 
 fairly getting the better of his manliness ; "it took 
 a power o' hard work to save them ten shillings, 
 and now if I get any more, it'll all go to that lace 
 gown, that mother couldn't help no more than 
 you." And in spite of all effort, the poor child 
 burst into teal's. 
 
A PEEP INTO A savings' BANK. 237 
 
 " And what did so young a boy as you want to 
 do witli savings already ?" says a benevolent old 
 gentleman, who has brought a power-of-attorney 
 from some absent seiTant. " What did you mean 
 to buy for yourself with all your money ?" 
 
 The lad looked up, shyly but searchingly, into 
 the questioner's face ; and seeing there only good 
 wishes and kind thoughts, answered at once — 
 •■' Why, sir, mother's a poor woman, and slaves like 
 a nigger, and she lives out of the way, and has to 
 bring all the clothes into town in a barrow, and it 
 does tire her dreadful this hot weather; so I 
 thought I might get shillings and shillings, till I 
 had enough to get a little cart and a donkey for 
 her, to brino- her in without trouble." 
 
 The old gentleman nodded his head, and seemed 
 to muse. 
 
 " Where do you work ?" 
 
 " I works for the shops — runs errands — carries 
 parcels, and that sort of things ; and I can wTite, 
 so then I can get receipts, and sign 'em, which 
 some of the bovs cannot do, and therefore I'm 
 always busy." 
 
 The sequel of this little colloquy was, that the 
 old gentleman — who was a wealthy merchant — 
 
238 A I'EEP INTO A savings' DANK. 
 
 inquired about the lad, and finding satisfactory re- 
 plies, resolved upon taking him into his cyunting- 
 house, where, I have no doubt, he will succeed, 
 and realize his vision of the washing cart and the 
 donkey for his mother. Meantime the three clerks 
 who stand at those three open places are calling, 
 name by name, for the owners to come and sign 
 various docmnents ere they are admitted to the 
 cashier's corner, w^here they receive their money 
 and are dismissed. 
 
 Poor old widow ! how feeble she looks, and how 
 sad ! she comes on a painful errand. Her only 
 and dear son, a bricklayer, has fallen from a scaf- 
 folding and been much injured ; and, though suffi- 
 ciently recovered to be dismissed from the hospi- 
 tal, he is disabled for work, and his mother must 
 draw out all her little savings to support him and 
 herself till he is again strong enough to work, 
 as before, for the two. 
 
 After the wddow comes a W'idower — a little grim, 
 sour man, in rusty black ; with a black, unshorn 
 chin, that seems also in a dusky suit of mourning. 
 He has just lost his wife, and has come here to 
 procure the money she, good, industrious woman, 
 had saved np during a course of ten years, amount- 
 
A TEEP INTO A SAVING s' BANK. 239 
 
 ing to about twenty pounds. But eagerly as the 
 bereaved looks for tliat all-poweiful consoler — 
 gold, be finds unexpected obstacles between him 
 and the object of his desires. He must first bring 
 certificates from a magistrate or a clergyman, that 
 he is the man who married that especial woman 
 known to the bank as a depositor ; and also he 
 must prove that she left him the said money, and 
 that he is thus empowered to claim it. To do this 
 will cost him about half-a-crown, and delay his re- 
 ceivino* the monev for about ten da vs. The heart 
 that bore a wife's death with fortitude cannot 
 calmly resolve to pay aw^ay half-a-crown out of the 
 dearly-purchased legacy! The widower waxes 
 very wroth, and ejaculates sundry disrespectful 
 epithets towards the inexorable clerk : that gentle- 
 man hears him quietly, and makes the same an- 
 swer to all his petulant outbreaks — " It must be 
 done; must conform to the rules. It does not 
 matter how small or laro-e the sum is, the rules 
 must be obeyed." 
 
 Meanwhile, the other expectants are gi-owing 
 impatient. The dispute between the widower and 
 the clerk is hkely to be interminable : the one ut- 
 ters, over and over again, the same complaint ; the 
 
240 A PEEP INTO A savings' BANK. 
 
 other makes tlie same freezing reply. The next 
 on the roll — a burly drayman, come to draw out 
 the necessary sura for the expenses of his tenth 
 child — will wait no longer; he pushes aside, with 
 a vigorous shove, the not-to-be satisfied widower : 
 " Come, you've had your answer ; go and get the 
 stifficats, and make no more bones of the matter. 
 I'm in a hurry ; w^hose to hsten to your growling ? 
 Here, you clerk, I Avant a fi-pun note for my good 
 woman ; and be quick, will you ?" 
 
 Mark those two girls sitting, side by side, on the 
 bench ; they are no relations, they never met before 
 this minute ; and their situations are as different as 
 rose-color and sepia are in tints. • That tall, smart, 
 lively damsel, wdth the large white teeth and glossy 
 ringlets, has come for her money, that she may 
 expend it in a wedding outfit. Do you see her 
 bridegroom, how proud he is of her, and of him- 
 self too ; conscious that his checked waistcoat is of 
 the brio'htest, and his satin stock flowered with the 
 gayest rosebuds ? Pretty Harriet Lucas, his bride, 
 is rather smart, we should say, for a nursemaid, as 
 vou hear her tell the clerk she is. Her silk flounced 
 gown, lilac bonnet and flowers, pink and green 
 shaded parasol, and imitation lace handkerchief, 
 
A PEEP INTO A sayings' BANK. 241 
 
 impress you, I see, in her disfavor ; but you must 
 not judge her too hardly. She has had her foible 
 encouraged by her silly mistress, who dresses as 
 much above her station as her servants do above 
 theirs ; and by gi^^ing them her cast-off adorn- 
 ments, accustoms them to a sort of slatternly shab- 
 by finery, very far from being respectable. You 
 see Harriet's shaded parasol is quite soiled, and the 
 lilac bonnet is more than faded ; but she got those 
 from her mistress, who never thought what unsuit- 
 able articles of wear they must be for a young- 
 serving g'irl. Xo wonder Harinet likes to be 
 smart, seeing Mrs. Burchell traihng through the 
 streets in light satins, or flaunting feathei-s, out in 
 the glass clarence, which she hires when she wishes 
 to be stylish in her morning calls. Bad examples 
 from mistresses make bad imitations in maids I 
 
 Meanwhile, the money is paid — the receipt 
 siomed. 
 
 " Ai-e you likely to pay any more into this bank ?" 
 asks the clerk. 
 
 "No," blushes Harriet, with a -conscious glance 
 towards her aflianced ; as if asking him whether it 
 is really true that they two are to leave London, 
 
242 A PEEP INTO A savings' BANK. 
 
 and set uj^ tlieir small liomc in the quiet, secluded 
 village of Hungerford. 
 
 Now tliey set off, with full pockets and happy 
 hearts — first to the jeweller's to buy the ring — then 
 to a silk mercer's, for the wedding dress — then to 
 the upholstery warehouse, for some smart London 
 furniture to adorn their house. John fixes on a 
 nice strong horse-hair sofa, very cheap ; but his 
 fair lady has discovered a charming couch, covered 
 with pale blue moreen, on which she has set her 
 heart. 
 
 " True, it is much dearer ; but then it is so gen- 
 teel. It is very like one Mrs. Burchell bought, such 
 a baro-ain !" 
 
 " But, my dear, it won't wear ; it would be a 
 bad bargain were it cheaper than the horse-hair, 
 which would see out ten of those trasheries." 
 
 Harriet began to j^out — " I declare it's very hard 
 I cannot please my own taste, when it is to be 
 bought out of my own money, that I've been work- 
 ing so hard to save this long time." 
 
 Such an argument was unanswerable. John 
 submitted to the thriftless blue moreen ; but the 
 prudence of his bride's choice remains yet to be 
 proved. At any rate he purchased, by his conces- 
 
A PEEP INTO A savings' BANK. 243 
 
 sion, cloudless smiles for ttie whole of tliat happy 
 summer day. 
 
 But we have left poor Anne Hatton waiting 
 timidly for her turn. Poor girl, she is pale and 
 melancholy ; and the coarse dress she weai-s is cov- 
 ered with rusty crape. So young, too, and yet she 
 has seen sorrow. You know at once, by her neat- 
 ness of person, her sallowness of complexion, and 
 small parcel of work, that she is a young dress- 
 maker — a verv skilful one her mistress would tell 
 you, and the best fitter in her establishment. But 
 she is past work now, and past all feeling of pride 
 in her skill. Six months ago she came up to Lon- 
 don, ftill of healtli and hope, conscious of her own 
 aptitude for her trade, sure of making a fortune, 
 and that right speedily. Then she loved finery and 
 pleasure quite as much as Harriet Lucas does now : 
 she was giddy and imtried. Her principal, Madame 
 Sarbaine, was an ill-natured, selfish, prosperous per- 
 son, with a high reputation in the fashionable cir- 
 cles, a large connection in business, an increasing- 
 fortune, and an onlv son. 
 
 Adolphe Sarbaine was indolent, easy-tempered, 
 and selfish like his mamma ; but he w*as exceed- 
 ingly good-looking, dressed well, and understood 
 
244 A PEEP INTO A savings' BANK. 
 
 the art of flattery. His part in the estabHshment 
 ■was to answer the street-door ; for it behooved so 
 great a dressmaker as Madame Sarbaine to have 
 a male attendant on her customers, and she was too 
 stingy to go> to the expense of keeping a footman. 
 Adolphe did not dislike his jDost : he had the advan- 
 tage of seeing all the lovely aristocrats who swept 
 up to his mamma's door in their lordly chariots; 
 and he was quite haj^py in the succession of imagi- 
 nary love-afiairs Avhich he cultivated for the sake of 
 these haughty beauties, not .one of whom would 
 have condescended to accept his services as foot- 
 man ! 
 
 When Anne Hatton, however, came from the fresh 
 meadows of Evesham, with all the fragrance and 
 brightness of the country about her fair young 
 face, Monsieur Adolphe made the discovery that 
 beauty and elegance belonged to no peculiar set of 
 the haut-ton. There was a sense of fitness and pro- 
 priety about Anne that made every thing she did 
 exactly what it ought to be : her hveliness was tem- 
 pered by that same tact, and fiill of gayety and 
 gladness as she was, her every movement and ges- 
 ture was that of an aristocrat of nature. Adolphe 
 first wondered at her — for she was a solecism in 
 
A PEEP INTO A savings' BANK. 245 
 
 his creed of fashion — then he admired her, then he 
 loved her. He began to arrange mentally a charm- 
 ing project, that his mother should promote the 
 skilful apprentice to be fore^voman, and afterwards 
 receive her into partnership as his wife. Having 
 been a spoiled child, he made no doubt of his pa- 
 rent's consent, and with all the precipitancy of 
 selfishness, told Anne his passion and his inten- 
 tions. 
 
 Anne, who was a simple-minded, modest girl, 
 was perfectly overpowered by the generosity of this 
 offer ; and, dazzled by his fine person and honeyed 
 words, thought she could never love him suflScieut- 
 ly. His vanity was fully gratified by her unbound- 
 ed and artless adoration; but he was prudent 
 enough to enjoin her to keep his projects secret for 
 the present, until Anne had disjDlayed so much 
 genius in her art as to give color of propriety to 
 his proposition for her advancement in dignity. 
 Anne was well pleased to let matters continue in 
 their agreeable state, and all went on smoothly till 
 the end of February : then Anne heard that her 
 poor old mother was seriously ill, and desired the 
 presence of her only child. Anne asked leave of 
 absence from INladame Sarbaine ; it was promised 
 
246 A rEEi» INTO A savings' bank. 
 
 for tlie ensuing week, provided no obstacle rose to 
 prevent lier being spared. 
 
 Alas ! the first drawing-room was fixed imusii- 
 a;lly early in the season, and the dressmakers were 
 overwhelmed with sudden and peremptory orders. 
 Anne must go from house to house, trying and 
 fitting on rich robes for the lovely debutantes — no 
 respite for her ! The weather was very cold, with 
 a bitter east wind : Anne caught a cold, which 
 progressed into a cough ; her mind was in a most 
 unhappy state : the accounts from her mother 
 grew worse and worse. Often, Avhen she came 
 home at night, she thouglit of running away by 
 stealth ; but she was a timid girl, and the long 
 journey, the crowds at the railway, and the dif- 
 ficulty of escaping from Madame Sarbaine's estab- 
 lishment, made her put off" the deed until it was 
 too late. The day before the drawing-room she 
 had been at the house of a young Countess, alter- 
 ing the trimmings of her satin train, which the 
 lady had ordered should be done under her own 
 eye. The Countess had been very cross, and found 
 fiult with all her exertions : not a flower or a 
 ribbon was where she wanted it, and the whole 
 day was spent in trying to satisfy her caprices. 
 
A PEEP INTO A savings' BANK. 247 
 
 At last the difficulties Avere all overoome by the 
 patient fingers of the young artiste : the drapery 
 fell most gracefully. The Countess tried it on, and 
 eyed herself, full of complacency, in the cheval 
 glass. Even the fastidious soubrette declared " Que 
 mademoiselle avait un gout vraiment Parisien ;" 
 and Anne, weary and dispirited, plodded her way 
 home. Adolphe did not open the door as usual ; 
 one of the girls did, and said, with a rather signifi- 
 cant gesture, that Madame wished to speak with 
 her in the parlor. 
 
 " Any letters for me, Miss Niblett V gasped poor 
 Anne. 
 
 " Yes — no — it was not for vou — for Madame ; 
 she'll tell you." 
 
 A foreboding chill struck Anne's heart ; she 
 grew pale as death, and rather staggered than 
 walked into the parlor and the presence of Madame 
 Sarbaine. That lady sat very stiffly in her chair, 
 very gravely eyeing the poor girl : her expression 
 was of mingled pity and indignation. She was 
 Sony for Anne's . bereavement ; but she had dis- 
 covered her son's attachment, and was furiously en- 
 raged at the presumptuous apprentice. She began 
 in a curiously undecided tone : " I am sorry to tell 
 
248 A PEEP INTO A savings' BANK. 
 
 you Miss Hatton, that your mother is dead, p'jor 
 woman ! There is the letter ; you can read the 
 partieuL^rs. And now, had it been at any other 
 time, I should have been seriously displeased; I 
 don't knoAV how I should have punished you — an 
 impertinent upstart to make love to my son ! I 
 daresay you thought you had itall your own way, 
 Miss ! Prettily you forgot your station and miyie ! 
 But I don't mean to scold you now ; you have 
 trouble of your own ; though I must say it looks 
 very like a judgment on your audacity ! Now go 
 away, and let me hear no more of it. You must 
 see that no young person who is so destitute of 
 propriety, so forward and presuming as you have 
 been, can be fit to remain in my establishment. 
 You can depart on Saturday, when all the dresses 
 are finished and sent home. I don't wish to be 
 severe ; * I see you are in trouble." 
 
 She might have expatiated for ever ; Anne heard 
 nothing but that her mother was dead ; the burst- 
 ing of her love's day-dream was unheeded at the 
 moment. She moved mechanically from the room, 
 and went to the w^ork-room ; the girls started for- 
 ward at her entrance. " Oh, Miss Hatton !" cried 
 one, " show me how^ io put on this ruche." 
 
A PEEP INTO A savings' BANK. 249 
 
 " Oh, Miss Hattou I " cried another, " should 
 these flower-stalks lie upward or do\ynward V 
 
 " But, good gracious I" exclaimed two or three 
 together, " how ill she looks ! Is her mother really- 
 dead ?" 
 
 "Dead!" screamed Anne, at that word, and she 
 burst into hysterical laughing, that presently put 
 the whole room into confusion. Before nio-ht Anne 
 was in a dehrious fever, and in her wild ravings 
 mingling the name of Adolphe with her calls for 
 her dead mother. For some days she lay in gTeat 
 danger, but her youth tiiumphed for the time, and 
 she recovered. 
 
 Alas, for man's constancy ! Adolphe had had 
 a good rating from his mother for his folly, in car- 
 ino- for a desio-nino; chit like that Anne Hatton ! 
 and after he had relieved himself by a burst of 
 passion, and a defiance of his mamma, his dis- 
 interested affection died a natural death ! His 
 fickleness was caught by the beauty of the season, 
 a high-born fiancee, who came veiy frequently to 
 arrange about her wedding paraphernaHa. When 
 Anne Hatton returned after her illness to get her 
 trunk, her bloodless face and sunken eyes im2)ressed 
 Liiii with horror instead of love. She had lost the 
 11 
 
250 A PEEP INTO A SAVINGS BANK. 
 
 beauty which had Fon his Hght vows, and the 
 selfish man saw no charm in her patient and un- 
 complaining sorrow. So have all Anne's early 
 hopes been cut off in the bud : she is returning to 
 the home of childhood with a sad heart, and there 
 is none to welcome her as of old. To-day she 
 comes for her little savings, to defray the expenses 
 of her journey to Evesham. Her eyes fill as she 
 looks round the place. Last time she came here, 
 it was to draw out a sovereign to buy a new gown, 
 to go with Adolphe to the play. Tlien^ all was 
 brightness ; noii\ the very faces of the fat-cheeked 
 boys, who copy all the entries into the ledgers, 
 seem altered to her ; the clerks look grim ; the 
 atmosphere is hot and sickening. She draws down 
 her black veil, and with unsteady step hurries out 
 to the sunny, noisy street. To-morrow she will be 
 among the quiet fields : can they restore to her her 
 young gladness, so soon departed ? Can she live 
 upon the memory of past happiness ? As she sits, 
 vainly striving to earn a scanty livelihood, by 
 making Sunday gowns for the farmers' wives and 
 daughters, Avill not the gaudy splendors of London 
 come back on her ? The luxurious residences of 
 the nobility — the fair, languid features of those 
 
A PEEP INTO A savings' BANK. 251 
 
 stately damsels, ^vllose forms slie has so often robed 
 — the glitter of the streets, the thunder of the 
 equipages, the Sunday lounges ^vith Adolphe in the 
 park — will not these uneasy memories fling a fever- 
 ish excitement into the monotony of her existence, 
 and poison her dearly-purchased tranquillity ? 
 
 But we have forgotten our own business, and the 
 clerk is calhng on us most impatiently. " Eeally, 
 we can't wait lonjxer : oflnce shuts at two : it onlv 
 wants eight minutes !" 
 
 And their dinners — the pork pies, the mutton 
 chops — we are keeping the poor hungTy creatures 
 from one great pleasure of their humdrum lives. 
 We present ourselves at the desk, sign the receipt, 
 pocket the cash, and shuffle out along the dark 
 passage. In our rear we hear a confused slamming 
 down of desk-lids, fluttering of papers, pushing 
 back of wooden stools, and gabbling of many 
 tongues ; and, in a few seconds, clerks, cashier, and 
 ledger-copying boys tumble pell-mell out of the 
 office, and seizing sundiy shapeless articles of head- 
 gear, dive down the neighboring streets in search 
 * of their long-anticipated repast. 
 
 The savings' bank is shut for the day, and we 
 are fain to take refuge in a confectioner's shop and 
 
252 A PEEP INTO A savings' BANK. 
 
 bury ourselves and our experiences in a brimming 
 glass of rasjDberry ice — " Another, if you please." 
 How delicious tlie fragrance of those strawberries ! 
 Those early peaches and hothouse grapes would 
 soon squander all the savings we have seen this 
 day withdrawn ; but oh, how charming a sniff of 
 that bouquet, after the sultry steaming we have 
 undergone in our Peep into the Office of a Savings' 
 Bank ! 
 
MIGNONETTE. 
 
 BY MRS. ABDY. 
 
 ■ Your qualities surpass your charms." 
 
 LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 T NEVER pass the Mignonette with cold, averted 
 
 eves, 
 Because it doth not boast the gift of rich and vivid 
 
 dves : 
 Though like a frail and lowly weed to some it seem 
 
 to be, 
 The "qualities" that dwell in it are more than 
 
 "charms" to me. 
 How eagerly the longing sense its kindly odor 
 
 greets ! 
 How the soft breezes far and near are laden with its 
 
 sweets ! 
 The bloom of bright and beauteous flowers I never 
 
 can regret, 
 Wlien I breathe the welcome fragrance of the plea- 
 sant Mignonette. 
 
254 MIGNONETTE. 
 
 Yes, well I love the Mignonette — it dotli not only 
 
 yield 
 Its incense to the trim parterre, or fresh and sunny 
 
 field ; 
 But in the dull recesses of the city's murky gloom 
 It sheds its balmy breath throughout the dim and 
 
 narrow room : 
 The weary seamstress thinks upon the gay and 
 
 happy hours 
 When she wandered on the verdant hills to gather 
 
 springing flowers. 
 The country's sweet and genial scents she need not 
 
 quite forget, 
 "While solaced by the fragrance of the cherished 
 
 Mignonette. 
 
 Yet most I love the Mignonette because it brings to 
 
 mind 
 Some whom I hold in dear esteem — true, generous. 
 
 And kind. 
 Who as benignant ministers of active good appear, 
 Bestowing ready charities on all within their 
 
 sphere : 
 Perchance they boast not outward grace to win the 
 
 dazzled eye. 
 But well their inward "qualities" the lack of 
 
 " charms " supply ; 
 Often in walks and ways like these are England's 
 
 daughters met, 
 Diffusive in their bounties as the lavish Mignonette. 
 
MIGNONETTE. 255 
 
 Short and delusive is tlie reign of loveliness and 
 
 bloom : 
 Give me the gentle spirit that can glad the quiet 
 
 home; 
 Xor centres in one spot alone, but willingly extends 
 Its prompt unsparing services to neighbors and to 
 
 friends. 
 Casting its scattered fragrance upon scenes of distant 
 
 strife, 
 Imparting cheerful comfort to the daily paths of 
 
 life, 
 Working perpetual deeds of love with zeal un- 
 wearied yet, 
 And dear to all who greet it as the welcome 
 
 Mignonette] 
 
AUTUMN'S LAST FLOAYEES. 
 
 BV MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND. 
 
 A UTUMN'S Last Flowers are falling one by one- 
 Those sickly children of the fading year, 
 
 "With scanty retinue of leaflets sere, 
 And, though companion'd, seeming each one lone ; 
 The gracious Summer-time its part bath done ; 
 
 A slanting sun-ray struggles feebly near, 
 
 Too chill to kiss from them the frosty tear, 
 That shines as jewels have on death-brows shone. 
 Poor scentless blossoms — waking pity's sighs. 
 
 But unbeloved of bee or bird, or bright 
 "Wing'd revellers, gay-coated butterflies ! 
 
 The Heart has emblems, in its dreary night, 
 Of these pale flowers : like life-in-death they rise, 
 The faint-hued shadows of bright memories ! 
 
^'Ss;^- 
 
AX EVENING WALK. 
 
 THE Sim has almost reached his western gate, 
 -^ And purple clouds are circling near his orb, 
 Lit by the glory of his farewell smile. 
 The toil-worn, heated harvesters still heap 
 The wagon with the wealthy grain, and store 
 The great-doored barn. How many lives depend 
 Upon the labor of these hard-armed men, 
 Who, with a bee-like industry, now hive 
 The yellow food ! The happy lord of all 
 These teeming fields — a pride upon his brow — 
 Kow, with his blooming daughters, walks among 
 The harvesters, and scatters here and there 
 The words of pleasure and direction. Smiles 
 And rough salutes are giv'n— for the landlord 
 Hath kindness, and sees that those who weary 
 At his work waste not their labor for nought ; 
 And when the sun's last train of golden hours 
 Fade out behind the hills, he sees them quit 
 As cheerily as if he shar'd their toil. 
 God bless the kindly landlord— he who gives 
 11* 
 
 ^ 
 
258 AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 To laborers tlieir due, and with power 
 Hath a will to use it for noble ends ! — 
 A father where he might a master be ! 
 May all his days be as the harvest bright, 
 And his last hours mild and gentle glide. 
 Like these of evening into star-lit night ! 
 
 / 
 
HIS ONLY AMBITIOK 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF AUGUSTE LACROIE. 
 BY ELIZABETH o'HARA. 
 
 rrHERE lived some years ago in a petty vil- 
 -*- lage in Auvergne, one of the poorest of priests 
 wlio had ever served among the vaUeys of Ceven- 
 nes. His httle hut would have created no envy in 
 the lowest laborer employed in searching for anti- 
 mony in the cavities of those mountains. Leaning 
 against its small gray church, surmounted by an 
 iron cross, it looked more like the cell of a lonely 
 hermit, or one of those refuges against the storm 
 which charity has erected on these craggy roads, 
 than a human dwelling. But from the platform 
 on which it stood one could command the fertile 
 plains of Simagne, bordered by the silver w\aters 
 of the Allier. Behind the church on the nmun- 
 
260 HIS ONLY AMBITION. 
 
 tain side, a few scattered cabins arose, resembling 
 a caravan climbing np the rocky way ; and on this 
 side the eye ran from cliff to cliff, all along the 
 chain, compiising the Puy-de-D6me, the Plomb 
 du Cantab, and the Mont-d'Or. 
 
 Such was the dreary desert that the Cure of 
 
 had inhabited for more than ten years. 
 
 [Our readers will easily understand the scruples 
 which prevent our giving the name of his village, 
 or altering the least details of this simple story by 
 a fictitious one.] He was an active old man of 
 about sixty, with a kind and benevolent counte- 
 nance. The simplicity of his character had not 
 injured his high talent, nor had the austerity of 
 his own life diminished his indulgence towards 
 others. His faith was lively, and his zeal for his con- 
 gregation had no bounds but those nature had laid 
 on his physical strength. Charity enabled him to 
 perform miracles. Neither the most rigorous cold 
 of winter, its heavy snows, the fathomless moun- 
 tain ravines, or the gloomiest night, could prevent 
 his accomplishing his apostolic duties. And all was 
 done cheerfuU}^, without the least feeling of vanity, 
 with that simple manner which dissipated all 
 ideas of sacrifice, 
 
HIS ONLY AMBITIOX. 261 
 
 One summer eveniuo- about eio-lit o'clock, tlie 
 Cure having read liis daily portion in his breviary, 
 was silently seated by a window which looked to- 
 wards the village. The weather had been stormy, 
 and the old priest, who had just returned from a 
 long pilgrimage, was tranquilly inhaling the re- 
 freshino- nio-ht airs, while Maromerite, his house- 
 keeper, was putting aside the wooden platters, on 
 which she had served her master's supper. Be- 
 sides the dresser, there was a table, a chess-board, 
 and a box of dominoes, with which the Cure and his 
 old servant beguiled the long winter evenings. Op- 
 posite to it stood an oak chest ; and near a small 
 door — the most remarkable piece of furniture, 
 though patriarchal in its primitive roughness — the 
 priest's seat. An ivory crucifix, a present from a 
 wealthy penitent, rose over an ebony prie dieu. 
 In an angle formed by the heavy chimney, a clock 
 lifted its dial above its roughly- painted case, and a 
 few chairs of the commonest work completed the 
 furniture. As to the door by the bedside, that led 
 to Marguerite's room, which was even more unfur- 
 nished than her master's. Marguerite, a respecta- 
 ble important-looking personage, but short and fat, 
 and long past the canonical age, was the true sov- 
 
262 HIS ONLY AMBITION. 
 
 ereign of these dominions. The legitimate master 
 had long abdicated in her favor, and, save some slight 
 abuses of power, some gentle scoldings, her govern- 
 ment was most useful to their common interests' 
 and suited the Cure's carelessness in worldly mat- 
 ters, especially in any concerning his interests. 
 His indifference in this respect was a text for Mar- 
 guerite's unorthodox sermons, and a cause of sad 
 forewarnings, in which the eternal / was not always 
 foro^otten. 
 
 The day of which we speak had been of that 
 oppressive sort, in which frowns gathered on the 
 old woman's brow in proportion to the clouds hov- 
 ering above the mountain; and her hasty move- 
 ments betrayed a sort of irritability, which wanted 
 but slight provocation to betray itself. The Cure, 
 on the contrary, seemed as calm as ever ; but a 
 keen observer might have discovered a certain tri- 
 umphant look, scarce in accordance with his usual 
 modesty ; and when his eye glanced on Marguerite, 
 it had a malicious twinkle quite opposed to his dai- 
 ly precepts of Christian charity and humility. 
 
 Night, however, drew in ; the heavens were dark, 
 the moon only showing itself at long intervals, and 
 the wind played dolefully among the branches of 
 
HIS ONLY AMBITION. 263 
 
 two lofty chestnuts, wliicli sliaded the cottage 
 door. 
 
 " xVfter all your walkino- to-dav, bed would be 
 much better for you than sittino- iu that drauo-ht," 
 Marguerite suddenly remarked in a tone of mater- 
 nal authority. " The wind from the plains is not 
 health}' ; a storm is not far off; if you will sit u]), 
 you ought at least to shut the window." 
 
 " But I am not tired, Marguerite. As to the un- 
 healthy night air, you are right, and I obey you ; 
 although," he added aside as he shut the window, 
 " the storm most to be dreaded at present is in, not 
 out of the house." 
 
 ^largueiite did not, or would not, hear him, and 
 he reseated himself. 
 
 "What has vexed you to-day?" he continued, 
 " I am sure I have done nothing — you are wrong 
 to be angry with me." 
 
 The storm at leno-th burst. " Wrong: am I ?" 
 she cried in indio'nation — " wrono- ? I ouo-ht to be 
 quite satisfied with you — to go roaming about the 
 whole day, without eating or drinking, at your 
 age ! Very praiseworthy, certainly ; but we shall 
 see the end of it, and say I told you so." 
 At this moment a flash of lightning lit up the room. 
 
264 HIS ONLY AMBITION. 
 
 The Cure and his housekeeper signed tliemselves ; 
 and she lit a small lamp in the chimney corner. 
 
 " Peace, peace," he timidly replied, " our minis- 
 try lias painful duties." 
 
 " Good heaven ! there you go again witli your 
 duties ! but you yourself say that the Church does 
 fiot require one to kill oneself, body and soul, in its 
 service. If it brought you any thing beyond bless- 
 ings ! But see the state in Avhich it has placed 
 you ! Look around you ! Look at all you pos- 
 sess ! Here are the fruits of thirty years' hai'd 
 work ! You have never fifty francs in your purse !" 
 
 " But who can tell ?" murmured the Cure, " Pro- 
 vidence is good — we should never despair." 
 
 " You are right ; for if Providence does not in- 
 terfere, I do not see where we are to find a crust 
 for our old age, since you can keep nothing of 
 what you gain now. Look at yourself, if you 
 please. Is there a poorer man in your parish than 
 you are ? Where are the fine promises you made 
 me at Easter ? Here is the Assumption coming, 
 and what are we to do ? What have you made 
 by all your walks to-day ? Nothing." 
 
 " Ah, ah," said the Priest, mysteriously. 
 
 " Well, then, some poor silver pieces — how will 
 you buy a sui-plice out of them ?" 
 
HIS ONLY AMBITION. 265 
 
 Marguerite was inteiTupted by a dolent clap of 
 tliimder, whicli sliook the house, while the Hght- 
 ning traced its fiery course along the mountain's side. 
 The old woman seized a blessed branch, which 
 she dipped in the holy water suspended by the 
 wall, and began to shower the sacred drops about, 
 while the Cure j-ecited a fervent prayer. The rain 
 now poured down in torrents, and he tranquilly 
 continued — 
 
 " Marguerite, you must look out for a tailor who 
 can make a surpUce properly and quickly, for your 
 master." 
 
 " AATiat ?" she said, fancying she had misunder- 
 stood him. " What are you saying ?" 
 
 "That YOU have foro-otten that the 25th of July 
 will soon be here." 
 
 " Well !" 
 
 " Well ! I called to-day on Madame la Laconne 
 Dubief, who wishes to have ten perpetual masses 
 for her husband's soul ; and she begged my ac- 
 ceptance of these two hundred francs in recom- 
 pense." 
 
 As he spoke, he drew out a well-filled pui-se, 
 and Maro-uerite stretched forth her hand to take 
 it, as if to convince herself that she was not dream- 
 
266 HIS ONLY AMBITION. 
 
 ing, when the Cure, uttering a loud cry, suddenly- 
 rose. A strong red light was reflected on the 
 mountain's side ; he ran to the door — the flames 
 were bursting from the roof of a house in the 
 middle of the villao-e. " Fire ! fire !" he cried. 
 " ]Marguei-ite, make haste ! run — ring the church 
 bell to give the alarm." 
 
 She hastened to an inner door wdiich led to the 
 bellfry, and the Cure, catching up his hat and cane, 
 hurried to the place of ruin. 
 
 The next day all was over ; one house only, the 
 poorest of all, had perished ; but the Cure had lost 
 the greater portion of his gown in the flames. 
 
 "Fortunately," said Marguerite, as she finished 
 stiching on a piece whose color did not match 
 particularly well with the rest of the cloth, " fortu- 
 nately, thanks to Madame la Baronne's generosity, 
 the evil is not without a remedy." 
 
 " Alas ! my good Marguerite," her master an- 
 sw^ered, scratching his ear like a schoolboy caught 
 out in some trick, " it is very diflferent with the 
 misfortunes of those poor people down there." 
 
 " Well, you can preach a sermon, and make a 
 collection for them — some one will help them, for 
 certain." 
 
HIS ONLY AMBITION. 267 
 
 " We raiist hope so. But ought we not to set 
 the example, Marguerite ?" 
 
 " There you are again, with vour ridiculous 
 ideas — your false views. Every one should help 
 his neio'hbor accordino- to his means — the rich 
 with money ; priests with their exhortations. 
 Remember that you have hardly enough for bare 
 necessities." 
 
 " Remember that they have nothing." 
 
 " But you must have a new gown." 
 
 " They have neither bread nor clothes." 
 
 "Good patience!" exclaimed the housekeeper, 
 suddenly struck with a new hght. "Z)/ew de 
 ciel I What have you done w^th the money you 
 showed me yesterday V 
 
 " Marguerite," he answered, in some confusion, 
 " you need not order my gown yet — I will make 
 this hold till Chmtmas." 
 
 He had voluntarily rehnquished the means of 
 making this pm-chase ; but self-denying as he was, 
 and wilHng to sacrifice his own dignity to another's 
 wants, we must not suppose him insensible to the 
 necessity of proper appearances. He was not one 
 of those who condemn every concession to the pre- 
 judices of society ; and still less was he one of 
 
268 HIS ONLY AMBITION. 
 
 those vain-glorious apostles wlio pride themselves 
 on their ragged garments. He felt his poverty, 
 but bore it bravely ; and was always ready to re- 
 nounce his most legitimate wishes in favor of 
 another's wants ; and thus, during ten years, he 
 had not been enabled, with all his privations, to 
 amass the small sum necessary to the accomplish- 
 ment of his greatest ambition — a new gown. By 
 dint of thinking of it, and, thanks above all to 
 Marguerite's constant dunning on the subject, the 
 wish had acquired the tenacity of a fixed idea ; 
 and certainly, to judge by the deplorable appearance 
 of the old surplice, there was nothing unreasonable 
 in his desire. One could only, on seeing it, deplore 
 the evil destiny which constantly withdrew the long 
 coveted object at the very moment when its attain- 
 ment seemed most secure. Years had rolled on, 
 holydays had succeeded each other, and still the poor 
 Cure repeated with indefatigable perseverance — 
 
 " I will buy it next year — at Easter — at Whit- 
 suntide — at the Assumption — at Christmas." 
 
 Ten times he had gone round the fatal circle ; 
 the seasons were renewed — the holydays returned, 
 with pitiless regularity, leaving each time a more 
 
HIS ONLY AMBITION. 2G9 
 
 perceptible trace of tlieir passage on the folds of 
 the imfortunate ^'own. 
 
 With the next spring an unexpected event 
 renewed the Cure's anxiety — a pastoral visit from 
 the Bishop was suddenly announced in his diocese. 
 This news at first threw him into that sort of 
 stupor which arises from imminent danger; he 
 had a vertigo, as if the earth were trembling 
 beneath his steps — then a feverish anxiety and 
 supernatural activity succeeded to this prostration 
 of mind. He went and came, was every where, 
 doing a hundred things at the same moment ; he 
 talked alone and aloud, using all the means by 
 which cowards seek to shun their fears ; but all 
 efforts had one miserable result — he was obliged 
 definitively to renounce all hopes of honorable 
 escape. He saw himself appearing shabby, mean, 
 and seedi/-lo6kmg — like a man of dissolute life, 
 before his ecclesiastical superior ; when Providence 
 came once more to his succor, in the person of a 
 charitable widow, to whom Marguerite had con- 
 fided his troubles. No time was to be lost — a 
 tailor was sent for from a neia'horino- villao-e. The 
 man was poor, and they not only gave him the 
 cloth but paid him beforehand tor his work. On 
 
270 Ills ONLY AMBITION. 
 
 returning lioinewards, tlic tailor, avIio liked a dro}), 
 stopped at a little inn, where win?, the poor man's 
 consolation — so bewildered him that he forgot the 
 distinction between meum and teum. The Cure 
 supported this new stroke with the lethargic insensi- 
 bility of one who has no longer strength to suffer. 
 They caught the thief; but the priest would not 
 prosecute him — saying to himself tliat one mis- 
 fortune could not repair another, and alleging to 
 the world that the money squandered by the tailor 
 was a gift, not a theft. 
 
 Marguerite, then, thought her master had gone 
 mad. 
 
 The redoubtable day arrived, and the chimes of 
 many bells told of the Bishop's presence. The 
 Cure, accompanied by his Sacristan and two cho- 
 risters, went to receive his lordship at the entrance 
 of the village; and the local authorities, in full cos- 
 tume, bore the canopy under which he would walk 
 to the church. The Cure, proud and happy in 
 the dazzlingly wdiite robes w^hich covered his gown, 
 firmly advanced at the head of his little escort, and 
 the procession proceeded along the gayly decked 
 street to the church. Mass was performed, and 
 then he })aid his respects to the prelate. 
 
HIS ONLY AMBITION. 271 
 
 His lordship was seated between his two chap- 
 lains, Nvho stood Ly him in a respectful attitude, 
 and the iii-st persons of the village. He was a 
 very handsome man, ahout forty years old; his 
 manners were highly polished; his birth and coun- 
 tenance were alike noble, and he expressed himself 
 Avith the grace and fluency of one accustomed to 
 speak in com'ts. The old priest felt abashed the 
 moment he doffed his convenient white robes ; and 
 the young prelate frowned when he saw the pov- 
 erty-stricken gown of the venerable Cure, who 
 trembled like a criminal before his judge. 
 
 " Is your parish then so very poor, sir ?" asked 
 the Bishop, " your income so parsimonious, that 
 you cannot afford that care of your person neces- 
 sary to your sacerdotal dignity ?" 
 
 " If your lordship would excuse — " 
 
 " We are far, sir," the prelate gravely continued, 
 " from those happy times when the Church, hon- 
 ored in herself, needed no other ornaments than 
 the virtues of her servants. Priests now are nei- 
 ther martyrs nor apostles ; they are men of the 
 world who re-animate the cause of religion by ren- 
 dering it respectable and agreeable. To act other- 
 
272 HIS ONLY AMBITION. 
 
 wise, Monsieur le Cure, is to show an unskilful ness 
 or false pride which are equally blamable." 
 
 " Monseigneur, my poverty alone is in fault, I 
 assure you — " He stopped short; even in self- 
 justification he could not palliate the truth. 
 
 " I know all. I know that your improvidence 
 and undiscriminating charity compromise the ne- 
 cessary standing of a minister of the church, and I 
 loudly blame your conduct. Go, sir, and remem- 
 ber, that in sacrificing what we owe to ourselves, 
 we risk foiling in the respect we owe to others." 
 
 As soon as the Cure was gone, the Bishop turned 
 to those around him and said, with a smile, " The 
 lesson w^as rude, but it was necessary : I think our 
 p'ood Cure will be cured for some time of his ex- 
 cessive liberality. At all events, Monsieur I'Abbe," 
 he added, addressing himself to one of his chap- 
 lains, " take care that you quietly send a new gown 
 to my worthy penitent, with three hundred francs 
 for his poor parishioners." 
 
 Before returning to his house, the Cure, who had 
 been painfully affected by this scene, prayed long 
 in the church — a cold chill struck on him — and on 
 leaving he was ill and feverish. ^largueritc scold- 
 
HIS ONLY AMBITION. 273 
 
 ed less rouglily than usual, and obliged him to go 
 to bed. 
 
 A few days afterwards a doctor stood mournfully 
 by that humble pallet. Marguerite was sobbing 
 in her apron. A stranger entered ; on one arm he 
 bore a o-own of the finest black; in the other hand 
 he held a heavy pui-se. " From Monseigneur," he 
 said. 
 
 The sick man smiled sadly. " Thank his lord- 
 ship, I beg — in the name of my successor — and 
 recommend to his kindness an ardent preacher, to 
 whom I listened too little." 
 
 He pointed to the weeping Marguerite. 
 
 " Just Heaven !" he added in a lower tone ; " I 
 have doubtless been ambitious, but since it is so 
 difficult to gain a new gown in this world, grant, I 
 implore, that the poor may be less numerous — and 
 housekeepers more tractable." 
 
 These were his last words. 
 
 12 
 
THE BELLS OF LORLOCHES. 
 
 BY DORA GREENWELL. 
 
 CrAKE the Lady of LorlocLes, 
 ^ " N'ow I know by many a token, 
 Loosened is the silver cord, 
 
 Soon will the golden bowl be broken ; 
 By tlje vessel and the wheel, 
 
 Tailing, whence my being drew 
 Draughts from life's clear well, I feel 
 
 Its waters soon will fail me too ; 
 Singing o'er my spirit, fall 
 
 Of loving voices, rose their flow ; 
 Now with deadened sonnd, and dull, 
 
 Comes that music, and I know, 
 God would call me— so hath set 
 
 Silence 'twixt my soul and LLira ; 
 On His face I look not jjdt^ 
 
 But other looks have grown so dim, 
 
THE BELLS OF LORLOCHES. 21 5 
 
 Tlicat I feel how tenderly 
 
 He hath drawii a curtain deep, 
 Shutting out the evening sk^i, 
 
 And darkening all before I sleep; 
 Hushing me upon His breast, 
 Ere He takes me unto rest. 
 
 n. 
 
 " By the ancient minster's door 
 
 Bury me ; Heaven's lofty gate 
 Still it seemed to me of yore, 
 
 iSTear it I would patient wait. 
 Bare the trodden ground : yet sweet — 
 
 Sweeter sound than wind-swept grass. 
 Make my children's- children's feet 
 
 Rustling o'er me as they pass ; 
 And for flowers, a rainbow stain 
 
 TTill be on me as I lie ; 
 Angels flushing all the pane, 
 
 O'er me, like a rose-dawn skv. 
 Eaise no stone, the spot to grace, 
 
 "Where my dust returns to dust. 
 One above hath marked the place — 
 
 Leave it there in lowly trust ; 
 Trace no praiseful words to tell 
 
 Of my life, for one above 
 Keeps a truer chronicle — 
 
 I would leave it to His love — 
 Praised enough if t/iej'e forgiven, 
 Parduu is the praise of Heaven!" 
 
276 THE BELLS OF LOllLOCIIES. 
 
 III. 
 
 Sighed the Lady of Lorloches, 
 
 Sighed, an^ reverent spake, "In Heaven 
 Love is ever unforgot. 
 
 Though it have but httle given ; 
 God will not forget me ; yet 
 
 They that I have loved so long. 
 They on earth will soon forget — 
 
 I would shield them from this wrong. 
 From this castle, looking down 
 
 On it, all a happy life 
 I have loved this ancient town. 
 
 Joyful maid, and blessed wife ; 
 Loved it, like the river winding 
 
 Eound and round it, loth to go ; 
 Loved it, like the old wall, binding. 
 
 As one jewel, high and low 
 In its massive ring of stone; 
 
 So I loved it, power and will ; 
 Something I would leave, when gone, 
 
 Saying that I love it still. 
 In the tower'd minster, high. 
 
 Set when I am gone sweet bells, 
 Clear as voices of the sky 
 
 Met in welcomes and farewells: 
 Strike them full, that passers there, 
 
 Startled, may look up and greet, 
 Clashing in the upper air 
 
 Silver sound of angels' feet : 
 
THE BELLS OF LORLOCHES. 
 
 Strike them joyful up and down 
 With the dawn. Ere yet the burst 
 
 Of Earth's din awake the town, 
 Let Heaven give its message first ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Rin? them out at early morn ; 
 
 Watchers, weepers through the night 
 Hearing, will feel less forlorn, 
 
 Comfort coming with the light ; 
 Pale mechanics, up and bending 
 
 O'er their work, at dawning gray : 
 Mothers for their children sending 
 
 Anxious thoughts adown the day ; 
 All that unto toil awaking 
 
 With the morning, Ustening there, 
 Learn that high above them breaking, 
 
 Spreads a dawn that brings not care; 
 And the swarth smith, 'mid the clamor 
 
 Of his deafening task, will hear 
 'Twixt the heavy-sounding hammer 
 
 And the anvil — voices clear — 
 Strike and teach him in their falling, 
 
 How an iron tongue may grow 
 Silver-sweet, when it is calling 
 
 From the heavens to man below ! 
 Ring them out at twilight's fall, 
 
 That the happy children playing 
 Lovers 'neath the chestnuts tall, 
 Hand-in-hand together straying, 
 
 277 
 
2*78 THE BELLS OF LORLOCUES. 
 
 Ilear them like a mother's call 
 
 ' Homewards, homewards,' still repeating, 
 Soft and sweet and solemn fall 
 
 On the hearts so fondly beating; 
 Love and joy have need of rest; 
 
 Fnto you, sweet bells, 'tis given 
 Now to better all earth's best, 
 
 Mingling it with peace of Heaven!" 
 
 Then the Lady pansed ; her eyes 
 
 Swam in gentle tears represt : — 
 " Other burden on you lies. 
 
 Than such blessing of the blest ; 
 Ye must change, earth's change to show ; 
 
 Silver-tongued of joy to tell ; 
 Iron-tongued to tell of woe, 
 
 Knocking on the heart joy's knell : 
 Sullen, single, as if care 
 
 Stood at one and owned not time ; 
 Yet a meaning will be there. 
 
 Deeper than in all the chime :" 
 Then the Lady smiled : " How sweet 
 
 Will it strike upon the air. 
 When it tells that infant feet 
 
 Lightly climb the heavenly stair ; 
 Like my Maud and Margery, 
 
 Gathered with the dew upon them, 
 Sweet buds opening on high. 
 
 In a clearer light to sun them : 
 
THE BELLS OF LORLOCHES. 
 
 Freed from Baptism of tears, 
 
 Freed from Baptism of fire, 
 (These are for tlie after years — 
 
 These for mother and for sire — ) 
 Following so close and swift. 
 
 Ere the earth-mists round them fell 
 OxE with mighty arm uplift, 
 
 They have storm'd Heaven's citadel : 
 Won the gain without the loss, 
 
 Crown and Palm without the strife 
 Or the bearing of the Cross, 
 
 Passing swift from Death to Life, 
 
 VI. 
 
 "Purchased blessings to inherit." 
 
 O'er these words she lingered fain; 
 Fain upon her fainting spirit. 
 
 All their sw^eetness to retain, 
 For her trembling lips ne'er uttered 
 
 Word articulate again ; 
 Though the stillness of each feature, 
 
 Like the Prophet's, seem'd to shine ; 
 Earthly impress of the Creature, 
 
 Merged in nearing the Divine, 
 Till with sinless infancy. 
 
 Passing by the self-same Way, 
 Went her time-tried Spirit, free. 
 
 Pure and whitened e'en as they ! 
 And Avithin the minster hoary, 
 
 Sweet bells, from the olden time, 
 
 279 
 
280 THE BELLS OF LORLOCIIES. 
 
 Bring that gentle Lady's story, 
 
 On the mnsic of their chime ; 
 Floating mirthful, tolling single. 
 
 O'er the crowded city's strife. 
 With its weal and Avoe they mingle, 
 
 As her love was wont in life ; 
 And the breeze of April shakes them. 
 
 Light as showers on early corn. 
 And the morn of summer takes them 
 
 Soft upon its stillness borne ; 
 O'er the narrow streets, and singing. 
 
 O'er the sunny market, free. 
 Pass they, on its fulness flinging 
 
 Down a Benedicite ; 
 And when in the sunset splendor, 
 
 Lifted high above the town. 
 Like an ancient strong defender, 
 
 Smiling on his vassals down. 
 Rises the old minster, soaring. 
 
 Dazzling clear, against the sky, 
 Like a spirit, rapt, adoring. 
 
 Caught up heavenwards suddenly : 
 And, as flung from giant's quiver, 
 
 Thousand arrows flash in light 
 From the windows, and the river 
 
 Curls in ripples golden-bright, 
 Then upon the molten glory — 
 
 Flood of sunlight, flood of song — 
 Send forth those sweet bells their story, 
 
 Clear and eloquent, and strong; 
 
THE BELLS OF LORLOCHES. 281 
 
 O'er the river's three fair bridges, 
 
 Down the sloping orcliard rows, 
 Round old mounds and grassy ridges, 
 
 Borne on every wind that blows ; 
 Till their wild and breezy languor. 
 
 Ever softening, less and less. 
 Dies on distance, like fond anger. 
 
 Fading into tenderness : 
 And the ancient burgher meets them, 
 . Pleased to linger on their swell ; 
 And the home-bound peasant greets them, 
 " Rest her soul that loved us well." 
 
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 
 
 "l,fARY RUSSELL MITFORD! The words 
 -^'-^ Lave a lioiiseliold sound, fraught with plea- 
 sant memories of the fire-side corner, the window- 
 seat, and the yet more congenial out-of-door read- 
 ing — when the quivering shadows of our leafy- 
 shelter danced upon her page, and the soft breeze 
 played lazily with the leaves we were turning. 
 Old and young, rich and poor — all those acquaint- 
 ed with the history of English Literature, and cog- 
 nizant of the obligations of the English people to 
 it, must remember that to Miss Mitford belongs 
 the rare merit of writing naturally, healthily, truth- 
 fully, at a period when false sentiment, unreal 
 incidents, and exaggerations of character, were the 
 predominant ingredients of the ordinary novel or 
 story ; when with the exception of one or two great 
 names — Edo-eworth and Scott for instance — novel- 
 
MART RUSSELL MITFORD. 283 
 
 ists depicted liiimanity as if — one miglit fancy — 
 from the theatrical representations of hfe ; its fash- 
 ion from the so-called "genteel," but in reality 
 excessively vulgar and coarse comedy ; its rm-ality 
 from pasteboard scenery and a tinsel moon; its 
 tragedy from the rant and ravings of mock hero- 
 ics. A\Tiy those old-fashioned five-volume marble- 
 cover novels of forty years ago actually smell of 
 the foot-lamps ; and foot-lamps in the days vrhen 
 Shakspeare was degraded by " happy ending-s," and 
 as much of the divinitv removed fi-om even his 
 masterpieces as it was possible for self-confident 
 stupidity to exclude. 
 
 Just think, kind reader, what the production of 
 " Our Yillao-e" must have been succeeding Minerva- 
 Press trash, and marble-covered monstrosities ! 
 For, unless the reminiscences of elderly ladies are at 
 fault, such volumes used to be read by stealth, 
 pushed under sofa cushions, and into table drawers 
 (one of the uses perhaps of that obsolete conve- 
 nience) as if there were a shame in story reading. 
 Surely Miss Mitford's tales must have burst upon 
 the public like a gleam of sunshine after clouds 
 and darkness ; like newly-mown hay, or roses with 
 the dew on them, flung by some beneficent faiiy 
 
284 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 
 
 into a smoke-begrimed liaimt — like any pure, 
 fresh, beautiful thing you choose to imagine alight- 
 ing upon the dismal places of falsehood and artifi- 
 ciality. Every body knows these stories, or if there 
 should be any youthful reader who says "their 
 rage was before my time," and " they are not in 
 our library," I beseech them to rectify the omission 
 at the first opportunity, and make quick acquaint- 
 ance with volumes that include the most choice ex- 
 amples of simple natural pathos, not unallied to 
 genial humor, which the English language can 
 boast. Miss Mitford has been called the " Gains- 
 borough" of writers, and they who know the pecu- 
 liar merits of that thoroughly English painter will 
 perceive the applicability of the epithet. 
 
 But the author of "Our Village" and of "Bel- 
 ford Regis " has proved herself equal to the high- 
 est order of dramatic writing. Her tragedies of 
 Rienzi, Julien, and Foscari, show the true poet, are 
 full of powerful and yet subtle delineations of char- 
 acter, and are exemplars of artistic construction. 
 If their production on the stage be any test of 
 their merit, it is to be remembered that they were 
 performed some years ago — great actors, Macready, 
 Young, and Charles Kemble, appearing in them — 
 
MAKY RUSSELL MITFORD. 285 
 
 •with the most complete success. Enghshworaen 
 may indeed be proud to rank Miss Mitford of their 
 " order." And this not only on account of her 
 genius — for there are higher quahties of humanity 
 than the most commanding talents — but because 
 her whole life has been like a beautiful poem ex- 
 empHfying what "Woman can and should be. Liv- 
 incf in seclusion, fillino- her existence with the fulfil- 
 ment of Duties, and the performance of kindly 
 acts and friendly offices, she has shunned notoriety, 
 to find world-wide Fame seeking her out. Draw- 
 ing towards hei-self as by a magnetic force the 
 good and gi'eat of all lands, her friends and her 
 coiTCspondents comprise some of the noblest na- 
 tures, and the most truly great men and women 
 both in Europe and America. Something of this 
 fact may be divined from those charming volumes, 
 called the " Recollections of a Literary Life," pages 
 full of graphic descriptions, piquant anecdotes, and 
 fine criticism ; and withal containing as much of 
 Miss Mitford's private biography as the world has 
 yet received. Enough to enable the careful reader 
 to fully appreciate the inestimable advantages which 
 surrounded the only child of highly-informed and 
 cultivated parents ; and the early associations of 
 
28G MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 
 
 true refinement, and intercourse ^vitli intellectual 
 companions. Thus was the ]*are seed of natural 
 genius fostered and cherished. Miss Mitford calls 
 herself an " old woman " — and is in fact about 
 sixty-five years of age ; but those who know her 
 best, can testify how warinly her heart still beats, 
 how true it is in friendship, how open and quick to 
 receive all beautiful influences. May she be long 
 — long spared to the wide circle which holds her 
 so dear ! 
 
 There is a passage in her recollections that we 
 are tempted to extract. Speaking of herself Miss 
 Mitford says — 
 
 " In common with many only children, especial- 
 ly Avhere the mother is of a gi-ave and home-loving 
 nature, I learned to read at a very earl}^ age. Be- 
 fore I was three years old my father would perch 
 me on the breakfast-table to exhibit my one ac- 
 complishment to some admiring guest, who admir- 
 ed all the more, because, a small puny child, look- 
 ing far younger than I really was, nicely dressed, 
 as only children generally are, and gifted with an 
 affluence of curls, I might have passed for the twin 
 sister of my own great doll. On the table ^vas I 
 perched to read some Foxite newspaper. Courier^ 
 
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 287 
 
 or Morning Chronicle, the Wliiggish oracles of the 
 day, and as my deh'ght m the high-seasoned poh- 
 tics of sixty yeai*s ago was naturally less- thanthat 
 of my hearers, this display of precocious acquire- 
 ment was commonly rewarded, not by cakes or 
 sugar-plums, too plentiful in my case to be very 
 greatly cared for, but by a sort of payment in kind. 
 I read leading articles to please the company ; and 
 my dear mother recited the ' Children in the 
 Wood ' to please me. This was my reward ; and 
 I looked for my favorite ballad after every perform- 
 ance, just as the piping bullfinch that hung in the 
 window looked for his lump of sugar after gomg 
 throuo^h ' God save the Kino-.' The two cases were 
 exactly parallel." 
 
 Av, and most surelv the fond mother and dotino^ 
 father dreamed dreams for the ftiture of that blue- 
 eyed, broad-browed little maiden; dreams which 
 Time, that perfects as well as destroys, has amply 
 fulfilled. 
 
 Some little time since there appeared a clever 
 anonymous poem called "Verdicts," a production 
 part satire, and part genuine homage to genius — and 
 the author introducino; Miss Mitford's name has the 
 following happy lines in allusion to her wiitings : — 
 
288 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 
 
 " What across every ocean, to English-sprung eyes 
 Can so bid the dear life of the old country rise ? 
 Bustling town, lonely IkjII, leafy lane, quiet farm, 
 Gorsc-flushcd heath, ferny park, woodlands bright with 
 
 the charm 
 Of spring or of autumn — the haw-crimsoned thichet, 
 Primrosed dells, firelit parlors, loud skittles, or cricket, 
 The red-coated hunt the bright morn sweeping through, 
 The greyhounds the hare tracking down through the dew, 
 The keeper's hushed watch, and the poacher's dark round. 
 The step whose quick sound makes the hearer's heart 
 
 bound — 
 Whether that of the village-belle or the queen 
 Of the ball where but high county-beauties are seen — 
 All the life of the farmhouse, the cottage, the hall. 
 Would the dwellers in cities before his thought call, 
 In the town she shall raise up the green homes afar, 
 Through the light of her genius more fair than they are." 
 
 A just tribute this from one who has no mercy for 
 affectation, and no pity for pretension. If, how- 
 ever, we were to chronicle the laudations of the 
 critics on Miss ISIitford's writings, we should quickly 
 fill a volume. 
 
 THE E^vD. 
 
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