FROM THE 
 LIBRARY OF 
 
KNEBWOHTH LIMITED EDITION 
 
 DEVE RE U X 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD BULWER LYTTON 
 
 (LOUD LYTTON J 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 ESTES AND LAURIAT 
 1891 
 
KNEBWORTH LIMITED EDITION. 
 
 Limited to One Thousand Copies. 
 Wo,..5.9.5 
 
 c^ 
 
 '/^ 
 
 TYPOGRAPHY, ELECTROTYPING, AND 
 PRINTING BY JOHN WILSON AND SON, 
 UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. 
 
OCA 
 
 DEVEREUX 
 
 w\5i)l:H2:^ 
 
DEDICATORY EPISTLE 
 
 TO 
 
 JOHN AULDJO, Esq., Etc., 
 
 AT NAPLES 
 
 London. 
 My dear Auldjo, — Permit me, as a memento of the pleasant hours 
 •we passed together, and the intimacy we formed by the winding shores 
 and the rosy seas of the old Parthenope, to dedicate to you this romance. 
 It was written in perhaps the happiest period of my literary life, — 
 when success began to brighten upon my labours, and it seemed to me a 
 fine thing to make a name. Reputation, like all possessions, fairer in 
 the hope than the reality, shone before me in the gloss of novelty ; and 
 1 had neither felt the envy it excites, the weariness it occasions, nor 
 (worse than all) that coarse and painful notoriety, that something be- 
 tween the gossip and the slander, which attends every man whose 
 writings become known, — surrendering the grateful privacies of life 
 to 
 
 " The gaudy, babbling, and remorseless day." 
 
 In short, yet almost a boy (for, in years at least, I was little more, 
 when " Pelham " and " The Disowned " were conceived and composed), 
 and full of the sanguine arrogance of hope, I pictured to myself far 
 greater triumphs than it will ever be mine to achieve : and never did 
 architect of dreams build his pyramid upon (alas !) a narrower base, or 
 a more crumbling soil ! . . . Time cures us effectually of these self- 
 conceits, and brings us, somewhat harshly, from the gay extravagance 
 of confounding the much that we design with the little that we can 
 accomplish. 
 
 " The Disowned " and " Devereux " were both completed in retire-^ 
 ment, and in the midst of metaphysical studies and investigations, varied 
 and miscellaneous enough, if not very deeply conned. At that time I 
 was indeed engaged in preparing for the j)rcss a Philosoj)liical Work 
 
/ 
 
 vi DEDICATIOX. 
 
 whicli I had afterwards the good sense to postpone to a riper age and a 
 more sobered mind. But the effect of these studies is somewhat preju- 
 dicially visible in both the romances I have referred to ; and the external 
 and dramatic colourings which belong to fiction are too often forsaken for 
 the inward and subtile analysis of motives, characters, and actions. The 
 workman was not sufficiently master of his art to forbear the vanity of 
 parading the wheels of the mechanism, and was too fond of calling 
 attention to the minute and tedious operations by which the movements 
 were to be performed and the result obtained. I believe that an author 
 is generally pleased with his work less in proportion as it is good, than 
 in projjortion as it fulfils the idea with which he commenced it. He is 
 rarely perhaps an accurate judge how far the execution is in itself 
 faulty or meritorious ; but he judges with tolerable success how far it 
 accomplishes the end and objects of the conception. He is pleased with 
 his work, in short, according as he can say, " This has expressed what 
 I meant it to convey." But the reader, who is not in the secret of the 
 author's original design, usually views the work through a different 
 medium ; and is perhaps in this the wiser critic of the two : for the 
 book that wanders the most from the idea which originated it may 
 often be better than that which is rigidly limited to the unfolding and 
 denouement of a single conception. If we accept this solution, we may be 
 enabled to understand why an author not unfrequently makes favourites 
 of some of his productions most condemned by the public. For my own 
 part, I remember that " Devereux " pleased me better than " Pelham " 
 or " The Disowned," because the execution more exactly corresponded 
 with the design. It expressed with tolerable fidelity what I meant it to 
 express. That was a happy age, my dear Auldjo, when, on finishing a 
 work, we could feel contented with our labour, and fancy we had done 
 our best ! Now, alas ! I have learned enough of the wonders of the Art 
 to recognize all the deficiencies of the Disciple ; and to know that no 
 author worth the reading can ever in one single work do half of which 
 he is capable. 
 
 What man ever wrote anything really good who did not feel that he 
 had the ability to write something better ? "Writing, after all, is a cold 
 and a coarse interpreter of thought. How much of the imagination, 
 how much of the intellect, evaporates and is lost while we seek to em- 
 body it in words ! Man made language and God the genius. Notliing 
 short of an eternity could enable men who imagine, think, and feel, to 
 express all they have imagined, thought, and felt. Immortality, the 
 spiritual desire, is the intellectual necessity. 
 
 In " Devereux " I wished to portray a man flourishing in the last 
 century with the train of mind and sentiment peculiar to the present ; 
 
DEDICATION. Vll 
 
 describing a life, and not its dramatic epitome, the historical characters 
 introduced are not closely woven with the main i)lot, like those in the 
 fictions of Sir Walter Scott, but are rather, like the narrative romances 
 of an earlier school, designed to relieve the predominant interest, and 
 give a greater air of truth and actuality to the supposed memoir. It is 
 a fiction which deals less with the Picturesque than the Real. Of the 
 principal character thus introduced (the celebrated and graceful, but 
 charlatanic, Bolingbroke) I still think that my sketch, upon the whole, 
 is substantially just. AVe must not judge of the politicians of one age 
 by the lights of another. Happily we now demand in a statesman a 
 desire for other aims than his own advancement ; but at that period 
 ambition was almost universally selfish — the Statesman was yet a 
 Courtier — a man whose very destiny it was to intrigue, to plot, to 
 glitter, to deceive. It is in j)roportion as politics have ceased to be a 
 secret science, in proportion as courts are less to be flattered and tools 
 to be managed, that politicians have become useful and honest men ; 
 and the statesman now directs a people, where once he outwitted an 
 ante-chamber. Compare Bolingbroke — not with the men and by the 
 rules of this day, but with the men and by the rules of the last. He 
 will lose nothing in comparison with a Walpole, with a Marlborough on 
 the one side, — with an Oxford or a Swift upon the other. 
 
 And now, my dear Auldjo, you have had enough of my egotisms. As 
 our works grow up, — like old parents, we grow garrulous, and love to 
 recur to the happier days of their childhood ; we talk over the pleasant 
 pain they cost us in their rearing, and memory renews the season of 
 dreams and hopes ; we speak of their faults as of things past, of their 
 merits as of things enduring : we are proud to see them still living, and, 
 after many a harsh ordeal and rude assault, keeping a certain station in 
 the world ; we hoped perhaps something better for them in their cradle, 
 but as it is we have good cause to be contented. You, a fellow-author, 
 and one whose spirited and charming sketches embody so much of per- 
 sonal adventure, and therefore so much connect themselves with associ- 
 ations of real life as well as of the studious closet ; you know, and must 
 feel with me, that these our books are a part of us, bone of our bone 
 and flesh of our flesh 1 They treasure up the thoughts which stirred us, 
 the affections which warmed us, years ago ; they are the mirrors of how 
 much of what we were ! To the world they are hut as a certain number 
 of pages, — good or bad, — tedious or diverting ; but to ourselves, the 
 authors, they are as marks in the wild maze of life by which we can 
 retrace our steps, and be with our youth again. "What would I not give 
 to feel as I felt, to hope as I hoped, to believe as I believed, when this 
 work was first launched upon the world ! But time gives while it takes 
 
viil DEDICATION. 
 
 away ; and amongst its recompenses for many losses are the memories 
 I referred to in commencing this letter, and gratefully revert to at its 
 close. From the land of cloud and the life of toil, I turn to that golden 
 clime and the happy indolence that so well accords with it ; and hope 
 once more, ere I die, with a companion whose knowledge can recall the 
 past and whose gayety can enliven the present, to visit the Disburied 
 City of Pompeii, and see the moonlight sparkle over the waves of 
 Naples. Adieu, my dear Auldjo, 
 
 And believe me, 
 
 Your obliged and attached friend, 
 
 E. B. Lytton. 
 
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHER'S INTRODUCTION. 
 
 My life has been one of frequent adventure and constant 
 excitement. It has been passed, to this present day, in a 
 stirring age, and not without acquaintance of the most 
 eminent and active spirits of the time. Men of all grades 
 and of every character have been familiar to me. War, 
 love, ambition, the scroll of sages, the festivals of wit, the 
 intrigues of states, — all that agitate mankind, the hope 
 and the fear, the labour and the pleasure, the great drama 
 of vanities, with the little interludes of wisdom ; these have 
 been the occupations of my manhood ; these will furnish 
 forth the materials of that history which is now open to 
 your survey. Whatever be the faults of the historian, he 
 has no motive to palliate what he has committed nor to 
 conceal what he has felt. 
 
 Children of an after century, the very time in which 
 these pages will greet you destroys enough of the connec- 
 tion between you and myself to render me indifferent alike 
 to your censure and your applause. Exactly one hundred 
 years from the day this record is completed will the seal I 
 shall place on it be broken and the secrets it contains be 
 disclosed. I claim that congeniality with you which I have 
 found not among my own coevals. Their thoughts, their 
 feelings, their views, have nothing kindred to my own. I 
 speak their language, but it is not as a native : they know 
 not a syllable of mine ! With a future age my heart may 
 
X AUTOBIOGRAPIIER'S INTRODUCTIOX. 
 
 have more in common ; to a future age my thoughts may 
 be less unfamiliar, and my sentiments less strange. I trust 
 these confessions to the trial ! 
 
 Children of an after century, between you and the being 
 who has traced the pages ye behold — that busy, versatile, 
 restless being — there is but one step, — but that step is a 
 century ! His now is separated from your now by an in- 
 terval of three generations ! While he writes, he is exult- 
 ing in the vigour of health and manhood ; while ye read, 
 the very worms are starving upon his dust. This com- 
 mune between the living and the dead ; this intercourse 
 between that which breathes and moves and ^s, and that 
 which life animates not nor mortality knows, — annihilates 
 falsehood, and chills even self-delusion into awe. Come, 
 then, and look upon the picture of a past day and of a gone 
 being, without apprehension of deceit ; and as the shadows 
 and lights of a checkered and wild existence flit before you, 
 watch if in your own hearts there be aught which mirrors 
 the reflection. 
 
 Morton Devereux. 
 
NOTE TO THE PRESENT EDITION (1852). 
 
 If this work possess any merit of a Narrative order, it 
 will perhaps be found in its fidelity to the characteristics 
 of an Autobiography. The reader must, indeed, comply 
 with the condition exacted from his imagination and faith ; 
 that is to say, he must take the hero of the story upon the 
 terms for which Morton Devereux himself stipulates ; and 
 regard the supposed Count as one who lived and wrote in 
 the last century, but who (dimly conscious that the tone 
 of his mind harmonized less with his own age than with 
 that which was to come) left his biography as a legacy to 
 the present. This assumption (which is not an unfair 
 one) liberally conceded, and allowed to account for occa- 
 sional anachronisms in sentiment, Morton Devereux will 
 be found to write as a man who is not constructing a ro- 
 mance, but narrating a life. He gives to Love, its joy and 
 its sorrow, its due share in an eventful and passionate ex- 
 istence ; but it is the share of biography, not of fiction. 
 He selects from the crowd of personages with whom he is 
 brought into contact, not only those who directly influence 
 his personal destinies, but those of whom a sketch or an 
 anecdote would appear to a biographer likely to have in- 
 terest for posterity. Louis XIV., the Regent Orleans, 
 Peter the Great, Lord Bolingbroke, and others less emi- 
 nent, but still of mark in their own day, if growing obscure 
 to ours, are introduced not for the purposes and agencies 
 
xu NOTE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. 
 
 of fiction, but as an autobiographer's natural illustrations 
 of the men and manners of his time. 
 
 And here be it pardoned if I add that so minute an atten- 
 tion has been paid to accuracy that even in petty details, 
 and in relation to historical characters but slightly known 
 to the ordinary reader, a critic deeply acquainted with the 
 memoirs of the age will allow that the novelist is always 
 merged in the narrator. 
 
 Unless the Author has failed more in his design than, on 
 revising the work of his early youth with the comparatively 
 impartial eye of maturer judgment, he is disposed to con- 
 cede, Morton Devereux will also be found with that marked 
 individuality of character which distinguishes the man who 
 has lived and laboured from the hero of romance. He ad- 
 mits into his life but few passions ; those are tenacious and 
 intense : conscious that none who are around him will 
 sympathize with his deeper feelings, he veils them under 
 the sneer of an irony which is often affected and never 
 mirthful. Wherever we find him, after surviving the brief 
 episode of love, we feel — though he does not tell us so — 
 that he is alone in the world. He is represented as a keen 
 observer and a successful actor in the busy theatre of man- 
 kind, precisely in proportion as no cloud from the heart 
 obscures the cold clearness of the mind. In the scenes of 
 pleasure there is no joy in his smile ; in the contests of am- 
 bition there is no quicker beat of the pulse. Attaining in 
 the prime of manhood such position and honour as would 
 first content and then sate a man of this mould, he has 
 nothing left but to discover the vanities of this world and 
 to ponder on the hopes of the next ; and, his last passion 
 dying out in the retribution that falls on his foe, he finally 
 sits down in retirement to rebuild the ruined home of his 
 youth, — unconscious that to that solitude the Destinies 
 have led him to repair the waste and ravages of his own 
 melancholy soul. 
 
NOTE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. Xiil 
 
 But while outward Dramatic harmonies between cause 
 and effect, and the proportionate agencies which characters 
 introduced in the Drama bring to bear upon event and 
 catastrophe, are carefully shunned, — as real life does for 
 the most part shun them, — yet there is a latent coherence 
 in all that, by influencing the mind, do, though indirectly, 
 shape out the fate and guide the actions. 
 
 Dialogue and adventures which, considered dramatically, 
 would be episodical, — considered biographically, will be 
 found essential to the formation, change, and development 
 of the narrator's character. The grave conversations with 
 Bolingbroke and Richard Cromwell, the light scenes in 
 London and at Paris, the favour obtained with the Czar of 
 Russia, are all essential to the creation of that mixture of 
 wearied satiety and mournful thought which conducts the 
 Probationer to the lonely spot in which he is destined to 
 learn at once the mystery of his past life and to clear his 
 reason from the doubts that had obscured the future 
 world. 
 
 Viewing the work in this more subtile and contemplative 
 light, the reader will find not only the true test by which 
 to judge of its design and nature, but he may also recognize 
 sources of interest in the story which might otherwise have 
 been lost to him ; and if so, the Author will not be without 
 excuse for this criticism upon the scope and intention of 
 his own work. For it is not only the privilege of an artist, 
 but it is also sometimes his duty to the principles of Art, 
 to place the spectator in that point of view wherein the 
 light best falls upon the canvas. " Do not place yourself 
 there," says the painter ; "to judge of my composition you^ 
 must stand where I place you." 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Boofe I. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 Page 
 Of the Hero's Birth and Parentage. — Nothing can differ more from the 
 
 End uf Tilings than their Beginning 1 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 A Family Consultation. — A Priest, and an Era in Life 5 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A Change in Conduct and in Character : our evil Passions wiU some- 
 times produce good Effects ; and on the contrary, an Alteration for 
 the better in Manners will, not unfrequeatly, have amongst its 
 Causes a little Corruption of Mind ; for the Feelings are so blended 
 that, in suppressing those disagreeable to others, we often suppress 
 those which are amiablejn themselves 10 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A Contest of Art and a League of Friendship. — Two Characters in 
 mutual Iguorance of each other, and the Reader no wiser than 
 either of them , 21 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 Rural Hospitality. — An extraordinary Guest. — A Fine Gentleman is 
 not necessarily a Fool 27 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 A Dialogue, which might be dull if it were longer 32 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A Change of Prospects. — A new Insight into the Character of the Hero. 
 
 — A Conference between two Brothers 35 
 
XVI CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Page 
 First Love 41 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 A Discovery and a Departure 54 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A very short Chapter, — containing a Valet 60 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 The Hero acquits himself honourably as a Coxcomb. — A Fine Lady of 
 the Eighteenth Century, and a fashionable Dialogue ; the Substance 
 of fashionable Dialogue being in aU Centuries the same .... 62 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The Abbe's Return. — A Sword, and a Soliloquy 69 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 A mysterious Letter. — A Duel. — The Departure of one of the Family 72 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 Being a Chapter of Trifles 82 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The Mother and Son. — Virtue should be the Sovereign of the Feelings, 
 
 not their Destroyer 84 
 
 315oofe II. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The Hero in London. — Pleasure is often the shortest, as it is the earlie.st 
 road to Wisdom, and we may say of tlie "World wliat Zeal-of-the- 
 Land-Busy say.? of the Pig-Booth, " We escape so much of the 
 other Vanities by oui early Entering " 90 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 Gay Scenes and Conversations. — The New Exchange and the Puppet- 
 
 Show. — The Actor, the Sexton, and the Beauty 95 
 
CONTENTS. xvii 
 
 CHAPTER UI. 
 
 Page 
 
 More Lions ^^^ 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 An intellectual Adventure 106 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Beau in his Den, and a Philosoplier discovered 109 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A universal Genius. — Pericles turned Barber. — Names of Beauties in 
 
 171— . — The Toasts of the Ivit-Cat Club 119 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A Dialogue of Sentiment succeeded by tlie Sketch of a Character, in 
 whose Eyes Sentiment was to Wise Men what Religion is to Fools ; 
 namely, a Subject of Ridicule 123 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Lightly won, lightly lost. — A Dialogue of equal Instruction and 
 
 Amusement. — A Visit to Sir Godfrey Kueller 130 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A Development of Character, and a long Letter ; a Chapter, on the 
 
 whole, more important than it seems 135 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Being a short Chapter, containing a most important Event .... 144 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Containing more than any other Chapter in the Second Book of this 
 
 History 149 
 
 515oofe III. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Wherein the History makes great Progress and is marked by one impor- 
 tant Event in Human Life 169 
 
 6 
 
xviii CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Love ; Parting ; a Death-Bed. — After all Human Nature is a beautiful 
 Fabric ; aud even its Imperfections are not odious to him who has 
 studied the Science of its Architecture, aud formed a reverent 
 Estimate of its Creator 181 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 A great Change of Prospects 191 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Au Episode. — The Son of the Greatest Man who (one only excepted) 
 ever rose to a Throne, but by uo means of the Greatest Man (save 
 one) who ever existed 198 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 In which the Hero shows Decision on more Points than one. — More of 
 
 Isora's Character is developed 207 
 
 CII.\PTER VI. 
 An Unexpected Meeting. — Conjecture and Anticipation 219 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The Events of a Single Night. — Moments make the Hues in which 
 
 Years are coloured . 224 
 
 ai5ooU IV. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 A Re-entrance into Life through the Ebon Gate, AflSiction 236 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 Ambitious Projects 242 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 The real Actors Spectators to the false ones 252 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Paris. — A Female Politician, and an Ecclesiastical One. — Sundry other 
 
 Matters 255 
 
CONTENTS. XIX 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Page 
 A Meeting of Wits. — Conversation gone out to Supper in her Dress of 
 
 Velvet and Jewels 262 
 
 CHAFfER VI. 
 A Court, Courtiers, and a King 272 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Reflections. — A Soiree. — The Appearance of one important in the 
 History. — A Conversation with Madame de Balzac highly satisfac- 
 tory and cheering. — A Rencontre with a curious old Soldier. — 
 The Extinction of a once great Luminary 286 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 In which there is Reason to fear that Princes are not invariably free 
 
 from Human Peccadilloes 303 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 A Prince, an Audience, and a Secret Embassy 308 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 Royal Exertions for the Good of the People 316 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 An Interview 322 
 
 IBook V. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 A Portrait 327 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 The Entrance into Petersburg. — A Rencontre with an inquisitive and 
 
 mysterious Stranger. — Nothing like Travel 333 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 The Czar. — The Czarina. — A Feast at a Russian Nobleman's . . . 339 
 
XX CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Page 
 Conversations with the Czar. — If Cromwell was the greatest Man 
 
 (Caesar excepted) who ever rose to the Supreme Power, Peter was 
 
 the greatest Man ever born to it 344 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Return to Paris. — Interview with Bolingbroke. — A gallant Adventure. 
 — Affair with Dubois. — Public Life is a Drama, in which private 
 Vices generally play the Part of the Scene-shifters 350 
 
 CHAPTER VT. 
 A long Interval of Years. — A Change of Mind and its Causes . . . 362 
 
 llBoofe VI. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The Retreat 374 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Victory 379 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 The Hermit of the Well 382 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 The Solution of many IMysteries. — A dark View of the Life and Nature 
 
 of Man 396 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 In which the History makes a great Stride towards the final Catastrophe. 
 
 — The Return to England, and the Visit to a Devotee 427 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 The Retreat of a celebrated Man, and a Visit to a great Poet .... 435 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 The Plot approaches its Denouement -147 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 The Catastrophe '^^^ 
 
 Conclusion ^'^ 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Pack 
 
 IsOKA IN THE Gakden Frontispiece 
 
 The Castle Cave ' 46 
 
 Lady Hasselton 100 
 
 ISORA AND DeVEKEUX AT THE WiNDOW 230 
 
 The Hermit of the Well 391 
 
DEVEEEUX. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OF THE hero's BIRTH AND PARENTAGE. — NOTHING CAN 
 DIFFER MORE FROM THE END OF THINGS THAN THEIR 
 BEGINNING. 
 
 My grandfather, Sir Arthur Devereux (peace be with his 
 ashes!) was a noble okl knight and cavalier, possessed of a 
 property sufficiently large to have maintained in full dignity 
 half a dozen peers, — such as peers have been since the days 
 of the first James. Nevertheless, my grandfather loved the 
 equestrian order better than the patrician, rejected all offers 
 of advancement, and left his posterity no titles but those to 
 his estate. 
 
 Sir Arthur had two children by wedlock, — both sons; at 
 his death, my father, the younger, bade adieu to the old hall 
 and his only brother, prayed to the grim portraits of his an- 
 cestors to inspire him, and set out — to join as a volunteer the 
 armies of that Louis, afterwards surnamed le grand. Of him 
 I shall say but little ; the life of a soldier has only two events 
 worth recording, — his first campaign and his last. My uncle 
 did as his ancestors had done before him, and, cheap as the 
 dignity had grown, went up to court to be knighted by 
 Charles II. He was so delighted with what he saw of the 
 metropolis that he forswore all intention of leaving it, took 
 to Sedley and champagne, flirted with Xell Gwynne, lost 
 double the value of his brother's portion at one sitting to the 
 
 1 
 
2 DEVEREUX. 
 
 chivalrous Grammont, wrote a comedy corrected by Etherege, 
 and took a wife recommended by Kochester, The wife 
 brought him a child six months after marriage, and the infant 
 was born on the same day the comedy was acted. Luckily 
 for the honour of the house, my uncle shared the fate of 
 Plemneus, king of S icy on, and all the offspring he ever had 
 (that is to say, the child and the play) "died as soon as they 
 were born." My uncle was now only at a loss what to do 
 with his wife, — that remaining treasure, whose readiness to 
 oblige him had been so miraculously evinced. She saved him 
 the trouble of long cogitation, an exercise of intellect to which 
 he was never too ardently inclined. There was a gentleman 
 of the court, celebrated for his sedateness and solemnity ; my 
 aunt was piqued into emulating OrjDheus, and, six weeks after 
 her confinement, she put this rock into motion, — they eloped. 
 Poor gentleman! it must have been a severe trial of patience 
 to a man never known before to transgress the very slowest 
 of all possible walks, to have had two events of the most rapid 
 nature happen to him in the same week : scarcely had he re- 
 covered the shock of being run away with by my aunt, before, 
 terminating forever his vagrancies, he was run through by 
 my uncle. The wits made an epigram upon the event, and 
 my uncle, who was as bold as a lion at the point of a sword, 
 was, to speak frankly, terribly disconcerted by the point of 
 a jest. He retired to the country in a fit of disgust and gout. 
 Here his natural goodness soon recovered the effects of the 
 artificial atmosphere to which it had been exposed, and he 
 solaced himself by righteously governing domains worthy of 
 a prince, for the mortifications he had experienced in the 
 dishonourable career of a courtier. 
 
 Hitherto I have spoken somewhat slightingly of my uncle, 
 and in his dissipation he deserved it, for he was both too hon- 
 est and too simple to shine in that galaxy of prostituted genius 
 of which Charles II. was the centre. But in retirement he 
 was no longer the same person; and I do not think that the 
 elements of human nature could have furnished forth a more 
 amiable character than Sir William Devereux presiding at 
 Christmas over the merriment of his great hall. 
 
DEYEREUX. 6 
 
 Good old man! his very defects Tvere what we loved best in 
 him : vanity was so mingled with good-nature, that it became 
 graceful, and we reverenced one the most, while we most 
 smiled at the other. 
 
 One peculiarity had he which the age he had lived in and 
 his domestic history rendered natural enough; namely, an 
 exceeding distaste to the matrimonial state : early marriages 
 were misery, imprudent marriages idiotism, and marriage, at 
 the best, he was wont to say, with a kindling eye and a height- 
 ened colour, marriage at the best was the devil ! Yet it must 
 not be supposed that Sir William Devereux was an ungallant 
 man. On the contrary, never did the beau sexe have a hum- 
 bler or more devoted servant. As nothing in his estimation 
 was less becoming to a wise man than matrimony, so noth- 
 ing was more ornamental than flirtation. 
 
 He had the old man's weakness, garrulity; and he told 
 the wittiest stories in the world, without omitting anything 
 in them but the point. This omission did not arise from the 
 want either of memory or of humour ; but solely from a de- 
 ficiency in the malice natural to all jesters. He could not 
 persuade his lips to repeat a sarcasm hurting even the dead 
 or the ungrateful; and when he came to the drop of gall 
 which should have given zest to the story, the milk of hu- 
 man kindness broke its barrier, despite of himself, — and 
 washed it away. He was a fine wreck, a little prematurely 
 broken by dissipation, but not perhaps the less interesting 
 on that account; tall, and somewhat of the jovial old English 
 girth, with a face where good-nature and good living mingled 
 their smiles and glow. He wore the garb of twenty years 
 back, and was curiously particular in the choice of his silk 
 stockings. Between you and me, he was not a little vain of 
 his leg, and a compliment on that score was always sure of a 
 gracious reception. 
 
 The solitude of my uncle's household was broken by an 
 invasion of three boys, — none of the quietest, — and their 
 mother, who, the gentlest and saddest of womankind, seemed to 
 follow them, the emblem of that primeval silence from which 
 all noise was born. These three boys were my two brothers 
 
4 DEVEREUX. 
 
 and myself. My father, who had conceived a strong personal 
 attachment for Louis XIV., never quitted his service, and 
 the great King repaid him by orders and favours without 
 number; he died of wounds received in battle, — a Count and 
 a Marshal, full of renown and destitute of money. He had 
 married twice : his first wife, who died without issue, was a 
 daughter of the noble house of La Tremouille; his second, 
 our mother, was of a younger branch of the English race of 
 Howard. Brought up in her native country, and influenced 
 by a primitive and retired education, she never loved that gay 
 land which her husband had adopted as his own. Upon his 
 death she hastened her return to England, and refusing, with 
 somewhat of honourable pride, the magnificent pension which 
 Louis wished to settle upon the widow of his favourite, came 
 to throw herself and her children upon those affections which 
 she knew they were entitled to claim. 
 
 My uncle was unaffectedly rejoiced to receive us; to say 
 nothing of his love for my father, and his pride at the honours 
 the latter had won to their ancient house, the good gentleman 
 was very well pleased with the idea of obtaining four new 
 listeners, out of whom he might select an heir, and he soon 
 grew as fond of us as we were of him. At the time of our 
 new settlement, I had attained the age of twelve; my second 
 brother (we were twins) was born an hour after me ; my third 
 was about fifteen months younger. I had never been the 
 favourite of the three. In the first place, my brothers (my 
 youngest especially) were uncommonly handsome, and, at most, 
 I was but tolerably good-looking: in the second place, my 
 mind was considered as much inferior to theirs as my body; 
 I was idle and dull, sullen and haughty, — the only wit I ever 
 displayed was in sneering at my friends, and the only spirit, 
 in quarrelling with my twin brother; so said or so thought all 
 who saw us in our childhood; and it follows, therefore, that 
 I was either very unamiable or very much misunderstood. 
 
 But, to the astonishment of myself and my relations, my 
 fate was now to be reversed; and I was no sooner settled at 
 Devereux Court than I became evidently the object of Sir 
 William's pre-eminent attachment. The fact was, that I 
 
DEVEKEUX. 5 
 
 really liked both the knight and his stories better than my 
 brothers did ; and the very first time I had seen my uncle, I 
 had couuuented on the beauty of his stocking, and envied the 
 constitution of his leg ; from such trifles spring affection ! In 
 truth, our attachment to each other so increased that we grew 
 to be constantly together; and while my childish anticipations 
 of the world made me love to listen to stories of courts and cour- 
 tiers, my uncle returned the compliment by declaring of my 
 wit, as the angler declared of the River Lea, that one would 
 find enough in it, if one would but angle sufficiently long. 
 
 Nor was this all; my uncle and myself were exceedingly 
 like the waters of Alpheus and Arethusa, — nothing was 
 thrown into the one without being seen very shortly after- 
 wards floating upon the other. Every witticism or legend 
 Sir William imparted to me (and some, to say truth, were a 
 little tinged with the licentiousness of the times he had lived 
 in), I took the first opportunity of retailing, whatever might 
 be the audience; and few boys, at the age of thirteen, can 
 boast of having so often as myself excited the laughter of the 
 men and the blushes of the women. This circumstance, while 
 it aggravated my own vanity, delighted my uncle's; and as I 
 was always getting into scrapes on his account, so he was 
 perpetually bound, by duty, to defend me from the charges 
 of which he was the cause. No man defends another long 
 without loving him the better for it; and perhaps Sir William 
 Devereux and his eldest nephew were the onl^ allies in the 
 world who had no jealousy of each other. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 A FAMILY CONSULTATION. — A PRIEST, AND AN ERA IN LIFE. 
 
 "You are ruining the children, my dear Sir William," said 
 my gentle mother, one day when I had been particularly 
 witty; "and the Abbe Montreuil declares it absolutely neces- 
 sary that they should go to school." 
 
6 DEVEREUX. 
 
 "To school!" said my uncle, who was caressing his right 
 leg, as it lay over his left knee, — "to school, Madam! you 
 are joking. What for, pray ? " 
 
 " Instruction, my dear Sir William, " replied my mother. 
 
 "Ah, ah; I forgot that; true, true!" said my uncle, de- 
 spondingly, and there was a pause. My mother counted her 
 rosary ; my uncle sank into a revery ; my twin brother pinched 
 my leg under the table, to which I replied by a silent kick; 
 and my youngest fixed his large, dark, speaking eyes upon a 
 picture of the Holy Family, which hung opposite to him. 
 
 My uncle broke the silence ; he did it with a start. 
 
 "Od's fish. Madam," — (my uncle dressed his oaths, like 
 himself, a little after the example of Charles II.) — "od's 
 fish, Madam, I have thought of a better plan than that ; they 
 shall have instruction without going to school for it." 
 
 "And how. Sir William ?" 
 
 " I will instruct them myself. Madam," and William slapped 
 the calf of the leg he was caressing. 
 
 My mother smiled. 
 
 "Ay, Madam, you may smile; but I and my Lord Dorset 
 were the best scholars of the age; you shall read my play." 
 
 "Do, Mother," said I, "read the i^lay. Shall I tell her 
 some of the jests in it, Uncle ? " 
 
 My mother shook her head in anticipative horror, and raised 
 her finger reprovingly. My uncle said nothing, but winked 
 at me ; I understood the signal, and was about to begin, when 
 the door opened, and the Abbe Montreuil entered. My uncle 
 released his right leg, and my jest was cut off. Nobody ever 
 inspired a more dim, religious awe than the Abbe Montreuil. 
 The priest entered with a smile. My mother hailed the en- 
 trance of an ally. 
 
 "Father," said she, rising, "I have just represented to my 
 good brother the necessity of sending my sons to school; he 
 has proposed an alternative which I will leave you to discuss 
 with him." 
 
 " And what is it ? " said Montreuil, sliding into a chair, 
 and patting Gerald's head with a benignant air. 
 
 "To educate them himself," answered my mother, with a 
 
DEVEREUX. 7 
 
 sort of satirical gravity. My uncle moved uneasily in his 
 seat, as if, for the first time, he saw something ridiculous in 
 the proposal. 
 
 The smile, immediately fading from the thin lips of the 
 priest, gave way to an expression of respectful approbation. 
 "An admirable plan," said he slowly, "but liable to some 
 little exceptions, which Sir William will allow me to point 
 out." 
 
 My mother called to us, and we left the room with her. 
 The next time we saw my uncle, the priest's reasonings had 
 prevailed. The following week we all three went to school. 
 My father had been a Catholic, my mother was of the same 
 creed, and consequently we were brought up in that unpopu- 
 lar faith. But my uncle, whose religion had been sadly un- 
 dermined at court, was a terrible caviller at the holy mysteries 
 of Catholicism ; and while his friends termed him a Protest- 
 ant, his enemies hinted, falsely enough, that he was a sceptic. 
 "When Montreuil first followed us to Devereux Court, many 
 and bitter were the little jests my worthy uncle had provided 
 for his reception; and he would shake his head with a notable 
 archness whenever he heard our reverential description of 
 the expected guest. But, somehow or other, no sooner had 
 he seen the priest than all his proposed railleries deserted 
 him. Not a single witticism came to his assistance, and the 
 calm, smooth face of the ecclesiastic seemed to operate upon 
 the fierce resolves of the facetious knight in the same manner 
 as the human eye is supposed to awe into impotence the ma- 
 lignant intentions of the ignobler animals. Yet nothing could 
 be blander than the demeanour of the Abbe Montreuil ; nothing 
 more worldly, in their urbanity, than his manner and address. 
 His garb was as little clerical as possible, his conversation 
 rather familiar than formal, and he invariably listened to 
 every syllable the good knight uttered with a countenance 
 and mien of the most attentive respect. 
 
 What then was the charm by which the singular man never 
 failed to obtain an ascendency, in some measure allied with 
 fear, over all in whose company he was thrown ? This was 
 a secret my uncle never could solve, and which only in later 
 
8 DEVEREUX. 
 
 life I myself was able to discover. It was partly by the 
 magic of an extraordinary and powerful mind, partly by an 
 expression of manner, if I may use such a phrase, that 
 seemed to sneer most, when most it aifected to respect; and 
 partly by an air like that of a man never exactly at ease ; not 
 that he was shy, or ungraceful, or even taciturn, — no! it was 
 an indescribable embarrassment, resembling that of one play- 
 ing a part, familiar to him, indeed, but somewhat distasteful. 
 This embarrassment, however, was sufficient to be contagious, 
 and to confuse that dignity in others, which, strangely enough, 
 never forsook himself. 
 
 He was of low origin, but his address and appearance did 
 not betray his birth. Pride suited his mien better than fa- 
 miliarity; and his countenance, rigid, thoughtful, and cold, 
 even through smiles, in expression was strikingly command- 
 ing. In person he was slightly above the middle standard ; 
 and had not the texture of his frame been remarkably hard, 
 wiry, and muscular, the total absence of all superfluous flesh 
 would have given the lean gauntness of his figure an appear- 
 ance of almost spectral emaciation. In reality, his age did 
 not exceed twenty-eight years; but his high broad forehead 
 was already so marked with line and furrow, his air was so 
 staid and quiet, his figure so destitute of the roundness and 
 elasticity of youth, that his appearance ahvays impressed 
 the beholder with the involuntary idea of a man considerably 
 more advanced in life. Abstemious to habitual penance, and 
 regular to mechanical exactness in his frequent and severe 
 devotions, he was as little inwardly addicted to the pleasures 
 and pursuits of youth, as he was externally possessed of its 
 freshness and its bloom. 
 
 Nor was gravity with him that unmeaning veil to imbecility 
 which Eochefoucauld has so happily called "the mystery of 
 the body." The variety and depth of his learning fully sus- 
 tained the respect which his demeanour insensibly created. 
 To say nothing of his lore in the dead tongues, he possessed a 
 knowledge of the principal European languages besides his 
 own, namely, English, Italian, German, and Spanish, not less 
 accurate and little less fluent than that of a native ; and he had 
 
DEVEREUX. 9 
 
 not only gained the key to these various cofEers of intellectual 
 wealth, but he had also possessed himself of their treasures. 
 He had been educated at St. Omer : and, young as he was, he 
 had already acquired no inconsiderable reputation among his ' 
 brethren of that illustrious and celebrated Order of Jesus 
 which has produced some of the worst and some of the best 
 men that the Christian world has ever known, — which has, 
 in its successful zeal for knowledge, and the circulation of 
 mental light, bequeathed a vast debt of gratitude to poster- 
 ity; but which, unhappily encouraging certain scholastic doc- 
 trines, that by a mind at once subtle and vicious can be easily 
 perverted into the sanction of the most dangerous and sys- 
 tematized immorality, has already drawn upon its professors 
 an almost universal odium. 
 
 So highly established was the good name of Montreuil that 
 when, three years prior to the time of which I now speak, he 
 had been elected to the office he held in our family, it was 
 scarcely deemed a less fortunate occurrence for us to gain so 
 learned and so pious a preceptor, than it was for him \o ac- 
 quire a situation of such trust and confidence in the house- 
 hold of a Marshal of France and the especial favourite of 
 Louis XIV. 
 
 It was pleasant enough to mark the gradual ascendency he 
 gained over my uncle; and the timorous dislike which the 
 good knight entertained for him, yet struggled to conceal. 
 Perhaps that was the only time in his life in which Sir Wil- 
 liam Devereux was a hypocrite. 
 
 Enough of the priest at present; I return to his charge. To 
 school we went: our parting with our uncle was quite pa- 
 thetic; mine in especial. "Hark ye, Sir Count," whispered 
 he (I bore my father's title), "hark ye, don't mind what the 
 old priest tells you; your real man of wit never wants the 
 musty lessons of schools in order to make a figure in the 
 world. Don't cramp your genius, my boy; read over my play, 
 and honest George Etherege's 'Man of Mode; ' they '11 keep 
 your spirits alive, after dozing over those old pages which 
 Homer (good soul!) dozed over before. God bless you, my 
 child; write to me; no one, not even your mother, shall see 
 
10 DEVEREUX. 
 
 your letters; and — and be sure, my fine fellow, that yon 
 don't fag too hard. The glass of life is the best book, and 
 one's natural wit the only diamond that can write legibly 
 on it." 
 
 Such were my uncle's parting admonitions ; it must be con- 
 fessed that, coupled with the dramatic gifts alluded to, they 
 were likely to be of infinite service to the debutant for aca- 
 demical honours. In fact. Sir William Devereux was deeply 
 impregnated with the notion of his time, — that ability and 
 inspiration were the same thing, and that, unless you were 
 thoroughly idle, you could not be thoroughly a genius. I 
 verily believe that he thought wisdom got its gems, as Abu 
 Zeid al Hassan ^ declares some Chinese philosophers thought 
 oysters got their pearls, namely, by gaping! 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A CHAISTGE IN CONDUCT AND IN CHARACTER: OUR EVIL PAS- 
 SIONS WILL SOMETIMES PRODUCE GOOD EFFECTS; AND ON 
 THE CONTRARY, AN ALTERATION FOR THE BETTER IN MAN- 
 NERS WILL, NOT UNFREQUENTLY, HAVE AMONGST ITS CAUSES 
 A LITTLE CORRUPTION OF MIND; FOR THE FEELINGS ARE 
 SO BLENDED THAT, IN SUPPRESSING THOSE DISAGREEABLE 
 TO OTHERS, WE OFTEN SUPPRESS THOSE WHICH ARE AMI- 
 ABLE IN THEMSELVES. 
 
 My twin brother, Gerald, was a tall, strong, handsome boy, 
 blessed with a great love for the orthodox academical studies, 
 and extraordinary quickness of ability. Nevertheless, he was 
 indolent by nature in things which were contrary to his taste ; 
 fond of pleasure', and, amidst all his personal courage, ran a 
 certain vein of irresolution, which rendered it easy for a cool 
 and determined mind to awe or to persuade him. I cannot 
 
 1 In his Commentary on the account of China by two Travellers. 
 
DEVEREUX. 11 
 
 help thinking, too, that, clever as he "was, there was some- 
 thing commonplace in the cleverness ; and that his talent was 
 of that mechanical yet quick nature which makes wonderful 
 boys but mediocre men. In any other family he would have 
 been considered the beauty; in ours he was thought the 
 genius. 
 
 My youngest brother, Aubrey, was of a very different dis- 
 position of mind and frame of body ; thoughtful, gentle, sus- 
 ceptible, acute; with an uncertain bravery, like a woman's, 
 and a taste for reading, that varied with the caprice of every 
 hour. He was the beauty of the three, and my mother's fa- 
 vourite. Never, indeed, have I seen the countenance of man 
 so perfect, so glowingly yet delicately handsome, as that of 
 Aubrey Devereux. Locks, soft, glossy, and twining into 
 ringlets, fell in dark profusion over a brow whiter than mar- 
 ble ; his eyes were black and tender as a Georgian girl's ; his 
 lips, his teeth, the contour of his face, were all cast in the 
 same feminine and faultless mould; his hands would have 
 shamed those of Madame de la Tisseur, whose lover offered 
 six thousand marks to any European who could wear her 
 glove ; and his figure would have made Titania give up her 
 Henchman, and the King of the Fairies be anything but 
 pleased with the exchange. 
 
 Such were my two brothers ; or, rather (so far as the inter- 
 nal qualities are concerned), such they seemed to me; for 
 it is a singular fact that we never judge of our near kin- 
 dred so well as we judge of others ; and I appeal to any one, 
 whether, of all people by whom he has been mistaken, he 
 has not been most often mistaken by those with whom he 
 was brought up. 
 
 I had always loved Aubrey, but they had not suffered him 
 to love me: and we had been so little together that we had in 
 common none of those childish remembrances which serve, 
 more powerfully than all else in later life, to cement and 
 soften affection. In fact, I was the scapegoat of the family. 
 What I must have been in early childhood I cannot tell ; but 
 before I was ten years old I was the object of all the despond- 
 ency and evil forebodings of my relations. My father said I 
 
12 DEVEREUX. 
 
 laughed at la gloire et le grand monarque tlie very first time 
 he attempted to explain to me the value of the one and the 
 greatness of the other. The countess said I had neither my 
 father's eye nor her own smile, — that I was slow at my let- 
 ters and quick with my tongue; and throughout the whole 
 hou.se nothing was so favourite a topic as the extent of my 
 rudeness and the venom of my repartee. Montreuil, on his 
 entrance into our family, not only fell in with, but favoured 
 and fostered, the reigning humour against me ; whether from 
 that divide et im-pera system, which was so grateful to his 
 temper, or from the mere love of meddling and intrigue, 
 which in him, as in Aloeroni, attached itself equally to petty 
 as to large circles, was not then clearly apparent; it was only 
 certain that he fomented the dissensions and widened the 
 breach between my brothers and myself. Alas! after all, I 
 believe my sole crime was my candour. I had a spirit of 
 frankness which no fear could tame, and my vengeance for 
 any infantine punishment was in speaking veraciously of my 
 punishers. Never tell me of the pang of falsehood to the 
 slandered: nothing is so agonizing to the fine skin of vanity 
 as the application of a rough truth ! 
 
 As I grew older, I saw my power and indulged it; and, 
 being scolded for sarcasm, I was flattered into believing I had 
 wit ; so I punned and jested, lampooned and satirized, till I 
 was as much a torment to others as I was tormented myself. 
 The secret of all this was that I was unhappy. Nobody loved 
 me : I felt it to my heart of hearts. I was conscious of injus- 
 tice, and the sense of it made me bitter. Our feelings, espe- 
 cially in youth, resemble that leaf which, in some old traveller, 
 is described as expanding itself to warmth, but when chilled, 
 not only shrinking and closing, but presenting to the spec- 
 tator thorns which had lain concealed upon the opposite side 
 of it before. 
 
 With my brother Gerald, I had a deadly and irreconcilable 
 feud. He was much stouter, taller, and stronger than my- 
 self; and, far from conceding to me that respect which I 
 imagined my priority of birth entitled me to claim, he took 
 every opportunity to deride my pretensions, and to vindicate 
 
DEVEREUX. 13 
 
 the cause of the superior strength and vigour which consti- 
 tuted his own. It would have done your heart good to have 
 seen us cuff one another, we did it with such zeal. There is 
 nothing in human passion like a good brotherly hatred! My 
 mother said, with the most feeling earnestness, that she used 
 to feel us fighting even before our birth : we certainly lost no 
 time directly after it. Both my parents were secretly vexed 
 that I had come into the world an hour sooner than my 
 brother; and Gerald himself looked upon it as a sort of jug- 
 gle, — a kind of jockey ship by which he had lost the preroga- 
 tive of birthright. This very early rankled in his heart, and 
 he was so much a greater favourite than myself that, instead 
 of rooting out so unfortunate a feeling on his part, my good 
 parents made no scruple of openly lamenting my seniority. 
 I believe the real cause of our being taken from the domestic 
 instructions of the Abbe (who was an admirable teacher) and 
 sent to school, was solely to prevent my uncle deciding every- 
 thing in my favour. Montreuil, however, accompanied us to 
 our academy, and remained with us during the three years in 
 which we were perfecting ourselves in the blessings of 
 education. 
 
 At the end of the second year, a prize was instituted for 
 the best proficient at a very severe examination; two months 
 before it took place we went home for a few days. After 
 dinner my uncle asked me to walk with him in the park. I 
 did so: we strolled along to the margin of a rivulet which 
 ornamented the grounds. There my uncle, for the first time, 
 broke silence. 
 
 "Morton," said he, looking down at his left leg, "Morton, 
 let me see; thou art now of a reasonable age, — fourteen at 
 the least." 
 
 "Fifteen, if it please you, sir," said I, elevating my stature 
 as much as I was able. 
 
 "Humph! my boy; and a pretty time of life it is, too. 
 Your brother Gerald is taller than you by two inches." 
 
 "But I can beat him for all that, uncle," said I, colouring, 
 and clenching my fist. 
 
 My uncle pulled down his right ruffle. " 'Gad so, Morton, 
 
14 DEVEREUX. 
 
 you 're a brave fellow," said he; "but I wish you were less of 
 a hero and more of a scholar. I wish you could beat him in 
 Greek as well as in boxing. I will tell you what Old Rowley 
 said, " and my uncle occupied the next quarter of an hour with 
 a story. The story opened the good old gentleman's heart; 
 my laughter opened it still more. "Hark ye, sirrah!" said 
 he, pausing abruptly, and grasping my hand with a vigorous 
 effort of love and muscle, "hark ye, sirrah, — I love you, — 
 'Sdeath, I do. I love you better than both your brothers, and 
 that crab of a priest into the bargain ; but I am grieved to the 
 heart to hear what I do of you. They tell me you are the 
 idlest boy in the school; that you are always beating your 
 brother Gerald, and making a scurrilous jest of your mother 
 or myself." 
 
 " Who says so ? who dares say so ? " said I, with an em- 
 phasis that would have startled a less hearty man than Sir 
 William Devereux. "They lie. Uncle; by my soul they do. 
 Idle I am; quarrelsome with my brother I confess myself; 
 but jesting at you or my mother — never — never. No, no; 
 yoxi, too, who have been so kind to me, — the only one who 
 ever was. No, no ; do not think I could be such a wretch : " 
 and as I said this the tears gushed from my eyes. 
 
 My good uncle was exceedingly affected. " Look ye, child, " 
 said he, "I do not believe them, 'Sdeath, not a word; I 
 would repeat to you a good jest now of Sedley's, 'Gad, I 
 would, but I am really too much moved just at present. I tell 
 you what, my boy, I tell you what you shall do: there is 
 a trial coming on at school — eh ? — well, the Abbe tells me 
 Gerald is certain of being first, and you of being last. Now, 
 Morton, you shall beat your brother, and shame the Jesuit. 
 There; my mind 's spoken; dry your tears, my boy, and I '11 
 tell you the jest Sedley made : it was in the Mulberry Garden 
 one day — " And the knight told his story. 
 
 I dried my tears, pressed my uncle's hand, escaped from 
 him as soon as I was able, hastened to my room, and surren- 
 dered myself to reflection. 
 
 When my uncle so good-naturedly proposed that I should 
 conquer Gerald at the examination, nothing appeared to him 
 
DEVEREUX. 15 
 
 more easy; he was pleased to think I had more talent than 
 my brother, and talent, according to his creed, was the only 
 master-key to unlock every science. A problem in Euclid 
 or a phrase in Pindar, a secret in astronomy or a knotty pas- 
 sage in the Fathers, were all riddles, with the solution of 
 which application had nothing to do. One's mother-wit was a 
 precious sort of necromancy, which could pierce every rajs- 
 tery at first sight; and all the gifts of knowledge, in his opin- 
 ion, like reading and writing in that of the sage Dogberry, 
 "came by nature." Alas! I was not under the same pleasur- 
 able delusion; I rather exaggerated than diminished the diffi- 
 culty of my task, and thought, at the first glance, that nothing 
 short of a miracle would enable me to excel my brother. 
 Gerald, a boy of natural talent, and, as I said before, of great 
 assiduity in the orthodox studies, — especially favoured too 
 by the instruction of !Montreuil, — had long been esteemed the 
 first scholar of our little world ; and though I knew that with 
 some branches of learning I was more conversant than him- 
 self, yet, as my emulation had been hitherto solely directed 
 to bodily contention, I had never thought of contesting with 
 him a reputation for which I cared little, and on a point in 
 which I had been early taught that I could never hope to 
 enter into any advantageous comparison with the " genius " of 
 the Devereuxs. 
 
 A new spirit now passed into me : I examined myself with 
 a jealous and impartial scrutiny; I weighed my acquisitions 
 against those of my brother; I called forth, from their secret 
 recesses, the unexercised and almost unknown stores I had 
 from time to time laid up in my mental armoury to moulder 
 and to rust. I surveyed them with a feeling that they might 
 yet be polished into use; and, excited alike by the stimulus 
 of affection on one side and hatred on the other, my mind 
 worked itself from despondency into doubt, and from doubt 
 into the sanguineness of hope. I told none of my design; I 
 exacted from my uncle a promise not to betray it ; I shut my- 
 self in my room; I gave out that I was ill; I saw no one, not 
 even the Abbe; I rejected his instructions, for I looked upon 
 him as an enemy; and, for the two months before my trial, I 
 
16 DEVEREUX. 
 
 spent night and day in an unrelaxing application, of which, 
 till then, I had not imagined myself capable. 
 
 Though inattentive to the school exercises, I had never 
 been wholly idle. I was a lover of abstruser researches than 
 the hackneyed subjects of the school, and we had really re- 
 ceived such extensive and judicious instructions from the 
 Abbe during our early years that it would have been scarcely 
 possible for any of us to have fallen into a thorough distaste 
 for intellectual pursuits. In the examination I foresaw that 
 much which I had previously acquired might be profitably 
 displayed, — much secret and recondite knowledge of the cus- 
 toms and manners of the ancients, as well as their literature, 
 which curiosity had led me to obtain, and which I knew had 
 never entered into the heads of those who, contented with 
 their reputation in the customary academical routine, had 
 rarely dreamed of wandering into less beaten paths of learn- 
 ing. Fortunately too for me, Gerald was so certain of success 
 that latterly he omitted all precaution to obtain it; and as 
 none of our schoolfellows had the vanity to think of contest- 
 ing with him, even the Abbe seemed to imagine him justified 
 in his supineness. 
 
 The day arrived. Sir William, my mother, the whole aris- 
 tocracy of the neighbourhood, were present at the trial. The 
 Abbe came to my room a few hours before it commenced : he 
 found the door locked. 
 
 " Ungracious boy, " said he, " admit me ; I come at the ear- 
 nest request of your brother Aubrey to give you some hints 
 preparatory to the examination." 
 
 "He has indeed come at my wish," said the soft and silver 
 voice of Aubrey, in a supiDlicating tone : " do admit him, dear 
 Morton, for my sake ! " 
 
 "Go," said I, bitterly, from within, "go: ye are both my 
 foes and slanderers ; you come to insult my disgrace before- 
 hand; but perhaps you will yet be disappointed." 
 
 " You will not open the door ? " said the priest. 
 
 "I will not; begone." 
 
 "He will indeed disgrace his family," said Montreuil, 
 moving away. 
 
DEVEREUX. 17 
 
 "He will disgrace himself," said Aubrey, dejectedly. 
 
 I laughed scornfully. If ever the consciousness of strength 
 is pleasant, it is when we are thought most Aveak. 
 
 The greater part of our examination consisted in the an- 
 swering of certain questions in Avriting, given to us in the 
 three days immediately previous to the grand and final one; 
 for this last day was reserved the paper of composition (as it 
 was termed) in verse and prose, and the personal examination 
 in a feAv showy, but generally understood, subjects. When 
 Gerald gave in his paper, and answered the verbal questions, 
 a buzz of admiration and anxiety went round the room. His 
 person was so handsome, his address so graceful, his voice so 
 assured and clear, that a strong and universal sympathy was 
 excited in his favour. The head-master publicly compli- 
 mented him. He regretted only the deficiency of his pupil 
 in certain minor but important matters. I came next, for I 
 stood next to Gerald in our class. As I walked up the hall, 
 I raised my eyes to the gallery in which my uncle and his 
 party sat. I saw that my mother was listening to the Abbe, 
 whose eye, severe, cold, and contemptuous, was bent upon me. 
 But my uncle leaned over the railing of the gallery, with 
 his plumed hat in his hand, which, when he caught my look, 
 he waved gently, — as if in token of encouragement, and with 
 an air so kind and cheering, that I felt my step grow prouder 
 as I approached the conclave of the masters. 
 
 "Morton Devereux," said the president of the school, in a 
 calm, loud, austere voice, that filled the whole hall, "we have 
 looked over your papers on the three previous days, and they 
 have given us no less surprise than pleasure. Take heed and 
 time how you answer us now." 
 
 At this speech a loud murmur was heard in my uncle's 
 party, which gradually spread round the hall. I again looked 
 up: my mother's face was averted; that of the Abbe was im- 
 penetrable ; but I saw my uncle wiping his eyes, and felt a 
 strange emotion creeping into my own. I turned hastily 
 away, and presented my paper; the head-master received it, 
 and, putting it aside, proceeded to the verbal examination. 
 
 Conscious of the parts in which Gerald was likely to fail, I 
 
 2 
 
18 DEVEREUX. 
 
 had paid especial attention to tlie minutiae of scholarship, and 
 my forethought stood me in good stead at the present moment. 
 My trial ceased; my last paper was read. I bowed, and re- 
 tired to the other end of the hall. I was not so popular as 
 Gerald; a crowd was assembled round him, but I stood alone. 
 As I leaned against a column, with folded arms, and a counte- 
 nance which I felt betrayed little of my internal emotions, 
 my eye caught Gerald's. He was very pale, and I could see 
 that his hand trembled. Despite of our enmity, I felt for 
 him. The worst passions are softened by triumph, and I 
 foresaw that mine was at hand. 
 
 The whole examination was over. Every boy had passed 
 it. The masters retired for a moment; they reappeared and 
 reseated themselves. The first sound I heard was that of my 
 own name. I was the victor of the day: I was more; I was 
 one hundred marks before my brother. My head swam round; 
 my breath forsook me. Since then I have been placed in 
 many trials of life, and had many triumphs ; but never was I 
 so overcome as at that moment. I left the hall; I scarcely 
 listened to the applauses with which it rang. I hurried to 
 my own chamber, and threw myself on the bed in a delirium 
 of intoxicated feeling, which had in it more of rapture than 
 anything but the gratification of first love or first vanity can 
 bestow. 
 
 Ah! it would be worth stimulating our passions if it were 
 only for the pleasure of remembering their effect; and all vio- 
 lent excitement should be indulged less for present joy than 
 for future retrospection. 
 
 My uncle's step was the first thing which intruded on my 
 solitude. 
 
 "Od's fish, my boy," said he, crying like a child, "this is 
 fine work, — 'Gad, so it is. I almost wish I were a boy my- 
 self to have a match with you, — faith I do, — see what it is 
 to learn a little of life ! If you had never read my play, do 
 you think you would have done half so well ? — no, my boy, I 
 sharpened your wits for you. Honest George Etherege and 
 I, — we were the making of you! and when you come to be a 
 great man, and are asked what made you so, you shall say, 
 
DEVEREUX. 19 
 
 'My uncle's play; ' 'Gad, you shall. Faith, boy, never 
 smile ! Od's fish, I '11 tell you a story as a jjropos to the 
 present occasion as if it had been made on purpose. Roches- 
 ter and I and Sedley were walking one day, and — entre notis 
 — awaiting certain appointments — hem ! — for my part I was 
 a little melancholy or so, thinking of my catastrophe, — that 
 is, of my play's catastrophe; and so, said Sedley, winking at 
 Eochester, 'Our friend is sorrowful.' 'Truly,' said I, seeing 
 they were about to banter me, — for you know they were arch 
 fellows, — 'truly, little Sid' (we called Sedley Sid), 'you are 
 greatly mistaken ; ' — you see, Morton, I was thus sharp upon 
 him because when you go to court you will discover that it 
 does not do to take without giving. And then Rochester said, 
 looking roguishly towards me, the wittiest thing against Sedley 
 that ever I heard ; it was the most celebrated bon mot at court 
 for three weeks; he said — no, boy, od's fish, it was so sting- 
 ing I can't tell it thee; faith, I can't. Poor Sid; he was a 
 good fellow, though malicious, — and he's dead now. I'm 
 sorry I said a word about it. Nay, never look so disap- 
 pointed, boy. You have all the cream of the story as it is. 
 And now put on your hat, and come with me. I 've got leave 
 for you to take a walk with your old uncle." 
 
 That night, as I was undressing, I heard a gentle rap at the 
 door, and Aubrey entered. He approached me timidly, and 
 then, throwing his arms round my neck, kissed me in silence. 
 I had not for years experienced such tenderness from him; 
 and I sat now mute and surprised. At last I said, with the 
 sneer which I must confess I usually assumed towards those 
 persons whom I imagined I had a right to think ill of: — 
 
 " Pardon me, my gentle brother, there is something porten- 
 tous in this sudden change. Look well round the room, and 
 tell me at your earliest leisure what treasure it is that you 
 are desirous should pass from my possession into your own." 
 
 "Your love, Morton," said Aubrey, drawing back, but ap- 
 parently in pride, not anger; "your love: I ask nothing 
 more." 
 
 "Of a surety, kind Aubrey," said I, "the favour seems 
 somewhat slight to have caused your modesty such delay in 
 
20 DEVEREUX. 
 
 requesting it. I tliink you have been now some years nerving 
 your mind to the exertion." 
 
 " Listen to me, Morton, " said Aubrey, suppressing his emo- 
 tion; "you have always been my favourite brother. From 
 our lirst childhood my heart yearned to you. Do you remem- 
 ber the time when an enraged bull pursued me, and you, then 
 only ten years old, placed yourself before it and defended me 
 at the risk of your own life ? Do you think I could ever for- 
 get that, — child as I Avas ? — never, Morton, never .' " 
 
 Before I could answer the door was thrown open, and the 
 Abbe entered. "Children," said he, and the single light of 
 the room shone full upon his unmoved, rigid, commanding 
 features — " children, be as Heaven intended you, — friends and 
 brothers. Morton, I have wronged jou, I own it; here is my 
 hand : Aubrey, let all but early love, and the i:)resent promise 
 of excellence which your brother displays, be forgotten." 
 
 With these words the priest joined our hands. I looked on 
 my brother, and my heart melted. I flung myself into his 
 arms and wept. 
 
 " This is well, " said Montreuil, surveying us with a kind of 
 grim complacency, and, taking my brother's arm, he blest us 
 both, and led Aubrey away. 
 
 That day was a new era in my boyish life. I grew hence- 
 forth both better and worse. Application and I having once 
 shaken hands became very good acquaintance. I had hitherto 
 valued mj-self upon supplying the frailties of a delicate frame 
 by an uncommon agility in all bodily exercises. I now strove 
 rather to improve the deficiencies of my mind, and became 
 orderly, industrious, and devoted to study. So far so well; 
 but as I grew wiser, I |^rew also more wary. Candour no 
 longer seemed to me the finest of virtues. I thought before 
 I spoke: and second thought sometimes quite changed the 
 nature of the intended speech ; in short, gentlemen of the next 
 century, to tell you the exact truth, the little Count Devereux 
 became somewhat of a hyj)ocrite ! 
 
DEVEREUX. 21 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A CONTEST OF ART AND A LEAGUE OF FRIENDSHIP. TWO 
 
 CHARACTERS IN MUTUAL IGNORANCE OF EACH OTHER, AND 
 THE READER NO WISER THAN EITHER OF THEM. 
 
 The Abbe was now particularly courteous to me. He made 
 Gerald and myself breakfast with him, and told us nothing 
 was so amiable as friendship among brothers. We agreed to 
 the sentiment, and, like all philosophers, did not agree a bit 
 the better for acknowledging the same first principles. Per- 
 haps, notwithstanding his fine speeches, the Abbe was the real 
 cause of our continued want of cordiality. However, we did 
 not fight any more : we avoided each other, and at last became 
 as civil and as distant as those mathematical lines which 
 appear to be taking all possible pains to approach one another 
 and never get a jot the nearer for it. Oh! your civility is 
 the prettiest invention possible for dislike! Aubrey and I 
 were inseparable, and we both gained by the intercourse. I 
 grew more gentle, and he more masculine ; and, for my part, 
 the kindness of his temper so softened the satire of mine that 
 I learned at last to smile full as often as to sneer. 
 
 The Abb6 had obtained a wonderful hold over Aubrey ; he 
 had made the poor boy think so much of the next world, that 
 he had lost all relish for this. He lived in a perpetual fear 
 of offence: he was like a chemist of conscience, and weighed 
 minutiae by scruples. To play, to ride, to run, to laugh at a 
 jest, or to banquet on a melon, were all sins to be atoned for; 
 and I have found (as a penance for eating twenty-three cher- 
 ries instead of eighteen) the penitent of fourteen standing, 
 barefooted, in the coldest nights of winter, upon the hearth- 
 stones, almost utterly naked, and shivering like a leaf, be- 
 neath the mingled effect of frost and devotion. At first I 
 attempted to wrestle with this exceeding holiness, but finding 
 
22 DEVEREUX. 
 
 my admonitions received with, great distaste and some horror, 
 I suffered my brother to be happy in his own way. I only 
 looked with a very evil and jealous eye upon the good Abbe, 
 and examined, while I encouraged them, the motives of his 
 advances to myself. What doubled my suspicions of the 
 purity of the priest was my perceiving that he appeared to 
 hold out different inducements for trusting him to each of us, 
 according to his notions of our respective characters. My 
 brother Gerald he alternately awed and persuaded, by the sole 
 effect of superior intellect. With Aubrey he used the mech- 
 anism of superstition. To me, he, on the one hand, never 
 spoke of religion, nor, on the other, ever used threats or per- 
 suasion, to induce me to follow any plan suggested to my 
 adoption; everything seemed to be left to my reason and my 
 ambition. He would converse with me for hours upon the 
 world and its affairs, speak of courts and kings, in an easy 
 and unpedantic strain ; point out the advantage of intellect in 
 acquiring power and controlling one's species; and, whenever 
 I was disposed to be sarcastic upon the human nature I had 
 read of, he supported my sarcasm by illustrations of the hu- 
 man nature he had seen. We were both, I think (for myself 
 I can answer), endeavouring to pierce the real nature of the 
 other; and perhaps the talent of diplomacy for which, years 
 afterwards, I obtained some applause, was first learnt in my 
 skirmishing warfare with the Abbe Montreuil. 
 
 At last, the evening before we quitted school for good ar- 
 rived. Aubrey had just left me for solitary prayers, and I 
 was sitting alone by my fire, when Montreuil entered gently. 
 He sat himself down by me, and, after giving me the saluta- 
 tion of the evening, sank into a silence which I was the first 
 to break. 
 
 "Pray, Abbe," said I, "have one's j^ears anything to do 
 with one's age ? " 
 
 The priest was accustomed to the peculiar tone of my 
 sagacious remarks, and answered dryly, — 
 
 "Mankind in general imagine that they have." 
 
 "Faith, then," said I, "mankind know very little about the 
 matter. To-day I am at school, and a boy; to-morrow I 
 
DEVEREUX. 23 
 
 leave scliool ; if I hasten to town I am presented at court ; and 
 lo ! I am a man ; and this change within half-a-dozen changes 
 of the sun ! therefore, most reverend father, I humbly opine 
 that age is measured by events, not years." 
 
 "And are you not happy at the idea of passing the age of 
 thraldom, and seeing arrayed before you the numberless and 
 dazzling pomps and pleasures of the great world?" said Mon- 
 treuil, abruptly, fixing his dark and keen eye upon me. 
 
 "I have not yet fully made up my mind whether to be 
 happy or not," said I, carelessly. 
 
 "It is a strange answer;" said the priest; "but" (after a 
 pause) "you are a strange youth: a character that resembles 
 a riddle is at your age uncommon, and, pardon me, unamiable. 
 Age, naturally repulsive, requires a mask; and in every 
 wrinkle you may behold the ambush of a scheme: but the 
 heart of youth should be open as its countenance ! However, 
 I will not weary you with homilies; let us change the topic. 
 Tell me, Morton, do j'ou repent having turned your attention 
 of late to those graver and more systematic studies which 
 can alone hereafter obtain you distinction ? " 
 
 "No, father," said I, with a courtly bow, "for the change 
 has gained me your good opinion." 
 
 A smile, of peculiar and undefinable expression, crossed the 
 thin lips of the priest; he rose, walked to the door, and saw 
 that it was carefully closed. I expected some important 
 communication, but in vain; pacing the small room to and fro, 
 as if in a musing mood, the Abbe remained silent, till, paus- 
 ing opposite some fencing foils, which among various matters 
 (books, papers, quoits, etc.) were thrown idly in one corner 
 of the room, he said, — 
 
 " They tell me that you are the best fencer in the school — 
 is it so ? " 
 
 "I hope not, for fencing is an accomplishment in which 
 Gerald is very nearly my equal," I replied. 
 
 " You run, ride, leap, too, better than any one else, accord- 
 ing to the votes of your comrades ? " 
 
 "It is a noble reputation," said I, "in which I believe I am 
 only excelled by our huntsman's eldest son." 
 
24 DEVEREUX. 
 
 "You are a strange youth," repeated tlie priest; "no pursuit 
 seems to give you pleasure, and no success to gratify your vanity. 
 Can you not think of any triumph which would elate you ? " 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 " Y"es," cried Montreuil, approaching me, — "yes," cried he, 
 " I read your heart, and I respect it ; these are petty competi- 
 tions and worthless honours. You require a nobler goal, and 
 a more glorious reward. He who feels in his soul that Fate 
 has reserved for him a great and exalted part in this world's 
 drama may reasonably look with indifference on these paltry 
 rehearsals of common characters." 
 
 I raised my eye, and as it met that of the priest, I was ir- 
 resistibly struck with the proud and luminous expression 
 which Montreuil's look had assumed. Perhaps something 
 kindred to its nature was perceptible in my own; for, after 
 surveying me with an air of more approbation than he had 
 ever honoured me with before, he grasped my arm firmly, and 
 said, "Morton, you knoAV me not; for many years I have not 
 known you: that time is past. No sooner did your talents 
 develop themselves than I was the first to do homage to their 
 power: let us henceforth be more to each other than we have 
 been; let us not be pupil and teacher; let us be friends. 
 Do not think that I invite you to an unequal exchange 
 of good offices: you may be the heir to wealth and a dis- 
 tinguished name; I may seem to you but an unknown and 
 undignified priest; but the authority of the Almighty can 
 raise up, from the sheepfold and the cotter's shed, a power, 
 which, as the organ of His own, can trample upon sceptres 
 and dictate to the supremacy of kings. And / — /" — the 
 priest abruptly paused, checked the warmth of his manner, as 
 if he thought it about to encroach on indiscretion, and, sink- 
 ing into a calmer tone, continued, "yes, I, Morton, insignifi- 
 cant as I appear to you, can, in every path through this 
 intricate labyrinth of life, be more useful to your desires than 
 you can ever be to mine. I offer to you in my friendship a 
 fervour of zeal and energy of power which in none of your 
 equals, in age and station, you can hope to find. Do you 
 accept my offer ? " 
 
DEVEREUX. 25 
 
 "Can you doubt," said I, with eagerness, "that I wouhl 
 avail myself of the services of any man, however displeasing 
 to me, and worthless in himself ? How, then, can I avoid 
 embracing the friendship of one so extraordinary in knowledge 
 and intellect as yourself ? I do embrace it, and with rapture." 
 
 The priest pressed my hand. "But," continued he, fixing 
 his eyes upon mine, "all alliances have their conditions: I 
 require implicit confidence ; and for some years, till time gives 
 you experience, regard for your interests induces me also to 
 require obedience. Name any wish you may form for worldly 
 advancement, opulence, honour, the smile of kings, the gifts 
 of states, and — I — I will pledge myself to carry that wish 
 into effect. Never had eastern prince so faithful a servant 
 among the Dives and Genii as Morton Devereux shall find in 
 me : but question me not of the sources of my power ; be sat- 
 isfied when their channel wafts you the success you covet. 
 And, more, when I in my turn (and this shall be but rarely) 
 request a favour of you, ask me not for what end nor hesitate 
 to adopt the means I shall propose. You seem startled; are 
 you content at this understanding between us, or will you 
 retract the bond ? " 
 
 "My father," said I, "there is enough to startle me in your 
 proposal ; it greatly resembles that made by the Old Man of 
 the Mountains to his vassals, and it would not exactly suit my 
 inclinations to be called upon some morning to act the part of 
 a private executioner." 
 
 The priest smiled. "My young friend," said he, "those 
 days have passed; neither religion nor friendship requires of 
 her votaries sacrifices of blood. But make yourself easy; 
 whenever I ask of you what offends your conscience, even in a 
 punctilio, refuse my request. With this exception, what say 
 you ? " 
 
 " That I think I will agree to the bond : but, father, I am 
 an irresolute person; I must have time to consider." 
 
 "Be it so. To-morrow, having surrendered my charge to 
 your uncle, I depart for France." 
 
 "For France!" said I; "and how? Surely the war will 
 prevent your passage." 
 
26 DEVEREUX. 
 
 The priest smiled. ]Si^othing ever displeased me more than 
 that priest's smile. " The ecclesiastics," said he, " are the am- 
 bassadors of Heaven, and have nothing to do with the wars of 
 earth. I shall find no difficulty in crossing the Channel. I 
 shall not return for several months, perhaps not till the expi- 
 ration of a year: I leave you, till then, to decide upon the 
 terms I have proposed to you. Meanwhile, gratify my vanity 
 by employing my power; name some commission in France 
 which you wish me to execute." 
 
 "I can think of none, — yet, stay; " and I felt some curios- 
 ity to try the power of which he boasted, — "I hav^e read that 
 kings are blest with a most accommodating memory, and per- 
 fectly forget their favourites when they can be no longer use- 
 ful. You will see, perhaps, if my father's name has become 
 a Gothic and unknown sound at the court of the Great King. 
 I confess myself curious to learn this, though I can have no 
 personal interest in it." 
 
 "Enough, the commission shall be done. And now, my 
 child, Heaven bless you! and send you many such friends as 
 the humble priest, who, whatever be his failings, has, at least, 
 the merit of wishing to serve those whom he loves." 
 
 So saying, the priest closed the door. Sinking into a rev- 
 ery, as his footsteps died upon my ear, I muttered to myself; 
 " Well, well, my sage ecclesiastic, the game is not over yet ; 
 let us see if, at sixteen, we cannot shuffle cards, and play 
 tricks with the gamester of thirty. Yet he may be in ear- 
 nest, and faith I believe he is ; but I must look well before I 
 leap, or consign my actions into such spiritual keeping. 
 However, if the worst come to the worst, if I do make this 
 compact, and am deceived, — if, above all, I am ever seduced, 
 or led blindfold into one of those snares which priestcraft 
 sometimes lays to the cost of honour, — whj-, I shall have a 
 sword, which I shall never be at a loss to use, and it can find 
 its way through a priest's gown as well as a soldier's corselet." 
 
 Confess that a youth who could think so promptly of his 
 sword was well fitted to wear one! 
 
DEVEREUX. 27 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 KUKAL HOSPITALITY. AN EXTRAORDINARY GUEST. A FINE 
 
 GENTLEMAN IS NOT NECESSARILY A FOOL. 
 
 We were all three (my brotliers and myself) precocious 
 geniuses. Our early instructions, under a man like the Abbe, 
 at once learned and worldly, and the society into which we 
 had been initiated from our childhood, made us premature 
 adepts in the manners of the world ; and I, in especial, flat- 
 tered myself that a quick habit of observation rendered me no 
 despicable profiter by my experience. Our academy, too, had 
 been more like a college than a school; and we had enjoyed a 
 license that seemed to the superficial more likely to benefit 
 our manners than to strengthen our morals. I do not think, 
 however, that the latter suffered by our freedom from re- 
 straint. On the contrary, we the earlier learned that vice, but 
 for the piquancy of its unlawfulness, would never be so cap- 
 tivating a goddess; and our errors and crimes in after life 
 had certainly not their origin in our wanderings out of 
 academical bounds. 
 
 It is right that I should mention our prematurity of intel- 
 lect, because, otherwise, much of my language and reflections, 
 as detailed in the first book of this history, might seem ill 
 suited to the tender age at which they occurred. However, 
 they approach, as nearly as possible, to my state of mind at 
 that period; and I have, indeed, often mortified my vanity in 
 later life by thinking how little the march of time has ripened 
 my abilities, and how petty would have been the intellectual 
 acquisitions of manhood, if they had not brought me some- 
 thing like content! 
 
 My uncle had always, during his retirement, seen as many 
 people as he could assemble out of the "mob of gentlemen 
 who live at ease." But, on our quitting school and becoming 
 men, he resolved to set no bounds to his hospitality. His 
 
28 DEVEREUX. 
 
 floors were literally thrown open ; and as lie was by far the 
 greatest person in the district — to say nothing of his wines, 
 and his French cook — many of the good people of London 
 did not think it too great an honour to confer upon the 
 wealthy representative of the Devereuxs the distinction of 
 their company and compliments. Heavens! what notable 
 samples of court breeding and furbelows did the crane-neck 
 coaches, which made our own family vehicle look like a gilt 
 tortoise, pour forth by couples and leashes into the great hall ; 
 while my gallant uncle, in new periwig and a pair of silver- 
 clocked stockings (a present from a ci-devant fine lady), stood 
 at the far end of the picture-gallery to receive his visitors 
 with all the graces of the last age. 
 
 My mother, who had preserved her beauty wonderfully, sat 
 in a chair of green velvet, and astonished the courtiers by 
 the fashion of a dress only just imported. The worthy Coun- 
 tess (she had dropped m England the loftier distinction of 
 Madame la Marechale) was hoAvever quite innocent of any 
 intentional affectation of the mode; for the new stomacher, so 
 admired in London, had been the last alteration in female 
 garniture at Paris a month before my father died. Is not this 
 "Fashion" a noble divinity to possess such zealous adher- 
 ents ? — a pitiful, lackey -like creature, which struts through 
 one country with the cast-off finery of another! 
 
 As for Aubrey and Gerald, they produced quite an effect ; 
 and I should most certainly have been thrown irrevocably 
 into the background had I not been born to the good fortune 
 of an eldest son. This was far more than sufficient to atone 
 for the comparative plainness of my person ; and when it was 
 discovered that I was also Sir William's favourite, it is quite 
 astonishing what a beauty I became ! Aubrey Avas declared 
 too effeminate; Gerald too tall. And the Duchess of Lack- 
 land one day, when she had placed a lean, sallow ghost of a 
 daughter on either side of me, whispered my uncle in a voice, 
 like the aside of a player, intended for none but the whole 
 audience, that the young Count had the most imposing air 
 and the finest eyes she had ever seen. All this inspired me 
 with courage, as well as contempt; and not liking to be be- 
 
DEVEREUX. 29 
 
 liolden solely to my priority of birth for my priority of dis- 
 tinction, I resolved to become as agreeable as possible. If I 
 had not in the vanity of my heart resolved also to be " myself 
 alone," Fate would have furnished me at the happiest age for 
 successful imitation with an admirable model. 
 
 Time rolled on; two years were flown since I had left school, 
 and ]\Iontreuil was not yet returned. I had passed the age of 
 (nghteen, when the whole house, which, as it was summer, 
 when none but cats and physicians were supposed gifted by 
 Providence with the jjower to exist in town, was uncommonly 
 full, — the whole house, I say, was thrown into a positive 
 fever of expectation. The visit of a guest, if not of greater 
 consequence at least of greater interest than any who had 
 hitherto honoured my uncle, was announced. Even the young 
 Count, with the most imposing air in the world and the finest 
 eyes, was forgotten by everybody but the Duchess of Lack- 
 land and her daughters, who had just returned to Devereux 
 Court to observe how amazingly the Count had grown! Oh! 
 what a prodigy wisdom would be, if it were but blest with a 
 memory as keen and constant as that of interest! 
 
 Struck with the universal excitement, I went to my uncle 
 to inquire the name of the expected guest. My uncle was oc- 
 cupied in fanning the Lady Hasselton, a daughter of one of 
 King Charles's Beauties. He had only time to answer me 
 literally, and without comment; the guest's name was Mr. St. 
 John. 
 
 I had never conned the "Flying Post," and I knew nothing 
 about politics. "Who is Mr. St. John?" said I; my uncle 
 had renewed the office of a zephyr. The daughter of the 
 Beauty heard and answered, " The most charming person in 
 England." I bowed and turned away. "How vastly explan- 
 atory!" said L I met a furious politician, "Who is INIr. 
 St. John?" I asked. 
 
 "The cleverest man in England," answered the politician, 
 hurrj'ing olf with a pamphlet in his hand. 
 
 "Nothing can be more satisfactory," thought I. Stopping 
 a coxcomb of the first water, " Who is Mr. St. John ? " I 
 asked. 
 
30 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " The finest gentleman in England, " answered the coxcomb, 
 settling his cravat. 
 
 " Perfectly intelligible ! " was my reflection on this reply ; 
 and I forthwith arrested a Whig parson, — "Who is Mr. St. 
 John?" said I. 
 
 " The greatest reprobate in England ! " answered the Whig 
 parson, and I was too stunned to inquire more. 
 
 Five minutes afterwards the sound of carriage wheels Avas 
 heard in the courtyard, then a slight bustle in the hall, and 
 the door of the ante-room being thrown open Mr. St. John 
 entered. 
 
 He was in the very prime of life, about the middle height, 
 and of a mien and air so strikingly noble that it was some 
 time before you recovered the general effect of his person 
 sufficiently to examine its peculiar claims to admiration. 
 However, he lost nothing by a further survey: he possessed 
 not only an eminently handsome but a very extraordinary 
 countenance. Through an air of nonchalance, and even some- 
 thing of lassitude; through an ease of manners sometimes 
 sinking into effeminate softness, sometimes bordering upon 
 licentious effrontery, — his eye thoughtful, yet wandering, 
 seemed to announce that the mind partook but little of the 
 whim of the moment, or of those levities of ordinary life over 
 which the grace of his manner threw so peculiar a charm. 
 His brow was, perhaps, rather too large and prominent for 
 the exactness of perfect symmetry, but it had an expression 
 of great mental power and determination. His features were 
 high, yet delicate, and his mouth, which, when closed, as- 
 sumed a firm and rather severe expression, softened, when 
 speaking, into a smile of almost magical enchantment. Richly 
 but not extravagantly dressed, he appeared to cultivate rather 
 than disdain the ornaments of outward appearance ; and what- 
 ever can fascinate or attract was so inherent in this singular 
 man that all which in others would have been most artificial 
 was in him most natural : so that it is no exaggeration to add 
 that to be well dressed seemed to the elegance of his person 
 not so much the result of art as of a property innate and pe- 
 culiar to himself. 
 
DEVEREUX. 31 
 
 Such was the outward appearance of Henry St. John; one 
 well suited to the qualities of a mind at once more vigorous 
 and more accomplished than that of any other person with 
 whom the vicissitudes of my life have ever brought me into 
 contact. 
 
 I kept my eye on the new guest throughout the whole day : 
 I observed the mingled liveliness and softness which pervaded 
 his attentions to women, the intellectual yet unpedantic su- 
 periority he possessed in his conversations with men; his re- 
 spectful demeanour to age; his careless, yet not over-familiar, 
 ease with the young; and, what interested me more than all, 
 the occasional cloud which passed over his countenance at 
 moments when he seemed sunk into a revery that had for its 
 objects nothing in common with those around him. 
 
 Just before dinner St. John was talking to a little group, 
 among whom curiosity seemed to have drawn the Whig par- 
 son whom I have before mentioned. He stood at a little dis- 
 tance, shy and uneasy; one of the company took advantage 
 of so favourable a butt for jests, and alluded to the bystander 
 in a witticism which drew laughter from all but St. John, 
 who, turning suddenly towards the parson, addressed an ob- 
 servation to him in the most respectful tone. Nor did he 
 cease talking with him (fatiguing as the conference must 
 have been, for never was there a duller ecclesiastic than the 
 gentleman conversed with) until we descended to dinner. 
 Then, for the first time, I learned that nothing can constitute 
 good breeding that has not good-nature for its foundation; 
 and then, too, as I was leading Lady Barbara Lackland to the 
 great hall by the tip of her forefinger I made another obser- 
 vation. Passing the priest, I heard him say to a fellow- 
 clerk, — 
 
 "Certainly, he is the greatest man in England;" and I 
 mentally remarked, "There is no policy like politeness; and a 
 good manner is the best thing in the Avorld, either to get one 
 a good name or to supply the want of it." 
 
32 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A DIALOGUE, WHICH BIIGHT BE DULL IF IT WERE LONGER. 
 
 Three days after the arrival of St. John, I escaped from 
 the crowd of impertinents, seized a volume of Cowley, and, 
 in a fit of mingled poetry and melancholy, strolled idly into 
 the park. I came to the margin of the stream, and to the 
 very spot on which I had stood with my uncle on the evening 
 when he had first excited my emulation to scholastic rather 
 than manual contention witli my brother; I seated myself by 
 the water-side, and, feeling indisposed to read, leaned my cheek 
 upon my hand, and surrendered my thoughts as prisoners to 
 the reflections which I could not resist. 
 
 I continued I know not how long in my meditation, till I 
 was roused by a gentle touch upon my shoulder ; I looked up, 
 and saw St. John. 
 
 "Pardon me, Count," said he, smiling, "I should not have 
 disturbed your reflections had not your neglect of an old 
 friend emboldened me to address you upon his behalf. ' And 
 St. John pointed to the volume of Cowley which he had taken 
 up without my perceiving it. 
 
 "Well," added he, seating himself on the turf beside me, 
 " in my younger days, poetry and I were better friends than 
 we are now. And if I had had Cowley as a companion, I 
 should not have parted with him as you have done, even for 
 my own reflections." 
 
 "You admire him then ?" said I. 
 
 "AVhy, that is too general a question. I admire what is 
 fine in him, as in every one else, but I do not love him the 
 better for his points and his conceits. He reminds me of 
 what Cardinal Pallavicino said of Seneca, that he 'perfumes 
 his conceits with civet and ambergris.' However, Count, I 
 have opened upon a beautiful motto for you : — 
 
DEVEREUX. 33 
 
 "'Here let me, careless and nntlionctlitful lying, 
 Hear the soft winds above me flying, 
 With all their wanton boughs dispute, 
 And the more tuneful birds to both replying; 
 .Nor be myself too mute.' 
 
 What say you to that wish ? If you have a germ of poetry 
 in you such verse ought to bring it into flower." 
 
 "Ay," answered I, though not exactly in accordance with 
 the truth; "but I have not that germ. I destroyed it four 
 years ago. Eeading the dedications of poets cured me of the 
 love for poetry. What a pity that the Divine Inspiration 
 should have for its oracles such mean souls ! " 
 
 "Yes, and how industrious the good gentlemen are in de- 
 basing themselves! Their ingenuity is never half so much 
 shown in a simile as in a compliment; I know nothing in 
 nature more melancholy than the discovery of any meanness 
 in a great man. There is so little to redeem the dry mass of 
 follies and errors from which the materials of this life are 
 composed, that anything to love or to reverence becomes, as 
 it were, the sabbath for the mind. It is better to feel, as we 
 grow older, how the respite is abridged, and how the few ob- 
 jects left to our admiration are abased. What a foe not only 
 to life, but to all that dignifies and ennobles it, is Time! 
 Our affections and our pleasures resemble those fabulous trees 
 described by Saint Oderic : the fruits which they bring forth 
 are no sooner ripened into maturity than they are transformed 
 into birds and fly away. But these reflections cannot yet be 
 familiar to you. Let us return to Cowley. Do you feel any 
 sympathy with his prose writings ? For some minds they 
 have a great attraction." 
 
 "They have for mine," answered I: "but then I am natur- 
 ally a dreamer; and a contemplative egotist is always to me a 
 mirror in which I behold myself. " 
 
 "The world," answered St. John, Avith a melancholy smile, 
 "will soon dissolve, or forever confirm, your humour for 
 dreaming; in either case, Cowley will not be less a favourite. 
 But you must, like me, have long toiled in the heat and tra- 
 vail of business, or of pleasure, which is more wearisome still, 
 
 3 
 
34 DEVEREUX. 
 
 in order fully to sympathize with those beautiful panegyrics 
 upon solitude which make perhaps the finest passages in Cow- 
 ley. I have often thought that he whom God hath gifted 
 with a love of retirement possesses, as it were, an extra sense. 
 And among what our poet so eloquently calls 'the vast and 
 noble scenes of Nature, ' we find the balm for the wounds we 
 have sustained among the 'pitiful shifts of policy;' for the 
 attachment to solitude is the surest preservative from the ills 
 of life : and I know not if the Eomans ever instilled, under 
 allegory, a sublimer truth than when they inculcated the be- 
 lief that those inspired by Feronia, the goddess of woods and 
 forests, could walk barefoot and uninjured over burning 
 coals." 
 
 At this part of our conference, the bell swinging hoarsely 
 through the long avenues, and over the silent water, sum- 
 moned us to the grand occupation of civilized life ; we rose 
 and walked slowly towards the house. 
 
 "Does not," said I, "this regular routine of petty occur- 
 rence, this periodical solemnity of trifles, weary and disgust 
 you ? For my part, I almost long for the old days of knight- 
 errantry, and would rather be knocked on the head by a giant, 
 or carried through the air by a flying griffin, than live in this 
 circle of dull regularities, — the brute at the mill." 
 
 "You may live even in these days," answered St. John, 
 " without too tame a regularity. Women and politics furnish 
 ample food for adventure, and you must not judge of all life 
 by country life." 
 
 "Nor of all conversation," said I, with a look which im- 
 plied a compliment, "by the insipid idlers who fill our sa- 
 loons. Behold them now, gathered by the oriel window, 
 yonder; precious distillers of talk, — sentinels of society with 
 certain set phrases as watchwords, which they never exceed; 
 sages, who follow Face's advice to Dapper, — 
 
 "'Hum thrice, and buzz as often.' " 
 
DEVEREUX. 35 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 A CHANGE OF PROSPECTS. — A NEW INSIGHT INTO THE CHARAC- 
 TER OF THE HERO. A CONFERENCE BETWEEN TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 A DAY or two after the conversation recorded in my last 
 chapter, St. John, to my inexpressible regret, left us for Lon- 
 don; however, we had enjoyed several conferences together 
 during his stay, and when we parted it was with a pressing 
 invitation on his side to visit him in London, and a most 
 faithful promise on mine to avail myself of the request. 
 
 No sooner was he fairly gone than I went to seek my uncle ; 
 I found him reading one of Farquhar's comedies. Despite 
 my sorrow at interrupting him in so venerable a study, I was 
 too full of my new plot to heed breaking off that in the com- 
 edy. In very few words I made the good knight understand 
 that his descriptions had infected me, and that I was dying 
 to ascertain their truth; in a word, that his hopeful nephew 
 was fully bent on going to town. My uncle first stared, then 
 swore, then paused, then looked at his leg, drew up his stock- 
 ing, frowned, whistled, and told me at last to talk to him 
 about it another time. Now, for my part, I think there are 
 only two classes of people in the world authorized to put one 
 off to "another time," — prime ministers and creditors; ac- 
 cordingly, I would not take my uncle's dismissal. I had not 
 read plays, studied philosophy, and laid snares for the Abbe 
 Montreuil without deriving some little wisdom from my expe- 
 rience; so I took to teasing, and a notable plan it is too! 
 Whoever has pursued it may guess the result. My uncle 
 yielded, and that day fortnight was fixed for my departure. 
 
 Oh! with what transport did I look forward to the comple- 
 tion of my wishes, the goal of my ambition! I hastened forth; 
 I hurried into the woods ; I sang out in the gladness of my 
 heart, like a bird released; I drank in the air with a raptur- 
 
36 DEVEREUX. 
 
 ous sympathy in its freedom; my step scarcely touched the 
 earth, and my whole frame seemed ethereal, elated, exalted 
 by the vivifying inspiration of my hopes. I paused by a lit- 
 tle streamlet, which, brawling over stones and through unpen- 
 etrated thicknesses of wood, seemed, like confined ambition, 
 not the less restless for its obscurity. 
 
 "Wild brooklet," I cried, as my thoughts rushed into words, 
 " fret on, our lot is no longer the same ; your wanderings and 
 your murmurs are wasted in solitude and shade ; your voice 
 dies and re-awakes, but without an echo ; your waves spread 
 around their path neither fertility nor terror; their anger is 
 idle, and their freshness is lavished on a sterile soil; the sun 
 shines in vain for you, through these unvarying wastes of si- 
 lence and gloom; Fortune freights not your channel with her 
 hoarded stores, and Pleasure ventures not her silken sails 
 upon your tide; not even the solitary idler roves beside you, 
 to consecrate with human fellowship your melancholy course ; 
 no shape of beauty bends over your turbid waters, or mirrors 
 in your breast the loveliness that hallows earth. Lonely and 
 sullen, through storm or sunshine, you repine along your des- 
 olate way, and only catch, through the matted boughs that 
 darken over you, the beams of the wan stars, which, like hu- 
 man hopes, tremble upon your breast, and are broken, even 
 before they fade, by the very turbulence of the surface on 
 which they fall. Rove, repine, murmur on! Such was my 
 fate, but the resemblance is no more. I shall no longer be a 
 lonely and regretful being; my affections will no longer waste 
 themselves upon barrenness and stone. I go among the liv- 
 ing and warm world of mortal energies and desires ; my ex- 
 istence shall glide alternately through crested cities, and 
 bowers in which Poetry worships Love; and the clear depths 
 of my heart shall reflect whatever its young dreams have 
 shadowed forth, the visioned form, the gentle and fairy spirit, 
 the Eve of my soul's imagined and foreboded paradise." 
 
 Venting, in this incoherent strain, the exultation which 
 filled my thoughts, I wandered on, throughout the whole day, 
 till my spirits had exhausted themselves by indulgence ; and, 
 wearied alike by mental excitement and bodily exertion, I 
 
DEVEREUX. 37 
 
 turned, with slow steps, towards the house. As I ascended 
 the gentle acclivity on which it stood, I saw a figure approach- 
 ing towards me : the increasing shades of the evening did not 
 allow me to recognize the shape until it was almost by my 
 side; it was Aubrey. 
 
 Of late I had seen very little of him. His devotional stud- 
 ies and habits seemed to draw him from the idle pursuits of 
 myself and my uncle's guests; and Aubrey was one peculiarly 
 susceptible of neglect, and sore, to morbidity, at the sem- 
 blance of unkindness; so that he required to be sought, and 
 rarely troubled others with advances: that night, however, 
 his greeting was unusually warm. 
 
 "I was uneasy about you, Morton," said he, drawing my 
 arm in his; "you have not been seen since morning; and, oh! 
 Morton, my uncle told me, with tears in his eyes, that you 
 were going to leave us. Is it so ? " 
 
 " Had he tears in his eyes ? Kind old man ! And you, 
 Aubrey, shall you, too, grieve for my departure ? " 
 
 " Can you ask it, Morton ? But why will you leave us ? 
 Are we not all happy here, now ? Now that there is no 
 longer any barrier or difference between us, — now that I 
 may look upon you, and listen to you, and love you, and own 
 that I love you ? Why will you leave us now ? And [con- 
 tinued Aubrey, as if fearful of giving me time to answer] — 
 and every one praises you so here ; and my uncle and all of 
 us are so proud of you. Why should you desert our affec- 
 tions merely because they are not new ? Why plunge into 
 that hollow and cold world which all who have tried it pic- 
 ture in such fearful hues ? Can you find anything there to 
 repay you for the love you leave behind ? " 
 
 "My brother," said I, mournfully, and in a tone which 
 startled him, — it was so different from that which I usually 
 assumed, — "my brother, hear before you reproach me. Let 
 us sit down upon this bank, and I will suffer you to see more 
 of my restless and secret heart than any hitherto have 
 beheld." 
 
 We sat down upon a little mound: how well I remember 
 the spot ! I can see the tree which shadows it from my win- 
 
88 DEVEREUX. 
 
 dow at this moment. How many seasons liave the sweet herb 
 and the emerald grass been withered there and renewed ! Ah, 
 what is this revival of all things fresh and youthful in exter- 
 nal Kature but a mockery of the wintry si;)ot which lies per- 
 ished and Irrenewable within ! 
 
 We drew near to each other, and as my arm wound around 
 him, I said, " Aubrey, your love has been to me a more pre- 
 cious gift than any who have not, like me, thirsted and longed 
 even for the love of a dog, can conceive. Is ever let me lose 
 that affection ! And do not think of me hereafter as of one 
 whose heart echoed all that his lip uttered. Do not believe 
 that irony, and sarcasm, and bitterness of tongue flowed from 
 a malignant or evil source. That disposition which seems to 
 you alternately so light and gloomy had, perhaps, its origin in 
 a mind too intense in its affections, and too exacting in having 
 them returned. Till you sought my friendship, three short 
 years ago, none but my uncle, with whom I could have nothing 
 in common but attachment, seemed to care for my very exist- 
 ence. I blame them not; they were deceived in my nature: 
 but blame me not too severely if my temper suffered from 
 their mistake. Your friendship came to me, not too late to 
 save me from a premature misanthropy, but too late to 
 eradicate every morbidity of mind. Something of sternness 
 on the one hand, and of satire on the other, has mingled so 
 long with my better feelings that the taint and the stream 
 have become inseparable. Do not sigh, Aubrey. To be un- 
 amiable is not to be ungrateful ; and I shall not love you the 
 less if I have but a few objects to love. You ask me my in- 
 ducement to leave you. ' The World ' will be sufficient an- 
 swer. I cannot share your contempt of it, nor your fear. I 
 am, and have been of late, consumed with a thirst, — eager, 
 and burning, and unquenchable : it is ambition ! " 
 
 "Oh, Morton!" said Aubrey, with a second sigh, longer 
 and deeper than the first, "that evil passion! the passion 
 which lost an angel heaven." 
 
 " Let us not now dispute, my brother, whether it be sinful 
 in itself, or whether, if its object be virtuous, it is not a vir- 
 tue. In baring my soul before you, I only speak of my mo- 
 
DEVEREUX. 39 
 
 tives, and seek not to excuse them. Perhaps on this earth 
 there is no good without a little evil. When my mind was 
 once turned to the acquisition of mental superiority, every 
 petty acquisition I made increased my desire to attain more, 
 and partial emulation soon widened into universal ambition. 
 We three, Gerald and ourselves, are the keepers of a treasure 
 more valuable than gold, — the treasure of a not ignoble nor 
 sullied name. For my part, I confess that I am impatient 
 to increase the store of honour which our father bequeathed 
 to us. Nor is this all : despite our birth, we are poor in the 
 gifts of fortune. We are all dependants on my uncle's fa- 
 vour; and, however we may deserve it, there would be some- 
 thing better in earning an independence for ourselves." 
 
 "That," said Aubrey, "maybe an argument for mine and 
 Gerald's exertions; but not for yours. You are the eldest, 
 and my uncle's favourite. Nature and affection both point 
 to you as his heir." 
 
 " If so, Aubrey, may many years pass before that inherit- 
 ance be mine ! Why should those years that might produce 
 so much lie fallow ? But though I would not affect an unreal 
 delicacy, and disown my chance of future fortune, yet you 
 must remember that it is a matter possible, not certain. My 
 birthright gives me no claim over my uncle, whose estates 
 are in his own gift; and favour, even in the good, is a wind 
 which varies Avithout power on our side to calculate the sea- 
 son or the cause. However this be, — and I love the person 
 on whom fortune depends so much that I cannot, without 
 pain, speak of the mere chance of its passing from his pos- 
 session into mine, — you will own at least that I shall not 
 hereafter deserve wealth the less for the advantages of 
 experience." 
 
 "Alas! " said Aubrey, raising his eyes, "the worship of our 
 Father in Heaven finds us ample cause for occupation, even 
 in retirement; and the more we mix with His creatures, the 
 more, I fear, we may forget the Creator. But if it must be 
 so, I will pray for you, Morton; and you Avill remember that 
 the powerless and poor Aubrey can still lift up his voice in 
 your behalf." 
 
40 DEVEREUX. 
 
 As Aubrey thus spoke, I looked -n-ith mingled envy and 
 admiration upon the countenance beside me, which the beauty 
 of a spirit seemed at once to soften and to exalt. 
 
 Since our conference had begun, the dusk of twilight had 
 melted away; and the moon had called into lustre — living, 
 indeed, but unlike the common and unhallowing life of day 
 — the wood and herbage, and silent variations of hill and val- 
 ley, which slept around us; and, as the still and shadowy 
 light fell over the upward face of my brother, it gave to his 
 features an additional, and not wholly earth-born, solemnity 
 of expression. There was indeed in his face and air that from 
 which the painter of a seraph might not have disdained to 
 copy : something resembling the vision of an angel in the dark 
 eyes that swam with tears, in which emotion had so little of 
 mortal dross ; in the youthful and soft cheeks, which the ear- 
 nestness of divine thought had refined by a pale but transpar- 
 ent hue ; in the high and unclouded forehead, over which the 
 hair, parted in the centre, fell in long and wavelike curls; 
 and in the lips, silent, yet moving with internal prayer, which 
 seemed the more fervent, because unheard. 
 
 I did not interrupt him in the prayer, which my soul felt, 
 though my ear caught it not, was for me. But when he had 
 ceased, and turned towards me, I clasped him to my breast. 
 "My brother," I said, "we shall part, it is true, but not till 
 our hearts have annihilated the space that was between them ; 
 not till we have felt that the love of brotherhood can pass the 
 love of woman. Whatever await you, your devoted and holy 
 mind will be, if not your shield from affliction, at least your 
 balm for its wounds. Eemain here. The quiet which breathes 
 around you well becomes your tranquillity within; and some- 
 times bless me in your devotions, as you have done now. For 
 me, I shall not regret those harder and harsher qualities which 
 you blame in me, if thereafter their very sternness can afford 
 me an opportunity of protecting your gentleness from evil, or 
 redressing the wrongs from which your nature may be too in- 
 nocent to preserve you. And now let us return home in the 
 conviction that we have in our friendship one treasure beyond 
 the reach of fate." 
 
DEVEREUX. 41 
 
 Aubrey did not answer; but lie kissed my forehead, and I 
 felt his tears upon my cheek. We rose, and with arms still 
 embracing each other as we walked, bent our steps to the 
 house. 
 
 Ah, earth ! what hast thou more beautiful than the love of 
 those whose ties are knit by nature, and whose union seems 
 ordained to begin from the very moment of their birth ? 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 FIRST LOVE. 
 
 We are under very changeful influences in this world ! The 
 night on which occurred the interview with Aubrey that I 
 have just narrated, I was burning to leave Devereux Court. 
 Within one little week from that time my eagerness was won- 
 derfully abated. The sagacious reader will readily discover the 
 cause of this alteration. About eight miles from my uncle's 
 house was a seaport town; there were many and varied rides 
 leading to it, and the town was a favourite place of visitation 
 with all the family. Within a few hundred yards of the town 
 was a small cottage, prettily situated in the midst of a garden, 
 kept with singular neatness, and ornamented with several 
 rare shrubs and exotics. I had more than once observed in 
 the garden of this house a female in the very first blush of 
 youth, and beautiful enough to excite within me a strong cu- 
 riosity to learn the owner of the cottage. I inquired, and 
 ascertained that its tenant was a Spaniard of high birth, and 
 one who had acquired a melancholy celebrity by his conduct 
 and misfortunes in the part he had taken in a certain feeble 
 but gallant insurrection in his native country. He had only 
 escaped with life and a very small sum of money, and cow 
 
 lived in the obscure seaport of , a refugee and a recluse. 
 
 He was a widower, and had only one child, — a daughter; and 
 
42 DEVEREUX. 
 
 I Tv^as therefore at no loss to discover who was the beautiful 
 female I had noted and admired. 
 
 On the day after my conversation with Aubrey detailed in 
 the last chapter, in riding past this cottage alone, I perceived 
 a crowd assembled round the entrance; I paused to inquire 
 the cause. 
 
 "Why, your honour," quoth a senior of the village, "I be- 
 lieve the tipstaves be come to take the foreigner for not pay- 
 ing his rent; and he does not understand our English liberty 
 like, and has drawn his sword, and swears, in his outlandish 
 lingo, he will not be made prisoner alive." 
 
 I required no further inducement to make me enter the 
 house. The crowd gave way when they saw me dismount, 
 and suffered me to penetrate into the first apartment. There 
 I found the gallant old Spaniard with his sword drawn, keep- 
 ing at bay a couple of sturdy-looking men, who appeared to be 
 only prevented from using violence by respect for the person 
 or the safety of a young woman, who clung to her father's 
 knees and implored him not to resist where resistance was so 
 unavailing. Let me cut short this scene; I dismissed the 
 bailiffs, and paid the debt. I then endeavoured to explain to 
 the Spaniard, in French, for he scarcely understood three 
 words of our language, the cause of a rudeness towards him 
 which he persisted in calling a great insult and inhospitality 
 manifested to a stranger and an exile. I succeeded at length 
 in pacifying him. I remained for more than an hour at the 
 cottage, and I left it with a heart beating at a certain persua- 
 sion that I had established therein the claim of acquaintance 
 and visitation. 
 
 Will the reader pardon me for having curtailed this scene ? 
 It is connected with a subject on which I shall better endure 
 to dwell as my narrative proceeds. From that time I paid 
 frequent visits to the cottage ; the Spaniard soon grew inti- 
 mate with me, and I thought the daughter began to blush 
 when I entered, and to sigh when I departed. 
 
 One evening I was conversing with Don Diego D'Alvarez 
 (such was the Spaniard's name), as he sat without the thres- 
 hold, inhaling the gentle air, that stole freshness from the 
 
DEVEREUX. 43 
 
 rippling sea that spread before us, and fragrance from the 
 earth, over which the summer now reigned in its most mellow 
 glory. Isora (the daughter) sat at a little distance. 
 
 "How comes it," said Don Diego, "that you have never met 
 our friend Senor Bar — Bar — these English names are always 
 escaping my memory. How is he called, Isora ? " 
 
 "Mr. — Mr. Barnard," said Isora (who, brought early to Eng- 
 land, spoke its language like a native), but with evident con- 
 fusion, and looking down as she spoke — " Mr. Barnard, I be- 
 lieve, you mean." 
 
 "Eight, my love," rejoined the Spaniard, who was smoking 
 a long pipe with great gravity, and did not notice his daugh- 
 ter's embarrassment, — "a fine youth, but somewhat shy and 
 over-modest in manner." 
 
 " Youth ! " thought I, and I darted a piercing look towards 
 Isora. "How comes it, indeed," I said aloud, "that I have 
 not met him ? Is he a friend of long standing ? " 
 
 "Nay, not very, — perhaps of some six weeks earlier date 
 than you, Senor Don Devereux. I pressed him, when he 
 called this morning, to tarry your coming: but, poor youth, 
 he is diffident, and not yet accustomed to mix freely with 
 strangers, especially those of rank; our own presence a little 
 overawes him;" and from Don Diego's gray mustachios is- 
 sued a yet fuller cloud than was ordinarily wont to emerge 
 thence. 
 
 My eyes were still fixed on Isora; she looked up, met them, 
 blushed deeply, rose, and disappeared within the house. I 
 was already susceptible of jealousy. My lip trembled as I 
 resumed: "And will Don Diego pardon me for inquiring 
 how commenced his knowledge of this ingenuous youth ? " 
 
 The question was a little beyond the pale of good breeding; 
 perhaps the Spaniard, who was tolerably punctilious in such 
 matters, thought so, for he did not reply. I was sensible of 
 my error, and apologizing for it, insinuated, nevertheless, the 
 question in a more respectful and covert shape. Still Don 
 Diego, inhaling the fragrant weed with renewed vehemence, 
 only — like Pion's tomb, recorded by Pausanias — replied to 
 the request of his petitioner hy smoke. I did not venture to 
 
44 DEVEREUX. 
 
 renew my interrogatories, and there was a long silence. My 
 eyes fixed their gaze on the door by which Isora had disap- 
 peared. In vain; she returned not; and as the chill of the 
 increasing evening began now to make itself felt by the frame 
 of one accustomed to warmer skies, the Spaniard soon rose to 
 re-enter his house, and I took my farewell for the night. 
 
 There were many ways (as I before said) by which I could 
 return home, all nearly equal in picturesque beauty; for the 
 county in which my uncle's estates were placed was one where 
 stream roved and Avoodland flourished even to the very strand 
 or cliff of the sea. The shortest route, though one the least 
 frequented by any except foot-passengers, was along the coast, 
 and it was by this path that I rode slowly homeward. On 
 winding a curve in the road about one mile from Devereux 
 Court, the old building broke slowly, tower by tower, upon 
 me. I have never yet described the house, and perhaps it 
 will not be uninteresting to the reader if I do so now. 
 
 It had anciently belonged to Ealph de Bigod. From his 
 possession it had passed into that of the then noblest branch 
 the stem of Devereux, whence, without break or flaw in the 
 direct line of heritage, it had ultimately descended to the 
 present owner. It was a pile of vast extent, built around 
 three quadrangular courts, the farthest of which spread to 
 the very verge of the gray, tall cliffs that overhung the sea ; 
 in this court was a rude tower, which, according to tradition, 
 had contained the apartments ordinarily inhabited by our ill- 
 fated namesake and distant kinsman, Eobert Devereux, the 
 favourite and the victim of Elizabeth, whenever he had hon- 
 oured the mansion with a visit. There was nothing, it is 
 true, in the old tower calculated to flatter the tradition, for it 
 contained only two habitable rooms, communicating with 
 each other, and by no means remarkable for size or splen- 
 dour ; and every one of our household, save myself, was wont 
 to discredit the idle rumour which would assign to so dis- 
 tinguished a guest so unseemly a lodgment. But, as I 
 looked from the narrow lattices of the chambers, over the 
 wide expanse of ocean and of land which they commanded ; 
 as I noted, too, that the tower was utterly separated from the 
 
DEVEREUX. 45 
 
 rest of the house, and that the convenience of its site enabled 
 one on quitting it, to escape at once, and privately, either to 
 the solitary beach, or to the glades and groves of the wide 
 park which stretched behind, — I could not help indulging the 
 belief that the unceremonious and not unromantic noble had 
 himself selected his place of retirement, and that, in so doing, 
 the gallant of a stately court was not perhaps undesirous of 
 securing at well-chosen moments a brief relaxation from the 
 heavy honours of country homage; or that the patron and 
 poetic admirer of the dreaming Spenser might have preferred, 
 to all more gorgeous accommodation, the quiet and unseen 
 egress to that sea and shore, which, if we may believe the 
 accomplished Roman, ^ are so fertile in the powers of 
 inspiration. 
 
 However this be, I had cheated myself into the belief that 
 my conjecture was true, and I had petitioned my uncle, when, 
 on leaving school, he assigned to each of us our several apart- 
 ments, to grant me the exclusive right to this dilapidated 
 tower. I gained my boon easily enough ; and — so strangely 
 is our future fate compounded from past trifles — I verily be- 
 lieve that the strong desire which thenceforth seized me to 
 visit courts and mix with statesmen — which afterwards hur- 
 ried me into intrigue, war, the plots of London, the dissipa- 
 tions of Paris, the perilous schemes of Petersburg, nay, the 
 very hardships of a Cossack tent — was first formed by the 
 imaginary honour of inhabiting the same chamber as the glit- 
 tering but ill-fated courtier of my own name. Thus youth 
 imitates where it should avoid; and thus that which should 
 have been to me a warning became an example. 
 
 In the oaken floor to the outer chamber of this tower was 
 situated a trap-door, the entrance into a lower room or rather 
 cell, fitted up as a bath; and here a wooden door opened into 
 a long subterranean passage that led out into a cavern by the 
 sea-shore. This cave, partly by nature, partly by art, was 
 
 1 ''0 ipare, litns, venim secretumque Moixretoc, quam multa dictatis, 
 quam multa invenitis!" — Plinius. 
 
 " sea, shore, true and secret sanctuary of the Muses, how many things 
 ye dictate, how many things ye discover ! " 
 
46 DEVEREUX. 
 
 hollowed into a beautiful Gothic form; and here, on moon- 
 light evenings, when the sea crept gently over the yellow and 
 smooth sands and the summer tempered the air from too keen 
 a freshness, my uncle had often in his younger days, ere gout 
 and rheum had grown familiar images, assembled his guests. 
 It was a place which the echoes peculiarly adapted for music ; 
 and the scene was certainly not calculated to diminish the 
 effect of "sweet sounds." Even now, though my uncle rarely 
 joined us, v.^e were often wont to hold our evening revels in 
 this spot ; and the high cliffs, circling either side in the form 
 of a bay, tolerably well concealed our meetings from the gaze 
 of the vulgar. It is true (for these cliffs were perforated 
 with numerous excavations) that some roving peasant, mar- 
 iner, or perchance smuggler, would now and then, at low 
 ■water, intrude upon us. But our London Nereids and courtly 
 Tritons were always well pleased with the interest of what 
 they graciously termed " an adventure ; " and our assemblies 
 were too numerous to think an unbroken secrecy indispensa- 
 ble. Hence, therefore, the cavern was almost considered a 
 part of the house itself; and though there was an iron door 
 at the entrance which it gave to the passage leading to my 
 apartments, yet so great was our confidence in our neighbours 
 or ourselves that it was rarely secured, save as a defence 
 against the high tides of winter. 
 
 The stars were shining quietly over the old gra,y castle 
 (for castle it really was), as I now came wnthin view of it. 
 To the left, and in the rear of the house, the trees of the park, 
 grouped by distance, seemed blent into one thick mass of 
 ■wood; to the right, as I now (descending the cliff by a grad- 
 ual path) entered on the level sands, and at about the distance 
 of a league from the main shore, a small islet, notorious as 
 the resort and shelter of contraband adventurers, scarcely re- 
 lieved the wide and glassy azure of the waves. The tide was 
 out; and passing through one of the arches -worn in the bay, 
 I came somewhat suddenly by the cavern. Seated there on a 
 crag of stone I found Aubrey. 
 
 My acquaintance with Isora and her father had so immedi- 
 ately succeeded the friendly meeting w^ith Aubrey which I 
 
DEVEREUX. 47 
 
 last recorded, and had so utterly engrossed my time and 
 thoughts, that I had not taken of that interview all the broth- 
 erly advantage which I might have done. My heart now 
 smote me for my involuntary negligence. I dismounted, and 
 fastening my horse to one of a long line of posts that ran into 
 the sea, approached Aubrey and accosted him. 
 
 " Alone, Aubrey ? and at an hour when my uncle always 
 makes the old walls ring with revel ? Hark ! can you not 
 hear the music even now? It comes from the ball-room, I 
 think, does it not ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Aubrey, briefly, and looking down upon a de- 
 votional book, which (as was his wont) he had made his 
 companion. 
 
 "And we are the only truants! — Well, Gerald will supply 
 our places with a lighter step, and, perhaps, a merrier heart." 
 
 Aubrey sighed. I bent over him affectionately (I loved 
 that boy with something of a father's as well as a brother's 
 love), and as I did bend over him, I saw that his eyelids were 
 red with weeping. 
 
 "My brother — my own dear brother," said I, "what grieves 
 you ? — are we not friends, and more than friends ? — what 
 can grieve you that grieves not me ? " 
 
 Suddenly raising his head, Aubrey gazed at me with a long, 
 searching intentness of eye; his lips moved, but he did not 
 answer. 
 
 "Speak to me, Aiibrey," said T, passing my arm over his 
 shoulder; "has any one, anything, hurt you ? See, now, if I 
 cannot remedy the evil." 
 
 "Morton," said Aubrey, speaking very slowly, "do you be- 
 lieve that Heaven pre-orders as well as foresees our destiny ? " 
 
 "It is the schoolman's question," said I, smiling; "but I 
 know how these idle subtleties vex the mind; and you, my 
 brother, are ever too occupied with considerations of the 
 future. If Heaven does pre-order our destiny, we know that 
 Heaven is merciful, and we should be fearless, as we arm 
 ourselves in that knowledge." 
 
 " Morton Devereux, " said Aubrey, again repeating my name, 
 and with an evident inward effort that left his lip colourless, 
 
48 DEVEREUX. 
 
 and yet lit his dark dilating eye with a strange and unwonted 
 fire, — "Morton Devereux, I feel that I am predestined to 
 the power of the Evil One ! " 
 
 I drew back, inexpressibly shocked. " Good Heavens ! " I 
 exclaimed, "what can induce you to cherish so terrible a phan- 
 tasy ? what can induce you to wrong so fearfully the goodness 
 and mercy of our Creator ? " 
 
 Aubrey shrank from my arm, which had still been round 
 him, and covered his face with his hands. I took up the book 
 he had been reading; it was a Latin treatise on predestina- 
 tion, and seemed fraught with the most gloomy and bewilder- 
 ing subtleties. I sat down beside him, and pointed out the 
 various incoherencies and contradictions of the work, and the 
 doctrine it espoused: so long and so earnestly did I speak 
 that at length Aubrey looked up, seemingly cheered and 
 relieved. 
 
 " I wish, '' said he, timidly, " I wish that you loved me, and 
 that you loved me only : but you love pleasure, and power, and 
 show, and wit, and revelry ; and you know not what it is to 
 feel for me as I feel at times for you, — nay, perhaps you 
 really dislike or despise me." 
 
 Aubrey's voice grew bitter in its tone as he concluded these 
 words, and I was instantly impressed with the belief that 
 some one had insinuated distrust of my affection for him. 
 
 "Why should you think thus?" I said; "has any cause 
 occurred of late to make you deem my affection for you 
 weaker than it was ? Has any one hinted a surmise that I do 
 not repay your brotherly regard ? " 
 
 Aubrey did not answer. 
 
 "Has Gerald," I continued, "jealous of our mutual attach- 
 ment, uttered aught tending to diminish it ? Yes, I see that 
 he has." 
 
 Aubrey remained motionless, sullenly gazing downward 
 and still silent. 
 
 "Speak," said I, "in justice to both of us, — speak! You 
 know, Aubrey, how I have loved and love you : put your arms 
 round me, and say that thing on earth which you wish me to 
 do, and it shall be done ! " 
 
DEVEREUX. 49 
 
 Aubrey looked up ; he met my eyes, and he threw himself 
 upon my neck, and burst into a violent paroxysm of tears. 
 
 I was greatly affected. "I see my fault," said I, soothing 
 him ; *' you are angry, and with justice, that I have neglected 
 you of late; and, perhaps, while I ask your confidence, you 
 suspect that there is some subject on which I should have 
 granted you mine. You are right, and, at a fitter moment, 
 I will. Now let us return homeward: our uncle is never 
 merry when we are absent; and when my mother misses your 
 dark locks and fair cheek, I fancy that she sees little beauty 
 in the ball. And yet, Aubrey," I added, as he now rose from 
 my embrace and dried his tears, " I will own to you that I 
 love this scene better than any, however gay, within ; " and I 
 turned to the sea, starlit as it was, and murmuring with a 
 silver voice, and I became suddenly silent. 
 
 There was a long pause. I believe we both felt the influ- 
 ence of the scene around us, softening and tranquillizing our 
 hearts; for, at length, Aubrey put his hand in mine, and 
 said, "You were always more generous and kind than I, Mor- 
 ton, though there are times when you seem different from 
 what you are; and I know you have already forgiven me." 
 
 I drew him affectionately towards me, and we went home. 
 
 But although I meant from that night to devote myself more 
 to Aubrey than I had done of late, my hourly increasing love 
 for Isora interfered greatly with my resolution. In order, 
 however, to excuse any future neglect, I, the very next morn- 
 ing, bestowed upon him my confidence. Aubrey did not much 
 encourage my passion : he represented to me Isora's situation, 
 my OAvn youth, my own worldly ambition ; and, more than all 
 (reminding me of my uncle's aversion even to the most pros- 
 perous and well-suited marriage), he insisted upon the cer- 
 tainty that Sir William would never yield consent to the 
 lawful consummation of so unequal a love. I was not too 
 well pleased with this reception of my tale, and I did not 
 much trouble my adviser with any further communication 
 and confidence on the subject. Day after day I renewed my 
 visits to the Spaniard's cottage; and yet time passed on, and 
 I had not told Isora a syllable of my love. I was inexpressi- 
 
 4 
 
50 DEVEREUX. 
 
 bly jealous of this Barnard, -whom her father often eulogized, 
 and whom I never met. There appeared to be some mystery 
 in his acquaintance with Don Diego, which that personage 
 carefully concealed ; and once, when I was expressing my sur- 
 prise to have so often missed seeing his friend, the Spaniard 
 shook his head gravely, and said that he had now learnt the 
 real reason for it: there were circumstances of state which 
 made men fearful of new acquaintances even in their own 
 country. He drew back, as if he had said too much, and left 
 me to conjecture that Barnard was connected with him in 
 some intrigue, more delightful in itself than agreeable to the 
 government. This belief was strengthened by my noting that 
 Alvarez was frequently absent from home, and this too in the 
 evening, when he was generally wont to shun the bleakness 
 of the English air, — an atmosphere, by the by, which I once 
 heard a Frenchman wittily compare to Augustus placed be- 
 tween Horace and Virgil; namely, in the ho7i mot of the 
 emperor himself, between sighs and tears. 
 
 But Isora herself never heard the name of this Barnard 
 mentioned without a visible confusion, which galled me to 
 the heart ; and at length, unable to endure any longer my sus- 
 pense upon the subject, I resolved to seek from her own lips 
 its termination. I long tarried vaj opportunity; it was one 
 evening that coming rather unexpectedly to the cottage, I was 
 informed by the single servant that Don Diego had gone to 
 the neighbouring town, but that Isora was in the garden. 
 Small as it was, this garden had been cultivated with some 
 care, and was not devoid of variety. A high and very thick 
 fence of living box-wood, closely interlaced with the honey- 
 suckle and the common rose, screened a few plots of rarer 
 flowers, a small circular fountain, and a rustic arbour, both 
 from the sea breezes and the eyes of any passer-by, to which 
 the open and unsheltered portion of the garden was exposed. 
 When I passed through the opening cut in the fence, I was 
 somewhat surprised at not immediately seeing Isora. Per- 
 haps she was in the arbour. I approached the arbour trem- 
 bling. What was my astonishment and my terror when I 
 beheld her stretched lifeless on the ground! 
 
DEVEREUX. 51 
 
 I uttered a loud cry, and sprang forward. I raised her 
 from the earth, and supported her in my arms ; her complex- 
 ion — through whose pure and transparent white the wander- 
 ing blood was wont so gently, yet so glowingly, to blush, 
 undulating while it blushed, as youngest rose-leaves which 
 the air just stirs into trembling — was blanched into the hues 
 of death. My kisses tinged it with a momentary colour not 
 its own ; and yet as I pressed her to my heart, methought hers, 
 which seemed still before, began as if by an involuntary sym- 
 pathy, palpably and suddenly to throb against my own. My 
 alarm melted away as I held her thus, — nay, I would not, if 
 I could, have recalled her yet to life ; I was forgetful, I was 
 unheeding, I was unconscious of all things else, — a few broken 
 and passionate words escaped my lips, but even they ceased 
 when I felt her breath just stirring and mingling with my 
 own. It seemed to me as if all living kind but ourselves had, 
 by a spell, departed from the earth, and we were left alone 
 with the breathless and inaudible Nature from which spring 
 the love and the life of all things. 
 
 Isora slowly recovered; her eyes in opening dwelt upon 
 mine ; her blood rushed at once to her cheek, and as suddenly 
 left it hueless as before. She rose from my embrace, but I 
 still extended my arms towards her ; and words over which I 
 had no control, and of which now I have no remembrance, 
 rushed from my lips. Still pale, and leaning against the 
 side of the arbour, Isora heard me, as — confused, incoherent, 
 impetuous, but still intelligible to her — my released heart 
 poured itself forth. And when I had ceased, she turned her 
 face towards me, and my blood seemed at once frozen in its 
 channel. Anguish, deep ineffable anguish, was depicted upon 
 every feature ; and when she strove at last to speak, her lips 
 quivered so violently that, after a vain effort, she ceased 
 abruptly. I again approached; I seized her hand, which I 
 covered with my kisses. 
 
 "Will you not answer me, Isora?" said I, trembling. 
 "5e silent, then; but give me one look, one glance of hope, 
 of pardon, from those dear eyes, and I ask no more," 
 
 Isora's whole frame seemed sinking beneath her emotions ; 
 
62 DEVEREUX. 
 
 she raised her head, and looked hurriedly and fearfully round ; 
 my eye followed hers, and I then saw upon the damp ground 
 the recent print of a man's footstep, not my own : and close 
 to the spot where I had found Isora lay a man's glove. A 
 pang shot through me; I felt my eyes flash fire, and my brow 
 darken, as I turned to Isora and said, "I see it; I see all: 
 I have a rival, who has but just left you; you love me not; 
 your affections are for him!" Isora sobbed violently, but 
 made no reply. "You love him," said I, but in a milder 
 and more mournful tone, "you love him; it is enough; I will 
 persecute you no more ; and yet — " I paused a moment, for 
 the remembrance of many a sign, which my heart had inter- 
 preted flatteringly, flashed upon me, and my voice faltered. 
 " Well, I have no right to murmur — only, Isora — only tell 
 me with your lips that you love another, and I will depart in 
 peace." 
 
 Very slowly Isora turned her eyes to me, and even through 
 her tears they dwelt upon me with a tender and a soft 
 reproach. 
 
 " You love another ? " said I ; and from her lips, which 
 scarcely parted, came a single word which thrilled to my 
 heart like fire,— "iVo/" 
 
 "No!" I repeated, "no? say that again, and again; yet 
 who then is this that has dared so to agitate and overpower 
 you ? Who is he whom you have met, and whom, even now 
 while I speak, you tremble to hear me recur to ? Answer me 
 one word: is it this mysterious stranger whom your father 
 honours with his friendship ? is it Barnard ? " 
 
 Alarm and fear again wholly engrossed the expression of 
 Isora's countenance. 
 
 " Barnard ! " she said ; " yes — yes — it is Barnard ! " 
 
 "Who is he ? " I cried vehemently; "who or what is he; and 
 of what nature is his influence upon you? Confide in me," 
 and I poured forth a long tide of inquiry and solicitation. 
 
 By the time I had ended, Isora seemed to have recovered 
 herself. With her softness was mingled something of spirit 
 and self-control, which was rare alike in her country and 
 her sex. 
 
DEVEREUX. 53 
 
 " Listen to me ! " said she, and lier voice, which faltered a 
 little at first, grew calm and firm as she proceeded. "You 
 profess to love me : I am not worthy your love ; and if, Count 
 Devereux, I do not reject nor disclaim it — for I am a woman, 
 and a weak and fond one — I will not at least wrong you by 
 encouraging hopes which I may not and I dare not fulfil. I 
 cannot, — "here she spoke with a fearful distinctness, — "I 
 cannot, I can never be yours ; and when you ask me to be so, 
 you know not what you ask nor what perils you incur. 
 Enough ; I am grateful to you. The poor exiled girl is grate- 
 ful for your esteem — and — and your affection. She will 
 never forget them, — never! But be this our last meeting — 
 our very last — God bless you, Morton ! " and, as she read my 
 heart, pierced and agonized as it was, in my countenance, 
 Isora bent over me, for I knelt beside her, and I felt her tears 
 upon my cheek, — "God bless you — and farewell! " 
 
 "You insult, you wound me," said I, bitterly, "by this cold 
 and taunting kindness; tell me, tell me only, who it is that 
 you love better than me." 
 
 Isora had turned to leave me, for I was too proud to detain 
 her; but when I said this, she came back, after a moment's 
 pause, and laid her hand upon my arm. 
 
 " If it make you happy to know my unhappiness, " she said, 
 and the tone of her voice made me look full in her face, which 
 was one deep blush, "know that I am not insensible — " 
 
 I heard no more : my lips pressed themselves involuntarily 
 to hers, — along, long kiss, — burning, intense, concentrating 
 emotion, heart, soul, all the rays of life's light into a single 
 focus ; and she tore herself away from me, — and I was 
 alone. 
 
54 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A DISCOVERY AND A DEPARTURE. 
 
 I HASTENED home after my eventful interview with Isora, 
 and gave myself up to tumultuous and wild conjecture. Au- 
 brey sought me the next morning : I narrated to him all that 
 had occurred: he said little, but that little enraged me, 
 for it was contrary to the dictates of my own wishes. The 
 character of Morose in the " Silent Woman " is by no means an 
 uncommon one. Many men — certainly many lovers — would 
 say with equal truth, always provided they had equal candour, 
 "All discourses but my own afflict me; they seem harsh, im- 
 pertinent, and irksome." Certainly I felt that amiable senti- 
 ment most sincerely with regard to Aubrey. I left him 
 abruptly: a resolution possessed me. "I will see," said I, 
 "this Barnard; I will lie in wait for him; I will demand and 
 obtain, though it be by force, the secret which evidently 
 subsists between him and this exiled family." 
 
 Full of this idea, I drew my cloak round me, and repaired 
 on foot to the neighbourhood of the Spaniard's cottage. There 
 was no place near it very commodious for accommodation 
 both of vigil and concealment. However, I made a little hill, 
 in a field opposite the house, my warder's station, and, lying 
 at full length on the ground, wrapt in my cloak, I trusted to 
 escape notice. The day passed: no visitor appeared. The 
 next morning I went from my own rooms, through the subter- 
 ranean passage into the castle cave, as the excavation I have 
 before described was generally termed. On the shore I saw 
 Gerald by one of the small fishing-boats usually kept there. 
 I passed him with a sneer at his amusements, which were al- 
 ways those of conflicts against fish or fowl. He answered me 
 in the same strain, as he threw his nets into the boat, and 
 pushed out to sea. " How is it that you go alone ? " said I ; 
 
DEVEREUX. 55 
 
 " is there so much glory in the capture of mackerel and dog- 
 fish that you will allow no one to share it ? " 
 
 " There are other sports besides those for men," answered 
 Gerald, colouring indignantly : " my taste is confined to amuse- 
 ments in which he is but a fool who seeks companionship; 
 and if you could read character better, my wise brother, you 
 would know that the bold rover is ever less idle and more 
 fortunate than the speculative dreamer." 
 
 As Gerald said this, Avhich he did with a significant empha- 
 sis, he rowed vigorously across the water, and the little boat 
 was soon half way to the opposite islet. My eyes followed it 
 musingly as it glided over the waves, and my thoughts pain- 
 fully revolved the words which Gerald had uttered. " What 
 can he mean ? " said I, half aloud ; " yet what matters it ? 
 Perhaps some low amour, some village conquest, inspires 
 him with that becoming fulness of pride and vain-glory; joy 
 be with so bold a rover ! " and I strode away along the beach 
 towards my place of watch; once only I turned to look at 
 Gerald; he had then just touched the islet, which was cele- 
 brated as much for the fishing it afforded as the smuggling 
 it protected. 
 
 I arrived at last at the hillock, and resumed my station. 
 Time passed on, till, at the dusk of evening, the Spaniard 
 came out. He walked slowly towards the town; I followed 
 him at a distance. Just before he reached the town, he turned 
 off by a path which led to the beach. As the evening was 
 unusually fresh and chill, I felt convinced that some cause, 
 not wholly trivial, drew the Spaniard forth to brave it. My 
 pride a little revolted at the idea of following him ; but I per- 
 suaded myself that Isora's happiness, and perhaps her father's 
 safety, depended on my obtaining some knowledge of the 
 character and designs of this Barnard, who appeared to pos- 
 sess so dangerous an influence over both daughter and sire; 
 nor did I doubt but that the old man was now gone forth to 
 meet him. The times were those of mystery and of intrigue: 
 the emissaries of the House of Stuart were restlessly at work 
 among all classes ; many of them, obscure and mean individ- 
 uals, made their way the more dangerously from their appar- 
 
56 DEVEREUX. 
 
 ent insignificance. My uncle, a moderate Tory, was opposed, 
 though quietly and without vehemence, to the claims of the 
 banished House. Like Sedley, who became so stanch a revo- 
 lutionist, he had seen the Court of Charles II. and the char- 
 acter of that King's brother too closely to feel much respect 
 for either; but he thought it indecorous to express opposition 
 loudly against a party among whom were many of his early 
 friends ; and the good old knight was too much attached to 
 private ties to be very much alive to public feeling. How- 
 ever, at his well-filled board, conversation, generally, though 
 displeasingly to himself, turned upon politics, and I had there 
 often listened, of late, to dark hints of the danger to which 
 we were exposed, and of the restless machinations of the 
 Jacobites. I did not, therefore, scruple to suspect this Bar- 
 nard of some plot against the existing state, and I did it the 
 more from observing that the Spaniard often spoke bitterly 
 of the English Court, which had rejected some claims he had 
 imagined himself entitled to make upon it ; and that he was 
 naturally of a temper vehemently opposed to quiet and alive 
 to enterprise. With this impression, I deemed it fair to seize 
 any opportunity of seeing, at least, even if I could not ques- 
 tion, the man whom the Spaniard himself confessed to have 
 state reasons for concealment; and my anxiety to behold one 
 whose very name could agitate Isora, and whose presence 
 could occasion the state in which I had found her, sharpened 
 this desire into the keenness of a passion. 
 
 While Alvarez descended to the beach, I kept the upper 
 path, which wound along the cliff. There was a spot where 
 the rocks were rude and broken into crags, and afforded me a 
 place where, unseen, I could behold what passed below. The 
 first thing I beheld was a boat approaching rapidly towards 
 the shore ; one man was seated in it ; he reached the shore, 
 and I recognized Gerald. That was a dreadful moment. Al- 
 varez now slowly joined him; they remained togetjier for 
 nearly an hour. I saw Gerald give the Spaniard a letter, 
 which appeared to make the chief subject of their conversa- 
 tion. At length they parted, with the signs rather of respect 
 than familiarity. Don Diego returned homeward, and Gerald 
 
DEVEREUX. 67 
 
 re-entered the boat. I watched its progress over the waves 
 with feelings of a dark and almost unutterable nature. " My 
 enemy! my rival! miner of my hopes! — my brother ! my twin 
 brother ! " I muttered bitterly between my ground teeth. 
 
 The boat did not make to the open sea : it skulked along 
 the shore, till distance and shadow scarcely allowed me to 
 trace the outline of Gerald's figure. It then touched the 
 beach, and I could just descry the dim shape of another man 
 enter; and Gerald, instead of returning homewards, pushed 
 out towards the islet. I spent the greater part of the night 
 in the open air. Wearied and exhausted by the furious indul- 
 gence of my passions, I gained my room at length. There, 
 however, as elsewhere, thought succeeded to thought, and 
 scheme to scheme. Should I speak to Gerald ? Should I 
 confide in Alvarez ? Should I renew my suit to Isora ? If 
 the first, what could I hope to learu from my enemy? If 
 the second, what could I gain from the father, while the 
 daughter remained averse to me? If the third, — there my 
 heart pointed, and the third scheme I resolved to adopt. 
 
 But was I sure that Gerald was this Barnard ? Might 
 there not be some hope that he was not ? No, I could per- 
 ceive none. Alvarez had never spoken to me of acquaintance 
 with any other Englishman than Barnard; I had no reason to 
 believe that he ever held converse with any other. Would 
 it not have been natural too, unless some powerful cause, such 
 as love to Isora, induced silence, — would it not have been 
 natural that Gerald should have mentioned his acquaintance 
 with the Spaniard ? Unless some dark scheme, such as that 
 which Barnard appeared to have in common with Don Diego, 
 commanded obscurity, would it have been likely that Gerald 
 should have met Alvarez alone, — at night, — on an unfre- 
 quented spot? What that scheme xcas, I guessed not, — I 
 cared not. All my interest in the identity of Barnard with 
 GeralcL Devereux was that derived from the power he seemed 
 to possess over Isora. Here, too, at once, was explained the 
 pretended Barnard's desire of concealment, and the vigilance 
 with which it had been effected. It was so certain that 
 Gerald, if my rival, would seek to avoid me ; it was so easy 
 
68 DEVEREUX. 
 
 for him, who could watch all my motions, to secure the power 
 of doing so. Then I remembered Gerald's character through 
 the country as a gallant and a general lover ; and I closed my 
 eyes as if to shut out the vision when I recalled the beauty of 
 his form contrasted with the comparative plainness of my 
 own. 
 
 " There is no hope, " I repeated ; and an insensibility, rather 
 than sleep, crept over me. Dreadful and fierce dreams peo- 
 pled my slumbers ; and, when I started from them at a late 
 hour the next day, I was unable to rise from my bed: my 
 agitation and my wanderings had terminated in a burning 
 fever. In four days, however, I recovered sufficiently to 
 mount my horse: I rode to the Spaniard's house; I found 
 there only the woman who had been Don Diego's solitary 
 domestic. The morning before, Alvarez and his daughter 
 had departed, none knew for certain whither; but it was 
 supposed their destination was London. The woman gave me 
 a note: it was from Isora; it contained only these lines: — 
 
 Forget me : we are now parted forever. As you value my peace of 
 
 mind — of happiness I do not speak — seek not to discover our next 
 
 retreat. 1 implore you to think no more of what has been ; you are 
 
 young, very young. Life has a thousand paths for you ; any one of 
 
 them will lead you from remembrance of me. Farewell, again and 
 
 again I 
 
 Isora D' Alvarez. 
 
 With this note was another, in French, from Don Diego : it 
 was colder and more formal than I could have expected; it 
 thanked me for my attentions towards him; it regretted that 
 he could not take leave of me in person, and it enclosed the 
 sum by the loan of which our acquaintance had commenced. 
 
 " It is well ! " said I, calmly, to myself, " it is well ; I will 
 forget her:" and I rode instantly home. "But," I resumed 
 in my soliloqiiy, " I will yet strive to obtain confirmation to 
 what perhaps needs it not. I will yet strive to see if Gerald 
 can deny the depth of his injuries towards me ; there will be 
 at least some comfort in witnessing either his defiance or his 
 confusion." 
 
DEVEREUX. 59 
 
 Agreeably to this thought, I hastened to seek Gerald. I 
 found him in his apartment ; I shut the door, and seating my- 
 self, with a smile thus addressed him, — 
 
 "Dear Gerald, I have a favour to ask of you." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " How long have you known a certain Mr. Barnard ? " 
 Gerald changed colour; his voice faltered as he repeated the 
 name " Barnard ! " 
 
 " Yes, " said I, with affected composure, " Barnard ! a great 
 friend of Don Diego D' Alvarez." 
 
 "I perceive," said Gerald, collecting himself, "that you 
 are in some measure acquainted with my secret: how far 
 it is known to you I cannot guess; but I tell you, very 
 fairly, that from me you will not increase the sum of your 
 knowledge." 
 
 When one is in a good sound rage, it is astonishing how 
 calm one can be! I was certainly somewhat amazed by 
 Gerald's hardihood and assurance, but I continued, with a 
 smile, — 
 
 " And Donna Isora, how long, if not very intrusive on your 
 confidence, have you known her ? " 
 
 "I tell you," answered Gerald, doggedly, "that I will 
 answer no questions." 
 
 "You remember the old story," returned I, "of the two 
 brothers, Eteocles and Polynices, whose very ashes refused to 
 mingle ; faith, Gerald, our love seems much of the same sort. 
 I know not if our ashes will exhibit so laudible an antipathy : 
 but I think our hearts and hands will do so while a spark of 
 life animates them; yes, though our blood" (I added, in a 
 voice quivering with furious emotion) "prevents our contest 
 by the sword, it prevents not the hatred and the curses of the 
 heart." 
 
 Gerald turned pale. "I do not understand you," he faltered 
 out, — "I know you abhor me; but why, why this excess of 
 malice ? " 
 
 I cast on him a look of bitter scorn, and turned from the 
 room. 
 
 It is not pleasing to place before the reader these dark 
 
60 DEVEREUX. 
 
 passages of fraternal hatred : but in the record of all passions 
 there is a moral ; and it is wise to see to how vast a sum the 
 units of childish animosity swell, when they are once brought 
 into a heap, by some violent event, and told over by the nice 
 accuracy of Revenge. 
 
 But I long to pass from these scenes, and my history is 
 about to glide along others of more glittering and smiling 
 aspect. Thank Heaven, I write a tale, not only of love, but 
 of a life; and that which I cannot avoid I can at least condense. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A VERT SHORT CHAPTER, CONTAINING A VALET. 
 
 My uncle for several weeks had flattered himself that I had 
 quite forgotten or foregone the desire of leaving Devereux 
 Court for London. Good easy man ! he was not a little dis- 
 tressed when I renewed the subject with redoubled firmness, 
 and demanded an early period for that event. He managed, 
 however, still to protract the evil day. At one time it was 
 impossible to part with me, because the house was so full ; at 
 another time it was cruel to leave him, when the house was so 
 empty. Meanwhile, a new change came over me. As the 
 first shock of Isora's departure passed away, I began to sus- 
 pect the purity of her feelings towards me. Might not Ger- 
 ald — the beautiful, the stately, the glittering Gerald — have 
 been a successful wooer under the disguised name of Barnard, 
 and hence Isora's confusion when that name was mentioned, 
 and hence the power which its possessor exercised over her ? 
 
 This idea, once admitted, soon gained ground. It is true 
 that Isora had testified something of favourable feelings to- 
 wards me; but this might spring from coquetry or compas- 
 sion. My love had been a boy's love, founded upon beauty 
 and coloured by romance. I had not investigated the char- 
 acter of the object; and I had judged of the mind solely by 
 
DEVEREUX. 61 
 
 the face. I might easily have been deceived: I persuaded 
 myself that I was. Perhaps Gerald had provided their pres- 
 ent retreat for sire and daughter; perhaps they at this mo- 
 ment laughed over my rivalry and my folly. Methought 
 Gerald's lip wore a contemptuous curve when we met. "It 
 shall have no cause," I said, stung to the soul; "I will in- 
 deed forget this woman, and yet, though in other ways, eclipse 
 this rival. Pleasure, ambition, the brilliancy of a court, the 
 resources of wealth, invite me to a thousand joys. I will 
 not be deaf to the call. Meanwhile I will not betray to 
 Gerald, to any one, the scar of the wound I have received; 
 and I will mortify Gerald, by showing him that, handsome as 
 he is, he shall be forgotten in my presence ! " 
 
 Agreeably to this exquisite resolution, I paid incessant court 
 to the numerous dames by whom my uncle's mansion was 
 thronged; and I resolved to prepare, among them, the repu- 
 tation for gallantry and for wit which I proposed to establish 
 in town. 
 
 "You are greatly altered since your love," said Aubrey, 
 one day to me, "but not by your love. Own that I did right 
 in dissuading you from its indulgence ! " 
 
 " Tell me ! " said I, sinking my voice to a whisper, " do you 
 think Gerald was my rival ? " and I recounted the causes of 
 my suspicion. 
 
 Aubrey's countenance testified astonishment as he listened. 
 "It is strange, very strange," said he; "and the evidence of 
 the boat is almost conclusive; still I do not think it quite 
 sufficient to leave no loop-hole of doubt. But what matters 
 it ? you have conquered your love now." 
 
 "Ay," I said, with a laugh, "I have conquered it, and I 
 am now about to find some other empress of the heart. What 
 think you of the Lady Hasselton? — a fair dame and a sprightly. 
 I want nothing but her love to be the most enviable of men, 
 and a French valet-de-chamhre to be the most irresistible." 
 
 "The former is easier to obtain than the latter, I fear," re- 
 turned Aubrey ; " all places produce light dames, but the war 
 makes a scarcity of French valets." 
 
 "True," said I, "but I never thought of instituting a com- 
 
62 DEVEREUX. 
 
 parison between their relative value. The Lady Hasselton, 
 no disparagement to her merits, is but one woman; but a 
 French valet who knows his metier arms one for conquest 
 over a thousand ; " and I turned to the saloon. 
 
 Fate, which had destined to me the valuable affections of 
 the Lady Hasselton, granted me also, at a yet earlier period, 
 the greater boon of a French valet. About two or three weeks 
 after this sapient communication with Aubrey, the most 
 charming person in the world presented himself a candidate 
 pou7' le supreme bonheur de soigner Monsieur le Comte. In- 
 telligence beamed in his eye; a modest assurance reigned 
 upon his brow; respect made his step vigilant as a zephyr's; 
 and his ruffles were the envy of the world! 
 
 I took him at a glance ; and 1 presented to the admiring in- 
 mates of the house a greater coxcomb than the Count Deve- 
 reux in the ethereal person of Jean Desmarais. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE HERO ACQUITS HIMSELF HONOURABLY AS A COXCOMB. 
 
 A FINE LADY OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY, AND A FASH- 
 IONABLE dialogue; the SUBSTANCE OF FASHIONABLE DIA- 
 LOGUE BEING IN ALL CENTURIES THE SAME. 
 
 " I AM thinking, Morton, " said my uncle, " that if you are 
 to go to town, you should go in a style suitable to your rank. 
 What say you to flying along the road in my green and gold 
 chariot? 'Sdeath! I'll make you a present of it. Nay — 
 no thanks; and you may have four of my black Flanders 
 mares to draw you." 
 
 "Now, my dear Sir William," cried Lady Hasselton, who, 
 it may be remembered, was the daughter of one of King 
 Charles's Beauties, and who alone shared the breakfast-room 
 with my uncle and myself> — "now, my dear Sir William, I 
 
DEVEREUX. 63 
 
 think it would be a better plan to suffer the Count to accom- 
 pany us to town. We go next week. He shall have a seat in 
 our coach, help Lovell to pay our post-horses, protect us at 
 inns, scold at the drawers in the pretty oaths of the fashion, 
 which are so innocent that I will teach them to his Countship 
 myself; and unless I am much more frightful than my hon- 
 oured mother, whose beauties you so gallantly laud, I think 
 you will own. Sir William, that this is better for your nephew 
 than doing solitary penance in your chariot of green and gold, 
 with a handkerchief tied over his head to keep away cold, 
 and with no more fanciful occupation than composing sonnets 
 to the four Flanders mares." 
 
 "'Sdeath, Madam, you inherit your mother's wit as well 
 as beauty," cried my uncle, with an impassioned air. 
 
 "And his Countship," said I, "will accept your invitation 
 without asking his uncle's leave." 
 
 "Come, that is bold for a gentleman of — let me see, 
 thirteen — are you not ? " 
 
 "Really," answered I, "one learns to forget time so terribly 
 in the presence of Lady Hasselton that I do not remember 
 even how long it has existed for me." 
 
 "Bravo!" cried the knight, with a moistening eye; "you 
 see. Madam, the boy has not lived with his old uncle for 
 nothing." 
 
 " I am lost in astonishment ! " said the lady, glancing to- 
 wards the glass ; " why, you will eclipse all our beaux at your 
 first appearance ; but — but — Sir William — how green those 
 glasses have become! Bless me, there is something so conta- 
 gious in the effects of the country that the very mirrors grow 
 verdant. But — Count — Count — where are you. Count ? [I 
 was exactly opposite to the fair speaker.] Oh, there you are! 
 Pray, do you carry a little pocket-glass of the true quality 
 about you? But, of course you do; lend it me." 
 
 " I have not the glass you want, but I carry with me a mir- 
 ror that reflects your features much more faithfully." 
 
 " How ! I protest I do not understand you ! " 
 
 " The mirror is here ! " said I, laying my hand to my 
 heart. 
 
64 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " 'Gad, I must kiss the boy! " cried my uncle, starting up. 
 
 "I have sworn," said I, fixing my eyes upon the lady, — "I 
 have sworn never to be kissed, even by women. You must 
 pardon me, Uncle." 
 
 "I declare," cried the Lady Hasselton, flirting her fan, 
 which was somewhat smaller than the screen that one puts 
 into a great hall, in order to take off the discomfort of too 
 large a room, — "I declare. Count, there is a vast deal of orig- 
 inality about you. But tell me, Sir William, where did your 
 nephew acquire, at so early an age — eleven, you say, he is 
 — such a fund of agreeable assurance ? "• 
 
 "Nay, Madam, let the boy answer for himself." 
 
 "Imprimis, then," said I, playing with the ribbon of my 
 cane, — '^imprimis, early study of the best authors, — Con- 
 greve and Farquhar, Etherege and Eochester; secondly, the 
 constant intercourse of company which gives one the spleen 
 so overpoweringly that despair inspires one with boldness — 
 to get rid of them ; thirdly, the personal example of Sir Wil- 
 liam Devereux; and, fourthly, the inspiration of hope." 
 
 *' Hope, sir ? " said the Lady Hasselton, covering her face 
 with her fan, so as only to leave me a glimpse of the farthest 
 patch upon her left cheek, — " hope, sir ? " 
 
 "Yes, the hope of being pleasing to you. Suffer me to add 
 that the hope has now become certainty." 
 
 " Upon my word. Count — " 
 
 "Nay, you cannot deny it; if one can once succeed in im- 
 pudence, one is irresistible." 
 
 "Sir William," cried Lady Hasselton, "you may give the 
 Count your chariot of green and gold, and your four Flanders 
 mares, and send his mother's maid with him. He shall not 
 go with me." 
 
 " Cruel ! and why ? " said I. 
 
 " You are too " — the lady paused, and looked at me over 
 her fan. She Avas really very handsome — " you are too old, 
 Count. You must be more than nine." 
 
 "Pardon me," said I, "I am nine, — a very mystical num- 
 ber nine is too, and represents the Muses, who, you know, 
 were always attendant upon Venus — or you, which is the 
 
DEVEREUX. 65 
 
 same thing; so you can no more dispense with my company 
 than you can with that of the Graces." 
 
 "Good morning, Sir William," cried the Lady Hasselton, 
 rising. 
 
 I offered to hand her to the door ; with great difficulty, for 
 her hoop was of the very newest enormity of circumference, I 
 effected this object. "Well, Count," said she, "I am glad to 
 see you have brought so much learning from school; make 
 the best use of it while it lasts, for your memory will not 
 furnish you with a single simile out of the mythology by the 
 end of next winter." 
 
 "That would be a pity," said I, "for I intend having as 
 many goddesses as the heathens had, and I should like to 
 worship them in a classical fashion." 
 
 " Oh, the young reprobate ! " said the beauty, tapping me 
 with her fan. " And pray, what other deities besides Venus 
 do I resemble ? " 
 
 "All! " said I,— "at least, all the celestial ones! " 
 
 Though half way through the door, the beauty extricated 
 her hoop, and drew back. " Bless me, the gods as well as the 
 goddesses ? " 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "You jest: tell me how." 
 
 " ISTothing can be easier ; you resemble Mercury because of 
 your thefts." 
 
 "Thefts!" 
 
 "Ay; stolen hearts, and," added I, in a whisper, "glances; 
 Jupiter, partly because of your lightning, which you lock up 
 in the said glances, — principally because all things are sub- 
 servient to you; Neptune, because you are as changeable as 
 the seas; Vulcan, because you live among the flames you ex- 
 cite; and Mars, because — " 
 
 "You are so destructive," cried my uncle. 
 
 "Exactly so; and because," added I — as I shut the door 
 upon the beauty — " because, thanks to your hoop, you cover 
 nine acres of ground." 
 
 "Ods fish, Morton," said my uncle, "you surprise me at 
 times: one while you are so reserved, at another so assured; 
 
 5 
 
66 DEYEREUX. 
 
 to-day so brisk, to-morrow so gloomy. Why now, Lady Has- 
 selton (she is very comely, eh! faith, but not comparable to 
 her mother) told me, a week ago, that she gave you up in de- 
 spair, that you were dull, past hoping for; and now, 'Gad, 
 you had a life in you that Sid himself could not have sur- 
 passed. How comes it. Sir, eh ? " 
 
 "Why, Uncle, you have explained the reason; it was 
 exactly because she said I was dull that I was resolved to 
 convict her in an untruth." 
 
 " Well, now, there is some sense in that, boy ; always con- 
 tradict ill report by personal merit. But what think you of 
 her ladyship ? 'Gad, you know what old Bellair said of 
 Emilia. ' Make much of her: she 's one of the best of your 
 acquaintance. I like her countenance and behaviour. Well, 
 she has a modesty not i' this age, a-dad she has. ' A^jplicable 
 enough ; eh, boy ? " 
 
 "'I know her value. Sir, and esteem her accordingly,' " an- 
 swered I, out of the same play, which by dint of long study I 
 had got by heart. "But, to confess the truth," added I, "I 
 think you might have left out the passage about her 
 modesty." 
 
 "There, now; you young chaps are so censorious; why, 
 'sdeath, sir, you don't think the worse of her virtue because 
 of her wit?" 
 
 "Humph!" 
 
 "Ah, boy! when you are my age, you'll know that your 
 demure cats are not the best; and that reminds me of a little 
 story ; shall I tell it you, child ? " 
 
 "If it so please you. Sir." 
 
 "Zauns — Where's my snuff-box? — oh, here it is. Well, 
 Sir, you shall have the whole thing, from beginning to end. 
 Sedley and I were one day conversing together about women. 
 Sid was a very deep fellow in that game: no passion you 
 know; no love on his own side; nothing of the sort; all done 
 by rule and compass ; knew women as well as dice, and calcu- 
 lated the exact moment when his snares would catch them, 
 according to the principles of geometry. D — d clever fellow, 
 faith; but a confounded rascal: but let it go no further; 
 
DEVEREUX. 67 
 
 mum's the word! must not slander the dead; and 'tis only 
 my suspicion, you know, after all. Poor fellow: I don't think 
 he was such a rascal; he gave a beggar an angel once, — well, 
 boy, have a pinch ? — Well, so I said to Sir Charles, 'I think 
 you will lose the widow, after all, — 'Gad I do.' 'Upon what 
 principle of science. Sir AVilliam ? ' said he. 'Why, faith, 
 man, she is so modest, you see, and has such a pretty way of 
 blushing.' 'Hark ye, friend Devereux,' said Sir Charles, 
 smoothing his collar and mincing his words musically, as 
 he was wont to do, — 'hark ye, friend Devereux, I will give 
 you the whole experience of my life in one maxim: I can 
 answer for its being new, and I think it is profound; and 
 that maxim is — , ' no, faith, Morton — no, I can't tell it 
 thee : it is villanous, and then it 's so desperately against 
 all the sex." 
 
 " My dear uncle, don't tantalize me so : pray tell it me ; it 
 shall be a secret." 
 
 "No, boy, no: it will corrupt thee; besides, it will do poor 
 Sid's memory no good. But, 'sdeath, it was a most wonder- 
 fully shrewd saying, — i' faith, it was. But, zounds, Morton, 
 I forgot to tell you that I have had a letter from the Abbe 
 to-day." 
 
 "Ha! and when does he return ?" 
 
 "To-morrow, God willing! " said the knight, with a sigh. 
 
 " So soon, or rather after so long an absence ! Well, I am 
 glad of it. I wish much to see him before I leave you." 
 
 "Indeed!" quoth my uncle ; "you have an advantage over 
 me, then! But, ods fish, Morton, how is it that you grew so 
 friendly with the priest before his departure ? He used to 
 speak very suspiciously of thee formerly; and, when I last 
 saw him, he lauded thee to the skies." 
 
 "Why, the clergy of his faith have a habit of defending 
 the strong and crushing the weak, I believe; that 's all. He 
 once thought I was dull enough to damn my fortune, and 
 then he had some strange doubts for my soul; now he thinks 
 me wise enough to become prosperous, and it is astonishing 
 what a respect he has conceived for my principles." 
 
 ''Ha! ha! ha! — you have a spice of your uncle's humour 
 
68 DEVEREUX. 
 
 in you; and, 'Gad, you have no small knowledge of tlie 
 world, considering you have seen so little of it." 
 
 A hit at the popish clergy was, in my good uncle's eyes, 
 the exact acme of wit and wisdom. We are always clever 
 with those who imagine we think as they do. To be shallow 
 you must differ from people : to be profound you must agree 
 with them. "Why, Sir," answered the sage nephew, "you 
 forget that I have seen more of the world than many of twice 
 my age. Your house has been full of company ever since I 
 have been in it, and you set me to making observations on 
 what I saw before I was thirteen. And then, too, if one is 
 reading books about real life, at the very time one is mixing 
 in it, it is astonishing how naturally one remarks and how 
 well one remembers." 
 
 "Especially if one has a genius for it, — eh, boy? And 
 then too, you have read my play; turned Horace's Satires 
 into a lampoon upon the boys at school; been regularly to 
 assizes during the vacation; attended the county balls, and 
 been a most premature male coquette with the ladies. Ods 
 fish, boy! it is quite curious to see how the young sparks of 
 the present day get on with their lovemaking." 
 
 "Especially if one has a genius for it, — eh, sir ?" said I. 
 
 "Besides, too," said my uncle, ironically, "you have had 
 the Abbe's instructions." 
 
 "Ay, and if the priests would communicate to their pupils 
 their experience in frailty, as well as in virtue, how wise they 
 would make us ! " 
 
 "Ods fish! Morton, you are quite oracular. How got you 
 that fancy of priests ? — by observation in life already ?" 
 
 " No, Uncle : by observation in plays, which you tell me are 
 the mirrors of life; you remember what Lee says, — 
 
 " "T is thought 
 That earth is more ohliged to priests for bodies 
 Than Heaven for souls.' " 
 
 And my uncle laughed, and called me a smart fellow. 
 
DEVEREUX, 69 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE ABB]e's RETURX. — A SWORD, AND A SOLILOQUY. 
 
 The next evening, -when I was sitting alone in my room, 
 the Abbe ^Nlontreuil suddenly entered. "Ah, is it you ? wel- 
 come ! " cried I. The priest held out his arms, and embraced 
 me in the most paternal manner. 
 
 "It is your friend," said he, "returned at last to bless and 
 congratulate you. Behold my success in your service," and 
 the Abbe produced a long leather case richly inlaid with gold. 
 
 "Faith, Abbe," said I, "am I to understand that this is a 
 present for your eldest pupil ? " 
 
 "You are," said Montreuil, opening the case, and produ- 
 cing a sword. The light fell upon the hilt, and I drew back, 
 dazzled with its lustre ; it was covered with stones, apparently 
 of the most costly value. Attached to the hilt was a label of 
 purple velvet, on which, in letters of gold, was inscribed, 
 "To the son of Marshal Devereux, the soldier of France, and 
 the friend of Louis XIV." 
 
 Before I recovered my surprise at this sight, the Abbe 
 said: "It was from the King's own hand that I received this 
 sword, and I ha.ve authority to inform you that if ever you 
 wield it in the service of France it will be accompanied by a 
 post worthy of your name." 
 
 "The service of France!" I repeated; "why, at present 
 that is the service of an enemy." 
 
 "An enemy only to a jxirt of England!" said the Abbe, 
 emphatically; "perhaps I have overtures to you from other 
 monarchs, and the friendship of the court of France may be 
 synonymous with the friendship of the true sovereign of 
 England." 
 
 There was no mistaking the purport of this speech, and 
 even in the midst of my gratified vanity I drew back alarmed. 
 
 The Abbe noted the changed expression of my countenance, 
 and artfully turned the subject to comments on the sword, on 
 
70 DEVEREUX. 
 
 which I still gazed with a lover's ardour. Thence he veered 
 to a description of the grace and greatness of the royal donor : 
 he dwelt at length upon the flattering terms in which Louis 
 had spoken of my father, and had inquired concerning myself; 
 he enumerated all the hopes that the illustrious house into 
 which my father had first married expressed for a speedy 
 introduction to his son ; he lingered with an eloquence more 
 savouring of the court than of the cloister on the dazzling cir- 
 cle which surrounded the French throne ; and Avhen my van- 
 ity, my curiosity, my love of pleasure, my ambition, all that 
 are most susceptible in young minds, were fully aroused, he 
 suddenly ceased, and wished me a good night. 
 
 "Stay," said I; and looking at him more attentively than I 
 had hitherto done, I perceived a change in his external ap- 
 pearance which somewhat startled and surprised me. Mon- 
 treuil had always hitherto been remarkably plain in his dress ; 
 but he was now richly attired, and by his side hung a rapier, 
 which had never adorned it before. Something in his aspect 
 seemed to suit the alteration in his garb : and whether it was 
 that long absence had effaced enough of the familiarity of his 
 features to allow me to be more alive than formerly to the 
 real impression they were calculated to produce, or whether 
 a commune with kings and nobles had of late dignified their 
 old ex]3ression, as power was said to have clothed the soldier- 
 mien of Cromwell with a monarch's bearing, — I do not affect 
 to decide; but I thought that, in his high brow and Eoman 
 features, the compression of his lip, and his calm but haughty 
 air, there was a nobleness, which I acknowledged for the 
 first time. "Stay, my father," said I, surveying him, "and 
 tell me, if there be no irreverence in the question, whether 
 brocade and a sword are compatible with the laws of the 
 Order of Jesus ? " 
 
 "Policy, Morton," answered Montreuil, "often dispenses 
 with custom; and the declarations of the Institute provide, 
 with their usual wisdom, for worldly and temporary occa- 
 sions. Even while the constitution ordains us to disc:^.rd 
 habits repugnant to our professions of poverty, the follow- 
 ing exception is made: 'Si in occurrenti aliqua occasione, 
 
DEVEREUX. 71 
 
 vel necessitate, quis vestibus melioribus, honestis tamen, 
 inilueretur. ' " ^ 
 
 '• There is now, then, some occasion for a more glittering 
 display than ordinary ? " said I. 
 
 "There is, my pupil," answered ]Montreuil; "and whenever 
 you embrace the offer of my friendship made to you more 
 than two years ago, — whenever, too, your ambition points to a 
 lofty and sublime career, — whenever to make and unmake 
 kings, and in the noblest sphere to execute the will of God, 
 indemnifies you for a sacrifice of petty wishes and momentary 
 passions, — I will confide to you schemes worthy of your 
 ancestors and yourself." 
 
 With this the priest departed. Left to myself, I revolved 
 his hints, and marvelled at the power he seemed to possess. 
 "Closeted with kings," said I, soliloquizing, — "bearing their 
 presents through armed men and military espionage; speak- 
 ing of empires and their overthrow as of ordinary objects of 
 ambition; and he himself a low-born and undignified priest, 
 of a poor though a wise order, — well, there is more in this 
 than I can fathom : but I will hesitate before I embark in his 
 dangerous and concealed intrigues; above all, I will look well 
 ere I hazard my safe heritage of these broad lands in the 
 service of that House which is reported to be ungrateful, and 
 which is certainly exiled." 
 
 After this prudent and notable resolution, I took up the 
 sword, re-examined it, kissed the hilt once and the blade 
 twice, put it under my pillow, sent for ray valet, undressed, 
 went to bed; fell asleep, and dreamed that I was teaching the 
 Marechal de Villars the thrust en seconde. 
 
 But Fate, that arch-gossip, who, like her prototypes on 
 earth, settles all our affairs for us without our knowledge of 
 the matter, had decreed that my friendship with the Abbe 
 Montreuil should be of very short continuance, and that my 
 adventures on earth should flow through a different channel 
 than, in all probability, they would have done vmder his 
 spiritual direction. ^ 
 
 1 " But should there chance any occasion or necessity, one may wear better 
 tbou";h still decorous Erarmeuts." 
 
72 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 A MYSTERIOUS LETTER. A DUEL. THE DEPARTURE OF ONE 
 
 OF THE FAMILY. 
 
 The next morning I communicated to tlie Abbe my inten- 
 tion of proceeding to London. He received it with favour. 
 "I myself," said he, "shall soon meet you there: my ofBce in 
 your family has expired; and your mother, after so long an 
 absence, will perhaps readily dispense with my spiritual ad- 
 vice to her. But time presses : since you depart so soon, give 
 me an audience to-night in your apartment. Perhaps our 
 conversation may be of moment." 
 
 I agreed ; the hour was fixed, and I left the Abb^ to join 
 my uncle and his guests. While I was employing among 
 them my time and genius with equal dignity and profit, one 
 of the servants informed me that a man at the gate wished to 
 see me — and alone. 
 
 Somewhat surprised, I followed the servant out of the room 
 into the great hall, and desired him to bid the stranger attend 
 me there. In a few minutes, a small, dark man, dressed 
 between gentility and meanness, made his appearance. He 
 greeted me with great respect, and presented a letter, which, 
 he said, he was charged to deliver into my own hands, 
 "with," he added in alow tone, "a special desire that none 
 should, till I had carefully read it, be made acquainted with 
 its contents." I was not a little startled by this request; 
 and, withdrawing to one of the windows, broke the seal. A 
 letter, enclosed in the envelope, in the Abbe's own handwrit- 
 ing, was the first thing that met my eyes. At that instant 
 the Abbe himself rushed into the hall. He cast one hasty 
 look at the messenger, whose countenance evinced something 
 of surprise and consternation at beholding him; and, hasten- 
 ing up , to me, grasped my hand vehemently, and, while his 
 eye dwelt upon the letter I held, cried, " Do not read it — not 
 
DEVEREUX. 73 
 
 a word — not a -svord : there is poison in it ! " And so saying, 
 he snatched desperately at the letter. I detained it from 
 him with one hand, and pushing him aside with the other,, 
 said, — 
 
 " Pardon me, "Father, directly I have read it you shall have 
 that pleasure, — not till then!" and, as I said this, my eye 
 falling upon the letter discovered my own name written in 
 two places. My suspicions were aroused. I raised my eyes 
 to the spot where the messenger had stood, with the view of 
 addressing some question to him respecting his employer, 
 when, to my surprise, I perceived he was already gone ; I had 
 no time, however, to follow him. 
 
 "Boy," said the Abbe, gasping for breath, and still seizing 
 me with his lean, bony hand, — "boy, give me that letter in- 
 stantly; I charge you not to disobey me." 
 
 "You forget yourself. Sir," said I, endeavouring to shake 
 him off, "you forget yourself: there is no longer between us 
 the distinction of pupil and teacher; and if you have not yet 
 learned the respect due to my station, suffer me to tell you 
 that it is time you should." 
 
 "Give me that letter, I beseech you," said Montreuil, 
 changing his voice from anger to supplication; "I ask your 
 pardon for my violence : the letter does not concern you but 
 me ; there is a secret in those lines which you see are in my 
 handwriting that implicates my personal safety. Give it me, 
 my dear, dear son: your own honour, if not your affection 
 for me, demands that you should." 
 
 I was staggered. His Aaolence had confirmed my suspi- 
 cions, but his gentleness weakened them. "Besides," thought 
 I, " the handwriting is his ; and even if my life depended 
 upon reading the letter of another, I do not think my honour 
 would suffer me to do so against his consent." A thought 
 struck me, — 
 
 " Will you swear, " said I, " that this letter does not concern 
 me?" 
 
 "Solemnly," answered the Abbe, raising his eyes. 
 
 " Will you swear that I am not even mentioned in it ? " 
 
 "Upon peril of my soul, I will." 
 
74 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " Liar ! traitor ! perjured blasphemer ! " cried I, in an inex- 
 pressible rage, " look here, and here ! " and I pointed out to 
 the priest various lines in which my name legibly and fre- 
 quently occurred. A change came over Montreuil's face: he 
 released my arm and staggered back against the wainscot; 
 but recovering his composure instantaneously, he said, "I 
 forgot, my son — I forgot — your name is mentioned, it is 
 true, but with honourable eulogy, that is all." 
 
 "Bravo, honest Father!" cried I, losing my fury in admir- 
 ing surprise at his address, — "bravo! However, if that be 
 all, you can have no objection to allow me to read the lines in 
 which my name occurs; your benevolence cannot refuse me 
 such a gratification as the sight of your written panegyric! " 
 
 "Count Devereux," said the Abbe, sternly, while his dark 
 face worked with suppressed passion, "this is trifling with 
 me, and I warn you not to push my patience too far. I will 
 have that letter, or — " he ceased abruptly, and touched the 
 hilt of his sword. 
 
 " Dare you threaten me ? " I said, and the natural fierceness 
 of my own disposition, deepened by vague and strong suspi- 
 cions of some treachery designed against me, spoke in the 
 tones of my voice. 
 
 "Dare I?" repeated Montreuil, sinking and sharpening his 
 voice into a sort of inward screech. " Dare I ! — ay, were 
 your whole tribe arrayed against me. Give me the letter, or 
 you will find me now and forever your most deadly foe; 
 deadly — ay — deadly, deadly ! " and he shook his clenched 
 hand at me, with an expression of countenance so malignant 
 and menacing that I drew back involuntarily^ and laid my 
 hand on my sword. 
 
 The action seemed to give Montreuil a signal for which he 
 had hitherto waited. "Draw then," he said through his 
 teeth, and unsheathed his rapier. 
 
 Though surprised at his determination, I was not backward 
 in meeting it. Thrusting the letter in my bosom, I drew my 
 sword in time to parry a rapid and fierce thrust. I had ex- 
 pected easily to master Montreuil, for I had some skill at my 
 weapon: I was deceived; I found him far more adroit than 
 
DEVEREUX. 75 
 
 myself in the art of offence ; and perhaps it would have fared 
 ill for the hero of this narrative had Montreuil deemed it 
 wise to direct against my life all the science he possessed. 
 But the moment our swords crossed, the constitutional cool- 
 ness of the man, which rage or fear had for a brief time ban- 
 ished, returned at once, and he probably saw that it would be 
 as dangerous to him to take away the life of his pupil as to 
 forfeit the paper for which he fought. He, therefore, ap- 
 peared to bend all his efforts towards disarming me. Whether 
 or not he would have effected this it is hard to say, for my 
 blood was up, and any neglect of my antagonist, in attaining 
 an object very dangerous, when engaged with a skilful and 
 quick swordsman, might have sent him to the place from 
 which the prayers of his brethren have (we are bound to be- 
 lieve) released so many thousands of souls. But, meanwhile, 
 the servants, who at lirst thought the clashing of swords was 
 the wanton sport of some young gallants as yet new to the 
 honour of wearing them, grew alarmed by the continuance of 
 the sound, and flocked hurriedly to the place of contest. At 
 their intrusion we mutually drew back. Eecovering my pres- 
 ence of mind (it was a possession I very easily lost at that 
 time), I saw the unseemliness of fighting with my preceptor, 
 and a priest. I therefore burst, though awkwardly enough, 
 into a laugh, and, affecting to treat the affair as a friendly 
 trial of skill between the Abbe and myself, resheathed my 
 sword and dismissed the intruders, who, evidently disbelieving 
 my version of the story, retreated slowly, and exchanging 
 looks. Montreuil, who had scarcely seconded my attempt to 
 gloss over our rencontre, now approached me, 
 
 "Count," he said, with a collected and cool voice, "suffer 
 me to request you to exchange three words with me in a spot 
 less liable than this to interruption." 
 
 " Follow me then ! " said I ; and I led the way to a part of 
 the grounds which lay remote and sequestered from intrusion. 
 I then turned round, and perceived that the Abbe had left 
 his sword behind. " How is this ? " I said, pointing to 
 his unarmed side, "have you not come hither to renew our 
 engagement ? " 
 
76 DEYEREUX. 
 
 " No ! " answered Montreuil, " I repent me of my sudden 
 haste, and I have resolved to deny myself all further possi- 
 bility of unseemly warfare. That letter, young man, I still 
 demand from you; I demanded it from your own sense of 
 honour and of right: it was written by me; it was not in- 
 tended for your eye; it contains secrets implicating the lives 
 of others besides myself; now, read it if you will." 
 
 " You are right, Sir, " said I, after a short pause ; " there is 
 the letter; never shall it be said of Morton Devereux that he 
 hazarded his honour to secure his safety. But the tie between 
 us is broken now and forever ! " 
 
 So saying, I flung down the debated epistle, and strode 
 away. I re-entered the great hall. I saw by one of the win- 
 dows a sheet of paper ; I picked it up, and perceived that it 
 was the envelope in which the letter had been enclosed. It 
 contained only these lines, addressed me in French : — 
 
 A friend of the late Marshal Devereux encloses to his son a letter, the 
 contents of which it is essential for his safety that he should know. 
 
 C. D. B. 
 
 "Umph!" said I, "a very satisfactory intimation, consid- 
 ering that the son of the late Marshal Devereux is so very 
 well assured that he shall not know one line of the contents 
 of the said letter. But let me see after this messenger! " and 
 I immediately hastened to institute inquiry respecting him. 
 I found that he was already gone ; on leaving the hall he had 
 remounted his horse and taken his departure. One servant, 
 however, had seen him, as he passed the front court, address 
 a few words to my valet, Desmarais, who happened to be 
 loitering there. I summoned Desmarais and questioned him. 
 
 "The dirty fellow," said the Frenchman, pointing to his 
 spattered stockings with a lachrymose air, " splashed me, by 
 a prance of his horse, from head to foot, and while I was 
 screaming for very anguish, he stopped and said, 'Tell the 
 Count Devereux that I was unable to tarry, but that the 
 letter requires no answer. ' " 
 
 I consoled Desmarais for his misfortune, and hastened to 
 my uncle with a determination to reveal to him all that had 
 
DEVEREUX. 77 
 
 occurred. Sir William was in his dressing-room, and liis 
 gentleman was very busy in adorning his wig. I entreated 
 him to dismiss the coiffeur, and then, without much prelim- 
 inary detail, acquainted him with all that had passed between 
 the Abbe and myself. 
 
 The knight seemed startled when I came to the story of the 
 sword. '"Gad, Sir Count, what have you been doing ?" said 
 he ; " know you not that this may be a very ticklish matter ? 
 The King of France is a very great man, to be sure, — a very 
 great man, — and a very fine gentleman; but you will please 
 to remember that we are at war with his Majesty, and I can- 
 not guess how far the accepting such presents may be held 
 treasonable." 
 
 And Sir William shook his head with a mournful signifi- 
 cance. "Ah," cried he, at last (when I had concluded my 
 whole story), with a complacent look, "I have not lived at 
 court, and studied human nature, for nothing: and I will 
 wager my best full-bottom to a night-cap that the crafty old 
 fox is as much a Jacobite as he is a rogue ! The letter would 
 have proved it, Sir ; it would have proved it ! " 
 
 " But what shall be done now ? " said I ; " will you suffer 
 him to remain any longer in the house ? " 
 
 "Why," replied the knight, suddenly recollecting his rev- 
 erence to the fair sex, "he is your mother's guest, not mine; 
 we must refer the matter to her. But zauns, Sir, with all 
 deference to her ladyship, we cannot suffer our house to be a 
 conspiracy-hatch as well as a popish chapel ; and to attempt 
 your life too — the devil! Ods fish, boy, I will go to the 
 countess myself, if you will just let NichoUs finish my wig, 
 — never attend the ladies en deshabille, — always, with them, 
 take care of your person most, when you most want to dis- 
 play your mind; " and my uncle ringing a little silver bell on 
 his dressing-table, the sound immediately brought Nicholls 
 to his toilet. 
 
 Trusting the cause to the zeal of my uncle, whose hatred to 
 the ecclesiastic would, I knew, be an efficacious adjunct to 
 his diplomatic address, and not unwilling to avoid being my- 
 self the person to acquaint my mother with the suspected de- 
 
78 DEVEREUX. 
 
 linquency of her favourite, I hastened from the knight's 
 apartment in search of Aubrey. He was not in the house. 
 His attendants (for my uncle, with old-fashioned grandeur of 
 respect, suitable to his great wealth and aristocratic temper, 
 allotted to each of us a separate suite of servants as well as 
 of apartments) believed he was in the park. Thither I re- 
 paired, and found him, at length, seated by an old tree, with 
 a large book of a religious cast before him, on which his eyes 
 were intently bent. 
 
 "I rejoice to have found thee, my gentle brother," said I, 
 throwing myself on the green turf by his side; "in truth you 
 have chosen a fitting and fair place for study." 
 
 "I have chosen," said Aubrey, "a place meet for the pe- 
 culiar study I am engrossed in; for where can we better read 
 of the power and benevolence of God than among the living 
 testimonies of both ? Beautiful — how very beautiful ! — is 
 this happy world ; but I fear, " added Aubrey, and the glow of 
 his countenance died away, — "I fear that we enjoy it too 
 much." 
 
 "We hold different interpretations of our creed then," said 
 I, "for I esteem enjoyment the best proof of gratitude; nor 
 do I think we can pay a more acceptable duty to the Father 
 of all Goodness than by showing ourselves sensible of the 
 favours He bestows upon us." 
 
 Aubrey shook his head gently, but replied not. 
 
 "Yes," resumed I, after a pause, — "yes, it is indeed a glo- 
 rious and fair world which we have for our inheritance. Look 
 how the sunlight sleeps yonder upon fields covered with golden 
 corn; and seems, like the divine benevolence of which you 
 spoke, to smile upon the luxuriance which its power created. 
 This carpet at our feet, covered with flowers that breathe, 
 sweet as good deeds, to Heaven ; the stream that breaks through 
 that distant copse, laughing in the light of noon, and sending 
 its voice through the hill and woodland, like a messenger of 
 glad tidings; the green boughs over our head, vocal with a 
 thousand songs, all inspirations of a joy too exquisite for si- 
 lence ; the very leaves, which seem to dance and quiver with 
 delight, — think you, Aubrey, that these are so sullen as not 
 
DEVEREUX. 79 
 
 to return thanks for the happiness they imbibe with being : 
 what are those thanks but the incense of their joy ? The 
 flowers send it up to heaven in fragrance; the air and the 
 wave, in music. Shall the heart of man be the only part of 
 His creation that shall dishonour His worship with lamenta- 
 tion and gloom? When the ius] tired writers call upon us to 
 praise our Creator, do they not say to us, — '^q joyful in your 
 God? ' " 
 
 " How can we be joyful with the Judgment-Day ever before 
 us?" said Aubrey; "how can we be joyful" (and here a dark 
 shade crossed his countsnance, and his lip trembled with 
 emotion) " while the deadly passions of this world plead and 
 rankle at the heart ? Oh, none but they who have knov.ai the 
 full blessedness of a commune with Heaven can dream of the 
 whole anguish and agony of the conscience, when it feels it- 
 self sullied by the mire and crushed by the load of earth!" 
 Aubrey paused, and his words, his tone, his look, made upon 
 me a powerful impression. I was about to answer, when, 
 interrupting me, he said, " Let us talk not of these matters ; 
 speak to me on more worldly topics." 
 
 "I sought you," said I, "that I might do so," and I pro- 
 ceeded to detail to Aubrej' as much of my private intercourse 
 with the Abbe as I deemed necessary in order to warn him 
 from too close a confidence in the wily ecclesiastic. Aubrey 
 listened to me with earnest attention; the affair of the letter; 
 the gross falsehood of the priest in denying the mention of 
 my name, in his epistle, evidently dismayed him. "But," 
 said he, after a long silence, — "but it is not for us, Morton, 
 — weak, ignorant, inexperienced as we are, — to judge prema- 
 turely of our spiritual pastors. To them also is given a far 
 greater license of conduct than to us, and ways enveloped in 
 what to our eyes are mystery and shade; nay, I know not 
 whether it be much less impious to question the paths of 
 God's chosen than to scrutinize those of the Deity Himself." 
 
 " Aubrey, Aubrey, this is childish ! " said I, somewhat 
 moved to anger. " IVIystery is always the trick of imposture : 
 God's chosen should be distinguished from their flock only 
 by superior virtue, and not by a superior privilege in deceit." 
 
80 DEVEREUX. 
 
 "But," said Aubrey, pointing to a passage in the book be- 
 fore him, " see what a preacher of the word has said ! " and 
 Aubrey recited one of the most dangerous maxims in priest- 
 craft, as reverently as if he were quoting from the Scripture 
 itself. " ' The nakedness of truth should never be too openly 
 exposed to the eyes of the vulgar. It was wisely feigned by 
 the ancients that Truth did lie concealed in a well ! ' " 
 
 "Yes," said I, with enthusiasm, "but that well is like the 
 holy stream at Dodona, which has the gift of enlightening 
 those who seek it, and the power of illumining every torch 
 which touches the surface of its water ! " 
 
 Whatever answer Aubrey might have made was interrupted 
 by my uncle, who appeared approaching towards us with un- 
 usual satisfaction depicted on his comely countenance. 
 
 "Well, boys, well," said he, when he came within hearing, 
 " a holy day for you ! Ods fish, — and a holier day than my old 
 house has known since its former proprietor, Sir Hugo, of 
 valorous memory, demolished the nunnery, of which some 
 remains yet stand on yonder eminence. Morton, my man of 
 might, the thing is done; the court is purified; the wicked 
 one is departed. Look here, and be as happy as I am at our 
 release; " and he threw me a note in Montreuil's writing: — 
 
 TO SIE WILLIAM DEVEREUX, KT. 
 
 My Honoured Friend, — In consequence of a dispute between 
 your eldest nephew, Count Morton Devereux, and myself, in which he 
 desired me to remember, not only that our former relationship of tutor 
 and pupil was at an end, but that friendship for his person was incom- 
 patible with the respect due to his superior station, I can neither so far 
 degrade the dignity of letters, nor, above all, so meanly debase the 
 sanctity of my divine profession, as any longer to remain beneath your 
 hospitable roof, — a guest not only unwelcome to, but insulted by, your 
 relation and apparent heir. Suffer me to offer you my gratitude for the 
 favours you have hitherto bestowed on me, and to bid you farewell for- 
 ever. 
 
 I have the honour to be, 
 
 With the most profound respect, etc., 
 
 Julian Montreuil. 
 
DEVEREUX. 81 
 
 "Well, sir, what say you?" cried my uncle, stamping his 
 cane firmly on the ground, when I had finished reading the 
 letter, and had transmitted it to Aubrey. 
 
 " That the good Abbe has displayed his usual skill in com- 
 position. And my mother ? Is she imbued with our opinion 
 of his priestship ? " 
 
 "Not exactly, I fear. However, Heaven bless her, she is 
 too soft to say 'nay.' But those Jesuits are so smooth- 
 tongued to women. 'Gad, they threaten damnation with such 
 an irresistible air, that they are as much like William the 
 Conqueror as Edward the Confessor. Ha! master Aubrey, 
 have you become amorous of the old Jacobite, that you sigh 
 over his crabbed writing, as if it were a billet-doux ? " 
 
 "There seems a great deal of feeling in what he says, Sir," 
 said Aubrey, returning the letter to my uncle. 
 
 " Feeling ! " cried the knight ; " ay, the reverend gentry al- 
 ways have a marvellously tender feeling for their own interest, 
 — eh, Morton ? " 
 
 "Eight, dear sir," said I, wishing to change a subject which 
 I knew might hurt Aubrey ; " but should we not join yon party 
 of dames and damsels ? I see they are about to make a water 
 excursion." 
 
 " 'Sdeath, sir, with all my heart," cried the good-natured 
 knight; "I love to see the dear creatures amuse themselves; 
 for, to tell you the truth, Morton," said he, sinking his voice 
 into a knowing whisper, "the best thing to keep them from 
 playing the devil is to encourage them in playing the fool ! " 
 and, laughing heartily at the jest he had purloined from one 
 of his favourite writers, Sir William led the way to the 
 water-party. 
 
 6 
 
82 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 BEING A CHAPTER OF TRIFLES. 
 
 The Abbe disappeared! It is astonishing how well eve^y^ 
 body bore his departure. My mother scarcely spoke on the 
 subject; but along the irrefragable smoothness of her temper- 
 ament all things glided without resistance to their course, or 
 trace where they had been. Gerald, who, occupied solely in 
 rural sports or rustic loves, seldom mingled in the festivities 
 of the house, was equally silent on the subject. Aubrey 
 looked grieved for a day or two: but his countenance soon 
 settled into its customary and grave softness; and, in less 
 than a week, so little was the Abbe spoken of or missed that 
 you would scarcely have imagined Julian Montreuil had ever 
 passed the threshold of our gate. The oblivion of one buried 
 is nothing to the oblivion of one disgraced. 
 
 Meanwhile I pressed for my departure; and, at length, the 
 day was finally fixed. Ever since that conversation with 
 Lady Hasselton which has been set before the reader, that 
 lad}'' had lingered and lingered — though the house was grow- 
 ing empty, and London, in all seasons, was, according to her, 
 better than the country in any — until the Count De verenx, 
 with that amiable modesty which so especiall}' characterized 
 him, began to suspect that the Lady Hasselton lingered on 
 his account. This emboldened that bashful personage to 
 press in earnest for the fourth seat in the beauty's carriage, 
 which we have seen in the conversation before mentioned had 
 been previously offered to him in jest. After a great affecta- 
 tion of horror at the proposal, the Lady Hasselton yielded. 
 She had always, she said, been dotingly fond of children, 
 and it was certainly very shocking to send such a chit as the 
 little Count to London by himself. 
 
DEVEREUX. 83 
 
 Mj uncle was charmed with the arrangement. The beauty 
 was a peculiar favourite of his, and, in fact, he was some- 
 times pleased to hint that he had private reasons for love 
 towards her mother's daughter. Of the truth of this insinua- 
 tion I am, however, more than somewhat suspicious, and be- 
 lieve it was only a little nise of the good knight, in order to 
 excuse the vent of those kindly affections with which (while 
 the heartless tone of the company his youth had frequented 
 made him ashamed to own it) his breast overflowed. There 
 was in Lady Hasselton's familiarity — her ease of manner — 
 a certain good-nature mingled with her affectation, and a gay- 
 ety of spirit, which never flagged, — something greatly calcu- 
 lated to win favour with a man of my uncle's temper. 
 
 An old gentleman who filled in her family the office of 
 "the chevalier" in a French one; namely, who told stories, 
 not too long, and did not challenge you for interrupting them ; 
 who had a good air, and unexceptionable pedigree, — a turn 
 for wit, literature, note-writing, and the management of lap- 
 dogs; who could attend Madame to auctions, plays, courts, 
 and the puppet-show; who had a right to the best company, 
 but would, on a signal, give up his seat to any one the pretty 
 capricieuse whom he served might select from the worst, — in 
 short a very useful, charming personage, "vastly" liked by 
 all, and "prodigiously" respected by none, — this gentleman, 
 I say, by name Mr. Lovell, had attended her ladyship in her 
 excursion to Devereux Court. Besides him there came also a 
 widow lady, 'a distant relation, with one eye and a sharp 
 tongue, — the Lady Needleham, whom the beauty carried 
 about with her as a sort of gouvernante or duenna. These 
 excellent persons made my com,pagnons de voyage, and filled 
 the remaining complements of the coach. To say truth, and 
 to say nothing of my tendresse for the Lady Hasselton, I was 
 very anxious to escape the ridicule of crawling up to the town 
 like a green beetle, in my uncle's verdant chariot, with the 
 four Flanders marcs trained not to exceed two miles an hour. 
 And my Lady Hasselton's private raileries — for she was 
 really well bred, and made no jest of my uncle's antiquities of 
 taste, in his presence, at least — had considerably heightened 
 
84 DEVEREUX. 
 
 my intuitive dislike to that mode of transporting myself to 
 the metropolis. The day before my departure, Gerald, for 
 the first time, spoke of it. 
 
 Glancing towards the mirror, which gave in full contrast 
 the magnificent beauty of his person, and the smaller pro- 
 portions and plainer features of m}^ own, he said with a sneer, 
 "Your appearance must create a wonderful sensation in town." 
 
 "No doubt of it," said I, taking his words literally, and 
 arraying my laced cravat with the air of o^ petit-maitre. 
 
 "What a wit the Count has!" whispered the Duchess of 
 Lackland, who had not yet given up all hope of the elder 
 brother. 
 
 "Wit!" said the Lady Hasselton; "poor child, he is a 
 perfect simpleton!" 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE MOTHER AXD SON. — VIRTUE SHOULD BE THE SOVEREIGN 
 OF THE FEELINGS, NOT THEIR DESTROYER. 
 
 I TOOK the first opportunity to escape from the good com- 
 pany who were so divided in opinion as to my mental accom- 
 plishments, and repaired to my mother; for whom, despite of 
 her evenness of disposition, verging towards insensibility, I 
 felt a powerful and ineffaceable affection. Indeed, if purity 
 of life, rectitude of intentions, and fervour of piety can win 
 love, none ever deserved it more than she. It was a pity 
 that, with such admirable qualities, she had not more dili- 
 gently cultivated her affections. The seed was not wanting; 
 but it had been neglected. Originally intended for the veil, 
 she had been taught, early in life, that much feeling was sy- 
 nonymous with much sin ; and she had so long and so carefully 
 repressed in her heart every attempt of the forbidden fruit to 
 put forth a single blossom, that the soil seemed at last to have 
 become incapable of bearing it. If, in one corner of this 
 
DEVEREUX. 85 
 
 barren but sacred spot, some green and tender verdure of 
 affection did exist, it was, with a partial and petty reserve 
 for my twin-brother, kept exclusive, and consecrated to 
 Aubrey. His congenial habits of pious silence and rigid de- 
 votion; his softness of temper; his utter freedom from all 
 boyish excesses, joined to his almost angelic beauty, — a qual- 
 ity which, in no female heart, is ever without its value, — 
 were exactly calculated to attract her sympathy, and work 
 themselves into her love. Gerald was also regular in his 
 habits, attentive to devotion, and had, from an early period, 
 been high in the favour of her spiritual director. Gerald, 
 too, if he had not the delicate and dream -like beauty of 
 Aubrey, possessed attractions of a more masculine and decided 
 order; and for Gerald, therefore, the Countess gave the little 
 of love that she could spare from Aubrey. To me she mani- 
 fested the most utter indifference. My difficult and fastidious 
 temper; my sarcastic turn of mind; my violent and headstrong 
 passions; my daring, reckless and, when roused, almost fero- 
 cious nature, — all, especially, revolted the even and polished 
 and quiescent character of my maternal parent. The little ex- 
 travagances of my childhood seemed to her pure and inexperi- 
 enced mind the crimes of a heart naturally distorted and evil ; 
 my jesting vein, which, though it never, even in the wanton- 
 ness of youth, attacked the substances of good, seldom respected 
 its semblances and its forms, she considered as the effusions of 
 malignity; and even the bursts of love, kindness, and benev- 
 olence, which were by no means unfrequent in my wild and 
 motley character, were so foreign to her stillness of tempera- 
 ment that they only revolted her by their violence, instead of 
 affecting her by their warmth. 
 
 ISTor did she like me the better for the mutual understand- 
 ing between my uncle and myself. On the contrary, shocked 
 by the idle and gay turn of the knight's conversation, the 
 frivolities of his mind, and his heretical disregard for the 
 forms of the religious sect which she so zealously espoused, 
 she was utterly insensible to the points which redeemed and 
 ennobled his sterling and generous character ; utterly obtuse 
 to his warmth of heart, — his overflowing kindness of disposi- 
 
86 DEVEREUX. 
 
 tion, — his charity, — his high honour, — his justice of princi- 
 ple, that nothing save benevolence could, warp, — and the 
 shrewd, penetrating sense, which, though often clouded, by 
 foibles and. humorous eccentricity, still made the stratum of 
 his intellectual composition. Nevertheless, despite her pre- 
 possessions against us both, there was in her temper some- 
 thing so gentle, meek, and unupbraiding, that even the sense 
 of injustice lost its sting, and one could not help loving the 
 softness of her character, while one was most chilled by its 
 frigidity. Anger, hope, fear, the faintest breath or sign of 
 passion, never seemed to stir the breezeless languor of her 
 feelings ; and quiet was so inseparable from her image that I 
 have almost thought, like that people described by Herodotus, 
 her very sleep could never be disturbed by dreams. 
 
 Yes ! how fondly, how tenderly I loved her ! What tears, 
 secret but deep, bitter but unreproaching, have I retired to 
 shed, when I caught her cold and unaffectionate glance! 
 How (unnoticed and uncared for) have I watched and prayed 
 and wept without her door when a transitory sickness or 
 suffering detained her within ; and how, when stretched my- 
 self upon the feverish bed to which my early weakness of 
 frame often condemned me, — how have I counted the mo- 
 ments to her punctilious and brief visit, and started as I 
 caught her footstep, and felt my heart leap within me as she 
 approached! and then, as I heard her cold tone and looked 
 upon her unmoved face, how bitterly have I turned away with 
 all that repressed and crushed affection which was construed 
 into sullenness or disrespect! mighty and enduring force 
 of early associations, that almost seems, in its unconquerable 
 strength, to partake of an innate prepossession, that binds 
 the son to the mother who concealed him in her womb and 
 purchased life for him with the travail of death ! — fountain 
 of filial love, which coldness cannot freeze, nor injustice em- 
 bitter, nor pride divert into fresh channels, nor time, and the 
 hot suns of our toiling manhood, exhaust, — even at this mo- 
 ment, how livingly do you gush upon my heart, and water 
 with your divine waves the memories that yet flourish amidst 
 the sterility of years ! 
 
DEYEREUX. 87 
 
 I approached the apartments appropriated to my mother : I 
 knocked at her door; one of her women admitted me. The 
 Countess was sitting on a high-backed chair, curiously- 
 adorned with tapestry. Her feet, which were remarkable 
 for their beauty, were upon a velvet cushion; three hand- 
 maids stood round her, and she herself was busily employed 
 in a piece of delicate embroidery, an art in which she emi- 
 nently excelled. 
 
 ''The Count, Madam!" said the woman who had admitted 
 me, placing a chair beside my mother, and then retiring to 
 join her sister maidens. 
 
 "Good day to you, my son," said the Countess, lifting her 
 eyes for a moment, and then dropping them again upon her 
 work. 
 
 " I have come to seek you, dearest mother, as I know not, 
 if, among the crowd of guests and amusements which sur- 
 round us, I shall enjoy another opportunity of having a pri- 
 vate conversation with you: will it please you to dismiss your 
 women ? " 
 
 My mother again lifted up her eyes. ''And why, my son ? 
 surely there can be nothing between us which requires their 
 absence ; what is your reason ? " 
 
 "I leave you to-morrow, Madam: is it strange that a son 
 should wish to see his mother alone before his departure ? " 
 
 "By no means, Morton; but your absence will not be very 
 long, will it ? " 
 
 "Forgive my importunity, dear Mother; but will you dis- 
 miss your attendants ? " 
 
 "If you wish it, certainly; but I dislike feeling alone, 
 especially in these large rooms; nor did I think being un- 
 attended quite consistent with our rank: however, I never 
 contradict you, my son," and the Countess directed her 
 women to wait in the anteroom. 
 
 " Well, Morton, what is your wish ? " 
 
 "Only to bid you farewell, and to ask if London contains 
 nothing which you will commission me to obtain for you ?" 
 
 The Countess again raised her eyes from her work. "I 
 am greatly obliged to you, my dear son; this is a very deli- 
 
88 DEVEREUX. 
 
 cate attention on your part. I am informed that stomacliers 
 are worn a thought less pointed than they were. I care not, 
 you well know, for such vanities; but respect for the mem- 
 ory of your illustrious father renders me desirous to retain a 
 seemly appearance to the world, and my women shall give 
 you written instructions thereon to Madame Tourville; she 
 lives in St. James's Street, and is the only person to be em- 
 ployed in these matters. She is a woman who has known 
 misfortune, and appreciates the sorrowful and subdued tastes 
 of those whom an exalted station has not preserved from like 
 afflictions. So you go to-morrow : will you get me the scis- 
 sors ? They are on the ivory table yonder. When do you 
 return ? " 
 
 " Perhaps never ! " said I, abruptly. 
 
 " iSTever, Morton ; how singular — why ? " 
 
 "I may join the army, and be killed." 
 
 " I hope not. Dear, how cold it is : will you shut the win- 
 dow ? pray forgive my troubling you, but you ivould send 
 away the women. Join the army, you say ? It is a very dan- 
 gerous profession; your poor father might be alive now but 
 for having embraced it; nevertheless, in a righteous cause, 
 under the Lord of Hosts, there is great glory to be obtained 
 beneath its banners. Alas, however, for its private evils! 
 alas, for the orphan and the widow! You will be sure, my 
 dear son, to give the note to Madame Tourville herself ? Her 
 assistants have not her knowledge of my misfortunes, nor 
 indeed of my exact proportions ; and at my age, and in my 
 desolate state, I would fain be decorous in these things, — 
 and that reminds me of dinner. Have you aught else to say, 
 Morton ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " said I, suppressing my emotions, " yes, Mother ! 
 do bestow on me one warm wish, one kind word, before we 
 part: see, — I kneel for your blessing, — will you not give it 
 me?" 
 
 "Bless you, my child, — bless you! look you now; I have 
 dropped my needle ! " 
 
 I rose hastily, bowed profoundly (my mother returned the 
 courtesy with the grace peculiar to herself), and withdrew. 
 
DEVEREUX. 89 
 
 I hurried into the great drawing-room, found Lady Keedle- 
 ham alone, rushed out in despair, encountered the Lady Has-| 
 selton, and coquetted with her the rest of the evening. Vain 
 hope! to forget one's real feelings by pretending those one 
 never felt! 
 
 The next morning, then, after suitable adieux to all (Gerald 
 excepted) whom I left behind; after some tears too from my 
 uncle, which, had it not been for the presence of the Lady 
 Hasselton, I could have returned with interest; and after a 
 long caress to his dog Fonto, which now, in parting with that 
 dear old man, seemed to me as dog never seemed before, I 
 hurried into the Beauty's carriage, bade farewell forever to 
 the Rubicon of Life, and commenced my career of manhood 
 and citizenship by learning, under the tuition of the prettiest 
 coquette of her time, the dignified duties of a Court Gallant 
 and a Town Beau. 
 
BOOK 11. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE HERO IN LONDON. ^- PLEASURE IS OFTEN THE SHORTEST, 
 AS IT IS THE EARLIEST ROAD TO WISDOM, AND WE MAY 
 SAY OF THE WORLD WHAT ZEAL-OF-THE-LAND-BUSY SAYS 
 OF THE PIG-BOOTH, " WE ESCAPE SO MUCH OF THE OTHER 
 VANITIES BY OUR l^ARLY ENTERING." 
 
 It had, when I first went to town, just become the fashion 
 for young men of fortune to keep house, and to give their 
 bachelor establishments the importance hitherto reserved for 
 the household of a Benedict. 
 
 Let the reader figure to himself a suite of apartments, mag- 
 nificently furnished, in the vicinity of the court. An ante- 
 room is crowded with divers persons, all messengers in the 
 various negotiations of pleasure. There, a French valet, — 
 that inestimable valet, Jean Desmarais, — sitting over a small 
 fire, was watching the operations of a coffee-pot, and convers- 
 ing, in a mutilated attempt at the language of our nation, 
 though with the enviable fluency of his own, with the various 
 loiterers who were beguiling the hours they were obliged to 
 wait for an audience of the master himself, by laughing at 
 the master's Gallic representative. There stood a tailor with 
 his books of patterns just imported from Paris, — that modern 
 Prometheus, who makes a man what he is ! Next to him a 
 tall, gaunt fellow, in a coat covered with tarnished lace, a 
 night-cap wig, and a large whip in his hands, comes to vouch 
 for the pedigree and excellence of the three horses he intends 
 
DEVEREUX. 91 
 
 to dispose of, out of pure love and amity for thie buyer. By 
 the window stood a thin starveling poet, who, like the gram- 
 marian of Cos, might have put lead in his pockets to prevent 
 being blown away, had he not, with a more paternal precau- 
 tion, put so much in his works that he had left none to spare. 
 Excellent trick of the times, when ten guineas can purchase 
 every virtue under the sun, and when an author thinks to 
 vindicate the sins of his book by proving the admirable quali- 
 ties of the paragon to whom it is dedicated. ^ There with an 
 air of supercilious contempt upon his smooth cheeks, a page, 
 in purple and silver, sat upon the table, swinging his legs to 
 and fro, and big with all the reflected importance of a billet- 
 doux. There stood the pert haberdasher, with his box of sil- 
 ver-fringed gloves, and lace which Diana might have worn. 
 At that time there was indeed no enemy to female chastity 
 like the former article of man-millinery: the delicate white- 
 ness of the glove, the starry splendour of the fringe, were ir- 
 resistible, and the fair Adorna, in poor Lee's tragedy of 
 "Caesar Borgia," is far from the only lady who has been 
 killed by a pair of gloves. 
 
 Next to the haberdasher, dingy and dull of aspect, a book- 
 hunter bent beneath the load of old works gathered from stall 
 and shed, and about to be re-sold according to the price ex- 
 acted from all literary gallants who affect to unite the fine 
 gentleman with the profound scholar. A little girl, whose 
 brazen face and voluble tongue betrayed the growth of her 
 intellectual faculties, leaned against the wainscot, and re- 
 peated, in the anteroom, the tart repartees which her mis- 
 tress (the most celebrated actress of the day) uttered on the 
 stage ; while a stout, sturdy, bull-headed gentleman, in a gray 
 surtout and a black wig, mingled with the various voices of 
 the motley group the gentle phrases of Hockley-in-the-Hole, 
 from which place of polite merriment he came charged with 
 a message of invitation. "While such were the inmates of the 
 anteroom, what picture shall we draw of the salon and its 
 occupant? 
 
 ^ Thank Heaven, for the honour of literature, nous avons change tout 
 cela .' — Ed. 
 
92 DEYEREUX 
 
 A table was covered with books, a couple of fencing foils, a 
 woman's mask, and a profusion of letters; a scarlet cloak, 
 richly laced, hung over, trailing on the ground. Upon a slab 
 of marble lay a hat, looped with diamonds, a sword, and a 
 lady's lute. Extended upon a sofa, loosely robed in a dress- 
 ing-gown of black velvet, his shirt collar unbuttoned, his 
 stockings ungartered, his own hair (undressed and released 
 for a brief interval from the false locks universally worn) 
 waving from his forehead in short yet dishevelled curls, his 
 whole appearance stamped with the morning negligence which 
 usually follows midnight dissipation, lay a young man of 
 about nineteen years. His features were neither handsome 
 nor ill-favoured, and his stature was small, slight, and some- 
 what insignificant, but not, perhaps, ill-formed either for ac- 
 tive enterprise or for muscular effort. Such, reader, is the 
 picture of the young prodigal who occupied the apartments I 
 have described, and such (though somewhat flattered by par- 
 tiality) is a portrait of Morton Devereux, six months after 
 his arrival in town. 
 
 The door was suddenly thrown open with that unhesitating 
 rudeness by which our friends think it necessary to signify 
 the extent of their familiarity; and a young man of about 
 eight-and-twenty, richly dressed, and of a countenance in 
 which a dissipated nonchalance and an aristocratic hauteur 
 seemed to struggle for mastery, abruptly entered. 
 
 ''What! ho, my noble royster," cried he, flinging himself 
 upon a chair, "still suifering from St. John's Burgundy! 
 Fie, fie, upon your apprenticeship ! — why, before I had served 
 half your time, I could take my three bottles as easily as the 
 sea took the good ship ' Revolution, ' swallow them down with 
 a gulp, and never show the least sign of them the next 
 morning ! " 
 
 " I really believe you, most magnanimous Tarleton. Provi- 
 dence gives to each of its creatures different favours, — to one 
 wit, to the other a capacity for drinking. A thousand pities 
 that they are never united ! " 
 
 "So bitter, Count! — ah, what will ever cure you of 
 sarcasm ? " 
 
DEVEREUX. 93 
 
 "A wise man by conversation, or fools by satiety." 
 
 " Well, I dare say that is witty enough, but I never admire 
 fine things of a morning. I like letting my faculties live till 
 night in a deshabille; let us talk easily and sillily of the 
 affairs of the day. Imprimis, will you stroll to the New Ex- 
 change ? There is a black eye there that measures out ribbons, 
 and my green ones long to flirt with it." 
 
 "With all my heart — and in return you shall accompany 
 me to Master Powell's puppet-show." 
 
 " You speak as wisely as Solomon himself in the puppet- 
 show, I own that I love that sight : 't is a pleasure to the 
 littleness of human nature to see great things abased by mim- 
 icry; kings moved by bobbins, and the pomps of the earth 
 personated by Punch." 
 
 "But how do you like sharing the mirth of the ground- 
 lings, the filthy plebeians, and letting them see how petty are 
 those distinctions which you value so highly, by showing 
 them how heartily you can laugh at such distinctions your- 
 self ? Allow, my superb Coriolanus, that one purchases pride 
 by the loss of consistency." 
 
 "Ah, Devereux, you poison my enjoyment by the mere word 
 'plebeian ' ! Oh, what a beastly thing is a common person! — 
 a shape of the trodden clay without any alloy ; a compound of 
 dirty clothes, bacon breaths, villanous smells, beggarly cow- 
 ardice, and cattish ferocity. Pah, Devereux! rub civet on 
 the very thought ! " 
 
 " Yet they will laugh to-day at the same things you will, 
 and consequently there would be a most flattering congeni- 
 ality between you. Emotion, whether of ridicule, anger, or 
 sorrow ; whether raised at a puppet-show, a funeral, or a bat- 
 tle, — is your grandest of levellers. The man who would be 
 always superior should be always apathetic." 
 
 "Oracular, as usual, Count, — but, hark, the clock gives 
 tongue. One, by the Lord! — will you not dress ? " 
 
 And I rose and dressed. We passed through the anteroom; 
 my attendant assistants in the art of wasting money drew up 
 in a row. 
 
 " Pardon me, gentlemen, " said I (" gentlemen, indeed ! " 
 
94 DEVEREUX. 
 
 cried Tarleton), "for keeping you so long, Mr. Snivelship, 
 your waistcoats are exquisite : favour me by conversing with 
 my valet on the width of the lace for my liveries ; he has my 
 instructions. Mr. Jockelton, your horses shall be tried to- 
 morrow at one. Ay, Mr. Rymer, I beg you a thousand par- 
 dons ; I beseech you to forgive the ignorance of my rascals in 
 suffering a gentleman of your merit to remain for a moment 
 unattended to. I have read your ode; it is splendid, — the 
 ease of Horace with the fire of Pindar ; your Pegasus never 
 touches the earth, and yet in his wildest excesses you curb 
 him with equal grace and facility : I object, sir, only to your 
 dedication; it is too flattering." 
 
 "By no means, my Lord Count, it fits you to a hair." 
 
 "Pardon me," interrupted I, "and allow me to transfer the 
 honour to Lord Halifax; he loves men of merit; he loves also 
 their dedications. I will mention it to him to-morrow: 
 everything you say of me will suit him exactly. You will 
 oblige me with a copy of your poem directly it is printed, 
 and suffer me to pay your bookseller for it now, and through 
 your friendly mediation ; adieu ! " 
 
 "Oh, Count, this is too generous." 
 
 "A letter forme, my pretty page? Ah! tell her ladyship 
 I shall wait upon her commands at Powell's : time will move 
 with a tortoise speed till I kiss her hands. Mr. Fribbleden, 
 your gloves would fit the giants at Guildhall : my valet will 
 furnish you with my exact size ; you will see to the legitimate 
 breadth of the fringe. My little beauty, you are from Mrs. 
 Bracegirdle: the play shall succeed; I have taken seven 
 boxes; Mr. St. John promised his influence. Say, therefore, 
 my Hebe, that the thing is certain, and let me kiss thee : thou 
 hast dew on thy lip already. Mr. Thumpen, you are a fine 
 fellow, and deserve to be encouraged; I will see that the next 
 time your head is broken it shall be broken fairly : but I will 
 not patronize the bear; consider that peremptory. What, 
 Mr. Bookworm, again! I hope you have succeeded better 
 this time : the old songs had an autumn fit upon them, and 
 had lost the best part of their leaves; and Plato had mortgaged 
 one half his "Republic," to pay, I suppose, the exorbitant 
 
DEVEREUX. 95 
 
 sum you thought proper to set upon the other. As for Diog- 
 enes Laertius, and his philosophers — " 
 
 "Pish!" interrupted Tarleton; "are you going, by your 
 theoretical treatises on philosophy, to make me learn the 
 practical part of it, and prate upon learning while I am sup- 
 porting myself with patience ? " 
 
 "Pardon me! Mr. Bookworm; you will deposit your load, 
 and visit me to-morrow at an earlier hour. And now, 
 Tarleton, I am at your service." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 GAT SCEXES AND CONVERSATIONS. THE NEW EXCHANGE AND 
 
 THE PUPPET-SHOW. THE ACTOR, THE SEXTON, AND THE 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 "Well, Tarleton," said I, looking round that mart of mil- 
 linery and love-making, which, so celebrated in the reign of 
 Charles II., still preserved the shadow of its old renown in 
 that of Anne, — "well, here we are upon the classical ground so 
 often commemorated in the comedies which our chaste grand- 
 mothers thronged to see. Here we can make appointments, 
 while we profess to buy gloves, and should our mistress tarry 
 too long, beguile our impatience by a flirtation with her mil- 
 liner. Is there not a breathing air of gayety about the place ? 
 — does it not still smack of the Ethereges and Sedleys? " 
 
 "Right," said Tarleton, leaning over a counter and amor- 
 ously eying the pretty coquette to whom it belonged ; while, 
 with the coxcombry then in fashion, he sprinkled the long 
 curls that touched his shoulders with a fragrant shower from 
 a bottle of jessamine water upon the counter, — "right; saw 
 you ever such an eye ? Have you snuff of the true scent, my 
 beauty — foh! this is for the nostril of a Welsh parson — 
 choleric and hot, my beauty, — pulverized horse-radish, — 
 why, it would make a nose of the coldest constitution imagin- 
 
96 DEVEREUX. 
 
 able sneeze like a washed school-boy on a Saturday night. — 
 Ah, this is better, my princess: there is some courtesy in 
 this snuff; it flatters the brain like a poet's dedication. 
 Eight, Devereux, right, there is something infectious in the 
 atmosphere; one catches good humour as easily as if it were 
 cold. Shall we stroll on ? — m// Clelia is on the other side of 
 the Exchange. — You were speaking of the play -writers : what 
 a pity that our Ethereges and Wycherleys should be so frank 
 in their gallantry that the prudish public already begins to 
 look shy on them. They have a world of wit! " 
 
 "Ay," said I; "and, as my good uncle would say, a world 
 of knowledge of human nature, namely, of the worst part of 
 it. But they are worse than merely licentious : they are pos- 
 itively villanous; pregnant with the most redemptionless 
 scoundrelism, — cheating, lying, thieving, and fraud; their 
 humour debauches the whole moral system ; they are like the 
 Sardinian herb, — they make you laugh, it is true, but they 
 poison you in the act. But who comes here ? " 
 V " Oh, honest Coll ! — Ah, Gibber, how goes it with you ? " 
 
 The person thus addressed was a man of about the middle 
 age, very grotesquely attired, and with a periwig preposter- 
 ously long. His countenance (which, in its features, was 
 rather comely) was stamped with an odd mixture of liveli- 
 ness, impudence, and a coarse yet not unjoyous spirit of reck- 
 less debauchery. He approached us with a saunter, and 
 saluted Tarleton with an air servile enough, in spite of an 
 affected familiarity. 
 
 "What think you," resumed my companion, "we were 
 conversing upon ? " 
 
 "Why, indeed, Mr. Tarleton," answered Gibber, bowing 
 very low, " unless it were the exquisite fashion of your waist- 
 coat, or your success with my Lady Duchess, I know not what 
 to guess." 
 
 "Pooh, man," said Tarleton, haughtily, " none of your com- 
 pliments; " and then added in a milder tone, "No, Golley, Ave 
 were abusing the immoralities that existed on the stage until 
 thou, by the light of thy virtuous example, didst undertake 
 to reform it." 
 
DEVEREUX. 9T 
 
 "Why," rejoined Gibber, with an air of mock sanctity, 
 "Heaven be praised, I have pulled out some of the weeds 
 from oiir theatrical parterre — " 
 
 " Hear you that, Count ? Does he not look a pretty fellow 
 for a censor ? " 
 
 "Surely," said Gibber, "ever since Dicky Steele has set up 
 for a saint, and assumed the methodistical twang, some hopes 
 of conversion may be left even for such reprobates as myself. 
 Where, may I ask, will Mr. Tarleton drink to-night ? " 
 
 "Xot with thee, Goll. The Saturnalia don't happen every 
 day. Eid us now of thy company: but stop, I will do thee 
 a pleasure ; know you this gentleman ? " 
 
 "I have not that extreme honour." 
 
 "Know a Gount, then! Gount Devereux, demean yourself 
 by sometimes acknowledging Golley Gibber, a rare fellow at 
 a song, a bottle, and a message to an actress ; a lively rascal 
 enough, but without the goodness to be loved, or the inde- 
 pendence to be respected." 
 
 "Mr. Gibber," said I, rather hurt at Tarleton's speech, 
 though the object of it seemed to hear this description with 
 the most unruffled composure — " Mr. Gibber, I am happy and 
 proud of an introduction to the author of the 'Gareless 
 Husband.' Here is my address; oblige me with a visit at 
 your leisure." 
 
 " How could you be so galling to the poor devil ? " said T, 
 when Gibber, with a profusion of bows and compliments, had 
 left us to ourselves. 
 
 "Ah, hang him, — a low fellow, who pins all his happiness 
 to the skirts of the quality, is proud of being despised, and 
 that which would excruciate the vanity of others only flatters 
 his. And now for my Glelia." 
 
 After my companion had amused himself with a brief flir- 
 tation with a young lady who affected a most edifying demure- 
 ness, we left the Exchange, and repaired to the puppet-show. 
 
 On entering the Piazza, in which, as I am writing for the 
 next century, it may be necessary to say that Punch held his 
 court, we saw a tall, thin fellow, loitering under the columns, 
 and exhibiting a countenance of the most ludicrous discon- 
 
 7 
 
98 DEVEREUX. 
 
 tent. Tliere was an insolent arrogance about Tarleton's good- 
 nature, which always led him to consult the whim of the 
 moment at the expense of every other consideration, espe- 
 cially if the whim referred to a member of the canaille whom 
 my aristocratic friend esteemed as a base part of the exclusive 
 and despotic property of gentlemen. 
 
 "Egad, Devereux," said he, "do you see that fellow? he 
 has the audacity to affect spleen. Faith, I thought melan- 
 choly was the distinguishing patent of nobility: we will 
 smoke him." And advancing towards the man of gloom, 
 Tarleton touched him with the end of his cane. The man 
 started and turned round. "Pray, sirrah," said Tarleton, 
 coldly, "pray who the devil are you that you presume to look 
 discontented ? " 
 
 "Why, Sir," said the man, good-humouredly enough, "I 
 have some right to be angry." 
 
 "I doubt it, my friend," said Tarleton. "What is your 
 complaint ? a rise in the price of tripe, or a drinking wife ? 
 Those, I take it, are the sole misfortunes incidental to your 
 condition." 
 
 "If that be the case," said I, observing a cloud on our new 
 friend's brow, " shall we heal thy sufferings ? Tell us thy 
 complaints, and we will prescribe thee a silver specific; there 
 is a sample of our skill." 
 
 "Thank you humbly, gentlemen," said the man, pocketing 
 the money, and clearing his countenance; "and seriously, 
 mine is an uncommonly hard case. I was, till within the 
 last few weeks, the under-sexton of St. Paul's, Covent Garden, 
 and my duty was that of ringing the bells for daily prayers : 
 but a man of Belial came hitherwards, set up a puppet-show, 
 and, timing the hours of his exhibition with a wicked saga- 
 city, made the bell I rang for church serve as a summons to 
 Punch, — so, gentlemen, that whenever your humble servant 
 began to pull for the Lord, his perverted congregation began 
 to flock to the devil; and, instead of being an instrument for 
 saving souls, I was made the innocent means of destroying 
 them. Oh, gentlemen, it was a shocking thing to tug away 
 at the rope till the sweat ran down one, for four shillings a 
 
DEVEREUX. 99 
 
 week; and to see all the time that one was thinning one's 
 own congregation and emptying one's own pockets! " 
 
 "It was indeed a lamentable dilemma; and what did you, 
 Mr. Sexton ? " 
 
 " Do, Sir ? why, I could not stifle my conscience, and I left 
 my place. Ever since then, Sir, I have stationed myself in 
 the Piazza, to warn my poor, deluded fellow-creatures of their 
 error, and to assure them that when the bell of St. Paul's 
 rings, it rings for prayers, and not for puppet-shows, and — 
 Lord help us, there it goes at this very moment; and look, 
 look, gentlemen, how the wigs and hoods are crowding to the 
 motion^ instead of the minister." 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha! " cried Tarleton, "Mr. Powell is not the first 
 man who has wrested things holy to serve a carnal purpose, 
 and made use of church bells in order to ring money to the 
 wide pouch of the church's enemies. Hark ye, my friend, 
 follow my advice, and turn preacher yourself; mount a cart 
 opposite to the motion, and I '11 wager a trifle that the crowd 
 forsake the theatrical mountebank in favour of the religious 
 one; for the more sacred the thing played upon, the more 
 certain is the game." 
 
 "Body of me, gentlemen," cried the ex-sexton, "I '11 follow 
 your advice." 
 
 "Do so, man, and never presume to look doleful again; 
 leave dulness to your superiors."^ 
 
 And with this advice, and an additional compensation for 
 his confidence, we left the innocent assistant of Mr. Powell, 
 and marched into the puppet-show, by the sound of the very 
 bells the perversion of which the good sexton had so patheti- 
 cally lamented. 
 
 The first person I saw at the show, and indeed the express 
 person I came to see, was the Lady Hasselton. Tarleton 
 and myself separated for the present, and I repaired to the 
 coquette. " Angels of grace ! " said I, approaching; "and, by 
 the by, before I proceed another word, observe, Lady Hassel- 
 ton, hoAV appropriate the exclamation is to you! Angels of 
 
 ^ An antiquated word in use for puppet-shows. 
 
 * See " Spectator," Xo. 14, for a letter from this unfortunate under-sexton. 
 
100 DEVEREUX. 
 
 grace ! why, you have moved all your patches — one — two — 
 three — six — eight — as I am a gentleman, from the left side 
 of your cheek to the right ! What is the reason of so sudden 
 an emigration ? " 
 
 " I have changed my politics. Count, ^ that is all, and have 
 resolved to lose no time in proclaiming the change. But is 
 it true that you are going to be married ? " 
 
 "Married! Heaven forbid! which of my enemies spread so 
 cruel a report ? " 
 
 "Oh, the report is universal!" and the Lady Hasselton 
 flirted her fan with the most flattering violence. 
 
 " It is false, nevertheless ; I cannot afford to buy a wife at 
 present, for, thanks to jointures and pin-money, these things 
 are all matters of commerce ; and (see how closely civilized life 
 resembles the savage!) the English, like the Tartar gentleman, 
 obtains his wife only by purchase ! But who is the bride ? " 
 
 "The Duke of Newcastle's rich daughter. Lady Henrietta 
 Pelham." 
 
 "What, Harley's object of ambition I^ Faith, Madam, the 
 report is not so cruel as I thought for ! " 
 
 " Oh, you fop ! — but is it not true ? " 
 
 "By my honour, I fear not; my rivals are too numerous 
 and too powerful. Look now, yonder ! how they already flock 
 around the illustrious heiress ; note those smiles and simpers. 
 Is it not pretty to see those very fine gentlemen imitating 
 bumpkins at a fair, and grinning their best for a gold ring ! 
 But you need not fear me. Lady Hasselton, my love cannot 
 wander if it would. In the quaint thought of Sidney,^ love 
 having once flown to my heart, burned its wings there, and 
 cannot fly away." 
 
 " La, you now ! " said the beauty ; " I do not comprehend 
 you exactly: your master of the graces does not teach you 
 your compliments properly." 
 
 1 Whig ladies patched on one side of the cheek, Tories on the other. 
 
 2 Lord Bolingbroke tells us that it was the main end of Harley's adminis- 
 tration to marry his son to this lady. Tims is the fate of nations a bundle 
 made up of a thousand little private schemes. 
 
 8 In the " Arcadia," that museum of oddities and beauties. 
 
DEVEREUX. 101 
 
 *'Yes, he does, but in your presence I forget them; and 
 now," I added, lowering my voice into the lowest of whis- 
 pers, " now that you are assured of my fidelity, will you not 
 learn at last to discredit rumours and trust to me ? " 
 
 " I love you too well ! " answered the Lady Hasselton in the 
 same tone, and that answer gives an admirable idea of the 
 affection of every coquette! love and confidence with them 
 are qualities that have a natural antipathy, and can never be 
 united. Our tete-a-tete was at an end; the people round us 
 became social, and conversation general. 
 
 "Betterton acts to-morrow night," cried the Lady Pratterly : 
 " we must go ! " 
 
 "We mast go," cried the Lady Hasselton. 
 
 " We must go ! " cried all. 
 
 And so passed the time till the puppet-show was over, and 
 my attendance dispensed with. 
 
 It is a charming thing to be the lover of a lady of the mode ! 
 One so honoured does with his hours as a miser with his 
 guineas; namely, nothing but count them! 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MORE LIONS. 
 
 The next night, after the theatre, Tarleton and I strolled 
 into Wills's. Half-a-dozen wits were assembled. Heavens! 
 how they talked ! actors, actresses, poets, statesmen, philoso- 
 phers, critics, divines, were all pulled to pieces with the 
 most gratifying malice imaginable. We sat ourselves down, 
 and while Tarleton amused himself with a dish of coffee and 
 the "Flying Post," I listened very attentively to the conver- 
 sation. Certainly if we would take every opportunity of get- 
 ting a grain or two of knowledge, we should soon have a 
 chest-full ; a man earned an excellent subsistence by asking 
 every one who came out of a tobacconist's shop for a pinch of 
 
102 DEVEREUX. 
 
 snuff, and retailing the mixture as soon as he had filled his 
 box.^ 
 
 While I was listening to a tall lusty gentleman, who was 
 abusing Dogget, the actor, a well-dressed man entered, and 
 immediately attracted the general observation. He was of a 
 very flat, ill-favoured countenance, but of a quick eye, and a 
 genteel air; there was, however, something constrained and 
 artificial in his address, and he appeared to be endeavouring 
 to clothe a natural good-humour with a certain primness 
 which could never be made to fit it. 
 ^ " Ha, Steele ! " cried a gentleman in an orange-coloured coat, 
 who seemed by a fashionable swagger of importance desirous 
 of giving the tone to the company, — "Ha, Steele, whence 
 come you ? from the chapel or the tavern ? " and the speaker 
 winked round the room as if he wished us to participate in 
 the pleasure of a good thing. 
 
 Mr. Steele drew up, seemingly a little affronted; but his 
 good-nature conquering the affectation of personal sanctity, 
 which, at the time I refer to, that excellent writer was pleased 
 to assume, he contented himself with nodding to the speaker, 
 and saying, — 
 
 " All the world knows, Colonel Cleland, that you are a wit, 
 and therefore we take your fine sayings as we take change 
 from an honest tradesman, — rest perfectly satisfied with the 
 coin we get, without paying any attention to it." 
 
 "Zounds, Cleland, you got the worst of it there," cried a 
 gentleman in a flaxen wig. And Steele slid into a seat near 
 my own. 
 
 Tarleton, who was sufficiently well educated to pretend to 
 the character of a man of letters, hereupon thought it neces- 
 sary to lay aside the " Flying Post, " and to introduce me to 
 my literary neighbour. 
 
 "Pray," said Colonel Cleland, taking snuff and swinging 
 himself to and fro with an air of fashionable grace, "has any 
 one seen the new paper ? " 
 
 "What!" cried the gentleman in the flaxen wig, "what! 
 the 'Tatler's' successor, — the 'Spectator'?" 
 
 1 "Tatler." 
 
DEVEREUX. 103 
 
 " The same, " quoth the colonel. 
 
 "To be sure; who has not?" returned he of the flaxen 
 ornament. "People say Congreve writes it." 
 
 "They are very much mistaken, then," cried a little square 
 man with spectacles ; "to my certain knowledge Swift is the 
 author." 
 
 "Pooh!" said Cleland, imperiously, "pooh! it is neither 
 the one nor the other ; I, gentlemen, am in the secret — but 
 — you take me, eh ? One must not speak well of one's self; 
 mum is the word." 
 
 "Then," asked Steele, quietly, "we are to suppose that 
 you. Colonel, are the writer ? " 
 
 " I never said so, Dicky ; but the women will have it that I 
 am," and the colonel smoothed down his cravat. 
 
 " Pray, Mr. Addison, what say you ? " cried the gentleman 
 in the flaxen wig; "are you for Congreve, Swift, or Colonel 
 Cleland? " This was addressed to a gentleman of a grave but 
 rather prepossessing mien; who, with eyes fixed upon the 
 ground, was very quietly and to all appearance very inatten- 
 tively solacing himself with a pipe ; without lifting his eyes, 
 this personage, then eminent, afterwards rendered immortal, 
 replied, — 
 
 "Colonel Cleland must produce other witnesses to prove 
 his claim to the authorship of the 'Spectator:' the women, 
 we well know, are prejudiced in his favour." 
 
 "That 's true enough, old friend," cried the colonel, looking 
 askant at his orange-coloured coat; "but faith, Addison, I 
 wish you would set up a paper of the same sort, d' ye see ; 
 you 're a nice judge of merit, and your sketches of character 
 would do justice to your friends." 
 
 "If ever I do. Colonel, I, or my coadjutors, will study at 
 least to do justice to you. " ^ 
 
 "Prithee, Steele," cried the stranger in spectacles, "pri- 
 thee, tell us thy thoughts on the subject : dost thou know the 
 author of this droll periodical ? " 
 
 "I saw him this morning," replied Steele, carelessly. 
 
 1 This seems to corroborate the suspicion entertained of the identity of 
 Colonel Cleland vdth the "Will Honeycomb of the " Spectator." 
 
10 i DEVEREUX. 
 
 "Aha! and what said you to him?" 
 
 "I asked him his name." 
 
 "And what did he answer?" cried he of the flaxen wig, 
 while all of us crowded round the speaker, with the curiosity 
 every one felt in the authorship of a work then exciting the 
 most universal and eager interest. 
 
 "He answered me solemnly," said Steele, "in the follow- 
 ing words, — 
 
 " ' Grseci carent ablative, Itali dativo, ego nominativo.' " ^ 
 
 "Famous — capital!" cried the gentleman in spectacles; 
 and then, touching Colonel Cleland, added, "what does it 
 exactly mean ? " 
 
 " Ignoramus ! " said Cleland, disdainfully, " every schoolboy 
 knows Virgil ! " 
 
 "Devereux," said Tarleton, yawning, "what a d— d delight- 
 ful thing it is to hear so much wit : pity that the atmosphere 
 is so fine that no lungs unaccustomed to it can endure it long. 
 Let us recover ourselves by a walk." 
 
 "Willingly," said I; and we sauntered forth into the 
 streets. 
 
 "Wills's is not what it was," said Tarleton; "'tis a piti- 
 ful ghost of its former self, and if they had not introduced 
 cards, one would die of the vapours there." 
 
 "I know nothing so insipid," said I, "as that mock literary 
 air which it is so much the fashion to assume. 'T is but a 
 wearisome relief to conversation to have interludes of songs 
 about Strephon and Sylvia, recited with a lisp by a gentleman 
 with fringed gloves and a languishing look." 
 
 "Fie on it," cried Tarleton, "let us seek for a fresher topic. 
 Are you asked to Abigail Masham's to-night, or will you 
 come to Dame de la Eiviere Mauley's?" 
 
 " Dame de la what ? — in the name of long words who is 
 she ? " 
 
 "Oh! Learning made libidinous: one who reads Catullus 
 and profits by it." 
 
 1 " The Greek wants an ablative, the Italians a dative, I a nominative." 
 
DEVEREUX. 105 
 
 "Bah, no, we will not leave the gentle Abigail for her. I 
 have promised to meet St. John, too, at the Mashams'." 
 
 "As you like. We shall get some wine at Abigail's, 
 which we should never do at the house of her cousin of 
 Marlborough." 
 
 And, comforting himself with this belief, Tarleton peace- 
 ably accompanied me to that celebrated woman, who did the 
 Tories such notable service, at the expense of being termed 
 b}' the Whigs one great want divided into two parts ; namely, 
 a great want of every shilling belonging to other people, and 
 a great want of every virtue that should have belonged to her- 
 self. As we mounted the staircase, a door to the left (a pri- 
 vate apartment) was opened, and I saw the favourite dismiss, 
 with the most flattering air of respect, my old preceptor, the 
 Abbe Montreuil. He received her attentions as his due, and, 
 descending the stairs, came full upon me. He drew back, 
 changed neither hue nor muscle, bowed civilly enough, and 
 disappeared. I had not much opportunity to muse over this 
 circumstance, for St. John and Mr. Domville — excellent com- 
 panions both — joined us ; and the party being small, we had 
 the unwonted felicity of talking, as well as bowing, to each 
 other. It was impossible to think of any one else when St. 
 John chose to exert himself; and so even the Abbe Montreuil 
 glided out of my brain as St. John's wit glided into it. We 
 were all of the same way of thinking on politics, and therefore 
 were witty without being quarrelsome, — a rare thing. The 
 trusty Abigail told us stories of the good Queen, and we added 
 hons mots by way of corollary. Wine, too, wine that even 
 Tarleton approved, lit up our intellects, and we spent alto- 
 gether an evening such as gentlemen and Tories very seldom 
 have the sense to enjoy. 
 
 Apollo ! I wonder whether Tories of the next century will 
 be such clever, charming, well-informed fellows as we were! 
 
106 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AN INTELLECTUAL ADVEXTUKE. 
 
 A LITTLE affected by the vinous potations which had been 
 so much an object of anticipation with my companion, Tarle- 
 ton and I were strolling homeward when we perceived a re- 
 markably tall man engaged in a contest with a couple of 
 watchmen. Watchmen were in all cases the especial and 
 natural enemies of the gallants in my young days; and no 
 sooner did we see the unequal contest than, drawing our 
 swords with that true English valour which makes all the 
 quarrels of other people its own, we hastened to the relief of 
 the weaker party. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said the elder watchman, drawing back, 
 " this is no common brawl ; we have been shamefully beaten 
 by this here madman, and for no earthly cause." 
 
 " Who ever did beat a watchman for any earthly cause, you 
 rascal ? " cried the accused party, swinging his walking cane 
 over the complainant's head with a menacing air. 
 
 "Very true," cried Tarleton, coolly. "Seigneurs of the 
 watch, you are both made and paid to be beaten ; ergo — you 
 have no right to complain. Eelease this worthy cavalier, 
 and depart elsewhere to make night hideous with your 
 voices." 
 
 " Come, come, " quoth the younger Dogberry, who perceived 
 a reinforcement approaching, " move on, good people, and let 
 us do our duty." 
 
 "Which," interrupted the elder watchman, "consists in 
 taking this hulking swaggerer to the watchhouse." 
 
 "Thou speakest wisely, man of peace," said Tarleton; "de- 
 fend thyself ; " and without adding another word he ran the 
 watchman through — not the body but the coat; avoiding 
 with great dexterity the corporeal substance of the attacked 
 
DEVEREUX. 107 
 
 party, and yet approacliing it so closely as to give the guar- 
 dian of the streets very reasonable ground for apprehension. 
 No sooner did the watchman find the hilt strike against his 
 breast, than he uttered a dismal cry and fell upon the pave- 
 ment as if he had been shot. 
 
 "Now for thee, varlet," cried Tarleton, brandishing his ra- 
 pier before the eyes of the other watchman, "tremble at the 
 sword of Gideon." 
 
 "0 Lord, Lord!" ejaculated the terrified comrade of the 
 fallen man, dropping on his knees, "for Heaven's sake, sir, 
 have a care." 
 
 " What argument canst thou allege, thou screech-owl of the 
 metropolis, that thou shouldst not share the same fate as thy 
 brother owl ? " 
 
 "Oh, sir! " cried the craven night-bird (a bit of a humourist 
 in its way), "because I have a nest and seven little owlets at 
 home, and t' other owl is only a bachelor." 
 
 "Thou art an impudent thing to jest at us," said Tarleton; 
 "but thy wit has saved thee; rise." 
 
 At this moment two other watchmen came up. 
 
 " Gentlemen, " said the tall stranger whom we had rescued, 
 "we had better fly." 
 
 Tarleton cast at him a contemptuous look, and placed him- 
 self in a posture of offence. 
 
 "Hark ye," said I, "let us effect an honourable peace. 
 Messieurs the watch, be it lawful for you to carry off the 
 slain, and for us to claim the prisoners." 
 
 But our new foes understood not a jest, and advanced upon 
 us with a ferocity which might really have terminated in a 
 serious engagement, had not the tall stranger thrust his bulky 
 form in front of the approaching battalion, and cried out with 
 a loud voice, " Zounds, my good fellows, what 's all this for ? 
 If you take us up you will get broken heads to-night, and a 
 few shillings perhaps to-morrow. If you leave us alone, you 
 will have whole heads, and a guinea between you. Now, 
 what say you ? " 
 
 Well spoke Phsedra against the dangers of eloquence (*caXol 
 Xi'av Xoyot). The watchmen looked at each other. "Why 
 
108 DEVEREUX. 
 
 really, sir," said one, "what you say alters the case very 
 much; and if Dick here is not much hurt, I don't know what 
 we may say to the offer." 
 
 So saying, they raised the fallen watchman, who, after 
 three or four grunts, began slowly to recover himself. 
 
 "Are you dead, Dick ?" said the owl wath seven owlets. 
 
 *' I think I am, " answered the other, groaning. 
 
 " Are you able to drink a pot of ale, Dick ? " cried the tall 
 stranger. 
 
 "I think I am," reiterated the dead man, very lack-a-daisi- 
 cally. And this answer satisfying his comrades, the articles 
 of peace were subscribed to. 
 
 Now, then, the tall stranger began searching his pockets 
 with a most consequential air. 
 
 "Gad, so!" said he at last; "not in my breeches pocket! 
 — well, it must be in my waistcoat. No. Well, 't is a strange 
 thing — demme it is! Gentlemen, I have had the misfor- 
 tune to leave my purse behind me : add to your other favours 
 by lending me wherewithal to satisfy these honest men." 
 
 And Tarleton lent him the guinea. The watchmen now re- 
 tired, and we were left alone with our portly ally. 
 
 Placing his hand to his heart he made us half-a-dozen 
 profound boAvs, returned us thanks for our assistance in 
 some very courtly phrases, and requested us to allow him to 
 make our acquaintance. We exchanged cards and departed 
 on our several ways. 
 
 "I have met that gentleman before," said Tarleton. "Let 
 us see what name he pretends to. 'Fielding — Fielding;' ah, 
 by the Lord, it is no less a person ! It is the great Fielding 
 himself." 
 
 "Is Mr. Fielding, then, as elevated in fame as in stature?" 
 
 " What, is it possible that you have not yet heard of Beau 
 Fielding, who bared his bosom at the theatre in order to at- 
 tract the admiring compassion of the female part of the 
 audience? " 
 
 "What!" I cried, "the Duchess of Cleveland's Fielding?" 
 
 " The same ; the best-looking fellow of his day ! A sketch 
 of his history is in the ' Tatler, ' under the name of ' Orlando 
 
DEVEREUX. 109 
 
 the Fair. ' He is terribly fallen as to fortune since the day 
 when he drove about in a ear like a sea-shell, with a dozen 
 tall fellows, in the Austrian livery, black and yellow, run- 
 ning before and behind him. You know he claims relation- 
 ship to the house of Hapsburg. As for the present, he writes 
 poems, makes love, is still good-natured, humorous, and odd; 
 is rather unhappily addicted to wine and borrowing, and rig- 
 idly keeps that oath of the Carthusians which never suffers 
 them to carry any money about them." 
 
 "An acquaintance more likely to yield amusement than 
 profit." 
 
 " Exactly so. He will favour you with a visit — to-morrow, 
 perhaps, and you will remember his propensities." 
 
 " Ah ! who ever forgets a warning that relates to his purse ! " 
 
 " True ! " said Tarleton, sighing. " Alas ! my guinea, thou 
 and I have parted company forever ! vale, vale, inquit lolas ! " 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE BEAU IN HIS DEN, AND A PHILOSOPHER DISCOViaiED. 
 
 Mr. Eielding having twice favoured me with visits, which 
 found me from home, I thought it right to pay my respects to 
 him; accordingly one morning I repaired to his abode. It 
 was situated in a street which had been excessively the mode 
 some thirty years back; and the house still exhibited a stately 
 and somewhat ostentatious exterior. I observed a considera- 
 ble cluster of infantine ragamuffins collected round the door, 
 and no sooner did the portal open to my summons than they 
 pressed forward in a manner infinitely more zealous than re- 
 spectful. A servant in the Austrian livery, with a broad belt 
 round his middle, officiated as porter. " Look, look ! " cried 
 one of the youthful gazers, " look at the Beau's keeper ! " This 
 
110 DEVEREUX. 
 
 imputation on his own respectability and that of his master, 
 the domestic seemed by no means to relish; for, muttering 
 some maledictory menace, which I at first took to be German, 
 but which I afterwards found to be Irish, he banged the door 
 in the faces of the intrusive impertinents, and said, in an 
 accent which suited very ill with his Continental attire, — 
 
 " And is it my master you 're wanting, Sir ? " 
 
 "It is." 
 
 " And you would be after seeing him immadiately ? " 
 
 "Eightly conjectured, my sagacious friend." 
 
 " Fait then, your honour, my master 's in bed with a terrible 
 fit of the megrims." 
 
 " Then you will favour me by giving this card to your mas- 
 ter, and expressing my sorrow at his indisposition." 
 
 Upon this the orange-coloured lacquey, very quietly read- 
 ing the address on the card, and spelling letter by letter in 
 an audible mutter, rejoined, — 
 
 "C — o — u (cou) n — t (unt) Count, D — e — v. Och, by 
 my shoul, and it 's Count Devereux after all I 'm thinking ? " 
 
 "You think with equal profundity and truth." 
 
 " You may well say that, your honour. Stip in a bit : I '11 
 tell my master ; it is himself that will see you in a twinkling ! " 
 
 " But you forget that your master is ill ? " said I. 
 
 "Sorrow a bit for the matter o' that: my master is never 
 ill to a jontleman," 
 
 And with this assurance "the Beau's keeper" ushered me 
 up a splendid staircase into a large, dreary, faded apartment, 
 and left me to amuse myself with the curiosities within, while 
 he went to perform a cure upon his master's "megrims." The 
 chamber, suiting with the house and the owner, looked like a 
 place in the other world set apart for the reception of the 
 ghosts of departed furniture. The hangings were wan and 
 colourless ; the chairs and sofas were most spiritually unsub- 
 stantial ; the mirrors reflected all things in a sepulchral sea- 
 green; even a huge picture of Mr. Fielding himself, placed 
 over the chimney-piece, seemed like the apparition of a por- 
 trait, so dim, watery, and indistinct had it been rendered by 
 neglect and damp. On a huge tomb-like table in the middle 
 
DEVEREUX. Ill 
 
 of the room, lay two pencilled profiles of Mr. Fielding, a 
 pawnbroker's ticket, a pair of ruffles, a very little muff, an 
 immense broadsword, a Wycherley comb, a jackboot, and an 
 old plumed hat; to these were added a cracked pomatum-pot 
 containing ink, and a scrap of paper, ornamented with sun- 
 dry paintings of hearts and torches, on which were scrawled 
 several lines in a hand so large and round that I could not 
 avoid seeing the first verse, though I turned away my eyes as 
 quickly as possible; that verse, to the best of my memory, 
 ran thus: "Say, lovely Lesbia, when thy swain." Upon the 
 ground lay a box of patches, a periwig, and two or three well- 
 thumbed books of songs. Such was the reception-room of 
 Beau Fielding, one indifferently well calculated to exhibit 
 the propensities of a man, half bully, half fribble ; a poet, a 
 fop, a fighter, a beauty, a walking museum of all odd hu- 
 mours, and a living shadow of a past renown. "There are 
 changes in wit as in fashion," said Sir William Temple, and 
 he proceeds to instance a nobleman who was the greatest 
 wit of the court of Charles I., and the greatest dullard in 
 that of Charles 11.^ But Heavens! how awful are the revolu- 
 tions of coxcombry! what a change from Beau Fielding the 
 Beauty, to Beau Fielding the Oddity! 
 
 After I had remained in this apartment about ton minutes, 
 the great man made his appearance. He was attired in a 
 dressing-gown of the most gorgeous material and colour, but 
 so old that it was difficult to conceive any period of past time 
 which it might not have been supposed to have witnessed; a 
 little velvet cap, with a tarnished gold tassel, surmounted his 
 head, and his nether limbs were sheathed in a pair of mili- 
 tary boots. In person he still retained the trace of that ex- 
 traordinary symmetry he had once possessed, and his features 
 were yet handsome, though the complexion had grown coarse 
 and florid, and the expression had settled into a broad, hardy, 
 farcical mixture of effrontery, humour, and conceit. 
 
 But how different his costume from that of old! Where 
 was the long wig with its myriad curls? the coat stiff with 
 golden lace? the diamond buttons, — "the pomp, pride, and 
 1 The Earl of Norwich. 
 
112 DEYEREUX. 
 
 circumstance of glorious war? " the glorious war Beau Field- 
 ing had carried on throughout the female world, — finding in 
 every saloon a Blenheim, in every play-house a Eamilies ? 
 Alas! to what abyss of fate will not the love of notoriety 
 bring men ! to what but the lust of show do we owe the mis- 
 anthropy of Timon, or the ruin of Beau Fielding! 
 
 " By the Lord ! " cried Mr. Fielding, approaching, and shak- 
 ing me familiarly by the hand, " by the Lord, I am delighted 
 to see thee ! As I am a soldier, I thought thou wert a spirit, 
 invisible and incorporeal; and as long as I was in that belief 
 I trembled for thy salvation, for I knew at least that thou 
 wert not a spirit of Heaven, since thy door is the very reverse 
 of the doors above, which we are assured shall be opened unto 
 our knocking. But thou art early. Count; like the ghost in 
 " Hamlet, " thou snuff est the morning air. Wilt thou not keep 
 out the rank atmosphere by a pint of wine and a toast? " 
 
 " Many thanks to you, Mr. Fielding ; but I have at least one 
 property of a ghost, and don't drink after daybreak." 
 
 " Nay, now, 't is a bad rule I a villanous bad rule, fit only 
 for ghosts and graybeards. We youngsters. Count, should 
 have a more generous policy. Come, now, where didst thou 
 drink last night? has the bottle bequeathed thee a qualm or a 
 headache, which preaches repentance and abstinence this 
 morning ? " 
 
 "No, but I visit my mistress this morning; would you have 
 me smell of strong potations, and seem a worshipper of the 
 ' Glass of Fashion, ' rather than of ' the Mould of Form ' ? Con- 
 fess, Mr. Fielding, that the women love not an early tippler, 
 and that they expect sober and sweet kisses from a pair *of 
 youngsters ' like us." 
 
 "By the Lord," cried Mr. Fielding, stroking down his 
 comely stomach, "there is a great show of reason in thy ex- 
 cuses, but only the show, not substance, my noble Count. 
 You know me, you know my experience with the women : I 
 would not boast, as I 'ma soldier; but 'tis something! nine 
 hundred and fifty'locks of hair have I got in my strong box, 
 under padlock and key; fifty within the last week, — true, on 
 my soul, — so that I may pretend to know a little of the dear 
 
DEVEREUX. 113 
 
 creatures; well, I give thee my honour, Count, that they like 
 a royster; they love a fellow who can carry his six bottles 
 under a silken doublet; there's vigour and manhood in it; 
 and, then, too, what a power of toasts can a six-bottle man 
 drink to his mistress! Oh, 'tis your only chivalry now, — 
 your modern substitute for tilt and tournament ; true. Count, 
 as I am a soldier ! " 
 
 ''I fear my Dulcinea differs from the herd, then; for she 
 quarrelled with me for supping with St. John three nights 
 ago, and — " 
 
 "St. John," interrupted Fielding, cutting me off in the be- 
 ginning of a witticism, " St. John, famous fellow, is he not? 
 By the Lord, we will drink to his administration, you in 
 chocolate, I in Madeira. O'Carroll, you dog, — O'Carroll — 
 rogue — rascal — ass — dolt ! " 
 
 "The same, your honour," said the orange-coloured lacquey, 
 thrusting in his lean visage. 
 
 "Ay, the same indeed, thou anatomized son of Saint Patrick ; 
 why dost thou not get fat ? Thou shamest my good living, and 
 thy belly is a rascally minister to thee, devouring all things 
 for itself, without fattening a single member of the body cor- 
 porate. Look at me, you dog, am /thin? Go and get fat, or 
 I will discharge thee: by the Lord I will! the sun shines 
 through thee like an empty wineglass." 
 
 "And is it upon your honour's lavings you would have me 
 get fat?" rejoined Mr. O'Carroll, with an air of deferential 
 inquiry. 
 
 "ISTow, as I live, thou art the impudentest varlet!" cried 
 Mr. Fielding, stamping his foot on the floor, with an angry 
 frown. 
 
 "And is it for talking of your honour's lavings? an' sure 
 that's nothing at all, at all," said the valet, twirling his 
 thumbs with expostulating innocence, 
 
 "Begone, rascal!" said Mr. Fielding, "begone; go to the 
 Salop, and bring us a pint of Madeira, a toast, and a dish of 
 chocolate." 
 
 "Yes, your honour, in a twinkling," said the valet, dis- 
 appearing. 
 
114 DEVEREUX. 
 
 "A sorry fellow," said Mr. Fielding, "but honest and faith- 
 ful, and loves me as well as a saint loves gold ; 't is his love 
 makes him familiar." 
 
 Here the door was again opened, and the sharp face of Mr. 
 O'Carroll again intruded. 
 
 " How now, sirrah ! " exclaimed his master. 
 
 Mr. O'Carroll, without answering by voice, gave a gro- 
 tesque sort of signal between a wink and a beckon. Mr. 
 Fielding rose muttering an oath, and underwent a whisper. 
 "By the Lord," cried he, seemingly in a furious passion, 
 " and thou hast not got the bill cashed yet, though I told thee 
 twice to have it done last evening? Have I not my debts of 
 honour to discharge, and did I not give the last guinea I had 
 about me for a walking cane yesterday? Go down to the city 
 immediately, sirrah, and bring me the change." 
 
 The valet again whispered. 
 
 "Ah," resumed Fielding, "ah — so far, you say, 'tis true; 
 't is a great way, and perhaps the Count can't wait till you 
 return. Prithee (turning to me), prithee now, is it not vexa- 
 tious, — no change about me, and my fool has not cashed a 
 trifling bill I have, for a thousand or so, on Messrs. Child! 
 and the cursed Salop puts not its trust even in princes \ 't is 
 its way; 'Gad now, you have not a guinea about you?" 
 
 What could I say? My guinea joined Tarleton's, in a visit 
 to that bourne whence no such traveller e'er returned. 
 
 Mr. O'Carroll now vanished in earnest, the wine and the 
 chocolate soon appeared. Mr. Fielding brightened up, re- 
 cited his poetry, blessed his good fortune, promised to call on 
 me in a day or two ; and assured me, with a round oath, that 
 the next time he had the honour of seeing me, he would treat 
 me with another pint of Madeira, exactly of the same sort. 
 
 I remember well that it was the evening of the same day in 
 ■which I had paid this visit to the redoubted Mr. Fielding, 
 that, on returning from a drum at Lady Hasselton's, I entered 
 my anteroom with so silent a step, that I did not arouse even 
 the keen senses of Monsieur Desmarais. He was seated by 
 the fire, with his head supported by his hands, and intently 
 poring over a huge folio. I had often observed that he pos- ■ 
 
DEVEREUX. 115 
 
 sessed a literary turn, and all the hours in which he was un- 
 employed by me he was wont to occupy with books. I felt 
 now, as I stood still and contemplated his absorbed attention 
 in the contents of the book before him, a strong curiosity to 
 know the nature of his studies; and so little did my taste 
 second the routine of trifles in which I had been lately en- 
 gaged, that in looking upon the earnest features of the man 
 on which the solitary light streamed calm and full; and im- 
 pressed with the deep quiet and solitude of the chamber, to- 
 gether with the undisturbed sanctity of comfort presiding 
 over the small, bright hearth, and contrasting what I saw 
 with the brilliant scene — brilliant with gaudy, wearing, 
 wearisome frivolities — which I had just quitted, a sensation 
 of envy at the enjoyments of my dependant entered my breast, 
 accompanied with a sentiment resembling humiliation at the 
 nature of my own pursuits. I am generally thought a proud 
 man; but I am never proud to my inferiors; nor can I imag- 
 ine pride where there is no competition. I approached Des- 
 marais, and said, in French, — 
 
 "How is this? why did you not, like your fellows, take 
 advantage of my absence to pursue your own amusements? 
 They must be dull indeed if they do not hold out to you more 
 tempting inducements than that colossal offspring of the 
 press." 
 
 "Pardon me, Sir," said Desmarais, very respectfully, and 
 closing the book, " pardon me, I was not aware of your return. 
 Will Monsieur doff his cloak?" 
 
 "No; shut the door, wheel round that chair, and favour 
 me with a sight of your book." 
 
 " Monsieur will be angry, I fear," said the valet (obeying 
 the first two orders, but hesitating about the third), "with 
 my course of reading: I confess it is not very compatible 
 with my station." 
 
 "Ah, some long romance, the "Clelia," I suppose, — nay, 
 bring it hither; that is to say, if it be movable by the strength 
 of a single man." 
 
 Thus iirged, Desmarais modestly brought me the book. 
 Judge of my surprise when I found it was a volume of Leib- 
 
116 DEVEREUX. 
 
 nitz, a philosopher then very much the rage, — because one 
 might talk of him very safely, without having read him.* 
 Despite of my surprise, I could not help smiling when my 
 eye turned from the book to the student. It is impossible to 
 conceive an appearance less like a philosopher's than that of 
 Jean Desmarais. His wig was of a nicety that would not 
 have brooked the irregularity of a single hair; his dress was 
 not preposterous, for I do not remember, among gentles or 
 valets, a more really exquisite taste than that of Desmarais ; 
 but it evinced, in every particular, the arts of the toilet. A 
 perpetual smile sat upon his lips, — sometimes it deepened 
 into a sneer, but that was the only change it ever experienced; 
 an irresistible air of self-conceit gave piquancy to his long, 
 marked features, small glittering eye, and withered cheeks, 
 on which a delicate and soft bloom excited suspicion of arti- 
 ficial embellishment. A very fit frame of body this for a 
 valet ; but I humbly opine a very unseemly one for a student 
 of Leibnitz. 
 
 " And what, " said I, after a short pause, " is your opinion 
 of this philosopher? I understand that he has just written a 
 work ^ above all praise and comprehension." 
 
 " It is true. Monsieur, that it is above his own understand- 
 ing. He knows not what sly conclusions may be drawn from 
 his premises ; but I beg Monsieur's pardon, I shall be tedious 
 and intrusive." 
 
 "Not a whit! speak out, and at length. So you conceive 
 that Leibnitz makes ropes which others will make into 
 ladders?" 
 
 "Exactly so," said Desmarais; "all his arguments go to 
 swell the sails of the great philosophical truth, — 'Xecessity I ' 
 "We are the things and toys of Fate, and its everlasting chain 
 compels even the Power that creates as well as the things 
 created." 
 
 "Ha!" said I, who, though little versed at that time in 
 these metaphysical subtleties, had heard St. John often speak 
 
 1 Which is possibly the reason why there are so many disciples of Kant at 
 the present moment. — Ed. 
 
 2 The " Theodicsea." 
 
DEVEREUX. 117 
 
 of the strange doctrine to which Desniarais referred, "you 
 are, then, a believer in the fatalism of S})iuoza?" 
 
 "No, Monsieur," said Desmarais, with a complacent smile, 
 "my system is my own: it is composed of the thoughts of 
 others-, but my thoughts are the cords which bind the various 
 sticks into a fagot." 
 
 "Well," said I, smiling at the man's conceited air, "and 
 •what is your main dogma? " 
 
 "Our utter impotence." 
 
 "Pleasing! Mean you that we have no free will?" 
 
 "None." 
 
 " Why, then, you take away the very existence of vice and 
 virtue; and, according to you, we sin or act well, not from 
 our own accord, but because we are compelled and preor- 
 dained to it." 
 
 Desmarais' smile withered into the grim sneer with which, 
 as I have said, it was sometimes varied. 
 
 "Monsieur's penetration is extreme; but shall I not pre- 
 pare his nightly draught ? " 
 
 "No; answer me at length; and tell me the difference be- 
 tween good and ill, if we are compelled by Necessity to 
 either." 
 
 Desmarais hemmed, and began. Despite of his caution, 
 the coxcomb loved to hear himself talk, and he talked, there- 
 fore, to the following purpose : — 
 
 " Liberty is a thing impossible ! Can you will a single ac- 
 tion, however simple, independent of your organization, — in- 
 dependent of the organization of others, — indej^endent of the 
 order of things past, — independent of the order of things to 
 come? You cannot. But if not independent, you are depend- 
 ent; if dependent, where is your liberty? where your freedom 
 of will? Education disposes our characters: can you control 
 your own education, begun at the hour of birth? You cannot. 
 Our character, joined to the conduct of others, disposes of our 
 happiness, our sorrow, our crime, our virtue. Can you control 
 your character? We have already seen that you cannot. Can 
 you control the conduct of others, — others perhaps whom you 
 have never seen, but who may ruin you at a word; a despot, 
 
118 DEVEREUX. 
 
 for instance, or a warrior? You cannot. What remains? that if 
 we cannot choose our characters, nor our fates, we cannot be ac- 
 countable for either. If you are a good man, you are a lucky 
 man ; but you are not to be praised for what you could not help. 
 If you are a bad man, you are an unfortunate one ; but you 
 are not to be execrated for what you could not prevent." ^ 
 
 " Then, most wise Desmarais, if you steal this diamond loop 
 from my hat, you are only an unlucky man, not a guilty one, 
 and worthy of my sympathy, not anger?" 
 
 "Exactly so; but you must hang me for it. You cannot 
 control events, but you can modify man. Education, law, 
 adversity, prosperity, correction, praise, modify him, — with- 
 out his choice, and sometimes without his perception. But 
 once acknowledge Necessity, and evil passions cease; you 
 may punish, you may destroy others, if for the safety and 
 good of the commonwealth; but motives for doing so cease to 
 be private : you can have no personal hatred to men for com- 
 mitting actions which they were irresistibly compelled to 
 commit." 
 
 I felt that, however I might listen to and dislike these sen- 
 timents, it would not do for the master to argue with the do- 
 mestic, especially when there was a chance that he might 
 have the worst of it. And so I was suddenly seized with a fit 
 of sleepiness, which broke off our conversation. Meanwhile 
 I inly resolved, in my own mind, to take the first opportu- 
 nity of discharging a valet who saw no difference between 
 good and evil, but that of luck; and who, by the irresistible 
 compulsion of Necessity, might some day or other have the 
 involuntary misfortune to cut the throat of his master ! 
 
 I did not, however, carry this unphilosophical resolution 
 into effect. Indeed, the rogue, doubting perhaps the nature 
 of the impression he had made on me, redoubled so zealously 
 his efforts to please me in the science of his profession that I 
 could not determine upon relinquishing such a treasure for a 
 speculative opinion, and I was too much accustomed to laugh 
 at my Sosia to believe there could be any reason to fear him. 
 
 ^ Whatever pretensions Monsieur Desmarais may have had to originality, 
 this tissue of opinions is as old as philosophy itself. — Ed. 
 
DEVEREUX. 119 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A UNIVERSAL GENIUS. PERICLES TURNED BARBER. NAMES 
 
 OF BEAUTIES IN 171-. THE TOASTS OF THE KIT-CAT CLUB. 
 
 As I was riding with Tarleton towards Chelsea, one day, 
 he asked me if I had ever seen the celebrated Mr. Salter. 
 "No," said I, "but I heard Steele talk of him the other night 
 at Wills's. He is an antiquarian and a barber, is he not?" 
 
 "Yes, a shaving virtuoso; really a comical and strange 
 character, and has oddities enough to compensate one for the 
 debasement of talking with a man in his rank." 
 
 "Let us go to him forthwith," said I, spurring my horse 
 into a canter. 
 
 ^'Quodjjetis hie est," cried Tarleton, "there is his house." 
 And my companion pointed to a coffee-house. 
 
 "What! " said I, "does he draw wine as well as teeth?" 
 
 "To be sure: Don Saltero is a universal genius. Let us 
 dismount." 
 
 Consigning our horses to the care of our grooms, we marched 
 into the strangest-looking place I ever had the good fortune 
 to behold. A long narrow coffee-room was furnished with all 
 manner of things that, belonging neither to heaven, earth, 
 nor the water under the earth, the redoubted Saltero might 
 well worship without incurring the crime of idolatry. The 
 first thing that greeted my eyes was a bull's head, with a 
 most ferocious pair of vulture's wings on its neck. While I 
 was surveying this, I felt something touch my hat; I looked 
 up and discovered an immense alligator swinging from the 
 ceiling, and fixing a monstrous pair of glass eyes upon me. 
 A thing which seemed to me like an immense shoe, upon a 
 nearer approach expanded itself into an Indian canoe ; and a 
 most hideous spectre with mummy skin, and glittering teeth, 
 that made my blood run cold, was labelled, " Beautiful speci- 
 men of a Calmuc Tartar." 
 
120 DEVEREUX. 
 
 While lost in wonder, I stood in the middle of the apart- 
 ment, up walks a little man as lean as a miser, and says to 
 me, rubbing his hands, — 
 
 "Wonderful, Sir, is it not?" 
 
 "Wonderful, indeed, Don!" said Tarleton; "you look like 
 a Chinese Adam surrounded by a Japanese creation. " 
 
 "He, he, he. Sir, you have so pleasant a vein," said the 
 little Don, in a sharp shrill voice. "But it has been all 
 done. Sir, by one man; all of it collected by me, simple as I 
 stand." 
 
 "Simple, indeed," quoth Tarleton; "and how gets on the 
 fiddle?" 
 
 "Bravely, Sir, bravely; shall I play you a tune?" 
 
 "No, no, my good Don; another time." 
 
 "Nay, Sir, nay," cried the antiquarian, "suffer me to wel- 
 come your arrival properly." 
 
 And, forthwith disappearing, he returned in an instant 
 with a marvellously ill-favoured old fiddle. Throwing a loen- 
 seroso air into his thin cheeks, our Don then began a few pre- 
 liminary thrummings, which set my teeth on edge, and made 
 Tarleton put both hands to his ears. Three sober-looking 
 citizens, who had just sat themselves down to pipes and the 
 journal, started to their feet like so many pieces of clockwork ; 
 but no sooner had Don Saltero, with a derjage air of graceful 
 melancholy, actually launched into what he was pleased to 
 term a tune, than a universal irritation of nerves seized the 
 whole company. At the first overture, the three citizens 
 swore and cursed, at the second division of the tune, they 
 seized their hats, at the third they vanished. As for me, I 
 found all my limbs twitching as if they were dancing to St. 
 Vitus's music; the very drawers disappeared; the alligator 
 itself twirled round, as if revivified by so harsh an experi- 
 ment on the nervous system; and I verily believe the whole 
 museum, bull, wings, Indian canoe, and Calmuc Tartar, would 
 have been set into motion by this new Orpheus, had not Tarle- 
 ton, in a paroxysm of rage, seized him by the tail of the coat, 
 and whirled him round, fiddle and all, with such velocity 
 that the poor musician lost his equilibrium, and falling 
 
DEVEREUX. 1 21 
 
 against a row of Chinese monsters, brought the whole set to 
 the ground, where he lay covered by the wrecks that accom- 
 panied his overthrow, screaming and struggling, and grasping 
 his fiddle, which every now and then, touched involuntarily 
 by his fingers, uttered a dismal squeak, as if sympathizing in 
 the disaster it had caused, until the drawer ran in, and, rais- 
 ing the unhappy antiquarian, placed him on a great chair. 
 
 "0 Lord!" groaned Don Saltero, "O Lord! my monsters 
 — my monsters — the pagoda — the mandarin, and the idol — 
 where are they? — broken — ruined — annihilated! " 
 
 "Xo, Sir; all safe, Sir," said ihe drawer, a smart, small, 
 smug, pert man; "put 'em down in the bill, nevertheless, Sir. 
 Is it Alderman Atkins, Sir, or Mr. Higgins?" 
 
 "Pooh," said Tarleton, "bring me some lemonade; send 
 the pagoda to the bricklayer, the mandarin to the surgeon, 
 and the idol to the Papist over the way ! There 's a guinea 
 to pay for their carriage. How are you, Don?" 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Tarleton, Mr. Tarleton! how coxild you be so 
 cruel?" 
 
 "The nature of things demanded it, my good Don. Did I 
 not call you a Chinese Adam? and how could you bear that 
 name without undergoing the fall?" 
 
 "Oh, Sir, this is no jesting matter, — broke the railing of 
 my pagoda, bruised my arm, cracked my fiddle, and cut me 
 off in the middle of that beautiful air! — no jesting matter." 
 
 "Come, Mr. Salter," said I, "'tis very true! but cheer up. 
 ' The gods, ' says Seneca, ' look with pleasure on a great man 
 falling with the statesmen, the temples, and the divinities of 
 his country ; ' all of which, mandarin, pagoda, and idol, ac- 
 companied your fall. Let us have a bottle of your best wine, 
 and the honour of your company to drink it. " 
 
 " No, Count, no, " said Tarleton, haughtily ; " we can drink not 
 with the Don; but we '11 have the wine, and he shall drink it. 
 Meanwhile, Don, tell us what possible combination of circum- 
 stances made thee fiddler, barber, anatomist, and virtuoso ! " 
 
 Don Saltero loved fiddling better than anything in the world, 
 but next to fiddling he loved talking. So being satisfied that 
 he should be reimbursed for his pagoda, and fortifying him- 
 
122 DEVEREUX. 
 
 self with a glass or two of his own wine, he yielded to Tarle- 
 ton's desire, and told us his history. I believe it was very 
 entertaining to the good barber, but Tarleton and I saw noth- 
 ing extraordinary in it; and long before it was over, we 
 wished him an excellent good day, and a new race of Chinese 
 monsters. 
 
 That evening we were engaged at the Kit-Cat Club, for 
 though I was opposed to the politics of its members, they ad- 
 mitted me on account of my literary pretensions. Halifax 
 was there, and I commended the poet to his protection. We 
 were very gay, and Halifax favoured us with three new toasts 
 by himself. Venus ! what beauties we made, and what char- 
 acters we murdered ! Never was there so important a synod 
 to the female world as the gods of the Kit-Cat Club. Alas ! 
 I am writing for the children of an after age, to whom the 
 very names of those who made the blood of their ancestors 
 leap within theii veins will be unknown. What cheek will 
 colour at the name of Carlisle? What hand will tremble as 
 it touches the paper inscribed by that of Brudenel? The 
 graceful Godolphin, the sparkling enchantment of Harper, 
 the divine voice of Claverine, the gentle and bashful Bridge- 
 water, the damask cheek and ruby lips of the Hebe Manches- 
 ter, — what will these be to the race for whom alone these 
 pages are penned? This history is a union of strange con- 
 trasts! like the tree of the Sun, described by Marco Polo, 
 which was green when approached on one side, but white 
 when perceived on the other : to me it is clothed in the ver- 
 dure and spring of the existing time; to the reader it comes 
 covered with the hoariness and wanness of the Past ! 
 
DEVEREUX. 123 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A DIALOGUE OF SENTIMENT SUCCEEDED BY THE SKETCH OF A 
 CHARACTER, IN WHOSE EYES SENTIMENT WAS TO WISE MEN 
 WHAT RELIGION IS TO FOOLS; NAMELY, A SUBJECT OF 
 RIDICULE. 
 
 St. John was now in power, and in the full flush of his 
 many ambitious and restless schemes. I saw as much of him 
 as the high rank he held in the state, and the consequent busi- 
 ness with which he was oppressed, would suffer me, — me, 
 who was prevented by religion from actively embracing any po- 
 litical party, and who, therefore, though inclined to Toryism, 
 associated pretty equally with all. St. John and myself formed 
 a great friendship for each other, a friendship which no after 
 change or chance could efface, but which exists, strengthened 
 and mellowed by time, at the very hour in which I write. 
 
 One evening he sent to tell me he should be alone, if I 
 would sup with him; accordingly I repaired to his house. 
 He was walking up and down the room with uneven and rapid 
 steps, and his countenance was flushed with an expression of 
 joy and triumph, very rare to the thoughtful and earnest calm 
 which it usually wore. "Congratulate me, Devereux," said 
 he, seizing me eagerly by the hand, " congratulate me ! " 
 
 "For what?" 
 
 " Ay, true : you are not yet a politician ; you cannot yet tell 
 how dear — how inexpressibly dear to a politician — is a mo- 
 mentary and petty victory, — but — if I were Prime Minister 
 of this country, what would you say?" 
 
 " That you could bear the duty better than any man living ; 
 but remember Harley is in the way." 
 
 "Ah, there's the rub," said St. John, slowly, and the ex- 
 pression of his face again changed from triumph to thought- 
 fulness ; " but this is a subject not to your taste : let us choose 
 
124 DEVEREUX. 
 
 another." And flinging himself into a chair, this singular 
 man, who prided himself on suiting his conversation to every 
 one, began conversing with me upon the lighter topics of the 
 day; these we soon exhausted, and at last we settled upon 
 that of love and women. 
 
 "I own," said I, "that, in this respect, pleasure has disap- 
 pointed as well as wearied me. I have longed for some better 
 object of worship than the trifler of fashion, or the yet more 
 ignoble minion of the senses. I ask a vent for enthusiasm, 
 for devotion, for romance, for a thousand subtle and secret 
 streams of unuttered and unutterable feeling. I often think 
 that I bear within me the desire and the sentiment of poetry, 
 though I enjoy not its faculty of expression; and that that 
 desire and that sentiment, denied legitimate egress, centre 
 and shrink into one absorbing passion, — which is the want 
 of love. Where am I to satisfy this want? I look round 
 these great circles of gayety which we term the world; I 
 send forth my heart as a wanderer over their regions and re- 
 cesses, and it returns, sated and palled and languid, to myself 
 again." 
 
 " You express a common want in every less worldly or more 
 morbid nature, " said St. John ; " a want which I myself have 
 experienced, and if I had never felt it, I should never, per- 
 haps, have turned to ambition to console or to engross me. 
 But do not flatter yourself that the want will ever be fulfilled. 
 Nature places us alone in this hospitable world, and no heart 
 is cast in a similar mould to that which we bear within us. 
 We pine for sympathy; we make to ourselves a creation of 
 ideal beauties, in which we expect to find it : but the creation 
 has no reality; it is the mind's phantasma which the mind 
 adores ; and it is because the phantasma can have no actual 
 being that the mind despairs. Throughout life, from the 
 cradle to the grave, it is no real living thing which we de- 
 mand; it is the realization of the idea we have formed within 
 us, and which, as we are not gods, we can never call into ex- 
 istence. We are enamoured of the statue ourselves have 
 graven; but, unlike the statue of the Cyprian, it kindles not 
 to our homage nor melts to our embraces." 
 
DEVEREUX. 125 
 
 "I believe you," said I; "but it is hard to undeceive our- 
 selves. The heart is the most credulous of all fanatics, and 
 its ruling passion the most enduring of all superstitions. 
 Oh! what can tear from us, to the last, the hope, the desire, 
 the yearning for some bosom which, while it mirrors our own, 
 parts not with the reflection! I have read that, in the very 
 hour and instant of our birth, one exactly similar to ourselves, 
 in spirit and form, is born also, and that a secret and unintel- 
 ligible sympathy preserves that likeness, even through the 
 vicissitudes of fortune and circumstance, until, in the same 
 point of time, the two beings are resolved once more into the 
 elements of earth: confess that there is something welcome, 
 though unfounded in the fancy, and that there are few of the 
 substances of worldly honour which one would not renounce, 
 to possess, in the closest and fondest of all relations, this 
 shadow of ourselves ! " 
 
 "Alas!" said St. John, "the possession, like all earthly 
 blessings, carries within it its own principle of corruption. 
 The deadliest foe to love is not change nor misfortune nor 
 jealousy nor wrath, nor anything that flows from passion or 
 emanates from fortune; the deadliest foe to it is custom! 
 "With custom die away the delusions and the mysteries which 
 encircle it; leaf after leaf, in the green poetry on which its 
 beauty depends, droops and withers, till nothing but the bare 
 and rude trunk is left. With all passion the soul demands 
 something unexpressed, some vague recess to explore or to 
 marvel upon, — some veil upon the mental as well as the cor- 
 poreal deity. Custom leaves nothing to romance, and often 
 biit little to respect. The whole character is bared before us 
 like a plain, and the heart's eye grows wearied with the 
 sameness of the survey. And to weariness succeeds distaste, 
 and to distaste one of the myriad shapes of the Proteus Aver- 
 sion; so that the passion we would make the rarest of treas- 
 ures fritters down to a very instance of the commonest of 
 proverbs, — and out of familiarity cometh indeed contempt! " 
 
 "And are we, then," said I, "forever to forego the most 
 delicious of our dreams? Are we to consider love as an entire 
 delusion, and to reconcile ourselves to an eternal solitude of 
 
126 DEVEREUX. 
 
 heart? What, then, shall fill the crying and unappeasable 
 void of our souls? What shall become of those mighty sources 
 of tenderness which, refused all channel in the rocky soil of 
 the world, must have an outlet elsewhere or stagnate into 
 torpor? " 
 
 "Our passions," said St. John, "are restless, and will make 
 each experiment in their power, though vanity be the result 
 of all. Disappointed in love, they yearn towards ambition; 
 and the object of ambition, unlike that of love, never being 
 wholly possessed, ambition is the more durable passion of the 
 two. But sooner or later even that and all passions are sated 
 at last; and when wearied of too wide a flight we limit our 
 excursions, and looking round us discover the narrow bounds 
 of our proper end, we grow satisfied with the loss of rapture 
 if we can partake of enjoyment; and the experience which 
 seemed at first so bitterly to betray us becomes our most real 
 benefactor, and ultimately leads us to content. For it is the 
 excess and not the nature of our passions which is perishable. 
 Like the trees which grew by the tomb of Protesilaus, the 
 passions flourish till they reach a certain height, but no sooner 
 is that height attained than they wither away." 
 
 Before I could reply, our conversation received an abrupt 
 and complete interruption for the night. The door was 
 thrown open, and a man, pushing aside the servant with a 
 rude and yet a dignified air, entered the room unannounced, 
 and with the most perfect disregard to ceremony — 
 
 "How d'ye do, Mr. St. John," said he, — "how d'ye do? 
 — Pretty sort of a day we ' ve had. Lucky to find you at 
 home, — that is to say if you will give me some broiled oys- 
 ters and champagne for supper." 
 
 "With all my heart. Doctor," said St. John, changing his 
 manner at once from the pensive to an easy and somewhat 
 brusque familiarity, — "with all my heart; but I am glad to 
 hear you are a convert to champagne: j^ou spent a whole 
 evening last week in endeavouring to dissuade me from the 
 sparkling sin." 
 
 "Pish! I had suffered the day before from it; so, like a 
 true Old Bailey penitent, I preached up conversion to others, 
 
DEVEREUX. 127 
 
 not from a desire of their welfare, but a plaguy sore feeling 
 for my own misfortune. Where did you dine to-day? At 
 home ! Oh ! the devil ! I starved on three courses at the Duke 
 of Orraond's." 
 
 "Aha! Honest Matt was there? " 
 
 "Yes, to my cost. He borrowed a shilling of me for a 
 chair. Hang this weather, it costs me seven shillings a day 
 for coach-fare, besides my paying the fares of all my poor 
 brother parsons, who come over from Ireland to solicit my 
 patronage for a bishopric, and end by borrowing half-a-crown 
 in the meanwhile. But Matt Prior will pay me again, I 
 suppose, out of the public money?" 
 
 "To be sure, if Chloe does not ruin him first." 
 
 "Hang the slut: don't talk of her. How Prior rails against 
 his place ! ^ He says the excise spoils his wit, and that the 
 only rhymes he ever dreams of now-a-days are 'docket and 
 cocket. ' " 
 
 "Ha, ha! we must do something better for Matt, — make 
 him a bishop or an ambassador. But pardon me, Count, I 
 have not yet made known to you the most courted, authorita- 
 tive, impertinent, clever, independent, haughty, delightful, 
 troublesome parson of the age: do homage to Dr. Swift. 
 Doctor, be merciful to my particular friend, Count Devereux." 
 Drawing himself up, with a manner which contrasted his 
 previous one strongly enough. Dr. Swift saluted me with a 
 dignity which might even be called polished, and which cer- 
 tainly showed that however he might prefer, as his usual de- 
 meanour, an air of negligence and semi-rudeness, he had 
 profited sufficiently by his acquaintance with the great to 
 equal them in the external graces, supposed to be peculiar to 
 their order, whenever it suited his inclination. In person 
 Swift is much above the middle height, strongly built, and 
 with a remarkably fine outline of throat and chest; his front 
 face is certainly displeasing, though far from uncomely; but 
 the clear chiselling of the nose, the curved upper lip, the full, 
 round Roman chin, the hanging brow, and the resolute deci- 
 sion, stamped upon the whole expression of the large fore- 
 1 In the Customs. 
 
128 DEVEREUX. 
 
 head, and the clear blue eye, make his profile one of the most 
 striking I ever saw. He honom-ed me, to my great surprise, 
 with a fine speech and a compliment; and then, with a look, 
 which menaced to St. John the retort that ensued, he added: 
 "And I shall always be glad to think that I owe your ac- 
 quaintance to Mr. Secretary St. John, who, if he talked less 
 about operas and singers, — thought less about Alcibiades and 
 Pericles, — if he never complained of the load of business not 
 being suited to his temper, at the very moment he had been 
 working, like Gumdragon, to get the said load upon his 
 shoulders ; and if he persuaded one of his sincerity being as 
 great as his genius, — would appear to all time as adorned 
 with the choicest gifts that Heaven has yet thought fit to be- 
 stow on the children of men. Prithee now, Mr. Sec, when 
 shall we have the oysters? Will you be merry to-night, 
 Count?" 
 
 "Certainly; if one may find absolution for the champagne." 
 
 "I'll absolve you, with a vengeance, on condition that 
 you '11 walk home with me, and protect the poor parson from 
 the Mohawks. Faith, they ran young Davenant's chair 
 through with a sword, t' other night. I hear they have sworn 
 to make daylight through my Tory cassock, — all Whigs you 
 know. Count Devereux, nasty, dangerous animals, how I hate 
 them ! they cost me five-and-sixpence a week in chairs to avoid 
 them." 
 
 "Never mind, Doctor, I'll send my servants home with 
 you," said St, John. 
 
 "Ay, a nice way of mending the matter — that 's curing the 
 itch by scratching the skin off. I could not give your tall 
 fellows less than a crown a-piece, and I could buy off the 
 bloodiest Mohawk in the kingdom, if he 's a Whig, for half 
 that sum. But, thank Heaven, the supper is ready." 
 / And to supper we went. The oysters and champagne seemed 
 to exhilarate, if it did not refine, the Doctor's wit. St. John 
 was unusually brilliant. I myself caught the infection of 
 their humour, and contributed my quota to the common stock 
 of jest and repartee; and that evening, spent with the two 
 most extraordinary men of the age, had in it more of broad 
 
DEVEREUX. 129 
 
 and familiar mirth than any I have ever wasted in the com- 
 pany of the youngest and noisiest disciples of the bowl and 
 its concomitants. Even amidst all the coarse ore of Swift's 
 conversation, the diamond perpetually broke out; his vulgar- 
 ity was never that of a vulgar mind. Pity that, while he 
 condemned St. John's over affectation of the grace of life, he 
 never jDerceived that his own affectation of coarseness and 
 brutality was to the full as unworthy of the simplicity of in- 
 tellect; ^ and that the aversion to cant, which was the strong- 
 est characteristic of his mind, led him into the very faults he 
 despised, only through a more displeasing and offensive road. 
 That same aversion to cant is, by the way, the greatest and 
 most prevalent enemy to the reputation of high and of strong 
 minds; and in judging Swift's character in especial, we should 
 always bear it in recollection. This aversion — the very an- 
 tipodes to hypocrisy — leads men not only to disclaim the 
 virtues they have, but to pretend to the vices they have not. 
 Foolish trick of disguised vanity! the world, alas, readily 
 
 1 It has been said that Swift was only coarse in his later years, and, with 
 a curious ignorance both of fact and of character, that Pope was the cause of 
 the Dean's grossness of taste. There is no doubt that he grew coarser with 
 age; but there is also no doubt that, graceful and dignified as that great 
 genius could be when he pleased, he affected at a period earlier than the one 
 in which he is now introduced, to be coarse both in speech and manner. I 
 seize upon this opportunity, mal a propos as it is, to observe that Swift's pre- 
 ference of Harley to St. John is by no means so certain as writers have been 
 pleased generally to assert. Warton has already noted a passage in one of 
 Swift's letters to Bolingbroke, to which I will beg to call the reader's 
 attention. 
 
 "It is you iccre. my hero, but the other (Lord Oxford) never iras ; yet if he 
 were, it was your own fault, who taught me to love him, and often vindicated 
 him, in the beginning of your ministry, from my accusations. But I granted 
 he had the greatest inequalities of any man alive ; and his whole scene was 
 fifty times more a what-d'ye-call-it than yours ; for I declare yours was unie, 
 and I wish you would so order it that the world may be as wise as I upon that 
 article." 
 
 I have to apologize for introducing this quotation, which I have done 
 because (and I entreat the reader to remember this) I observe that Count 
 Devereux always speaks of Lord Bolingbroke as he was spoken of by the 
 eminent men of that day, — not as he is now rated by the judgment of 
 posterity. — Ed. 
 
 9 
 
130 DEVEREUX. 
 
 believes them! Like Justice Overdo, in the garb of poor 
 Arthur of Bradley, they may deem it a virtue to have assumed 
 .the disguise ; but they must not wonder if the sham Arthur 
 is taken for the real, beaten as a vagabond, and set in the 
 stocks as a rogue! 
 
 CHAPTER \^IL 
 
 LIGHTLY WON, LIGHTLY LOST. A DIALOGUE OF EQUAL IN- 
 STRUCTION AND AMUSEMENT. A VISIT TO SIR GODFREY 
 
 KNELLER. 
 
 One morning Tarleton breakfasted with me. " I don't see 
 the little page," said he, "who was always in attendance in 
 your anteroom; what the deuce has become of him?" 
 
 " You must ask his mistress ; she has quarrelled with me, 
 and withdrawn both her favour and her messenger." 
 
 "What! the Lady Hasselton quarrelled with j*ou! D'lahle! 
 Wherefore? " 
 
 "Because I am not enough of the 'pretty fellow; ' am tired 
 of carrying hood and scarf, and sitting behind her chair 
 through five long acts of a dull play ; because I disappointed 
 her in not searching for her at every drum and quadrille party; 
 because I admired not her monkey; and because I broke a 
 teapot with a toad for a cover." 
 
 "And is not that enough?" cried Tarleton. "Heavens! 
 what a black bead-roll of offences; Mrs. Merton would have 
 discarded me for one of them. However, thy account has 
 removed my surprise ; I heard her praise thee the other day ; 
 now, as long as she loved thee, she always abused thee like a 
 pickpocket." 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha! — and what said she in my favour?" 
 
 " Why, that you were certainly very handsome, though you 
 were small; that you were certainly a great genius, though 
 every one would not discover it; and that you certainly had 
 
DEVEREUX. 131 
 
 the air of high birth, though you were not nearly so well 
 dressed as Beau Tippetly. But entre nous, Devereux, I think 
 she hates you, and would play you a trick of spite — revenge 
 is too strong a word — if she could find an opi)ortunity." 
 
 "Likely enough, Tarleton; but a coquette's lover is always 
 on his guard; so she will not take me unawares." 
 
 " So be it. But tell me, Devereux, who is to be your next 
 mistress, Mrs. Denton or Lady Clancathcart? the world gives 
 them both to you." 
 
 "The world is always as generous with what is worthless 
 as the bishop in the fable was with his blessing. However, 
 I promise thee, Tarleton, that I will not interfere with thy 
 claims either upon Mrs. Denton or Lady Clancathcart." 
 
 "Nay," said Tarleton, "I will own that you are a very 
 Scipio; but it must be confessed, even by you, satirist as you 
 are, that Lady Clancathcart has a beautiful set of features." 
 
 " A handsome face, but so vilely made. She would make a 
 splendid picture if, like the goddess Laverna, she could be 
 painted as a head without a body." 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha! — you have a bitter tongue. Count; but Mrs. 
 Denton, what have you to say against her?" 
 
 "Nothing; she has no pretensions for me to contradict. 
 She has a green eye and a sharp voice ; a mincing gait and a 
 broad foot. What friend of Mrs. Denton would not, there- 
 fore, counsel her to a prudent obscurity?" 
 
 "She never had but one lover in the world," said Tarleton, 
 " who was old, blind, lame, and poor ; she accepted him, and 
 became Mrs. Denton." 
 
 "Yes," said I, "she was like the magnet, and received her 
 name from the very first person ^ sensible of her attraction." 
 
 "Well, you have a shrewd way of saying sweet things," 
 said Tarleton ; " but I must own that you rarely or never di- 
 rect it towards women individually. What makes you break 
 through your ordinary custom?" 
 
 " Because I am angry with women collectively ; and must 
 pour my spleen through whatever channel presents itself." 
 
 "Astonishing," said Tarleton; "I despise women myself. I 
 1 Magnes. 
 
132 DEVEREUX. 
 
 always did; but you were their most entliusiastic and chival- 
 rous defender a month or two ago. What makes thee change, 
 my Sir Amadis?" 
 
 "Disappointment! they weary, vex, disgust me; selfish, 
 frivolous, mean, heartless: out on them! 'tis a disgrace to 
 have their love ! " 
 
 " del! What a sensation the news of thy misogyny will 
 cause ; the young, gay, rich Count Devereux, whose wit, vi- 
 vacity, splendour of appearance, in equipage and dress, in 
 the course of one season have thrown all the most established 
 beaux and pretty fellows into the shade ; to whom dedications 
 and odes and billet-doux are so much waste paper; who has 
 carried off the most general envy and dislike that any man 
 ever was blest with, since St. John turned politician; what! 
 thou all of a sudden to become a railer against the divine 
 sex that made thee what thou art! Fly, fly, unhappy apos- 
 tate, or expect the fate of Orpheus, at least ! " 
 
 "None of your raileries, Tarleton, or I shall speak to you 
 of plebeians and the canaille ! " 
 
 , " Sacre! my teeth are on edge already! Oh, the base, base 
 canaille, how I loathe them! Nay, Devereux, joking apart, I 
 love you twice as well for your humour. I despise the sex 
 heartily. Indeed, stih rosa be it spoken, there are few things 
 that breathe that I do not despise. Human nature seems to 
 me a most pitiful bundle of rags and scraps, which the gods 
 threw out of Heaven, as the dust and rubbish there." 
 
 "A pleasant view of thy species," said I. 
 
 " By my soul it is. Contempt is to me a luxury. I would 
 not lose the privilege of loathing for all the objects which 
 fools ever admired. What does old Persius say on the 
 subject? 
 
 " ' Hoc ridere meum, tam nil, nulla tibi vendo Iliade.' " ^ 
 
 "And yet, Tarleton," said I, "the littlest feeling of all is a 
 delight in contemplating the littleness of other people. Noth- 
 ing is more contemptible than habitual contempt." 
 
 1 " This privilege of mine, to laugh, — such a nothing as it seems, — I 
 would not barter to thee for an Eiad." 
 
DEVEREUX. 133 
 
 " Prithee, now, '-' answered the haughty aristocrat, " let us 
 not talk of these matters so subtly : leave me my enjoyment 
 without refining upon it. What is your first pursuit for the 
 morning?" 
 
 " Why, I have promised my uncle a picture of that invalua- 
 ble countenance which Lady Hasselton finds so handsome; 
 and I am going to give Kneller my last sitting." 
 
 "So, so, I will accompany you; I like the vain old dog; 
 't is a pleasure to hear him admire himself so wittily." 
 
 " Come, then ! " said I, taking up my hat and sword ; 
 and, entering Tarleton's carriage, we drove to the painter's 
 abode. 
 
 We found him employed in finishing a portrait of Lady 
 Godolphin. 
 
 " He, he ! " cried he, when he beheld me approach. " By 
 Got, I am glad to see you. Count Tevereux ; dis painting is 
 tamned poor work by one's self, widout any one to make des 
 (J rands yeux, and cry, 'Oh, Sir Godfrey Kneller, how fine 
 dis is!'" 
 
 "Very true, indeed," said I, "no great man can be expected 
 to waste his talents without his proper reward of praise. But, 
 Heavens, Tarleton, did you ever see anything so wonderful? — 
 that hand, that arm, how exquisite! If Apollo turned painter, 
 and borrowed colours from the rainbow and models from the 
 goddesses, he would not be fit to hold the pallet to Sir 
 Godfrey Kneller." 
 
 "By Got, Count Tevereux, you are von grand judge of 
 painting," cried the artist, with sparkling eyes, "and I will 
 paint you as von tamned handsome man ! " 
 
 "Nay, my Apelles, you might as well preserve some 
 likeness." 
 
 "Likeness, by Got! I vill make you like and handsome 
 both. By my shoul you make me von Apelles, I vill make 
 you von Alexander I " 
 
 "People in general," said Tarleton, gravely, "believe that 
 Alexander had a wry neck, and was a very plain fellow ; but 
 no one can know about Alexander like Sir Godfrey Kneller, 
 who has studied military tactics so accurately, and who, if 
 
134 DEVEREUX. 
 
 lie had taken up the sword instead of the pencil, would have 
 been at least an Alexander himself." 
 
 "By Got, Meester Tarleton, you are as goot a judge of de 
 talents for de war as Count Tevereux of de genie for de paint- 
 ing ! Meester Tarleton, I vill paint your picture, and I vill 
 make your eyes von goot inch bigger than dey are ! " 
 
 " Large or small, " said I (for Tarleton, who had a haughty 
 custom of contracting his orbs till they were scarce percepti- 
 ble, was so much offended, that I thought it prudent to cut 
 off his reply), "large or small, Sir Godfrey, Mr. Tarleton's 
 eyes are capable of admiring your genius ; why, your painting 
 is like lightning, and one flash of your brush would be suffi- 
 cient to restore even a blind man to sight." 
 
 "It is tamned true," said Sir Godfrey, earnestly; "and it 
 did restore von man to sight once ! By my shoul, it did ! but 
 sit yourself town, Count Tevereux, and look over your left 
 shoulder — ah, dat is it — and now, praise on. Count Tev- 
 ereux ; de thought of my genius gives you — vat you call it — 
 von animation — von fire, look you — by my shoul, it does ! " 
 
 And by dint of such moderate panegyric, the worthy Sir 
 Godfrey completed my picture, with equal satisfaction to 
 himself and the original. See what a beautifier is flattery: a 
 few sweet words will send the Count Devereux down to pos- 
 terity with at least three times as much beauty as he could 
 justly lay claim to.'' 
 
 1 This picture represents the Count in an undress. The face is decidedly, 
 though by no means remarliably, handsome ; the nose is aquiline, — the upper 
 lip short and chiselled, — the eyes gray, and the forehead, -which is by far the 
 finest feature in the countenance, is peculiarly high, broad, and massive. The 
 mouth has but little beauty ; it is severe, caustic, and rather displeasing, from 
 the extreme compression of the lips. The great and prevalent expression of 
 the face is energy. The eye, the brow, the turn of the head, the erect, pene- 
 trating aspect, — are all strikingly bold, animated, and even daring. And 
 this expression makes a singular contrast to that in another likeness to the 
 Cdunt, which was taken at a much later period of life. The latter portrait 
 represents him in a foreign uniform, decorated with orders. The peculiar 
 sarcasm of the mouth is hidden beneath a very long and thick mustachio, of 
 a much darker colour than the hair (for in both portraits, as in Jervas's pic- 
 ture of Lord Bolingbroke, the hair is left undisguised by the odious fashion 
 of the day) Across one cheek there is a slight scar, as of a sabre cut. The 
 
DEVEREUX. 135 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A DEVELOPMENT OF CHARACTER, AND A LONG LETTER; A 
 CHAPTER, ON THE WHOLE, MORE IMPORTANT THAK IT 
 SEEMS. 
 
 The scenes through which, of late, I have conducted my 
 reader are by no means episodical : they illustrate far more 
 than mere narration the career to which I was so honourably 
 devoted. Dissipation, — women, — wine, — Tarleton for a 
 friend, Lady Hasselton for a mistress. Let me now throw 
 aside the mask. 
 
 To people who have naturally very intense and very acute 
 feelings, nothing is so fretting, so wearing to the heart, as 
 the commonplace aifections, which are the properties and off- 
 spring of the world. We have seen the birds which, with 
 wings unclipt, children fasten to a stake. The birds seek to 
 fly, and are pulled back before their wings are well spread; 
 till, at last, they either perpetually strain at the end of their 
 short tether, exciting only ridicule by their anguish and their 
 impotent impatience; or, sullen and despondent, they re- 
 main on the ground, without any attempt to fly, nor creep, 
 even to the full limit which their fetters will allow. Thus 
 it is with the feelings of the keen, wild nature I speak of: 
 they are either striving forever to pass the little circle of 
 slavery to which they are condemned, and so move laughter 
 by an excess of action and a want of adequate power; or they 
 rest motionless and moody, disdaining the petty indulgence 
 
 whole character of this portrait is widely different from that in the earlier 
 one. Not a trace of the fire, the animation, which were so striking in the 
 physiognomy of the youth of twenty, is discoverable in the calm, sedate, 
 stately, yet somewhat stern expression, which seems immovably spread over 
 the paler hue and the more prominent features of the man of about four or 
 five and thirty. Yet, upon the whole, the face in the latter portrait is hand- 
 somer ; and, from its air of dignity and reflection, even more impressive than 
 that in the one I have first described. — Eu. 
 
136 DEVEREUX. 
 
 they might enjoy, till sullenness is construed into resignation, 
 and despair seems the apathy of content. Time, however, cures 
 what it does not kill; and both bird and beast, if they pine not 
 to the death at first, grow tame and acquiescent at last. 
 
 What to nie was the companionship of Tarleton, or the at- 
 tachment of Lady Hasselton? I had yielded to the one, and 
 I had half eagerly, half scornfully, sought the other. These, 
 and the avocations they brought with them, consumed my 
 time, and of Time murdered there is a ghost which we term 
 ennui. The hauntings of this spectre are the especial curse 
 of the higher orders ; and hence springs a certain consequence 
 to the passions. Persons in those ranks of society so exposed 
 to ennui are either rendered totally incapable of real love, or 
 they love far more intensely than those in a lower station; 
 for the affections in them are either utterly frittered away on 
 a thousand petty objects (poor shifts to escape the persecut- 
 ing spectre), or else, early disgusted with the worthlessness 
 of these objects, the heart turns within and languishes for 
 something not found in the daily routine of life. When this 
 is the case, and when the pining of the heart is once satisfied, 
 and the object of love is found, there are two mighty reasons 
 why the love should be most passionately cherished. The 
 first is, the utter indolence in which aristocratic life oozes 
 away, and which allows full food for that meditation which 
 can nurse by sure degrees the weakest desire into the strong- 
 est passion; and the second reason is, that the insipidity and 
 hollowness of all patrician pursuits and pleasures render the 
 excitement of love more delicious and more necessary to the 
 ^^ignavi terrarum domini,^^ than it is to those orders of soci- 
 ety more usefully, more constantly, and more engrossingly 
 engaged. 
 
 Wearied and sated with the pursuit of what was worthless, 
 my heart, at last, exhausted itself in pining for what was 
 pure. I recurred with a tenderness which I struggled with at 
 first, and which in yielding to I blushed to acknowledge, to 
 the memory of Isora. And in the world, surrounded by all 
 which might be supposed to cause me to forget her, my heart 
 clung to her far more endearingly than it had done in the 
 
DEVEREUX. 137 
 
 rural solitudes in which she had first allured it. The truth 
 was this ; at the time I first loved her, other passions — yjas- 
 sions almost equally powerful — shared her empire. Ambi- 
 tion and pleasure — vast whirlpools of thought — had just 
 opened themselves a channel in my mind, and thither the 
 tides of my desires were hurried and lost. Now those whirl- 
 pools had lost their power, and the channels, being dammed 
 up, flowed back upon my breast. Pleasure had disgusted me, 
 and the only ambition I had yet courted and pursued had 
 palled upon me still more. I say, the only ambition, for as 
 yet that which is of the loftier and more lasting kind had 
 not afforded me a temptation ; and the hope which had borne 
 the name and rank of ambition had been the hope rather to 
 glitter than to rise. 
 
 These passions, not yet experienced when I lost Isora, had 
 afforded me at that period a ready comfort and a sure engross- 
 ment. And, in satisfying the hasty jealousies of my temper, 
 in deeming Isora unworthy and Gerald my rival, I naturally 
 aroused in my pride a dexterous orator as well as a firm ally. 
 Pride not only strengthened my passions, it also persuaded 
 them by its voice; and it was not till the languid yet deep 
 stillness of sated wishes and palled desires fell upon me, that 
 the low accent of a love still surviving at my heart made 
 itself heard in answer. 
 
 I now began to take a different view of Isora's conduct. 
 I now began to doubt where I had formerly believed; and 
 the doubt, first allied to fear, gradually brightened into hope. 
 Of Gerald's rivalry, at least of his identity with Barnard, 
 and, consequently, of his power over Isora, there was, and 
 there could be, no feeling short of certainty. But of what 
 nature was that power? Had not Isora assured me that it 
 was not love? Why should I disbelieve her? Xay, did she 
 not love myself? had not her cheek blushed and her hand 
 trembled when I addressed her? Were these signs the 
 counterfeits of love? Were they not rather of that heart's 
 dye which no skill can counterfeit? She had declared that 
 she could not, that she could never, be mine ; she liad declared 
 so with a fearful earnestness which seemed to annihilate hope; 
 
138 DEVEREUX. 
 
 but had she not also, in the same meeting, confessed that I 
 was dear to her? Had not her lip given me a sweeter and 
 a more eloquent assurance of that confession than words? — 
 and could hope perish while love existed? She had left me, 
 — she had bid me farewell forever ; but that was no proof of 
 a want of love, or of her unworthiness. Gerald, or Barnard, 
 evidently possessed an influence over father as well as child. 
 
 Their departure from might have been occasioned by 
 
 him, and she might have deplored, while she could not resist 
 it; or she might not even have deplored; nay, she might have 
 desired, she might have advised it, for my sake as well as 
 hers, were she thoroughly convinced that the union of our 
 loves was impossible. 
 
 But, then, of what nature could be this mysterious authority 
 which Gerald possessed over her? That which he possessed 
 over the sire, political schemes might account for; but these, 
 surely, could not have much weight for the daughter. This, 
 indeed, must still remain doubtful and unaccounted for. One 
 presumption, that Gerald was either no favoured lover or that 
 he was unacquainted with her retreat, might be drawn from 
 his continued residence at Devereux Court. If he loved Isora, 
 and knew her present abode, would he not have sought her? 
 Could he, I thought, live away from that bright face, if once 
 allowed to behold it? unless, indeed (terrible thought!) there 
 hung over it the dimness of guilty familiarity, and indifference 
 had been the offspring of possession. But was that delicate 
 and virgin face, where changes with every moment coursed 
 each other, harmonious to the changes of the mind, as shadows 
 in a valley reflect the clouds of heaven ! — was that face, so in- 
 genuous, so girlishly revelant of all, — even of the slightest, 
 the most transitory, emotion, — the face of one hardened in 
 deceit and inured to shame? The countenance is, it is true, 
 but a faithless mirror; but what man that has studied women 
 will not own that there is, at least while the down of first 
 youth is not brushed away, in the eye and cheek of zoned and 
 untainted Innocence, that which survives not even the fruition 
 of a lawful love, and has no (nay, not even a shadowed and im- 
 perfect) likeness in the face of guilt? Then, too, had any 
 
DEVEREUX. 139 
 
 worldlier or mercenary sentiment entered her breast respecting 
 me, would Isora have flown from the suit of the eldest scion of 
 the rich house of Devereux? and would she, poor and destitute, 
 the daughter of an alien and an exile, would she have sponta- 
 neously relinquished any hope of obtaining that alliance which 
 maidens of the loftiest houses of England had not disdained 
 to desire? Thus confused and incoherent, but thus yearning 
 fondly towards her image and its imagined purity, did my 
 thoughts daily and hourly array themselves ; and, in propor- 
 tion as I suffered common ties to drop froiu me one by one, 
 those thoughts clung the more tenderly to that which, though 
 severed from the rich argosy of former love, was still indis- 
 solubly attached to the anchor of its hope. 
 
 It was during this period of revived affection that I received 
 the following letter from my uncle : — 
 
 I thank thee for thy long letter, my dear boy ; I read it over three 
 times with great delight. Ods fish, Morton, you are a sad Pickle, I fear, 
 and seem to know all the ways of the town as well as your old uncle did 
 some thirty years ago I 'T is a very pretty acquaintance with human 
 nature that your letters display. You put me in mind of little Sid, who 
 was just about your height, and who had just such a pretty, shrewd way 
 of expressing himself in simile and point. Ah, it is easy to see that you 
 have profited by your old uncle's conversation, and that Farquhar and 
 Etherege were not studied for nothing. 
 
 But I have sad news for thee, my child, or rather it is sad for me to 
 tell thee my tidings. It is sad for the old birds to linger in their nest 
 when the young ones take wing and leave them ; but it is merry for the 
 young birds to get away from the dull old tree, and frisk it in the sun- 
 shine, — merry for them to get mates, and have young themselves. 
 Now, do not think, ^Morton, that by speaking of mates and youno; T am 
 going to tell thee thy brothers are already married ; nay, there is time 
 enough for those things, and I am not friendly to early weddings, nor to 
 speak truly, a marvellous great admirer of that holy ceremony at any 
 age ; for the which there may be private reasons too long to relate to 
 thee now. INIoreover, I fear my young day was a wicked time, — a 
 heinous wicked time, and we were wont to laugh at the wedded state, 
 until, body of me, some of us found it no laughing matter. 
 
 But to return, Morton, — to return to thy brothers : they have both 
 left me ; and the house seems to me not the good old house it did when 
 
140 DEVEKEUX. 
 
 ye -were all about me ; and, somehow or other, I look now oftener at the 
 churchyard than I was wont to do. You are all gone now, — all shot 
 up and become men ; and when your old uncle sees you no more, and 
 recollects that all his own contemporaries are out of the world, he cannot 
 help saying, as William Temple, poor fellow, once prettily enough said, 
 "Methinks it seems an impertinence in me to be still alive." You went 
 first, iSIorton ; and I missed you more than I cared to say : but you were 
 always a kind boy to those you loved, and you wrote the old knight 
 merry letters, that made him laugh, and think he was grown young 
 again (faith, boy, that was a jolly story of the three Squires at Button's !), 
 and once a week comes your packet, well filled, as if you did not think 
 it a task to make me happy, which your handwriting always does ; nor 
 a shame to my gray hairs that I take pleasure in the same things that 
 please thee ! So, thou seest, my child, that I have got through thy 
 absence pretty well, save that I have had no one to read thy letters to ; 
 for Gerald and thou are still jealous of each other, — a great sin in thee, 
 Morton, which I prithee to reform. And Aubrey, poor lad, is a little 
 too rigid, considering his years, and it looks not well in the dear boy to 
 shake his head at the follies of his uncle. And as to thy mother, Morton, 
 I read her one of thy letters, and she said thou wert a graceless repro- 
 bate to think so much of this wicked world, and to write so familiarly to 
 thine aged relative. Xow, I am not a young man, Morton; but the 
 word aged has a sharp sound with it when it comes from a lady's 
 mouth. 
 
 Well, after thou hadst been gone a month, Aubrey and Gerald, as I 
 wrote thee word long since, in the last letter I wrote thee with mv own 
 hand, made a tour together for a little while, and that was a hard stroke 
 on me. But after a week or two Gerald returned ; and I went out in 
 my chair to see the dear boy shoot, — 'sdeath, Morton, he handles the 
 gun well. And then Aubrey returned alone : but he looked pined and 
 moping, and shut himself up, and as thou dost love hira so, I did not 
 like to tell thee till now, when he is quite well, that he alarmed me much 
 for him ; he is too much addicted to his devotions, poor child, and seems 
 to forget that the hope of the next world ought to make us happy in 
 this. Well, Morton, at last, two months ago, Aubrey left us again, and 
 Gerald last week set off on a tour through the sister kingdom, as it is 
 called. Faith, boy, if Scotland and Ensrland arc sister kingdoms, 't is a 
 thousand pities for Scotland that they are not co-heiresses ! 
 
 I should have told thee of this news before, but I have had, as thou 
 knowest, the gout so villanonsly in my hand that, till t' other day, I 
 have not held a pen, and old Xicholls, my amanuensis, is but a poor 
 scribe ; and I did not love to let the dog write to thee on all our family 
 
DEVEREUX. 141 
 
 affairs, especially as T have a secret to tell thee which makes me plaguy 
 uneasy. Thou must know, Morton, that after thy departure Gerald 
 asked me for thy rooms ; and though I did not like that any one else 
 should have what belonged to thee, yet I have always had a foolish 
 antipathy to say " No 1 " so thy brother had them, on condition to leave 
 them exactly as they were, and to yield them to thee whenever thou 
 shouldst return to claim them. Well, Morton, when Gerald went on liis 
 tour with thy youngest brother, old Nicholls — you know 't is a garru- 
 lous fellow — told me one night that his son Hugh — you remember 
 Hugh, a thin youth and a tall — lingering by the beach one evening, 
 saw a man, wrapped in a cloak, come out of the castle cave, unmoor one 
 of the boats, and push off to the little island opposite. Hugh swears by 
 more 'than yea and nay that the man was Father Montreuil. Now, 
 INIorton, this made me very uneasy, and I saw why thy brother Gerald 
 wanted thy rooms, which communicate so snugly with the sea. So I 
 told Nicholls, slyly, to have the great iron gate at the mouth of the 
 passage carefully locked ; and when it was locked, I had an iron plate 
 put over the whole lock, that the lean Jesuit might not creep even 
 through the keyhole. Thy brother returned, and I told him a tale of 
 the smugglers, Avho have really been too daring of late, and insisted on 
 the door being left as I had ordered ; and I told him, moreover, though 
 not as if I had susj)ected his communication with the priest, that I 
 interdicted all further converse with that limb of the Church. Thy 
 brother heard me with an indifferently bad grace ; but I was peremp- 
 tory, and the thing was agreed on. 
 
 Well, child, the day before Gerald last left us, I went to take leave of 
 him in his own room, — to tell thee the truth, I had forgotten his trav- 
 elling expenses ; when I was on the stairs of the tower I heard — by 
 the Lord I did — Montreuil's voice in the outer room, as plainly as ever 
 I heard it at prayers. Ods fish, Morton, I was an angered, and I made 
 so much haste tc the door that my foot slipped by the way : thy brother 
 heard me fall, and came out ; but I looked at him as I never looked at 
 thee, ]\rorton, and entered the room. Lo, the priest was not there : I 
 searched both chambers in vain ; so I made thy brother lift up the trap- 
 door, and kindle a lamp, and I searched the room below, and the passage. 
 The priest was invisible. Thou knowest, Morton, that there is only 
 one egress in the passage, and that was locked, as I have said before, so 
 where the devil — the devil indeed — could thy tutor have escaped? 
 He could not have passed me on the stairs without my seeing him ; he 
 could not have leaped the window without breaking his neck ; he couM 
 not have got out of the passage without making himself a current of air. 
 Ods fish, Morton, this thing might puzzle a wiser man than thine 
 
142 DEVEREUX. 
 
 uncle. Gerald affected to be mighty indignant at my suspicions ; but, 
 God forgive him, I saw he was playing a part. A man does not write 
 plays, my child, without being keen-sighted in these little intrigues; 
 and, moreover, it is impossible I could have mistaken thy tutor's voice, 
 which, to do it justice, is musical enough, and is the most singular voice 
 I ever heard, — unless little Sid's be excepted. 
 
 A propos of little Sid. I remember that in the Mall, when I was 
 walking there alone, three weeks after my marriage, De Graramont and 
 Sid joined me. I was in a melancholic mood ('sdeath, Morton, marriage 
 tames a man as water tames mice !) — ''Aha, Sir William," cried Sedley, 
 " thou hast a cloud on thee ; prithee now brighten it away : see, thy 
 wife shines on thee from the other end of the Mall." " Ah, talk not to 
 a dying man of his physic ! " said Graramont (that Graramont was a 
 shocking rogue, Morton !) " Prithee, Sir William, what is the chief 
 characteristic of wedlock? is it a state of war or of peace?" "Oh, 
 peace to be sure 1 " cried Sedley, " and Sir William and his lady carry 
 with them the emblem." " How I " cried I ; for I do assure thee, 
 Morton, I was of a different turn of mind. " How I " said Sid, gravely, 
 " why, the emblem of peace is the cornucopia, which your lady and you 
 equitably divide : she carries the copia, and you the cor — ." Xay, 
 Morton, nay, I cannot finish the jest ; for, after all, it was a sorry thing 
 in little Sid, whom I had befriended like a brother, with heart and 
 purse, to wound me so cuttingly ; but 't is the way with your jesters. 
 
 Ods fish, now how I have got out of my story ! AVell, I did not go 
 back to my room, Morton, till I had looked to the outside of the iron 
 door, and seen that the plate was as firm as ever : so now you have the 
 whole of the matter. Gerald went the next day, and I fear me much 
 lest he should already be caught in some Jacobite trap. Write me thy 
 advice on the subject. Meanwhile, I have taken the precaution to have 
 the trap-door removed, and the aperture strongly boarded over. 
 
 But 't is time for me to give over. I have been four days on this 
 letter, for the gout comes now to me oftener than it did, and I do not 
 know when I may again write to thee with my own hand ; so I resolved 
 I would e'en empty my whole budget at once. Thy mother is well and 
 blooming ; she is, at the present, abstractedly employed in a prodigious 
 piece of tapestry which old Nicholls informs me is the wonder of all the 
 women. 
 
 Heaven bless thee, my child ! Take care of thyself, and drink mod- 
 erately. It is hurtful, at thy age, to drink above a gallon or so at a 
 sitting. Heaven bless thee again, and when the weather gets warmer, 
 thou must come with thy kind looks, to make me feel at home again. 
 At present the country wears a cheerless face, and everything about us 
 
DEVEREUX. 143 
 
 is harsh and frosty, except the blunt, good-for-nothing heart of thine 
 uncle, and that, winter or summer, is always warm to thee. 
 
 "William Devereux. 
 
 P. S. I thank thee heartily for the little spaniel of the new breed 
 thou gottest me from the Duchess of Marlborough. It has the prettiest 
 red and white, and the blackest eyes possible. But poor Ponto is as 
 jealous as a wife three years married, and I cannot bear the old hound 
 to be vexed, so I shall transfer the little creature, its rival, to thy 
 mother. 
 
 This letter, tolerably characteristic of the blended simpli' 
 city, penetration, and overflowing kindness of the writer, oc- 
 casioned me much anxious thought. There was no doubt in 
 my mind but that Gerald and Montreuil were engaged in 
 some intrigue for the exiled family. The disguised name 
 which the former assumed, the state reasons which D'Alvarez 
 confessed that Barnard, or rather Gerald, had for conceal- 
 ment, and which proved, at leastj that some state plot in 
 which Gerald was engaged was known to the Spaniard, joined 
 to those expressions of Montreuil, which did all but own a 
 design for the restoration of the deposed line, and the power 
 which I knew he possessed over Gerald, whose mind, at once 
 bold and facile, would love the adventure of the intrigue, and 
 yield to Montreuil's suggestions on its nature, — these com- 
 bined circumstances left me in no doubt upon a subject deeply 
 interesting to the honour of our house, and the very life of one 
 of its members. Nothing, however, for me to do, calculated 
 to prevent or impede the designs of ^Montreuil and the dan- 
 ger of Gerald, occurred to me. Eager alike in my hatred and 
 my love, I said, inly, "What matters it whether one whom 
 the ties of blood never softened towards me, with whom, from 
 my childhood upwards, I have wrestled as with an enemy, 
 what matters it whether he win fame or death in the perilous 
 game he has engaged in?" And turning from this most gen- 
 erous and most brotherly view of the subject, I began only to 
 think whether the search or the society of Isora also influ- 
 enced Gerald in his absence from home. After a fruitless 
 and inconclusive meditation on that head, my thoughts took 
 
144 DEVEREUX. 
 
 a less selfish turn, and dwelt with all the softness of pity, 
 and the anxiety of love, upon the morbid temperament and 
 ascetic devotions of Aubrey. What, for one already so ab- 
 stracted from the enjoyments of earth, so darkened by super- 
 stitious misconceptions of the true nature of God and the true 
 objects of His creatures, — what could be anticipated but 
 wasted powers and a perverted life? Alas! when will men 
 perceive the difference between religion and priestcraft? 
 When will they perceive that reason, so far from extinguish- 
 ing religion by a more gaudy light, sheds on it all its lustre? 
 It is fabled that the first legislator of the Peruvians received 
 from the Deity a golden tod, with which in his wanderings 
 he was to strike the earth, until in some destined spot the 
 earth entirely absorbed it, and there — and there alone — was 
 he to erect a temple to the Divinity. What is this fable but 
 the cloak of an inestimable moral? Our reason is the rod of 
 gold ; the vast world of truth gives the soil, which it is perpet- 
 ually to sound; and only where without resistance the soil 
 receives the rod which guided and supported us will our altar 
 be sacred and our worship be accepted. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 BEING A SHORT CHAPTER, CONTAINING A MOST IMPORTANT 
 
 EVENT. 
 
 Sir William's letter was still fresh in my mind, when, 
 for want of some less noble quarter wherein to bestow my 
 tediousness, I repaired to St. John. As I crossed the hall to 
 his apartment, two men, just dismissed from his presence, 
 passed me rapidly; one was unknown to me, but there was 
 no mistaking the other, — it was Montreuil. I was greatly 
 startled ; the priest, not appearing to notice me, and convers- 
 ing in a whispered yet seemingly vehement tone with his 
 
DEVEREUX. 145 
 
 companion, hurried on and vanished through the street door. 
 I entered St. John's room: he was alone, and received me 
 with his usual gayety. 
 
 "Pardon me, Mr. Secretary," said I; "but if not a ques- 
 tion of state, do inform me what you know respecting the 
 taller one of those two gentlemen who have just quitted 
 you." 
 
 "It is a question of state, my dear Devereux, so my an- 
 swer must be brief, — very little." 
 
 "You know who he is?" 
 
 " Yes, a Jesuit, and a marvellously shrewd one : the Abbe 
 Montreuil." 
 
 "He was my tutor." 
 
 "Ah, so I have heard." 
 
 "And your acquaintance with him is positively and bona 
 fide of a state nature ? " 
 
 "Positively and bona fide." 
 
 " I could tell you something of him ; he is certainly in the 
 service of the Court at St. Germains, and a terrible plotter 
 on this side the Channel." 
 
 "Possibly; but I wish to receive no information respecting 
 him." 
 
 One great virtue of business did St. John possess, and I 
 have never known any statesman who possessed it so emi- 
 nently : it was the discreet distinction between friends of the 
 statesman and friends of the man. Much and intimately as 
 I knew St. John, I could never glean from him a single se- 
 cret of a state nature, until, indeed, at a later period, I leagued 
 myself to a portion of his public schemes. Accordingly I 
 found him, at the present moment, perfectly impregnable to 
 my inquiries; and it was not till I knew Montreuil's com- 
 panion was that celebrated intriguant, the Abbe Gaultier, 
 that I ascertained the exact nature of the priest's business 
 with St. John, and the exact motive of the civilities he had 
 received from Abigail Masham.^ Being at last forced, de- 
 
 1 Namely, that Count Devereux ascertained the priest's commnnications 
 and overtures from the Chevalier. The precise extent of Bolingbroke's 
 secret negotiations with the exiled Prince is still one of the darkest portions 
 
 10 
 
146 DEVEREUX. 
 
 spairingly, to give over the attempt on his discretion, I suf- 
 fered St. John to turn the conversation upon other topics, 
 and as these were not much to the existent humour of my 
 mind, I soon rose to depart. 
 
 "Stay, Count," said St. John; "shall you ride to-day?" 
 
 "If you will bear me company." 
 
 " Volontiers, — to say the truth, I was about to ask you to 
 canter your bay horse with me first to Spring Gardens, ^ where 
 I have a promise to make to the director; and, secondly, on a 
 mission of charity to a poor foreigner of rank and birth, who, 
 in his profound ignorance of this countrj', thought it right to 
 enter into a plot with some wise heads, and to reveal it to 
 some foolish tongues, who brought it to us with as much 
 clatter as if it were a second gunpowder project. I easily 
 brought him off that scrape, and I am now going to give him 
 a caution for the future. Poor gentleman, I hear that he is 
 grievously distressed in pecuniary matters, and I always had 
 a kindness for exiles. Who knows but that a state of exile 
 may be our own fate ' and this alien is sprung from a race as 
 haughty as that of St. John or of Devereux. The res an- 
 gusta domi must gall him sorely!" 
 
 " True, " said I, slowly. " What may be the name of the 
 foreigner? " 
 
 " Why — complain not hereafter that I do not trust you in 
 state matters — I will indulge — D' Alvarez — Don Diego, — a 
 hidalgo of the best blood of Andalusia ; and not unworthy of it, 
 I fancy, in the virtues of fighting, though he may be in those 
 of council. But — Heavens! Devereux — you seem ill!" 
 
 "No, no! Have you ever seen this man?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 At this word a thrill of joy shot across me, for I knew St. 
 John's fame for gallantry, and I was suspicious of the motives 
 of his visit. 
 
 "St. John, I know this Spaniard; I know him well, and 
 
 of the history of that time. That negotiations xcere carried on, both by 
 Harley and by St. John, very largely, and very closely, I need not say that 
 there is no doubt, 
 i VauxhalL 
 
DEVEREUX. 147 
 
 intimately. Could you not commission me to do your errand, 
 and deliver your caution? Relief from me he might accept; 
 from you, as a stranger, pride might forbid it; and you would 
 really confer on me a personal and essential kindness, if you 
 would give me so fair an opportunity to confer kindness upon 
 him." 
 
 "Very well, I am delighted to oblige you in any way. 
 Take his direction; you see his abode is in a very pitiful siib- 
 urb. Tell him from me that he is quite safe at present; but 
 tell him also to avoid, henceforth, all imprudence, all connec- 
 tion with priests, plotters, et tons ces gens-la, as he values 
 his personal safety, or at least his continuance in this most 
 hospitable country. It is not from every Avood that we make 
 a Mercury, nor from every brain that we can carve a Mer- 
 cury's genius of intrigue." 
 
 "Nobody ought to be better skilled in the materials requi- 
 site for such productions than Mr. Secretary St. John! " said 
 I; "and now, adieu." 
 
 "Adieu, if you will not ride with me. "We meet at Sir 
 William Wyndham's to-morrow." 
 
 Masking my agitation till I was alone, I rejoiced when I 
 found myself in the open streets. I summoned a hackney- 
 coach, and drove as rapidly as the vehicle would permit to 
 the petty and obscure suburb to which St. John had directed 
 me. The coach stopped at the door of a very humble but not 
 absolutely wretched abode. I knocked at the door. A woman 
 opened it, and, in answer to my inquiries, told me that the 
 poor foreign gentleman was very ill, — very ill indeed, — had 
 suffered a paralytic stroke, — not expected to live. His 
 daughter was with him now, — would see no one, — even Mr, 
 Barnard had been denied admission. 
 
 At that name my feelings, shocked and stunned at first by 
 the unexpected intelligence of the poor Spaniard's danger, 
 felt a sudden and fierce revulsion. I combated it. " This is 
 no time," I thought, "for any jealous, for any selfish, emotion. 
 If I can serve her, if I can relieve her father, let me be con- 
 tented." — " She will see me," I said aloud, and I slipped some 
 money in the woman's hand. "I am an old friend of the 
 
148 DEVEREUX. 
 
 family, and I shall not be an unwelcome intruder on the sick- 
 room of the sufferer." 
 
 "Intruder, sir, — bless you, the poor gentleman is quite 
 speechless and insensible." 
 
 At hearing this I could refrain no longer. Isora's discon- 
 solate, solitary, destitute condition broke irresistibly upon 
 me, and all scruple of more delicate and formal nature van- 
 ished at once. I ascended the stairs, followed by the old 
 woman — she stopped me by the threshold of a room on the 
 second floor, and whispered " There ! " I paused an instant, 
 — collected breath and courage, and entered. The room was 
 partially darkened. The curtains were drawn closely around 
 the bed. By a table, on which stood two or three phials of 
 medicine, I beheld Isora, listening with an eager, a most 
 eager and intent face to a man whose garb betrayed his heal- 
 ing profession, and who, laying a finger on the outstretched 
 palm of his other hand, appeared giving his precise instruc- 
 tions, and uttering that oracular breath which — mere human 
 words to him — was a message of fate itself, — a fiat on which 
 hung all that makes life life to his trembling and devout lis- 
 tener. Monarchs of earth, ye have not so supreme a power 
 over woe and happiness as one village leech! As he turned to 
 leave her, she drew from a most slender purse a few petty 
 coins, and I saw that she muttered some words indicative of 
 the shame of poverty, as she tremblingly tended them to the 
 outstretched palm. Twice did that palm close and open on the 
 paltry sum ; and the third time the native instinct of the heart 
 overcame the later impulse of the profession. The limb of 
 Galen drew back, and shaking with a gentle oscillation his 
 capitalian honours, he laid the money softly on the table, and 
 buttoning up the pouch of his nether garment, as if to resist 
 temptation, he pressed the poor hand still extended towards 
 him, and bowing over it with a kind respect for which I did 
 long to approach and kiss his most withered and undainty 
 cheek, he turned quickly round, and almost fell against me in 
 the abstracted hurry of his exit. 
 
 "Hush! " said I, softly. "What hope of your patient?" 
 
 The leech glanced at me meaningly, and I whispered to 
 
DEVEREUX. 149 
 
 Iiim to wait for me below. Isora had not yet seen me. It is 
 a notable distinction in the feelings, that all but the solitary 
 one of grief sharpen into exquisite edge the keenness of the 
 senses, but grief blunts them to a most dull obtuseness. I 
 hesitated now to come forward; and so I stood, hat in hand, 
 by the door, and not knowing that the tears streamed down 
 my cheeks as 1 fixed my gaze upon Isora. She too stood 
 still, just where the leech had left her, with her eyes fixed 
 upon the ground, and her head drooping. The right hand, 
 which the man had pressed, had sunk slowly and heavily by 
 her side, with the small snowy fingers half closed over the 
 palm. There is no describing the despondency which the 
 listless position of that hand spoke, and the left hand lay 
 with a like indolence of sorrow on the table, with one finger 
 outstretched and pointing towards the phials, just as it had, 
 some moments before, seconded the injunctions of the prim 
 physician. Well, for my part, if I were a painter I would 
 come now and then to a sick chamber for a study. 
 
 At last Isora, with a very quiet gesture of self-recovery, 
 moved towards the bed, and the next moment I was by her 
 side. If my life depended on it, I could not write one, no, 
 not one syllable more of this scene. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 CONTAINING MORE THAN ANY OTHER CHAPTER IN THE SECOND 
 BOOK OF THIS HISTORY. 
 
 My first proposal was to remove the patient, with all due 
 care and gentleness, to a better lodging, and a district more 
 convenient for the visits of the most eminent physicians. 
 When I expressed this wish to Isora, she looked at me long 
 and wistfully, and then burst into tears. " You will not de- 
 ceive us," said she, "and I accept your kindness at once, — 
 from him I rejected the same offer." 
 
150 DEVEREUX. 
 
 "Him? — of whom speak you? — this Barnard, or rather — 
 but I know him! " A startling expression passed over Isora's 
 speaking face. 
 
 "Know him!" she cried, interrupting me, "you do not, — 
 you cannot ! " 
 
 "Take courage, dearest Isora, — if I may so dare to call 
 you, — take courage: it is fearful to have a rival in that quar- 
 ter; but I am prepared for it. This Barnard, tell me again, 
 do you love him?" 
 
 "Love — God, no!" 
 
 "What then? do you still fear him? — fear him, too, pro- 
 tected by the unsleeping eye and the vigilant hand of a love 
 like mine?" 
 
 " Yes ! " she said falteringly, " I fear for yoit ! " 
 
 " Me ! " I cried, laughing scornfully, " me ! nay, dearest, 
 there breathes not that man whom you need fear on my ac- 
 count. But, answer me; is not — ■" 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, for mercy's sake!" cried Isora, ea- 
 gerly, "do not question me; I may not tell you who, or 
 what this man is; I am bound, by a most solemn oath, never 
 to divulge that secret." 
 
 "I care not," said I, calmly, "I want no confirmation of 
 my knowledge : this masked rival is my own brother ! " 
 
 I fixed my eyes full on Isora while I said this, and she 
 quailed beneath my gaze: her cheek, her lips, were utterly 
 without colour, and an expression of sickening and keen an- 
 guish was graven upon her face. She made no answer. 
 
 "Yes! " resumed I, bitterly, "it is my brother, — be it so, — 
 I am prepared; but if you can, Isora, say one word to deny 
 it." 
 
 Isora's tongue seemed literally to cleave to her mouth ; at 
 last with a violent effort, she muttered, "I have told you, 
 Morton, that I am bound by oath not to divulge this secret; 
 nor may I breathe a single syllable calculated to do so, — if I 
 deny one name, you may question me on more, — and, there- 
 fore, to deny one is a breach of my oath. But, beware ! " she 
 added vehemently, "oh! beware how your suspicions — mere 
 vague, baseless suspicions — criminate a brother ; and, above 
 
DEVEREUX. 151 
 
 all, whomsoever you believe to be the real being under this 
 disguised name, as you value your life, and therefore mine, — 
 breathe not to him a syllable of your belief." 
 
 I was so struck with the energy with which this was said, 
 that, after a short pause, 1 rejoined, in an altered tone, — 
 
 "I cannot believe that I have aught against life to fear from 
 a brother's hand; but I will promise you to guard against 
 latent danger. But is your oath so peremptory that you 
 cannot deny even one name? — if not, and you can deny 
 this, I swear to you that I will never question you upon 
 another. " 
 
 Again a fierce convulsion wrung the lip and distorted the 
 perfect features of Isora. She remained silent for some mo- 
 ments, and then murmured, " My oath forbids me even that 
 single answer: tempt me no more; now, and forever, I am 
 mute upon this subject." 
 
 Perhaps some slight and momentary anger, or doubt, or 
 suspicion, betrayed itself upon my countenance; for Isora, 
 after looking upon me long and mournfully, said, in a quiet 
 but melancholy tone, " I see your thoughts, and I do not re- 
 proach you for them — it is natural that you should think ill 
 of one whom this mystery surrounds, — one too placed under 
 such circumstances of humiliation and distrust. I have lived 
 long in your country : I have seen, for the last few months, 
 much of its inhabitants ; I have studied too the works which 
 profess to unfold its national and peculiar character: I know 
 that you have a distrust of the people of other climates; I 
 know that you are cautious and full of suspicious vigilance, 
 even in your commerce with each other; I know, too [and 
 Isora's heart swelled visibly as she spoke], that poverty it- 
 self, in the eyes of your commercial countrymen, is a crime, 
 and that they rarely feel confidence or place faith in those 
 who are unhappy; — why, Count Devereux, why should I re- 
 quire more of you than of Ihe rest of your nation? \Yhy 
 should you think better of the penniless and friendless girl, 
 the degraded exile, the victim of doubt, — which is so often 
 the disguise of guilt, — than any other, any one even among 
 my own people, would think of one so mercilessly deprived 
 
152 DEVEREUX. 
 
 of all the decent and appropriate barriers by whicli a maiden 
 should be surrounded? No — no: leave me as you found me; 
 leave my poor father where you see him; any place will do 
 for us to die in." 
 
 "Isora!" I said, clasping her in my arms, "you do not 
 know me yet: had I found you in prosperity, and in the 
 world's honour; had I wooed you in your father's halls, and 
 girt around with the friends and kinsmen of your race, — I 
 might have pressed for more than you will now tell me; I 
 might have indulged suspicion where I perceived mystery, 
 and I might not have loved as I love you now ! Note, Isora, 
 in misfortune, in destitution, I place without reserve my 
 whole heart — its trust, its zeal, its devotion — in your keep- 
 ing ; come evil or good, storm or sunshine, I am yours, wholly 
 and forever. Eeject me if you will, I will return to you 
 again; and never, never — save from my own eyes or your 
 own lips — will I receive a single evidence detracting from 
 your purity, or, Isora, — mine own, own Isora, — may I not 
 add also — from your love? " 
 
 " Too, too generous ! " murmured Isora, struggling passion- 
 ately with her tears, " may Heaven forsake me if ever I am 
 ungrateful to thee ; and believe — believe, that if love more 
 fond, more true, more devoted than woman ever felt before 
 can repay you, you shall be repaid ! " 
 
 Why, at that moment, did my heart leap so joyously within 
 me? — why did I say inly, — ''The treasure I have so long 
 yearned for is found at last : we have met, and through the 
 waste of years, we will work together, and never part again " ? 
 Why, at that moment of bliss, did I not rather feel a foretaste 
 of the coming woe? Oh, blind and capricious Fate, that 
 gives us a presentiment at one while and withholds it at an- 
 other! Knowledge, and Prudence, and calculating Foresight, 
 what are ye? — warnings unto others, not ourselves. Reason 
 is a lamp which sheddeth afar a glorious and general light, 
 but leaveth all that is around it in darkness and in gloom. 
 We foresee and foretell the destiny of others : we march cred- 
 ulous and benighted to our own; and like Laocoon, from the 
 very altars by which we stand as the soothsayer and the 
 
DEVEREUX. 153 
 
 priest, creep forth, unsuspected and undreamt of, the serpents 
 which are fated to destroy us ! 
 
 That very day, then, Alvarez was removed to a lodging more 
 worthy of his birth, and more calculated to afford hope of his 
 recovery. He bore the removal without any evident signs of 
 fatigue; but his dreadful malady had taken away both speech 
 and sense, and he was already more than half the property 
 of the grave. I sent, however, for the best medical advice 
 which London could afford. They met, prescribed, and left 
 the patient just as they found him. I know not, in the pro- 
 gress of science, what physicians may be to posterity, but in 
 my time they are false Avitnesses subpoenaed against death, 
 whose testimony always tells less in favour of the plaintiff 
 than the defendant. 
 
 Before we left the poor Spaniard's former lodging, and 
 when I was on the point of giving some instructions to the 
 landlady respecting the place to which the few articles of 
 property belonging to Don Diego and Isora were to be moved, 
 Isora made me a sign to be silent, which I obeyed. " Pardon 
 me," said she afterwards; ''but I confess that I am anxious 
 our next residence should not be known, — should not be 
 subject to the intrusion of — of this — " 
 
 " Barnard, as you call him. I understand you ; be it so ! " 
 and accordingly I enjoined the goods to be sent to my own 
 house, whence they were removed to Don Diego's new abode: 
 and I took especial care to leave with the good lady no clew 
 to discover Alvarez and his daughter, otherwise than through 
 me. The pleasure afforded me of directing Gerald's atten- 
 tion to myself, I could not resist. " Tell Mr. Barnard, when 
 he calls, " said I, " that only through Count Morton Devereux 
 will he hear of Don Diego d'Alvarez and the lady his 
 daughter." 
 
 "I will, your honour," said the landlady; and then looking 
 at me more attentively, she added: "Bless me! now when 
 you speak, there is a very strong likeness between yourself 
 and Mr. Barnard." 
 
 I recoiled as if an adder had stung me, and hurried into the 
 coach to support the patient, who was already placed there. 
 
154 DEVEREUX. 
 
 No"w then my daily post was by the bed of disease and suf- 
 fering: in the chamber of death was my vow of love ratified; 
 and in sadness and in sorrow was it returned. But it is in 
 such scenes that the deepest, the most endearing, and the 
 most holy species of the passion is engendered. As I heard 
 Isora's low voice tremble with the suspense of one who watches 
 over the hourly severing of the affection of Nature and of early 
 years; and as I saw her light step flit by the pillow Avhich 
 she smoothed, and her cheek alternately flush and fade, in 
 watching the wants which she relieved; as I marked her 
 mute, her unwearying tenderness, breaking into a thousand 
 nameless but mighty cares, and pervading like an angel's 
 vigilance every — yea, the minutest — course into which it 
 flowed, — did I not behold her in that sphere in which woman 
 is most lovely, and in which love itself consecrates its admi- 
 ration and purifies its most ardent desires? That was not a 
 time for our hearts to speak audibly to each other; but we 
 felt that they grew closer and closer, and we asked not for 
 the poor eloquence of words. But over this scene let me not 
 linger. 
 
 One morning, as I was proceeding on foot to Isora's, I per- 
 ceived on the opposite side of the way Montreuil and Gerald : 
 they were conversing eagerly; they both saw me. Montreuil 
 made a slight, quiet, and dignified inclination of the head: 
 Gerald coloured, and hesitated. I thought he was about to 
 leave his companion and address me; but, with a haughty 
 and severe air, I passed on, and Gerald, as if stung by my 
 demeanour, bit his lip vehemently and followed my example. 
 A few minutes afterwards I felt an inclination to regret that 
 I had not afforded him an opportunity of addressing me, " I 
 might, " thought I, " have then taunted him with his persecu- 
 tion of Isora, and defied him to execute those threats against 
 me, in which it is evident, from her apprehensions for my 
 safety, that he indulged." 
 
 I had not, however, much leisure for these thoughts. When 
 I arrived at the lodgings of Alvarez, I found that a great 
 change had taken place in his condition; he had recovered 
 speech, though imperfectly, and testified a return to sense. I 
 
DEVEREUX. 155 
 
 flew upstairs with a light step to congratulate Isora : she met 
 me at the door. " Hush ! " she whispered : " my father sleeps ! " 
 But she did not speak with the animation I had anticipated. 
 
 " What is the matter, dearest? " said I, following her into 
 another apartment: "you seem sad, and your eyes are red 
 with tears, which are not, methinks, entirely the tears of joy 
 at this happy change in your father. " 
 
 "I am marked out for suffering," returned Isora, more 
 keenly than she was wont to speak. I pressed her to explain 
 her meaning; she hesitated at first, but at length confessed 
 that her father had always been anxious for her marriage 
 with this sol-disant Barnard, and that his first words on his 
 recovery had been to press her to consent to his wishes. 
 
 "My poor father," said she, weepingly, "speaks and thinks 
 only for my fancied good; but his senses as yet are only re- 
 covered in part, and he cannot even understand me when I 
 speak of you. *I shall die,' he said, 'I shall die, and you 
 will be left on the wide world ! ' I in vain endeavoured to 
 explain to him that I should have a protector : he fell asleep 
 muttering those words, and with tears in his eyes." 
 
 "Does he know as much of this Barnard as you do? " said I. 
 
 " Heavens, no ! — or he would never have pressed me to 
 marry one so wicked." 
 
 "Does he know even who he is?" 
 
 "Yes!" said Isora, after a pause; "but he has not known 
 it long." 
 
 Here the physician joined us, and taking me aside, informed 
 me that, as he had foreboded, sleep had been the harbinger 
 of death, and that Don Diego was no more. I broke the news 
 as gently as I could to Isora: but her grief was far more vio- 
 lent than I could have anticipated ; and nothing seemed to cut 
 her so deeply to the heart as the thought that his last wish 
 had been one with which she had not complied, and could 
 never comply. 
 
 I pass over the first days of mourning : I come to the one 
 after Don Diego's funeral. I had been with Isora in the 
 morning; I left her for a few hours, and returned at the first 
 dusk of evening with some books and music, which I vainly 
 
156 DEYEREUX. 
 
 hoped siie might recur to for a momentary abstraction from 
 her grief. I dismissed my carriage, with the intention of 
 walking home, and addressing the woman-servant who ad- 
 mitted me, inquired, as was my wont, after Isora. " She has 
 been very ill," replied the woman, "ever since the strange 
 gentleman left her." 
 
 "The strange gentleman?" 
 
 Yes, he had forced his way upstairs, despite of the denial 
 the servant had been ordered to give to all strangers. He 
 had entered Isora's room; and the woman, in answer to my 
 urgent inquiries, added that she had heard his voice raised 
 to a loud and harsh key in the apartment; he had stayed 
 there about a quarter of an hour, and had then hurried out, 
 seemingly in great disorder and agitation. 
 
 "What description of man was he?" I asked. 
 
 The woman answered that he was mantled from head to 
 foot in his cloak, which was richly laced, and his hat was 
 looped with diamonds, but slouched over that part of his face 
 which the collar of his cloak did not hide, so that she could 
 not further describe him than as one of a haughty and abrupt 
 bearing, and evidently belonging to the higher ranks. 
 
 Convinced that Gerald had been the intruder, I hastened 
 up the stairs to Isora. She received me with a sickly and 
 faint smile, and endeavoured to conceal the traces of her 
 tears. 
 
 "So!" said I, "this insolent persecutor of yours has dis- 
 covered your abode, and again insulted or intimidated you. 
 He shall do so no more! I will seek him to-morrow; and 
 no affinity of blood shall prevent — " 
 
 " Morton, dear Morton ! " cried Isora, in great alarm, and 
 yet with a certain determination stamped upon her features, 
 " hear me ! It is true this man has been here ; it is true that, 
 fearful and terrible as he is, he has agitated and alarmed me : 
 but it was only for you, Morton, — by the Holy Virgin, it was 
 only for j'ou! 'The moment,' said he, and his voice ran shiv- 
 eringly through my heart like a dagger, 'the moment Mor- 
 ton Devereux discovers who is his rival, that moment his 
 death-warrant is irrevocably sealed ! ' " 
 
DEVEREUX. 157 
 
 "Arrogant boaster!" I cried, and my blood burned with 
 the intense rage which a much slighter cause would have kin- 
 dled from the natural fierceness of my temper. "Does he 
 think my life is at his bidding, to allow or to withhold? Un- 
 hand me, Isora, unhand me ! I tell you I will seek him this 
 moment, and dare him to do his worst ! " 
 
 "Do so," said Isora, calmly, and releasing her hold; "do 
 so ; but hear' me first • the moment you breathe to him your 
 suspicions you place an eternal barrier betwixt yourself and 
 me ! Pledge me your faith that you will never, while I live 
 at least, reveal to him — to any one whom you suspect — your 
 reproach, your defiance, your knowledge — nay, not even your 
 lightest suspicion — of his identity with my persecutor ; prom- 
 ise me this, Morton Devereux, or I, in my turn, before that 
 crucifix, whose sanctity we both acknowledge and adore, — 
 that crucifix which has descended to my race for three un- 
 broken centuries, — which, for my departed father, in the sol- 
 emn vow, and in the death-agony, has still been a witness, a 
 consolation, and a pledge, between the soul and its Creator, 
 — by that crucifix which my dying mother clasped to her 
 bosom when she committed me, an infant, to the care of that 
 Heaven which hears and records forever our lightest word, 
 ^I swear that I will never be yours ! " 
 
 " Isora ! " said I, awed and startled, yet struggling against 
 the impression her energy had made upon me, "you know not 
 to what you pledge yourself, nor what you require of me. 
 If I do not seek out this man, if I do not expose to him my 
 knowledge of his pursuit and unhallowed persecution of you, 
 if I do not effectually prohibit and prevent their continuance, 
 think well, what security have I for your future peace of 
 mind, — nay, even for the safety of your honour or your life? 
 A man thus bold, daring and unbaffled in his pursuit, thus 
 vigilant and skilful in his selection of time and occasion, — so 
 that, despite my constant and anxious endeavour to meet him 
 in your presence, I have never been able to do so, — from a 
 man, I say, thus pertinacious in resolution, thus crafty in 
 disguise, what may you not dread when you leave him utterly 
 fearless by the license of impunity? Think too, again, Isora, 
 
158 DEVEREUX. 
 
 that the mystery dishonours as much as the danger menaces. 
 Is it meet that my betrothed and my future bride should be 
 subjected to these secret and terrible visitations, — visitations 
 of a man professing himself her lover, and evincing the vehe- 
 mence of his passion by that of his pursuit? Isora — Isora — 
 you have not weighed these things ; you know not what you 
 demand of me." 
 
 "I do! " answered Isora; "I do know all that I demand of 
 you; I demand of you only to preserve your life." 
 
 " How, " said I, impatiently, " cannot my hand preserve my 
 life? and is it for you, the daughter of a line of warriors, to 
 ask your lover and your husband to shrink from a single 
 foe?" 
 
 "No, Morton," answered Isora. "Were you going to bat- 
 tle, I would gird on your sword myself ; were, too, this man 
 other than he is, and you were about to meet him in open 
 contest, I would not wrong you, nor degrade your betrothed, 
 by a fear. But I know my persecutor well, — iierce, unre- 
 lenting, — dreadful in his dark and ungovernable passions as 
 he is, he has not the courage to confront you: I fear not the 
 open foe, but the lurking and sure assassin. His very ear- 
 nestness to avoid you, the precautions he has taken, are alone 
 sufficient to convince you that he dreads personally to oppose 
 your claim or to vindicate himself." 
 
 "Then what have I to fear? " 
 
 "Everything! Do you not know that from men, at once 
 fierce, crafty, and shrinking from bold violence, the stuff for 
 assassins is always made? And if I wanted surer proof of 
 his designs than inference, his oath — it rings in my ears now 
 — is sufficient. 'The moment Morton Devereux discovers 
 who is his rival, that moment his death-warrant is irrevoca- 
 bly sealed.' Morton, I demand your promise; or, though my 
 heart break, I will record my own vow." 
 
 " Stay — stay, " I said, in anger, and in sorrow : " were I to 
 promise this, and for my own safety hazard yours, what 
 could you deem me?" 
 
 "Fear not for me, Morton," answered Isora; "you have no 
 cause. I tell you that this man, villain as he is, ever leaves 
 
DEVEREUX. 159 
 
 me humbled and abased. Do not think that in all times, and 
 all scenes, I am the foolish and weak creature you behold me 
 now. Kemember that you said rightly I was the daughter 
 of a line of warriors; and I have that within me which will 
 not shame my descent." 
 
 " But, dearest, your resolution may avail you for a time ; 
 but it cannot forever baffle the hardened nature of a man. 
 I know mj' own sex, and I know my own ferocity, were it 
 once aroused." 
 
 "But, Morton, you do not know me," said Isora, proudly, 
 and her face, as she spoke, was set, and even stern : "I am 
 only the coward when I think of you; a word — a look of 
 mine — can abash this man; or, if it could not, I am never 
 without a weapon to defend myself, or — or — " Isora's voice, 
 before firm and collected, now faltered, and a deep blush 
 flowed over the marble paleness of her face. 
 
 "Or what?" said I, anxiously. 
 
 "Or thee, Morton!" murmured Isora, tenderly, and with- 
 drawing her eyes from mine. 
 
 The tone, the look that accompanied these words, melted 
 me at once. I rose, — I clasped Isora to my heart. 
 
 "You are a strange compound, my own fairy queen; but 
 these lips, this cheek, those eyes, are not fit features for a 
 heroine." 
 
 " jVIorton, if I had less determination in my heart, I could 
 not love you so well." 
 
 "But tell me," I whispered, with a smile, "where is this 
 weapon on which you rely so strongly? " 
 
 "Here!" answered Isora, blushingly; and, extricating her- 
 self from me, she showed me a small two-edged dagger, 
 which she wore carefully concealed between the folds of her 
 dress. I looked over the bright, keen blade, with surprise, 
 and yet with pleasure, at the latent resolution of a character 
 seemingly so soft. I say with pleasure, for it suited well 
 with my own fierce and wild temper. I returned the weapon 
 to her, with a smile and a jest. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Isora, shrinking from my kiss, " I should not 
 have been so bold, if I only feared danger for myself." 
 
160 DEVEREUX. 
 
 But if, for a moment, we forgot, in the gushings of our 
 affection, the object of our converse and dispute, we soon re- 
 turned to it again. Isora was the first to recur to it. She 
 reminded me of the promise she required; and she spoke with 
 a seriousness and a solemnity whicli I found myself scarcely 
 able to resist. 
 
 " But, " I said, " if he ever molest you hereafter ; if again I 
 find that bright cheek blanched, and those dear eyes dimmed 
 with tears ; and I know that, in my own house, some one has 
 dared thus to insult its queen, — am I to be still torpid and 
 inactive, lest a dastard and craven hand should avenge my 
 assertion of your honour and mine?" 
 
 "No, Morton; after our marriage, whenever that be, you 
 will have nothing to apprehend from him on the same ground 
 as before ; my fear for you, too, will not be what it is now ; 
 your honour will be bound in mine, and nothing shall induce 
 me to hazard it, — no, not even your safety. I have every 
 reason to believe that, after that event, he will subject me no 
 longer to his insults: how, indeed, can he, under your per- 
 petual protection? or, for what cause should he attempt it, 
 if he could? I shall be then yours, — only and ever yours; 
 what hope could, therefore, then nerve his hardihood or in- 
 stigate his intrusions? Trust to me at that time, and suffer 
 me to — nay, I repeat, promise me that I may — trust in you 
 now ! " 
 
 What could I do? I still combated her wish and her re- 
 quest; but her steadiness and rigidity of jDurpose made me, 
 though reluctantly, yield to them at last. So sincere, and 
 so stern, indeed, appeared her resolution, that I feared, by 
 refusal, that she would take the rash oath that would sepa- 
 rate us forever. Added to this, I felt in her that confidence 
 which, I am apt to believe, is far more akin to the latter 
 stages of real love than jealousy and mistrust; and I could 
 not believe that either now, or, still less after our nuptials, 
 she would risk aught of honour, or the seemings of honour, 
 from a visionary and superstitious fear. In spite, therefore, 
 of my deep and keen interest in the thorough discovery of 
 this mysterious persecution; and, still more, in the preveu- 
 
DEVEREUX. 161 
 
 tion of all future designs from his audacity, I constrained 
 myself to promise her that I "would on no account seek out 
 the person I suspected, or wilfully betray to him by word or 
 deed my belief of his identity with Barnard. 
 
 Though greatly dissatisfied with my self-compulsion, I 
 strove to reconcile myself to its idea. Indeed, there was 
 much in the peculiar circumstances of Isora, much in the 
 freshness of her present affliction, much in the unfriended 
 and utter destitution of her situation, that, while on the one 
 hand, it called forth her pride, and made stubborn that 
 temper which was naturally so gentle and so soft; on the 
 other hand, made me yield even to wishes that I thought un- 
 reasonable, and consider rather the delicacy and deference due 
 to her condition, than insist upon the sacrifices which, in more 
 fortunate circumstances, I might have imagined due to my- 
 self. Still more indisposed to resist her wish and expose 
 myself to its penalty was I, when I considered her desire was 
 the mere excess and caution of her love, and when I felt that 
 she spoke sincerely when she declared that it was only for 
 me that she was the coward. Nevertheless, and despite all 
 these considerations, it was with a secret discontent that I 
 took my leave of her, and departed homeward. 
 
 I had just reached the end of the street where the house 
 was situated, when I saw there, very imperfectly, for the 
 night was extremely dark, the figure of a man entirely envel- 
 oped in a long cloak, such as was comm^only worn by gallants 
 in affairs of secrecy or intrigue ; and, in the pale light of a 
 single lamp near which he stood, something like the bril- 
 liance of gems glittered on the large Spanish hat which over- 
 hung his brow. I immediately recalled the description the 
 woman had given me 'of Barnard's dress, and the thought 
 flashed across me that it was he whom I beheld. "At all 
 events," thought I, "I may confirm my doubts, if I may not 
 communicate them, and I may watch over her safety if I may 
 not avenge her injuries." I therefore took advantage of my 
 knowledge of the neighbourhood, passed the stranger with a 
 quick step, and then, running rapidly, returned by a cir- 
 cuitous route to the mouth of a narrow and dark street, which 
 
 11 
 
162 DEVEREUX. 
 
 was exactly opposite to Isora's house. Here I concealed m}'- 
 self by a projecting porch, and I had not waited long before I 
 saw the dim form of the stranger walk slowly by the house. 
 He passed it three or four times, and each time I thought — 
 though the darkness might deceive me — thab he looked up to 
 the windows. He made, however, no attempt at admission, 
 and appeared as if he had no other object than that of watch- 
 ing by the house. Wearied and impatient at last, I came 
 from my concealment. "I may confirm my suspicions," I 
 repeated, recurring to my oath, and I walked straight towards 
 the stranger. 
 
 "Sir," I said very calmly, "I am the last person in the 
 world to interfere with the amusements of any other gentle- 
 man; but I humbly opine that no man can parade by this 
 house upon so very cold a night, without giving just ground 
 for suspicion to the friends of its inhabitants. I happen to 
 be among that happy number; and I therefore, with all due 
 humility and respect, venture to request you to seek some 
 other spot for your nocturnal perambulations." 
 
 I made this speech purposely prolix, in order to have time 
 fully to reconnoitre the person of the one I addressed. The 
 dusk of the night, and the loose garb of the stranger, certainly 
 forbade any decided success to this scrutiny; but methought 
 the figure seemed, despite of my prepossessions, to want the 
 stately height and grand proportions of Gerald Devereux. I 
 must own, however, that the necessary inexactitude of my 
 survey rendered this idea without just foundation, and did 
 not by any means diminish my firm impression that it was 
 Gerald whom I beheld. "While I spoke, he retreated with a 
 quick step, but made no answer. I pressed upon him: he 
 backed with a still quicker step; and Avhen I had ended, he 
 fairly turned round, and made at full speed along the dark 
 street in which I had fixed my previous post of watch. I fled 
 after him, with a step as fleet as his own : his cloak encum- 
 bered his flight; I gained upon him sensibly; he turned a 
 sharp corner, threw me out, and entered into a broad thor- 
 oughfare. As I sped after him, Bacchanalian voices burst 
 upon my ear, and presently a large band of those youug men 
 
DEVEREUX. 103 
 
 who, under the name of Mohawks, were wont to scour the 
 town nightly, and, sword in hand, to exercise their love of 
 riot under the disguise of party zeal, became visible in the 
 middle of the street. Through them my fugitive dashed 
 headlong, and, profiting by their surprise, escaped unmo- 
 lested. I attempted to follow with equal speed, but was less 
 successful. " Hallo ! " cried the foremost of the group, plac- 
 ing himself in my way. 
 
 "No such haste! Art Whig or Tory? Under which king, 
 Bezonian? speak or die! " 
 
 "Have a care. Sir," said I, fiercely, drawing my sword. 
 
 "Treason, treason! " cried the speaker, confronting me with 
 equal readiness. "Have a care, indeed! have at thee.'''' 
 
 "Ha!" cried another, "'tis a Tory; 'tis the Secretary's 
 popish friend, Devereux: pike him, pike him." 
 
 I had already run my opponent through the sword arm, 
 and was in hopes that this act would intimidate the rest, and 
 allow my escape ; but at the sound of my name and political 
 bias, coupled with the drawn blood of their confederate, the 
 patriots rushed upon me with that amiable fury generally 
 characteristic of all true lovers of their country. Two swords 
 l^assed through my body simultaneously, and I fell bleeding 
 and insensible to the ground. "When I recovered I was in 
 my own apartments, whither two of the gentler Mohawks 
 had conveyed me: the surgeons were by my bedside; I 
 groaned audibly when I saw them. If there is a thing in the 
 world I hate, it is in any shape the disciples of Hermes ; they 
 always remind me of that Indian people (the Padaei, I think) 
 mentioned by Herodotus, who sustained themselves by de- 
 vouring the sick. "All is well," said one, when my groan 
 was heard. "He will not die," said another. "At least not 
 till we have had more fees," said a third, more candid than 
 the rest. And thereupon they seized me and began torturing 
 my wounds anew, till I fainted away with the pain. However, 
 the next day I was declared out of immediate danger ; and the 
 first proof I gave of my convalescence was to make Desmarais 
 discharge four surgeons out of five : the remaining one I thought 
 my youth and constitution might enable me to endure. 
 
164 DEVEREUX. 
 
 That very evening, as I was turning restlessly in my bed, 
 and muttering with parched lips the name of "Isora," I saw 
 by my side a figure covered from head to foot in a long veil, 
 and a voice, low, soft, but thrilling through my heart like a 
 new existence, murmured, " She is here ! " 
 
 I forgot my wounds ; I forgot my pain and my debility ; I 
 sprang upwards: the stranger drew aside the veil from her 
 countenance, and I beheld Isora! 
 
 " Yes ! " said she, in her own liquid and honeyed accents, 
 which fell like balm upon my wound and my spirit, "yes, 
 she whom you have hitherto tended is come, in her turn, to 
 render some slight but woman's services to you. She has 
 come to nurse, and to soothe, and to pray for you, and to be, 
 till you yourself discard her, your handmaid and your slave ! " 
 
 I would have answered, but raising her finger to her lips, 
 she arose and vanished ; but from that hour my wound healed, 
 my fever slaked, and whenever I beheld her flitting round 
 my bed, or watching over me, or felt her cool fingers wiping 
 the dew from my brow, or took from her hand my medicine 
 or my food, in those moments, the blood seemed to make a 
 new struggle through my veins, and I felt palpably within 
 me a fresh and delicious life — a life full of youth and pas- 
 sion and hope — replace the vaguer and duller being which I 
 had hitherto borne. 
 
 There are some extraordinary incongruities in that very 
 mysterious thing symipatliy. One would imagine that, in a 
 description of things most generally interesting to all men, 
 the most general interest would be found; nevertheless, I be- 
 lieve few persons would hang breathless over the progressive 
 history of a sick-bed. Yet those gradual stages from danger 
 to recovery, how delightfully interesting they are to all who 
 have crawled from one to the other! and who, at some time 
 or other in his journey through that land of diseases — civil- 
 ized life — has not taken that gentle excursion? "I would be 
 ill any day for the pleasure of getting well, " said Fontenelle 
 to me one morning with his usual naivete; but who would not 
 be ill for the mere pleasure of being ill, if he could be tended 
 by her whom he most loves? 
 
DEVEREUX. 165 
 
 I shall not therefore dwell upon that most delicious period 
 of my life, — my sick bed, and my recovery from it. I pass 
 on to a certain evening in Avhich I heard from Isora's lips the 
 whole of her history, save what related to her knowledge of 
 the real name of one whose persecution constituted the little 
 of romance which had yet mingled with her innocent and 
 pure life. That evening — how well I remember it ! — we 
 were alone ; still weak and reduced, I lay upon the sofa be- 
 side the window, which was partially open, and the still air 
 of an evening in the first infancy of spring came fresh, and 
 fraught as it were with a prediction of the glowing woods 
 and the reviving verdure, to my cheek. The stars, one by 
 one, kindled, as if born of Heaven and Twilight, into their 
 nightly being; and, through the vapour and thick ether of 
 the dense city, streamed their most silent light, holy and 
 pure, and resembling that which the Divine Mercy sheds 
 upon the gross nature of mankind. But, shadowy and calm, 
 their rays fell full upon the face of Isora, as she lay on the 
 ground beside my couch, and with one hand surrendered to 
 my clasp, looked upward till, as she felt my gaze, she turned 
 her cheek blushingly away. There was quiet around and 
 above us; but beneath the window we heard at times the 
 sounds of the common earth, and then insensibly our hands 
 knit into a closer clasp, and we felt them thrill more palpably 
 to our hearts ; for those sounds reminded us both of our exist- 
 ence and of our separation from the great herd of our race ! 
 
 What is love but a division from the world, and a blending 
 of two souls, two immortalities divested of clay and ashes, 
 into one? it is a severing of a thousand ties from whatever is 
 harsh and selfish, in order to knit them into a single and sa- 
 cred bond! Who loves hath attained the anchorite's secret; 
 and the hermitage has become dearer than the world. 
 respite from the toil and the curse of our social and banded 
 state, a little interval art thou, suspended between two eterni- 
 ties, — the Past and the Future, — a star that hovers between 
 the morning and the night, sending through the vast abyss 
 one solitary ray from heaven, but too far and faint to illu- 
 mine, while it hallows the earth! 
 
166 DEYEREUX. 
 
 There was nothing in Isora's tale which the reader has not 
 already learned or conjectured. She had left her Andalusian 
 home in her early childhood, but she remembered it well, and 
 lingeringly dwelt over it in description. It was evident that 
 little, in our colder and less genial isle, had attracted her 
 sympathy, or wound itself into her affection. Nevertheless, I 
 conceive that her naturally dreamy and abstracted character 
 had received from her residence and her trials here much of 
 the vigour and the heroism which it now possessed. Brought 
 up alone, music, and books — few, though not ill-chosen, for 
 Shakspeare was one, and the one which had made upon her 
 the most permanent impression, and perhaps had coloured 
 her temperament with its latent but rich hues of poetry — 
 constituted her amusement and her studies. 
 
 But who knows not that a woman's heart finds its fullest 
 occupation within itself? There lies its real study, and 
 within that narrow orbit, the mirror of enchanted thought re- 
 flects the whole range of earth. Loneliness and meditation 
 nursed the mood which afterwards, with Isora, became love 
 itself. But I do not wish now so much to describe her char- 
 acter as to abridge her brief history. The first English 
 stranger of the male sex whom her father admitted to her ac- 
 quaintance was Barnard. This man was, as I had surmised, 
 connected with him in certain political intrigues, the exact 
 nature of which she did not know. I continue to call him by 
 a name which Isora acknowledged was fictitious. He had 
 not, at first, by actual declaration, betrayed to her his affec- 
 tions : though, accompanied by a sort of fierceness which early 
 revolted her, they soon became visible. On the evening in 
 which I had found her stretched insensible in the garden, 
 and had myself made my first confession of love, I learned 
 that he had divulged to her his passion and real name; 
 that her rejection had thrown him into a fierce despair; that 
 he had accompanied his disclosure with the most terrible 
 threats against me, for whom he supposed himself rejected, 
 and against the safety of her father, whom he said a word of 
 his could betray; and her knowledge of his power to injure 
 us — us — yes, Isora then loved me, and then trembled for 
 
DEVEREUX. 167 
 
 my safety ! had terrified and overcome her ; and that in the 
 very moment in which my horse's hoofs were heard, and as 
 the alternative of her non-compliance, the rude suitor swore 
 deadly and sore vengeance against Alvarez and myself, she 
 yielded to the oath he prescribed to her, — an oath that she 
 would never reveal the secret he had betrayed to her, or suffer 
 me to know who was my real rival. 
 
 This was all that I could gather from her guarded confi- 
 dence ; he heard the oath and vanished, and she felt no more 
 till she was in my arms ; then it was that she saw in the love 
 and vengeance of my rival a barrier against our union; and 
 then it was that her generous fear for me conquered her at- 
 tachment, and she renounced me. Their departure from the 
 cottage so shortly afterwards was at her father's choice and 
 at the instigation of Barnard, for the furtherance of their 
 political projects ; and it was from Barnard that the money 
 came which repaid my loan to Alvarez. The same person, no 
 doubt, poisoned her father against me, for henceforth Alvarez 
 never spoke of me with that partiality he had previously felt. 
 They repaired to London: her father was often absent, and 
 often engaged with men whom she had never seen before ; he 
 was absorbed and uncommunicative, and she was still igno- 
 rant of the nature of his schemings and designs. 
 
 At length, after an absence of several weeks, Barnard reap- 
 peared, and his visits became constant; he renewed his suit 
 to her father as well as herself. Then commenced that do- 
 mestic persecution, so common in this very tyrannical world, 
 which makes us sicken to bear, and which, had Isora been 
 wholly a Spanish girl, she, in all probability, would never 
 have resisted : so much of custom is there in the very air of a 
 climate. But she did resist it, partly because she loved me, 
 — and loved me more and more for our separation, — and 
 partly because she dreaded and abhorred the ferocious and 
 malignant passions of my rival, far beyond any other misery 
 with which fortune could threaten her. " Your father then 
 shall hang or starve ! " said Barnard, one day in uncontrolla- 
 ble frenzy, and left her. He did not appear again at the 
 house. The Spaniard's resources, fed, probably, alone by 
 
168 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Barnard, failed. From house to house they removed, till 
 they were reduced to that humble one in which I had found 
 them. There, Barnard again sought them; there, backed by 
 the powerful advocate of want, he again pressed his suit, and 
 at that exact moment her father was struck with the numbing 
 curse of his disease. " There and then, " said Isova, candidly, 
 " I might have yielded at last, for my poor father's sake, if 
 you had not saved me." 
 
 Once only (I have before recorded the time) did Barnard 
 visit her in the new abode I had provided for her, and the 
 day after our conversation on that event Isora watched and 
 watched for me, and I did not come. From the woman of 
 the house she at last learned the cause. "I forgot," she said 
 timidly, — and in conclusion, "I forgot womanhood, and mod- 
 esty, and reserve; I forgot the customs of your country, the 
 decencies of my own ; I forgot everything in this world, but 
 you, — you suffering and in danger; my very sense of exist- 
 ence seemed to pass from me, and to be supplied by a breath- 
 less, confused, and overwhelming sense of impatient agony, 
 which ceased not till I was in your chamber, and by j'our 
 side ! And — now, Morton, do not despise me for not having 
 considered more, and loved you less." 
 
 "Despise you! " I murmured, and I threw my arms around 
 her, and drew her to my breast. I felt her heart beat against 
 my own: those hearts spoke, though our lips were silent, and 
 in their language seemed to say, "We are united now, and 
 we will not part." 
 
 The starlight, shining with a mellow and deep stillness, 
 was the only light by which we beheld each other : it shone, 
 the witness and the sanction of that internal voice, which 
 we owned, but heard not. Our lips drew closer and closer 
 together, till they met! and in that kiss was the type and 
 promise of the after ritual which knit two spirits into one. 
 Silence fell around us like a curtain, and the eternal Night, 
 with her fresh dews and unclouded stars, looked alone upon 
 the compact of our hearts, — an emblem of the eternity, the 
 freshness, and the unearthly though awful brightness of the 
 love which it hallowed and beheld ! 
 
BOOK III. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 WHEREIN THE HISTORY MAKES GREAT PROGRESS AXD IS 
 MARKED BY ONE IMPORTANT EVENT IN HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 Spinoza is said to have loved, above all other amusements, 
 to put flies into a spider's web; and the struggles of the im- 
 prisoned insects were wont to bear, in the eyes of this grave 
 philosopher, so facetious and hilarious an appearance, that 
 he would stand and laugh thereat until the tears "coursed one 
 another down his innocent nose." Now it so happened that 
 Spinoza, despite the general (and, in my most meek opinion, 
 the just) condemnation of his theoretical tenets,^ was, in 
 character and in nature, according to the voices of all who 
 knew him, an exceedingly kind, humane, and benevolent 
 biped; and it doth, therefore, seem a little strange unto us 
 grave, sober members of the unphilosophical Many, that the 
 struggles and terrors of these little winged creatures should 
 strike the good subtleist in a point of view so irresistibly 
 ludicrous and delightful. But, for my part, I believe that 
 that most imaginative and wild speculator beheld in the en- 
 tangled flies nothing more than a living simile — an animated 
 illustration — of his own beloved vision of Necessity; and 
 that he is no more to be considered cruel for the complacency 
 
 1 One ought, however, to be very cautious before one condemns a philoso- 
 pher. The master's opinions are generally pure : it is the conclusions and 
 corollaries of his disciples that " draw the honey forth that drives men mad." 
 Schlegel seems to have studied Spinoza de fonte, and vindicates him very 
 earnestly from the charges brought against him, — atheism, etc. — Ed. 
 
170 DEVEREUX. 
 
 with which he gazed upon those agonized types of his system 
 than is Lucan for dwelling with a poet's pleasure upon the 
 many ingenious ways with which that Grand Inquisitor of 
 Verse has contrived to vary the simple operation of dying. 
 To the bard, the butchered soldier was only an epic ornament ; 
 to the philosopher, the murdered fly was only a metaphysical 
 /illustration. For, without being a fatalist, or a disciple of 
 Baruch de Spinoza, I must confess that I cannot conceive a 
 greater resemblance to our human and earthly state than the 
 penal predicament of the devoted flies. Suddenly do we find 
 ourselves plunged into that Vast Web, — the World; and even 
 as the insect, when he first undergoeth a similar accident of 
 necessity, standeth amazed and still, and only by little and 
 little awakeneth to a full sense of his situation; so also at 
 the first abashed and confounded, we remain on the mesh we 
 are urged upon, ignorant, as yet, of the toils around us, and 
 the sly, dark, immitigable foe that lieth in yonder nook, al- 
 ready feasting her imagination upon our destruction. Pres- 
 ently we revive, we stir, we flutter ; and Fate, that foe — the 
 old arch-spider, that hath no moderation in her maw — now 
 fixeth one of her many eyes upon us, and giveth us a partial 
 glimpse of her laidly and grim aspect. We pause in mute 
 terror; we gaze upon the ugly spectre, so imperfectly beheld; 
 the net ceases to tremble, and the wily enemy draws gently 
 back into her nook. Now we begin to breathe again; we 
 sound the strange footing on which we tread ; we move ten- 
 derly along it, and again the grisly monster advances on us ; 
 again we pause; the foe retires not, but remains still, and 
 surveyeth us; we see every step is accompanied with danger; 
 we look round and above in despair ; suddenly we feel within 
 us a new impulse and a new power! we feel a vague sympathy 
 with that unknown region which spreads beyond this great 
 net, — that limitless beyond hath a mystic affinity with a part 
 of our own frame; we unconsciously extend our wings (for 
 the soul to us is as the wings to the fly !) ; we attempt to rise, 
 — to soar above this perilous snare, from which we are una- 
 ble to crawl. The old spider watcheth us in self-hugging 
 quiet, and, looking up to our native air, we think, — now 
 
DEVEREUX. 171 
 
 shall we escape thee. Out on it! "We rise not a hair's 
 breadth : we have the wings, it is true, but the feet are fet- 
 tered. We strive desperately again : the whole web vibrates 
 with the effort; it will break beneath our strength, Not a jot 
 of it! we cease; we are more entangled than ever! wings, 
 feet, frame, the foul slime is over all! where shall we turn? 
 every line of the web leads to the one den, — we know not, — 
 we care not, — we grow blind, confused, lost. The eyes of 
 our hideous foe gloat upon us; she whetteth her insatiate 
 maw; she leapeth towards us; she fixeth her fangs upon us; 
 and so endeth my parallel ! 
 
 But what has this to do with my tale? Ay, Reader, that 
 is thy question; and I will answer it by one of mine. "When 
 thou hearest a man moralize and preach of Fate, art thou not 
 sure that he is going to tell thee of some one of his peculiar 
 misfortunes? Sorrow loves a parable as much as mirth loves 
 a jest. And thus already and from afar, I prepare thee, at 
 the commencement of this, the third of these portions into 
 which the history of my various and wild life will be divided, 
 for that event with which I purpose that the said portion 
 shall be concluded. 
 
 It is now three months after my entire recovery from my 
 wounds, and I am married to Isora! — married, — yes, but 
 l^rivately married, and the ceremony is as yet closely con- 
 cealed, 1 will explain. 
 
 The moment Isora's anxiety for me led her across the 
 threshold of my house it became necessary for her honour 
 that our wedding should take place immediately on my recov- 
 ery : so far I was decided on the measure ; now for the method. 
 During my illness, I received a long and most affectionate 
 letter from Aubrey, who was then at Devereux Court: so 
 affectionate was the heart-breathing spirit of that letter, so 
 steeped in all our old household remembrances and boyish 
 feelings, that coupled as it was with a certain gloom when he 
 spoke of himself and of worldly sins and trials, it brought 
 tears to my eyes whenever I recurred to it; and many and 
 many a time afterwards, when I thought his affections seemed 
 estranged from me, I did recur to it to convince myself that I 
 
172 DEVEREUX. 
 
 was mistaken. Shortly afterwards I received also a brief 
 epistle from my uncle; it was as kind as usual, and it men- 
 tioned Aubrey's return to Devereux Court. "That unhappy 
 boy," said Sir William, "is more than ever devoted to his 
 religious duties ; nor do I believe that any priest-ridden poor 
 devil in the dark ages ever made such use of the scourge and 
 the penance." 
 
 Now, I have before stated that my uncle would, I knew, be 
 averse to my intended marriage ; and on hearing that Aubrey 
 was then with him, I resolved, in replying to his letter, to 
 entreat the former to sound Sir William on the subject I had 
 most at heart, and ascertain the exact nature and extent of 
 the opposition I should have to encounter in the step I was 
 resolved to take. By the same post I wrote to the good old 
 knight in as artful a strain as I was able, dwelling at some 
 length upon my passion, upon the high birth, as well as the 
 numerous good qualities of the object, but mentioning not 
 her name; and I added everything that I thought likely to 
 enlist my uncle's kind and warm feelings ou my behalf. 
 These letters produced the following ones : — 
 
 FROM SIR WILLIAM DEVEREUX. 
 
 'Sdeath, nephew Morton, — but I won't scold thee, though thou 
 deservest it. Let me see, thou art now scarce twenty, and thou talkest 
 of marriage, which is the exclusive business of middle age, as famiHarly 
 as " girls of thirteen do of puppy-dogs." I\Iarry ! — go hang thvself 
 rather. Marriage, my dear boy, is at the best a treacherous proceeding ; 
 and a friend — a true friend — will never counsel another to adopt it 
 rashly. Look you : I have had experience in these matters ; and, I 
 think, the moment a woman is wedded some terrible revolution happens 
 in her system ; all her former good quahties vanish, hey presto ! like 
 eggs out of a conjuror's box ; 'tis true they appear on t'other side of the 
 box, the side turned to other people, but for the poor husband they are 
 gone forever. Ods fish, Morton, go to ! I tell thee again that I have 
 had experience in these matters which thou never hast had, clever as 
 thou thinkest thyself. If now it were a good marriage thou wert about 
 to make ; if thou wert going to wed power, and money, and places at 
 court, — why, something might be said for thee. As it is, there is no 
 
DEVEREUX. 173 
 
 excuse — none. And I am astonished how a boy of thy sense could 
 think of such nonsense. Birth, Morton, what the devil does that signify 
 so long as it is birth in another country ? A foreign damsel, and a 
 Spanish girl, too, above all others I 'Sdeath, man, as if there was not 
 quicksilver enough in the English women for you, you must make a 
 mercurial exportation from Spain, must you ! Why, Morton, Morton, 
 the ladies in that country are proverbial. I tremble at the very thought 
 of it. But as for my consent, I never will give it, — never ; and though 
 I threaten thee not with disinheritance and such like, yet I do ask 
 something in return for the great affection I have always borne thee ; 
 and I make no doubt that thou wilt readily oblige me in such a trifle 
 as giving up a mere Spanish donna. So think of her no more. If thou 
 wantest to make love, there are ladies in plenty whom thou needest not 
 to marry. And for my part, I thought that thou wert all in all with the 
 Lady Hasselton : Heaven bless her pretty face ! Now don't think I 
 want to scold thee ; and don't think thine old uncle harsh, — God knows 
 he is not, — but my dear, dear boy, this is quite out of the question, and 
 thou must let me hear no more about it. The gout cripples me so that 
 I must leave off. Ever thine old uncle, 
 
 William Devereux. 
 
 P. S. Upon consideration, I think, my dear boy, that thou must want 
 money, and thou art ever too sparing. Messrs. Child, or my goldsmiths 
 in Aldersgate, have my orders to pay to thy hand's-writing whatever 
 thou mayst desire ; and I do hope that thou wilt now want nothing to 
 make thee merry withal. Why dost thou not write a comedy ? is it not 
 the mode still ? 
 
 LETTER FROM AUBREY DEVEREUX. 
 
 I have sounded my uncle, dearest Morton, according to your wishes ; 
 and I grieve to say that I have found him inexorable. He was very . 
 much hurt by your letter to him, and declared he should write to you 
 forthwith upon the subject. I represented to him all that you have said 
 upon the virtues of your intended bride ; and I also insisted upon your 
 clear judgment and strong sense upon most points being a sufficient 
 surety for your prudence upon this. But you know the libertine opin- 
 ions and the depreciating judgment of women entertained by my poor 
 uncle ; and he would, I believe, have been less displeased with the 
 heinous crime of an illicit connection than the amiable weakness of an 
 imprudent marriage — I might say of any marriage — until it was time 
 to provide heirs to the estate. 
 
174 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Here Aubrey, in the most affectionate and earnest manner, 
 broke off, to point out to me the extreme danger to my inter- 
 ests that it would be to disoblige my uncle ; who, despite his 
 general kindness, would, upon a disagreement on so tender a 
 matter as his sore point, and his most cherished hobby, con- 
 sider my disobedience as a personal affront. He also recalled 
 to me all that my uncle had felt and done for me; and in- 
 sisted, at all events, upon the absolute duty of my delaying, 
 even though I should not break off, the intended measure. 
 Upon these points he enlarged much and eloquently; and this 
 part of his letter certainly left no cheering or comfortable 
 impression upon my mind. 
 
 Now my good uncle knew as much of love as L. IMummius 
 did of the fine arts,^ and it was impossible to persuade him 
 that if one wanted to indulge the tender passion, one woman 
 would not do exactly as well as another, provided she were 
 equally pretty. I knew therefore that he was incapable, on 
 the one hand, of understanding my love for Isora, or, on the 
 other, of acknowledging her claims upon me. I had not, of 
 course, mentioned to him the generous imprudence which, on 
 the news of my wound, had brought Isora to my house : for 
 if I had done so, my uncle, with the eye of a courtier of 
 Charles II., would only have seen the advantage to be derived 
 from the impropriety, not the gratitude due to the devotion ; 
 neither had I mentioned this circumstance to Aubrey, — it 
 seemed to me too delicate for any written communication; 
 and therefore, in his advice to delay my marriage, he was 
 unaware of the necessity which rendered the advice unavail- 
 ing. Now then was I in this dilemma, either to marry, and 
 that instant er, and so, seemingly, with the most hasty and the 
 most insolent decorum, incense, wound, and in his interpreta- 
 tion of the act, contemn one whom I loved as I loved my 
 uncle; or, to delay the marriage, to separate Isora, and to 
 leave my future wife to the malignant consequences that 
 would necessarily be drawn from a sojourn of weeks in my 
 
 1 A Roman consul, who, removing the most celebrated remains of Grecian 
 antiqxjity to Rome, assured the persons charged with conveying them that, 
 if they injured any, they should make others to replace them. 
 
DEVEREUX 175 
 
 house. This fact there was no chance of concealing; servants 
 have more tongues than Argus had eyes, and my youthful ex- 
 travagance had filled my whole house with those pests of soci- 
 ety. The latter measure was impossible, the former was most 
 painful. Was there no third way? — there was that of a pri- 
 vate marriage. This obviated not every evil ; but it removed 
 many : it satisfied my impatient love ; it placed Isora under a 
 sure protection ; it secured and established her honour the mo- 
 ment the ceremony should be declared; and it avoided the 
 seeming ingratitude and indelicacy of disobeying my uncle, 
 without an effort of patience to appease him. I should have 
 time and occasion then, I thought, for soothing and persuad- 
 ing hira, and ultimately winning that consent which I firmly 
 trusted I should sooner or later extract from his kindness of 
 heart. 
 
 That some objections existed to this mediatory plan was 
 true enough : those objections related to Isora rather than to 
 myself, and she was the first, on my hinting at the proposal, 
 to overcome its difficulties. The leading feature in Isora's 
 character was generosity ; and, in truth, I know not a quality 
 more dangerous either to man or woman. Herself was inva- 
 riably the last human being whom she seemed to consider; 
 and no sooner did she ascertain what measure was the most 
 prudent for me to adopt, than it immediately became that 
 upon which she insisted. Would it have been possible for 
 me, man of pleasure and of the world as I was thought to be, 
 — no, my good uncle, though it went to my heart to wound 
 thee so secretly, it would not have been possible for me, even 
 if I had not coined my whole nature into love, even if Isora 
 had not been to me what one smile of Isora's really was, — it 
 would not have been possible to have sacrificed so noble and 
 so divine a heart, and made myself, in that sacrifice, a wretch 
 forever. Xo, my good uncle. I could not have made that 
 surrender to thy reason, much less to thy prejudices. But if 
 I have not done great injustice to the knight's character, I 
 doubt whether the youngest reader will not forgive him for 
 a want of sympathy with one feeling, when they consider 
 how susceptible that charming old man was to all others. 
 
176 DEVEREUX. 
 
 And here-svith I could discourse most excellent wisdom 
 upon tliat mysterious passion of love. I could show, by 
 tracing its causes, and its inseparable connection with the 
 imagination, that it is only in certain states of society, as 
 well as in certain periods of life, that love — real, pure, high 
 love — can be born. Yea, I could prove, to the nicety of a 
 very problem, that, in the court of Charles II., it would have 
 been as impossible for such a feeling to find root, as it would 
 be for myrtle trees to effloresce from a Duvillier periwig. 
 And we are not to expect a man, however tender and affec- 
 tionate he may be, to sympathize with that sentiment in an- 
 other, which, from the accidents of birth and position, nothing 
 short of a miracle could have ever produced in himself. 
 
 We were married then in private by a Catholic priest. St. 
 John, and one old lady who had been my father's godmother 
 — for I wished for a female assistant in the ceremony, and 
 this old lady could tell no secrets, for, being excessively 
 deaf, nobody ever talked to her, and indeed she scarcely ever 
 went abroad — were the sole witnesses. I took a small house 
 in the immediate neighbourhood of 'London ; it was surrounded 
 on all sides with a high wall which defied alike curiosity and 
 attack. This was, indeed, the sole reason which had induced 
 me to prefer it to many more gaudy or more graceful dwell- 
 ings. But within I had furnished it with every luxury that 
 wealth, the most lavish and unsparing, could procure. 
 Thither, under an assumed name, I brought my bride, and 
 there was the greater part of my time spent. The people I 
 had placed in the house believed I was a rich merchant, and 
 this accounted for my frequent absences (absences which Pru- 
 dence rendered necessary), for the wealth which I lavished, 
 and for the precautions of bolt, bar, and wall, which they 
 imagined the result of commercial caution. 
 
 Oh the intoxication of that sweet Elysium, that Tadmor in 
 life's desert, — the possession of the one whom we have first 
 loved! It is as if poetry, and music, and light, and the fresh 
 breath of flowers, were all blended into one being, and from 
 that being rose our existence! It is content made rapture, — 
 nothing to wish for, yet everything to feel! Was that air 
 
DEVEREUX. 177 
 
 the air which I had breathed hitherto? that earth the earth 
 which I had hitherto behekl? No, my heart dwelt in a new 
 worhl, and all these motley and restless senses were melted 
 into one sense, — deep, silent, fathomless delight! 
 
 Well, too much of this species of love is not fit for a worldly 
 tale, and I will turn, for the reader's relief, to worldly affec- 
 tions. From my first reunion with Isora, I had avoided all 
 the former objects and acquaintances in which my time had 
 been so charmingly employed. Tarleton was the first to 
 suffer by my new pursuit. "What has altered you?" said 
 he; "you drink not, neither do you play. The women say 
 you are grown duller than a Norfolk parson, and neither the 
 Puppet Show nor the Water Theatre, the Spring Gardens 
 nor the Eing, Wills's nor the Kit Cat, the Mulberry Garden 
 nor the New Exchange, witness any longer your homage and 
 devotion. What has come over you? — speak! " 
 
 "Apathy!" 
 
 "Ah! I understand, — you are tired of these things ; pish, 
 man! — go down into the country, the green fields will revive 
 thee, and send thee back to London a new man ! One would 
 indeed find the town intolerably dull, if the country were not, 
 happily, a thousand times duller: go to the country, Count, 
 or I shall drop your friendship." 
 
 " Drop it ! " said I, yawning, and Tarleton took pet, and 
 did as I desired him. Now I had got rid of my friend as 
 easily as I had found him, — a matter that would not have 
 been so readily accomplished had not Mr. Tarleton owed me 
 certain moneys, concerning which, from the moment he had 
 "dropped my friendship," good breeding effectually prevented 
 his saying a single syllable to me ever after. There is no 
 knowing the blessings of money until one has learned to 
 manage it properly! 
 
 So much, then, for the friend; now for the mistress. Lady 
 Hasselton had, as Tarleton hinted before, resolved to play me 
 a trick of spite ; the reasons of our rupture really were, as I 
 had stated to Tarleton, the mighty effects of little things. 
 She lived in a sea of trifles, and she was desperately angry if 
 her lover was not always sailing a pleasure-boat in the same 
 
 12 
 
178 DEVEREUX. 
 
 ocean. ISTo^v this was expecting too mucli from me, and, after 
 twisting our silken strings of attachment into all manner of 
 fantastic forms, we fell fairly out one evening and broke the 
 little ligatures in two. No sooner had I quarrelled with Tarle- 
 ton than Lady Hasselton received him in my place, and a week 
 afterwards I was favoured with an anonymous letter, inform- 
 ing me of the violent passion which a certain dame de la cour 
 had conceived for me, and requesting me to meet her at an 
 appointed place. I looked twice over the letter, and discov- 
 ered in one corner of it two g^s peculiar to the caligraphy of 
 Lady Hasselton, though the rest of the letter (bad spelling 
 excepted) was pretty decently disguised. Mr. Fielding was 
 with me at the time. "What disturbs you?" said he, adjust- 
 ing his knee-buckles. 
 
 " Read it ! " said I, handing him the letter. 
 
 "Body of me, you are a lucky dog! " cried the beau. "You 
 will hasten thither on the wings of love." 
 
 "Not a whit of it," said I; "I suspect that it comes from a 
 rich old widow whom I hate mortally." 
 
 " A rich old widow ! " repeated Mr. Fielding, to whose eyes 
 there was something very piquant in a jointure, and who 
 thought consequently that there were few virginal flowers 
 equal to a widow's weeds. "A rich old widow: you are 
 right. Count, you are right. Don't go, don't think of it. I 
 cannot abide those depraved creatures. Widow, indeed, — 
 quite an affront to your gallantry." 
 
 "Very true," said I. " Suppose you supply my place?" 
 
 "I'd sooner be shot first," said Mr. Fielding, taking his 
 departure, and begging me for the letter to wrap some sugar 
 plums in. 
 
 Need I add, that Mr. Fielding repaired to the place of as- 
 signation, where he received, in the shape of a hearty drub- 
 bing, the kind favours intended for me? The story was now 
 left for me to tell, not for the Lady Hasselton; and that 
 makes all the difference in the manner a story is told, — me 
 narrante, it is de te fabula narratur; te narrante, and it is de 
 me fabula, etc. Poor Lady Hasselton! to be laughed at, and 
 have Tarleton for a lover! 
 
DEVEREUX. 179 
 
 I have gone back somewhat in the progress of my history 
 in order to make the above honourable mention of my friend 
 and my mistress, thinking it due to their own merits, and 
 thinking it may also be instructive to young gentlemen who 
 have not yet seen the world to testify the exact nature and 
 the probable duration of all the loves and friendships they are 
 likely to find in that Great Monmouth Street of glittering and 
 of damaged affections! I now resume the order of narration. 
 
 I wrote to Aubrey, thanking him for his intercession, but 
 concealing, till we met, the measure I had adopted. I wrote 
 also to my uncle, assuring him that I would take an early op- 
 portunity of hastening to Devereux Court, and conversing 
 with him on the subject of his letter. And after an interval 
 of some weeks, I received the two following answers from my 
 correspondents; the latter arrived several days after the 
 former : — 
 
 FROM AUBREY DEVEREUX. 
 
 1 am glad to understand from your letter, unexplanatorj' as it is, that 
 you have followed my advice. I will shortly write to you more at large ; 
 at present I am on the eve of my departure for the North of England, 
 and have merely time to assure you of my affection. 
 
 Aubrey Devereux. 
 
 P. S. Gerald is in London ; have you seen him ? Oh, this world ! 
 this world ! how it clings to us, despite our education, our wishes, our 
 conscience, our knowledge of the Dread Hereafter I 
 
 LETTER FROM SIR WILLIAM DEVEREUX. 
 
 My dear Nephew, — Thank thee for thy letter, and the new plays 
 thou sentest me down, and that droll new paper, the " Spectator : " it is 
 a pretty shallow thing enough, — though it is not so racy as Rochester 
 or little Sid would have made it ; but I thank thee for it, because it 
 shows thou wast not angry with thine old uncle for opposing thee on thy 
 love whimsies (in which most young men are dreadfully obstinate), since 
 thou didst provide so kindly for his amusement. Well, but, Morton, I 
 hope thou hast got that crotchet clear out of thy mind, and prithee now 
 don't talk of it when thou comest down to see me. I hate conversations 
 on marriage more than a boy does flogging, — ods fish, I do. So you 
 must humour me on that point ! 
 
180 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Aubrey has left me again, and I am quite alone, — not that I was 
 much better off when he was here, for he was wont, of late, to shun uiy 
 poor room like a " lazar house," and when I spoke to his mother about it, 
 she muttered something about " example " and " corrupting." 'Sdeath, 
 Morton, is your old uncle, who loves all living things, down to poor 
 Ponto the dog, the sort of man whose example corrupts youth ? As for 
 thy mother, she grows more solitary every day ; and 1 don't know how 
 it is, but I am not so fond of strange faces as I used to be. 'T is a new 
 thing for me to be avoided and alone. Why, I remember even little Sid, 
 who had as much vemon as most men, once said it was impossible to — 
 Fie now — see if I was not going to preach a sermon from a text ia 
 favour of myself ! But come, Morton, come, I long for your face again : 
 it is not so soft as Aubrey's, nor so regular as Gerald's ; but it is twice 
 as kind as either. Come, before it is too late : I feel myself going ; and, 
 to tell thee a secret, the doctors tell me I may not last many months 
 longer. Come, and laugh once more at the old knight's stories. Come, 
 and show him that there is still some one not too good to love him. 
 Come, and I will tell thee a famous thing of old Rowley, which I am 
 
 too ill and too sad to tell thee now. 
 
 Wm. Devereux. 
 
 Need I say that, upon receiving this letter, I resolved, 
 "without any delay, to set out for Devereux Court? I sum- 
 moned Desmarais to me; he answered not my call: he was 
 from home, — an unfrequent occurrence with the necessitarian 
 valet. I waited his return, which was not for some hours, in 
 order to give him sundry orders for my departure. The ex- 
 quisite Desmarais hemmed thrice, — "Will Monsieur be so 
 very kind as to excuse my accompanying him?" said he, with 
 his usual air and tone of obsequious respect. 
 
 "And why?" The valet explained. A relation of his was 
 in England only for a few days: the philosopher was most 
 anxious to enjoy his society, a pleasure which fate might not 
 again allow him. 
 
 Though I had grown accustomed to the man's services, and 
 did not like to lose him even for a time, yet I could not refuse 
 his request; and I therefore ordered another of my servants 
 to supply his place. This change, however, determined me 
 to adopt a plan which I had before meditated; namely, the 
 conveying of my own person to Devereux Court on horseback, 
 
DEVEREUX. 181 
 
 and sending my servant with my luggage in my post-chaise. 
 The equestrian mode of travelling is, indeed to this day, the 
 one most pleasing to me ; and the reader will find me pursu- 
 ing it many years afterwards, and to the same spot. 
 
 I might as well observe here that I had never intrusted 
 Desmarais — no, nor one of my own servants — with the se- 
 cret of my marriage with, or my visits to, Isora. I am a 
 very fastidious person on those matters ; and of all confidants, 
 even in the most trifling affairs, I do most eschew those by 
 whom we have the miserable honour of being served. 
 
 In order, then, to avoid having my horse brought me to 
 Isora's house by any of these menial spies, I took the steed 
 which I had selected for my journey, and rode to Isora's with 
 the intention of spending the evening there, and thence com- 
 mencing my excursion with the morning light. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 love; parting; a death-bed. — after all human nature 
 IS A beautiful fabric; and even its imperfections 
 are not odious to him who has studied the science 
 OF its architecture, and formed a reverent estimate 
 
 OF ITS creator. 
 
 It is a noticeable thing how much fear increases love. I 
 mean — for the aphorism requires explanation — how much 
 we love in proportion to our fear of losing (or even to our fear 
 of injury done to) the beloved object. 'T is an instance of 
 the reaction of the feelings : the love produces the fear, and 
 the fear reproduces the love. This is one reason, among 
 many, why women love so much more tenderly and anxiously 
 than we do ; and it is also one reason among many why fre- 
 quent absences are, in all stages of love, the most keen ex- 
 citers of the passion. I never breathed, away from Isora, 
 
182 DEVEREUX. 
 
 without trembling for her safety. I trembled lest this Bar- 
 nard, if so I should still continue to call her persecutor, 
 should again discover and again molest her. Whenever (and 
 that was almost daily) I rode to the quiet and remote dwell- 
 ing I had procured her, my heart beat so vehemently, and 
 my agitation was so intense, that on arriving at the gate I 
 have frequently been unable, for several minutes, to demand 
 admittance. There was, therefore, in the mysterious danger 
 which ever seemed to hang over Isora, a perpetual irritation 
 to a love otherwise but little inclined to slumber; and this 
 constant excitement took away froin the torpor into which 
 domestic affection too often languishes, and increased my 
 passion even while it diminished my happiness. 
 
 On my arrival now at Isora's, I found her already stationed 
 at the window, watching for my coming. How her dark 
 eyes lit into lustre when they saw me ! How the rich blood 
 mantled up under the soft cheek which feeling had refined 
 of late into a paler hue than it was wont, when I first gazed 
 upon it, to wear! Then how sprang forth her light step to 
 meet me! How trembled her low voice to welcome me! 
 How spoke, from every gesture of her graceful form, the anx- 
 ious, joyful, all-animating gladness of her heart ! It is a mel- 
 ancholy pleasure to the dry, harsh afterthoughts of later life, 
 to think one has been thus loved; and one marvels, when one 
 considers what one is now, how it could have ever been! 
 That love of ours was never made for after years ! It could 
 never have flowed into the common and cold channel of ordi- 
 nary affairs! It could never have been mingled with the 
 petty cares and the low objects with which the loves of all 
 who live long together in this sordid and most earthly earth 
 are sooner or later blended! We could not have spared to 
 others an atom of the great wealth of our affection. We were 
 misers of every coin in that boundless treasury. It would 
 have pierced me to the soul to have seen Isora smile upon an- 
 other. I know not even, had we had children, if I should 
 not have been jealous of my child! Was this selfish love? 
 yes, it was, intensely, wholly selfish ; but it was a love made 
 so only by its excess ; nothing selfish on a smaller scale pol- 
 
DEVEREUX. 183 
 
 luted it. There was not on earth that which the one would 
 not have forfeited at the lightest desire of the other. So 
 utterly were happiness and Isora entwined together that I 
 could form no idea of the one with which the other was not 
 connected. Was this love made for the many and miry roads 
 through which man must travel? Was it made for age, or, 
 worse than age, for those cool, ambitious, scheming years that 
 we call mature, in which all the luxuriance and verdure of 
 things are pared into tame shapes that mimic life, but a life 
 that is estranged from Nature, in which art is the only beauty 
 and regularity the only grace? No, in my heart of hearts, I 
 feel that our love was not meant for the stages of life through 
 which I have already passed; it would have made us misera- 
 ble to see it fritter itself away, and to remember what it once 
 was. Better as it is ! better to mourn over the green bough 
 than to look upon the sapless stem. You who now glance 
 over these pages, are you a mother? If so, answer me one 
 question: Would you not rather that the child whom you 
 have cherished with your soul's care, whom you have nur- 
 tured at your bosom, whose young joys your eyes have spar- 
 kled to behold, whose lightest grief you have wept to witness 
 as you would have wept not for your own ; over whose pure 
 and unvexed sleep you have watched and prayed, and, as it 
 lay before you thus still and unconscious of your vigil, have 
 shaped out, oh, such bright hopes for its future lot, — would 
 you not rather that while thus young and innocent, not a care 
 tasted, not a crime incurred, it went down at once into the 
 dark grave? Would you not rather suffer this grief, bitter 
 though it be, than watch the predestined victim grow and 
 ripen, and wind itself more and more around your heart, and 
 when it is of full and mature age, and you yourself are stricken 
 by years, and can form no new ties to replace the old that 
 are severed, when woes have already bowed the darling of 
 your hope, whom woe never was to touch, when sins have 
 already darkened the bright, seraph, unclouded heart which 
 sin never was to dim, — behold it sink day by day altered, 
 diseased, decayed, into the tomb which its childhood had in 
 vain escaped? Answer me: would not the earlier fate be far 
 
184 DEVEREUX. 
 
 gentler than the last? And if you have kno-^n and wept 
 over that early tomb, if you have seen the infant flower fade 
 away from the green soil of your affections ; if you have missed 
 the bounding step, and the laughing eye, and the winning 
 mirth which made this sterile world a perpetual holiday, — 
 Mother of the Lost, if you have known, and you still pine for 
 these, answer me yet again ! Is it not a comfort, even while 
 you mourn, to think of all that that breast, now so silent, 
 has escaped? The cream, the sparkle, the elixir of life, it 
 had already quaffed : is it not sweet to think it shunned the 
 wormwood and the dregs? Answer me, even though the an- 
 swer be in tears ! Mourner, your child was to you what my 
 early and only love was to me; and could you pierce down, 
 down through a thousand fathom of ebbing thought, to the 
 far depths of my heart, you would there behold a sorrow and 
 a consolation that have something in unison with your own ! 
 
 When the light of the next morning broke into our room, 
 Isora was still sleeping. Have you ever observed that the 
 young, seen asleep and by the morning light, seem much 
 younger even than they are? partly because the air and the 
 light sleep of dawn bring a fresher bloom to the cheek, and 
 partly, because the careless negligence and the graceful pos- 
 tures exclusively appropriated to youth, are forbidden by cus- 
 tom and formality through the day, and developing themselves 
 unconsciously in sleep, they strike the eye like the ease and 
 freedom of childhood itself. There, as I looked upon Isora's 
 tranquil and most youthful beauty, over which circled and 
 breathed an ineffable innocence, — even as the finer and subt- 
 ler air, which was imagined by those dreamy bards who kin- 
 dled the soft creations of naiad and of nymph, to float around 
 a goddess, — I could not believe that aught evil awaited one for 
 whom infancy itself seemed to linger, — linger as if no elder 
 shape and less delicate hue were meet to be the garment of so 
 much guilelessness and tenderness of heart. I felt, indeed, 
 while I bent over her, and her regular and quiet breath came 
 upon my cheek, that feeling which is exactly the reverse to 
 a presentiment of ill. I felt as if, secure in her own purity, 
 she had nothing to dread, so that even the pang of parting 
 
DEVEREUX. 186 
 
 was lost in the confidence which stole over me as I then 
 gazed. 
 
 I rose gently, went to the next room, and dressed myself; I 
 heard my horse neighing beneath, as the servant walked him 
 lazily to and fro. I re-entered the bed-chamber in order to 
 take leave of Isora; she was already up. "What!" said I, 
 " it is but three minutes since I left you asleep, and I stole 
 away as time does when with you." 
 
 "Ah!" said Isora, smiling and blushing too, "but for my 
 part, I think there is an instinct to know, even if all the 
 senses were shut up, whether the one we love is with us or 
 not. The moment you left me, I felt it at once, even in sleep, 
 and I woke. But you will not, no, you will not leave me 
 yet!" 
 
 I think I see Isora now, as she stood by the window which 
 she had opened, with a woman's minute anxiety, to survey 
 even the aspect of the clouds, and beseech caution against the 
 treachery of the skies. I think I see her now, as she stood 
 the moment after I had torn myself from her embrace, and 
 had looked back, as I reached the door, for one parting glance, 
 — her eyes all tenderness, her lips parted, and quivering with 
 the attempt to smile, the long, glossy ringlets (through whose 
 raven hue the inirpureum lumen broke like an imprisoned 
 sunbeam) straying in dishevelled beauty over her transparent 
 neck; the throat bent in mute despondency; the head droop- 
 ing; the arms half extended, and dropping gradually as my 
 steps departed; the sunken, absorbed expression of face, 
 form, and gesture, so steeped in the very bitterness of dejec- 
 tion, — all are before me now, sorrowful, and lovely in sorrow, 
 as they were beheld years ago, by the gray, cold, comfortless 
 light of morning! 
 
 "God bless you, — my own, own love," I said; and as my 
 look lingered, I added, with a full but an assured heart; "and 
 He will ! " I tarried no more : I flung myself on my horse, 
 and rode on as if I were speeding to, and not from, my bride. 
 
 The noon was far advanced, as, the day after I left Isora, I 
 found myself entering the park in which Devereux Court is 
 situated. 1 did not enter by one of the lodges, but through 
 
186 DEVEREUX. 
 
 a private gate. My horse was thoroughly jaded; for the dis- 
 tance I had come was great, and I had ridden rapidly ; and as 
 I came into the park, I dismounted, and, throwing the rein 
 over my arm, proceeded slowly on foot. I was passing through 
 a thick, long plantation, which belted the park and m which 
 several walks and rides had been cut, when a man crossed the 
 same road which I took, at a little distance before me. He 
 was looking on the ground, and appeared wrapt in such ear- 
 nest meditation that he neither saw nor heard me. But I 
 had seen enough of him, in that brief space of time, to feel 
 convinced that it was Montreuil whom I beheld. What 
 brought him hither, him, whom I believed in London, im- 
 mersed with Gerald in political schemes, and for whom these 
 woods were not only interdicted ground, but to whom they 
 must have also been but a tame field of interest, after his 
 audiences with ministers and nobles? I did not, however, 
 pause to consider on his apparition; I rather quickened my 
 pace towards the house, in the expectation of there ascertain- 
 ing the cause of his visit. 
 
 The great gates of the outer court were open as usual : I 
 rode unheedingly through them, and was soon at the door of 
 the hall. The porter, who unfolded to my summons the pon- 
 derous door, uttered, when he saw me, an exclamation that 
 seemed to my ear to have in it more of sorrow than welcome. 
 
 " How is your master? " I asked. 
 
 The man shook his head, but did not hasten to answer; 
 and, impressed with a vague alarm, I hurried on without re- 
 peating the question. On the staircase I met old Nicholls, 
 my uncle's valet; I stopped and questioned him. My uncle 
 had been seized on the preceding day with gout in the stom- 
 ach; medical aid had been procured, but it was feared inef- 
 fectually, and the physicians had declared, about an hour 
 before I arrived, that he could not, in human probability, 
 outlive the night. Stifling the rising at my heart, I waited 
 to hear no more; I flew up the stairs; I was at the door of 
 my uncle's chamber; I stopped there, and listened; all was 
 still; I opened the door gently; I stole in, and, creeping to 
 the bedside, knelt down and covered my face with my hands; 
 
 Ji 
 
DEVEREUX. 187 
 
 for I required a pause for self-possession, before I had cour- 
 age to look up. When I raised my eyes, I saw my mother on 
 the opposite side ; she sat on a chair with a draught of medi- 
 cine in one hand, and a watch in the other. She caught my 
 eye, but did not speak; she gave me a sign of recognition, 
 and looked down again upon the watch. My uncle's back 
 was turned to me, and he lay so still that, for some moments, 
 I thought he was asleep ; at last, however, he moved restlessly. 
 
 "It is past noon! " said he to my mother, "is it not?" 
 
 "It is three minutes and six seconds after four," replied 
 my mother, looking closer at the watch. 
 
 My uncle sighed. " They have sent an express for the dear 
 boy, Madam?" said he. 
 
 "Exactly at half-past nine last evening," answered my 
 mother, glancing at me. 
 
 "He could scarcely be here by this time," said my uncle, 
 and he moved again in the bed. "Pish, how the pillow frets 
 one ! " 
 
 "Is it too high?" said my mother. 
 
 "No," said my uncle, faintly, "no — no — the discomfort is 
 not in the pillow, after all: 'tis a fine day; is it not?" 
 
 "Very! " said my mother; "I wish you could go out." 
 
 My uncle did not answer : there was a pause. " Ods fish, 
 Madam, are those carriage wheels?" 
 
 " No, Sir William — but — " 
 
 "There are sounds in my ear; my senses grow dim," said 
 my uncle, unheeding her: "would that I might live another 
 day; I should not like to die without seeing him. 'Sdeath, 
 Madam, I do hear something behind! — Sobs, as I live! — 
 Who sobs for the old knight?" and my uncle turned round, 
 and saw me. 
 
 " My dear — dear uncle ! " I said, and could say no more. 
 
 "Ah, Morton," cried the kind old man, putting his hand 
 affectionately upon mine. " Beshrew me, but I think I have 
 conquered the grim enemy now that you are come. But 
 what's this, my boy? — tears — tears, —why, little Sid — no, 
 nor Eochester either, would ever have believed this if I had 
 sworn it! Cheer up, cheer up." 
 
188 DEVEREUX. 
 
 But, seeing that I wept and sobbed tbe more, my uncle, after 
 a pause, continued in the somewhat figurative strain which 
 the reader has observed he sometimes adopted, and which 
 perhaps his dramatic studies had taught him. 
 
 ^'Xay, Morton, what do you grieve for? — that Age should 
 throw off its fardel of aches and pains, and no longer groan 
 along its weary road, meeting cold looks and unwilling wel- 
 comes, as both host and comrade grow weary of the same face, 
 and the spendthrift heart has no longer quip or smile where- 
 with to pay the reckoning? No, no : let the poor pedler shuffle 
 off his dull pack, and fall asleep. But I am glad you are 
 come: I would sooner have one of your kind looks at your 
 uncle's stale saws or jests than all the long faces about me, 
 saving only the presence of your mother; " and with his char- 
 acteristic gallantry, my uncle turned courteously to her. 
 
 " Dear Sir William ! " said she, " it is time you should take 
 your draught ; and then would it not be better that you should 
 see the chaplain? he waits without." 
 
 "Ods fish," said my uncle, turning again to me, "'tis 
 the way with them all: when the body is past hope comes 
 the physician, and when the soul is past mending comes the 
 priest. No, Madam, no, 't is too late for either. — Thank ye, 
 ^Morton, thank ye " (as I started up — took the draught from 
 my mother's hand, and besought him to drink it), " 't is of no 
 use ; but if it pleases thee, I must, " — and he drank the 
 medicine. 
 
 My mother rose, and walked towards the door: it was ajar; 
 and, as my eye followed her figure, I perceived, through the 
 opening, the black garb of the chaplain. 
 
 "Not yet," said she, quietly; "wait." And then gliding 
 away, seated herself by the window in silence, and told her 
 beads. 
 
 My uncle continued : " They have been at me, Morton, as if 
 I had been a pagan; and I believe, in their hearts, they are 
 not a little scandalized that I don't try to win the next world 
 by trembling like an ague. Faith now, I never could believe 
 that Heaven was so partial to cowards ; nor can I think, Mor- 
 ton, that Salvation is like a soldier's muster-roll, and that we 
 
DEVEREUX. 189 
 
 may play the devil between hours, so that, at the last mo- 
 ment, we whip in, and answer to our names. Ods fish, Mor- 
 ton, I could tell thee a tale of that; but 'tis a long one, and 
 we have not time now. Well, well, for my part, I deem 
 reverently and gratefully of God, and do not believe He will 
 be very wroth with our past enjoyment of life, if we have 
 taken care tliat others should enjoy it too; nor do I think, 
 with thy good mother, and Aubrey, dear child ! that an idle 
 word has the same weight in the Almighty's scales as a 
 wicked deed." 
 
 "Blessed, blessed, are they," I cried through my tears, "on 
 whose souls there is as little stain as there is on yours! " 
 
 "Faith, Morton, that's kindly said; and thou knowest not 
 how strangely it sounds, after their exhortations to repent- 
 ance. I know I have had my faults, and walked on to our 
 common goal in a very irregular line; but I never wronged 
 the living nor slandered the dead, nor ever shut my heart to 
 the poor, — 'twere a burning sin if I had, — and I have loved 
 all men and all things, and I never bore ill-will to a creature. 
 Poor Ponto, Morton, thou wilt take care of poor Ponto, when 
 I'm dead, — nay, nay, don't grieve so. Go, my child, go: 
 compose thyself while I see the priest, for 't will please thy 
 poor mother; and though she thinks harshly of me now, I 
 should not like her to do so to-ynorroiu ! Go, my dear boy, 
 go." 
 
 I went from the room, and waited by the door, till the 
 office of the priest was over. My mother then came out, and 
 said Sir William had composed himself to sleep. While she 
 was yet speaking, Gerald surprised me by his appearance. I 
 learned that he had been in the house for the last three days, 
 and when I heard this, I involuntarily accounted for the ap- 
 pearance of Montreuil. I saluted him distantly, and he re- 
 turned my greeting with the like pride. He seemed, however, 
 though in a less degree, to share in my emotions; and my 
 heart softened to him for it. Nevertheless we stood apart, 
 and met not as brothers should have met by the death-bed of 
 a mutual benefactor. 
 
 "Will you wait without?" said my mother. 
 
190 DEVEREUX. 
 
 "No," answered I, "I will watch over him." So I stole in, 
 with a light step, and seated myself by my uncle's bed-side. 
 
 He was asleep, and his sleep was as hushed and quiet as an 
 infant's. I looked upon his face, and saw a change had come 
 over it, and was increasing sensibly: but there was neither 
 harshness nor darkness in the change, awful as it was. The 
 soul, so long nurtured on benevolence, could not, in parting, 
 leave a rude stamp on the kindly clay which had seconded its 
 impulses so well. 
 
 The evening had just set in, when my uncle woke; he 
 turned very gently, and smiled when he saw me. 
 
 "It is late," said he, and I observed with a wrung heart, 
 that his voice was fainter. 
 
 "No, Sir, not very," said I. 
 
 "Late enough, my child; the warm sun has gone down; 
 and 'tis a good time to close one's eyes, when all without 
 looks gray and chill : methinks it is easier to wish thee fare- 
 well, Morton, when I see thy face indistinctly. I am glad I 
 shall not die in the daytime. Give me thy hand, my child, 
 and tell me that thou art not angry with thine old uncle for 
 thwarting thee in that love business. I have heard tales of 
 the girl, too, which made me glad, for thy sake, that it is all 
 off, though I might not tell thee of them before. 'T is very 
 dark, Morton. I have had a pleasant sleep. Ods fish, I do 
 not think a bad man would have slept so well. The fire 
 burns dim, Morton: it is very cold. Cover me up; double 
 the counterpane over the legs, Morton. I remember once 
 walking in the Mall; little Sid said, 'Devereux' — it is 
 colder and colder, Morton; raise the blankets more over the 
 back; 'Devereux,' said little Sid — faith, Morton, 'tis ice 
 now — where art thou? — is the fire out, that I can't see thee? 
 Remember thine old uncle, Morton — and — and — don't 
 forget poor — Ponto. Bless thee, my child ; bless you all ! " 
 
 And my uncle died! 
 
DEVEREUX. 191 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A GREAT CHANGE OF PROSPECTS. 
 
 I SHUT myself up in the apartments prepared for me (they 
 were not those I had formerly occupied), and refused all par- 
 ticipation in my solitude, till, after an interval of some days, 
 my mother came to summon me to the opening of the will. 
 She was more moved than I had expected. " It is a pity, " 
 said she, as we descended the stairs, "that Aubrey is not 
 here, and that we should be so unacquainted with the exact 
 place where he is likely to be that I fear the letter I sent him 
 may be long delayed, or, indeed, altogether miscarry." 
 
 "Is not the Abbe here?" said I, listlessly. 
 
 "Ko! " answered my mother, "to be sure not." 
 
 "He has been here," said I, greatly surprised. "I certainly 
 saw him on the day of my arrival." 
 
 "Impossible!" said my mother, in evident astonishment; 
 and seeing that, at all events, she was unacquainted with the 
 circumstance, I said no more. 
 
 The will was to be read in the little room where my uncle 
 had been accustomed to sit. I felt it as a sacrilege to his 
 memory to choose that spot for such an office, but I said 
 nothing. Gerald and my mother, the lawyer (a neighbouring 
 attorney, named Oswald), and myself were the only persons 
 present. Mr. Oswald hemmed thrice, and broke the seal. 
 After a preliminary, strongly characteristic of the testator, 
 he came to the disposition of the estates. I had never once, 
 since my poor uncle's death, thought upon the chances of his 
 will; indeed, knowing myself so entirely his favourite, I 
 could not, if I had thought upon them, have entertained a 
 doubt as to their result. What then was my astonishment 
 when, couched in terms of the strongest affection, the whole 
 bulk of the property was bequeathed to Gerald; to Aubrey 
 
192 DEVEREUX, 
 
 the sum of forty, to myself that of twenty thousand pounds 
 (a capital considerably less than the yearly income of my 
 uncle's princely estates), was allotted. Then followed a list 
 of minor bequests, — to my mother an annuity of three thou- 
 sand a year, with the privilege of apartments in the house 
 during her life ; to each of the servants legacies sufficient for 
 independence; to a few friends, and distant connections of 
 the family, tokens of the testator's remembrance, — even the 
 horses to his carriage, and the dogs that fed from his menials' 
 table, were not forgotten, but were to be set apart from 
 work, and maintained in indolence during their remaining 
 span of life. The will was concluded: I could not believe 
 my senses ; not a word was said as a reason for giving Gerald 
 the priority. 
 
 I rose calmly enough. "Suffer me. Sir," said I to the law- 
 yer, "to satisfy my own eyes." Mr. Oswald bowed, and 
 placed the will in my hands. I glanced at Gerald as I took 
 it: his countenance betrayed, or feigned, an astonishment 
 equal to my own. With a jealous, searching, scrutinizing 
 eye, I examined the words of the bequest; I examined espe- 
 cially (for I suspected that the names must have been ex- 
 changed) the place in which my name and Gerald's occurred. 
 In vain: all was smooth and fair to the eye, not a vestige of 
 possible erasure or alteration was visible. I looked next at 
 the wording of the will: it was evidently my uncle's; no 
 one could have feigned or imitated the peculiar turn of his 
 expressions ; and, above all, many parts of the will (the affec- 
 tionate and personal parts) were in his own handwriting. 
 
 "The date," said I, "is, I perceive, of very recent period; 
 the will is signed by two witnesses besides yourself. Who 
 and where are they?" 
 
 "Robert Lister, the first signature, my clerk; he is since 
 dead. Sir." 
 
 "Dead! " said I; "and the other witness, George Davis?" 
 
 "Is one of Sir William's tenants, and is below. Sir, in 
 waiting." 
 
 " Let him come up, " and a middle-sized, stout man, with a 
 blunt, bold, open countenance, was admitted. 
 
DEVEREUX. 198 
 
 *' Did jon witness this will? " said I. 
 
 "I did, your honour! " 
 
 "And this is your handwriting?" pointing to the scarcely 
 legible scrawl. 
 
 "Yees, your honour," said the man, scratching his head, 
 "I think it be; they are my ees, and G, and D, sure enough." 
 
 "And do you know the purport of the will you signed?" 
 
 "Anan!" 
 
 "1 mean, do you know to whom Sir William — stop, Mr. 
 OsAvald, suffer the man to answer me — to whom Sir William 
 left his property?" 
 
 *']S"oa, to be sure, Sir; the will was a woundy long one, and 
 Maister Oswald there told me it was no use to read it over to 
 me, but merely to sign, as a witness to Sir William's hand- 
 writing." 
 
 " Enough : you may retire ; " and George Davis vanished. 
 
 "Mr. Oswald," said I, approaching the attorney, "I may 
 Avrong you, and if so, I am sorry for it, but I suspect there 
 has been foul practice in this deed. I have reason to be con- 
 vinced that Sir William Devereux could never have made this 
 devise. I give you warning, Sir, that I shall bring the busi- 
 ness immediately before a court of law, and that if guilty — 
 ay, tremble, Sir — of what I suspect, you will answer for this 
 deed at the foot of the gallows." 
 
 I turned to Gerald, who rose while I was yet speaking. 
 Before I could address him, he exclaimed, with evident and 
 extreme agitation, — 
 
 "You cannot, Morton, — you cannot — you dare not — in- 
 sinuate that I, your brother, have been base enough to forge, 
 or to instigate the forgery of, this will?" 
 
 Gerald's agitation made me still less doubtful of his guilt. 
 
 "The case. Sir," I answered coldly, "stands thus: my uncle 
 could not have made this will; it is a devise that must seem 
 incredible to all who knew aught of our domestic cir«um- 
 stances. Fraud has been practised, how I know not; by 
 whom I do know." 
 
 " Morton, INIorton : this is insufferable ; I cannot bear such 
 charges, even from a brother." 
 
 13 
 
194 DEVEREUX. 
 
 "Charges! — your conscience speaks, Sir, — not I; no one 
 benefits by this fraud but you: pardon me if I draw an 
 inference from a fact." 
 
 So saying, I turned on my heel, and abruptly left the apart- 
 ment. I ascended the stairs which led to my own : there I 
 found my servant preparing the paraphernalia in which that 
 very evening I was to attend my uncle's funeral. I gave 
 him, with a calm and collected voice, the necessary instruc- 
 tions for following me to town immediately after that event, 
 and then I passed on to the room where the deceased lay in 
 state. The room was hung with black: the gorgeous pall, 
 wrought with the proud heraldry of our line, lay over the 
 coffin ; and by the lights which made, in that old chamber, a 
 more brilliant, yet more ghastly, day, sat the hired watchers 
 of the dead. 
 
 I bade them leave me, and kneeling down beside the coffin, 
 I poured out the last expressions of my grief. I rose, and 
 was retiring once more to my room, when I encountered 
 Gerald. 
 
 "Morton," said he, "I own to you, I myself am astounded 
 by my uncle's will. I do not come to make you offers ; you 
 would not accept them : I do not come to vindicate myself, it is 
 beneath me; and we have never been as brothers, and we know 
 not their language : but I do come to demand you to retract 
 the dark and causeless suspicions you have vented against me, 
 and also to assure you that, if you have doubts of the authen- 
 ticity of the will, so far from throwing obstacles in your way, 
 I myself will join in the inquiries you institute and the ex- 
 penses of the law." 
 
 I felt some difficulty in curbing my indignation while Ger- 
 ald thus spoke. I saw before me the persecutor of Isora, the 
 fraudulent robber of my rights, and I heard this enemy speak 
 to me of aiding in the inquiries which were to convict him- 
 self of the basest, if not the blackest, of human crimes; there 
 was something too in the reserved and yet insolent tone of 
 his voice which, reminding me as it did of our long aversion 
 to each other, made my very blood creep with abhorrence. I 
 turned away, that I might not break my oath to Isora, for I 
 
DEVEREUX. 195 
 
 felt strongly tempted to do so; and said in as calm an accent 
 as I could command, "The case will, I trust, require no 
 king's evidence; and, at least, I will not be beholden to the 
 man whom my reason condemns for any assistance in bring- 
 ing upon himself the ultimate condemnation of the law." 
 
 Gerald looked at me sternly. "Were you not my brother," 
 said he, in a low tone, "I would, for a charge so dishonour- 
 ing my fair name, strike you dead at my feet." 
 
 "It is a wonderful exertion of fraternal love," I rejoined, 
 with a scornful laugh, but an eye flashing with passions a 
 thousand times more fierce than scorn, "that prevents your 
 adding that last favour to those you have already bestowed 
 on me." 
 
 Gerald, with a muttered curse, placed his hand upon his 
 sword; my own rapier was instantly half drawn, when, to 
 save us from the great guilt of mortal contest against each 
 other, steps were heard, and a number of the domestics 
 charged with melancholy duties at the approaching rite, were 
 seen slowly sweeping in black robes along the opposite gal- 
 lery. Perhaps that interruption restored both of us to our 
 senses, for we said, almost in the same breath, and nearly in 
 the same phrase, " This way of terminating strife is not for 
 us;" and, as Gerald spoke, he turned slowly away, descended 
 the staircase, and disappeared. 
 
 The funeral took place at night: a numerous procession of 
 the tenants and peasantry attended. My poor uncle! there 
 was not a dry eye for thee, but those of thine own kindred. 
 Tall, stately, erect in the power and majesty of his unrivalled 
 form, stood Gerald, already assuming the dignity and lord- 
 ship which, to speak frankly, so well became him; my 
 mother's face was turned from me, but her attitude pro- 
 claimed her utterly absorbed in prayer. As for myself, my 
 heart seemed hardened: I could not betray to the gaze of a 
 hundred strangers the emotions which I would have hidden 
 from those whom I loved the most. Wrapped in my cloak, 
 with arms folded on my breast, and eyes bent to the ground, 
 I leaned against one of the pillars of th© chapel, apart, and 
 apparently unmoved. 
 
196 de\t:reux. 
 
 But when they were about to lower the body into the vault, 
 a momentary weakness came over me. I made an involuntary 
 step forward, a single but deep groan of anguish broke from 
 me, and then, covering my face with my mantle, I resumed 
 my former attitude, and all was still. The rite was over ; in 
 many and broken groups the spectators passed from the 
 chapel : some to speculate on the future lord, some to mourn 
 over the late, and all to return the next morning to their 
 wonted business, and let the glad sun teach them to forget 
 the past, until for themselves the sun should be no more, and 
 the forgetfulness eternal. 
 
 The hour was so late that I relinquished my intention of 
 leaving the house that night; I ordered my horse to be in 
 readiness at daybreak and before I retired to rest I went to 
 my mother's apartments : she received me with more feeling 
 than she had ever testified before. 
 
 "Believe me, Morton," said she, and she kissed my fore- 
 head; "believe me, I can fully enter into the feelings which 
 you must naturally experience on an event so contrary to your 
 expectations. I cannot conceal from you how much I am 
 surprised. Certainly Sir William never gave any of us 
 cause to suppose that he liked either of your brothers — Ger- 
 ald less than Aubrey — so much as yourself; nor, poor man, 
 was he in other things at all addicted to conceal his opinions." 
 
 "It is true, my mother," said I; "it is true. Have you 
 not therefore some suspicions of the authenticity of the will? " 
 
 " Suspicions ! " cried my mother. " No ! — impossible ! — 
 suspicions of whom? You couM not think Gerald so base, 
 and who else had an interest in deception? Besides, the sig- 
 nature is undoubtedly Sir William's handwriting, and the 
 will was regularly witnessed; suspicions, Morton, — no, im- 
 possible ! Reflect, too, how eccentric and humoursome your 
 uncle always was : suspicions ! — no, impossible ! " 
 
 " Such things have been, my mother, nor are they uncom- 
 mon : men will hazard their souls, ay, and what to some are 
 more precious still, their lives too, for the vile clay we call 
 money. But enough of this now: the Law, — that great ar- 
 biter, — that eater of the oyster, and divider of its shells, — 
 
DEVEREUX. 197 
 
 the LaTv will decide between us, and if against me, as I sup- 
 pose and fear the decision will be, — why, I must be a suitor 
 to fortune instead of her commander. Give me your bless- 
 ing, my dearest mother : I cannot stay longer in this house ; 
 to-morrow I leave you." 
 
 And my mother did bless me, and I fell upon her neck and 
 clung to it. "Ah!" thought I, "this blessing is almost 
 worth my uncle's fortune." 
 
 I returned to my room; there I saw on the table the case 
 of the sword sent me by the French king, I had left it with 
 my uncle, on my departure to town, and it had been found 
 among his effects and reclaimed by me. I took out the 
 sword, and drew it from the scabbard. " Come, '" said I, and 
 I kindled with a melancholy yet a deep enthusiasm, as I 
 looked along the blade, "come, ray bright friend, with thee 
 through this labyrinth which we call the world will I carve 
 my way! Fairest and speediest of earth's levellers, thou 
 makest the path from the low valley to the steep hill, and 
 shapest the soldier's axe into the monarch's sceptre! The 
 laurel and the fasces, and the curule car, and the emperor's 
 purple, — what are these but thy playthings, alternately thy 
 scorn and thy reward! Founder of all empires, propagator 
 of all creeds, thou leddest the Gaul and the Goth, and the 
 gods of Eome and Greece crumbled upon their altars! Be- 
 neath thee the fires of the Gheber waved pale, and on thy 
 point the badge of the camel-driver blazed like a sun over the 
 startled East! Eternal arbiter, and unconquerable despot, 
 while the passions of mankind exist! Most solemn of hyp- 
 ocrites, — circling blood with glory as with a halo; and conse- 
 crating homicide and massacre with a hollow name, which 
 the parched throat of thy votary, in the battle and the agony, 
 shouteth out with its last breath! Star of all human des- 
 tinies! I kneel before thee, and invoke from thy bright 
 astrology an omen and a smile." 
 
198 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 AX EPISODE. THE SON OF THE GREATEST MAN" WHO (OXE 
 
 OXLY excepted) EVEB ROSE TO A THRONE, BUT BY XO 
 JVIEAXS OF THE GREATEST MAX (sATE OXE) WHO EVER 
 EXISTED. 
 
 Before sunrise the next morning I had commenced my 
 return to London. I had previously intrusted to the locum 
 tenens of the sage Desmarais, the royal gift, and (singular 
 conjunction!) poor Ponto, my uncle's dog. Here let me 
 pause, as I shall have no other opportunity to mention him, 
 to record the fate of the canine bequest. He accompanied 
 me some years afterwards to France, and he died there in ex- 
 treme age. I shed tears as I saw the last relic of my poor 
 uncle expire, and I was not consoled even though he was 
 buried in the garden of the gallant Yillars, and immortalized 
 by an epitaph from the pen of the courtly Chaulieu. 
 
 Leaving my horse to select his own pace, I surrendered 
 myself to reflection upon the strange alteration that had taken 
 place in my fortunes. There did not, in my own mind, rest 
 a dwubt but that some villany had been practised with respect 
 to the will. My uncle's constant and unvarying favour 
 towards me ; the unequivocal expressions he himself from time 
 to time had dropped indicative of his future intentions on my 
 behalf; the easy and natural manner in which he had seemed 
 to consider, as a thing of course, my heritage and succession 
 to his estates; all, coupled with his own frank and kindly 
 character, so little disposed to raise hopes which he meant to 
 disappoint, might alone have been sufficient to arouse my sus- 
 picions at a devise so contrary to all past experience of the 
 testator. But when to these were linked the bold temper and 
 the daring intellect of my brother, joined to his personal 
 hatred to myself; his close intimacy with Montreuil, whom I 
 
DEVEREUX. 199 
 
 believed capable of the darkest designs; the sudden and evi- 
 dently concealed appearance of the latter on the day my uncle 
 died; the agitation and paleness of the attorney; the enor- 
 mous advantages accruing to Gerald, and to no one else, from 
 the terms of the devise : when these were all united into one 
 focus of evidence, they appeared to me to leave no doubt of 
 the forgery of the testament and the crime of Gerald. Nor 
 was there anything in my brother's bearing and manner 
 calculated to abate my suspicions. His agitation was real; 
 his surprise might have been feigned; his offer of assist- 
 ance in investigation was an unmeaning bravado; his con- 
 duct to myself testified his continued ill-will towards me, 
 — an ill-will which might possibly have instigated him 
 in the fraud scarcely less than the whispers of interest and 
 cupidity. 
 
 But while this was the natural and indelible impression on 
 my mind, I could not disguise from myself the extreme diffi- 
 culty I should experience in resisting my brother's claim. 
 So far as my utter want of all legal knowledge would allow 
 me to decide, I could perceive nothing in the will itself which 
 would admit of a lawyer's successful cavil: my reasons for 
 suspicion, so conclusive to myself, would seem nugatory to 
 a judge. My uncle was known as a humourist; and prove that 
 a man differs from others in one thing, and the world will 
 believe that he differs from them in a thousand. His favour 
 to me would be, in the popular eye, only an eccentricity, and 
 the unlooked-for disposition of his will only a caprice. Pos- 
 session, too, gave Gerald a proverbial vantage-ground, which 
 my whole life might be wasted in contesting; while his com- 
 mand of an immense wealth might, more than probably, 
 exhaust my spirit by delay, and my fortune by expenses. 
 Precious prerogative of law, to reverse the attribute of the 
 Almighty ! to fill the rich with good things, but to send the 
 poor empty away! In corruptissima republica plurimcB 
 leges. Legislation perplexed is synonymous with crime un- 
 punished, — a reflection, by the way, I should never have 
 made, if I had never had a law-suit: sufferers are ever 
 reformers. 
 
200 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Eevolving, then, these anxious and unpleasing thoughts, 
 interrupted, at times, by regrets of a purer and less sellish 
 nature for the friend I had lost, and -wandering, at others, to 
 the brighter anticipations of rejoining Isora, and drinking 
 from her eyes my comfort for the past and my hope for the 
 future, I continued and concluded my day's travel. 
 
 The next day, on resuming my journey, and on feeling the 
 time approach that would bring me to Isora, something like 
 joy became the most prevalent feeling in my mind. So true 
 it is that misfortunes little affect us so long as we have some 
 ulterior object, which, by arousing hope, steals us from afflic- 
 tion. Alas ! the pang of a moment becomes intolerable when 
 we know of nothing beyond the moment which it soothes us 
 to anticipate! Happiness lives in the light of the future: 
 attack the present; she defies you! darken the future, and 
 you destroy her! 
 
 It was a beautiful morning: through the vapours, which 
 rolled slowly away beneath his beams, the sun broke glori- 
 ously forth; and over wood and hill, and the low plains, 
 which, covered with golden corn, stretched immediately 
 before me, his smile lay in stillness, but in joy. And ever 
 from out the brake and the scattered copse, which at fre- 
 quent intervals beset the road, the merry birds sent a fitful 
 and glad music to mingle with the sweets and freshness of 
 the air. 
 
 I had accomplished the greater part of my journey, and had 
 entered into a more wooded and garden-like description of 
 country, when I perceived an old man, in a kind of low chaise, 
 vainly endeavouring to hold in a little but spirited horse, 
 which had taken alarm at some object on the road, and was 
 running away with its driver. The age of the gentleman 
 and the lightness of the chaise gave me some alarm for the 
 safety of the driver; so, tying my own horse to a gate, lest 
 the sound of his hoofs might only increase the speed and fear 
 of the fugitive, I ran with a swift and noiseless step along 
 the other side of the hedge and, coming out into the road just 
 before the pony's head, I succeeded in arresting him, at a 
 rather critical spot and moment. The old gentleman very 
 
DEVEREUX. 201 
 
 soon recovered his alarm; and, returning me many thanks for 
 my interference, requested me to accompany him to his house, 
 which he said was two or three miles distant. 
 
 Though I had no desire to be delayed in my journey for the 
 mere sake of seeing an old gentleman's house, I thought my 
 new acquaintance's safety required me, at least, to offer to 
 act as his charioteer till we reached his house. To my secret 
 vexation at that time, though I afterwards thought the petty 
 inconvenience was amply repaid by a conference with a very 
 singular and once noted character, the offer was accepted. 
 Surrendering my own steed to the care of a ragged boy, Avho 
 promised to lead it with equal judgment and zeal, I entered 
 the little car, and, keeping a firm hand and constant eye on 
 the reins, brought the offending quadruped into a very 
 equable and sedate pace. 
 
 "Poor Bob," said the old gentleman, apostrophizing his 
 horse; "poor Bob, like thy betters, thou knowest the weak 
 hand from the strong; and when thou art not held in by 
 power, thou wilt chafe against love ; so that thou renewest in 
 my mind the remembrance of its favourite maxim, namely, 
 'The only preventive to rebellion is restraint!'" 
 
 " Your observation. Sir, " said I, rather struck by this ad- 
 dress, " makes very little in favour of the more generous feel- 
 ings by which we ought to be actuated. It is a base mind 
 which always requires the bit and bridle." 
 
 "It is, Sir," answered the old gentleman; "I allow it: but, 
 though I have some love for human nature, I have no respect 
 for it; and while I pity its infirmities, I cannot but confess 
 them." 
 
 "Methinks, Sir," replied I, "that you have uttered in that 
 short speech more sound philosophy than I have heard for 
 months. There is wisdom in not thinking too loftily of hu- 
 man clay, and benevolence in not judging it too harshly, and 
 something, too, of magnanimity in this moderation; for we 
 seldom contemn mankind till they have hurt us, and when 
 they have hurt us, we seldom do anything but detest them 
 for the injury." 
 
 " You speak shrewdly. Sir, for one so young, " returned the 
 
202 DEVEREUX. 
 
 old man, looking hard at me ; '' and I will be sworn you have 
 suffered some cares ; for we never begin to think till we are a 
 little afraid to hope." 
 
 I sighed as I answered, " There are some men, I fancy, to 
 whom constitution supplies the office of care ; who, naturally 
 melancholy, become easily addicted to reflection, and reflec- 
 tion is a soil which soon repays us for whatever trouble we 
 bestow upon its culture." 
 
 "True, Sir!" said my companion; and there was a pause. 
 The old gentleman resumed : " We are not far from my home 
 now (or rather my temporary residence, for my proper and 
 general home is at Cheshunt, in Hertfordshire) ; and, as the 
 day is scarcely half spent, I trust you will not object to par- 
 take of a hermit's fare. Nay, nay, no excuse: I assure you 
 that I am not a gossip in general, or a liberal dispenser of 
 invitations; and I think, if you refuse me now, you will 
 hereafter regret it." 
 
 My curiosity was rather excited by this threat; and, reflect- 
 ing that my horse required a short rest, I subdued my impa- 
 tience to return to town, and accepted the invitation. AVe 
 came presently to a house of moderate size, and rather an- 
 tique fashion. This, the old man informed me, was his pres- 
 ent abode. A servant, almost as old as his master, came to 
 the door, and, giving his arm to my host, led him, for he was 
 rather lame and otherwise infirm, across a small hall into a 
 long low apartment. I followed. 
 
 A miniature of Oliver Cromwell, placed over the chimney- 
 piece, forcibly arrested my attention. 
 
 " It is the only portrait of the Protector I ever saw, " said 
 I, " which impresses on me the certainty of a likeness ; that 
 resolute gloomy brow, — that stubborn lip, — that heav}^, yet 
 not stolid expression, — all seem to warrant a resemblance to 
 that singular and fortunate man, to whom folly appears to 
 have been as great an instrument of success as wisdom, and 
 who rose to the supreme power perhaps no less from a pitia- 
 ble fanaticism than an admirable genius. So true is it that 
 great men often soar to their height by qualities the least ob- 
 vious to the spectator, and (to stoop to a low comparison) 
 
DEVEREUX. 203 
 
 resemble that animal ^ in whicli a common ligament supplies 
 the place and possesses the property of wings." 
 
 The old man smiled very slightly as I made this remark. 
 "If this be true," said he, with an impressive tone, "though 
 we may wonder less at the talents of the Protector, we must 
 be more indulgent to his character, nor condemn him for in- 
 sincerity when at heart he himself was deceived." 
 
 "It is in that light," said I, "that I have always viewed 
 his conduct. And though m3'self, by prejudice, a Cavalier 
 and a Tory, I own that Cromwell (liypocrite as he is es- 
 teemed) appears to me as much to have exceeded his royal 
 antagonist and victim in the virtue of sincerity, as he did in 
 the grandeur of his genius and the profound consistency of 
 his ambition." 
 
 "Sir," said my host, with a warmth that astonished me, 
 "you seem to have known that man, so justly do you judge 
 him. Yes," said he, after a pause, "yes, perhaps no one 
 ever so varnished to his own breast his designs ; no one, so 
 covetous of glory, was ever so duped by conscience ; no one 
 ever rose to such a height through so few acts that seemed to 
 himself worthy of remorse." 
 
 At this part of our conversation, the servant, entering, 
 announced dinner. We adjourned to another room, and par- 
 took of a homely yet not uninviting repast. When men are 
 pleased with each other, conversation soon gets beyond the 
 ordinary surfaces to talk; and an exchange of deeper opin- 
 ions was speedily effected by what old Barnes ^ quaintly 
 enough terms, "The gentleman -usher of all knowledge, — 
 Sermocination ! " 
 
 It was a pretty, though small room, where we dined; and I 
 observed that in this apartment, as in the other into which I 
 had been at first ushered, there were several books scattered 
 about, in that confusion and number which show that they 
 have become to their owner both the choicest luxury and the 
 least dispensable necessary. So, during dinner-time, we 
 talked principally upon books, and I observed that those 
 which my host seemed to know the best were of the elegant 
 ^ The flying squirrel. ^ i^ tjig « Gerania." 
 
204 DEVEREUX. 
 
 and poetical order of philosophers, who, more fascinating 
 than deep, preach up the blessings of a solitude which is use- 
 less, and a content which, deprived of passion, excitement, 
 and energy, would, if it could ever exist, only be a dignified 
 name for vegetation. 
 
 " So, " said he, when, the dinner being removed, we were 
 left alone with that substitute for all society, — wine! "so 
 you are going to town : in four hours more you will be in that 
 great focus of noise, falsehood, hollow joy, and real sorrow. 
 Do you know that I have become so wedded to the country 
 that I cannot but consider all those who leave it for the tur- 
 bulent city, in the same light, half wondering, half compas- 
 sionating, as that in which the ancients regarded the hardy 
 adventurers who left the safe land and their happy homes, 
 voluntarily to expose themselves in a frail vessel to the dan- 
 gers of an uncertain sea? Here, when I look out on the 
 green fields and the blue sky, the quiet herds basking in the 
 sunshine or scattered over the unpolluted plains, I cannot 
 but exclaim with Pliny, 'This is the true Movaetovl ' this is the 
 source whence flow inspiration to the mind and tranquillity 
 to the heart! And in my love of Nature — more confiding 
 and constant than ever is the love we bear to women — I cry 
 with the tender and sweet Tibullus, — 
 
 " ' Ego composito securus acervo 
 Despiciam dites, despiciamque famem.' " ^ 
 
 "These," said I, "are the sentiments we all (perhaps the 
 most restless of us the most passionately) at times experience. 
 But there is in our hearts some secret but irresistible princi- 
 ple that impels us, as a rolling circle, onward, onward, in the 
 great orbit of our destiny ; nor do we find a respite until the 
 wheels on which we move are broken — at the tomb." 
 
 "Yet," said my host, "the internal principle you speak of 
 can be arrested before the grave, — at least stilled and im- 
 peded. You will smile incredulously, perhaps (for I see you 
 do not know who I am), when I tell you that I might once 
 
 ^ " Satisfied with my little hoard, I can despise wealth, and fear not 
 hunger." 
 
DEVEREUX. 205 
 
 have been a monarch, and that obscurity seemed to me more 
 enviable than empire; I resigned the occasion: the tide of 
 fortune rolled onward, and left me safe but solitary and for- 
 saken upon the dry land. If you wonder at my choice, you 
 will wonder still more when I tell you that I have never 
 repented it." 
 
 Greatly surprised, and even startled, I heard my host make 
 this strange avowal. "Forgive me," said I, "but you have 
 powerfully excited my interest; dare I inquire from whose 
 experience I am now deriving a lesson?" 
 
 "Not yet," said my host, smiling, "not till our conversation 
 is over, and you have bid the old anchorite adieu, in all prob- 
 ability forever: you will then know that you have conversed 
 with a man, perhaps more universally neglected and con- 
 temned than any of his contemporaries. Yes," he continued, 
 "yes, I resigned power, and I got no praise for my modera- 
 tion, but contempt for my folly; no human being would be- 
 lieve that I could have relinquished that treasure through a 
 disregard for its possession which others would only have 
 relinquished through an incapacity to retain it; and that 
 which, had they seen it recorded in an ancient history, men 
 would have regarded as the height of philosophy, they de- 
 spised when acted under their eyes, as the extremest abase- 
 ment of imbecility. Yet I compare my lot with that of the 
 great man whom I was expected to equal in ambition, and to 
 whose grandeur I might have succeeded; and am convinced 
 that in this retreat I am more to be envied than he in the 
 plenitude of his power and the height of his renown ; yet is 
 not happiness the aim of wisdom? if my choice is happier 
 than his, is it not wiser?" 
 
 "Alas," thought I, "the wisest men seldom have the lofti- 
 est genius, and perhaps happiness is granted rather to medioc- 
 rity of mind than to mediocrity of circumstance; " but I did 
 not give so uncourteous a reply to my host an audible utter- 
 ance; on the contrary, "I do not doubt," said I, as I rose to 
 depart, "the wisdom of a choice which has brought you self- 
 gratulation. And it has been said by a man both great and 
 good, a man to whose mind was open the lore of the closet 
 
206 DEVEREUX. 
 
 and the experience of courts that, in wisdom or in folly, 'the 
 only difference between one man and another, is whether a man 
 governs his passions or his passions him. ' According to this 
 rule, which indeed is a classic and a golden aphorism, Alex- 
 ander, on the throne of Persia, might have heen an idiot to 
 Diogenes in his tub. And now, Sir, in wishing you farewell, 
 let me again crave your indulgence to my curiosity." 
 
 "Not yet, not yet," answered my host; and he led me once 
 more into the other room. While they were preparing my 
 horse, we renewed our conversation. To the best of my rec- 
 ollection, we talked about Plato; but I had now become so 
 impatient to rejoin Isora that I did not accord to my worthy 
 host the patient attention I had hitherto given him. When I 
 took leave of him he blessed me, and placed a piece of paper 
 in my hand; "Do not open this," said he, "till you are at 
 least two miles hence; your curiosity will then be satisfied. 
 If ever you travel this road again, or if ever you pass by 
 Cheshunt, pause and see if the old philosopher is dead. 
 Adieu!" 
 
 And so we parted. 
 
 You may be sure that I had not passed the appointed dis- 
 tance of two miles very far, when I opened the paper and 
 read the following words : — 
 
 Perhaps, young stranger, at some future period of a life, which I 
 venture to foretell will be adventurous and eventful, it may afford you a 
 matter for reflection, or a resting-spot for a moral, to remember that you 
 have seen, in old age and obscurity, the son of him who shook an empire, 
 avenged a people, and obtained a throne, only to be the victim of his 
 own passions and the dupe of his own reason. I repeat now the ques- 
 tion I before put to you, — Was the fate of the great Protector fairer 
 
 than that of the despised and forgotten 
 
 Richard Cromwell? 
 
 "So," thought I, "it is indeed with the son of the greatest 
 ruler England, or perhaps, in modern times, Europe has ever 
 produced, that I have held this conversation wpon content! 
 Yes, perhaps your fate Is more to be envied than that of your 
 illustrious father; but who would envy it more? Strange 
 
DEVEREUX. 207 
 
 that while we pretend that happiness is the object of all de- 
 sire, happiness is the last thing which we covet. Love and 
 wealth and pleasure and honour, — these are the roads which 
 we take so long that, accustomed to the mere travel, we for- 
 get that it was first undertaken not for the course but the 
 goal ; and in the common infatuation which pervades all our 
 race, we make the toil the meed, and in following the means 
 forsake the end." 
 
 I never saw my host again; very shortly afterwards he 
 died : ^ and Fate, which had marked with so strong a separa- 
 tion the lives of the father and the son, united in that death 
 — as its greatest, so its only universal blessing — the philoso- 
 pher and the recluse with the warrior and the chief! 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 IN WHICH THE HERO SHOWS DECISION ON MORE POINTS 
 THAN ONE. — MORE OF ISORA's CHARACTER IS DEVELOPED. 
 
 To use the fine image in the "Arcadia," it was "when the 
 sun, like a noble heart, began to show his greatest counte- 
 nance in his lowest estate," that I arrived at Isora's door. I 
 had written to her once, to announce my uncle's death and 
 the day of my return : but I had not mentioned in my letter 
 my reverse of fortunes ; I reserved that communication till it 
 could be softened by our meeting. I saw by the countenance 
 of the servant who admitted me that all was well : so I asked 
 no question; I flew up the stairs; I broke into Isora's cham- 
 ber, and in an instant she was in my arms. Ah, Love, Love ! 
 wherefore art thou so transitory a pilgrim on the earth, — an 
 evening cloud which hovers on our horizon, drinking the hues 
 of the sun, that grows ominously brighter as it verges to the 
 shadow and the night, and which, the moment that sun is set, 
 wanders on in darkness or descends in tears? 
 
 1 Richard Cromwell died in 1712. — Ed. 
 
208 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 " And now, my bird of Paradise, " said I, as we sat alone in 
 the apartment I had fitted up as the banqueting-room, and 
 on which, though small in its proportions, I had lavished all 
 the love of luxury and of show which made one of my most 
 prevailing weaknesses, " and now how has time passed with 
 you since we parted?" 
 
 "ISTeed you ask, Morton? Ah, have you ever noted a poor 
 dog deserted by its master, or rather not deserted, for that 
 you know is not my case yet," added Isora, playfully, "but 
 left at home while the master went abroad? have you noted 
 how restless the poor animal is; how it refuses all company 
 and all comfort; how it goes a hundred times a day into the 
 room which its master is wont mostly to inhabit; how it 
 creeps on the sofa or the chair which the same absent idler 
 was accustomed to press; how it selects some article of his 
 very clothing, and curls jealously around it, and hides and 
 watches over it as I have hid and watched over this glove, 
 Morton? Have you ever noted that humble creature whose 
 whole happiness is the smile of one being, when the smile 
 was away, — then, Morton, you can tell how my time has 
 passed during your absence." 
 
 I answered Isora by endearments and by compliments. She 
 turned away from the latter. 
 
 "Never call me those fine names, I implore you," she whis- 
 pered; "call me only by those pretty pet words by which I 
 know you will never call any one else. Bee and bird are 
 my names, and mine only; but beauty and angel are 
 names you have given or may give to a hundred others! 
 Promise me, then, to address me only in your own language." 
 
 " I promise, and lo, the seal to the promise. But tell me, 
 Isora, do you not love these rare scents that make an Araby 
 of this unmellowed clime? Do you not love the profusion 
 of light which reflects so dazzling a lustre on that soft cheek; 
 and those ejes which the ancient romancer * must have dreamed 
 of when he wrote so prettily of " eyes that seemed a temple 
 
 ^ Sir Philip Sydney, who, if we may judge from the number of quotations 
 from his works scattered in this book, seems to have been an especial favour- 
 ite with Count Devereux. — Ed. 
 
DEVEREUX. 209 
 
 where love and beauty were married"? Does not yon fruit 
 take a more tempting hue, bedded as it is in those golden 
 leaves? Does not sleep seem to hover with a downier wing 
 over those sofas on which the limbs of a princess have been 
 laid? In a word, is there not in luxury and in pomp a spell 
 which no gentler or wiser mind would disdain? " 
 
 " It may be so ! " said Isora, sighing ; " but the splendour 
 which surrounds us chills and almost terrifies me. I think 
 that every proof of your wealth and rank puts me further 
 from you : then, too, I have some remembrance of the green 
 sod, and the silver rill, and the trees upon which the young 
 winds sing and play; and I own that it is with the country, 
 and not the town, that all my ideas of luxury are wed." 
 
 "But the numerous attendants, the long row of liveried 
 hirelings, through which you may pass, as through a lane, 
 the caparisoned steeds, the stately equipage, the jewelled 
 tiara, the costly robe which matrons imitate and envy, the 
 music, which lulls you to sleep, the lighted show, the gor- 
 geous stage, — all these, the attributes or gifts of wealth, all 
 these that you have the right to hope you will one day or 
 other command, you will own are what you could very reluc- 
 tantly forego," 
 
 "Do you think so, Morton? Ah, I wish you were of my 
 humble temper : the more we limit and concentre happiness, 
 the more certain, I think, we are of securing it; they who 
 widen the circle encroach upon the boundaries of danger ; and 
 they who freight their wealth upon a hundred vessels are 
 more liable, Morton, are they not? to the peril of the winds 
 and the waves than they who venture it only upon one." 
 
 "Admirably reasoned, my little sophist; but if the one 
 ship sink?" 
 
 " Why, I would embark myself in it as well as my wealth, 
 and should sink with it." 
 
 " Well, well, Isora, your philosophy will, perhaps, soon be 
 put to the test. I will talk to you to-morrow of business." 
 
 "And why not to-night? " 
 
 " To-night, when I have just returned ! No, to-night I will 
 only talk to you of love ! " 
 
 14 
 
210 DEVEREUX. 
 
 As may be supposed, Isora was readily reconciled to my 
 change of circumstances ; and indeed that sum which seemed 
 poverty to me appeared positive wealth to her. But perhaps 
 few men are by nature and inclination more luxurious and 
 costly than myself; always accustomed to a profuse expend- 
 iture at my uncle's, I fell insensibly and con amo7'e, on my 
 debut in London, into all the extravagances of the age. Sir 
 William, pleased rather than discontented with my habits, 
 especially as they were attended with some eclat, pressed upon 
 me proofs of his generosity which, since I knew his wealth 
 and considered myself his heir, I did not scruple to accept, 
 and at the time of my return to London after his death, I 
 had not only spent to the full the princely allowance I had 
 received from him, but was above half my whole fortune in 
 debt. However, I had horses and equipages, jewels and 
 plate, and I did not long wrestle with my pride before I ob- 
 tained the victory, and sent all my valuables to the hammer. 
 They sold pretty well, all things considered, for I had a cer- 
 tain reputation in the world for taste and munificence ; and 
 when I had received the product and paid my debts, I found 
 that the whole balance in my favour, including, of course, 
 my uncle's legacy, was fifteen thousand pounds. 
 
 It was no bad younger brother's portion, perhaps, but I 
 was in no humour to be made a younger brother without a 
 struggle. So I went to the lawyers ; they looked at the will, 
 considered the case, and took their fees. Then the honestest 
 of them, with the coolest air in the world, told me to content 
 myself with my legacy, for the cause was hopeless ; the will 
 was sufficient to exclude a wilderness of elder sons. I need 
 not add that I left this lawyer with a very contemptible opin- 
 ion of his understanding. I went to another, he told me the 
 same thing, only in a different manner, and I thought him as 
 great a fool as his fellow practitioner. At last I chanced 
 upon a little brisk gentleman, with a quick eye and a sharp 
 voice, who wore a wig that carried conviction in every curl ; 
 had an independent, upright mien, and such a logical, em- 
 phatic way of expressing himself, that I was quite charmed 
 with him. This gentleman scarce heard me out before he 
 
DEVEREUX. 211 
 
 assured me that I had a famous case of it, that he liked mak- 
 ing quick work, and proceeding with vigour, that he hated 
 rogues, and delay, which was the sign of a rogue, but not the 
 necessary sign of law, that I was the most fortunate man im- 
 aginable in coming to him, and, in short that I had nothing 
 to do but commence proceedings, and leave all the rest to 
 him. I was very soon talked into this proposal, and very 
 soon embarked in the luxurious ocean of litigation. 
 
 Having settled this business so satisfactorily, I went to 
 receive the condolence and sympathy of St. John. Xotwith- 
 standing the arduous occupations both of pleasure and of 
 power, in which he was constantly engaged, he had found 
 time to call upon me very often, and to express by letter 
 great disappointment that I had neither received nor returned 
 his visits. Touched by the phenomenon of so much kindness 
 in a statesman, I paid him in return the only compliment in 
 my power ; namely, I asked his advice, with a view of taking 
 it. 
 
 " Politics — politics, my dear Count, " said he in answer to 
 that request, " nothing like it ; I will get you a seat in the 
 House by next week, — you are just of age, I think, — 
 Heavens ! a man like you who has learning enough for a Ger- 
 man professor; assurance that would almost abash a Mile- 
 sian; a very pretty choice of words, and a pointed way of 
 consummating a jest, — why, with you by my side, my dear 
 Count, I will soon — " 
 
 "St. John," said I, interrupting him, "you forget I am a 
 Catholic!" 
 
 " Ah, I did forget that," replied St. John, slowly. " Heaven 
 help me, Count, but I am sorry your ancestors were not con- 
 verted; it was a pity they should bequeath you their religion 
 without the estate to support it, for papacy has become a 
 terrible tax to its followers." 
 
 " I wonder, " said I, " whether the earth will ever be gov- 
 erned by Christians, not cavillers; by followers of our Sav- 
 iour, not by co-operators of the devil; by men who obey the 
 former, and 'love one another,' not by men who walk about 
 with the latter (that roaring lion), 'seeking whom they may 
 
212 DEVEREUX. 
 
 devour. ' Intolerance makes us acquainted with strange non- 
 sense, and folly is never so ludicrous as when associated with 
 something sacred; it is then like Punch and his wife in Pow- 
 ell's puppet-show, dancing in the Ark. For example, to tell 
 those who differ from us that they are in a delusion, and yet 
 to persecute them for that delusion, is to equal the wisdom 
 of our forefathers, who, we are told, in the ' Daemonologie ' 
 of the Scottish Solomon, 'burned a whole monasterie of nunnes 
 for being misled, not by men, but dreames ! ' " 
 
 And being somewhat moved, I ran on for a long time in a 
 very eloquent strain, upon the disadvantages of intolerance; 
 which, I would have it, was a policy as familiar to Protestant- 
 ism now as it had been to Popery in the dark ages ; quite for- 
 getting that it is not the vice of a peculiar sect, but of a 
 ruling party. 
 
 St. John, who thought or affected to think very differently 
 from me on these subjects, shook his head gently, but, with 
 his usual good breeding, deemed it rather too sore a subject 
 for discussion. 
 
 " I will tell you a discovery I have made, " said I. 
 
 "And what is it?" 
 
 "Listen: that man is wisest who is happiest, — granted. 
 What does happiness consist in? Power, wealth, popularity, 
 and, above all, content! Well, then, no man ever obtains so 
 much power, so much money, so much popularity, and, above 
 all, such thorough self -content as a fool; a fool, therefore 
 (this is no paradox), is the wisest of men. Pools govern the 
 world in purple : the wise laugh at them ; but they laugh in 
 rags. Pools thrive at court; fools thrive in state chambers; 
 fools thrive in boudoirs; fools thrive in rich men's legacies. 
 Who is so beloved as a fool? Every man seeks him, laughs 
 at him, and hugs him. Who is so secure in his own opinion, 
 so high in complacency, as a fool? sxia virtute involint. Hark 
 ye, St. John, let us turn fools : they are the only potentates, 
 the only philosophers of earth. Oh, motley, 'motley's your 
 only wear ! ' " 
 
 "Ha! ha!" laughed St. John; and, rising, he insisted 
 upon carrying me with him to the rehearsal of a new play, in 
 
DEVEREUX. 213 
 
 order, as he said, to dispel my spleen, and prepare me for 
 ripe decision upon the plans to be adopted for bettering my 
 fortune. 
 
 But, in good truth, nothing calculated to advance so com- 
 fortable and praiseworthy an end seemed to present itself. 
 My religion was an effectual bar to any hope of rising in the 
 state. Europe now began to wear an aspect that promised 
 miiversal peace, and the sword which I had so poetically 
 apostrophized was not likely to be drawn upon any more glo- 
 rious engagement than a brawl with the Mohawks, any incau- 
 tious noses appertaining to which fraternity I was fully 
 resolved to slit whenever they came conveniently in my way. 
 To add to the unpromising state of my worldly circumstances, 
 my uncle's death had removed the only legitimate barrier to 
 the acknowledgment of my marriage with Isora, and it be- 
 came due to her to proclaim and publish that event. Xow, if 
 there be any time in the world when a man's friends look 
 upon him most coldly; when they speak of his capacities of 
 rising the most despondingly; when they are most inclined, 
 in short, to set him down as a silly sort of fellow, whom it is 
 no use inconveniencing one's self to assist, — it is at that mo- 
 ment when he has made what the said friends are pleased to 
 term an imprudent marriage ! It was, therefore, no remarka- 
 ble instance of good luck that the express time for announc- 
 ing that I had contracted that species of marriage was the 
 express time for my wanting the assistance of those kind- 
 hearted friends. Then, too, by the pleasing sympathies in 
 worldly opinion, the neglect of one's friends is always so 
 damnably neighboured by the exultation of one's foes! Never 
 was there a man who, without being very handsome, very 
 rude, or very much in public life, had made unto himself 
 more enemies than it had been my lot to make. How the 
 rascals would all sneer and coin dull jests when they saw me 
 so down in the world ! The very old maids, who, so long as 
 they thought me single, would have declared that the will 
 was a fraud, would, directly they heard I was married, ask if 
 Gerald was handsome, and assert, with a wise look, that my 
 uncle knew well what he was about. Then the joy of the 
 
214 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Lady Hasselton, and the curled lip of the haughty Tarleton! 
 It is a very odd circumstance, but it is very true, that the 
 people we most despise have the most influence over our ac- 
 tions; a man never ruins himself by giving dinners to his 
 father, or turning his house into a palace in order to feast his 
 bosom friend: on the contrary, 'tis the poor devil of a friend 
 who fares the worst, and starves on the family joint, while 
 mine host beggars himself to banquet " that disagreeable Mr. 
 A., who is such an insufferable ass," and mine hostess sends 
 her husband to the Fleet by vying with "that odious Mrs. B., 
 who was always her aversion! " 
 
 Just in the same manner, no thought disturbed me, in the 
 step I was about to take, half so sorely as the recollection of 
 Lady Hasselton the coquette and Mr. Tarleton the gambler. 
 However, I have said somewhere or other that nothing selfish 
 on a small scale polluted my love for Isora, — nor did there. 
 I had resolved to render her speedy and full justice ; and if I 
 sometimes recurred to the disadvantages to myself, I always 
 had pleasure in thinking that they were sacrifices to her. But 
 to my great surprise, when I first announced to Isora my in- 
 tention of revealing our marriage, I perceived in her counte- 
 nance, always such a traitor to her emotions, a very different 
 expression from that which I had anticipated. A deadly 
 paleness spread over her whole face, and a shudder seemed to 
 creep through her frame. She attempted, however, to smile 
 away the alarm she had created in me ; nor was I able to pen- 
 etrate the cause of an emotion so unlooked for. But I con- 
 tinued to speak of the public announcement of our union as 
 of a thing decided; and at length she listened to me while I 
 arranged the method of making it, and sympathized in the 
 future projects I chalked out for us to adopt. Still, however, 
 when I proposed a definite time for the re-celebration of our 
 nuptials, she ever drew back and hinted the wish for a longer 
 delay. 
 
 "Not so soon, dear Morton," she would say tearfully, "not 
 so soon; we are happy now, and perhaps when you are with 
 me always you will not love me so well ! " 
 
 I reasoned against this notion, and this reluctance, but in 
 
DEVEREUX. 216 
 
 vain; and day passed on day, and even week on week, and 
 our marriage was still undeclared. I now lived, however, al- 
 most wholly with Isora, for busy tongues could no longer 
 carry my secret to my uncle; and, indeed, since I had lost 
 the fortune which I was expected to inherit, it is astonishing 
 how little people troubled their heads about my movements 
 or myself. I lived then almost wholly with Isora; and did 
 familiarity abate my love? Strange to say, it did not abate 
 even the romance of it. The reader may possibly remember 
 a conversation with St. John recorded in the Second Book of 
 this history. "The deadliest foe to love," said he (he who 
 had known all love, — that of the senses and that also of the 
 soul!), "is not change, nor misfortune, nor jealousy, nor 
 wrath, nor anything that flows from passion or emanates from 
 fortune. The deadliest foe to love is custom! " 
 
 Was St. John right? I believe that in most instances he 
 was ; and perhaps the custom was not continued in my case 
 long enough for me to refute the maxim. But as yet, the 
 very gloss upon the god's wings was fresh as on the first day 
 when I had acknowledged his power. Still was Isora to me 
 the light and the music of existence ! still did my heart thrill 
 and leap within me when her silver and fond voice made the 
 air a blessing ! Still would I hang over her, when her beau- 
 tiful features lay hushed in sleep, and watch the varying hues 
 of her cheek; and fancy, while she slept, that in each low, 
 sweet breath that my lips drew from hers, was a whisper of 
 tenderness and endearment! Still when I was absent from 
 her, my soul seemed to mourn a separation from its better 
 and dearer part, and the joyous senses of existence saddened 
 and shrank into a single want ! Still was her presence to my 
 heart as a breathing atmosphere of poesy which circled and 
 tinted all human things ; still was my being filled with that 
 delicious and vague melancholy which the very excess of rap- 
 ture alone produces, — the knowledge we ^are not breathe to 
 ourselves that the treasure in which our heart is stored is not 
 above the casualties of fate. The sigh that mingles with the 
 kiss; the tear that glistens in the impassioned and yearning 
 gaze ; the deep tide in our spirit, over which the moon and 
 
216 DEVEREUX. 
 
 the stars have power; the chain of harmony within the 
 thought which has a mysterious link with all that is fair and 
 pure and bright in Nature, knitting as it were loveliness with 
 love ! — all this, all that I cannot express ; all that to the young 
 for whom the real world has had few spells, and the world of 
 visions has been a home, who love at last and for the first 
 time, — all that to them are known were still mine. 
 
 In truth, Isora was one well calculated to sustain and to 
 rivet romance. The cast of her beauty was so dreamlike, and 
 yet so varying: her temper was so little mingled with the 
 common characteristics of woman; it had so little of caprice, 
 so little of vanity, so utter an absence of all jealous and all 
 angry feeling ; it was so made up of tenderness and devotion, 
 and yet so imaginative and fairy-like in its fondness, — that 
 it was difficult to bear only the sentiments of earth for one 
 who had so little of earth's clay. She was more like the 
 women whom one imagines are the creations of poetry, and 
 yet of whom no poetry, save that of Shakspeare, reminds 
 us ; and to this day, when I go into the world, I never see 
 aught of our own kind which recalls her, or even one of her 
 features, to my memory. But when I am alone with Nature, 
 methinks a sweet sound or a new-born flower has something 
 of familiar power over those stored and deep impressions 
 which do make her image, and it brings her more vividly be- 
 fore my eyes than any shape or face of her own sex, however 
 beautiful it may be. 
 
 There was also another trait in her character which, though 
 arising in her weakness, not her virtues, yet perpetuated the 
 more dreamlike and imaginary qualities of our passion : this 
 was a melancholy superstition, developing itself in forebod- 
 ings and omens which interested, because they were steeped 
 at once in the poetry and in the deep sincerity of her nature. 
 She was impressed with a strong and uncontrollable feeling 
 that her fate was predestined to a dark course and an early 
 end; and she drew from all things around her something to 
 feed the pensive character of her thoughts. The stillness of 
 noon ; the holy and eloquent repose of twilight, its rosy sky 
 and its soft air, its shadows and its dews, — had equally for 
 
DEVEREUX. 217 
 
 her heart a whisper and a spell. The waii stars, where, from 
 the eldest time, man has shaped out a chart of the undiscov- 
 erable future ; the mysterious moon, to which the great ocean 
 ministers from its untrodden shrines; the winds, which trav- 
 erse the vast air, pilgrims from an eternal home to an un- 
 penetrated bourne; the illimitable heavens, on which none 
 ever gazed without a vague craving for something that the 
 earth cannot give, and a vague sense of a former existence in 
 which that something was enjoyed ; the holy night ; that sol- 
 emn and circling sleep, which seems, in its repose, to image 
 our death, and in its living worlds to shadow forth the 
 immortal realms which only through that death we can sur- 
 vey, — all had, for the deep heart of Isora, a language of omen 
 and of doom. Often would we wander alone, and for hours 
 together, by the quiet and wild woods and streams that sur- 
 rounded her retreat, and which we both loved so well; and 
 often, when the night closed over us, with my arm around 
 her, and our lips so near that our atmosphere was our mutual 
 breath, would she utter, in that voice which " made the soul 
 plant itself in the ears," the predictions which had nursed 
 themselves at her heart. 
 
 I remember one evening, in especial. The rich twilight 
 had gathered over us, and we sat by a slender and soft riv- 
 ulet, overshadowed by some stunted yet aged trees. We had 
 both, before she spoke, been silent for several minutes ; and 
 only when, at rare intervals^, the birds sent from the copse 
 that backed us a solitary and vesper note of music, was the 
 stillness around us broken. Before us, on the opposite bank 
 of the stream, lay a valley, in which shadow and wood con- 
 cealed all trace of man's dwellings, save at one far spot, 
 where, from a single hut, rose a curling and thin vapour, — 
 like a spirit released from earth, and losing gradually its 
 earthier particles, as it blends itself with the loftier atmos- 
 phere of heaven. 
 
 It was then that Isora, clinging closer to me, whispered 
 her forebodings of death. "You will remember," said she, 
 smiling faintly, "you will remember me, in the lofty and 
 bright career which yet awaits you; and I scarcely know 
 
218 DEVEREUX. 
 
 whetlier I would not sooner have that memory — free as it 
 will be from all recollection of my failings and faults, and all 
 that I have cost you, than incur the chance of your future 
 coldness or decrease of love." 
 
 And when Isora turned, and saw that the tears stood in my 
 eyes, she kissed them away, and said, after a pause, — 
 
 " It matters not, my own guardian angel, what becomes of 
 me : and now that I am near you, it is wicked to let my folly 
 cost you a single pang. But why should you grieve at my 
 forebodings? there is nothing painful or harsh in them to 
 me, and I interpret them thus: 'If my life passes away be- 
 fore the common date, perhaps it will be a sacrifice to yours.' 
 And it will, Morton — it will. The love I bear to you I can 
 but feebly express now; all of us wish to prove our feelings, 
 and I would give one proof of mine for you. It seems to me 
 that I was made only for one purpose — to love you ; and I 
 would fain hope that my death may be some sort of sacrifice 
 to you — some token of the ruling passion and the whole ob- 
 ject of my life." 
 
 As Isora said this, the light of the moon, which had just 
 risen, shone full upon her cheek, flushed as it was with a 
 deeper tint than it usually wore ; and in her eye — her feat- 
 ures — her forehead — the lofty nature of her love seemed to 
 have stamped the divine expression of itself. 
 
 Have I lingered too long on these passages of life ? They 
 draw near to a close, and a more adventurous and stirring 
 period of manhood will succeed. Ah, little could they, who 
 in after years beheld in me but the careless yet stern soldier 
 — the wily and callous diplomatist — the companion alter- 
 nately so light and so moodily reserved — little could they 
 tell how soft, and weak, and doting my heart was once ! 
 
DEVEREUX. 219 
 
 CHAPTER VT. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. — CONJECTURE AND ANTICIPATION. 
 
 The day for the public solemnization of our marriage was 
 at length appointed. In fact, the plan for the future that ap- 
 peared to me most promising was to proffer my services 
 to some foreign court, and that of Eussia held out to me the 
 greatest temptation. I was therefore anxious, as soon as pos- 
 sible, to conclude the rite of a second or public nuptials, and 
 I purposed leaving the country within a week afterwards. 
 My little lawyer assured me that my suit would go on quite 
 as well in my absence, and whenever my presence was neces- 
 sary he would be sure to inform me of it. I did not doubt 
 him in the least — it is a charming thing to have confidence 
 in one's man of business. 
 
 Of Montreuil I now saw nothing; but I accidentally heard 
 that he was on a visit to Gerald, and that the latter had al- 
 ready made the old walls ring with premature hospitality. 
 As for Aubrey, I was in perfect ignorance of his movements ; 
 and the imsatisfactory shortness of his last letter, and the 
 wild expressions so breathing of fanaticism in the postscript, 
 had given me much anxiety and alarm on his account. I 
 longed above all to see him, to talk with him over old times 
 and our future plans, and to learn whether no new bias could 
 be given to a temperament which seemed to lean so strongly 
 towards a self-punishing superstition. It was about a week 
 before the day fixed for my public nuptials that I received at 
 last from him the following letter: — 
 
 My dearest Brother, — I have been long absent from home, — 
 absent on affairs on which we will talk hereafter. I have not forgotten 
 you, though I have been silent, and the news of my poor uncle's death 
 has shocked me greatly. On my arrival here I learned your disappoint- 
 ment and your recourse to law. 1 am not so much surprised, though I 
 
220 DEYEREUX. 
 
 am as much grieved as yourself, for I will tell you now what seemed to 
 me unimportant before. On receiving your letter, requesting consent 
 to your designed marriage, my uncle seemed greatly displeased as well as 
 vexed, and afterwards he heard much that displeased him more ; from 
 what quarter came his news I know not, and he only spoke of it in 
 innuendoes and angry insinuations. As far as I was able I endeavoured 
 to learn his meaning, but could not, and to my praises of you I thought 
 latterly he seemed to lend but a cold ear ; he told me at last, when I was 
 about to leave him, that you had acted ungratefully to him, and that he 
 should alter his will. I scarcely thought of this speech at the time, or 
 rather I considered it as the threat of a momentary anger. Possibly, 
 however, it was the prelude to that disposition of property which has so 
 wounded you : I observe, too, that the will bears date about that period. 
 I mention this fact to you ; you can draw from it what inference you 
 will : but I do solemnly believe that Gerald is innocent of any fraud 
 towards yeu. 
 
 I am all anxiety to hear whether your love continues. I beseech you 
 to write to me instantly and inform me on that head as on all others. 
 
 We shall meet soon. 
 
 Your ever affectionate Brother, 
 
 Aubrey Deverecx. 
 
 There was something in this letter that vexed and displeased 
 me : I thought it breathed a tone of unkindness and indiffer- 
 ence, which my present circumstances rendered peculiarly in- 
 excusable. So far, therefore, from answering it immediately, 
 I resolved not to reply to it till after the solemnization of my 
 marriage. The anecdote of my uncle startled me a little 
 when I coupled it with the words my uncle had used towards 
 myself on his death-bed ; namely, in hinting that he had heard 
 some things unfavourable to Isora, unnecessary then to re- 
 peat; but still if my uncle had altered his intentions towards 
 me, would he not have mentioned the change and its reasons? 
 Would he have written to me with such kindness, or received 
 me with such affection? I could not believe that he would; 
 and my opinions of the fraud and the perpetrator were not a 
 whit changed by Aubrey's epistle. It was clear, however, 
 that he had joined the party against me ; and as my love for 
 him was exceedingly great, I was much wounded by the idea. 
 
 "All leave me," said I, "upon this reverse, — all but Isora!" 
 
DEVEREUX. 221 
 
 and I thought with renewed satisfaction on the step which 
 was about to insure to her a secure home and an honourable 
 station. My fears lest Isora should again be molested by her 
 persecutor were now pretty well at rest; having no doubt in 
 my own mind as to that persecutor's identity, I imagined 
 that in his new acquisition of wealth and pomp, a boyish and 
 unreturued love would easily be relinquished; and that, per- 
 haps, he would scarcely regret my obtaining the prize himself 
 had sought for, when in my altered fortunes it would be fol- 
 lowed by such worldly depreciation. In short, I looked upon 
 him as possessing a characteristic common to most bad men, 
 who are never so influenced by love as they are by hatred; 
 and imagined, therefore, that if he had lost the object of the 
 love, he could console himself by exulting over any decline of 
 prosperity in the object of the hate. 
 
 As the appointed day drew near, Isora's despondency seemed 
 to vanish, and she listened, with her usual eagerness in what- 
 ever interested me, to my Continental schemes of enterprise. 
 I resolved that our second wedding, though public, should be 
 modest and unostentatious, suitable rather to our fortunes 
 than our birth. St. John, and a few old friends of the fam- 
 ily, constituted all the party I invited, and I requested them 
 to keep my marriage secret until the very day for celebrating 
 it arrived. I did this from a desire of avoiding compliments 
 intended as sarcasms, and visits rather of curiosity than 
 friendship. On flew the days, and it was now the one pre- 
 ceding my wedding. I was dressing to go out upon a matter 
 of business connected with the ceremony, and I then, as I 
 received my hat from Desmarais, for the first time thought it 
 requisite to acquaint that accomplished gentleman with the 
 rite of the morrow. Too well bred was Monsieur Desmarais 
 to testify any other sentiment than pleasure at the news ; and 
 he received my orders and directions for the next day with 
 more than the graceful urbanity which made one always feel 
 quite honoured by his attentions. 
 
 " And how goes on the philosophy?" said I: "faith, since 
 I am about to be married, I shall be likely to require its 
 consolations." 
 
222 DEVEREUX. 
 
 "Indeed, Monsieur," answered Desmarais, with that ex- 
 pression of self-conceit which was so curiously interwoven 
 with the obsequiousness of his address, " indeed, Monsieur, I 
 have been so occupied of late in preparing a little powder 
 very essential to dress, that I have not had time for any 
 graver, though not perhaps more important, avocations." 
 
 "Powder — and what is it?" 
 
 "Will Monsieur condescend to notice its effect?" answered 
 Desmarais, producing a pair of gloves which were tinted of 
 the most delicate flesh-colour; the colouring was so nice, that 
 when the gloves were on, it would have been scarcely possi- 
 ble, at any distance, to distinguish them from the naked flesh. 
 
 "'Tis a rare invention," said I. 
 
 "Monsieur is very good, but I flatter myself it is so," re- 
 joined Desmarais ; and he forthwith ran on far more earnestly 
 on the merits of his powder than I had ever heard him des- 
 cant on the beauties of Fatalism. I cut him short in the 
 midst of his harangue: too much eloquence in any line is 
 displeasing in one's dependant. 
 
 I had just concluded my business abroad, and was returning 
 homeward with downcast eyes and in a very abstracted mood, 
 when I was suddenly startled by a loud voice that exclaimed 
 in a tone of surprise: "What! — Count Devereux, — how 
 fortunate ! " 
 
 I looked up, and saw a little dark man, shabbily dressed; 
 his face did not seem unfamiliar to me, but I could not at 
 first remember where I had seen it : my look, I suppose, tes- 
 tified my want of memory, for he said, with a low bow, — 
 
 "You have forgotten me. Count, and I don't wonder at it; 
 so please you, I am the person who once brought you a letter 
 from France to Devereux Court." 
 
 At this, I recognized the bearer of that epistle which had 
 embroiled me with the Abbe Montreuil. I was too glad of 
 the meeting to show any coolness in my reception of the gen- 
 tleman, and to speak candidly, I never saw a gentleman less 
 troubled with mauvalse honte. 
 
 "Sir!" said he, lowering his voice to a whisper, "it is 
 most fortunate that I should thus have met you; I only came 
 
DEVEREUX. 223 
 
 to town tliis morning, and for the sole purpose of seeking 
 you out. I am charged with a packet, which I believe will 
 be of the greatest importance to your interests. But," he 
 added, looking round, "the streets are no proper place for 
 my communication ; parhleu, there are those about who hear 
 whispers through stone walls: suffer me to call upon you 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "To-morrow! it is a day of great business with me, but I 
 can possibly spare you a few moments, if that will suffice; 
 or, on the day after, your own pleasure may be the sole limit 
 of our interview." 
 
 '^Farbleu, Monsieur, you are very obliging, — very; but I 
 will tell you in one word who I am and what is my business. 
 My name is Marie Oswald : I was born in France, and I am 
 the half-brother of that Oswald who drew up your uncle's 
 will." ■ 
 
 "Good Heavens!" I exclaimed; "is it possible that you 
 know anything of that affair?" 
 
 "Hush — yes, all! my poor brother is just dead; and, in a 
 word, I am charged with a packet given me by him on his 
 death-bed. Now, will you see me if I bring it to-morrow?" 
 
 "Certainly; can I not see you to-night?" 
 
 "To-night? — No, not well; parhleu! I want a little con- 
 sideration as to the reward due to me for my eminent services 
 to your lordship. No: let it be to-morrow." 
 
 "Well! at what hour? I fear it must be in the evening." 
 
 "Seven, s^il vous plait, Monsieur." 
 
 "Enough! be it so." 
 
 And Mr. Marie Oswald, who seemed, during the whole of 
 this short conference, to have been under some great appre- 
 hension of being seen or overheard, bowed, and vanished in 
 an instant, leaving my mind in a most motley state of inco- 
 herent, unsatisfactory, yet sanguine conjecture. 
 
224 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF A SINGLE NIGHT. — MOMENTS MAKE THE HUES 
 IN WHICH YEARS ARE COLOURED. 
 
 Men of the old age ! what wonder that in the fondness of a 
 dim faith, and in tlie vague guesses which, from the frail ark 
 of reason, we send to hover over a dark and unfathomable 
 abyss, — what wonder that ye should have wasted hope and 
 life in striving to penetrate the future ! What wonder that 
 ye should have given a language to the stars, and to the 
 night a spell, and gleaned from the uncomprehended earth 
 an answer to the enigmas of Fate ! We are like the sleepers 
 who, walking under the influence of a dream, wander by the 
 verge of a precipice, while, in their own deluded vision, they 
 perchance believe themselves surrounded by bowers of roses, 
 and accompanied by those they love. Or, rather like the 
 blind man, who can retrace every step of the path he has once 
 trodden, but who can guess not a single inch of that which 
 he has not yet travelled, our Reason can re-guide us over the 
 roads of past experience with a sure and unerring wisdom, 
 even while it recoils, baffled and bewildered, before the black- 
 ness of the very moment whose boundaries we are about to 
 enter. 
 
 The few friends I had invited to my wedding were still 
 with me, when one of my servants, not Desmarais, informed 
 me that Mr. Oswald waited for me. I went out to him. 
 
 " Parhleu ! " said he, rubbing his hands, " I perceive it is a 
 joyous time with you, and I don't ^vender you can only spare 
 me a few moments." 
 
 The estates of Devereux were not to be risked for a trifle, 
 but I thought Mr. Marie Oswald exceedingly impertinent. 
 "Sir," said I, very gravely, "pray be seated; and now to 
 business. In the first place may I ask to whom I am be- 
 
DEVEREUX. 225 
 
 holden for sending you with that letter you gave me at Dev- 
 ereux Court? and, secondly, what that letter contained? for 
 I never read it." 
 
 " Sir, " answered the man, " the history of the letter is per- 
 fectly distinct from that of the will, and the former (to dis- 
 cuss the least important first) is briefly this. You have 
 heard, sir, of the quarrels between Jesuit and Jansenist?" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 "Well — but first, Count, let me speak of m3-self. There 
 were three young men of the same age, born in the same vil- 
 lage in France, of obscure birth each, and each desirous of 
 getting on in the world. Two were deuced clever fellows, 
 the third, nothing particular. One of the two at present shall 
 be nameless ; the third, ' who was nothing particular ' (in his 
 own opinion, at least, though his friends may think differ- 
 ently), was Marie Oswald. We soon separated: I went to 
 Paris, was employed in different occupations, and at last be- 
 came secretary, and (why should I disavow it?) valet to a 
 lady of quality and a violent politician. She was a furious 
 Jansenist; of course I adopted her opinions. About this 
 time, there was much talk among the Jesuits of the great 
 genius and deep learning of a young member of the order, — 
 Julian Montreuil. Though not residing in the country, he 
 had sent one or two books to France, which had been pub- 
 lished and had created a great sensation. Well, Sir, my mis- 
 tress was the greatest intriguante of her party : she was very 
 rich, and tolerably liberal; and, among other packets of 
 which a messenger from England was carefully robbed, be- 
 tween Calais and Abbeville (you understand me, sir, carefully 
 robbed, parUexi ! I wish I were robbed in the same manner 
 every day in my life!), was one from the said Julian Mon- 
 treuil to a political friend of his. Among other letters in this 
 packet — all of importance — was one descriptive of the Eng- 
 lish family with whom he resided. It hit them all, I am 
 told, off to a hair; and it described, in particular, one, the 
 supposed inheritor of the estates, a certain Morton, Count 
 Devereux. Since you say you did not read the letter, I spare 
 your blushes. Sir, and I don't dwell upon what he said of 
 
 15 
 
226 DEVEREUX. 
 
 your talent, energy, ambition, etc. I will only tell you that 
 lie dilated far more upon your prospects than your powers ; 
 and that he expressly stated what was his object in staying 
 in your family and cultivating your friendship, — he expressly 
 stated that 30,000^. a year would be particularly serviceable 
 to a certain political cause which he had strongly at heart." 
 
 "I understand you," said I, "the Chevalier's?" 
 
 "Exactly. 'This sponge,' said Montreuil, I remember 
 the very phrase, — 'this sponge will be well filled, and I am 
 handling it softly now in order to squeeze its juices hereafter 
 according to the uses of the party we have so strongly at 
 heart. ' " 
 
 " It was not a metaphor very flattering to my understand- 
 ing," said I. 
 
 " True, Sir. Well, as soon as my mistress learned this she 
 remembered that your father, the Marshal, had been one of 
 her i^lus chers amis; in a word, if scandal says true, he had 
 been the cher ami. However, she was instantly resolved to 
 open your eyes, and rviin the maudlt Jesn'ite: she enclosed 
 the letter in an envelope and sent me to England with it. I 
 came, I gave it you, and I discovered, in that moment, Avhen 
 the Abbe entered, that this Julian Montreuil was an old ac- 
 quaintance of my own, — was one of the two young men who 
 I told you were such deuced clever fellows. Like many other 
 adventurers, he had changed his name on entering the world 
 and I had never till now suspected that Julian Montreuil 
 was Bertrand Collinot. Well, when I saw what I had done, 
 I was exceedingly sorry, for I had liked my companion well 
 enough not to wish to hurt him; besides, I was a little afraid 
 of him. I took horse, and went about some other business I 
 had to execute, nor did I visit that part of the country again, 
 till a week ago (now I come to the other business), when I 
 was summoned to the death-bed of my half-brother the attor- 
 ney, peace be with him ! He suffered much from hypooliou- 
 dria in his dying moments, — I believe it is the way with 
 people of his profession, — and he gave me a sealed packet, 
 with a last injunction to place it in your hands and your 
 hands only. Scarce was he dead — (do not think I am unfeel- 
 
DEVEREUX. 227 
 
 ing, Sir, I had seen very little of him, and he was only my 
 half-brother, my father having married, for a second wife, a 
 foreign lady who kept an inn, by whom he was blessed with 
 myself) — scarce, I say, was he dead when I hurried up to 
 town. Providence threw you in my way, and you shall have 
 the document upon two conditions." 
 
 " Which are, first to reward you ; secondly, to — " 
 
 "To promise you will not open the packet for seven days." 
 
 "The devil! and why?" 
 
 " I will tell you candidly : one of the papers in the packet 
 I believe to be my brother's written confession, — nay, I know 
 it is, — and it will criminate one I have a love for, and who, 
 I am resolved, shall have a chance of escape." 
 
 "Who is that one? Montreuil?" 
 
 "No: I do not refer to him; but I cannot tell you more. I 
 require the promise. Count: it is indispensable. If you 
 don't give it me, ixirhleit, you shall not have the packet." 
 
 There was something so cool, so confident, and so impudent 
 about this man, that I did not well know whether to give way 
 to laughter or to indignation. Neither, however, would have 
 been politic in my situation; and, as I said before, the estates 
 of Devereux were not to be risked for a trifle. 
 
 "Pray," said I, however, with a shrewdness which I think 
 did me credit, — "pray, Mr. Marie Oswald, do you expect the 
 reward before the packet is opened? " 
 
 " By no means, " answered the gentleman who in his own 
 opinion was nothing particular; "by no means; nor until you 
 and your lawyers are satisfied that the papers enclosed in the 
 packet are sufficient fully to restore you to the Jieritage of 
 Devereux Court and its demesnes." 
 
 There was something fair in this ; and as the only penalty 
 to me incurred by the stipulated condition seemed to be the 
 granting escape to the criminals, I did not think it incumbent 
 upon me to lose my cause from the desire of a prosecution. 
 Besides, at that time, I felt too happy to be revengeful ; and 
 so, after a moment's consideration, I conceded to the proposal, 
 and gave my honour as a gentleman — IMr. Oswald obligingly 
 dispensed with an oath — that I would not open the packet 
 
228 DEVEREUX. 
 
 till the end of the seventh day. Mr. OsTvald then drew forth 
 a piece of paper, on which sundry characters were inscribed, 
 the purport of which was that, if, through the papers given 
 me by Marie Oswald, my lawyers were convinced that I could 
 become master of my uncle's property, now enjoyed by Ger- 
 ald Devereux, I should bestow on the said Marie 5000/. : half 
 on obtaining this legal opinion, half on obtaining possession 
 of the property. I could not resist a smile M-hen I observed 
 that the word of a gentleman was enough surety for the 
 safety of the man he had a love for, but that Mr. Oswald re- 
 quired a written bond for the safety of his reward. One is 
 ready enough to trust one's friends to the conscience of an- 
 other, but as long as a law can be had instead, one is rarely 
 so credulous in respect to one's money. 
 
 "The reward shall be doubled if I succeed," said I, signing 
 the paper; and Oswald then produced a packet, on which was 
 writ, in a trembling hand, — "For Count Morton Devereux, 
 — private, — and with haste." As soon as he had given me 
 this precious charge, and reminded me again of mj promise, 
 Oswald withdrew. I placed the packet in my bosom, and 
 returned to my guests. 
 
 Never had my spirit been so light as it was that evening. 
 Indeed the good people I had assembled thought matrimony 
 never made a man so little serious before. They did not how- 
 ever stay long, and the moment they were gone I hastened to 
 my own sleeping apartment to secure the treasure I had ac- 
 quired. A small escritoire stood in this room, and in it I was 
 accustomed to keep whatever I considered most precious. 
 With many a wistful look and murmur at my promise, I con- 
 signed the packet to one of the drawers of this escritoire. As I 
 was locking the drawer, the sweet voice of Desmarais accosted 
 me. Would Monsieur, he asked, suffer him to visit a friend 
 that evening, in order to celebrate so joyful an event in Mon- 
 sieur's destiny? It was not often that he was addicted to 
 vulgar merriment, but on such an occasion he owned that he 
 was tempted to transgress his customary habits, and he felt 
 that Monsieur, with his usual good taste, would feel offended 
 if his servant, within Monsieur's own house, suffered joy to 
 
DEVEREUX. 229 
 
 pass the limits of discretion, and enter the confines of noise 
 and inebriety, especially as Monsieur had so positively inter- 
 dicted all outward sign of extra hilarity. He implored mille 
 pardons for the presumption of his request. 
 
 "It is made with your usual discretion; there are five 
 guineas for you : go and get drunk with your friend, and be 
 merry instead of wise. But, tell me, is it not beneath a phi- 
 losopher to be moved by anything, especially anything that 
 occurs to another, — much less to get drunk upon it?" 
 
 "Pardon me, Monsieur," answered Desmarais, bowing to 
 the ground : " one ought to get drunk sometimes, because the 
 next morning one is sure to be thoughtful; and, moreover, 
 the practical philosopher ought to indulge every emotion, in 
 order to judge how that emotion would affect another; at 
 least, this is my opinion." 
 
 "Well, go." 
 
 "My most grateful thanks be with Monsieur; Monsieur's 
 nightly toilet is entirely prepared." 
 
 And away went Desmarais, with the light, yet slow, step 
 with which he was accustomed to combine elegance with 
 dignity. 
 
 I now passed into the room I had prepared for Isora's 
 boudoir. I found her leaning by the window, and I perceived 
 that she had been in tears. As I paused to contemplate her 
 figure so touchingly, yet so unconsciously mournful in its 
 beautiful and still posture, a more joyous sensation than was 
 wont to mingle with my tenderness for her swelled at my 
 heart. "Yes," thought I, "you are no longer the solitary 
 exile, or the persecuted daughter of a noble but ruined race ; 
 you are not even the bride of a man who must seek in foreign 
 climes, through danger and through hardship, to repair a 
 broken fortune and establish an adventurer's name! At last 
 the clouds have rolled from the bright star of your fate: 
 wealth, and pomp, and all that awaits the haughtiest of Eng- 
 land's matrons shall be yours." And at these thoughts For- 
 tune seemed to me a gift a thousand times more precious than 
 — much as my luxuries prized it — it had ever seemed to me 
 before. 
 
230 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 I drew near and laid my hand upon Isora's shoulder, and 
 kissed her cheek. She did not turn round, but strove, by 
 bending over my hand and pressing it to her lips, to conceal 
 that she had been weeping. I thought it kinder to favour 
 the artifice than to complain of it. I remained silent for 
 some moments, and I then gave vent to the sanguine expecta- 
 tions for the future which my new treasure entitled me to 
 form. I had already narrated to her the adventure of the 
 day before : I now repeated the purport of my last interview 
 with Oswald; and, growing more and more elated as I pro- 
 ceeded, I dwelt at last upon the description of my inheri- 
 tance, as glowingly as if I had already recovered it. I 
 painted to her imagination its rich woods and its glassy lake, 
 and the fitful and wandering brook that, through brake and 
 shade, went bounding on its wild Avay; I told her of my early 
 roamings, and dilated with a boy's rapture upon my favourite 
 haunts. I brought visibly before her glistening and eager 
 eyes the thick copse where hour after hour, in vague verses 
 and still vaguer dreams, I had so often whiled away the day ; 
 the old tree which I had climbed to watch the birds in their 
 glad mirth, or to listen unseen to the melancholy sound of the 
 forest deer; the antique gallery and the vast hall which, by 
 the dim twilights, I had paced with a religious awe, and 
 looked upon the pictured forms of my bold fathers, and mused 
 high and ardently upon my destiny to be ; the old gray tower 
 which I had consecrated to myself, and the unwitnessed path 
 which led to the yellow beach, and the wide gladness of the 
 solitary sea; the little arbour which my earliest ambition had 
 reared, that looked out upon the joyous flowers and the merry 
 fountain, and, through the ivy and the jessamine, wooed the 
 voice of the bird, and the murmur of the summer bee ; and, 
 when I had exhausted my description, I turned to Isora, and 
 said in a lower tone, "And I shall visit these once more, and 
 with you ! " 
 
 Isora sighed faintly, and it was not till I had pressed her 
 to speak that she said : — 
 
 "I wish I could deceive myself, Morton, but I cannot — 
 I cannot root from my heart an impression that I shall never 
 
DEVEREUX. 231 
 
 again quit this dull city with its gloomy walls and its heavy 
 air. A voice within me seems to say, 'Behold from this very 
 window the boundaries of your living wanderings ! ' " 
 
 Isora's words froze all my previous exaltation. *' It is in 
 vain," said I, after chiding her for her despondency, "it is in 
 vain to tell me that you have for this gloomy notion no other 
 reason than that of a vague presentiment. It is time now 
 that I should press you to a greater confidence upon all points 
 consistent Avith your oath to our mutual enemy than you have 
 hitherto given me. Speak, dearest, have you not some yet 
 unrevealed causes for alarm?" 
 
 It was but for a moment that Isora hesitated before she an- 
 swered with that quick tone which indicates that we force 
 words against the will. 
 
 " Yes, Morton, I will tell you now, though I would not be- 
 fore the event of this day. On the last day that I saw that 
 fearful man, he said, 'I warn you, Isora d' Alvarez, that my 
 love is far fiercer than hatred; I warn you that your bridals 
 with Morton Devereux shall be stained with blood. Become 
 his wife, and you perish! Yea, though I suffer hell's tortures 
 forever and forever from that hour, my own hand shall 
 strike you to the heart! ' Morton, these words have thrilled 
 through me again and again, as if again they were breathed in 
 my very ear ; and I have often started at night and thought 
 the very knife glittered at my breast. So long as our wedding 
 was concealed, and concealed so closely, I was enabled to 
 quiet my fears till they scarcely seemed to exist. But when 
 our nuptials were to be made public, when I knew that they 
 were to reach the ears of that fierce and unaccountable being, 
 I thought I heard my doom pronounced. This, mine own 
 love, must excuse your Isora, if she seemed ungrateful for 
 your generous eagerness to announce our union. And per- 
 haps she would not have acceded to it so easily as she has 
 done were it not that, in the first place, she felt it was be- 
 neath your wife to suffer any terror so purely selfish to make 
 her shrink from the proud happiness of being yours in the 
 light of day; and if she had not felt [here Isora hid her 
 blushing face in my bosom] that she was fated to give birth 
 
232 DEVEREUX. 
 
 to another, and that the announcement of our wedded love 
 had become necessary to your honour as to mine ! " 
 
 Though I was in reality awed even to terror by learning 
 from Isora's lip so just a cause for her forebodings, — though 
 I shuddered with a horror surpassing even my wrath, when I 
 heard a threat so breathing of deadly and determined pas- 
 sions, — yet I concealed my emotions, and only thought of 
 cheering and comforting Isora. I represented to her how 
 guarded and vigilant should ever henceforth be the protection 
 of her husband ; that nothing should again separate him from 
 her side; that the extreme malice and fierce persecution of 
 this man were sufficient even to absolve her conscience from 
 the oath of concealment she had taken; that I would procure 
 from the sacred head of our Church her own absolution from 
 that vow; that the moment concealment was over, I could 
 take steps to prevent the execution of my rival's threats; 
 that, however near to me he might be in blood, no conse- 
 quences arising from a dispute between us could be so dread- 
 ful as the least evil to Isora; and moreover, to appease her 
 fears, that I would solemnly promise he should never sustain 
 personal assault or harm from my hand; in short, I said all 
 that my anxiety could dictate, and at last I succeeded in quiet- 
 ing her fears, and she smiled as brightly as the first time I 
 had seen her in the little cottage of her father. She seemed, 
 however, averse to an absolution from her oath, for she was 
 especially scrupulous as to the sanctity of those religious ob- 
 ligations; but I secretly resolved that her safety absolutely 
 required it, and that at all events I would procure absolution 
 from my own promise to her. 
 
 At last Isora, turning from that topic, so darkly interest- 
 ing, pointed to the heavens, which, with their thousand eyes 
 of light, looked down upon us. "Tell me, love," said she, 
 playfully, as her arm embraced me yet more closely, "if, 
 among yonder stars we could choose a home, which should we 
 select? " 
 
 I pointed to one which lay to the left of the moon, and 
 which, though not larger, seemed to burn with an iutenser 
 lustre than the rest. Since that night it has ever been to me 
 
DEVEREUX. 233 
 
 a fountain of deep and passionate thought, a well wherein 
 fears and hopes are buried, a mirror in which, in stormy 
 times, I have fancied to read my destiny, and to find some 
 mysterious omen of my intended deeds, a haven which I be- 
 lieve others have reached before me, and a home immortal and 
 unchanging, where, when my wearied and fettered soul is 
 escaped, as a bird, it shall flee away, and have its rest at 
 last. 
 
 "What think you of my choice?" said I. Isora looked up- 
 ward, but did not answer; and as I gazed upon her (while 
 the pale light of heaven streamed quietly upon her face) with 
 her dark eyes, where the tear yet lingered, though rather to 
 soften than to dim; with her noble, yet tender features, over 
 which hung a melancholy calm ; with her lips apart, and her 
 rich locks wreathing over her marble brow, and contrasted by 
 a single white rose (that rose I have now — I would not lose 
 one withered leaf of it for a kingdom!), — her beauty never 
 seemed to me of so rare an order, nor did my soul ever yearn 
 towards her with so deep a love. 
 
 It was past midnight. All was hushed in our bridal cham- 
 ber. The single lamp, which hung above, burned still and 
 clear; and through the half-closed curtains of the window, the 
 moonlight looked in upon our couch, quiet and pure and holy, 
 as if it were charged with blessings. 
 
 " Hush ! " said Isora, gently ; " do you not hear a noise 
 below? " 
 
 "Not a breath," said I; "I hear not a breath, save yours." 
 
 "It was my fancy, then!" said Isora, "and it has ceased 
 now ; " and she clung closer to my breast and fell asleep. I 
 looked on her peaceful and childish countenance, with that 
 concentrated and full delight with which we clasp all that 
 the universe holds dear to us, and feel as if the universe held 
 nought beside, — and thus sleep also crept upon me. 
 
 I awoke suddenly; I felt Isora trembling palpably by my 
 side. Before I could speak to her, I saw standing at a little 
 distance from the bed, a man wrapped in a long dark cloak 
 and masked; but his eyes shone through the mask, and they 
 glared full upon me. He stood with his arms folded, and 
 
234 DEVEREUX. 
 
 perfectly motionless ; but at the other end of the room, before 
 the escritoire in which I had locked the important packet, 
 stood another man, also masked, and wrapped in a disguising 
 cloak of similar hue and fashion. This man, as if alarmed, 
 turned suddenly, and I perceived then that the escritoire was 
 already opened, and that the packet was in his hand, I tore 
 myself from Isora's clasp — I stretched my hand to the table 
 by my bedside, upon which I had left my sword, — it was 
 gone! Ko matter! I was young, strong, fierce, and the 
 stake at hazard was great. I sprang from the bed, I precip- 
 itated mj'self upon the man who held the packet. With one 
 hand I grasped at the important document, with the other I 
 strove to tear the mask from the robber's face. He endeav- 
 oured rather to shake me off than to attack me ; and it was not 
 till I had nearly succeeded in unmasking him that he drew 
 forth a short poniard, and stabbed me in the side. The blow, 
 which seemed purposely aimed to save a mortal part, stag- 
 gered me, but only for an instant. I renewed my grij) at the 
 packet — I tore it from the robber's hand, and collecting my 
 strength, now fast ebbing away, for one effort, I bore my 
 assailant to the ground, and fell struggling with him. 
 
 But my blood flowed fast from my wound, and my antag- 
 onist, if less sinewy than myself, had greatly the advantage 
 in weight and size. Now for one moment I was uppermost, 
 but in the next his knee was upon my chest, and his blade 
 gleamed on high in the pale light of the lamp and moon. I 
 thought I beheld my death : would to God that I had ! With 
 a piercing cry, Isora sprang from the bed, flung herself before 
 the lifted blade of the robber, and arrested his arm. This 
 man had, in the whole contest, acted with a singular forbear- 
 ance, he did so now: he paused for a moment and dropped 
 his hand. Plitherto the other man had not stirred from his 
 mute position; he now moved one step towards us, brandish- 
 ing a poniard like his comrade's. Isora raised her hand sup- 
 plicatingly towards him, and cried out, "Spare him, spare 
 him ! Oh, mercy, mercy ! " With one stride the murderer 
 was by my side; he muttered some words which passion 
 seemed to render inarticulate; and, half pushing aside his 
 
DEVEREUX. 235 
 
 comrade, his raised weapon flashed before my eyes, now dim 
 and reeling. I made a vain effort to rise: the blade de- 
 scended; Isora, unable to arrest it, threw herself before it; 
 her blood, her heart's blood gushed over me ; I saw and felt 
 no more. 
 
 "When I recovered my senses, my servants were round me ; 
 a deep red, wet stain upon the sofa on which I was laid 
 brought the whole scene I had Avitnessed again before me — 
 terrible and distinct. I sprang to my feet and asked for 
 Isora ; a low murmur caught my ear : I turned and beheld a 
 dark form stretched on the bed, and surrounded, like myself, 
 by gazers and menials; I tottered towards that bed, — my 
 bridal bed, — with a fierce gesture motioned the crowd away; 
 I heard my name breathed audibly ; the next moment I was 
 by Isora's side. All pain, all weakness, all consciousness of 
 my wound, of my very self, were gone : life seemed curdled 
 into a single agonizing and fearful thought. I fixed my eyes 
 upon hers; and though there the film was gathering dark 
 and rapidly, I saw, yet visible and unconquered, the deep love 
 of that faithful and warm heart which had lavished its life 
 for mine. 
 
 I threw my arms around her; I pressed my lips wildly to 
 hers. "Speak — speak!" I cried, and my blood gushed over 
 her with the effort ; " in mercy speak ! " 
 
 Even in death and agony, the gentle being who had been as 
 wax unto my lightest wish struggled to obey me. " Do not 
 grieve for me, " she said, in a tremulous and broken voice : 
 " it is dearer to die for you than to live ! " 
 
 Those were her last words. I felt her breath abruptly 
 cease. The heart, pressed to mine, was still! I started up 
 in dismay ; the light shone full upon her face. God ! that 
 I should live to write that Isora was — no more ! 
 
BOOK IV. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A RE-ENTRANCE INTO LIFE THROUGH THE EBON GATE, 
 AFFLICTION. 
 
 Months passed away before my senses returned to me. I 
 rose from the bed of suffering and of madness calm, collected, 
 immovable, — altered, but tranquil. All the vigilance of jus- 
 tice had been employed to discover the murderers, but in 
 vain. The packet was gone ; and directly I, who alone was 
 able to do so, recovered enough to state the loss of that docu- 
 ment, suspicion naturally rested on Gerald, as on one whom 
 that loss essentially benefited. He came publicly forward to 
 anticipate inquiry. He proved that he had not stirred from 
 home during the whole week in which the event had occurred. 
 That seemed likely enough to others; it is the tools that 
 work, not the instigator, — the bravo, not the employer; but 
 I, who saw in him not only the robber, but that fearful rival 
 who had long threatened Isora that my bridals should be 
 stained with blood, was somewhat staggered by the undenia- 
 ble proofs of his absence from the scene of that night; and I 
 was still more bewildered in conjecture by remembering that, 
 so far as their disguises and my own hurried and confused 
 observation could allow me to judge, the person of neither 
 villain, still less that of Isora's murderer, corresponded with 
 the proportions and height of Gerald. Still, however, whether 
 mediately or immediately — whether as the executor or the 
 designer — not a doubt remained on my mind that against his 
 head was justice due. I directed inquiry towards Montreuil : 
 
DEVEREUX. 237 
 
 he vras abroad at the time of my recovery; but, immediately 
 on his return, he came forward bohlly and at once to meet 
 and even to court the inquiry I had instituted ; he did more, 
 — he demanded on what ground, besides my own word, it 
 rested that this packet had ever been in my possession; and, 
 to my surprise and perplexity, it was utterly impossible to 
 produce the smallest trace of Mr. Marie Oswald. His half- 
 brother, the attorney, had died, it is true, just before the 
 event of that night; and it was also true that he had seen 
 Marie on his death-bed; but no other corroboration of my 
 story could be substantiated, and no other information of the 
 man obtained ; and the partisans of Gerald were not slow in 
 hinting at the great interest I had in forging a tale respecting 
 a will, about the authenticity of which I was at law. 
 
 The robbers had entered the house by a back-door, which 
 was found open. N"o one had perceived their entrance or 
 exit, except Desmarais, who stated that he heard a cry; that 
 he, having spent the greater part of the night abroad, had not 
 been in bed above an hour before he heard it; that he rose 
 and hurried towards my room, whence the cry came ; that he . 
 met two men masked on the stairs ; that he seized one, who 
 struck him in the breast with a poniard, dashed him to the 
 ground, and escaped; that he then immediately alarmed the 
 house, and, the servants accompanying him, he proceeded, 
 despite his wound, to my apartment, where he found Isora 
 and myself bleeding and lifeless, with the escritoire broken 
 open. 
 
 The only contradiction to this tale was, that the officers of 
 justice found the escritoire not broken open, but unlocked; 
 and yet the key which belonged to it was found in a pocket- 
 book in my clothes, where Desmarais said, rightly, I always 
 kept it. How, then, had the escritoire been unlocked? it 
 was supposed by the master-keys peculiar to experienced 
 burglars; this diverted suspicion into a new channel, and it 
 was suggested that the robbery and the murder had really 
 been committed by common housebreakers. It was then dis- 
 covered that a large purse of gold, and a diamond cross, which 
 the escritoire contained, were gone. And a few articles of 
 
238 DEVEREUX. 
 
 ornamental bijouterie which I had retained from the wreck of 
 my former profusion in such baubles, and which were kept in 
 a room below stairs, were also missing. The circumstances 
 immediately confirmed the opinion of those who threw the 
 guilt upon vulgar and mercenary villains, and a very proba- 
 ble and plausible supposition was built on this hypothesis. 
 Might not this Oswald, at best an adventurer with an indiffer- 
 ent reputation, have forged this story of the packet in order 
 to obtain admission into the house, and reconnoitre, during 
 the confusion of a wedding, in what places the most portable 
 articles of value were stowed? A thousand opportunities, in 
 the opening and shutting of the house-doors, would have al- 
 lowed an ingenious villain to glide in; nay, he might have 
 secreted himself in my own room, and seen the place where I 
 had put the packet : certain would he then be that I had se- 
 lected for the repository of a document I believed so important 
 that place where all that I most valued was secured; and hence 
 he would naturally resolve to break open the escritoire, above 
 all other places, which, to an uninformed robber, might have 
 seemed not only less exposed to danger, but equally likely to 
 contain articles of value. The same confusion which enabled 
 him to enter and conceal himself would have also enabled him 
 to withdraw and introduce his accomplice. This notion was 
 rendered probable by his insisting so strongly on my not open- 
 ing the packet within a certain time; had I opened it immedi- 
 ately, I might have perceived that a deceit had been practised, 
 and not have hoarded it in that place of security which it was 
 the villain's object to discover. Hence, too, in oj)ening the 
 escritoire, he would naturally retake the packet (which other 
 plunderers might not have cared to steal), as well as things 
 of more real price, — naturally retake it, in order that his 
 previous imposition might not be detected, and that suspicion 
 might be cast upon those who would appear to have an inter- 
 est in stealing a packet which I believed to be so inestimably 
 important. 
 
 What gave a still greater colour to this supposition was the 
 fact that none of the servants had seen Oswald leave the 
 house, though many had seen him enter. And wluxt put his 
 
DEVEREUX. 239 
 
 guilt beyond a doubt in the opinion of many, was liis sudden 
 and mysterious disappearance. To my mind, all these cir- 
 Gumstances were not conclusive. Both the men seemed taller 
 than Oswald; and I knew that that confusion which was so 
 much insisted upon, had not — thanks to my singular fastidi- 
 ousness in those matters — existed. I was also perfectly con- 
 vinced that Oswald could not have been hidden in my room 
 while I locked up the packet; and there was something in 
 the behaviour of the murderer utterly unlike that of a com- 
 mon robber actuated by common motives. 
 
 All these opposing arguments were, however, of a nature 
 to be deemed nugatory by the world; and on the only one of 
 any importance in their estimation, namely, the height of 
 Oswald being different from that of the robbers, it was cer- 
 tainly very probable that, in a scene so dreadful, so brief, so 
 confused, I should easily be mistaken. Having therefore 
 once flowed in this direction, public opinion soon settled into 
 the full conviction that Oswald was the real criminal, and 
 against Oswald was the whole strength of inquiry ultimately, 
 but still vainly, bent. Some few, it is true, of that kind 
 class who love family mysteries, and will not easily forego 
 the notion of a brother's guilt for that of a mere vulgar house- 
 breaker, still shook their heads and talked of Gerald; but the 
 suspicion was vague and partial, and it was only in the close 
 gossip of private circles that it was audibly vented. 
 
 I had formed an opinion by no means favourable to the in- 
 nocence of ]Mr. Jean Desmarais ; and I took especial care that 
 the Necessitarian, who would only have thought robbery and 
 murder pieces of ill-luck, should undergo a most rigorous 
 examination. I remembered that he had seen me put the 
 packet into the escritoire; and this circumstance was alone 
 sufficient to arouse my suspicion. Desmarais bared his breast 
 gracefully to the magistrate. ""Would a man, Sir," he said, 
 " a man of my youth, suffer such a scar as that, if he could 
 help it?" The magistrate laughed: frivolity is often a 
 rogue's best policy, if he did but know it. One finds it very 
 difficult to think a coxcomb can commit robbery and murder. 
 Howbeit Desmarais came off triumphantly ; and immediately 
 
240 DEVEREUX. 
 
 after tliis examination, which had been his second one, 
 and instigated solely at my desire, he came to me with a 
 blush of virtuous indignation on his thin cheeks. *' He did 
 not presume," he said, with a bow profounder than ever, 
 "to find fault with Monsieur le Comte; it was his fate to 
 be the victim of ungrateful suspicion: but philosophical 
 truths could not always conquer the feelings of the man, 
 and he came to request his dismissal." I gave it him with 
 pleasure. 
 
 I must now state my own feelings on the matter; but I 
 shall do so briefly. In my own mind, I repeat, I was fully 
 impressed with the conviction that Gerald was the real and 
 the head criminal ; and thrice did I resolve to repair to Dev- 
 ereux Court, where he still resided, to lie in wait for him, to 
 reproach him with his guilt, and at the sword's point in 
 deadly combat to seek its earthly expiation. I spare the 
 reader a narration of the terrible struggles which nature, con- 
 science, all scruples and prepossessions of education and of 
 blood, held with this resolution, the unholiness of which I 
 endeavoured to clothe with the name of justice to Isora. Suf- 
 fice it to say that this resolution I forewent at last; and I did 
 so more from a feeling that, despite my own conviction of 
 Gerald's guilt, one rational doubt rested upon the circum- 
 stance that the murderer seemed to my eyes of an inferior 
 height to Gerald, and that the person whom I had pursued on 
 the night I had received that wound which brought Isora to 
 my bedside, and who, it was natural to believe, was my rival, 
 appeared to me not only also slighter and shorter than Gerald, 
 but of a size that seemed to tally with the murderer's. 
 
 This solitary circumstance, which contradicted my other 
 impressions, was, I say, more effectual in making me dismiss 
 the thought of personal revenge on Gerald than the motives 
 which virtue and religion should have dictated. The deep 
 desire of vengeance is the calmest of all the passions, and it 
 is the one which most demands certainty to the reason, before 
 it releases its emotions and obeys their dictates. The blow 
 which was to do justice to Isora I had resolved should not be 
 dealt till I had obtained the most utter certainty that it fell 
 
DEVEREUX. 241 
 
 upon the true criminal. And thus, thougli I cherished 
 through all time and through all change the burning wisli for 
 retribution, I was doomed to cherish it in secret, and not for 
 years and years to behold a hope of attaining it. Once only 
 I vented my feelings upon Gerald. I could not rest or sleep 
 or execute the world's objects till I had done so; but when 
 they were thus once vented, methought I could wait the will 
 of time with a more settled patience, and I re-entered upon 
 the common career of life more externally fitted to fulfil its 
 duties and its aims. 
 
 That single indulgence of emotion followed immediately 
 after my resolution of not forcing Gerald into bodily contest. 
 I left my sword, lest I might be tempted to forget my deter- 
 mination. I rode to Devereux Court; I entered Gerald's 
 chamber, while my horse stood unstalled at the gate. I said 
 but few words, but each word was a volume. I told him to 
 enjoy the fortune he had acquired by fraud, and the con- 
 science he had stained with murder. "Enjoy them while you 
 may," I said, "but know that sooner or later shall come a 
 day when the blood that cries from earth shall be heard in 
 Heaven, — and your blood shall appease it. Know, if I seem 
 to disobey the voice at my heart, I hear it night and day; 
 and I only live to fulfil at one time its commands." 
 
 I left him stunned and horror-stricken. I flung myself on 
 my horse, and cast not a look behind as I rode from the tow- 
 ers and domains of which I had been despoiled. Never from 
 that time would I trust myself to meet or see the despoiler. 
 Once, directly after I had thus braved him in his usurped 
 hall, he wrote to me. I returned the letter unopened. Enough 
 of this : the reader will now perceive what was the real nature 
 of my feelings of revenge; and will appreciate the reasons 
 which throughout this history will cause me never or rarely 
 to recur to those feelings again, until at least he will per- 
 ceive a just hope of their consummation. 
 
 I went with a quiet air and a set brow into the world. It 
 was a time of great political excitement. Though my creed 
 forbade me the open senate, it could not deprive me of the 
 veiled intrigue. St. John found ample employment for my 
 
 16 
 
242 DEVEREUX. 
 
 ambition; and I entered into the toils and objects of my race 
 with a seeming avidity more eager and engrossing than their 
 
 '^own. In what ensues, you will perceive a great change in 
 the character of my memoirs. Hitherto, I chiefly portrayed 
 to you myself. I bared open to you my heart and temper, — 
 my passions, and the thoughts which belong to our passions. 
 I shall now rather bring before you the natures and the minds 
 of others. The lover and the dreamer are no more! The 
 satirist and the observer; the derider of human follies, par- 
 ticipating while he derides ; the worldly and keen actor in the 
 human drama, — these are what the district of my history on 
 which you enter will portray me. From whatever pangs to 
 me the change may have been wrought, you will be the gainer 
 by that change. The gaudy dissipation of courts ; the vicissi- 
 tudes and the vanities of those who haunt them ; the glitter- 
 ing jest and the light strain; the passing irony or the close 
 reflection; the characters of the great; the colloquies of wit, 
 — these are what delight the temper, and amuse the leisure 
 more than the solemn narrative of fated love. As the mon- 
 ster of the Nile is found beneath the sunniest banks and in 
 the most freshening wave, the stream may seem to wander 
 on in melody and mirth, — the ripple and the beam ; but xcho 
 shall tell what lurks, dark, and fearful, and ever vigilant, 
 
 ^below ! 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 AMBITIOUS PROJECTS. 
 
 It is not my intention to write a political history, instead 
 of a private biography. No doubt in the next century there 
 will be volumes enough written in celebration of that era 
 which my contemporaries are pleased to term the greatest 
 that in modern times has ever existed. Besides, in the pri- 
 vate and more concealed intrigues with which I was engaged 
 
DEVEREUX. 243 
 
 with St, John, there was something which regard for others 
 would compel me to preserve in silence, I shall therefore 
 briefly state that in 1712 St. John dignified the peerage by 
 that title which his exile and his genius have rendered so 
 illustrious, 
 
 I was with him on the day this honour was publicly an- 
 nounced. I found him walking to and fro his room, with his 
 arms folded, and with a very peculiar compression of his 
 nether lip, which was a custom he had when anything greatly 
 irritated or disturbed him, 
 
 "Well," said he, stopping abruptly as he saw me, — "well, 
 considering the peacock Harley brought so bright a plume to 
 his own nest, we must admire the generosity which spared 
 this gay dunghill feather to mine ! " 
 
 "How?" said I, though I knew the cause of his angry met- 
 aphor. St. John used metaphors in speech scarcely less than 
 in writing, 
 
 "How?" cried the new peer, eagerly, and with one of those 
 flashing looks which made his expression of indignation the 
 most powerful I ever saw; "how! Was the sacred promise 
 granted to me of my own collateral earldom to be violated ; 
 and while the weight, the toil, the difficulty, the odium of 
 affairs, from which Harley, the despotic dullard, shrank alike 
 in imbecility and fear, had been left exclusively to my share, 
 an insult in the shape of an honour to be left exclusively to my 
 reward? You know my disposition is not to overrate the mere 
 baubles of ambition; you know I care little for titles and for 
 orders in themselves : but the most worthless thing becomes 
 of consequence if made a symbol of what is of value, or de- 
 signed as the token of an affront. Listen : a collateral earl- 
 dom falls vacant; it is partly promised me. Suddenly I am 
 dragged from the House of Commons, where I am all jiower- 
 ful; I am given — not this earldom, which, as belonging to 
 my house, would alone have induced me to consent to a re- 
 moval from a sphere Avhere my enemies allow I had greater 
 influence than any single commoner in the kingdom, — I am 
 given, not this, but a miserable compromise of distinction, a 
 new and an inferior rank; given it against my will; thrust 
 
244 DEVEREUX. 
 
 into tlie Upper House to defend what this pompous driveller, 
 Oxford, is forced to forsake ; and not only exposed to all the 
 obloquy of a most infuriate party opposed to me, but morti- 
 fied by an intentional affront from the party which, heart and 
 soul, I have supported. You know that my birth is to the 
 full as noble as Harley's ; you know that my influence in the 
 Lower House is far greater; you know that my name in 
 the country, nay, throughout Europe, is far more popular ; 
 you know that the labour allotted to me has been far more 
 weighty ; you know that the late Peace of Utrecht is entirely 
 my framing, that the foes to the measure direct all their 
 venom against me, that the friends of the measure heap upon 
 me all the honour : when, therefore, this exact time is chosen 
 for breaking a promise formerly made to me; when a pre- 
 tended honour, known to be most unpalatable to me, is thrust 
 upon me ; when, at this very time, too, six vacant ribbons of 
 the garter flaunt by me, — one resting on the knee of this 
 Harley, who was able to obtain an earldom for himself, — the 
 others given to men of far inferior pretensions, though not 
 inferior rank to my own, — myself markedly, glaringly passed 
 by : how can I avoid feeling that things despicable in them- 
 selves are become of a vital power, from the evident inten- 
 tion that they should be insults to me? The insects we despise 
 as they buzz around us become dangerous when they settle on 
 ourselves and we feel their sting! But," added Bolingbroke, 
 suddenly relapsing into a smile, "I have long wanted a nick- 
 name : I have now found one for myself. You know Oxford 
 is called 'The Dragon; ' well, henceforth call me 'St. George; ' 
 for, as sure as I live, will I overthrow the Dragon. I say 
 this in jest, but I mean it in earnest. And now that I have 
 discharged my bile, let us talk of this wonderful poem, which, 
 though I have read it a hundred times, I am never wearied of 
 admiring." 
 
 "Ah — 'The Eape of the Lock! ' It is indeed beautiful, 
 but I am not fond of poetry now. By the way, how is it 
 that all our modern poets speak to the taste, the mind, the 
 judgment, and never to the feelings ? Are they right in 
 doing so?" 
 
DEVEREUX. 245 
 
 ^r "My friend, we are now in a polished age. What have 
 feelings to do with civilization?" 
 
 " Why, more than you Avill allow. Perhaps the greater our 
 civilization, the more numerous our feelings. Our animal 
 passions lose in excess, but our mental gain; and it is to the 
 mental that poetry should speak. Our English muse, even 
 in this wonderful poem, seems to me to be growing, like our 
 English beauties, too glitteringly artificial: it wears roicye 
 and a hoop ! " 
 
 "Ha! ha! — yes, they ornament now, rather than create; 
 ' cut drapery, rather than marble. Our poems remind me of 
 the ancient statues. Phidias made them, and Bubo and Bom- 
 bax dressed them in purple. But this does not apply to 
 young Pope, who has shown in this very poem that he can 
 work the quarry as well as choose the gems. But see, the 
 carriage awaits us. I have worlds to do; first there is Swift 
 to see; next, there is some exquisite Burgundy to taste; 
 then, too, there is the new actress ; and, by the by, you must 
 tell me what you think of Bentley's Horace; we will drive 
 first to my bookseller's to see it; Swift shall wait; Heavens! 
 how he would rage if he heard me. I was going to say what 
 a pity it is that that man should have so much littleness of 
 vanity ; but I should have uttered a very foolish sentiment if 
 I had!" 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 "Because, if he had not so much littleness perhaps he 
 would not be so great : what but vanity makes a man write 
 and speak, and slave, and become famous? Alas!" and here 
 St. John's countenance changed from gayety to thought; 
 "'tis a melancholy thing in human nature that so little is 
 good and noble, both in itself and in its source I Our very 
 worst passions will often produce sublimer effects than our 
 best. Phidias (we will apply to him for another illustration) 
 made the wonderful statue of Minerva for his country ; but, 
 in order to avenge himself on that country, he eclipsed it in 
 the far more wonderful statue of the Jupiter Olympius. Thus, 
 from a vicious feeling emanated a greater glory than from an 
 exalted principle ; and the artist was less celebrated for the 
 
246 DEVEREUX. 
 
 monument of his patriotism than for that of his revenge! 
 But, allons, mon cher, ^xe grow wise and dull. Let us go to 
 choose our Burgundy and our comrades to share it." 
 
 However with his characteristic affectation of bounding 
 ambition, and consequently hope, to no one object in particu- 
 lar, and of mingling affairs of light importance with those of 
 the most weighty, Lord Bolingbroke might pretend not to re- 
 cur to, or to dwell upon, his causes of resentment, from 
 that time they never ceased to influence him to a great, and 
 for a statesman an unpardonable, degree. We cannot, how- 
 ever, blame politicians for their hatred, until, without hating 
 anybody, we have for a long time been politicians ourselves ; 
 strong minds have strong passions, and men of strong passions 
 must hate as well as love. 
 
 The next two years passed, on my part, in perpetual in- 
 trigues of diplomacy, combined with an unceasing though 
 secret endeavour to penetrate the mystery which hung over 
 the events of that dreadful night. All, however, was m vain. 
 1 know not what the English police may be hereafter, but, in 
 my time, its officers seem to be chosen, like honest Dogberry's 
 companions, among "the most senseless and fit men." They 
 are, however, to the full, as much knaves as fools ; and per- 
 haps a wiser posterity will scarcely believe that, when things 
 of the greatest value are stolen, the owners, on applying to 
 the chief magistrate, will often be told that no redress can be 
 given there, while one of the officers will engage to get back 
 the goods, upon paying the thieves a certain sum in exchange : 
 if this is refused, your effects are gone forever! A pretty 
 state of internal government! 
 
 It was about a year after the murder that my mother in- 
 formed me of an event which tore from my heart its last pri- 
 vate tie ; namely, the death of Aubrey. The last letter I had 
 received from him has been placed before the reader; it was 
 written at Devereux Court, just before he left it forever. 
 Montreuil had been with him during the illness Avhich proved 
 fatal, and which occurred in Ireland. He died of consump- 
 tion; and when I heard from my mother that Montreuil dwelt 
 most glowingly upon the devotion he had manifested during 
 
DEVEREUX. 247 
 
 the last months of his life, I could not help fearing that the 
 morbidity of his superstition had done the work of physical 
 disease. On this fatal news, my mother retired from Dev- 
 ereux Court to a company of ladies of our faith, who resided 
 together, and practised the most ascetic rules of a nunnery, 
 though they gave hot to their house that ecclesiastical name. 
 My mother had long meditated this project, and it was now a 
 melancholy pleasure to put it into execution. From that 
 period I rarely heard from her, and by little and little she so 
 shrank from all worldly objects that my visits, and I believe 
 even those of Gerald, became unwelcome and distasteful. 
 
 As to my lawsuit, it went on gloriously, according to the 
 assertions of my brisk, little lawyer, who had declared so em- 
 phatically that he liked making quick work of a suit. And, 
 at last, what with bribery and feeing and pushing, a day was 
 fixed for the final adjustment of my claim. It came — the 
 cause was heard and lost! I should have been ruined, but 
 for one circumstance; the old lady, my father's godmother, 
 who had witnessed my first and concealed marriage, left me a 
 pretty estate near Epsom. I turned it into gold, and it was 
 fortunate that I did so soon, as the reader is about to see. 
 
 The queen died; and a cloud already began to look men- 
 acing to the eyes of the Viscount Bolingbroke, and therefore 
 to those of the Count Devereux, " We will weather out the 
 shower," said Bolingbroke. 
 
 "Could not you," said I, "make our friend Oxford the 
 Talapat?"^ and Bolingbroke laughed- All men find wit in 
 the jests broken on their enemies! 
 
 One morning, however, I received a laconic note from him, 
 which, notwithstanding its shortness and seeming gayety, I 
 knew well signified that something not calculated for laughter 
 had occurred. I went, and found that his new Majesty had 
 deprived him of the seals and secured his papers. We looked 
 
 1 A thing used by the Siamese for the same purpose as we now use the 
 umbrella. A work descriptive of Siam, by M. de la Louhere, in which the 
 Talapat is somewhat minutely described, having been translated into English, 
 and having excited some curiosity, a few years before Count Devereux now 
 uses the word, the allusion was probably familiar. — Ed. 
 
248 DEVEREUX. 
 
 very blank at each other. At last, Bolingbroke smiled. I 
 must say that, culpable as he was in some points as a politi- 
 cian, — culpable, not from being ambitious (for I would not 
 give much for the statesman who is otherwise), but from not 
 having inseparably linked his ambition to the welfare of his 
 country, rather than to that of a party; for, despite of what 
 has been said of him, his ambition was never selfish, — culpa- 
 ble as he was when glory allured him, he was most admirable 
 Avhen danger assailed him! ^ and, by the shade of that Tully 
 whom he so idolized, his philosophy was the most conven- 
 iently worn of any person's I ever met. When it would have 
 been in the way — at the supper of an actress, in the levees of 
 a court, in the boudoir of a beauty, in the arena of the senate, 
 in the intrigue of the cabinet — you would not have observed 
 
 1 I know well that it has been said otherwise, and that Bolingbroke has 
 been accused of timidity for not staying in England, and making Mr. Robert 
 Walpole a present of his head. The elegant author of " De Vere " has fallen 
 into a very great though a very hackneyed error, in lauding Oxford's political 
 character, and condemning Bolingbroke's, because the former awaited a trial 
 and the latter shunned it. A very little reflection might perhaps have taught 
 the accomplished novelist that there could be no comparison between the two 
 cases, because there was no comparison between the relative danger of Oxford 
 and Bolingbroke. Oxford, as their subsequent impeachment proved, was far 
 more numerously and powerfully supported than his illustrious enemy : and 
 there is really no earthly cause for doubting the truth of Bolingbroke's asser- 
 tion; namely, that " He had received repeated and certain information that a 
 resolution was taken, by those who had power to execute it, to pursue him to 
 the scaffold." There are certain situations in which a brave and a good man 
 should willingly surrender life: but I humbly opine that there may some- 
 times exist a situation in which he should preserve it ; and if ever man was 
 placed in that latter situation, it was Lord Bolingbroke. To choose uttneces- 
 sarili/ to put one's head under the axe, without benefiting any but one's 
 enemies by the act, is, in my eyes, the proof of a fool, not a hero ; and to 
 attack a man for not placing his head in that agreeable and most useful pre- 
 dicament — for preferring, in short, to live for a world, rather than to perish 
 by a faction — appears to be a mode of arguing that has a wonderful resem- 
 blance to nonsense. When Lord Bolingbroke was impeached, two men only 
 out of those numerous retainers in the Lower House who had been wont so 
 loudly to applaud the secretary of state, in his prosecution of those very 
 measures for which he was now to be condemned, — two men only, General 
 Ross and Mr. Hungerford, uttered a single syllable in defence of the minister 
 disgraced — Ed. 
 
DEVEREUX. 249 
 
 a seam of the good old garment. But directly it was wanted 
 — in the liour of pain, in the day of peril, in the suspense of 
 exile, in (worst of all) the torpor of tranquillity — my extra- 
 ordinary friend unfolded it piece by piece, wrapped himself 
 up in it, sat down, defied the world, and uttered the most 
 beautiful sentiments uj^on the comfort and luxury of his rai- 
 ment, that can possibly be imagined. It used to remind me, 
 that same philosophy of his, of the enchanted tent in the 
 Arabian Tale, which one moment lay wrapped in a nut-shell, 
 and the next covered an army. 
 
 Boliugbroke smiled, and quoted Cicero, and after an hour's 
 conversation, which on his part was by no means like that of 
 a person whose very head was in no enviable state of safety, 
 he slid at once from a sarcasm upon Steele into a discussion as 
 to the best measures to be adopted. Let me be brief on this 
 point. Throughout the whole of that short session, he be- 
 haved in a manner more delicately and profoundly wise than, 
 I think, the whole of his previous administration can equal. 
 He sustained with the most unflagging, the most unwearied, 
 dexterity, the sinking spirits of his associates. Without an 
 act, or the shadow of an act, that could be called time-serv- 
 ing, he laid himself out to conciliate the king, and to propi- 
 tiate Parliament; with a dignified prudence which, while it 
 seemed above petty pique, was well calculated to remove the 
 appearance of that disaffection with which he was charged, 
 and discriminated justly between the king and the new ad- 
 ministration, he lent his talents to the assistance of the mon- 
 arch by whom his impeachment was already resolved on, and 
 aided in the settlement of the civil list while he was in full 
 expectation of a criminal accusation. 
 
 The new Parliament met, and all doubt was over. An im- 
 peachment of the late administration was decided upon. I 
 was settling bills with my little lawyer one morning, when 
 Bolingbroke entered my room. He took a chair, nodded to 
 me not to dismiss my assistant, joined our conversation, and 
 when conversation was merged in accounts, he took up a book 
 of songs, and amused himself with it till my business was 
 over and my disciple of Coke retired. He then said, very 
 
250 DEVEREUX. 
 
 slowly, and with a slight yawn, " You have never been at 
 Paris, I think?" 
 
 "Never: you are enchanted with that gay city." 
 
 "Yes, but when I was last there, the good people flattered 
 my vanity enough to bribe my taste. I shall be able to form 
 a more unbiased and impartial judgment in a few days." 
 
 " A few days ! " 
 
 "Ay, my dear Count : does it startle you? I wonder whether 
 the pretty De Tencin will be as kind to me as she was, and 
 whether tout le vionde (that most exquisite phrase for five 
 hundred people) will rise now at the Opera on my entrance. 
 Do you think that a banished minister can have any, the 
 smallest resemblance to what he was when in power? By 
 Gumdragon, as our friend Swift so euphoniously and ele- 
 gantly says, or swears, by Gumdragon, I think not! What 
 altered Satan so after his fall? what gave him horns and a 
 tail? Nothing but his disgrace. Oh! years, and disease, 
 plague, pestilence, and famine never alter a man so much as 
 the loss of power." 
 
 " You say wisely ; but what am I to gather from your words? 
 is it all over with us in real earnest? " 
 
 " Us ! with me it is indeed all over : t/ou may stay here for- 
 ever. 7 must fly : a packet-boat to Calais, or a room in the 
 Tower, I must choose betweeiji the two. I had some thoughts 
 of remaining and confronting my trial : but it would be folly ; 
 there is a difference between Oxford and me. He has friends, 
 though out of power : I have none. If they impeach him, he 
 will escape ; if they impeach me, they will either shut me up 
 like a rat in a cage, for twenty years, till, old and forgotten, 
 I tear my heart out with my confinement, or they will bring 
 me at once to the block. No, no : I must keep myself for an- 
 other day ; and, while they banish me, I will leave the seeds 
 of the true cause to grow up till my return. Wise and ex- 
 quisite policy of my foes, — Trustra Cassium amovisti, si 
 gliscere et vigere Brutorum emulos passurus es. ' ^ But I have 
 no time to lose: farewell, my friend; God bless you; you are 
 
 1 " Vainly have you banished Cassius, if you shall suffer the rivals of the 
 Brutuses to spread themselves and flourish." 
 
DEVEREUX. 251 
 
 saved from these storms; and even intolerance, which pre- 
 vented the exercise of your genius, preserves you now from 
 the danger of having applied that genius to the welfare of 
 your country. Heaven knows, whatever my faults, I have 
 sacrificed what I loved better than all things — study and 
 pleasure — to her cause. In her wars I served even my enemy 
 Marlborough, in order to serve her; her peace I effected, and 
 I suffer for it. Be it so, I am — 
 
 " ' Fidens animi atque iu utruraque paratus.' ^ 
 
 Once more I embrace you; farewell." 
 
 "Xay," said I, "listen to me; you shall not go alone. 
 France is already, in reality, my native country : there did I 
 receive my birth; it is no hardship to return to my natale 
 solum; it is an honour to return in the company of Henry St. 
 John. I will have no refusal: my law case is over; my 
 papers are few; my money I will manage to transfer. Re- 
 member the anecdote you told me yesterday of Anaxagoras, 
 who, when asked where his country was, pointed with his 
 finger to heaven. It is applicable, I hope, as well to me as 
 to yourself: to me, vmcelebrated and obscure; to you, the 
 senator and the statesman." 
 
 In vain Bolingbroke endeavoured to dissuade me from this 
 resolution; he was the only friend fate had left me, and I 
 was resolved that misfortune should not part us. At last he 
 embraced me tenderly, and consented to what he could not 
 resist. "But you cannot," he said, "quit England to-morrow 
 night, as I must." 
 
 "Pardon me," I answered, "the briefer the preparation, the 
 greater the excitement, and what in life is equal to that ? " 
 
 "True," answered Bolingbroke; "to some natures, too 
 restless to be happy, excitement can compensate for all, — 
 compensate for years wasted, and hopes scattered, — com- 
 pensate for bitter regret at talents perverted and passions 
 unrestrained. But we will talk philosophically when we 
 have more leisure. You will dine with me to-morrow: we 
 will go to the play together; I promised poor Lucy that I 
 1 " Confident of soul and prepared for either fortune." 
 
252 DEVEREUX. 
 
 would see lier at the theatre, and I caunot break my word; 
 and an hour afterwards we will commence our excursion to 
 Paris. And now I will explain to you the plan I have 
 arranged for our escape." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE REAL ACTORS SPECTATORS TO THE FALSE ONES. 
 
 It was a brilliant night at the theatre. The boxes were 
 crowded to excess. Every eye was directed towards Lord 
 Bolingbroke, who, with his usual dignified and consummate 
 grace of manner, conversed with the various loiterers with 
 whom, from time to time, his box was filled. 
 
 "Look yonder," said a very young man, of singular per- 
 sonal beauty, "look yonder, my Lord, what a panoply of 
 smiles the Duchess wears to-night, and how triumphantly 
 she directs those eyes, which they say were once so beautiful, 
 to your box." 
 
 "Ah," said Bolingbroke, "her Grace does me too much hon- 
 our: I must not neglect to acknowledge her courtesy;" and, 
 leaning over the box, Bolingbroke watched his opportunity 
 till the Duchess of Marlborough, who sat oj)posite to him, 
 and Avho was talking with great and evidentl}^ joyous vivacity 
 to a tall, thin man, beside her, directed her attention, and 
 that of her whole party, in a fixed and concentrated stare, to 
 the imperilled minister. With a dignified smile Lord Boling- 
 broke then put his hand to his heart, and bowed profoundly ; 
 the Duchess looked a little abashed, but returned the cour- 
 tesy quickly and slightly, and renewed her conversation. 
 
 "Faith, my Lord," cried the young gentleman who had be- 
 fore spoken, "you managed that well! Ko reproach is like 
 that which we clothe in a smile, and present with a bow." 
 
DEVEREUX. 253 
 
 "I am happy," said Lord Bolingbroke, "that my conduct re- 
 ceives the grave support of a sou of iriy political opponent." 
 
 " Grave support, my Lord! you are mistaken: never apply 
 the epithet grave to anything belonging to Philip Wharton. 
 But, in sober earnest, I have sat long enough with you to 
 terrify all my friends, and must now show my worshipful 
 face in another part of the house. Count Devereux, will you 
 come with me to the Duchess's?" 
 
 "What! the Duchess's immediately after Lord Boling- 
 broke's! — the Whig after the Tory: it would be as trying to 
 one's assurance as a change from the cold bath to the hot to 
 one's constitution." 
 
 " Well, and what so delightful as a trial in which one tri- 
 umphs? and a change in which one does not lose even one's 
 countenance?" 
 
 "Take care, my Lord," said Bolingbroke, laughing; "those 
 are dangerous sentiments for a man like you, to whom the 
 hopes of two great parties are directed, to express so openly, 
 even on a trifle and in a jest." 
 
 " 'T is for that reason I utter them. I like being the object 
 of hope and fear to men, since my miserable fortune made me 
 marry at fourteen, and cease to be aught but a wedded thing 
 to the women. But sup with me at the Bedford, — you, my 
 Lord, and the Count." 
 
 "And you will ask Walpole, Addison, and Steele,^ to join 
 us, eh?" said Bolingbroke. "No, we have other engage- 
 ments for to-night; but we shall meet again soon." 
 
 And the eccentric youth nodded his adieu, disappeared, 
 and a minute afterwards was seated by the side of the Duch- 
 ess of Marlborough. 
 
 "There goes a boy," said Bolingbroke, "who, at the age of 
 fifteen, has in him the power to be the greatest man of his 
 day, and in all probability will only be the most singular. 
 An obstinate man is sure of doing well; a wavering or a 
 whimsical one (which is the same thing) is as uncertain, even 
 in his elevation, as a shuttlecock. But look to the box at the 
 right: do you see the beautiful Lady Mary?" 
 
 1 All political opponents of Lord Bolingbroke. 
 
254 DEVEREUX. 
 
 ''Yes," said Mr. Trefusis, who was with us, "she has only 
 just come to town. 'T is said she and Ned Montagu live 
 like doves." 
 
 "How!" said Lord Bolingbroke; "that quick, restless eye 
 seems to have very little of the dove in it." 
 
 " But how beautiful she is ! " said Trefusis, admiringly. 
 " What a pity that those exquisite hands should be so dirty ! 
 It reminds me " (Trefusis loved a coarse anecdote) " of her an- 
 swer to old Madame de Xoailles, who made exactly the same 
 remark to her. 'Do you call my hands dirty?' cried Lady 
 Mary, holding them up with the most innocent naivete. 
 'Ah, Madame, si voxis pouviez voir mes pieds! ' " 
 
 ^^ Fi donc,'^ said I, turning away; "but who is that very 
 small, deformed man behind her, — he with the bright black 
 eye?" 
 
 "Know you not? " said Bolingbroke; "tell it not in Gath! 
 — 't is a rising sun, whom I have already learned to wor- 
 ship, — the young author of the 'Essay on Criticism,' and 
 'The Eape of the Lock.' Egad, the little poet seems to 
 eclipse us with the women as much as with the men. Do 
 you mark how eagerly Lady Mary listens to him, even though 
 the tall gentleman in black, who in vain endeavours to win 
 her attentions, is thought the handsomest gallant in London? 
 Ah, Genius is paid by smiles from all females but Fortune; 
 little, methinks, does that young poet, in his first intoxica- 
 tion of flattery and fame, guess what a lot of contest and 
 strife is in store for him. The very breath which a literary 
 man respires is hot with hatred, and the youthful proselyte 
 enters that career which seems to him so glittering, even as 
 Dame Pliant's brother in the 'Alchemist' entered town, — 
 not to be fed with luxury, and diet on pleasure, but 'to learn 
 to quarrel and live by his wits.' " 
 
 The play was now nearly over. "With great gravity Lord 
 Bolingbroke summoned one of the principal actors to his 
 box, and bespoke a play for the next week; leaning then on 
 my arm, he left the theatre. We hastened to his home, put 
 on our disguises, and, without any adventure worth recount- 
 ing, effected our escape and landed safely at Calais. 
 
DEVEREUX. 255 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 PARIS. A FEMALE POLITICIAN AND AN ECCLESIASTICAL 
 
 ONE. — SUNDRY OTHER MATTERS. 
 
 The ex-minister v^as received both at Calais and at Paris 
 with the most gratifying honours : he was then entirely the 
 man to captivate the French. The beauty of his person, 
 the grace of his manner, his consummate taste in all things, the 
 exceeding variety and sparkling vivacity of his conversation, 
 enchanted them. In later life he has grown more reserved 
 and profound, even in habitual intercourse ; and attention is 
 now fixed to the solidity of the diamond, as at that time one 
 was too dazzled to think of anything but its brilliancy. 
 
 While Bolingbroke was receiving visits of state, I busied 
 myself in inquiring after a certain Madame de Balzac. The 
 reader will remember that the envelope of that letter which 
 Oswald had brought to me at Devereux Court was signed by 
 the letters C. de B. Now, when Oswald disappeared, after 
 that dreadful night to which even now I can scarcely bring 
 myself to allude, these initials occurred to my remembrance, 
 and Oswald having said they belonged to a lady formerly 
 intimate with my father, I inquired of my mother if she 
 could guess to what French lady such initials would apply. 
 She, with an evident pang of jealousy, mentioned a Madame 
 de Balzac; and to this lady I now resolved to address myself, 
 with the faint hope of learning from her some intelligence 
 respecting Oswald. It was not difficult to find out the abode 
 of one who in her day had played no inconsiderable role in 
 that 'Comedy of Errors,' — the Great "World. She was still 
 living at Paris : what Frenchwoman would, if she could help 
 it, live anywhere else? "There are a hundred gates," said 
 the witty Madame de Choisi to me, "which lead into Paris, 
 but only tAvo roads out of it, — the convent, or (odious word!) 
 the grave." 
 
256 DEVEREUX. 
 
 I hastened to Madame Balzac's hotel. I was ushered 
 through three magnificent apartments into one which to my 
 eyes seemed to contain a throne : upon a nearer insj)ection I 
 discovered it was a bed. Upon a large chair, by a very bad 
 fire — it was in the month of March — sat a tall, handsome 
 woman, excessively painted, and dressed in a manner which 
 to my taste, accustomed to English finery, seemed singu- 
 larly plain. I had sent in the morning to request permission 
 to wait on her, so that she was prepared for my visit. She 
 rose, offered me her cheek, kissed mine, shed several tears, 
 and in short testified a great deal of kindness towards me. 
 Old ladies who have flirted with our fathers always seem to 
 claim a sort of property in the sons ! 
 
 Before she resumed her seat she held me out at arm's length. 
 
 "You have a family likeness to your brave father," said 
 she, with a little disappointment; "but — " 
 
 "Madame de Balzac would add," interrupted I, filling up 
 the sentence which I saw her bienveillance had made her 
 break off, "Madame de Balzac would add that I am not so 
 good-looking. It is true : the likeness is transmitted to me 
 within rather than without; and if I have not my father's 
 l^rivilege to be admired, I have at least his capacities to ad- 
 mire," and I bowed. 
 
 Madame de Balzac took three large pinches of snuff. " That 
 is very well said," said she, gravely: "very well indeed! 
 not at all like your father, though, who never paid a 
 compliment in his life. Your clothes, by the by, are in 
 exquisite taste : I had no idea that English people had arrived 
 at such perfection in the fine arts. Your face is a little too 
 long! You admire Eacine, of course? How do you like 
 Paris?" 
 
 All this was not said gayly or quickly : Madame de Balzac 
 was by no means a gay or a quick person. She belonged to a 
 peculiar school of Frenchwomen, who affected a little lan- 
 guor, a great deal of stiffness, an indifference to forms when 
 forms were to be used by themselves, and an unrelaxing de- 
 mand of forms when forms were to be observed to them by 
 others. Added to this, they talked plainly upon all matters, 
 
DEVEREUX. 257 
 
 without ever entering upon sentiment. This was the school 
 she belonged to ; but she possessed the traits of the individual 
 as well as of the species. She was keen, ambitious, worldly, 
 not unaffectionate nor unkind; very proud, a little of the 
 devotee, — because it was the fashion to be so, — an enthusi- 
 astic admirer of military glory, and a most prying, search- 
 ing, intriguing schemer of politics without the slightest 
 talent for the science. 
 
 " Like Paris ! " said I, answering only the last question, 
 and that not with the most scrupulous regard to truth. ** Can 
 Madame de Balzac think of Paris, and not conceive the trans- 
 port which must inspire a person entering it for the first time? 
 But I had something more endearing than a stranger's inter- 
 est to attach me to it: I longed to express to my father's 
 friend my gratitude for the interest which I venture to be- 
 lieve she on one occasion manifested towards me." 
 
 " Ah ! you mean my caution to you against that terrible De 
 Montreuil. Yes, I trust I was of service to you there." 
 
 And Madame de Balzac then proceeded to favour me with 
 the whole history of the manner in which she had obtained 
 the letter she had sent me, accompanied by a thousand anathe- 
 mas against those atroces Jesuites and a thousand eulogies on 
 her own genius and virtues. I brought her from this subject 
 so interesting to herself, as soon as decorum would allow me ; 
 and I then made inquiry if she knew aught of Oswald or 
 could suggest any mode of obtaining intelligence respecting 
 him. Madame de Balzac hated plain, blunt, blank questions, 
 and she always travelled through a wilderness of parentheses 
 before she answered them. But at last I did ascertain her 
 answer, and found it utterly unsatisfactory. She had never 
 seen nor heard anything of Oswald since he had left her 
 charged with her commission to me. I then questioned her 
 respecting the character of the man, and found Mr. Marie 
 Oswald had little to plume himself upon in that respect. He 
 seemed, however, from her account of him, to be more a rogue 
 than a villain; and from two or three stories of his cowardice, 
 which jNIadame de Balzac related, he appeared to me utterly 
 incapable of a design so daring and systematic as that of 
 
 17 
 
258 DEVEREUX. 
 
 ■which it pleased all persons who troubled themselves about 
 my affairs to suspect him. 
 
 Finding at last that no further information was to be gained 
 on this point, I turned the conversation to Montreuil. I 
 found, from Madame de Balzac's very abuse of him, that he 
 enjoyed a great reputation in the country and a great favour 
 at court. He had been early befriended by Father la Chaise, 
 and he was now especially trusted and esteemed by the suc- 
 cessor of that Jesuit Le Tellier, — Le Tellier, that rigid and 
 bigoted servant of Loyola, the sovereign of the king himself, 
 the destroyer of the Port Eoyal, and the mock and terror of 
 the bedevilled and persecuted Jansenists. Besides this, I 
 learned what has been before pretty clearly evident ; namely, 
 that Montreuil was greatly in the confidence of the Chevalier, 
 and that he was supposed already to have rendered essential 
 service to the Stuart cause. His reputation had increased 
 with every year, and was as great for private sanctity as for 
 political talent. 
 
 When this information, given in a very different spirit from 
 that in which I retail it, was over, Madame de Balzac ob- 
 served, "Doubtless you will obtain a private audience with 
 the king?" 
 
 "Is it possible, in his present age and infirmities?" 
 
 "It ought to be, to the son of the brave Marshal Devereux." 
 
 "I shall be happy to receive Madame's instructions how to 
 obtain the honour : her name would, I feel, be a greater pass- 
 port to the royal presence than that of a deceased soldier; 
 and Venus's cestus may obtain that grace which would never 
 be accorded to the truncheon of Mars ! " 
 
 Was there ever so natural and so easy a compliment? j\Iy 
 Venus of fifty smiled. 
 
 " You are mistaken, Count, " said she ; " I have no interest 
 at court: the Jesuits forbid that to a Jansenist; but I will 
 cpeak this very day to the Bishop of Frcjus ; he is related to 
 me, and will obtain so slight a boon for you with ease. He 
 has just left his bishopric ; you know how he hated it. Noth- 
 ing could be pleasanter than his signing himself, in a letter 
 to Cardinal Quirini, 'Fleuri, Eveque de Frejus par I'indigna- 
 
DEVEREUX. 259 
 
 tion divine.' The King does not like him much; but he is a 
 good man on the whole, though Jesuitical; he shall introduce 
 you." 
 
 I expressed my gratitude for the favour, and hinted that 
 possibly the relations of my father's first wife, the haughty 
 and ancient house of La Tremouille, might save the Bishop 
 of Frejus from the pain of exerting himself on my behalf. 
 
 " You are very much mistaken, " answered ^ladame de Bal- 
 zac: "priests point the road to court as well as to Heaven; 
 and warriors and nobles have as little to do with the former 
 as they have with the latter, the unlucky Due de Villars only 
 excepted, — a man whose ill fortune is enough to destroy all 
 the laurels of France. Ma foi ! I believe the poor Duke 
 might rival in luck that Italian poet who said, in a fit of de- 
 spair, that if he had been bred a hatter, men would have been 
 born without heads." 
 
 And Madame de Balzac chuckled over this joke, till, seeing 
 that no further news was to be gleaned from her, I made my 
 adieu and my departure. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the kindness manifested towards me 
 by my father's early connections. The circumstance of my 
 accompanying Bolingbroke, joined to my age, and an address 
 which, if not animated nor gay, had not been acquired with- 
 out some youthful cultivation of the graces, gave me a sort of 
 eclat as well as consideration. And Bolingbroke, who was 
 only jealous of superiors in power, and who had no equals 
 in anything else, added greatly to my reputation by his 
 panegyrics. 
 
 Every one sought me; and the attention of society at Paris 
 would, to most, be worth a little trouble to repay. Perhaps, 
 if I had liked it, I might have been the rage ; but that vanity 
 was over. I contented myself with being admitted into soci- 
 ety as an observer, without a single wish to become the ob- 
 served. "When one has once outlived the ambition of fashion 
 I know not a greater affliction than an over-attention; and 
 the Spectator did just what I should have done in a similar 
 case, when he left his lodgings "because he was asked every 
 morning how he had slept." In the immediate vicinity of 
 
260 DEVEREUX. 
 
 the court, the King's devotion, age, and misfortunes threw a 
 damp over society; but there were still some sparkling cir- 
 cles, who put the King out of the mode, and declared that the 
 defeats of his generals made capital subjects for epigrams. 
 What a delicate and subtle air did hang over those soirees, 
 where all that were bright and lovely, and noble and gay, and 
 witty and wise, were assembled in one brilliant cluster! Im- 
 perfect as my rehearsals must be, I think the few pages I 
 shall devote to a description of these glittering conversations 
 must still retain something of that original piquancy which 
 the soirees of no other capital could rival or appreciate. 
 
 One morning, about a week after my interview with 
 Madame de Balzac, I received a note from her requesting me 
 to visit her that day, and appointing the hour. 
 
 Accordingly I repaired to the house of the fair politician. 
 I found her with a man in a clerical garb, and of a benevolent 
 and prepossessing countenance. She introduced him to me 
 as the Bishop of Frejus ; and he received me with an air very 
 uncommon to his countrymen, namely, with 3 an ease that 
 seemed to result from real good-nature, rather than artificial 
 grace. 
 
 "I shall feel," said he, quietly, and without the least ap- 
 pearance of paying a compliment, " very glad to mention your 
 wish to his Majesty; and I have not the least doubt but that 
 he will admit to his presence one who has such hereditary 
 claims on his notice. Madame de Maintenon, by the way, 
 has charged me to present you to her whenever you will give 
 me the opportunity. She knew your admirable mother well, 
 and for her sake wishes once to see you. You know perhaps. 
 Monsieur, that the extreme retirement of her life renders 
 this message from Madame de Maintenon an unusual and rare 
 honour." 
 
 I expressed my thanks ; the Bishop received them with a 
 paternal rather than a courtier-like air, and appointed a day 
 for me to attend him to the palace. We then conversed a 
 short time upon indifferent matters, which I observed the good 
 Bishop took especial pains to preserve clear from French poli- 
 tics. He asked me, however, two or three questions about 
 
DEVEREUX. 261 
 
 llie state of parties in England, — about finance and the na- 
 tional debt, about Ormond and Oxford; and appeared to give 
 the most close attention to my replies. He smiled once or 
 twice, when his relation, Madame de Ealzac, broke out into 
 sarcasms against the Jesuits, which had nothing to do with 
 the subjects in question. 
 
 "Ah, ma chere cotcsine," said he; "you flatter me by show- 
 ing that you like me not as the politician, but the private re- 
 lation, — not as the Bishop of Frejus, but as Andre de Fleuri," 
 
 Madame de Balzac smiled, and answered by a compliment. 
 She was a politician for the kingdom, it is true, but she was 
 also a politician for herself. She was far from exclaiming, 
 with Pindar, " Thy business, my city, I prefer willingly to 
 my own." Ah, there is a nice distinction between politics 
 and policy, and Madame de Balzac knew it. The distinction 
 is this. Politics is the art of being wise for others : policy 
 is the art of being wise for one's self. 
 
 From Madame de Balzac's I went to Bolingbroke. " I have 
 just been offered the place of Secretary of State by the Eng- 
 lish king on this side of the water," said he; "I do not, how- 
 ever, yet like to commit myself so fully. And, indeed, I am 
 not unwilling to have a little relaxation of pleasure, after all 
 these dull and dusty travails of state. What say you to 
 Boulainvilliers to-night? you are asked?" 
 
 "Yes! all the wits are to be there, — Anthony Hamilton, 
 and Fontenelle, young Arouet, Chaulieu, that charming old 
 man. Let us go, and polish away the wrinkles of our hearts. 
 What cosmetics are to the face wit is to the temper; and, 
 after all, there is no wisdom like that which teaches us to 
 forget." 
 
 "Come then," said Bolingbroke, rising, "we will lock up 
 these papers, and take a melancholy drive, in order that we 
 may enjoy mirth the better by and by. " 
 
262 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A MEETING OF WITS. CONVERSATION GONE OUT TO SUPPER 
 
 IN HER DRESS OF VELVET AND JEWELS. 
 
 BouLAiNviLLiERS ! CoBite de St. Saire! What will our 
 great-grandchildren think of that name? Fame is indeed a 
 riddle! At the time I refer to, wit, learning, grace — all 
 things that charm and enlighten — were supposed to centre in 
 one word, — BoulainviUie7's ! The good Count had many ri- 
 vals, it is true, but he had that exquisite tact peculiar to his 
 countrymen, of making the very reputations of those rivals 
 contribute to his own. And while he assembled them around 
 him, the lustre of their bons mots, though it emanated from 
 themselves, was reflected upon him. 
 
 It was a pleasant though not a costly apartment in which 
 we found our host. The room was sufficiently full of j)eople 
 to allow scope and variety to one group of talkers, without 
 being full enough to permit those little knots and coteries 
 which are the destruction of literary society. An old man 
 of about seventy, of a sharp, shrewd, yet polished and courtly 
 expression of countenance, of a great gayety of manner, which 
 was now and then rather displeasingly contrasted by an 
 abrupt affectation of dignity, that, however, rarely lasted 
 above a minute, and never withstood the shock of a bon mot, 
 was the first person who accosted us. This old man was the 
 wreck of the once celebrated Anthony Count Hamilton ! 
 
 "Well, my Lord," said he to Bolingbroke, "how do you 
 like the weather at Paris? It is a little better than the merci- 
 less air of London; is it not? 'Slife! — even in June one 
 could not go open breasted in those regions of cold and ca- 
 tarrh, — a very great misfortune, let me tell you, my Lord, if 
 one's cambric happened to be of a very delicate and brilliant 
 texture, and one wished to penetrate the inward folds of a 
 
DEVEREUX. 268 
 
 lady's heart, by developing to the best advantage the exterior 
 folds that covered his own." 
 
 "It is the first time," answered Bolingbroke, "that I ever 
 heard so accomplished a courtier as Count Hamilton repine, 
 with sincerity, that he could not bare his bosom to inspection." 
 
 " Ah ! " cried Boulainvilliers, " but vanity makes a man 
 show much that discretion would conceal." 
 
 ^^ All diable with, your discretion!" said Hamilton, "'tis a 
 Tiilgar virtue. Vanity is a truly aristocratic quality, and 
 every way fitted to a gentleman. Should I ever have been 
 renowned for my exquisite lace and web-like cambric, if I 
 had not been vain? Never, mon cher! I should have gone 
 into a convent and worn sackcloth, and from Count Antoine I 
 should have thickened into Saint Anthomj." 
 
 "Nay," cried Lord Bolingbroke, "there is as much scope 
 for vanity in sackcloth as there is in cambric ; for vanity is 
 like the Irish ogling master in the "Spectator," and if it 
 teaches the play-house to ogle by candle-light, it also teaches 
 the church to ogle by day! But, pardon me. Monsieur Chau- 
 lieu, how well you look! I see that the myrtle sheds its 
 verdure, not only over your poetry, but the poet. And it is 
 right that, to the modern Anacreon, who has bequeathed to 
 Time a treasure it will never forego. Time itself should be 
 gentle in return." 
 
 "Milord," answered Chaulieu, an old man who, though con- 
 siderably past seventy, was animated, in appearance and 
 manner, with a vivacity and life that would have done honour 
 to a youth, — "Milord, it was beautifully said by the Emperor 
 Julian that Justice retained the Graces in her vestibule. I 
 see, now, that he should have substituted the word Wisdom 
 for that of Justice." 
 
 " Come," cried Anthony Hamilton, " this will never do : com- 
 pliments are the dullest things imaginable. For Heaven's 
 sake, let us leave panegyric to blockheads, and say something 
 bitter to one another, or we shall die of ennui." 
 
 "Eight," said Boulainvilliers; "let us pick out some poor 
 devil to begin with. Absent or present? — Decide which." 
 
 "Oh, absent," cried Chaulieu, " 't is a thousand times more 
 
264 DEVEREUX. 
 
 piquant to slander than to rally! Let us commence with his 
 Majesty : Count Devereux, have you seen Madame Maintenon 
 and her devout infant since your arrival?" 
 
 "No! the priest must be petitioned before the miracle is 
 made public." 
 
 "What!" cried Chaulieu, "would you insinuate that his 
 Majesty's piety is really nothing less than a miracle?" 
 
 "Impossible!" said Boulainvilliers, gravely, — "piety is as 
 natural to kings as flattery to their courtiers : are we not told 
 that they are made in God's own image?" 
 
 " If that were true, " said Count Hamilton, somewhat pro- 
 fanely, — "if that were true, I should no longer deny the 
 impossibility of Atheism ! " 
 
 " Fie, Count Hamilton, " said an old gentleman, in whom I 
 recognized the great Huet, "fie: wit should beware how it 
 uses wings; its province is earth, not Heaven," 
 
 "Nobody can better tell what wit is not than the learned 
 Abb^ Huet ! " answered Hamilton, with a mock air of respect. 
 
 " Pshaw ! " cried Chaulieu, " I thought when we once gave 
 the rein to satire it would carry us pele-mele against one an- 
 other. But, in order to sweeten that drop of lemon-juice for 
 you, my dear Huet, let me turn to Milord Bolingbroke, and 
 ask him whether England can produce a scholar equal to 
 Peter Huet, who in twenty years wrote notes to sixty-two 
 volumes of Classics,^ for the sake of a prince who never read 
 a line in one of them? " 
 
 "We have some scholars," answered Bolingbroke; "but we 
 certainly have no Huet. It is strange enough, but learning 
 seems to me like a circle : it grows weaker the more it spreads. 
 We now see many people capable of reading commentaries, 
 but very few indeed capable of writing them." 
 
 "True," answered Huet; and in his reply he introduced 
 the celebrated illustration which is at this day mentioned 
 among his most felicitous bons mots. " Scholarship, formerly 
 the most difficult and unaided enterprise of Genius, has now 
 been made, by the very toils of the first mariners, but an easy 
 and commonplace voyage of leisure. But who would compare 
 1 The Delphin Classics. 
 
DEVEREUX. 266 
 
 the great men, whose very difficulties not only proved their 
 ardour, but brought them the patience and the courage which 
 alone are the parents of a genuine triumph, to the indolent 
 loiterers of the present day, who, having little of difficulty to 
 conquer, have nothing of glory to attain? For my part, there 
 seems to me the same difference between a scholar of our days 
 and one of the past as there is between Christopher Colum- 
 bus and the master of a packet-boat from Calais to Dover ! " 
 
 "But," cried Anthony Hamilton, taking a pinch of snuff 
 with the air of a man about to utter a witty thing, " but what 
 have we — we spirits of the world, not imps of the closet, " 
 and he glanced at Huet — "to do with scholarship? All the 
 waters of Castaly, which we waxat to pour into our brain, are 
 such as Avill flow the readiest to our tongue." 
 
 "In short, then," said I, "you would assert that all a 
 friend cares for in one's head is the quantity of talk in it?" 
 
 "Precisely, my dear Count," said Hamilton, seriously; 
 " and to that maxim I will add another applicable to the op- 
 posite sex. All that a mistress cares for in one's heart is the 
 quantity of love in it." 
 
 "What! are generosity, courage, honour, to go for nothing 
 with our mistress, then?" cried Chaulieu. 
 
 "Xo: for she will believe, if you are a passionate lover, 
 that you have all those virtues; and if not, she will never 
 believe that you have one." 
 
 " Ah ! it was a pretty court of love in which the friend and 
 biographer of Count Grammont learned the art ! " said 
 Bolingbroke. 
 
 "We believed so at the time, my Lord; but there are as 
 many changes in the fashion of making love as there are in 
 that of making dresses. Honour me. Count Devereux, by 
 using my snuff-box and then looking at the lid." 
 
 "It is the picture of Charles the Second which adorns it; 
 is it not? " 
 
 "'No, Count Devereux, it is the diamonds which adorn it. 
 His Majesty's face I thought very beautiful while he was 
 living; but now, on my conscience, I consider it the ugliest 
 phiz I ever beheld. But I directed your notice to the picture 
 
266 DEVEREUX. 
 
 because we were talking of love; and Old Eowley believed 
 that he could make it better than any one else. All his cour- 
 tiers had the same opinion of themselves ; and I dare say the 
 beaux (jargons of Queen Anne's reign would say that not one 
 of King Charley's gang knew what love was. Oh! 'tis a 
 strange circle of revolutions, that love! Like the earth, it 
 always changes, and yet always has the same materials. " 
 
 ^^V amour, V amour, toujours V amour, with Count Anthony 
 Hamilton!" said Boulainvilliers. "He is always on that 
 subject; and, sacre bleu! when he was younger, I am told he 
 was like Cacus, the son of Vulcan, and breathed nothing but 
 flames." 
 
 "You flatter me," said Hamilton. " Solve me now a knotty 
 riddle, my Lord Bolingbroke. Why does a young man think 
 it the greatest compliment to be thought wise, while an old 
 man thinks it the greatest compliment to be told he has been 
 foolish?" 
 
 "Is love foolish then? " said Lord Bolingbroke. 
 
 " Can you doubt it? " answered Hamilton ; " it makes a man 
 think more of another than himself! I know not a greater 
 proof of folly ! " 
 
 "Ah! mon ahnable ami," cried Chaulieu; "you are the 
 wickedest witty person I know. I cannot help loving your 
 language, while I hate your sentiments." 
 
 " My language is my own ; my sentiments are those of all 
 men," answered Hamilton: "but are we not, by the by, to 
 have young Arouet here to-night? What a charming person 
 he is!" 
 
 "Yes," said Boulainvilliers. "He said he should be late; 
 and I expect Fontenelle, too, but he will not come before sup- 
 per. I found Fontenelle this morning conversing with my 
 cook on the best manner of dressing asparagus. I asked him 
 the other day what writer, ancient or modern, had ever given 
 him the most sensible pleasure? After a little pause, the ex- 
 cellent old man said, 'Daphnus.' 'Daphnus! ' repeated I, 'who 
 the devil is he? ' 'Why,' answered Fontenelle, with tears of 
 gratitude in his benevolent eyes, 'I had some hypochondriacal 
 ideas that suppers were unwholesome ; and Daphnus is an an- 
 
DEVEREUX. 267 
 
 cient physician, who asserts the contrary; and declares, — 
 think, my friend, what a charming theory! — that the moon 
 is a great assistant of the digestion! ' " 
 
 " Ha I ha ! ha ! " laughed the Ahh6 de Chaulieu. " How like 
 Fontenelle ! what an anomalous creature 't is ! He has the 
 most kindness and the least feeling of any man I ever knew. 
 Let Hamilton lind a pithier description for him if he can ! " 
 
 Whatever reply the friend of the jjreux Grammont might 
 have made was prevented by the entrance of a young man of 
 about twenty-one. 
 
 In person he was tall, slight, and very thin. There was a 
 certain affectation of polite address in his manner and mien 
 which did not quite become him ; and though he was received 
 by the old wits with great cordiality, and on a footing of per- 
 fect equality, yet the inexpressible air which denotes birth 
 was both pretended to and wanting. This, perhaps, was 
 however owing to the ordinary inexperience of youth; which, 
 if not awkwardly bashful, is generally awkward in its assur- 
 ance. Whatever its cause, the impression vanished directly 
 he entered into conversation. I do not think I ever encoun- 
 tered a man so brilliantly, yet so easily, wntty. He had but 
 little of the studied allusion, the antithetical point, the classic 
 metaphor, which chiefly characterize the wits of my day. On 
 the contrary, it was an exceeding and naive simplicity, which 
 gave such unrivalled charm and piquancy to his conversation. 
 And while I have not scrupled to stamp on my pages some 
 faint imitation of the peculiar dialogue of other eminent char- 
 acters, I must confess myself utterly unable to convey the 
 smallest idea of his method of making words irresistible. 
 Contenting my efforts, therefore, with describing his personal 
 appearance, — interesting, because that of the most striking 
 literary character it has been my lot to meet, — I shall omit 
 his share in the remainder of the conversation I am rehears- 
 ing, and beg the reader to recall that passage in Tacitus in 
 which the great historian says that, in the funeral of Junia, 
 "the images of Brutus and Cassius outshone all the rest, from 
 the very circumstance of their being the sole ones excluded 
 from the rite." 
 
268 DEVEREUX. 
 
 J The countenance, then, of Marie Fran9ois Arouet (since so 
 celebrated under the name of Voltaire) was plain in feature, 
 but singularly striking in eifect; its vivacity was the very 
 perfection of what Steele once happily called "physiognomi- 
 cal eloquence." His eyes were blue, fiery rather than 
 bright, and so restless that they never dwelt in the same 
 place for a moment : ^ his mouth was at once the worst and 
 the most peculiar feature of his face; it betokened humour, 
 it is true; but it also betrayed malignanc}^, nor did it ever 
 smile without sarcasm. Though flattering to those present, 
 his words against the absent, uttered by that bitter and curl- 
 ing lip, mingled with your pleasure at their wit a little fear 
 at their causticity. I believe no one, be he as bold, as cal- 
 lous, or as faultless as human nature can be, could be one 
 hour with that man and not feel apprehension. Eidicule, so 
 lavish, yet so true to the mark; so wanton, yet so seemingly 
 just; so bright, that while it wandered round its target, in 
 apparent though terrible playfulness, it burned into the spot, 
 and engraved there a brand, and a token indelible and per- 
 petual, — this no man could witness, when darted towards an- 
 other, and feel safe for himself. The very caprice and levity 
 of the jester seemed more perilous, because less to be calcu- 
 lated upon, than a systematic principle of bitterness or satire. 
 Bolingbroke compared him, not unaptly, to a child who has 
 possessed himself of Jupiter's bolts, and who makes use of 
 those bolts in sport which a god would only have used in 
 wrath. 
 
 Arouet's forehead was not remarkable for height, but it was 
 nobly and grandly formed, and, contradicting that of the 
 mouth, wore a benevolent expression. Though so young, 
 there was already a wrinkle on the surface of the front, and 
 a prominence on the eyebrow, which showed that the wit and 
 
 ^ The reader will remember that this is a description of Voltaire as a 
 very young man. I do not know anywhere a more impressive, almost a 
 more ghastly, contrast than that which the pictures of Voltaire, grown old, 
 present to Largilliere's picture of him at the age of twenty -four; and he 
 •was somewhat younger than twenty-four at the time of which tlie Count 
 now speaks. — Ed. 
 
DEVEREUX- 269 
 
 the fancy of his conversation were, if not regulated, at least 
 contrasted, by more thoughtful and lofty characteristics of 
 mind. At the time I write, this man has obtained a high 
 throne among the powers of the lettered world. What he 
 may yet be, it is in vain to guess : he may be all that is great 
 and good, or — the reverse; but I cannot but believe that his 
 career is only begun. Such men are born monarchs of the 
 mind; they may be benefactors or tyrants: in either case, 
 they are greater than the kings of the physical empire, be- 
 cause they defy armies and laugh at the intrigues of state. 
 From themselves only come the balance of their power, the 
 laws of their government, and the boundaries of their realm. 
 
 We sat down to supper. "Count Hamilton," said Boulain- 
 villiers, "are we not a merry set for such old fellows? Why, 
 excepting Arouet, IVIilord Bolingbroke, and Count Devereux, 
 there is scarcely one of us under seventy. Where but at 
 Paris would you see hons vivans of our age? Vivent lajoie, 
 la bagatelle, V amour I " 
 
 ^^ Et le vin de Champagne ! " cried Chaulieu, filling his glass ; 
 "but what is there strange in our merriment? Philemon, the 
 comic poet, laughed at ninety-seven. May we all do the 
 same ! " 
 
 "You forget," cried Bolingbroke, "that Philemon died of 
 the laughing." 
 
 "Yes," said Hamilton; "but if I remember right, it was at 
 seeing an ass eat figs. Let us vow, therefore, never to keep 
 company with asses ! " 
 
 "Bravo, Count," said Boulainvilliers, "you have put the 
 true moral on the story. Let us swear by the ghost of Phile- 
 mon that we will never laugh at an ass's jokes, — practical or 
 verbal." 
 
 " Then we must always be serious, except when we are with 
 each other," cried Chaulieu. "Oh, I would sooner take my 
 chance of dying prematurely at ninety-seven than consent to 
 such a vow ! " 
 
 "Fontenelle," cried our host, "you are melancholy. What 
 is the matter? " 
 
 "I mourn for the weakness of human nature," answered 
 
270 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Fontenelle, with an air of patriarchal philanthropy. " I told 
 your cook three times about the asparagus ; and now — taste 
 it. I told him not to put too much sugar, and he has put 
 none. Thus it is with mankind, — ever in extremes, and con- 
 sequently ever in error. Thus it was that Luther said, so 
 felicitously and so truly, that the human mind was like a 
 drunken peasant on horseback: prop it on one side, and it 
 falls on the other." 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha!" cried Chaulieu. " Who would have thought 
 one could have found so much morality in a plate of aspara- 
 gus! Ta.ste this sals ijis." 
 
 "Pray, Hamilton," said Huet, "vvhsd, jeu de viot was that 
 you made yesterday at Madame d'Epernonville's which gained 
 you such applause?" 
 
 "Ah, repeat it. Count," cried Boulainvilliers ; "'twas the 
 most classical thing I have heard for a long time." 
 
 "Why," said Hamilton, laying down his knife and fork, 
 and preparing himself by a large draught of the champagne, 
 "why, Madame d'Epernonville appeared without her tour ; 
 you know, Lord Bolingbroke, that tour is the polite name for 
 false hair. 'Ah, sacre!' cried her brother, courteously, 'ma 
 soeur, que vous etes laide aujourd'hui: vous n'avez pas votre 
 tour! ' 'Voila pourquoi elle n'est pas si-belle (Cybele),' 
 answered I." 
 
 "Excellent! famous!" cried we all, except Huet, who 
 seemed to regard the punster with a very disrespectful eye. 
 Hamilton saw it. " You do not think. Monsieur Huet, that 
 there is wit in t\\es,e.jeux de mots: perhaps you do not admire 
 wit at all?" 
 
 " Yes, I admire wit as I do the wind. When it shakes the 
 trees it is tine; Avhen it cools the wave it is refreshing; Avhen 
 it steals over flowers it is enchanting: but when. Monsieur 
 Hamilton, it whistles through the key-hole it is unpleasant." 
 
 " The very worst illustration I ever heard, " said Hamilton, 
 coolly. "Keep to your classics, my dear Abbe. When Jupi- 
 ter edited the work of Peter Huet, he did with wit as Peter 
 Huet did with Lucan when he edited the classics: he was 
 afraid it might do mischief, and so left it out altogether." 
 
DEVEREUX. 271 
 
 "Let us drink! " cried Chaulieu; "let us drink! " and the 
 conversation was turned again. 
 
 " What is that you say of Tacitus, Huet? " said Boulain- 
 villiers. 
 
 "That his wisdom arose from his malignancy," answered 
 Huet. "He is a perfect penetrator^ into human vices, but 
 knows nothing of human virtues. Do you think that a good 
 man would dwell so constantly on what is evil? Believe me 
 — no. A man cannot write much and well upon virtue with- 
 out being virtuous, nor enter minutely and profoundly into 
 the causes of vice without being vicious himself." 
 
 "It is true," said Hamilton; "and your remark, which af- 
 fects to be so deep, is but a natural corollary from the hack- 
 neyed maxim that from experience comes wisdom." 
 
 "But, for my part," said Boulainvilliers, "I think Tacitus 
 is not so invariably the analyzer of vice as you would make 
 him. Look at the 'Agricola ' and the 'Germania.' " 
 
 " Ah ! the ' Germany, ' above all things ! " cried Hamilton, 
 dropping a delicious morsel of sanglier in its way from hand 
 to mouth, in his hurry to speak. " Of course, the historian, 
 Boulainvilliers, advocates the 'Germany,' from its mention 
 of the origin of the feudal system, — that incomparable bundle 
 of excellences, which Le Comte de Boulainvilliers has de- 
 clared to be le chef cVceuvre de V esprit humain; and which the 
 same gentleman regrets, in the most pathetic terms, no longer 
 exists in order that the seigneur may feed upon des gros mor- 
 ceaux de hceuf demi-cru, may hang up half his peasants j90T/r 
 encourager les autres, and ravish the daughters of the defunct 
 pour leur donner quelque consolation.''' 
 
 "Seriously though," said the old Abbe de Chaulieu, with a 
 twinkling eye, " the last mentioned evil, my dear Hamilton, 
 was not without a little alloy of good." 
 
 "Yes," said Hamilton, "if it was only the daughters; but 
 perhaps the seigneur was not too scrupulous with regard to 
 the wives." 
 
 1 A remark similar to this the reader will probably remomlier in the 
 "Iluctiana," and will, I hope, agree with me in thinking it showy and 
 untme. — Ed. 
 
272 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " Ah ! shocking, shocking ! " cried Chaulieu, solemnly. 
 " Adultery is, indeed, an atrocious crime. I am sure I would 
 most conscientiously cry out with the honest preacher, 'Adul- 
 tery, my children, is the blackest of sins. I do declare that 
 I would rather have ten virgins in love with me than one 
 married woman ! ' " 
 
 We all laughed at this enthusiastic burst of virtue from the 
 chaste Chaulieu. And Arouet turned our conversation to- 
 wards the ecclesiastical dissensions between Jesuits and Jan- 
 senists that then agitated the kingdom. "Those priests," 
 said Bolingbroke, "remind me of the nurses of Jupiter: they 
 make a great clamour in order to drown the voice of their 
 God." 
 
 "Bravissimo! " cried Hamilton. "Is it not a pity. Mes- 
 sieurs, that my Lord Bolingbroke was not a Frenchman? 
 He is almost clever enough to be one." 
 
 "If he would drink a little more, he would be," cried Chau- 
 lieu, who was now setting us all a glorious example. 
 
 "What say you, Morton?" exclaimed Bolingbroke; "must 
 we not drink these gentlemen under the table for the honour 
 of our country? " 
 
 " A challenge ! a challenge ! " cried Chaulieu. " I march 
 first to the field!" 
 
 " Conquest or death ! " shouted Bolingbroke. And the rites 
 of Minerva were forsaken for those of Bacchus. 
 
 CHAPTER yi. 
 
 A COURT, COURTIERS, AND A KING. 
 
 I THINK it was the second day after this " feast of reason " 
 that Lord Bolingbroke deemed it advisable to retire to Lyons 
 till his plans of conduct were ripened into decision. We took 
 an affectionate leave of each other; but before we parted, and 
 
DEVEREUX. 273 
 
 after he had discussed his own projects of ambition, we talked 
 a little upon mine. Although I was a Catholic and a pupil 
 of Montreuil, although I had fled from England and had noth- 
 ing to expect from the House of Hanover, I was by no means 
 favourably disposed towards the Chevalier and his cause. I 
 wonder if this avowal will seem odd to Englishmen of the 
 next century! To Englishmen of the present one, a Roman 
 Catholic and a lover of priestcraft and tyranny are two words 
 for the same thing ; as if we could not murmur at tithes and 
 taxes, insecurity of property or arbitrary legislation, just as 
 sourly as any other Christian community. No! I never 
 loved the cause of the Stuarts, — unfortunate, and therefore 
 interesting, as the Stuarts were; by a very stupid and yet 
 uneffaceable confusion of ideas, I confounded it with the 
 cause of Montreuil, and I hated the latter enough to dislike 
 the former : I fancy all party principles are formed much in 
 the same manner. I frankly told Bolingbroke my disinclina- 
 tion to the Chevalier. 
 
 " Between ourselves be it spoken," said he, "there is but 
 little to induce a wise man in your circumstances to join 
 James the Third. I would advise you rather to take advan- 
 tage of your father's reputation at the French court, and enter 
 into the same service he did. Things wear a dark face in 
 England for you, and a bright one everywhere else." 
 
 "I have already," said I, "in my own mind, perceived and 
 weighed the advantages of entering into the service of Louis. 
 But he is old : he cannot live long. People now pay court to 
 parties, not to the king. Which party, think you, is the 
 best, — that of Madame de Maintenon?" 
 
 " Nay, I think not ; she is a cold friend, and never asks fa- 
 vours of Louis for any of her family. A bold game might be 
 played by attaching yourself to the Duchesse d'Orleans (the 
 Duke's mother). She is at daggers-drawn with Maintenon, 
 it is true, and she is a violent, haughty, and coarse woman ; 
 but she has wit, talent, strength of mind, and will zealously 
 serve any person of high birth who pays her respect. But 
 she can do nothing for you till the king's death, and then only 
 on the chance of her son's power. But — let me see — you 
 
 18 
 
2T4 DEVEREUX. 
 
 say Fleuri, the Bishop of Frejus, is to introduce you to 
 Madame de Maintenon?" 
 
 " Yes ; and has appointed the day after to-morrow for that 
 purpose." 
 
 "Well, then, make close friends with him: you will not 
 find it difficult; he has a delightful address, and if you get 
 "hold of his weak points you may win his confidence. Mark 
 me : Fleuri has no faux-hrillant, no genius, indeed, of very 
 prominent order; but he is one of those soft and smooth 
 minds which, in a crisis like the present, when parties are 
 contending and princes wrangling, always slip silently and 
 unobtrusively into one of the best places. Keep in with 
 Frejus: you cannot do wrong by it; although you must re- 
 member that at present he is in ill odour with the king, and 
 you need not go with him twice to Versailles. But, above all, 
 when you are introduced to Louis, do not forget that you 
 cannot please him better than by appearing awe-stricken," 
 
 Such was Bolingbroke's parting advice. The Bishop of 
 Frejus carried me with him (on the morning we had ap- 
 pointed) to Versailles. What a magnificent work of royal 
 imagination is that palace ! I know not in any epic a grander 
 idea than terming the avenues which lead to it the roads " to 
 Spain, to Holland," etc. In London, they would have been 
 the roads to Chelsea and Pentonville ! 
 
 As we were driving slowly along in the Bishop's carriage, 
 I had ample time for conversation with that personage, who 
 has since, as the Cardinal de Fleuri, risen to so high a pitch 
 of power. He certainly has in him very little of the great 
 man ; nor do I know anywhere so striking an instance of this 
 truth, — that in that game of honours which is played at courts, 
 we obtain success less by our talents than our tempers. He 
 laughed, with a graceful turn of hadi^iage, at the political 
 peculiarities of Madame de Balzac ; and said that it was not 
 for the uppermost party to feel resentment at the chafings of 
 the under one. Sliding from this topic, he then questioned 
 me as to the gayeties I had witnessed. I gave him a descrip- 
 tion of the party at Boulainvilliers'. He seemed much inter- 
 ested in this, and showed more shrewdness than I should 
 
DEVEREUX. 275 
 
 have given hini credit for in discussing the various characters 
 of the literati of the day. After some general conversation 
 on works of fiction, he artfully glided into treating on those 
 of statistics and politics, and I then caught a sudden but 
 thorough insight into the depths of his policy. I saw that, 
 while he affected to be indifferent to the difficulties and puz- 
 zles of state, he lost no opportunity of gaining every particle 
 of information respecting them ; and that he made conversa- 
 tion, in which he was skilled, a vehicle for acquiring that 
 knowledge which he had not the force of mind to create from 
 his own intellect, or to work out from the written labours of 
 others. If this made him a superficial statesman, it made 
 him a prompt one ; and there was never so lucky a minister 
 with so little trouble to himself. ^ 
 
 As we approached the end of our destination, we talked of 
 the King. On this subject he was jealously cautious. But I 
 gleaned from him, despite of his sagacity, that it was high 
 time to make all use of one's acquaintance with Madame de 
 Maintenon that one could be enabled to do ; and that it was 
 so difficult to guess the exact places in which power would 
 rest after the death of the old King that supineness and si- 
 lence made at present the most profound policy. 
 
 As we alighted from the carriage and I first set my foot 
 within the palace, I could not but feel involuntarily yet pow- 
 erfully impressed with the sense of the spirit of the place. I 
 was in the precincts of that mighty court which had gathered 
 into one dazzling focus all the rays of genius which half a 
 century had emitted, — the court at which time had passed at 
 once from the morn of civilization into its full noon and glory, 
 — the court of Conde and Turenne, of Villars and of Tour- 
 ville, — the court where, over the wit of Grammont, the pro- 
 fusion of Fouquet, the fatal genius of Louvois (fatal to 
 humanity and to France), Love, real Love, had not disdained 
 to shed its pathos and its truth, and to consecrate the hollow 
 
 ^ At his death appeared the following punning epigram: — 
 " Floruit sine fructu ; 
 Dejloruit sine luctu." 
 " He flowered without fruit, and faded without regret." — Ed. 
 
276 DEVEREUX. 
 
 pageantries of royal pomp, with the tenderness, the beauty, 
 and the repentance of La Valliere. Still over that scene 
 hung the spells of a genius which, if artificial and cold, 
 was also vast, stately, and magnificent, — a genius which had 
 swelled in the rich music of Racine, which had raised the 
 nobler spirit and the freer thought of Pierre Corneille,^ which 
 had given edge to the polished weapon of Boileau, which 
 had lavished over the bright page of Moliere, — Moliere, more 
 wonderful than all — a knowledge of the humours and the 
 hearts of men, which no dramatist, save Shakspeare, has sur- 
 passed. Within those walls still glowed, though now waxing 
 faint and dim, the fame of that monarch who had enjoyed, 
 at least till his later day, the fortune of Augustus unsullied 
 by the crimes of Octavius. Nine times, since the sun of that 
 monarch rose, had the Papal Chair received a new occupant ! 
 Six sovereigns had reigned over the Ottoman hordes! The 
 fourth emperor since the birth of the same era bore sway 
 over Germany! Five czars, from Michael Romanoff to the 
 Great Peter, had held, over their enormous territory, the pre- 
 carious tenure of their iron power! Six kings had borne the 
 painful cincture of the English crown ;^ two of those kings 
 had been fugitives to that court; to the son of the last it was 
 an asylum at that moment. 
 
 What wonderful changes had passed over the face of Eu- 
 rope during that single reign! In England only, what a vast 
 leap in the waste of events, from the reign of the first Charles 
 to that of George the First ! I still lingered, I still gazed, as 
 these thoughts, linked to one another in an electric chain, 
 flashed over me! I still paused on the threshold of those 
 stately halls which Nature herself had been conquered to 
 rear! Where, through the whole earth, could I find so meet 
 a symbol for the character and the name which that sovereign 
 would leave to posterity as this palace itself afforded? A 
 gorgeous monument of regal state raised from a desert; 
 
 1 Rijijidly speaking, Corneille belongs to a period later than that of Louis 
 XIV., though he has been included in the era formed by that reign. — Ed. 
 
 2 Besides Cromwell ; namely, Charles I., Charles II., James II , William 
 and Mary, Anne, George L 
 
DEVEREUX. 277 
 
 crowded alike with empty pageantries and illustrious names ; 
 a prodigy of elaborate artifice, grand in its whole effect, petty 
 in its small details; a solitary oblation to a splendid selfish- 
 ness, and most remarkable for the revenues which it exhausted 
 and the poverty by which it is surrounded ! 
 
 Fleuri, with his usual urbanity — an urbanity that, on a 
 great scale, would have been benevolence — had hitherto in- 
 dulged me in my emotions : he now laid his hand upon my 
 arm, and recalled me to myself. Before I could apologize for 
 my abstraction, the Bishop was accosted by an old man of 
 evident rank, but of a countenance more strikingly demon- 
 strative of the little cares of a mere courtier than any I ever 
 beheld. "What news. Monsieur le Marquis?" said Fleuri, 
 smiling. 
 
 "Oh! the greatest imaginable! the King talks of receiving 
 the Danish minister on Thursday, which, you know, is his 
 day of domestic business! What can this portend? Be- 
 sides," and here the speaker's voice lowered into a whisper, 
 " I am told by the Due de la Eochefoucauld that the king in- 
 tends, out of all ordinary rule and practice, to take physic 
 to-morrow: I can't believe it; no, I positively can't; but 
 don't let this go further!" 
 
 "Heaven forbid! " answered Fleuri, bowing, and the cour- 
 tier passed on to whisper his intelligence to others. "Who 's 
 that gentleman?" I asked. 
 
 "The Marquis de Dangeau," answered Fleuri; "a noble- 
 man of great quality, who keeps a diary of all the king says 
 and does. It will perhaps be a posthumous publication, and 
 will show the world of what importance nothings can be 
 made. I dare say, Count, you have already, in England, 
 seen enough of a court to know that there are some people 
 who are as human echoes, and have no existence except in 
 the noise occasioned by another." 
 
 I took care that my answer should not be a witticism, lest 
 Fleuri should think I was attempting to rival him; and so we 
 passed on in an excellent humour with each other. 
 
 We mounted the grand staircase, and came to an ante-cham- 
 ber, which, though costly and rich, Avas not remarkably con- 
 
278 DEVEREUX. 
 
 spicuous for splendour. Here the Bishop requested me to 
 wait for a moment. Accordingly, I amused myself with 
 looking over some engravings of different saints. Meanwhile, 
 my companion passed through another door, and I was alone. 
 
 After an absence of nearly ten minutes, he returned. 
 " Madame de Maintenon, " said he in a whisper, " is but poorly 
 to-day. However, she has eagerly consented to see you; 
 follow me ! " 
 
 So saying, the ecclesiastical courtier passed on, with myself 
 at his heels. We came to the door of a second chamber, at 
 which rieuri scraped gently. We were admitted, and found 
 therein three ladies, one of whom was reading, a second 
 laughing, and a third yawning, and entered into another 
 chamber, where, alone and seated by the window in a large 
 chair, with one foot on a stool, in an attitude that rather re- 
 minded me of my mother, and which seems to me a favourite 
 position with all devotees, we found an old woman without 
 rouge, plainly dressed, with spectacles on her nose and a large 
 book on a little table before her. With a most profound 
 salutation, Frejus approached, and taking me by the hand, 
 said, — 
 
 "Will Madame suffer me to present to her the Count 
 Devereux?" 
 
 Madame de Maintenon, with an air of great meekness and 
 humility, bowed a return to the salutation. "The son of 
 Madame la Marechale de Devereux will always be most wel- 
 come to me ! " Then, turning towards us, she pointed to two 
 stools, and, while we were seating ourselves, said, — 
 
 "And how did you leave my excellent friend?" 
 
 "When, Madame, I last saw my mother, which is now 
 nearly a year ago, she was in health, and consoling herself 
 for the advance of years by that tendency to wean the thoughts 
 from this world which (in her own language) is the divinest 
 comfort of old age ! " 
 
 " Admirable woman ! " said Madame de Maintenon, casting 
 down her eyes ; " such are indeed the sentiments in which I 
 recognize the Marechale. And how does her beauty wear? 
 Those golden locks, and blue eyes, and that snowy skin, are 
 
DEVEREUX. 279 
 
 not yet, I suppose, -wholly changed for an adequate compensa- 
 tion of the beauties within?" 
 
 "Time, Madame, has been gentle with her; and I have often 
 thought, though never perhaps more strongly than at this 
 moment, that there is in those divine studies, which bring 
 calm and light to the mind, something which preserves and 
 embalms, as it were, the beauty of the body." 
 
 A faint blush passed over the face of the devotee. No, no, 
 — not even at eighty years of age is a compliment to a woman's 
 beauty misplaced! There was a slight pause. I thought that 
 respect forbade me to break it. 
 
 " His Majesty, " said the Bishop, in the tone of one who is 
 sensible that he encroaches a little, and does it with conse- 
 quent reverence, "his Majesty, I hope, is well?" 
 
 " God be thanked, yes, as well as we can expect. It is now 
 nearly the hour in which his Majesty awaits your personal 
 inquiries." 
 
 Fleuri bowed as he answered, — 
 
 "The King, then, will receive us to-day? My young com- 
 panion is very desirous to see the greatest monarch, and, con- 
 sequently, the greatest man, of the age." 
 
 "The desire is natural," said Madame de Maintenon; and 
 then, turning to me, she asked if I had yet seen King James 
 the Third. 
 
 I took care, in my answer, to express that even if I had re- 
 solved to make that stay in Paris which allowed me to pay 
 my respects to him at all, I should have deemed that both 
 duty and inclination led me, in the first instance, to offer my 
 homage to one who was both the benefactor of my father and 
 the monarch whose realms afforded me protection. 
 
 " You have not, then, " said Madame de Maintenon, " decided 
 on the length of your stay in France ? " 
 
 "No," said I, — and my answer was regulated by my desire 
 to see how far I might rely on the services of one who ex- 
 pressed herself so warm a friend of that excellent woman, 
 Madame la Marochale, — "no, Madame. France is the country 
 of my birth, if England is that of my parentage ; and could I 
 hope for some portion of that royal favour which my father 
 
280 DEVEREUX. 
 
 enjoyed, I would rather claim it as the home of my hopes 
 than the refuge of my exile. But " — and I stopped short 
 purposely. 
 
 The old lady looked at me very earnestly through her spec- 
 tacles for one moment, and then, hemming twice with a little 
 embarrassment, again remarked to the Bishop that the time 
 for seeing the King was nearly arrived. Fleuri, whose policy 
 at that period was very like that of the concealed Queen, and 
 who was, besides, far from desirous of introducing any new 
 claimants on Madame de Maintenon's official favour, though 
 he might not object to introduce them to a private friend, was 
 not slow in taking the hint. He rose, and I was forced to 
 follow his example. 
 
 Madame de Maintenon thought she might safely indulge in 
 a little cordiality when I was just on the point of leaving her, 
 and accordingly blessed me, and gave me her hand, which I 
 kissed very devoutly. An extremely pretty hand it was, too, 
 notwithstanding the good Queen's age. We then retired, and, 
 repassing the three ladies, who were now all yawning, re- 
 paired to the King's apartments. 
 
 "What think you of Madame?" asked Fleuri. 
 
 "What can I think of her," said I, cautiously, "but that 
 greatness seems in her to take its noblest form, — that of 
 simplicity?" 
 
 "True," rejoined Fleuri; "never was there so meek a mind 
 joined to so lowly a carriage ! Do you remark any trace of 
 former beauty?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed, there is much that is soft in her countenance, 
 and much that is still regular in her features ; but what struck 
 me most was the pensive and even sad tranquillity that rests 
 upon her face when she is silent." 
 
 "The expression betrays the mind," answered Fleuri; "and 
 the curse of the great is ennui.^^ 
 
 "Of the great in station," said I, "but not necessarily of 
 the great in mind. I have heard that the Bishop of Frejus, 
 notwithstanding his rank and celebrity, employs every hour 
 to the advantage of others, and consequently without tedium 
 to himself." 
 
DEVEREUX. 281 
 
 "Aha! " said Fleuri, smiling gently and patting my cheek: 
 "see now if the air of palaces is not absolutely prolific of 
 pretty speeches." And, before I could answer, we were in 
 the apartments of the King. 
 
 Leaving me a while to cool my heels in a gallery, filled 
 with the butterflies who bask in the royal sunshine, Frejus 
 then disappeared among the crowd; he was scarcely gone 
 when I was agreeably surprised by seeing Count Hamilton 
 approach towards me. 
 
 " Mort diahle ! " said he, shaking me by the hand a VAn- 
 glaise; "I am really delighted to see any one here who does 
 not insult my sins with his superior excellence. Eh, now, 
 look round this apartment for a moment! Whether would 
 you believe yourself at the court of a great king or the levee 
 of a Koman cardinal ! Whom see you chiefly? Gallant sol- 
 diers, with worn brows and glittering weeds? wise statesmen 
 with ruin to Austria and defiance to Kome in every wrinkle? 
 gay nobles in costly robes, and with the bearing that so nicely 
 teaches mirth to be dignified and dignity to be merry? No! 
 cassock and hat, rosary and gown, decking sly, demure, hy- 
 pocritical faces, flit, and stalk, and sadden round us. It 
 seems to me, " continued the witty Count, in a lower whisper, 
 " as if the old king, having fairly buried his glory at Kamilies 
 and Blenheim, had summoned all these good gentry to sing 
 psalms over it! But are you waiting for a private audience?" 
 
 "Yes, under the auspices of the Bishop of Frejus." 
 
 "You might have chosen a better guide : the King has been 
 too much teased about him," rejoined Hamilton; "and now 
 that we are talking of him, I will show you a singular in- 
 stance of what good manners can do at court in preference to 
 good abilities. You observe yon quiet, modest-looking man, 
 with a sensible countenance and a clerical garb; you observe 
 how he edges away when any one approaches to accost him ; 
 and how, from his extreme disesteem of himself, he seems to 
 inspire every one with the same sentiment. W^ell, that man 
 is a namesake of Fleuri, the Prior of Argenteuil; he has 
 come here, I suppose, for some particular and temporary pur- 
 pose, since, in reality, he has left the court. Well, that 
 
282 
 
 DEVEREUX. 
 
 worthy priest — do remark his bow; did you ever see anj-- 
 thiug so awkward? — is one of the most learned divines that 
 the Church can boast of; he is as immeasurably superior to 
 the smooth-faced Bishop of Frejus as Louis the Fourteenth 
 is to my old friend Charles the Second. He has had equal 
 opportunities with the said Bishop ; been preceptor to the 
 princes of Conti and the Count de Vermandois ; and yet I will 
 wager that he lives and dies a tutor, a bookworm — and a 
 prior; while t'other Fleuri, without a particle of merit but 
 of the most superficial order, governs already kings through 
 their mistresses, kingdoms through the kings, and may, for 
 aught I know, expand into a prime minister and ripen into a 
 cardinal." 
 
 "Nay," said I, smiling, "there is little chance of so exalted 
 a lot for the worthy Bishop." 
 
 " Pardon me, " interrupted Hamilton, " I am an old courtier, 
 and look steadily on the game I no longer play. Suppleness, 
 united with art, may do anything in a court like this; and 
 the smooth and unelevated craft of a Fleuri may win even to 
 the same height as the deep wiles of the glittering Mazarin, 
 or the superb genius of the imperious Richelieu." 
 
 "Hist! " said I, "the Bishop has reappeared. Who is that 
 old priest with a fine countenance and an address that will, 
 at least, please you better than that of the Prior of Argen- 
 teuil, who has just stopped our episcopal courtier? " 
 
 ""What! do you not know? It is the most celebrated 
 preacher of the day, — the great Massillon. It is said that 
 that handsome person goes a great way towards winning con- 
 verts among the court ladies; it is certain, at least, that 
 when Massillon first entered the profession he was to the soul 
 something like the spear of Achilles to the body ; and, though 
 very efficacious in healing the wounds of conscience, was 
 equally ready in the first instance to inflict them." 
 
 "Ah," said I, "see the malice of wit; and see, above all, 
 how much more ready one is to mention a man's frailties than 
 to enlarge upon his virtues." 
 
 "To be sure," answered Hamilton, coolly, and patting his 
 snuff-box, "to be sure, we old people like history better 
 
DEVEREUX. 283 
 
 than fiction; and frailty is certain, while virtue is always 
 doubtful." 
 
 "Don't judge of all people," said I, "by your experience 
 among the courtiers of Charles the Second." 
 
 "Right," said Hamilton. "Providence never assembled 
 so many rascals together before without hanging them. And 
 he would indeed be a bad judge of human nature who esti- 
 mated the characters of men in general by the heroes of New- 
 gate and the victims of Tyburn. But your Bishop approaches. 
 Adieu!" 
 
 "What!" said Fleuri, joining me and saluting Hamilton, 
 who had just turned to depart, " what. Count Antoiue ! Does 
 anything but whim bring you here to-day?" 
 
 "Xo," answered Hamilton; "lam only here for the same 
 purpose as the poor go to the temples of Caitan, — to inhale 
 the steam of those good things which I see thepi'iests devour." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! " laughed the good-natured Bishop, not in the 
 least disconcerted; and Count Hamilton, congratulating him- 
 self on his bon mot, turned away. 
 
 "I have spoken to his Most Christian Majesty," said the 
 Bishop; "he is willing, as he before ordained, to admit you to 
 his presence. The Due de Maine is with the King, as also 
 some other members of the royal family; but you will 
 consider this a private audience." 
 
 I expressed my gratitude: we moved on; the doors of an 
 apartment were thrown open; and I saw myself in the 
 presence of Louis XIV. 
 
 The room was partially darkened. In the centre of it, on 
 a large sofa, reclined the King; he was dressed (though this, 
 if I may so speak, I rather remembered than noted) in a coat 
 of black velvet, slightly embroidered; his vest was of white 
 satin ; he wore no jewels nor orders, for it Avas only on grand 
 or gala days that he displaj^ed personal pomp. At some little 
 distance from him stood three members of the royal family; 
 them I never regarded: all my attention was bent upon the 
 King. My temperament is not that on which greatness, or 
 indeed any external circumstances, make much impression; 
 but as, following at a little distance the Bishop of Fr6jus, I 
 
284 DEVEREUX. 
 
 approached the royal person, I must confess that Bolingbroke 
 had scarcely need to have cautioned me not to appear too self- 
 possessed. Perhaps, had I seen that great monarch in his 
 heaux jours ; in the plenitude of his power, his glory, the 
 dazzling and meridian splendour of his person, his court, and 
 his renown, — pride might have made me more on my guard 
 against too deep, or at least too apparent, an impression ; but 
 the many reverses of that magnificent sovereign, — reverses in 
 which he had shown himself more great than in all his pre- 
 vious triumphs and early successes; his age, his infirmities, 
 the very clouds round the setting sun, the very howls of joy 
 at the expiring lion, — all were calculated, in my mind, to 
 deepen respect into reverence, and tincture reverence itself 
 with awe. I saw before me not only the majesty of Louis le 
 Grand, but that of misfortune, of weakness, of infirmity, and 
 of age ; and I forgot at once, in that reflection, what otherwise 
 would have blunted my sentiments of deference, namely, the 
 crimes of his ministers and the exactions of his reign. En- 
 deavouring to collect my mind from an embarrassment which 
 surprised myself, I lifted my eyes towards the King, and saw 
 a countenance where the trace of the superb beauty for which 
 his manhood had been celebrated still lingered, broken, not 
 destroyed, and borrowing a dignity even more imposing from 
 the marks of Encroaching years and from the evident exhaus- 
 tion of suffering and disease. 
 
 Fleuri said, in a low tone, something which my ear did not 
 catch. There was a pause, — only a moment's pause; and 
 then, in a voice, the music of which I had hitherto deemed 
 exaggerated, the King spoke; and in that voice there was 
 something so kind and encouraging that I felt reassured at 
 once. Perhaps its tone was not the less conciliating from the 
 evident effect which the royal presence had produced upon 
 me. 
 
 "You have given us. Count Devereux," said the King, "a 
 pleasure which we are glad, in person, to acknowledge to you. 
 And it has seemed to us fitting that the country in which your 
 brave father acquired his fame should also be the asylum of 
 his son." 
 
DEVEREUX. 285 
 
 "Sire," answered I, "Sire, it shall not be my fault if that 
 country is not henceforth my own; and in inheriting my 
 father's name, I inherit also his gratitude and his ambition." 
 
 "It is well said, Sir," said the King; and I once more raised 
 my eyes, and perceived that his were bent upon me. " It is 
 well said, " he repeated after a short pause ; " and in granting 
 to you this audience, we were not unwilling to hope that you 
 Avere desirous to attach yourself to our coiirt. The times do 
 not require " (here I thought the old King's voice was not so 
 firm as before) "the manifestation of your zeal in the same 
 career as that in which your father gained laurels to France 
 and to himself. But we will not neglect to find employment 
 for your abilities, if not for your sword." 
 
 "That sword which was given to me, Sire," said I, "by 
 your ^Majesty, shall be ever drawn (against all nations but 
 one) at your command; and, in being your Majesty's peti- 
 tioner for future favours, I only seek some channel through 
 which to evince my gratitude for the past." 
 
 "We do not doubt," said Louis, "that whatever be the 
 number of the ungrateful we may make by testifying our good 
 pleasure on your behalf, you will not be among the number." 
 The King here made a slight but courteous inclination and 
 turned round. The observant Bishop of Frejus, who had 
 retired to a little distance and who knew that the King never 
 liked talking more than he could help it, gave me a signal. 
 I obeyed, and backed, with all due deference, out of the royal 
 presence. 
 
 So closed my interview with Louis XIV. Although his 
 Majesty did not indulge in prolixity, I spoke of him for a 
 long time afterwards as the most eloquent of men. Believe 
 me, there is no orator like a king; one word from a royal 
 mouth stirs the heart more than Demosthenes could have 
 done. There was a deep moral in that custom of the ancients, 
 by which the Goddess of Persuasion was always represented 
 with a diadem on her head. 
 
286 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 REFLECTIONS. — A SOIREE. THE APPEARANCE OF ONE IMPOR- 
 TANT IN THE HISTORY. A CONVERSATION WITH MADAME 
 
 DE BALZAC HIGHLY SATISFACTORY AND CHEERING. A REN- 
 CONTRE WITH A CURIOUS OLD SOLDIER. THE EXTINCTION 
 
 OF A ONCE GREAT LUMINARY. 
 
 I HAD now been several weeks at Paris; I had neither 
 eagerly sought nor sedulously avoided its gayeties. It is not 
 that one violent sorrow leaves us without power of enjoy- 
 ment; it only lessens the power, and deadens the enjoyment: 
 it does not take away from us the objects of life; it only 
 forestalls the more indifferent calmness of age. The blood 
 no longer flows in an irregular but delicious course of vivid 
 and Avild emotion; the step no longer spurns the earth; nor 
 does the ambition wander, insatiable, yet undefined, over the 
 million paths of existence : but we lose not our old capacities ; 
 they are quieted, not extinct. The heart can never utterly 
 and long be dormant : trifles may not charm it any more, nor 
 levities delight ; but its pulse has not yet ceased to beat. We 
 survey the scene that moves around, with a gaze no longer 
 distracted by every hope that flutters by ; and it is therefore 
 that we find ourselves more calculated than before for the 
 graver occupations of our race. The overflowing tempera- 
 ment is checked to its proper level, the ambition bounded to 
 its prudent and lawful goal. The earth is no longer so green, 
 nor the heaven so blue, nor the fancy that stirs Avithin us so 
 rich in its creations; but we look more narrowly on the living 
 crowd, and more rationally on the aims of men. The misfor- 
 tune which has changed us has only adapted us the better to 
 a climate in which misfortune is a portion of the air. The 
 grief that has thralled our spirit to a more narrow and dark 
 cell has also been a change that has linked us to mankind 
 with a strength of which we dreamed not in the day of a 
 
DEVEREUX. 287 
 
 wilder freedom and more luxuriant aspirings. In later life, 
 a new spirit, partaking of that which was our earliest, returns 
 to us. The solitude which delighted us in youth, but which, 
 when the thoughts that make solitude a fairy land are dark- 
 ened by affliction, becomes a fearful and sombre void, resumes 
 its old spell, as the more morbid and urgent memory of that 
 affliction crumbles away by time. Content is a hermit; but 
 so also is Apathy. Youth loves the solitary couch, which it 
 surrounds with dreams. Age, or Experience (which is the 
 mind's age), loves the same couch for the rest which it af- 
 fords; but the wide interval between is that of exertion, of 
 labour, and of labour among men. The woe which makes our 
 hearts less social, often makes our habits more so. The 
 thoughts, which in calm would have shunned the world, are 
 driven upon it by the tempest, even as the birds which for- 
 sake the habitable land can, so long as the wind sleeps and 
 the thunder rests within its cloud, become the constant and 
 solitary brooders over the waste sea: but the moment the 
 storm awakes and the blast pursues them, they fly, by an 
 overpowering instinct, to some wandering bark, some ves- 
 tige of human and social life; and exchange, even for danger 
 from the hands of men, the desert of an angry Heaven and 
 the solitude of a storm. 
 
 I heard no more either of Madame de Maintenon or the King. 
 Meanwhile, my flight and friendship with Lord Bolingbroke 
 had given me a consequence in the eyes of the exiled Prince 
 which I should not otherwise have enjoA'ed; and I was hon- 
 oured by very flattering overtures to enter actively into liis 
 service. I have before said that I felt no enthusiasm in his 
 cause, and I was far from feeling it for his person. My am- 
 bition rather directed its hope towards a career in the service 
 of France. France was the country of my birth, and the 
 country of my father's fame. There no withering remem- 
 brances awaited me; no private regrets were associated with 
 its scenes, and no public penalties with its political institu- 
 tions. And although I had not yet received any token of 
 Louis's remembrance, in the ordinary routine of court fa- 
 vours expectation as yet would have been premature; be- 
 
288 DEVEREUX. 
 
 sides, his royal fidelity to his word was proverbial; and, 
 sooner or later, I indulged the hope to profit by the sort of 
 promise he had insinuated to me. I declined, therefore, with 
 all due respect, the offers of the Chevalier, and continued to 
 live the life of idleness and expectation, until Lord Boling- 
 broke returned to Paris, and accepted the office of secretary 
 of state in the service of the Chevalier. As he has publicly 
 declared his reasons in this step, I do not mean to favour the 
 world with his private conversations on the same subject. 
 
 A day or two after his return, I went with him to a party 
 given by a member of the royal family. The first person by 
 whom we were accosted — and I rejoiced at it, for we could 
 not have been accosted by a more amusing one — was Count 
 Anthony Hamilton. 
 
 "Ah! my Lord Bolingbroke, " said he, sauntering up to us; 
 "how are you? — delighted to see you again. Do look at 
 Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans! Saw you ever such a creat- 
 ure? Whither are you moving, my Lord? Ah! see him, 
 Count, see him, gliding off to that pretty duchess, of course ; 
 well, he has a beautiful bow, it must be owned ; why, you are 
 not going too? — what would the world say if Count Anthony 
 Hamilton were seen left to himself? No, no, come and sit 
 down by Madame de Cornuel : she longs to be introduced to 
 you, and is one of the wittiest women in Europe." 
 
 "With all my heart! provided she employs her wit ill- 
 naturedly, and uses it in ridiculing other people, not prais- 
 ing herself." 
 
 "Oh! nobody can be more satirical; indeed, what difference 
 is there between wit and satire? Come, Count! " 
 
 And Hamilton introduced me forthwith to Madame de Cor- 
 nuel. She received me very politely; and, turning to two or 
 three people who formed the circle round her, said, with the 
 greatest composure, " Messieurs, oblige me by seeking some 
 other object of attraction; I wish to have a private conference 
 with my new friend." 
 
 "I may stay?" said Hamilton. 
 
 " Ah ! certainly ; you are never in the way. " 
 
 "In that respect, Madame," said Hamilton, taking snuff; 
 
DEVEREUX. 289 
 
 and bowing very low, "in that respect, I must strongly re- 
 mind you of your excellent husband." 
 
 " Fie ! " cried Madame de Cornuel ; then, turning to me, she 
 said, "Ah! Monsieur, if you could have come to Paris some 
 years ago, you would have been enchanted with us : we are 
 sadly changed. Imagine the fine old King thinking it wicked 
 not to hear plays, but to hear players act them, and so mak- 
 ing the royal family a company of comedians. Mon Dieu ! 
 how villanously they perform ! but do you know why I wished 
 to be introduced to you? " 
 
 "Yes! in order to have a new listener: old listeners must 
 be almost as tedious as old news." 
 
 " Very shrewdly said, and not far from the truth. The fact 
 is, that I wanted to talk about all these fine people present 
 to some one for whose ear my anecdotes would have the charm 
 of novelty. Let us begin with Louis Armand, Prince of 
 Conti; you see him." 
 
 "What, that short-sighted, stout, and rather handsome 
 man, with a cast of countenance somewhat like the pictures 
 of Henri Quatre, who is laughing so merrily?" 
 
 " del! how droll! No! that handsome man is no less a 
 person than the Due d'Orleans. You see a little ugly thing 
 like an anatomized ape, — there, see, — he has just thrown 
 down a chair, and, in stooping to pick it up, has almost 
 fallen over the Dutch ambassadress, — that is Louis Armand, 
 Prince of Conti. Do you know what the Due d'Orleans said 
 to him the other day? ^Mon bon ami,' he said, pointing 
 to the prince's limbs (did you ever see such limbs out of a 
 menagerie, by the by?) '}non bon ami, it is a fine thing 
 for you that the Psalmist has assured us "that the Lord 
 delighteth not in any man's legs." ' Nay, don't laugh, it is 
 quite true ! " 
 
 It was now for Count Hamilton to take up the ball of 
 satire ; he was not a whit more merciful than the kind Madame 
 de Cornuel. "The Prince," said he, "has so exquisite an 
 awkwardness that, whenever the King hears a noise, and in- 
 quires the cause, the invariable answer is that 'the Prince of 
 Conti has just tumbled down ' ! But, tell me, what do you 
 
 19 
 
290 DEVEREUX. 
 
 think of Madame d'Aumont? She is in the English head- 
 dress, and looks triste a la mort." 
 
 "She is rather pretty, to my taste." 
 
 "Yes," cried Madame de Cornuel, interrupting the gentle 
 Antoine (it did one's heart good to see how strenuously each 
 of them tried to talk more scandal than the other), "yes, she 
 is thought very pretty; but I think her very like a frica7ideau, 
 — white, soft, and insipid. She is always in tears," added 
 the good-natured Cornuel, "after her prayers, both at morn- 
 ing and evening. I asked why; and she answered, pretty 
 simpleton, that she was always forced to pray to be made 
 good, and she feared Heaven would take her at her word! 
 However, she has many worshippers, and they call her the 
 evening star." 
 
 " They should rather call her the Hyades ! " said Hamilton, 
 " if it be true that she sheds tears every morning and night, 
 and her rising and setting are thus always attended by rain. " 
 
 "Bravo, Count Antoine! she shall be so called in future," 
 said Madame de Cornuel. "But now. Monsieur Devereux, 
 turn your eyes to that hideous old woman." 
 
 "What! the Duchesse d'Orleans?" 
 
 " The same. She is in full dress to-night ; but in the day- 
 time you generally see her in a riding habit and a man's wig; 
 she is — " 
 
 " Hist ! " interrupted Hamilton ; " do you not tremble to 
 think what she would do if she overheard you? she is such a 
 terrible creature at fighting ! You have no conception, Count, 
 what an arm she has. She knows her ugliness, and laughs at 
 it, as all the rest of the world does. The King took her hand 
 one day, and said smiling, 'What could Nature have meant 
 when she gave this hand to a German princess instead of a 
 Dutch peasant?' 'Sire,' said the Duchesse, very gravely, 
 'Nature gave this hand to a German princess for the purpose 
 of boxing the ears of her ladies in waiting ! ' " 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha!" said Madame de Cornuel, laughing; "one 
 is never at a loss for jokes upon a woman who eats salade au 
 lard, and declares that, whenever she is unhappy, her only 
 consolation is ham and sausasres! Her son treats her with 
 
DEVEREUX. 291 
 
 the greatest respect, and consults her in all his amours, for 
 which she professes the greatest horror, and which she retails 
 to her correspondents all over the world, in letters as long as 
 her pedigree. But you are looking at her son, is he not of a 
 good mien?" 
 
 "Yes, pretty well; but does not exhibit to advantage by 
 the side of Lord Bolingbroke, with whom he is now talking. 
 Pray, who is the third personage that has just joined them?" 
 
 "Oh, the wretch! it is the Abbe Dubois; a living proof of 
 the folly of the French proverb, which says that Mercuries 
 should not be made du hois. Never was there a Mercury 
 equal to the Abbe, — but, do look at that old man to the left, 
 — he is one of the most remarkable persons of the age." 
 
 "What! he Avith the small features, and comely counte- 
 nance, considering his years?" 
 
 "The same," said Hamilton; "it is the notorious Choisi. 
 You know that he is the modern Tiresias, and has been a 
 woman as well as man." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 " Ah, you may well ask ! " cried Madame de Cornuel. " Why, 
 he lived for many years in the disguise of a woman, and had 
 all sorts of curious adventures." 
 
 " Mort Diahle ! " cried Hamilton ; " it was entering your 
 ranks, Madame, as a spy. I hear he makes but a sorry report 
 of what he saw there." 
 
 "Come, Count Antoine," cried the lively de Cornuel, "we 
 must not turn our weapons against each other; and when you 
 attack a Avoman's sex you attack her individually. But what 
 makes you look so intently. Count Devereux, at that ugly 
 priest?" 
 
 The person thus flatteringly designated was Montreuil-, he 
 had just caught my eye, among a group of men who were 
 conversing eagerly. 
 
 "Hush! Madame," said I, "spare me for a moment; " and I 
 rose, and mingled with the Abbe's companions. "So, you 
 have only arrived to-day," I heard one of them say to him. 
 
 "No, I could not despatch my business before." 
 
 "And how are matters in England? " 
 
292 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " Ripe ! if the life of his Majesty (of France) be spared a 
 year longer, we will send the Elector of Hanover back to his 
 principality." 
 
 "Hist!" said the companion, and looked towards me. 
 Montreuil ceased abruptly: our eyes met; his fell. I af- 
 fected to look among the group as if I had expected to find 
 there some one I knew, and then, turning away, I seated my- 
 self alone and apart. There, unobserved, I kept my looks on 
 Montreuil. I remarked that, from time to time, his keen 
 dark eye glanced towards me, with a look rather expressive 
 of vigilance than anything else. Soon afterwards his little 
 knot dispersed; I saw him converse for a few moments with 
 Dubois, who received him I thought distantly; and then he 
 was engaged in a long conference with the Bishop of Frejus, 
 whom, till then, I had not perceived among the crowd. 
 
 As I was loitering on the staircase, where I saw Montreuil 
 depart with the Bishop, in thfi carriage of the latter, Hamil- 
 ton, accosting me, insisted on my accompanying him to Chau- 
 lieu's, where a late supper awaited the sons of wine and wit. 
 However, to the good Count's great astonishment, I preferred 
 solitude and reflection, for that night, to anything else. 
 
 Montreuil's visit to the French capital boded me no good. 
 He possessed great influence with Fleuri, and was in high 
 esteem with Madame de Maintenon, and, in effect, very shortly 
 after his return to Paris, the Bishop of Frejus looked upon 
 me with a most cool sort of benignancy ; and Madame de Main- 
 tenon told her friend, the Duchesse de St. Simon, that it was 
 a great pity a young nobleman of my birth and prepossessing 
 appearance (ay! my prepossessing appearance would never 
 have occurred to the devotee, if I had not seemed so sensible 
 of her own) should not only be addicted to the wildest dissi- 
 pation, but, worse still, to Jansenistical tenets. After this 
 there was no hope for me save in the King's word, which his 
 increasing infirmities, naturally engrossing his attention, pre- 
 vented my hoping too sanguinely would dwell very acutely on 
 his remembrance. I believe, however, so religiously scrupu- 
 lous was Louis upon a point of honour that, had he lived, I 
 should have had nothing to complain of. As it was — but I 
 
DEVEREUX. 293 
 
 anticipate! Montreuil disappeared from Paris, almost as 
 suddenly as he had appeared there. And, as drowning men 
 catch at a straw, so, finding my affairs at a very low ebb, I 
 thought I would take advice, even from Madame de Balzac. 
 
 I accordingly repaired to her hotel. She was at home, and, 
 fortunately, alone. 
 
 " You are welcome, mon jils, " said she ; " suffer me to give 
 you that title : you are welcome ; it is some days since I saw 
 you." 
 
 "I have numbered them, I assure you, Madame," said I, 
 "and they have crept with a dull pace; but you know that 
 business has claims as well as pleasure ! " 
 
 "True!" said Madame de Balzac, pompously: "I myself 
 find the weight of politics a little insupportable, though so 
 used to it; to your young brain I can readily imagine how 
 irksome it must be ! " 
 
 " Would, Madame, that I could obtain your experience by 
 contagion ; as it is, I fear that I have profited little by my 
 visit to his Majest3\ Madame de Maintenon will not see me, 
 and the Bishop of Frejus (excellent man!) has been seized 
 with a sudden paralysis of memory whenever I present my- 
 self in his way." 
 
 "That party will never do, — I thought not," said Madame 
 de Balzac, who was a wonderful imitator of the fly on the 
 •wheel; "my celebrity, and the knowledge that / loved you 
 for your father's sake, were, I fear, sufficient to destroy your 
 interest with the Jesuits and their tools. Well, well, we 
 must repair the mischief we have occasioned you. What 
 place would suit you best?" 
 
 " Why, anything diplomatic. I would rather travel, at my 
 age, than remain in luxury and indolence even at Paris ! " 
 
 "Ah, nothing like diplomacy!" said Madame de Balzac, 
 with the air of a Richelieu, and emptying her snuff-box at a 
 pinch; "but have you, my son, the requisite qualities for 
 that science, as well as the tastes? Are you capable of in- 
 trigue? Can you say one thing and mean another? Are 
 you aware of the immense consequence of a look or a bow? 
 Can you live like a spider, in the centre of an inexplicable 
 
294 DEVEREUX. 
 
 net — inexplicable as well as dangerous — to all but the 
 weaver? That, my son, is the art of politics; that is to be 
 a diplomatist ! " 
 
 "Perhaps, to one less penetrating than Madame de Balzac," 
 answered I, " I might, upon trial, not appear utterly ignorant 
 of the noble art of state duplicity which she has so eloquently 
 depicted." 
 
 "Possibly! " said the good lady; "it must indeed be a pro- 
 found dissimulator to deceive me." 
 
 "But what would you advise me to do in the present crisis? 
 What party to adopt, what individual to flatter? " 
 
 Nothing, I already discovered and have already observed, 
 did the inestimable Madame de Balzac dislike more than a 
 downright question : she never answered it, 
 
 "Why, really," said she, preparing herself for a long 
 speech, " I am quite glad you consult me, and I will give you 
 the best advice in my power. J^coutez done; you have seen 
 the Due de Maine?" 
 
 "Certainly!" 
 
 " Hum ! ha ! it would be wise to follow him ; but — you take 
 me — you understand. Then, you know, my son, there is the 
 Due d'Orleans, fond of pleasure, full of talent; but you know 
 
 — there is a little — what do you call it? you understand. As 
 for the Due de Bourbon, 't is quite a simpleton ; nevertheless 
 we must consider: nothing like consideration; believe me, no 
 diplomatist ever hurries. As for Madame de Maintenon, you 
 know, and I know too, that the Duchesse d'Orleans calls her 
 an old hag; but then — a word to the wise — eh? — what 
 shall we say to Madame the Duchess herself ? — what a fat 
 woman she is, but excessively clever, — such a letter writer! 
 
 — Well — you see, my dear young friend, that it is a very 
 difficult matter to decide upon, — but you must already be 
 fully aware what plan I should advise." 
 
 "Already, Madame?" 
 
 "To be sure! What have I been saying to you all this 
 time? — did you not hear me? Shall I repeat my advice? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! I perfectly comprehend you now ; you would ad- 
 vise me — in short — to — to — do — as well as I can. " 
 
DEVEREUX. 295 
 
 "You have said it, my son. I thought you would under- 
 stand me on a little reflection." 
 
 "To be sure, — to be sure," said I. 
 
 And three ladies being announced, my conference with 
 Madame de Balzac ended. 
 
 I now resolved to wait a little till the tides of power seemed 
 somewhat more settled, and I could ascertain in what quarter 
 to point my bark of enterprise. I gave myself rather more 
 eagerly to society, in proportion as my political schemes were 
 suffered to remain torpid. My mind could not remain quiet, 
 without preying on itself; and no evil appeared to me so great 
 as tranquillity. Thus the spring and earlier summer passed 
 on, till, in August, the riots preceding the Rebellion broke 
 out in Scotland. At this time I saw but little of Lord Boling- 
 broke in private; though, with his characteristic affectation, 
 he took care that the load of business with which he was 
 really oppressed should not prevent his enjoyment of all gay- 
 eties in public. And my indifference to the cause of the 
 Chevalier, in which he was so warmly engaged, threw a nat- 
 ural restraint upon our conversation, and produced an invol- 
 untary coldness in our intercourse: so impossible is it for 
 men to be private friends who differ on a public matter. 
 
 One evening I was engaged to meet a large party at a coun- 
 try-house about forty miles from Paris. I went, and stayed 
 some days. My horses had accompanied me; and, when I 
 left the chateau, I resolved to make the journey to Paris on 
 horseback. Accordingly, I ordered ray carriage to follow me, 
 and attended by a single groom, commenced my expedition. 
 It was a beautiful still morning, — the first day of the first 
 month of autumn. I had proceeded about ten miles, when I 
 fell in with an old French officer. I remember, — though I 
 never saw him but that once, — I remember his face as if 
 I had encountered it yesterday. It was thin and long, and 
 yellow enough to have served as a caricature rather than a 
 portrait of Don Quixote. He had a hook nose, and a long 
 sharp chin; and all the lines, wrinkles, curves, and furrows 
 of which the human visage is capable seemed to have met in 
 his cheeks. Nevertheless, his eye was bright and keen, his 
 
296 DEVEREUX. 
 
 look alert, and his whole bearing firm, gallant, and soldier- 
 like. He was attired in a sort of military undress; wore a 
 mustachio, which, though thin and gray, was carefully curled ; 
 and at the summit of a very respectable wig was perched a 
 small cocked hat, adorned with a black feather. He rode 
 very upright in his saddle; and his horse, a steady, stalwart 
 quadruped of the Norman breed, with a terribly long tail and 
 a prodigious breadth of chest, put one stately leg before an- 
 other in a kind of trot, which, though it seemed, from its 
 height of action and the proud look of the steed, a pretension 
 to motion more than ordinarily brisk, was in fact a little slower 
 than a common walk. 
 
 This noble cavalier seemed sufficiently an object of cui-iosity 
 to my horse to induce the animal to testify his surprise by 
 shying, .very jealously and very vehemently, in passing him. 
 This ill breeding on his part was indignantly returned on the 
 part of the ^STorman charger, who, uttering a sort of squeak 
 and shaking his long mane and head, commenced a series of 
 curvets and capers which cost the old Frenchman no little 
 trouble to appease. In the midst of these equine freaks, the 
 horse came so near me as to splash my nether garment with a 
 liberality as little ornamental as it was pleasurable. 
 
 The old Frenchman seeing this, took off his cocked hat very 
 politely and apologized for the accident. I replied with equal 
 courtesy; and, as our horses slid into quiet, their riders slid 
 into conversation. It was begun and chiefly sustained by my 
 new comrade ; for I am little addicted to commence unneces- 
 sary socialities myself, though I should think very meanly of 
 my pretensions to the name of a gentleman and a courtier, if I 
 did not return them when offered, even by a beggar. 
 
 ''It is a fine horse of yours. Monsieur," said the old French- 
 man ; " but I cannot believe — pardon me for saying so — that 
 your slight English steeds are so well adapted to the purposes 
 of war as our strong chargers, — such as mine for example." 
 
 "It is very possible. Monsieur," said I. "Has the horse 
 you now ride done service in the field as well as on the road ? " 
 
 "Ah! le pauvre 2)eti-t mignon, — no!" {petit, indeed! this 
 little darling was seventeen hands high at the very least) — 
 
DEVEREUX. 297 
 
 "no, Monsieur: it is Init a young creature this; Lis grand- 
 father service! me well!" 
 
 "I need not ask you, Monsieur, if you have borne arms: 
 the soldier is stamped upon you ! " 
 
 "Sir, you flatter me highly!" said the old gentleman, 
 blushing to the very tip of his long lean ears, and bowing as 
 low as if I had called him a Conde. " I have followed the 
 profession of arms for more than fifty years." 
 
 "Fifty years! 'tis a long time." 
 
 "A long time," rejoined my companion, "a long time to 
 look back upon with regret." 
 
 "Regret! by Heaven, I should think the remembrance of 
 fifty years' excitement and glory would be a remembrance of 
 triumph." 
 
 The old man turned round on his saddle, and looked at me 
 for some moments very wistfully. "You are young, Sir," he 
 said, "and at your years I should have thought with you; 
 but — " (then abruptly changing his voice, he continued) — 
 "Triumph, did you say? Sir, I have had three sons: they are 
 dead; they died in battle; I did not weep; I did not shed a 
 tear, Sir, — not a tear! But I will tell you when I did weep. 
 I came back, an old man, to the home I had left as a young 
 one. I saw the counti-y a desert. I saw that the noblesse 
 had become tyrants ; the peasants had become slaves, — such 
 slaves, — savage from despair, — even when they were most 
 gay, most fearfully gay, from constitution. Sir, I saw the 
 priest rack and grind, and the seigneur exact and pillage, 
 and the tax-gatherer squeeze out the little the other oppress- 
 ors had left; anger, discontent, wretchedness, famine, a ter- 
 rible separation between one order of people and another; an 
 incredible indifference to the miseries their desj^otism caused 
 on the part of the aristocracy; a sullen and vindictive hatred 
 for the perpetration of those miseries on the part of the peo- 
 ple; all places sold — even all honours priced — at the co\irt, 
 which was become a public market, a province of peasants, 
 of living men bartered for a few livres, and literally passed 
 from one hand to another, to be squeezed and drained anew 
 by each new possessor: in a word. Sir, an abandoned court; 
 
298 DEVEREUX. 
 
 an unredeemed noblesse, — unredeemed, Sir, by a single bene- 
 fit which, in other countries, even the most feudal, the vassal 
 obtains from the master; a peasantry famished; a nation 
 loaded with debt which it sought to pay by tears, — these are 
 what I saw, — these are the consequences of that heartless 
 and miserable vanity from which arose wars neither useful 
 nor honourable, — these are the real components of that tri- 
 umph, as you term it, which you wonder that I regret." 
 
 Now, although it was impossible to live at the court of 
 Louis XIV. in his latter days, and not feel, from the general 
 discontent that prevailed even there, what a dark truth the 
 old soldier's speech contained, yet I was somewhat surprised 
 by an enthusiasm so little military in a person whose bearing 
 and air were so conspicuously martial. 
 
 " You draw a melancholy picture, " said I ; " and the wretched 
 state of cvilture which the lands that we now pass through 
 exhibit is a witness how little exaggeration there is in your 
 colouring. However, these are but the ordinary evils of war ; 
 and, if your country endures them, do not forget that she has 
 also inflicted them. Eemember what France did to Holland, 
 and own that it is but a retribution that France should now 
 find that the injury we do to otliers is (among nations as well 
 as individuals) injury to ourselves." 
 
 My old Frenchman curled his mustaches with the finger 
 and thumb of his left hand: this was rather too subtile a 
 distinction for him. 
 
 "That may be true enough, Monsieur," said he; "but, 
 viorhleu ! those viaudits Dutchmen deserved what they sus- 
 tained at our hands. No, Sir, no : I am not so base as to for- 
 get the glory my country acquired, though I weep for her 
 wounds." 
 
 "I do not quite understand you. Sir," said I; "did you 
 not just now confess that the wars you had witnessed were 
 neither honourable nor useful? What glory, then, was to 
 be acquired in a war of that character, even though it was 
 so delightfully animated by cutting the throats of those 
 vimidits Dutchmen?" 
 
 "Sir," answered the Frenchman, drawing himself up, "you 
 
DEVEREUX. 299 
 
 did not understand me. When we punished Holland, we did 
 rightly. We conquered." 
 
 " Whether you conquered or not (for the good folk of Hol- 
 land are not so sure of the fact)," answered I, "that war was 
 the most unjust in Avhich your king was ever engaged; but 
 pray, tell me, Sir, what war it is that you lament? " 
 
 The Frenchman frowned, whistled, put out his under lip, 
 in a sort of angry embarrassment, and then, spurring his great 
 horse into a curvet, said, — 
 
 " That last war with the English ! " 
 
 "Faith," said I, "that was the justest of all." 
 
 " Just ! " cried the Frenchman, halting abruptly and darting 
 at me a glance of lire, "just! no more. Sir! no more! I was 
 at Blenheim and at Ramilies ! " 
 
 As the old warrior said the last words, his voice faltered; 
 and though I could not help inly smiling at the confusion of 
 ideas by which wars were just or unjust, according as they 
 were fortunate or not, yet I respected his feelings enough to 
 turn away my face and remain silent. 
 
 "Yes," renewed my comrade, colouring with evident shame 
 and drawing his cocked hat over his brows, " yes, I received 
 my last wound at Ramilies. Then my eyes were opened to 
 the horrors of war; then I saw and cursed the evils of ambi- 
 tion; then I resolved to retire from the armies of a king who 
 had lost forever his name, his glory, and his country." 
 
 Was there ever a better type of the French nation than this 
 old soldier? As long as fortune smiles on them, it is "Mar- 
 chons an diable ! " and " Vive la gloire ! " Directly they get 
 beaten, it is " Ma pauvre patrie ! " and " Les calamites af- 
 freuses de la guerre ! " 
 
 "However," said I, "the old King is drawing near the end 
 of his days, and is said to express his repentance at the evils 
 his ambition has occasioned." 
 
 The old soldier shoved back his hat, and offered me his 
 snuff-box. I judged by this that he was a little mollified. 
 
 " Ah ! " he renewed, after a pause, " ah ! times are sadly 
 changed since the year 1667; when the young King — he was 
 young then — took the field in Flanders, under the great Tu- 
 
300 DEVEREUX. 
 
 renne. Sacristie ! "Wliat a hero he looked upon his white 
 war-horse ! I would have gone — ay, and the meanest and 
 backwardest soldier in the camp would have gone — into the 
 very mouth of the cannon for a look from that magnificent 
 countenance, or a word from that mouth which knew so well 
 what words were! Sir, there was in the war of '72, when we 
 were at peace with Great Britain, an English gentleman, then 
 in the army, afterwards a marshal of France : I remember, as 
 if it were yesterda}^, how gallantly he behaved. The King 
 sent to compliment him after some signal proof of courage 
 and conduct, and asked what reward he would have. 'Sire,' 
 answered the Englishman, 'give me the white plume you 
 wore this day.' From that moment the Englishman's fortune 
 was made." 
 
 "The flattery went further than the valour! " said I, smil- 
 ing, as I recognized in the anecdote the first great step which 
 my father had made in the ascent of fortune. 
 
 " Sacristie ! " cried the Frenchman, " it was no flattery then. 
 We so idolized the King that mere truth would have seemed 
 disloyalty; and we no more thought that praise, however ex- 
 travagant, was adulation, when directed to him, than we 
 should have thought there was adulation in the praise we 
 would have given to our first mistress. But it is all changed 
 now! "Who now cares for the old priest-ridden monarch?" 
 
 And upon this the veteran, having conquered the momen- 
 tary enthusiasm which the remembrance of the King's earlier 
 glories had excited, transferred all his genius of description 
 to the opposite side of the question, and declaimed, with 
 great energy, upon the royal vices and errors, which were 
 so charming in prosperity, and were now so detestable in 
 adversity. 
 
 While we were thus conversing we approached Versailles. 
 We thought the vicinity of the town seemed unusually de- 
 serted. We entered the main street : crowds were assembled ; 
 a universal murmur was heard ; excitement sat on every coun- 
 tenance. Here an old crone was endeavouring to explain 
 something, evidently beyond his comprehension, to a child of 
 three years old, who, with open mouth and fixed eyes, seemed 
 
DEVEREUX. 301 
 
 to make up in "wonder for the want of intelligence; there a 
 group of old disbanded soldiers occupied the way, and seemed, 
 from their muttered conversations, to vent a sneer and a jest 
 at a priest who, with downward countenance and melancholy 
 air, was hurrying along. 
 
 One young fellow was calling out, " At least, it is a holy- 
 day, and I shall go to Paris ! " and, as a contrast to him, an 
 old withered artisan, leaning on a gold-headed cane, with 
 sharp avarice eloquent in every line of his face, muttered out 
 to a fellow-miser, "No business to-day, no money, John; no 
 money ! " One knot of women, of all ages, close by which my 
 horse passed, was entirely occupied with a single topic, and 
 that so vehemently that I heard the leading words of the dis- 
 cussion. "Mourning — becoming — what fashion? — how 
 long? — Ciel!^^ Thus do follies weave themselves round 
 the bier of death! 
 
 "What is the news, gentlemen?" said I. 
 
 "News! what, you have not heard it? — the King is dead! " 
 
 "Louis dead! Louis the Great, dead!" cried my com- 
 panion. 
 
 " Louis the Great? " said a sullen-looking man, — " Louis the 
 persecutor! " 
 
 '' Ah, he 's a Huguenot ! " cried another with haggard cheeks 
 and hollow eyes, scowling at the last speaker, " Never mind 
 what he says : the King was right when he refused protection 
 to the heretics ; but was he right when he levied such taxes 
 on the Catholics?" 
 
 "Hush! " said a third — "hush: it may be unsafe to speak; 
 there are spies about ; for my part, I think it was all the fault 
 of the noblesse.''^ 
 
 " And the Favourites ! " cried a soldier, fiercely. 
 
 "And the Harlots! " cried a hag of eighty. 
 
 " And the Priests ! " muttered the Huguenot. 
 
 " And the Tax-gatherers ! " added the lean Catholic. 
 
 We rode slowly on. My comrade was evidently and pow- 
 erfully affected. 
 
 "So, he is dead!" said he. "Dead! — well, well, peace be 
 with him! He conquered in Holland; he humbled Genoa; 
 
302 DEVEREUX. 
 
 he dictated to Spain; he commanded Conde and Turenne; he 
 — Bah! What is all this! " then, turning abruptly to me, my 
 companion cried, "I did not speak against the King, did I, 
 Sir?" 
 
 "Xot much." 
 
 "I am glad of that, — yes, very glad!" And the old man 
 glared fiercely round on a troop of boys who were audibly 
 abusing the dead lion. 
 
 " I would have bit out my tongue rather than it had joined 
 in the base joy of these yelping curs. Heavens! when I 
 think what shouts I have heard when the name of that man, 
 then deemed little less than a god, was but breathed! — and 
 now — why do you look at me, Sir? My eyes are moist; I 
 know it, Sir, — I know it. The old battered broken soldier, 
 who made his first campaigns when that which is now dust 
 was the idol of France and the pupil of Turenne, — the old 
 soldier's eyes shall not be dry, though there is not another 
 tear shed in the whole of this great empire." 
 
 "Your three sons?" said I; "you did not weep for them?" 
 
 "iS!"o, Sir; I loved them when I was old; but I loved Louis 
 when I was young ! " 
 
 "Your oppressed and pillaged country? " said I, "think of 
 that." 
 
 "No, Sir, I will not think of it! " cried the old warrior in a 
 passion. "I will not think of it — to-day, at least." 
 
 " You are right, my brave friend ; in the grave let us bury 
 even public wrongs; but let us not bury their remembrance. 
 May the joy we read in every face that we pass — joy at the 
 death of one whom idolatry once almost seemed to deem im- 
 mortal — be a lesson to future kings ! " 
 
 My comrade did not immediately answer; but, after a 
 pause and we had turned our backs upon the town, he said, — 
 
 "Joy, Sir, — you spoke of joy! Yes, we are Frenchmen: 
 we forgive our rulers easily for private vices and petty faults ; 
 but we never forgive them if they commit the greatest of 
 faults, and suffer a stain to rest upon — " 
 
 "What?" I asked, as my comrade broke off. 
 
 " The national glory, Monsieur ! " said he. 
 
DEVEREUX. 303 
 
 "You have hit it," said I, smiling at the turgid sentiment 
 which was so really and deeply felt. " And had you written 
 folios upon the character of your countrymen, you could not 
 have expressed it better." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 IN WHICH THERE IS KEASON TO FEAR THAT PRINCES ARE 
 NOT INVARIABLY FREE FROM HUMAN PECCADILLOES. 
 
 On entering Paris, my veteran fellow-traveller took leave 
 of me, and I proceeded to my hotel. When the first excite- 
 ment of my thoughts was a little subsided, and after some 
 feelings of a more public nature, I began to consider what 
 influence the King's death was likely to have on my own 
 fortunes. I could not but see at a glance that for the cause 
 of the Chevalier, and the destiny of his present exertions 
 in Scotland, it was the most fatal event that could have 
 occurred. 
 
 The balance of power in the contending factions of France 
 would, I foresaw, lie entirely between the Duke of Orleans 
 and the legitimatized children of the late king: the latter, 
 closely leagued as they were with Madame de Maintenon, 
 could not be much disposed to consider the welfare of Count 
 Devereux; and my wishes, therefore, naturally settled on the 
 former. I was not doomed to a long suspense. Every one 
 knows that the very next day the Duke of Orleans appeared 
 before Parliament, and was proclaimed Regent; that the will 
 of the late King was set aside; and that the Duke of Maine 
 suddenly became as low in power as he had always been des- 
 picable in intellect. A little hubbub ensued : people in gen- 
 eral laughed at the 'Regent's Jinesse; and the more sagacious 
 admired the courage and address of which the Jinesae was 
 composed. The Regent's mother wrote a letter of sixty-nine 
 
304 DEVEREUX. 
 
 pages about it; and the Ducliess of Maine boxed tlie Duke's 
 ears very heartily for not being as clever as herself. All 
 Paris teemed with joyous forebodings; and the Eegent, 
 whom every one some time ago had suspected of poisoning 
 his cousins, every one now declared to be the most perfect 
 prince that could possibly be imagined, and the very picture 
 of Henri Quatre in goodness as well as physiognomy. Three 
 days after this event, one happened to myself with which my 
 public career may be said to commence. 
 
 I had spent the evening at a house in a distant part of 
 Paris, and, invited by the beauty of the night, had dismissed 
 my carriage, and was walking home alone and on foot. Oc- 
 cupied with my reflections, and not very well acquainted 
 with the dangerous and dark streets of Paris, in which it was 
 very rare for those who have carriages to wander on foot, I 
 insensibly strayed from my proper direction. When I first 
 discovered this disagreeable fact, I was in a filthy and obscure 
 fane rather than street, which I did not remember having 
 ever honoured with my presence before. While I was paus- 
 ing in the vain hope and anxious endeavour to shape out 
 some imaginary chart — some "map of the mind," by which 
 to direct my bewildered course — I heard a confused noise 
 proceed from another lane at right angles with the one in 
 which I then was. I listened: the sound became more dis- 
 tinct; I recognized human voices in loud and angry alterca- 
 tion; a moment more and there was a scream. Though I did 
 not attach much importance to the circumstance, I thought I 
 might as well approach nearer to the quarter of noise. I 
 walked to the door of the house from which the scream pro- 
 ceeded; it was very small and mean. Just as I neared it, a 
 window was thrown open, and a voice cried, "Help! help! 
 for God's sake, help!" 
 
 "What's the matter?" I asked. 
 
 " Whoever you are, save us ! " cried the voice, " and that 
 instantly, or we shall be murdered ; " and, the moment after, 
 the voice ceased abruptly, and was succeeded by the clashing 
 of swords. 
 
 I beat loudly at the door; I shouted out, — no answer; the 
 
DEVEREUX. 305 
 
 scuffle within seemed to increase. I saw a small blind alley 
 to the left; one of the unfortunate women to whom such 
 places are homes was standing in it. 
 
 "What possibility is there of entering the house?" I asked. 
 
 "Oh!" said she, "it does not matter; it is not the first 
 time gentlemen have cut each other's throats there ^ 
 
 "What! is it a house of bad repute? " 
 
 "Yes; and where there are bullies who wear knives, and 
 take purses, as well as ladies who — " 
 
 " Good heavens ! " cried I, interrupting her, " there is no 
 time to be lost. Is there no way of entrance but at this 
 door?" 
 
 " Yes, if you are bold enough to enter at another ! " 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Down this alley." 
 
 Immediately I entered the alley; the woman pointed to 
 a small, dark, narrow flight of stairs; I ascended; the sounds 
 increased in loudness. I mounted to the second flight; 
 a light streamed from a door; the clashing of swords was 
 distinctly audible within; I broke open the door, and found 
 myself a witness and intruder on a scene at once ludicrous 
 and fearful. 
 
 A table, covered with bottles and the remnants of a meal, 
 was in the centre of the room; several articles of women's 
 dress were scattered over the floor; two women of unequivo- 
 cal description were clinging to a man richly dressed, and 
 who having fortunately got behind an immense chair, that 
 had been overthrown probably in the scuffle, managed to keep 
 off with awkward address a fierce-looking fellow, who had 
 less scope for the ability of his sword-arm, from the circum- 
 stance of his attempting to pull away the chair with his left 
 hand. Whenever he stooped to effect this object his antago- 
 nist thrust at him very vigorously, and had it not been for 
 the embarrassment his female enemies occasioned him, the 
 latter would, in all probability, have despatched or disabled 
 his besieger. This fortified gentleman, being backed by the 
 window, I immediately concluded to be the person who had 
 called to me for assistance. 
 
 20 
 
306 DEVEREUX. 
 
 At the other corner of the apartment was another cavalier, 
 who used his sword with singular skill, but who, being hard 
 pressed by two lusty fellows, was forced to employ that skill 
 rather in defence than attack. Altogether, the disordered 
 appearance of the room, the broken bottles, the fumes with 
 which the hot atmosphere teemed, the evident profligacy of 
 the two women, the half-undressed guise of the cavaliers, and 
 the ruffian air and collected ferocity of the assailants, plainly 
 denoted that it was one of those perilous festivals of pleasure 
 in which imprudent gallants were often, in that day, betrayed 
 by treacherous Delilahs into the hands of Philistines, who, 
 not contented with stripping them for the sake of plunder, 
 frequently murdered them for the sake of secrecy. 
 
 Having taken a rapid but satisfactory survey of the scene, 
 I did not think it necessary to make any preparatory parley. 
 I threw myself upon the nearest bravo with so hearty a good 
 will that I ran him through the body before he had recovered 
 his surprise at my appearance. This somewhat startled the 
 other two ; they drew back and demanded quarter. 
 
 "Quarter, indeed! " cried the farther cavalier, releasing him- 
 self from his astonished female assailants, and leaping nimbly 
 over his bulwark into the centre of the room, "quarter, in- 
 deed, rascally ivrognes! No; it is our turn now! and, by 
 Joseph of Arimathea! you shall sup with Pilate to-night." 
 So saying, he pressed his old assailant so fiercely that, after 
 a short contest, the latter retreated till he had backed him- 
 self to the door; he then suddenly turned round, and vanished 
 in a twinkling. The third and remaining ruffian was far 
 from thinking himself a match for three men ; he fell on his 
 knees, and implored mercy. However, the c i-dev ant BW&t^iwQV 
 of the besieged chair was but little disposed to afford him the 
 clemency he demanded, and approached the crestfallen bravo 
 with so grim an air of truculent delight, brandishing his 
 sword and uttering the most terrible threats, that there Avould 
 have been small doubt of the final catastrophe of the trem- 
 bling bully, had not the other gallant thrown himself in the 
 way of his friend. 
 
 "Put up thy sword," said he, laughing, and yet with an air 
 
DEVEREUX. 307 
 
 of command; "we must not court crime, and then punish it." 
 Then, turning to the bully, he said, "Kise, 8ir Rascal! the 
 devil spares thee a little longer, and this gentleman will not 
 disobey his as well as th?/ master's wishes. Begone ! " 
 
 The fellow wanted no second invitation: he sprang to his 
 legs, and to the door. The disappointed cavalier assisted his 
 descent down the stairs with a kick that would have done 
 the work of the sword to any flesh not accustomed to similar 
 applications. Putting up his rapier, the milder gentleman 
 then turned to the ladies^ who lay huddled together under 
 shelter of the chair which their intended victim had 
 deserted. 
 
 "Ah, Mesdames," said he, gravely, and with a low bow, 
 " I am sorry for your disappointment. As long as you con- 
 tented yourselves with robbery, it were a shame to have in- 
 terfered with your innocent amusements; but cold steel 
 becomes serious. Monsieur D'Argenson will favour you 
 with some inquiries to-morrow ; at present, I recommend you 
 to empty what remains in the bottle. Adieu! Monsieur, 
 to whom I am so greatly indebted, honour me with your arm 
 down these stairs. You" (turning to his friend) "will fol- 
 low us, and keep a sharp look behind. Allans ! Vive Henri 
 Quatre ! " 
 
 As we descended the dark and rough stairs, my new com- 
 panion said, " What an excellent antidote to the effects of the 
 vin de champagne is this same fighting! I feel as if I had 
 not tasted a drop these six hours. What fortune brought you 
 hither. Monsieur?" addressing me. 
 
 We were now at the foot of the first flight of stairs ; a high 
 and small window admitted the moonlight, and we saw each 
 other's faces clearly. 
 
 "That fortune," answered I, looking at my acquaintance 
 steadily, but with an expression of profound respect, — "that 
 fortune which w^atches over kingdoms, and which, I trust, 
 may in no place or circumstance be a deserter from your 
 Highness." 
 
 "Highness!" said my companion, colouring, and darting a 
 glance, first at his friend and then at me. "Hist, Sir, you 
 
308 DEVEREUX. 
 
 know me, then, — speak low, — you know, then, for whom you 
 have drawn your sword?" 
 
 " Yes, so please your Highness. I have drawn it this night 
 for Philip of Orleans ; I trust yet, in another scene and for 
 another cause, to draw it for the Eegent of France ! " 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A PRINCE, AN AUDIENCE, AND A SECRET EMBASSY. 
 
 The Regent remained silent for a moment: he then said in 
 an altered and grave voice, " C'est Hen, Monsieur ! I thank 
 you for the distinction you have made. It were not amiss " 
 (lie added, turning to his comrade) " that you would now and 
 then deign, henceforward, to make the same distinction. But 
 this is neither time nor place for parlance. On, gentlemen ! " 
 
 We left the house, passed into the street, and moved on 
 rapidly, and in silence, till the constitutional gayety of the 
 Duke recovering its ordinary tone, he said with a laugh, — 
 
 "Well, now, it is a little hard that a man who has been 
 toiling all day for the public good should feel ashamed of 
 indulging for an hour or two at night in his private amuse- 
 ments ; but so it is. 'Once grave, always grave !' is the maxim 
 of the world; eh, Chatran?" 
 
 The companion bowed. " 'T is a very good saying, please 
 your Royal Highness, and is intended to warn us from the 
 sin of ever being grave ! " 
 
 "Ha! ha! you have a great turn for morality, my good 
 Chatran ! " cried the Duke, " and would draw a rule for con- 
 duct out of the wickedest hon mot of Dubois. Monsieur, par- 
 don me, but I have seen you before : you are the Count — " 
 
 "Devereux, Monseigneur." 
 
 " True, true I I have heard much of you : you are intimate 
 with Milord Bolingbroke. Would that I had fifty friends 
 like him." 
 
DEVEREUX. 309 
 
 *' Monseigneur would have little trouble in his regency if 
 his wish were realized," said Chatran. 
 
 " Tant mieux, so long as I had little odium, as well as little 
 trouble, — a happiness which, thanks to you and Dubois, I am 
 not likely to enjoy, — but there is the carriage! " 
 
 And the Duke pointed to a dark, plain carriage, which we 
 had suddenly come upon. 
 
 "Count Devereux," said the merry Regent, "you will enter; 
 my duty requires that, at this seductive hour, I should see a 
 young gentleman of your dangerous age safely lodged at his 
 hotel!" 
 
 We entered, Chatran gave the orders, and we drove off 
 rapidly. 
 
 The Regent hummed a tune, and his two companions lis- 
 tened to it in respectful silence. 
 
 "Well, well. Messieurs," said he, bursting out at last into 
 open voice, " I will ever believe, in future, that the gods do 
 look benignantly on us worshippers of the Alma Venus! Do 
 you know much of Tibullus, Monsieur ^Devereux? And can 
 you assist my memory with the continuation of the line — 
 
 " ' Quisquis amore tenetur, eat — ' " 
 
 " ' tutusque sacerque 
 Qualibet, insidias non timuisse decet,' " ^ 
 
 answered I. 
 
 " Bon ! " cried the Duke. " I love a gentleman, from my very 
 soul, when he can both fight well and read Latin ! I hate a 
 man who is merely a winebibber and blade-drawer. Bj' Saint 
 Louis, though it is an excellent thing to fill the stomach, es- 
 pecially with Tokay, yet there is no reason in the world why 
 we should not fill the head too. But here we are. Adieu, 
 Monsieur Devereux: we shall see you at the Palace." 
 
 I expressed my thanks briefly at the Regent's condescen- 
 sion, descended from the carriage (which instantly drove off 
 with renewed celerity), and once more entered my hotel. 
 
 1 " Wniosoever is possessed by Love may go safe and holy withersoever he 
 likes. It becomes not him to fear snares." ' 
 
310 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Two or three days after my adventure with the Regent, I 
 thought it expedient to favour that eccentric prince with a 
 visit. During the early part of his regency, it is well known 
 how successfully he combated with his natural indolence, 
 and how devotedly his mornings were surrendered to the toils 
 of his new office ; but when pleasure has grown habit, it re- 
 quires a stronger mind than that of Philippe le Debonnaire 
 to give it a permanent successor in business. Pleasure is, in- 
 deed, like the genius of the fable, the most useful of slaves, 
 while you subdue it; the most intolerable of tyrants the 
 moment your negligence suffers it to subdue you. 
 
 The hours in which the Prince gave audience to the com- 
 rades of his lighter rather than graver occupations were 
 those immediately before and after his levee. I thought 
 that this would be the best season for me to present myself. 
 Accordingly, one morning after the levee, I repaired to his 
 palace. 
 
 The ante-chamber was already crowded. I sat myself 
 quietly down in one corner of the room, and looked upon the 
 motley groups around. I smiled inly as they reminded me of 
 the scenes my own anteroom, in my younger daj'S of folly 
 and fortune, was wont to exhibit; the same heterogeneous 
 assemblage (only upon a grander scale) of the ministers to 
 the physical appetites and the mental tastes. There was the 
 fretting and impudent mountebank, side by side with the 
 gentle and patient scholar; the harlot's envoy and the priest's 
 messenger; the agent of the police and the licensed breaker 
 of its laws; there — but what boots a more prolix description? 
 What is the anteroom of a great man, who has many wants 
 and many tastes, but a panorama of the blended disparities of 
 this compounded world? 
 
 While I was moralizing, a gentleman suddenly thrust his 
 head out of a door, and appeared to reconnoitre us. Instantly 
 the crowd swept up to him. I thought I might as well follow 
 the general example, and pushing aside some of my fellow- 
 loiterers, I presented myself and my name to the gentleman, 
 with the most ingratiating air I could command. 
 
 The gentleman, who was tolerably civil for a great man's 
 
DEVEREUX. 31 1 
 
 great man, promised that my visit should be immediately 
 announced to the Prince; and then, with the politest bow 
 imaginable, slapped the door in my face. After I had waited 
 about seven or eight minutes longer, the gentleman re-ap- 
 peared, singled me from the crowd, and desired me to follow 
 him; I passed through another room, and was presently in 
 the Regent's presence. 
 
 I was rather startled when I saw, by the morning light, 
 and in deshabille, the person of that royal martyr to dissipa- 
 tion. His countenance was red, but bloated, and a weakness 
 in his eyes added considerably to the jaded and haggard ex- 
 pression of his features. A proportion of stomach rather in- 
 clined to corjDulency seemed to betray the taste for the 
 pleasures of the table, which the most radically coarse, and 
 yet (strange to say) the most generally accomplished and 
 really good-natured of royal profligates, combined with his 
 other qualifications. He was yawning very elaborately over 
 a great heap of papers when I entered. He finished his yawn 
 (as if it were too brief and too precious a recreation to lose), 
 and then said, "Good morning, Monsieur Devereux; I am 
 glad that you have found me out at last." 
 
 "I was afraid, Monseigneur, of appearing an intruder on 
 your presence, by offering my homage to you before." 
 
 *'So like my good fortune," said the Regent, turning to a 
 man seated at another table at some distance, whose wily, 
 astute countenance, piercing eye, and licentious expression 
 of lip and brow, indicated at once the ability and vice which 
 composed his character. " So like my good fortune, is it not, 
 Dubois? If ever I meet with a tolerably pleasant fellow, 
 who does not disgrace me by his birth or reputation, he is al- 
 ways so terribly afraid of intruding! and whenever I pick up 
 a respectable personage without wit, or a wit without respec- 
 tability, he attaches himself to me like a burr, and can't live 
 a day without inquiring after my health." 
 
 Dubois smiled, bowed, but did not answer, and I saw that 
 his look was bent darkly and keenly upon me. 
 
 " Well, " said the Prince, " what think you of our opera, 
 Count Devereux? It beats your English one — eh?" 
 
312 DEVEREUX. 
 
 "Ah, certainly, Monseigneur; ours is but a reflection of 
 yours." 
 
 "So says your friend. Milord Bolingbroke, a person wlio 
 knows about operas almost as much as I do, Avhich, vanity 
 apart, is saying a great deal. I should like very well to visit 
 England; what should I learn best there? In Spain (I shall 
 always love Spain) I learned to cook." 
 
 "Monseigneur, I fear," answered I, smiling, "could obtain 
 but little additional knowledge in that art in our barbarous 
 country. A few rude and imperfect inventions have, indeed, 
 of late years, astonished the cultivators of the science; but 
 the night of ignorance rests still upon its main principles and 
 leading truths. Perhaps, what Monseigneur would find best 
 worth studying in England would be — the women." 
 
 "Ah, the women all over the world!" cried the Duke, 
 laughing; "but I hear your belles Anglaises are sentimental, 
 and love a l' Arcadienne." 
 
 "It is true at present; but who shall say how far Mon- 
 seigneur's example might enlighten them in a train of thought 
 so erroneous?" 
 
 "True. Nothing like example, eh, Dubois? What would 
 Philip of Orleans have been but for thee?" 
 
 "'L'exemple souvent n'est qu'un miroir trompeur; 
 Quelquefois I'un se brise oil I'autre s'est sauve, 
 Et par oil I'un pe'rit, un autre est conserve',' " ^ 
 
 answered Dubios, oiit of "Cinna." 
 
 "Corneille is right," rejoined the Regent. "After all, to 
 do thee justice, mon petit Abb6, example has little to do with 
 corrupting us. Nature pleads the cause of pleasure as Hy- 
 perides pleaded that of Phryne. She has no need of elo- 
 quence; she unveils the bosom of her client, and the client is 
 acquitted." 
 
 " IMonseigneur shows at least that he has learned to profit 
 by my humble instructions in the classics," said Dubois. 
 
 ^ "Example is often but a deceitful mirror, where sometimes one destroys 
 himself, wliile another comes off safe ; and where one perishes, another is 
 preserved." 
 
DEVEREUX. 813 
 
 The Duke did not answer. I turned my eyes to some draw- 
 ings on the table ; I expressed my admiration of them. " They 
 are mine, " said the Kegent. *' Ah ! I should have been much 
 more accomplished as a private gentleman than I fear I ever 
 shall be as a public man of toil and business. Business — 
 bah! But Necessity is the only real sovereign in the world, 
 the only despot for whom there is no law. What! are you 
 going already, Count Devereux?" 
 
 " Monseigneur's anteroom is crowded with less fortunate 
 persons than myself, whose sins of envy and covetousness I 
 am now answerable for." 
 
 " Ah — well ! I must hear the poor devils ; the only pleas- 
 ure I have is in seeing how easily I can make them happy. 
 "Would to Heaven, Dubois, that one could govern a great 
 kingdom only by fair words! Count Devereux, you have 
 seen me to-day as my acquaintance; see me again as my 
 petitioner. Bon jotir, Monsieur." 
 
 And I retired, very well pleased with my reception; from 
 that time, indeed, during the rest of my short stay at Paris, 
 the Prince honoured me with his especial favour. But I have 
 dwelt too long on my sojourn at the French court. The per- 
 sons whom I have described, and who alone made that so- 
 journ memorable, must be my apology. 
 
 One day I was honoured by a visit from the Abbe Dubois. 
 After a short conversation upon indifferent things, he accosted 
 me thus : — 
 
 "You are aware. Count Devereux, of the partiality which 
 the Regent has conceived towards you. Fortunate would it 
 be for the Prince " (here Dubois elevated his brows with an 
 ironical and arch expression), "so good by disposition, so in- 
 jured by example, if his partiality had been more frequently 
 testified towards gentlemen of your merit. A mission of con- 
 siderable importance, and one demanding great personal ad- 
 dress, gives his Royal Highness an opportunity of testifying 
 his esteem for you. He honoured me with a conference on 
 the subject yesterday, and has now commissioned me to 
 explain to you the technical objects of this mission, and to 
 offer to you the honour of undertaking it. Should you accept 
 
314 DEVEREUX. 
 
 the proposals, you will -svait upon his Highness before his 
 levee to-morrow." 
 
 Dubois then proceeded, in the clear, rapid manner peculiar 
 to him, to comment on the state of Europe. "For France," 
 said he, in concluding his sketch, "peace is absolutely neces- 
 sary. A drained treasury, an exhausted country, require it. 
 You see, from what I have said, that Spain and England are 
 the principal quarters from which we are to dread hostilities. 
 Spain Ave must guard against; England we must propitiate: 
 the latter object is easy in England in any case, whether 
 James or George be uppermost. For whoever is king in Eng- 
 land will have quite enough to do at home to make him agree 
 willingly enough to peace abroad. The former requires a 
 less simple and a more enlarged policy. I fear the ambition 
 of the Queen of Spain and the turbulent genius of her minion 
 Alberoni. We must fortify ourselves by new forms of alli- 
 ance, at various courts, which shall at once defend us and 
 intimidate our enemies. We wish to employ some nobleman 
 of ability and address, on a secret mission to Kussia: will 
 you be that person? Your absence from Paris will be but 
 short; you will see a very droll country, and a very droll sov- 
 ereign; you will return hither, doubly the rage, and with a 
 just claim to more important employment hereafter. What 
 say you to the proposal? " 
 
 "I must hear more," said I, "before I decide." 
 The Abbe renewed. It is needless to repeat all the partic- 
 ulars of the commission that he enumerated. Suffice it that, 
 after a brief consideration, I accepted the honoiir proposed 
 to me. The Abb6 wished me joy, relapsed into his ordinary 
 strain of coarse levity for a few minutes, and then, remind- 
 ing me that I was to attend the Regent on the morrow, de- 
 parted. It was easy to see that in the mind of that subtle 
 and crafty ecclesiastic, with whose manoeuvres private in- 
 trigues were always blended with public, this offer of employ- 
 ment veiled a desire to banish me from the immediate vicinity 
 of the good-natured Regent, whose favour the aspiring Abbe 
 wished at that exact moment exclusively to monopolize. 
 Mere men of pleasure he knew would not interfere with his 
 
DEVEREUX. 315 
 
 aims upon the Prince; mere men of business still less: but a 
 man Avho was thought to combine the capacities of both, and 
 who was moreover distinguished by the Regent, he deemed 
 a more dangerous rival than the inestimable person thus 
 suspected really was. 
 
 However, I cared little for the honest man's motives. Ad- 
 venture to me had always greater charms than dissipation, 
 and it was far more agreeable to the nature of my ambition, 
 to win distinction by any honourable method, than by favour- 
 itism at a court so hollow, so unprincipled, and so grossly 
 licentious as that of the Kegeut. There to be the most suc- 
 cessful courtier was to be the most amusing profligate. Alas, 
 when the heart is away from its objects, and the taste revolts 
 at its excess. Pleasure is worse than palling: it is a torture! 
 and the devil in Jonson's play did not perhaps greatly belie 
 the truth when he averred "that the pains in his native coun- 
 try were pastimes to the life of a person of fashion." 
 
 The Duke of Orleans received me the next morning with 
 more than his wonted bonhomie. What a pity that so good- 
 natured a prince should have been so bad a man! He en- 
 larged more easily and carelessly than his worthy preceptor 
 had done vipon the several points to be observed in my mis- 
 sion; then condescendingly told me he was very sorry to lose 
 me from his court, and asked me, at all events, before I left 
 Paris, to be a guest at one of his select suppers. I appreci- 
 ated this honour at its just value. To these suppers none 
 were asked but the Prince's chums, or roues,^ as he was 
 pleased to call them. As, entre nnus, these chums were for 
 the most part the most good-for-nothing people in the king- 
 dom, I could not but feel highly flattered at being deemed, by 
 so deep a judge of character as the Regent, worthy to join 
 them. I need not say that the invitation was eagerly ac- 
 cepted, nor that I left Philippe le Debonnaire impressed with 
 the idea of his being the most admirable person in Europe. 
 
 1 The term roue, now so comprehensive, was first given by the Regent to 
 a select number of liis friends ; according to them, liecause they wouUi be 
 broken on the wheel for his sake ; according to himself, because they deserved 
 to be so broken. — Ed. 
 
316 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Wliat a fool a great man is if lie does not study to be affable : 
 weigh a prince's condescension in one scale, and all the cardi- 
 nal virtues in the other, and the condescension will outweigh 
 them all ! The Eegent of France ruined his country as much 
 as he well could do, and there was not a dry eye when he 
 died! 
 
 A day had now effected a change — a great change — in my 
 fate. A new court, a new theatre of action, a new walk of 
 ambition, were suddenly opened to me. Nothing could be 
 more promising than my first employment; nothing could be 
 more pleasing than the anticipation of the change. *' I must 
 force myself to be agreeable to-night," said I, as I dressed 
 for the Regent's supper. " I must leave behind me the re- 
 membrance of a hon mot, or I shall be forgotten." 
 
 And I was right. In that whirlpool, the capital of France, 
 everything sinks but wit; that is always on the surface; and 
 we must cling to it with a firm grasp, if we would not go 
 down to — "the deep oblivion.'' 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 EOTAL EXERTIONS FOK THE GOOD OF THE PEOPLE. 
 
 What a singular scene was that private supper with the 
 Regent of France and his roues! The party consisted of 
 twenty; nine gentlemen of the court besides myself; four 
 men of low rank and character, but admirable buffoons ; and 
 six ladies, such ladies as the Duke loved best, — witty, lively, 
 sarcastic, and good for nothing. 
 
 De Chatran accosted me. 
 
 "Je suis ravi, mon cher Monsieur Devereux," said he, 
 gravely, "to see you in such excellent company: you must be 
 a little surprised to find yourself here!" 
 
DEVEREUX. 317 
 
 " Not at all ! every scene is worth one visit. He, my good 
 Monsieur Chatran, who goes to the House of Correction once 
 is a philosopher : he who goes twice is a rogue ! " 
 
 "Thank you, Count, what am I then? I have been here 
 twenty times." 
 
 " Why, I will answer you with a story. The soul of a Jes- 
 uit one night, when its body was asleep, wandered down to 
 the lower regions ; Satan caught it, and was about to consign 
 it to some appropriate place; the soul tried hard to excuse 
 itself: you know what a cunning thing a Jesuit's soul is! 
 'Monsieur Satan,' said the spirit; 'no king should punish a 
 traveller as he would a native. Upon my honour, I am 
 merely here en voyageur.^ 'Go then,' said Satan, and the 
 soul flew back to its body. But the Jesuit died, and came to 
 the lower regions a second time. He was brought before his 
 Satanic majesty, and made the same excuse. 'Xo, no,' cried 
 Beelzebub; 'once here is to be only le diahle voyageur; twice 
 here, and you are le diahle tout de hon. ' " 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha!" said Chatran, laughing; "I then am the 
 diahle tout de hon ! 't is well I am no ivorse ; for we reckon 
 the roues a devilish deal worse than the very worst of the 
 devils, — but see, the Regent approaches us." 
 
 And, leaving a very pretty and gay-looking lady, the Re- 
 gent sauntered towards us. It was in walking, by the by, 
 that he lost all the grace of his mien. I don't know, how- 
 ever, that one wishes a great man to be graceful, so long as 
 he 's familiar. 
 
 "Aha, Monsieur Devereux!" said he, "we will give you 
 some lessons in cooking to-night ; we shall show you how to 
 provide for yourself in that barbarous country which you are 
 about to visit. Tout voyageur doit tout savoirf " 
 
 "A very admirable saying; which leads me to understand 
 that Monseigneur has been a great traveller," said I. 
 
 " Ay, in all things and all places; eh. Count? " answered 
 the Regent, smiling; "but," here he lowered his voice a lit- 
 tle, " I have never yet learned how you came so opportunely 
 to our assistance that night. Dieu me davine ! but it reminds 
 me of the old story of the two sisters meeting at a gallant's 
 
318 DEVEREUX. 
 
 house. 'Oh, Sister, how came yow here?' said one, in vir- 
 tuous amazement. *Ciel/ ma soeurf' cries the other; 'what 
 brought you ? ' " ^ 
 
 "Monseigneur is pleasant," said I, laughing; "but a man 
 does now and then (though I own it is very seldom) do a good 
 action, without having previously resolved to commit a bad 
 one! ' 
 
 "I like your parenthesis," cried the Regent; "it reminds 
 me of my friend St. Simon, who thinks so ill of mankind that 
 I asked him one day whether it was possible for him to de- 
 spise anything more than men? 'Yes,' said he, with a low 
 bow, 'women! ' " 
 
 "His experience," said I, glancing at the female part of the 
 coterie, "was, I must own, likely to lead him to that opinion." 
 
 "None of your sarcasms. Monsieur," cried the Regent. 
 
 "'L'amusement est un des besoins de I'homme,' as I hear 
 young Arouet very pithily said the other day; and we owe 
 gratitude to whomsoever it may be that supplies that want. 
 Now, you will agree with me that none supply it like women : 
 therefore we owe them gratitude ; therefore we must not hear 
 them abused. Logically proved, I think!" 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said I, "it is a pleasure to find they have so 
 able an advocate ; and that your Highness can so well apply 
 to yourself both the assertions in the motto of the great mas- 
 ter of fortification, Vauban,— 'I destroy, but I defend.' " 
 
 "Enough," said the Duke, gayly, "now to ow- fortifica- 
 tions ;'' and he moved away towards the women; I followed 
 the royal example, and soon found myself seated next to a 
 pretty and very small woman. We entered into conversa- 
 tion; and, when once begun, my fair companion took care 
 that it should not cease, without a miracle. By the goddess 
 Facundia, what volumes of words issued from that little 
 mouth! and on all subjects too! church, state, law, politics, 
 play-houses, lampoons, lace, liveries, kings, qiieens, roturiers, 
 beggars, you would have thought, had you heard her, so vast 
 was her confusion of all things, that chaos had come again. 
 
 1 The reader will remember a better version of this anecdote in one of the 
 most popular of the English comedies. — Ed. 
 
DEVEREUX. 319 
 
 Our royal host did not escape her. " You never before supped 
 here en faviille,'" said she, — "mon Dieu! it will do your 
 heart good to see how much the Eegent will eat. He has 
 such an appetite; you know he never eats any dinner, in 
 order to eat the more at supper. You see that little dark 
 woman he is talking to? — well, she is Madame de Parabere: 
 he calls her his little black crow ; was there ever such a pet 
 name? Can you guess why he likes her? Nay, never take 
 the trouble of thinking: I will tell you at once; simply be- 
 cause she eats and drinks so much. Parole iVhonneur, 't is 
 true. The Regent says he likes sympathy in all things ! is it 
 not droll? What a hideous old man is that Noce: his face 
 looks as if it had caught the rainbow. That impudent fellow 
 Dubois scolded him for squeezing so many louis out of the 
 good Regent. The yellow creature attempted to deny the 
 fact. 'Nay,' cried Dubois, 'you cannot contradict me: I see 
 their very ghosts in your face.'" 
 
 While my companion was thus amusing herself, Noce, un- 
 conscious of her panegyric on his personal attractions, joined 
 us. 
 
 "Ah! my dear Noce," said the lady, most affectionately, 
 "how well you are looking! I am delighted to see you." 
 
 "I do not doubt it," said Noce "for I have to inform you 
 that your petition is granted; your husband will have the 
 place." 
 
 " Oh, how eternally grateful I am to you ! " cried the lady, 
 in an ecstasy; "my poor, dear husband will be so rejoiced. 
 I wish I had wings to fly to him!" 
 
 The gallant Noce uttered a compliment ; I thought myself 
 de trap, and moved away. I again encountered Chatran. 
 
 "I overheard your conversation with Madame la ^Marquise," 
 said he, smiling: "she has a bitter tongue; has she not?" 
 
 "Very! how she abused the poor rogue Noc6l " 
 
 " Yes, and yet he is her lover ! " 
 
 "Her lover! — you astonish me: why, she seemed almost 
 fond of her husband; the tears came in her eyes when she 
 spoke of him.'' 
 
 " She is fond of him! " said Chatran, dryly. " She loves the 
 
320 DEVEREUX. 
 
 ground he treads on: it is precisely for that reason she fa- 
 vours Noce; she is never happy but when she is procuring 
 something pour son cher bon mari. She goes to spend a week 
 at ^SToce's country-house, and writes to her husband, with a 
 pen dipped in her blood, saying, 'My heart is with thee! ' " 
 
 "Certainly," said I, "France is the land of enigmas; the 
 sphynx must have been a Parisienne. And when Jupiter 
 made man, he made two natures utterly distinct from one 
 another. One was Human nature, and the other French 
 nature ! " 
 
 At this moment supper was announced. We all adjourned 
 to another apartment, where to my great surprise I observed 
 the cloth laid, the sideboard loaded, the wines ready, but 
 nothing to eat on the table ! A Madame de Savori, who was 
 next me, noted my surprise. 
 
 "What astonishes you, Monsieur?" 
 
 ''Nothing, Madame," said I; "that is, the absence of all 
 things." 
 
 "What! you expected to see supper?" 
 
 "I own my delusion: I did." 
 
 "It is not cooked yet! " 
 
 "Oh! well, lean wait!" 
 
 " And officiate too ! " said the lady ; " in a word, this is 
 one of the Eegent's cooking nights." 
 
 Scarcely had I received this explanation, before there was a 
 general adjournment to an inner apartment, where all the 
 necessary articles of cooking were ready to our hand. 
 
 " The Regent led the way, 
 To light us to our prey," 
 
 and, with an irresistible gravity and importance of demeanour, 
 entered upon the duties of chef. In a very short time we 
 were all engaged. Nothing could exceed the zest with which 
 every one seemed to enter into the rites of the kitchen. You 
 would have imagined they had been born scullions, they 
 handled the batterie de cuisine so naturally. As for me, I 
 sought protection with Madame de Savori; and as, fortu- 
 nately, she was very deeply skilled in the science, she had 
 
DEVEREUX. 321 
 
 occasion to employ me in many minor avocations which her 
 experience tauglit her would not be above my comprehension. 
 
 After we had spent a certain time in this dignified occu- 
 pation, we returned to the salle a manger. The attendants 
 placed the dishes on the table, and we all fell to. Whether 
 out of self-love to their own performances, or complaisance to 
 the performances of others, I cannot exactly say, but certain 
 it is that all the guests acquitted themselves a merveille : you 
 would not have imagined the Regent the only one who had 
 gone without dinner to eat the more at supper. Even that 
 devoted wife to her cher hon mart, who had so severely dwelt 
 upon the good Eegent's infirmity, occupied herself with an 
 earnestness that would have seemed almost wolf-like in a 
 famished grenadier. 
 
 Very slight indeed was the conversation till the supper was 
 nearly over-, then the effects of the wine became more percep- 
 tible. The Regent was the first person who evinced that he 
 had eaten sufficiently to be able to talk. Utterly dispensing 
 with the slightest veil of reserve or royalty, he leaned over 
 the table, and poured forth a whole tide of jests. The guests 
 then began to think it was indecorous to stuff themselves 
 any more, and, as well as they were able, they followed their 
 host's example. But the most amusing personages were the 
 buffoons : they mimicked and joked, and lampooned and lied, 
 as if by inspiration. As the bottle circulated, and talk grew 
 louder, the lampooning and the lying were not, however, con- 
 fined to the buffoons. On the contrary, the best born and 
 best bred people seemed to excel the most in those polite arts. 
 Every person who boasted a fair name or a decent reputation 
 at court was seized, condemned, and mangled in an instant. 
 And how elaborately the good folks slandered! It was no 
 hasty word and flippant repartee which did the business of 
 the absent: there was a precision, a polish, a labour of mal- 
 ice, which showed that each person had brought so many 
 reputations already cut up. The good-natured convivialists 
 differed from all other backbiters that I have ever met, In 
 the same manner as the toads of Surinam differ from all other 
 toads; namely, their venomous offspring were not half 
 
 21 
 
322 DEVEREUX. 
 
 formed, misshapen tadpoles of slander, but sprang at once 
 into life, — well shaped and fully developed. 
 
 " Chantons ! " cried the Eegent, whose eyes, winking and 
 rolling, gave token of his approaching state which equals 
 the beggar to the king; "let us have a song. Noce, lift up 
 thy voice, and let us hear what the Tokay has put into thy 
 head!" 
 
 Noce obeyed, and sang as men half drunk generally do sing. 
 
 "0 CieZ.'"' whispered the malicious Savori, "what a hid- 
 eous screech: one would think he had turned his face into a 
 voice/ " 
 
 '^ Bravissimo / " cried the Duke, when his guest had ceased, 
 — " what happy people we are ! Our doors are locked ; not a 
 soul can disturb us : we have plenty of wine ; we are going to 
 get drunk; and we have all Paris to abuse! what were you 
 saying of Marshal Villars, my little Parabere?" 
 
 And pounce went the little Parabere upon the unfortunate 
 marshal. At last slander had a respite : nonsense began its 
 reign; the full inspiration descended upon the orgies; the 
 good people lost the use of their faculties. Noise, clamour, 
 uproar, broken bottles, falling chairs, and (I grieve to say) 
 their occupants falling too, — conclude the scene of the royal 
 supper. Let us drop the curtain. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 AJf INTERVIEW. 
 
 I WENT a little out of my way, on departing from Paris, to 
 visit Lord Bolingbroke, who at that time was in the country. 
 There are some men whom one never really sees in capitals ; 
 one sees their masks, not themselves: Bolingbroke was one. 
 It was in retirement, however brief it might be, that his true 
 nature expanded itself; and, weary of being admired, he al- 
 
DEVEREUX. 323 
 
 lowed one to love, and, even in tlie wildest course of his ear- 
 lier excesses, to respect him. My visit was limited to a few 
 hours, but it made an indelible impression on me. 
 
 "Once more," I said, as we walked to and fro in the garden 
 of his temporary retreat, "once more you are in your element; 
 minister and statesman of a prince, and chief supporter of 
 the great plans which are to restore him to his throne." 
 
 A slight shade passed over Bolingbroke's fine brow. "To 
 you, my constant friend," said he, "to you, — who of all my 
 friends alone remained true in exile, and unshaken by mis- 
 fortune, — to you I will confide a secret that I would intrust 
 to no other. I repent me already of having espoused this 
 cause. I did so while yet the disgrace of an unmerited at- 
 tainder tingled in my veins ; while I was in the full tide of 
 those violent and warm passions which have so often misled 
 me. Myself attainted; the best beloved of my associates in 
 danger; my party deserted, and seemingly lost but for some 
 bold measure such as then offered, — these were all that I saw. 
 I listened eagerly to representations I now find untrue; and I 
 accepted that rank and power from one prince which were so 
 rudely and gallingly torn from me by another. I perceive 
 that I have acted imprudently ; bvit what is done, is done : no 
 private scruples, no private interest, shall make me waver in 
 a cause that I have once pledged myself to serve ; and if I can 
 do aught to make a weak cause powerful, and a divided party 
 successful, I will; but, Devereux, you are wrong, — this is 
 not my element. Ever in the paths of strife, I have sighed 
 for quiet; and, while most eager in pursuit of ambition, I 
 have languished the most fondly for content. The littleness 
 of intrigue disgusts me, and while the branches of my power 
 soared the highest, and spread with the most luxuriance, it 
 galled me to think of the miry soil in which that power was 
 condemned to strike the roofs,^ upon which it stood, and by 
 which it must be nourished." 
 
 1 "Occasional Writer," Xo. 1. The Editor has, throughout this work, 
 nsnally, but not invariably, noted the passages in Bolingbroke's writings, in 
 which there occur similes, illustrations, or striking thoughts, correspondent 
 with those in the text. 
 
324 DEVEREUX. 
 
 I answered Bolingbroke as men are wont to answer 
 statesmen who complain of their calling, — half in com- 
 pliment, half in contradiction; but he replied with unusual 
 seriousness, — 
 
 " Do not think I affect to speak thus : you know how eagerly 
 I snatch any respite from state, and how unmovedly I have 
 borne the loss of prosperity and of power. You are now 
 about to enter those perilous paths which I have trod for 
 years. Your passions, like mine, are strong! Beware, oh, 
 beware, how you indulge them without restraint ! They are 
 the fires which should warm : let them not be the fires which 
 destroy." 
 
 Bolingbroke paused in evident and great agitation; he re- 
 sumed: "I speak strongly, for I speak in bitterness; I was 
 thrown early into the world; my whole education had been 
 framed to make me ambitious; it succeeded in its end. I 
 was ambitious, and of all success, — success in pleasure, suc- 
 cess in fame. To wean me from the former, my friends per- 
 suaded me to marr}^ ; they chose my wife for her connections 
 and her fortune, and I gained those advantages at the expense 
 of what was better than either, — happiness! You know how 
 unfortunate has been that marriage, and how young I was 
 when it was contracted. Can you wonder that it failed in 
 the desired effect? Everyone courted me; every temptation 
 assailed me: pleasure even became more alluring abroad, 
 when at home I had no longer the hope of peace ; the indul- 
 gence of one passion begat the indulgence of another; and, 
 though my better sense ^i^omipted all my actions, it never re- 
 strained them to a proper limit. Thus the commencement of 
 my actions has been generally prudent, and their continuation 
 has deviated into rashness, or plunged into excess. Devereux, 
 I have paid the forfeit of my errors with a terrible interest : 
 when my motives have been pure, men have seen a fault in 
 the conduct, and calumniated the motives ; when my conduct 
 has been blameless, men have remembered its former errors, 
 and asserted that its present goodness only arose from some 
 sinister intention: thus I have been termed crafty, when I 
 was in reality rash, and that was called the inconsistency of 
 
DEVEREUX. 326 
 
 interest which in reality was the inconsistency of passion.^ I 
 have reason, therefore, to warn you how you suffer your sub- 
 jects to become your tyrants; and believe me no experience is 
 so deep as that of one who has committed faults, and who has 
 discovered their causes." 
 
 "Apply, my dear Lord, that experience to your future ca- 
 reer. You remember what the most sagacious of all pedants," 
 even though he was an emperor, has so happily expressed, — 
 'Repentance is a goddess, and the preserver of those who have 
 erred.' " 
 
 "May I ^nc? her so! " answered Bolingbroke ; "but as Mon- 
 taigne or Charron would say, ^ 'Every man is at once his 
 own sharper and his own bubble.' We make vast promises 
 to ourselves; and a passion, an example, sweeps even the 
 remembrance of those promises from our minds. One is too 
 apt to believe men hypocrites, if their conduct squares not 
 with their sentiments; hi\t j^erhajjs no vice is more rare, for 
 no task is more difficult, than systematic hypocrisy ; and the 
 same susceptibility which exposes men to be easily impressed 
 by the allurements of vice renders them at heart most struck 
 by the loveliness of virtue. Thus, their language and their 
 hearts worship the divinity of the latter, while their conduct 
 strays the most erringly towards the false shrines over which 
 
 ' This I do believe to be the real (though perhaps it is a new) liglit in 
 which Lord Bolingbroke's life and character are to be viewed. The same 
 writers who tell ns of his ungovernable passions, always prefix to his name 
 the epithets " designing, cunning, crafty," etc. Now I will venture to tell 
 these historians that, if they had studied human nature instead of party 
 pamphlets, they would have discovered that there are certain incompatible 
 qualities which can never be united in one character, — that no man can have 
 violent passions to which he is in the habit of i/ielding, and be systematically 
 crafty and designing. No man can be all heat, and at the same time all cool- 
 ness; but opposite causes not unoften produce like effects. Passion usually 
 makes men changeable, so sometimes does craft : hence the mistake of the 
 
 uninquiring or the shallow; and hence while writes, and compiles, 
 
 will the characters of great men be transmitted to posterity misstated and 
 belied. — Ed. 
 
 * The Emperor Julian. The original expression is paraphrased in the 
 text. 
 
 ^ " Spirit of Patriotism." 
 
326 DEVEREUX. 
 
 the former presides. Yes! I have never been blind to the 
 surpassing excellence of Good. The still, sweet whispers of 
 virtue have been heard, even when the storm has been loud- 
 est, and the bark of Keason been driven the most impetuously 
 over the waves : and, at this moment, I am impressed with a 
 foreboding that, sooner or later, the whispers will not only 
 be heard, but their suggestion be obeyed; and that, far from 
 courts and intrigue, from dissipation and ambition, I shall 
 learn, in retirement, the true principles of wisdom, and the 
 real objects of life." 
 
 Thus did Bolingbroke converse, and thus did I listen, till 
 it was time to depart. I left him impressed with a melan- 
 choly that was rather soothing than distasteful. Whatever 
 were the faults of that most extraordinary and most dazzling 
 genius, no one was ever more candid ^ in confessing his errors. 
 A systematically bad man either ridicules what is good or 
 disbelieves in its existence; but no man can be hardened in 
 vice whose heart is still sensible of the excellence and the 
 glory of virtue. 
 
 1 It is impossible to read the letter to Sir W. Windham without being re- 
 markably struck with the dignified and yet open candour which it displays. 
 The same candour is equally visible in whatever relates to himself, in all 
 Lord Bolingbroke's M-ritings and correspondence ; and yet candour is the 
 last attribute usually conceded to him. But never was there a writer whom 
 people have talked of more and read less , and I do not know a greater proof 
 of this than the ever repeated assertion (echoed from a most incompetent 
 authority) of the said letter to Sir W. Windham being the finest of all Lord 
 Bolingbroke's writings. It is an article of great value to the history of the 
 times ; but, as to all the higher graces and qualities of composition, it is one 
 of the least striking (and on the other hand it is one of the most verbally 
 incorrect) which he has bequeathed to us (the posthumous works always 
 excepted). I am not sure whether the most brilliant passages, the most 
 noble illustrations, the most profound reflections, and most useful truths, to 
 be found in all his writings, are not to be gathered from the least popular of 
 them, — such as that volume entitled " Political Tracts." — Ed. 
 
BOOK V. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A PORTRAIT. 
 
 Mysterious impulse at the heart, which never suffers us to 
 be at rest, which urges us onward as by an unseen yet irresis- 
 tible law — human planets in a petty orbit, hurried forever 
 and forever, till our course is run and our light is quenched 
 — through the circle of a dark and impenetrable destiny ! art 
 thou not some faint forecast and type of our wanderings here- 
 after; of the unslumbering nature of the soul; of the ever- 
 lasting progress which we are predoomed to make through the 
 countless steps and realms and harmonies in the infinite cre- 
 ation? Oh, often in my rovings have I dared to dream so, — 
 often have I soared on the wild wings of thought above the 
 "smoke and stir" of this dim earth, and wroiight, from 
 the restless visions of my mind, a chart of the glories and the 
 wonders which the released spirit may hereafter visit and 
 behold! 
 
 What a glad awakening from self, — what a si:)arkling and 
 fresh draught from a new source of being, — what a wheel 
 within wheel, animating, impelling, arousing all the rest 
 of tliis animal machine, is the first excitement of Travel! 
 the first free escape from the bonds of the linked and tame 
 life of cities and social vices, — the jaded pleasure and the 
 hollow love, the monotonous round of sordid objects and dull 
 desires, — the eternal chain that binds us to things and be- 
 ings, mockeries of ourselves, — alike, but oh, how different! 
 the shock that brings us nearer to men only to make us strive 
 
328 DEVEREUX. 
 
 against them, and learn, from the harsh contest of veiled de- 
 ceit and open force, that the more we share the aims of others, 
 the more deeply and basely rooted we grow to the littleness 
 of self! 
 
 I passed more lingeringly through France than I did through 
 the other portions of my route. I had dwelt long enough in 
 the capital to be anxious to survey the country. It was then 
 that the last scale which the magic of Louis Quatorze and the 
 memory of his gorgeous court had left upon the mortal eye 
 fell off, and I saw the real essence of that monarch's greatness 
 and the true relics of his reign. I saw the poor, and the 
 degraded, and the racked, and the priest-ridden, tillers and 
 peoplers of the soil, which made the substance beneath the 
 glittering and false surface, — the body of that vast empire, of 
 which I had hitherto beheld only the face, and that darkly, 
 and for the most part covered by a mask ! 
 
 No man can look upon France, beautiful France, — her rich 
 soil, her temperate yet maturing clime, the gallant and bold 
 spirits which she produces, her boundaries so indicated and 
 protected by Nature itself, her advantages of ocean and land, 
 of commerce and agriculture, — and not wonder that her pros- 
 perity should be so bloated, and her real state so wretched 
 and diseased. 
 
 Let England draw the moral, and beware not only of wars 
 which exhaust, but of governments which impoverish. A 
 waste of the public wealth is the most lasting of public afflic- 
 tions; and "the treasury which is drained by extravagance 
 must be refilled by crime." ^ 
 
 I remember one beautiful evening an accident to my car- 
 riage occasioned my sojourn for a whole afternoon in a small 
 village. The Cure honoured me with a visit; and we strolled, 
 after a slight repast, into the hamlet. The priest was com- 
 plaisant, quiet in manner, and not ill informed for his ob- 
 scure station and scanty opportunities of knowledge; he did 
 not seem, however, to possess the vivacity of his countrymen, 
 but was rather melancholy and pensive, not only in his ex- 
 pression of countenance, but his cast of thought. 
 
 ^ Tacitus. 
 
DEVEREUX. 329 
 
 "You have a charming scene here: I almost feel as if it 
 were a sin to leave it so soon." 
 
 We were, indeed, in a pleasant and alluring spot at the 
 time I addressed this observation to the good Cure. A little 
 rivulet emerged from the copse to the left, and ran sparkling 
 and dimpling beneath our feet, to deck with a more living 
 verdure the village green, which it intersected with a wind- 
 ing nor unmelodious stream. We had paused, and I was 
 leaning against an old and solitary chestnut-tree, which com- 
 manded the whole scene. The village was a little in the rear, 
 and the smoke from its few chimneys rose slowly to the si- 
 lent and deep skies, not wholly unlike the human wishes, 
 Avhich, though they spring from the grossness and the fumes 
 of earth, purify themselves as they ascend to heaven. And 
 from the village (when other sounds, which I shall note pres- 
 ently, were for an instant still) came the whoop of children, 
 mellowed by distance into a confused yet thrilling sound, 
 which fell upon the heart like the voice of our gone childhood 
 itself. Before, in the far expanse, stretched a chain of hills 
 on which the autumn sun sank slowly, pouring its yellow 
 beams over groups of peasantry, which, on the opposite side 
 of the rivulet and at some interval from us, were scattered, 
 partly over the green, and partly gathered beneath the shade 
 of a little grove. The former were of the young, and those 
 to whom youth's sports are dear, and were dancing to the 
 merry music, which (ever and anon blended with the laugh 
 and the tone of a louder jest) floated joyously on our ears. 
 The fathers and matrons of the hamlet were inhaling a more 
 quiet joy beneath the trees, and I involuntarily gave a ten- 
 derer interest to their converse by supposing them to sanction 
 to each other the rustic loves which they might survey among 
 their children. 
 
 "Will not Monsieur draw nearer to the dancers?" said the 
 Cure ; " there is a plank thrown over the rivulet a little lower 
 down." 
 
 " No ! " said I, " perhaps they are seen to better advantage 
 where we are: what mirth will bear too close an inspection? " 
 
 "True, Sir," remarked the priest, and he sighed. 
 
330 DEVEREUX. 
 
 "Yet," I resumed musingly, and I spoke ratlier to myself 
 than to my companion, "yet, how happy do they seem! what 
 a revival of our Arcadian dreams are the flute and the dance, 
 the glossy trees all glowing in the autumn sunset, the green 
 sod, and the murmuring rill, and the buoyant laugh, start- 
 ling the satyr in his leafy haunts ; and the rural loves which 
 will grow sweeter still when the sun has set, and the twilight 
 has made the sigh more tender and the blush of a mellower 
 hue! Ah, why is it only the revival of a dream? why must 
 it be only an interval of labour and woe, the brief saturnalia 
 of slaves, the green resting-spot in a dreary and long road of 
 travail and toil?" 
 
 "You are the first stranger I have met," said the Cur^, "who 
 seems to pierce beneath the thin veil of our Gallic gayety; 
 the first to whom the scene we now survey is fraught with 
 other feelings than a belief in the happiness of our peasantry 
 and an envy at its imagined exuberance. But as it is not the 
 happiest individuals, so I fear it is not the happiest nations, 
 that are the gayest," 
 
 I looked at the Cure with some surprise. "Your remark is 
 deeper than the ordinary wisdom of your tribe, my Father," 
 said I. 
 
 "I have travelled over three parts of the globe," answered 
 the Cure: "I was not always intended for what I am;" and 
 the priest's mild eyes flashed with a sudden light that as sud- 
 denly died away. "Yes, I have travelled over the greater 
 part of the known world," he repeated, in a more quiet tone; 
 " and I have noted that where a man has many comforts to 
 guard, and many rights to defend, he necessarily shares the 
 thought and the seriousness of those who feel the value of a 
 treasure which they possess, and whose most earnest medita- 
 tions are intent upon providing against its loss. I have 
 noted, too, that the joy produced by a momentary suspense of 
 labour is naturally great in proportion to the toil; hence it is 
 that no European mirth is so wild as that of the Indian slave, 
 when a brief holiday releases him from his task. Alas! that 
 very mirth is the strongest evidence of the weight of the pre- 
 vious chains ; even as, in ourselves, we find the happiest mo- 
 
DEVEREUX. 331 
 
 ment we enjoy is that immediately succeeding the cessation 
 of deep sorrow to the mind or violent torture to the body. " ^ 
 
 I was struck by this observation of the priest. 
 
 "I see now/' said I, "that as an Englishman I have no rea- 
 son to repine at the proverbial gravity of my countrymen, or 
 to envy the lighter spirit of the sons of Italy and France." 
 
 "No," said the Cure; "the happiest nations are those in 
 whose people you Avitness the least sensible reverses from 
 gayety to dejection; and that thought, which is the noblest 
 characteristic of the isolated man, is also that of a people. 
 Freemen are serious ; they have objects at their heart worthy 
 to engross attention. It is reserved for slaves to indulge in 
 groans at one moment and laughter at another." 
 
 "At that rate," said I, "the best sign for France will be 
 when the gayety of her sons is no longer a just proverb, and 
 the laughing lip is succeeded by the thoughtful brow." 
 
 We remained silent for several minutes; our conversation 
 had shed a gloom over the light scene before us, and the voice 
 of the flute no longer sounded musically on my ear. I pro- 
 posed to the Cure to return to my inn. As we walked slowly 
 in that direction, I surveyed my companion more attentively 
 than I had hitherto done. He was a model of masculine vig- 
 our and grace of form; and, had I not looked earnestly upon 
 his cheek, I should have thought him likely to outlive the 
 very oaks around the hamlet church where he presided. But 
 the cheek was worn and hectic, and seemed to indicate that 
 the keen fire which burns at the deep heart, unseen, but un- 
 slaking, would consume the mortal fuel, long before Time 
 should even have commenced his gradual decay. 
 
 "You have travelled, then, much. Sir?" said I, and the 
 tone of my voice Avas that of curiosity. 
 
 The good Cure penetrated into my desire to hear something 
 
 1 This reflection, if true, may console us for the loss of those viUage dances 
 and pleasant holidays for which " merry England " was once celebrated. The 
 loss of them has been ascribed to the gloomy influence of the Puritans ; but 
 it has never occurred to the good poets, who have so mourned over that loss, 
 that it is also to be ascribed to the liberty which those Puritans generalized, 
 if they did not introduce. — Ed. 
 
332 DEVEREUX. 
 
 of his adventures ; and few are the recluses who are not grati- 
 fied by the interest of others, or who are unwilling to reward 
 it by recalling those portions of life most cherished by them- 
 selves. Before we parted that night, he told me his little 
 history. He had been educated for the army ; before he en- 
 tered the profession he had seen the daughter of a neighbour, 
 loved her, and the old story, — she loved him again, and died 
 before the love passed the ordeal of marriage. He had no 
 longer a desire for glory, but he had for excitement. He 
 sold his little property and travelled, as he had said, for 
 nearly fourteen years, equally over the polished lands of Eu- 
 rope and the far climates where Truth seems fable and Fiction 
 finds her own legends realized or excelled. 
 
 He returned home poor in pocket and wearied in spirit. 
 He became what I beheld him. "My lot is fixed now," said 
 he, in conclusion; "but I find there is all the difference be- 
 tween quiet and content : my heart eats itself away here ; it 
 is the moth fretting the garment laid by, more than the storm 
 or the fray would have worn it." 
 
 I said something, commonplace enough, about solitude, and 
 the blessings of competence, and the country. The Cure shook 
 his head gently, but made no answer; perhaps he did wisely 
 in thinking the feelings are ever beyond the reach of a stran- 
 ger's reasoning. We parted more affectionately than acquaint- 
 ances of so short a date usually do ; and when I returned from 
 Russia, I stopped at the village on purpose to inquire after 
 him. A few months had done the work: the moth had al- 
 ready fretted away the human garment; and I walked to his 
 lowly and nameless grave, and felt that it contained the only 
 quiet in which monotony is not blended with regret ! 
 
DEVEREUX. 333 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE ENTRANCE INTO PETERSBURG. — A RENCONTRE WITH AX 
 
 INQUISITIVE AND MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. NOTHING LIKE 
 
 TRAVEL. 
 
 It was certainly like entering a new world when I had the 
 frigid felicity of entering Russia. I expected to have found 
 Petersburg a wonderful city, and I was disappointed ; it was 
 a wonderful beginning of a city, and that was all I ought to 
 have expected. But never, I believe, was there a place which 
 there was so much difficulty in arriving at: such winds, such 
 climate, such police arrangements, — arranged, too, by such 
 fellows ! six feet high, with nothing human about them but 
 their uncleanness and ferocity! Such vexatious delays, diffi- 
 culties, ordeals, through Avhich it was necessary to pass, and 
 to pass, too, with an air of the most perfect satisfaction and 
 content. By the Lord! one would have imagined, at all 
 events, it must be an earthly paradise, to be so arduous of ac- 
 cess, instead of a Dutch-looking town, with comfortless ca- 
 nals, and the most terrible climate in w^hich a civilized 
 creature was ever frozen to death. "It is just the city a 
 nation of bears would build, if bears ever became archi- 
 tects," said I to myself, as I entered the northern capital, 
 with my teeth chattering and my limbs in a state of perfect 
 insensibility. 
 
 My vehicle stopped, at last, at an hotel to which I had been 
 directed. It was a circumstance, I believe, peculiar to Pe- 
 tersburg, that, at the time I speak of, none of its streets had 
 a name ; and if one wanted to find out a house, one was forced 
 to do so by oral description. A pleasant thing it was, too, to 
 stop in the middle of a street, to listen to such description at 
 full length, and find one's self rapidly becoming ice as the 
 detail progressed. After I was lodged, thawed, and fed, I 
 
334 DEVEREUX. 
 
 fell fast asleep, and slej)! for eighteen hours, without waking 
 once ; to my mind, it was a miracle that I ever woke again. 
 
 I then dressed myself, and taking my interpreter, — who 
 was a Livonian, a great rascal, but clever, who washed twice 
 a week, and did not wear a beard above eight inches long, — I 
 put myself into my carriage, and went to deliver my letters 
 of introduction, I had one in particular to the Admiral 
 Apraxin; and it was with him that I was directed to confer, 
 previous to seeking an interview with the Emperor. Accord- 
 ingly I repaired to his hotel, which was situated on a sort of 
 quay, and was really, for Petersburg, very magnificent. In 
 this quarter, then or a little later, lived about thirty other 
 officers of the court. General Jagoyinsky, General Cyernichoff, 
 etc. ; and, appropriately enough, the most remarkable public 
 building in the vicinity is the great slaughter-house, — a fine 
 specimen that of practical satire! 
 
 On endeavouring to pass through the Admiral's hall I had 
 the mortification of finding myself rejected by his domestics. 
 As two men in military attire were instantly admitted, I 
 thought this a little hard upon a man who had travelled so 
 far to see his admiralship, and, accordingly, hinted my in- 
 dignation to Mr. Muscotofsky, my interpreter. 
 
 "You are not so richly dressed as those gentlemen," said 
 he. 
 
 "That is the reason, is it?" 
 
 "If it so please Saint Nicholas, it is; and, besides, those 
 gentlemen have two men running before them to cry, 'Clear 
 the way!'" 
 
 "I had better, then, dress myself better, and take two 
 avant couriers.^'' 
 
 "If it so please Saint Nicholas." Upon this I returned, 
 robed myself in scarlet and gold, took a couple of lacqueys, re- 
 turned to Admiral Apraxin's, and was admitted in an instant. 
 AVho would have thought these savages so like us? Appear- 
 ances, you see, produce realities all over the world ! 
 
 The Admiral, who was a very great man at court — though 
 he narrowly escaped Siberia, or the knout, some time after — 
 was civil enough to me : but I soon saw that, favourite as he 
 
DEVEREUX. 335 
 
 was witli the Czar, that great man left but petty moves in the 
 grand chessboard of politics to be played by any but himself; 
 and my proper plan in this court appeared evidently to be 
 unlike that pursued in most others, where it is better to win 
 the favourite than the prince. Accordingly, I lost no time in 
 seeking an interview with the Czar himself, and readily ob- 
 tained an appointment to that effect. 
 
 On the day before the interview took place, I amused my- 
 self with walking over the city, gazing upon its growing 
 grandeur, and casting, in especial, a wistful eye upon the 
 fortress or citadel, which is situated in an island, surrounded 
 by the city, and upon the building of which more than one 
 hundred thousand men are supposed to have perished. So 
 great a sacrifice does it require to conquer Nature ! 
 
 While I was thus amusing myself, I observed a man in a 
 small chaise with one horse pass me twice, and look at me 
 very earnestly. Like most of my countrymen, I do not love 
 to be stared at; however, I thought it better in that unknown 
 country to change my intended frown for a good-natured ex- 
 pression of countenance, and turned away. A singular sight 
 now struck my attention: a couple of men with beards that 
 would have hidden a cassowary, were walking slowly along 
 in their curious long garments, and certainly (I say it rever- 
 ently) disgracing the semblance of humanity, when, just as 
 they came by a gate, two other men of astonishing height 
 started forth, each armed with a pair of shears. Before a 
 second was over, off went the beards of the first two passen- 
 gers ; and before another second expired, off went the skirts 
 of their garments too: I never saw excrescences so expedi- 
 tiously lopped. The two operators, who preserved a pro- 
 found silence during this brief affair, then retired a little, 
 and the mutilated wanderers pursued their way with an air 
 of extreme discomfiture. 
 
 "Nothing like travel, certainly!" said I, unconsciously 
 aloud. 
 
 "True! " said a voice in English behind me. I turned, and 
 saw the man who had noticed me so earnestly in the one- 
 horse chaise. He was a tall, robust man, dressed very plainly, 
 
336 DEVEREUX. 
 
 and even shabbily, in a green uniform, with a narrow tar- 
 nished gold lace; and I judged him to be a foreigner, like 
 myself, though his accent and pronunciation evidently showed 
 that he was not a native of the country in the language of 
 which he accosted me. 
 
 "It is very true," said he again; "there is nothing like 
 travel ! " 
 
 "And travel," I rejoined courteously, "in those places 
 where travel seldom extends. I have only been six days at 
 Petersburg, and till I came hither, I knew nothing of the 
 variety of human nature or the power of human genius. But 
 will you allow me to ask the meaning of the very singular 
 occurrence we have just witnessed?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing," rejoined the man, with a broad strong 
 smile, "nothing but an attempt to make men out of brutes. 
 This custom of shaving is not, thank Heaven, much wanted 
 now : some years ago it was requisite to have several stations 
 for barbers and tailors to perform their duties in. Now this 
 is very seldom necessary; those gentlemen were especially 
 
 marked out for the operation. By " (and here the man 
 
 swore a hearty English and somewhat seafaring oath, which 
 a little astonished me in the streets of Petersburg), " I wish 
 it were as easy to lop off all old customs ! that it were as easy 
 to clip the heard of the mind, Sir! Ha! ha! " 
 
 "But the Czar must have found a little difficulty in effect- 
 ing even this outward amendment; and to say truth, I see so 
 many beards about still that I think the reform has been more 
 partial than universal." 
 
 " Ah, those are the beards of the common people : the Czar 
 leaves those for the present. Have you seen the docks yet?" 
 
 " No, I am not sufficiently a sailor to take much interest in 
 them." 
 
 "Humph! humph! you are a soldier, perhaps?" 
 
 " I hope to be so one day or other : I am not yet ! " 
 
 "Not yet! humph! there are opportunities in plenty for 
 those who wish it; what is your profession, then, and what 
 do you know best?" 
 
 I was certainly not charmed with the honest inquisitiveness 
 
DEVEREUX. 337 
 
 of the stranger. "Sir," said I, "Sir, my profession is to an- 
 swer no questions; and what I know best is — to hold my 
 tongue ! " 
 
 The stranger laughed out. "Well, well, that is what all 
 Englishmen know best ! " said he; "but don't be offended: if 
 you will come home with me I will give you a glass of 
 brandy ! " 
 
 " I am very much obliged for the offer, but business obliges 
 me to decline it; good morning. Sir." 
 
 "Good morning!" answered the man, slightly moving his 
 hat, in answer to my salutation. 
 
 We separated, as I thought; but I was mistaken. As ill- 
 luck would have it, I lost my way in endeavouring to return 
 home. While I was interrogating a French artisan, who 
 seemed in a prodigious hurry, up comes my inquisitive friend 
 in green again. "Ha! you have lost your way: I can put 
 you into it better than any man in Petersburg ! " 
 
 I thought it right to accept the offer; and we moved on 
 side by side. I now looked pretty attentively at my gentle- 
 man. I have said that he was tall and stout; he was also re- 
 markably Avell-built, and had a kind of seaman's ease and 
 freedom of gait and manner. His countenance was very 
 peculiar; short, firm, and strongly marked; a small, but 
 thick mustachio covered his upper lip; the rest of his face 
 was shaved. His mouth was wide, but closed, when silent, 
 with that expression of iron resolution which no feature but 
 the mouth can convey. His eyes were large, well-opened, 
 and rather stern ; and when, which was often in the course of 
 conversation, he pushed back his hat from his forehead, the 
 motion developed two strong deep wrinkles between the eye- 
 brows, which might be indicative either of thought or of iras- 
 cibility, — perhaps of both. He spoke quickly, and with a 
 little occasional embarrassment of voice, which, however, 
 never communicated itself to his manner. He seemed, in- 
 deed, to have a perfect acquaintance with the mazes of the 
 growing city; and, every now and then, stopped to say when 
 such a house was built, whither such a street was to lead, etc. 
 As each of these details betrayed some great triumph over 
 
 22 
 
338 DEVEREUX. 
 
 natural obstacles and sometimes over national prejudice, I 
 could not help dropping a few enthusiastic expressions in 
 praise of the genius of the Czar. The man's eyes sparkled as 
 he heard them. 
 
 " It is easy to see, " said I, " that you sympathize with me, 
 and that the admiration of this great man is not confined to 
 Englishmen. How little in comparison seem all other mon- 
 archs ! — they ruin kingdoms ; the Czar creates one. The 
 whole history of the world does not afford an instance of tri- 
 umphs so vast, so important, so glorious as his have been. 
 How his subjects should adore him!" 
 
 "No," said the stranger, with an altered and thoughtful 
 manner, " it is not his subjects, but their posterity, that will 
 appreciate his motives, and forgive him for wishing Russia to 
 be an empire of men. The present generation may sometimes 
 be laughed, sometimes forced, out of their more barbarous 
 habits and brute-like customs, but they cannot be reasoned 
 out of them ; and they don't love the man who attempts to do 
 it. Why, Sir, I question whether Ivan IV., who used to 
 butcher the dogs between prayers for an occupation, and be- 
 tween meals for an appetite, I question whether his memory 
 is not to the full as much loved as the living Czar. I know, 
 at least, that whenever the latter attempts a reform, the good 
 Muscovites shrug up their shoulders, and mutter, 'We did 
 not do these things in the good old days of Ivan IV. ' " 
 
 " Ah ! the people of all nations are wonderfully attached to 
 their ancient customs; and it is not unfrequently that the 
 most stubborn enemies to living men are their own ancestors." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! — true — good ! " cried the stranger ; and then, 
 after a short pause, he said in a tone of deep feeling which 
 had not hitherto seemed at all a part of his character, " We 
 should do that which is good to the human race, from some 
 principle within, and should not therefore abate our efforts 
 for the opposition, the rancour, or the ingratitude that we ex- 
 perience without. It will be enough reward for Peter I., if 
 hereafter, when (in that circulation of knowledge throughout 
 the world which I can compare to nothing better than the 
 circulation of the blood in the human body) the glory of 
 
DEVEREUX. 389 
 
 Russia shall rest, not upon the extent of her dominions, but 
 that of her civilization, — not upon the number of inhabitants, 
 embruted and besotted, but the number of enlightened, pros- 
 perous, and free men; it will be enough for him, if he be 
 considered to have laid the first stone of that great change, — 
 if his labours be fairly weighed against the obstacles which 
 opposed them, — if, for his honest and unceasing endeavour 
 to improve millions, he be not too severely judged for offences 
 in a more limited circle, — and if, in consideration of having 
 fought the great battle against custom, circumstances, and 
 opposing nature, he be sometimes forgiven for not having in- 
 variably conquered himself." 
 
 As the stranger broke off abruptly, I could not but feel a 
 little impressed by his words and the energy with which they 
 were spoken. "We were now in sight of my lodging. I asked 
 my guide to enter it; but the change in our conversation 
 seemed to have unfitted him a little for my companionship. 
 
 "No," said he, "I have business now; we shall meet again; 
 what 's your name? " 
 
 "Certainly," thought I, "no man ever scrupled so little to 
 ask plain questions : " however, I answered him truly and 
 freely. 
 
 "Devereux!" said he, as if surprised. "Ha! — well — we 
 shall meet again. Good day." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 the czar. — the czarixa. — a feast at a russian noble" 
 
 man's. 
 
 The next day I dressed myself in my richest attire ; and, 
 according to my appointment, went with as much state as I 
 could command to the Czar's palace (if an exceedingly hum- 
 ble abode can deserve so proud an appellation). Although 
 my mission was private, I was a little surprised by the ex- 
 
340 DEVEREUX. 
 
 treme simplicity and absence from pomp which the royal resi- 
 dence presented. I was ushered for a few moments into a 
 paltry ante-chamber, in which were several models of ships, 
 cannon, and houses; two or three indilferent portraits, — one 
 of King William III., another of Lord Caermarthen. I was 
 then at once admitted into the royal presence. 
 
 There were only two persons in the room, — one a female, 
 the other a man ; no officers, no courtiers, no attendants, none 
 of the insignia nor the witnesses of majesty. The female was 
 Catherine, the Czarina; the man was the stranger I had met 
 the day before — and Peter the Great. I was a little startled 
 at the identity of the Czar with my inquisitive acquaintance. 
 However, I put on as assured a countenance as I could. In- 
 deed, I had spoken sufficiently well of the royal person to 
 feel very little apprehension at having unconsciously paid so 
 slight a respect to the royal dignity. 
 
 "Ho! ho!" cried the Czar, as I reverently approached 
 him; "I told you we should meet soon! " and turning round, 
 he presented me to her Majesty. That extraordinary woman 
 received me very graciously: and, though I had been a spec- 
 tator of the most artificial and magnificent court in Europe, I 
 must confess that I could detect nothing in the Czarina's air 
 calculated to betray her having been the servant of a Lu- 
 theran minister and the wife of a Swedish dragoon ; whether 
 it was that greatness was natural to her, or whether (which 
 was more probable) she was an instance of the truth of Suck- 
 ling's hackneyed thought, in "Brennoralt," — "Success is a 
 rare paint, — hides all the ugliness." 
 
 While I was making my salutations, the Czarina rose very 
 quietly, and presently, to my no small astonishment, brought 
 me with her own hand a tolerably large glass of raw brandy. 
 There is nothing in the world I hate so much as brandy; how- 
 ever, I swallowed the potation as if it had been nectar, and 
 made some fine speech about it, which the good Czarina did 
 not seem perfectly to understand. I then, after a few pre- 
 liminary observations, entered upon my main business with 
 the Czar. Her Majesty sat at a little distance, but evidently 
 listened very attentively to the conversation. I could not 
 
DEVEREUX. 341 
 
 but be struck with the singularly bold and strong sense of my 
 royal host. There was no hope of deluding or misleading 
 him by diplomatic subterfuge. The only way by which that 
 wonderful man was ever misled was through his passions. 
 His reason conquered all errors but those of temperament. I 
 turned the conversation as artfully as I could upon Sweden 
 and Charles XII. "Hatred to one power," thought I, "may 
 produce love to another; and if it does, the child will spring 
 from a very vigorous parent." While I was on this subject, 
 I observed a most fearful convulsion come over the face of 
 the Czar, — one so fearful that I involuntarily looked away. 
 Fortunate was it that I did so. Nothing ever enraged him 
 more than being observed in those constitutional contortions 
 of countenance to which from his youth he had been subjected. 
 
 After I had conversed with the Czar as long as I thought 
 decorum permitted, I rose to depart. He dismissed me very 
 complaisantly. I re-entered my fine equipage, and took the 
 best of my way home. 
 
 Two or three days afterwards, the Czar ordered me to be 
 invited to a grand dinner at Apraxin's. I went there, and so 
 found myself in conversation with a droll little man, a 
 Dutch Minister, and a great favourite with the Czar. The 
 Admiral and his wife, before we sat down to eat, handed 
 round to each of their company a glass of brandy on a plate. 
 
 " What an odious custom ! " whispered the little Dutch 
 Minister, smacking his lips, however, with an air of tolerable 
 content. 
 
 "Why," said I, prudently, "all countries have their cus- 
 toms. Some centuries ago, a French traveller thought it hor- 
 rible in us Englishmen to eat raw oysters. But the English 
 were in the right to eat oysters; and perhaps, by and by, so 
 much does civilization increase, we shall think the Russians 
 in the right to drink brandy. But really [we had now sat 
 down to the entertainment], I am agreeably surprised here. 
 All the guests are dressed like my own countrymen; a great 
 decorum reigns around. If it were a little less cold, I might 
 fancy myself in London or in Paris." 
 
 "Wait," quoth the little Dutchman, with his mouth full of 
 
342 DEVEREUX. 
 
 jelly broth, " wait till you hear them talk. What think you, 
 now, that lady next me is saying? " 
 
 "I cannot guess: but she has the prettiest smile in the 
 world; and there is something at once so kind and so respect- 
 ful in her manner that I should say she was either asking 
 some great favour, or returning thanks for one." 
 
 "Right," cried the little Minister, "I will interpret for 
 you. She is saying to that old gentleman, 'Sir, I am ex- 
 tremely grateful — and may Saint Xicholas bless you for it — 
 for your very great kindness in having, the day before yes- 
 terday, at your sumptuous entertainment, made me so 
 deliciously — drunk ! ' " 
 
 "You are witty, Monsieur," said I, smiling. "Se non e 
 vero e ben trovato." 
 
 "By my soul, it is true," cried the Dutchman; "but, hush! 
 — see, they are going to cut up that great pie." 
 
 I turned my e^-es to the centre of the table, which was or- 
 namented with a huge pasty. Presently it was cut open, and 
 out — walked a hideous little dwarf. 
 
 "Are they going to eat him?" said I. 
 
 "Ha! ha!" laughed the Dutchman. "Xo! this is a fash- 
 ion of the Czar's, which the Admiral thinks it good policy to 
 follow. See, it tickles the hebete Russians. They are quite 
 merr}' on it." 
 
 "To be sure," said I; "practical jokes are the only witti- 
 cisms savages understand." 
 
 "Ay, and if it were not for such jokes now and then, the 
 Czar would be odiovis beyond measure; but dwarf pies and 
 mock processions make his subjects almost forgive him for 
 having shortened their clothes and clipped their beards." 
 
 "The Czar is very fond of those mock processions?'' 
 
 "Fond! " and the little man sank his voice into a whisper; 
 "he is the sublimest buffoon that ever existed. I will tell 
 you an instance — Do you like these Hungary wines, by the 
 by? — On the 9th of last June, the Czar carried me, and half- 
 a-dozen more of the foreign ministers, to his pleasure -house 
 (Peterhoff). Dinner, as usual, all drunk with Tokay, and 
 finished by a quart of brandy each, from her Majesty's ovrn 
 
DEVEREUX. 843 
 
 hand. Carried off to sleep, — some in the garden, some in 
 the wood. Woke at four, still in the clouds. Carried back 
 to the pleasure -house, found the Czar there, made us a low 
 bow, and gave us a hatchet apiece, with orders to follow him. 
 Off we trudged, rolling about like ships in the Zuyder Zee, 
 entered a wood, and were immediately set to work at cutting 
 a road through it. Nice work for us of the corps diplo- 
 matique t And, by my soul. Sir, you see that I am by no 
 means a thin man ! We had three hours of it, were carried 
 back, made drunk again, sent to bed, roused again in an hour, 
 made drunk a third time ; and, because we could not be waked 
 again, left in peace till eight the next morning. Invited to 
 court to breakfast ; such headaches we had ; longed for coffee ; 
 found nothing but brandy; forced to drink; sick as dogs; 
 sent to take an airing upon the most damnable little horses, 
 not worth a guilder, no bridles nor saddles; bump — bump 
 
 — bump we go, up and down before the Czar's window, — he 
 and the Czarina looking at us. I do assure you I lost two 
 stone by that ride, — two stone. Sir! — taken to dinner; drunk 
 again, by the Lord, all bundled on board a torrenschute ; devil 
 of a storm came on; Czar took the rudder; Czarina on high 
 benches in the cabin, which was full of water; waves beating; 
 winds blowing; certain of being drowned; charming prospect! 
 
 — tossed about for seven hours; driven into the port of Crons- 
 fiot. Czar leaves us, saying, 'Too much of a jest, eh, gentle- 
 men? ' All got ashore wet as dog-fishes, made a fire, stripped 
 stark naked (a Dutch ambassador stark naked, — think of it, 
 Sir !), crept into some covers of sledges, and rose next morning 
 with the ague, — positive fact, Sir! Had the ague for two 
 months. Saw the Czar in August; *A charming excursion to 
 my pleasure-house,' said his Majesty; *we must make another 
 party there soon.' " 
 
 As the Dutchman delivered himself of the little history he 
 was by no means forgetful of the Hungary wines ; and as Bac- 
 chus and Venus have old affinity, he now began to grow elo- 
 quent on the women. 
 
 "What think you 6f them yourself?" said he; "they have 
 a rolling look, eh? " 
 
344 DEVEREUX. 
 
 "They have so," I answered: "but they all have black 
 teeth; what's the reason?" 
 
 " They think it a beauty, and say white teeth are the sign 
 of a blackamoor." 
 
 Here the Dutchman was accosted by some one else, and 
 there was a pause. Dinner at last ceased; the guests did not 
 sit long after dinner, and for a very good reason: the brandy 
 bowl is a great enforcer of a prostrate position! I had the 
 satisfaction of seeing the company safely under the table. 
 The Dutchman went first, and, having dexterously manoeuvred 
 an escape from utter oblivion for myself, I managed to find 
 my way home, more edified than delighted by the character 
 of a Russian entertainment. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH THE CZAR. IF CROMWELL WAS THE 
 
 GREATEST MAN (c^SAR EXCEPTED) WHO EVER ROSE TO 
 
 THE SUPREME POWER, PETER WAS THE GREATEST MAN" 
 EVER BORN TO IT. 
 
 It was singular enough that my introduction to the notice 
 of Peter the Great and Philip le Debonnaire should have 
 taken place under circumstances so far similar that both 
 those illustrious personages were playing the part rather of 
 subjects than of princes. I cannot, however, conceive a 
 greater mark of the contrast between their characters than 
 the different motives and manners of the incognitos severally 
 assumed. 
 
 Philip, in a scene of low riot and debauch, hiding the Jupi- 
 ter under the Silenus, — wearing the mask only for the licen- 
 tiousness it veiled, and foregoing the prerogative of power, 
 solely for indulgence in the grossest immunities of vice. 
 
 Peter, on the contrary, parting with the selfishness of state 
 in order to watch the more keenly over the interests of his 
 
DEVEREUX. 345 
 
 people, only omitting to preside in order to examine, and 
 affecting the subject only to learn the better the duties of the 
 prince. Had I leisure, I might here pause to point out a 
 notable contrast, not between the Czar and the Kegent, but 
 between Peter the Great and Louis le Grand: both creators of 
 a new era, — both associated with a vast change in the condi- 
 tion of two mighty empires. There ceases the likeness and 
 begins the contrast: the blunt simplicity of Peter, the gor- 
 geous magnificence of Louis ; the sternness of a legislator for 
 barbarians, the clemency of an idol of courtiers. One the 
 victorious defender of his country, — a victory solid, durable, 
 and just; the other the conquering devastator of a neighbour- 
 ing people, — a victory, glittering, evanescent, and dishonour- 
 able. The one, in peace, rejecting parade, pomp, individual 
 honours, and transforming a wilderness into an empire: the 
 other involved in ceremony, and throned on pomp; and ex- 
 hausting the produce of millions to pamper the bloated vanity 
 of an individual. The one a fire that burns, without enlight- 
 ening beyond a most narrow circle, and whose lustre is tracked 
 by what it ruins, and fed by what it consumes ; the other a 
 luminary, whose light, not so dazzling in its rays, spreads 
 over a world, and is noted, not for what it destroys, but for 
 what it vivifies and creates. 
 
 I cannot say that it was much to my credit that, while I 
 thought the Eegent's condescension towards nie natural 
 enough, I was a little surprised by the favour shown me by 
 the Czar. At Paris, I had seemed to be the man of pleasure : 
 that alone was enough to charm Philip of Orleans. But in 
 Eussia, what could I seem in any way calculated to charm the 
 Czar? I could neither make ships nor could sail them when 
 they were made; I neither knew, nor, what was worse, cared 
 to know, the stern from the rudder. Mechanics were a mys- 
 tery to me; road-making was an incomprehensible science. 
 Brandy I could not endure; a blunt bearing and familiar 
 manner I could not assume. What was it, then, that made 
 the Czar call upon me, at least twice a week in private, shut 
 himself up with me by the hour together, and endeavour to 
 make me drunk with Tokay, in order (as he very incautiously 
 
346 DEVEREUX. 
 
 let out one night), "to learn the secrets of my heart"? I 
 thought, at first, that the nature of my mission was enough 
 to solve the riddle : but we talked so little about it that, with 
 all my diplomatic vanities fresh about me, I could not help 
 feeling I owed the honour I received less to my qualities as 
 a minister than to those as an individual. 
 
 At last, however, I found that the secret attraction was 
 what the Czar termed the philosophical channel into which 
 our conferences flowed. I never saw a man so partial to 
 moral problems and metaphysical inquiries, especially to 
 those connected with what ought to be the beginning or the 
 end of all moral sciences, — politics. Sometimes we would 
 wander out in disguise, and select some object from the cus- 
 toms or things around us, as the theme of reflection and dis- 
 cussion; nor in these moments would the Czar ever allow me 
 to yield to his rank what I might not feel disposed to concede 
 to his arguments. One day, I remember that he arrested me 
 in the streets, and made me accompany him to look upon two 
 men undergoing the fearful punishment of the battaog;^ one 
 was a German, the other a Russian: the former shrieked 
 violently, struggled in the hands of his punishers, and, with 
 the utmost difficulty, was subjected to his penalty; the latter 
 bore it patiently and in silence; he only spoke once, and it 
 was to say, "God bless the Czar!" 
 
 "Can your Majesty hear the man," said I, warmly, when the 
 Czar interpreted these words to me, "and not pardon him?" 
 
 Peter frowned, but I was not silenced. " You don't know 
 the Russians ! " said he, sharply, and turned aside. The 
 punishment was now over. "Ask the German," said the 
 Czar to an officer, "what was his offence?" The German, 
 who was writhing and howling horribly, uttered some violent 
 words against the disgrace of the punishment, and the petti- 
 ness of his fault; what the fault was I forget. 
 
 "Kow ask the Russian," said Peter. "My punishment was 
 just!" said the Russian, coolly, putting on his clothes as if 
 nothing had happened; "God and the Czar were angry with 
 me!" 
 
 1 A terrible kind of flogging, but less severe than the knout. 
 
 m 
 
DEVEREUX. 347 
 
 "Come away, Count," said the Czar; "and now solve me a 
 problem. I know both those men; and the German, in a 
 battle, would be the braver of the two. How comes it that 
 he weeps and writhes like a girl, while the Kussian bears the 
 same pain without a murmur? " 
 
 "Will your Majesty forgive me," said I, "but I cannot help 
 wishing that the Eussian had complained more bitterly; in- 
 sensibility to punishment is the sign of a brute, not a hero. 
 Do you not see that the German felt the indignity, the Rus- 
 sian did not? and do you not see that that very pride which 
 betrays agony under the disgrace of the battaog is exactly the 
 very feeling that would have produced courage in the glory 
 of the battle? A sense of honour makes better soldiers and 
 better men than fndifference to pain." 
 
 "But had I ordered the Eussian to death, he would have 
 gone with the same apathy and the same speech, 'It is just! 
 I have offended God and the Czar ! ' " 
 
 "Dare I observe, Sire, that that fact would be a strong 
 proof of the dangerous falsity of the old maxims which extol 
 indifference to death as a virtue? In some individuals it may 
 be a sign of virtue, I allow; but, as a national trait, it is the 
 strongest sign of national misery. Look round the great 
 globe. What countries are those where the inhabitants bear 
 death with cheerfulness, or, at least, with apathy? Are they 
 the most civilized, the most free, the most prosperous? Par- 
 don me; no! They are the half-starved, half -clothed, half- 
 human sons of the forest and the waste ; or, when gathered in 
 states, they are slaves without enjoyment or sense beyond the 
 hour; and the reason that they do not recoil from the pangs 
 of death is because they have never known the real pleasures 
 or the true objects of life." 
 
 "Yet," said the Czar, musingly, "the contempt of death 
 ■was the great characteristic of the Spartans." 
 
 "And, therefore," said I, "the great token that the Spar- 
 tans were a miserable horde. Your Majesty admires England 
 and the English; you have, beyond doubt, witnessed an exe- 
 cution in that country ; you have noted, even where the crim- 
 inal is consoled by religion, how he trembles, and shrinks, — 
 
348 DEVEREUX. 
 
 how dejected, how prostrate of heart he is before the doom is 
 completed. Take now the vilest slave, either of the Emperor 
 of Morocco or the great Czar of Russia. He changes neither 
 tint nor muscle ; he requires no consolation ; he shrinks from 
 no torture. What is the inference? That slaves dread death 
 less than the free. And it should be so. The end of legisla- 
 tion is not to make death, but life, a blessing." 
 
 "You have put the matter in a new light," said the Czar; 
 " but you allow that, in individuals, contempt of death is some- 
 times a virtue." 
 
 "Yes, when it springs from mental reasonings, not physical 
 indifference. But your Majesty has already put in action 
 one vast spring of a system which will ultimately open to 
 your subjects so many paths of existence that they will pre- 
 serve contempt for its proper objects, and not lavish it solely, 
 as they do now, on the degradation which sullies life and the 
 axe that ends it. You have already begun the conquest of 
 another and a most vital error in the philosophy of the an- 
 cients, — that philosophy taught that man should have few 
 wants, and made it a crime to increase and a virtue to reduce 
 them. A legislator should teach, on the contrary, that man 
 should have many wants : for wants are not only the sources 
 of enjoyment, — they are the sources of improvement; and 
 that nation will be the most enlightened among whose popu- 
 lace they are found the most numerous. You, Sire, by circu- 
 lating the arts, the graces, create a vast herd of moral wants 
 hitherto unknown, and in those wants will hereafter be found 
 the prosperity of your people, the fountain of your resources, 
 and the strength of your empire." 
 
 In conversation on these topics we often passed hours to- 
 gether, and from such conferences the Czar passed only to 
 those on other topics more immediately useful to him. No 
 man, perhaps, had a larger share of the mere human frailties 
 than Peter the Great; yet I do confess that when I saw the 
 nobleness of mind with which he flung aside his rank as a 
 robe, and repaired from man to man, the humblest or the 
 highest, the artisan or the prince, — the prosperity of his sub-* 
 jects his only object, and the acquisition of knowledge his only 
 
DEVEREUX. 349 
 
 means to obtain it, — I do confess that my mental sight re- 
 fused even to perceive his frailties, and that I could almost 
 have bent the knee in worship to a being whose benevolence 
 was so pervading a spirit, and whose power was so glorious a 
 minister to utility. 
 
 Towards the end of January, I completed my mission, and 
 took my leave of the court of Russia. 
 
 "Tell the Regent," said Peter, "that I shall visit him in 
 France soon, and shall expect to see his drawings if I show 
 hira my models." 
 
 In effect, the next month (February 16), the Czar com- 
 menced his second course of travels. He was pleased to tes- 
 tify some regard for me on my departure. "If ever you quit 
 the service of the French court, and your own does not re- 
 quire you, I implore you to come to me ; I will give you carte 
 hlanche as to the nature and appointments of your office." 
 
 I need not say that I expressed my gratitude for the royal 
 condescension; nor that, in leaving Russia, I brought, from 
 the example of its sovereign, a greater desire to be useful to 
 mankind than I had known before. Pattern and Teacher of 
 kings, if each country in each century had produced one such 
 ruler as you, either all mankind would noiv be contented with 
 despotism or all mankind would be free ! Oh ! when kings 
 have only to be good, to be kept forever in our hearts and 
 souls as the gods and benefactors of the earth, by what mon- 
 strous fatality have they been so blind to their fame? When 
 we remember the millions, the generations, they can degrade, 
 destroy, elevate, or save, we might almost think (even if the 
 other riddles of the present existence did not require a fiiture 
 existence to solve them), we might almost think a hereafter 
 necessary, were it but for the sole purpose of requiting the 
 virtues of princes, — or their sins!^ 
 
 ^ Upon his death-bed Peter is reported to have said, " God, I dare trust, 
 will look mercifully upon my faults in consideration of the good I have done 
 my country." These are worthy to be the last words of a king! Rarely has 
 there been a monarch who more required the forgiveness of the Creator ; yet 
 seldom perhaps has there been a human being who more deserved it. — Ed. 
 
350 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 RETURN TO PARIS. INTERVIEW WITH BOLINGBROKE. A 
 
 GALLANT ADVENTURE. AFFAIR WITH DUBOIS.^ PUBLIC 
 
 LIFE IS A DRAMA, IN WHICH PRIVATE VICES GENERALLY 
 PLAY THE PART OF THE SCENE-SHIFTERS. 
 
 It is a strange feeling we experience on entering a great 
 city by night, — a strange mixture of social and solitary im- 
 pressions. I say by night, because at that time we are most 
 inclined to feel ; and the mind, less distracted than in the day 
 by external objects, dwells the more intensely upon its own 
 hopes and thoughts, remembrances and associations, and 
 sheds over them, from that one feeling which it cherishes 
 the most, a blending and a mellowing hue. 
 
 It was at night that I re-entered Paris. I did not tarry 
 long at my hotel, before (though it was near upon midnight) 
 I conveyed myself to Lord Bolingbroke's lodgings. Knowing 
 his engagements at St. Germains, where the Chevalier (who 
 had but a very few weeks before returned to France, after 
 the crude and unfortunate affair of 1715), chiefly resided, I 
 was not very sanguine in my hopes of finding him at Paris. I 
 was, however, agreeably surprised. His servant would have 
 ushered me into his study, but I was willing to introduce my- 
 self. I withheld the servant, and entered the room alone. 
 
 The door was ajar, and Bolingbroke neither heard nor saw 
 me. There was something in his attitude and aspect which 
 made me pause to survey him, before I made myself known. 
 He was sitting by a table covered with books. A large folio 
 (it was the Casaubon edition of Polybius) was lying open be- 
 fore him. I recognized the work at once : it was a favourite 
 book with Bolingbroke, and we had often discussed the merits 
 of its author. I smiled as I saw that that book, which has 
 to statesmen so peculiar an attraction, made still the study 
 from which the busy, restless, ardent, and exalted spirit of 
 
DEVEREUX. 351 
 
 the statesman before me drew its intellectual food. But at 
 the moment in which I entered his eye was absent fi-om the 
 page, and turned abstractedly in an opposite though still 
 downcast direction. His countenance was extremely pale, 
 his lips were tightly compressed, and an air of deep thought, 
 mingled as it seemed to me with sadness, made the ruling 
 expression of his lordly and noble features. "It is the torpor 
 of ambition after one of its storms," said I, inly; and I ap- 
 proached, and laid my hand on his shoulder. 
 
 After our mutual greetings, I said, "Have the dead so 
 strong an attraction that at this hour they detain the courted 
 and courtly Bolingbroke from the admiration and converse of 
 the living?" 
 
 The statesman looked at me earnestly: "Have you heard 
 the news of the day?" said he. 
 
 "How is it possible? I have but just arrived at Paris." 
 
 "You do not know, then, that I have resigned my office 
 under the Chevalier!" 
 
 " Resigned your office ! " 
 
 "Resigned is a wrong word: I received a dismissal. Im- 
 mediately on his return the Chevalier sent for me, embraced 
 me, desired me to prepare to follow him to Lorraine; and 
 three days afterwards came the Duke of Ormond to me, to 
 ask me to deliver up the seals and papers. I put the latter 
 very carefully in a little letter-case, and behold an end to the 
 administration of Lord Bolingbroke! The Jacobites abuse 
 me terribly; their king accuses me of neglect, incapacity, and 
 treachery; and Fortune pulls down the fabric she has built 
 for me, in order to pelt me with the stones ! " ^ 
 
 " My dear, dear friend, I am indeed grieved for you ; but I 
 am more incensed at the infatuation of the Chevalier. Surely, 
 surely he must already have seen his error, and solicited 
 your return?" 
 
 "Return!" cried Bolingbroke, and his eyes flashed fire, — 
 
 " return ! — Hear what I said to the Queen-Mother who came 
 
 to attempt a reconciliation: 'jVladam, ' said I, in a tone as 
 
 calm as I could command, ' if ever this hand draws the sword, 
 
 1 Letter to Sir W. Windham. — Ed. 
 
352 DEVEREUX. 
 
 or employs the pen, in behalf of that prince, may it rot ! ' 
 Eeturn! not if my head were the price of refusal! Yet, 
 Devereux," — and here Bolingbroke's voice and manner 
 changed, — "yet it is not at these tricks of fate that a wise 
 man will repine. We do right to cultivate honours ; they are 
 sources of gratification to ourselves : they are more ; they are 
 incentives to the conduct which works benefits to others ; but 
 we do wrong to afflict ourselves at their loss. ' Nee quaerere 
 nee spernere honores oportet.' ^ It is good to enjoy the bless- 
 ings of fortune : it is better to submit without a pang to their 
 loss. You remember, when you left me, I was preparing 
 myself for this stroke: believe me, I am now prepared." 
 
 And in truth Bolingbroke bore the ingratitude of the 
 Chevalier well. Soon afterwards he carried his long cher- 
 ished wishes for retirement into effect; and Fate, who de- 
 lights in reversing her disk, leaving in darkness what she 
 had just illumined, and illumining what she had hitherto 
 left in obscurity and gloom, for a long interval separated us 
 from each other, no less by his seclusion than by the publi- 
 city to which she condemned myself. 
 
 Lord Bolingbroke's dismissal was not the only event affect- 
 ing me that had occurred during my absence from France. 
 Among the most active partisans of the Chevalier, in the ex- 
 pedition of Lord Mar, had been Montreuil. So great, indeed, 
 had been either his services or the idea entertained of their 
 value, that a reward of extraordinary amount was offered for 
 his head. Hitherto he had escaped, and was supposed to be 
 still in Scotland. 
 
 But what affected me more nearly was the condition of 
 Gerald's circumstances. On the breaking out of the rebellion 
 he had been suddenly seized, and detained in prison; and it 
 was only upon the escape of the Chevalier that he was re- 
 leased: apparently, however, nothing had been proved against 
 him; and my absence from the head-quarters of intelligence 
 left me in ignorance both of the grounds of his imprisonment 
 and the circumstances of his release. 
 
 I heard, however, from Bolingbroke, who seemed to possess 
 ^ " It becomes us neither to court nor to despise honours." 
 
DEVEREUX. 353 
 
 some of that information which the ecclesiastical intriguants 
 of the day so curiously transmitted from court to court and 
 corner to corner, that Gerald had retired to Devereux Court 
 in great disgust at his confinement. However, when I con- 
 sidered his bold character, his close intimacy with Montreuil, 
 and the genius for intrigue which that priest so eminently 
 possessed, I was not much inclined to censure the government 
 for unnecessary precaution in his imprisonment. 
 
 There was another circumstance connected with the rebel- 
 lion which possessed for me an individual and deep interest. 
 A man of the name of Barnard had been executed in England 
 for seditious and treasonable practices. I took especial pains 
 to ascertain every particular respecting him. I learned that 
 he was young, of inconsiderable note, but esteemed clever; 
 and had, long previously to the death of the Queen, been se- 
 cretly employed by the friends of the Chevalier. This cir- 
 cumstance occasioned me much internal emotion, though there 
 could be no doubt that the Barnard whom I had such cause 
 to execrate had only borrowed from this minion the disguise 
 of his name. 
 
 The Regent received me with all the graciousness and com- 
 plaisance for which he was so remarkable. To say the truth, 
 my mission had been extremely fortunate in its results; the 
 only cause in which the Eegent was concerned the interests 
 of which Peter the Great appeared to disregard was that of 
 the Chevalier; but I had been fully instructed on that head 
 anterior to my legation. 
 
 There appears very often to be a sort of moral fitness be- 
 tween the beginning and the end of certain alliances or ac- 
 quaintances. This sentiment is not very clearly expressed. 
 I am about to illustrate it by an important event in my polit- 
 ical life. During my absence Dubois had made rapid steps 
 towards being a great man. He was daily growing into 
 power, and those courtiers who were neither too haughty nor 
 too honest to bend the knee to so vicious yet able a minion 
 had already singled him out as a fit person to flatter and to 
 rise by. For me, I neither sought nor avoided him : but he 
 was as civil towards me as his bnisque temper permitted him 
 
 23 
 
354 DEVEREUX. 
 
 to be towards most persons ; and as our careers were not likely 
 to cross one another, I thought I might reckon on his neutral- 
 ity, if not on his friendship. Chance turned the scale against 
 me. 
 
 One day I received an anonymous letter, requesting me to 
 
 be, at such an hour, at a certain house in the Eue . It 
 
 occurred to me as no improbable supposition that the appoint- 
 ment might relate to my individual circumstances, whether 
 domestic or political, and I certainly had not at the moment 
 any ideas of gallantry in my brain. At the hour prescribed 
 I appeared at the place of assignation. My mind misgave me 
 when I saw a female conduct me into a little chamber hung 
 with tapestry descriptive of the loves of Mars and Venus. 
 After I had cooled my heels in this apartment about a quar- 
 ter of an hour, in sailed a tall woman, of a complexion almost 
 Moorish. I bowed; the lady sighed. An eclaircissement 
 ensued; and I found that I had the good fortune to be the 
 object of a caprice in the favourite mistress of the Abbe Du- 
 bois. Nothing was further from my wishes ! "What a pity it 
 is that one cannot always tell a woman one's mind! 
 
 I attempted a flourish about friendship, honour, and the re- 
 spect due to the atnante of the most intimate ami I had in the 
 world. 
 
 "Pooh!" said the tawny Calypso, a little pettishly, — 
 "pooh! one does not talk of those things here." 
 
 "Madame," said I, very energetically, "I implore you to 
 refrain. Do not excite too severe a contest between passion 
 and duty! I feel that I must fly you: you are already too 
 bewitching." 
 
 Just as I rose to depart in rushes the femme de chamhre, 
 and announces, not Monsieur the Abbe, but Monseigneur the 
 Regent. Of course (the old resort in such cases) I was thrust 
 in a closet; in marches his Eoyal Highness, and is received 
 very cavalierly. It is quite astonishing to me what airs those 
 women give themselves when they have princes to manage! 
 However, my confinement was not long : the closet had an- 
 other door; the/emme de chamhre slips round, opens it, and I 
 congratulate myself on my escape. 
 
DEVEREUX. 355 
 
 When a Frenchwoman is piqued, she passes all understand- 
 ing. The next day I am very quietly employed at breakfast, 
 when my valet ushers in a masked personage, and behold my 
 gentlewoman again! Human endurance will not go too far, 
 and this was a case which required one to be in a passion one 
 way or the other; so I feigned anger, and talked with exceed- 
 ing dignity about the predicament I had been placed in the 
 day before. 
 
 " Such must always be the case, " said I, " when one is weak 
 enough to form an attachment to a lady who encourages so 
 many others ! " 
 
 "For your sake," said the tender dame, "for your sake, 
 then, I will discard them all ! " 
 
 There was something grand in this : it might have elicited 
 a few strokes of pathos, when — never was there anything so 
 strangely provoking — the Abbe Dubois himself Avas heard in 
 my anteroom. I thought this chance, but it was more; the 
 good Abbe, I afterwards found, had traced cause for suspicion, 
 and had come to pay me a visit of amatory police. I opened 
 my dressing-room door, and thrust in the lady. "There," 
 said I, "are the back-stairs, and at the bottom of the back- 
 stairs is a door." 
 
 Would not any one have thought this hint enough? By no 
 means ; this very tall lady stooped to the littleness of listening, 
 and, instead of departing, stationed herself by the keyhole. 
 
 I never exactly learned whether Dubois suspected the visit 
 his mistress had paid me, or whether he merely surmised, 
 from his spies or her escritoire, that she harboured an incli- 
 nation towards me ; in either case his policy was natural, and 
 like himself. He sat himself down, talked of the Regent, of 
 pleasure, of women, and, at last, of this very tall lady in 
 qiiestion. 
 
 " La pauvre 'diahlesse, " said he, contemptuously, " I had 
 once compassion on her; I have repented it ever since. You 
 have no idea what a terrible creature she is ; has such a wen 
 in her neck, quite a goitre. Mort diable ! " (and the Abb4 
 spat in his handkerchief), "I would sooner have a liaison 
 with the witch of Endor!" 
 
356 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Not content with this, he went on in his usual gross and 
 displeasing manner to enumerate or to forge those various 
 particulars of her personal charms which he thought most 
 likely to steel me against her attractions. " Thank Heaven, 
 at least," thought I, "that she has gone!" 
 
 Scarcely had this pious gratulation flowed from my heart, 
 before the door was burst open, and, pale, trembling, eyes 
 on fire, hands clenched, forth stalked the lady in question. 
 A wonderful proof how much sooner a woman would lose her 
 character than allow it to be called not worth the losing! 
 She entered, and had all the furies of Hades lent her their 
 tongues, she could not have been more eloquent. It would 
 have been a very pleasant scene if one had not been a partner 
 in it. The old Abbe, with his keen, astute marked face, 
 struggling between surprise, fear, the sense of the ridiculous, 
 and the certainty of losing his mistress ; the lady, foaming at 
 the mouth, and shaking her clenched hand most menacingly 
 at her traducer; myself endeavouring to pacify, and acting, 
 as one does at such moments, mechanically, though one flat- 
 ters one's self afterwards that one acted solely from wisdom. 
 
 But the Abbe's mistress was by no means content with vin- 
 dicating herself : she retaliated, and gave so minute a descrip- 
 tion of the Abbe's own qualities and graces, coupled with so 
 many pleasing illustrations, that in a very little time his 
 coolness forsook him, and he grew in as great a rage as her- 
 self. At last she flew out of the room. The Abbe, trembling 
 with passion, shook me most cordially by the hand, grinned 
 from ear to ear, said it was a capital joke, wished me good- 
 by as if he loved me better than his eyes, and left the house 
 my most irreconcilable and bitter foe! 
 
 How could it be otherwise? The rivalship the Abbe might 
 have forgiven ; such things happened every day to him : but 
 the having been made so egregiously ridiculous the Abbe 
 could not forgive; and the Abbe's was a critical age for jest- 
 ing on these matters, sixty or so. And then such unpalatable 
 sarcasms on his appearance! " 'T is all over in that quarter," 
 said I to myself, "but we may find another," and I drove out 
 that very day to pay my resj)ects to the Regent. 
 
DEVEREUX. 357 
 
 What a pity it is that one's pride should so often be the 
 bane of one's wisdom. Ah! that one could be as good a man 
 of the world in practice as one is in theory ! my master-stroke 
 of policy at that moment would evidently have been this : I 
 should have gone to the Regent and made out a story similar 
 to the real one, but with this difference, all the ridicule of the 
 situation should have fallen upon me, and the little Dubois 
 should have been elevated on a pinnacle of respectable ap- 
 pearances! This, as the Eegent told the Abbe everything, 
 would have saved me. I saw the plan ; but was too proud to 
 adopt it; I followed another course in my game: I threw 
 away the knave, and played with the king, i.e., with the Ee- 
 gent. After a little preliminary conversation, I turned the 
 conversation on the Abbe. 
 
 *'Ah! the scelerat / " said Philip, smiling, " 't is a sad dog, 
 but very clever and loves me , he would be incomparable, if 
 he were but decently honest." 
 
 "At least," said I, "he is no hypocrite, and that is some 
 praise." 
 
 " Hem ! " ejaculated the Duke, very slowly, and then, 
 after a pause, he said, " Count, I have a real kindness for 
 you, and I will therefore give you a piece of advice : think as 
 well of Dubois as you can, and address him as if he were all 
 you endeavoured to fancy him." 
 
 After this hint, which in the mouth of any prince but 
 Philip of Orleans would have been not a little remarkable for 
 its want of dignity, my prospects did not seem much brighter ; 
 however, I was not discouraged. 
 
 " The Abbe, " said I, respectfully, " is a choleric man : one 
 may displease him ; but dare I hope that so long as I preserve 
 inviolate my zeal and my attachment to the interests and the 
 person of your Highness, no — " 
 
 The Eegent interrupted me. "You mean nobody shall 
 successfully misrepresent you to me? Xo, Count" (and 
 here the Eegent spoke with the earnestness and dignity-, 
 which, when he did assume, few wore with a nobler grace) — 
 "no. Count, I make a distinction between those who minister 
 to the state and those who minister to me. I consider your 
 
358 DEVEREUX. 
 
 services too valuable to the former to put tliem at the mercy 
 of the latter. And bow that the conversation has turned 
 upon business I wish to sj)eak to you about this scheme of 
 Gortz." 
 
 After a prolonged conference with the Regent upon mat- 
 ters of business, in which his deep penetration into human 
 nature not a little surprised me, I went away thoroughly sat- 
 isfied with my visit. I should not have been so had I added 
 to my other accomplishments the gift of prophecy. Above 
 five days after this interview, I thought it would be but pru- 
 dent to pay the Abbe Dubois one of those visits of homage 
 which it was already become policy to pay him. "If I go," 
 thought I, "it will seem as if nothing had happened; if I 
 stay away, it will seem as if I attached importance to a scene 
 I should appear to have forgotten." 
 
 It so happened that the Abbe had a very unusual visitor 
 that morning, in the person of the austere but admirable Due 
 de St. Simon. There was a singular and almost invariable 
 distinction in the Regent's mind between one kind of regard 
 and another. His regard for one order of persons always 
 arose either out of his vices or his indolence; his regard for 
 another, out of his good qualities and his strong sense. The 
 Due de St. Simon held the same place in the latter species of 
 affection that Dubois did in the former. The Due was just 
 coming out of the Abbe's closet as I entered the anteroom. 
 He paused to speak to me, while Dubois, who had followed 
 the Due out, stopped for one moment, and surveyed me with 
 a look like a thundercloud. I did not appear to notice it, but 
 St. Simon did. 
 
 "That look," said he, as Dubois, beckoning to a gentleman 
 to accompany him to his closet, once more disappeared, " that 
 look bodes you no good. Count." 
 
 Pride is an elevation which is a spring-board at one time 
 and a stumbling-block at another. It was with me more 
 often the stumbling-block than the spring-board. "Monsei- 
 gneur le Due, " said I, haughtily enough, and rather in too 
 loud a tone considering the chamber was pretty full, "in no 
 court to which Morton Devereux proffers his services shall his 
 
DEVEREUX. 359 
 
 fortune depend upon the looks of a low-born insolent or a 
 profligate priest." 
 
 St. Simon smiled sardonically. "Monsieur le Comte," said 
 he, rather civilly, " I honour your sentiments, and I wish you 
 success in the world — and a lower voice." 
 
 I was going to say something by way of retort, for I was in 
 a very bad humour, but I checked myself: "I need not," 
 thought I, "make two enemies, if I can help it." 
 
 " I shall never, " I replied gravely, " I shall never despair, 
 so long as the Due de St. Simon lives, of winning by the same 
 arts the favour of princes and the esteem of good men." 
 
 The Due was flattered, and replied suitably, but he very 
 soon afterwards went away. I was resolved that I would 
 not go till I had fairly seen what sort of reception the Abbe 
 would give me. I did not wait long: he came out of his 
 closet, and standing in his usual rude manner with his back 
 to the fireplace, received the addresses and compliments of his 
 visitors. I was not in a hurry to present myself, but I did 
 so at last with a familiar yet rather respectful air. Dubois 
 looked at me from head to foot, and abruptly turning his 
 back upon me, said with an oath, to a courtier who stood next 
 to him, — "The plagues of Pharaoh are come again; only in- 
 stead of Egyptian frogs in our chambers, we have the still 
 more troublesome guests, — English adventurers!" 
 
 Somehow or other my compliments rarely tell; I am 
 lavish enough of them, but they generally have the air of 
 sarcasms ; thank Heaven, however, no one can accuse me of 
 ever wanting a rude answer to a rude speech. "Ha! ha! 
 ha!" said I now, in answer to Dubois, with a courteous 
 laugh, "you have an excellent wit. Abbe. Apropos of ad- 
 ventures, I met a Monsieur St. Laurent, Principal of the In- 
 stitution of St. Michael, the other da}'. 'Count,' said he, 
 hearing I was going to Paris, 'you can do me an especial 
 favour!' 'What is it?' said I. 'Why, a cast-off valet of 
 mine is living at Paris ; he would have gone long since to the 
 galleys, if he had not taken sanctuary in the Church : if ever 
 jOM meet him, giA'e him a good horsewhipping on my account; 
 his name is William Dubois.' 'Depend upon it,' answered 
 
360 DEVEREUX. 
 
 I to Monsieur St. Laurent, 'that if he is servant to any one 
 not belonging to the royal family, I will fulfil your errand, 
 and horsewhip him soundly; if in the service of the royal 
 family, why, respect for his masters must oblige me to con- 
 tent myself with putting all persons on their guard against 
 a little rascal, who retains, in all situations, the manners 
 of the apothecary's son and the roguery of the director's 
 valet.'" 
 
 All the time I was relating this charming little anecdote, 
 it would have been amusing to the last degree to note the 
 horrified countenances of the surrounding gentlemen. Dubois 
 was too confounded, too aghast, to interrupt me, and I left 
 the room before a single syllable was uttered. Had Dubois 
 at that time been, what he was afterwards, cardinal and prime 
 minister, I should in all probability have had permanent 
 lodgings in the Bastile in return for my story. Even as it 
 was, the Abbe was not so grateful as he ought to have been 
 for my taking so much pains to amuse him ! In spite of my 
 anger on leaving the favourite, I did not forget my prudence, 
 and accordingly I hastened to the Prince. When the Regent 
 admitted me, I flung myself on my knee, and told him, ver- 
 batim, all that had happened. The Regent, who seems to 
 have had very little real liking for Dubois, could not help 
 laughing when I ludicrously described to him the universal 
 consternation my anecdote had excited.^ 
 
 "Courage, my dear Count," said he, kindly, "you have 
 nothing to fear ; return home and count upon an embassy ! " 
 
 I relied on the royal word, returned to my lodgings, and 
 spent the evening with Chaulieu and Fontenelle. The next 
 day the Due de St. Simon paid me a visit. After a little pre- 
 liminary conversation, he unburdened the secret with which 
 he was charged. I was desired to leave Paris in forty-eight 
 hours. 
 
 "Believe me," said St. Simon, "that this message was not 
 
 1 On the death of Dubois, the Rejrent wrote to the Count de Noce, whom 
 he had banished for an indiscreet expression against the favourite, uttered at 
 one of his private suppers : " With the beast dies the venom : I expect j'ou 
 to-night to supper at the Palais Royal." 
 
DEVEREUX. 361 
 
 # 
 intrusted to me by the Regent without great reluctance. He 
 sends you many condescending and kind messages; says he 
 shall always both esteem and like you, and hopes to see you 
 again, some time or other, at the Palais Eoyal. Moreover, 
 he desires the message to be private, and has intrusted it to 
 me in especial, because hearing that I had a kindness for you, 
 and knowing I had a hatred for Dubois, he thought I should 
 be the least unwelcome messenger of such disagreeable tid- 
 ings. 'To tell you the truth, St. Simon,' said the Regent, 
 laughing, 'I only consent to have him banished, from a firm 
 conviction that if I do not Dubois will take some opportunity 
 of having him beheaded.' " 
 
 "Pray," said I, smiling with a tolerably good grace, "pray 
 give my most grateful and humble thanks to his Highness, 
 for his very considerate and kind foresight. I could not have 
 chosen better for myself than his Highness has chosen for 
 me : my only regret on quitting France is at leaving a prince 
 so affable as Philip and a courtier so virtuous as St. Simon." 
 
 Though the good Due went every year to the Abbey de la 
 Trappe for the purpose of mortifying his sins and preserving 
 his religion in so impious an atmosphere as the Palais Royal, 
 he was not above flattery; and he expressed himself towards 
 me with particular kindness after my speech. 
 
 At court, one becomes a sort of human ant-bear, and learns 
 to catch one's prey by one's tongue. 
 
 After we had eased ourselves a little by abusing Dubois, 
 the Due took his leave in order to allow me time to prepare 
 for my "journey," as he politely called it. Before he left, 
 he, however, asked me whither my course would be bent? 
 I told him that I should take my chance with the Czar Peter, 
 and see if his czarship thought the same esteem was due to 
 the disgraced courtier as to the favoured diplomatist. 
 
 That night I received a letter from St. Simon, enclosing 
 one addressed with all due form to the Czar. " You will con- 
 sider the enclosed," wrote St. Simon, "a fresh proof of the 
 Regent's kindness to you; it is a most flattering testimonial 
 in your favour, and cannot fail to make the Czar anxious to 
 secure your services." 
 
862 DEVEREUX. 
 
 I was not a little touched by a kindness so unusual in princes 
 to their discarded courtiers, and this entirely reconciled me 
 to a change of scene which, indeed, under any other circum- 
 stances, my somewhat morbid love for action and variety 
 would have induced me rather to relish than dislike. 
 
 Within thirty-six hours from the time of dismissal, I had 
 turned my back upon the French capital. 
 
 CHAPTER yi. 
 
 A LONG INTERVAL OF YEARS. — A CHANGE OF MIND AND 
 
 ITS CAUSES. 
 
 The last accounts received of the Czar reported him to be 
 at Dantzic. He had, however, quitted that place when I ar- 
 rived there. I lost no time in following him, and presented 
 myself to his Majesty one day after his dinner, when he was 
 sitting with one leg in the Czarina's lap and a bottle of the 
 best eau de vie before him. I had chosen my time well; he 
 received me most graciously, read my letter from the Regent 
 — about which, remembering the fate of Bellerophon, I had 
 had certain apprehensions, but which proved to be in the 
 highest degree complimentary — and then declared himself 
 extremely happy to see me again. However parsimonious 
 Peter generally was towards foreigners, I never had ground 
 fox personal complaint on that score. The very next day I 
 was appointed to a post of honour and profit about the royal 
 person ; from this I was transferred to a military station, in 
 which I rose with great rapidity; and I was only occasionally 
 called from my warlike duties to be intrusted with diplomatic 
 missions of the highest confidence and importance. 
 
 It is this portion of my life — a portion of nine years to the 
 time of the Czar's death — that I shall, in this history, the 
 most concentrate and condense. In truth, were I to dwell upon 
 
DEVEREUX. 363 
 
 it at length, I should make little more than a mere record of 
 political events; differing, in some respects, it is true, from 
 the received histories of the time, but containing nothing to 
 compensate in utility for the want of interest. That this was 
 the exact age for adventurers, Alberoni and Dubois are suffi- 
 cient proofs. Never was there a more stirring, active, restless 
 period; never one in which the genius of intrigue was so per- 
 vadingly at work. I was not less fortunate than my brethren. 
 Although scarcely four and twenty when I entered the Czar's 
 service, my habits of intimacy with men much older; my cus- 
 tomary gravity, reserve, and thought; my freedom, since 
 Isora's death, from youthful levity or excess; my early en- 
 trance into the world; and a countenance prematurely marked 
 with the lines of reflection and sobered by its hue, — made me 
 appear considerably older than I was. I kept my OAvn coun- 
 sel, and affected to be so: youth is a great enemy to one's 
 success ; and more esteem is often bestowed upon a wrinkled 
 brow than, a plodding brain. 
 
 All the private intelligence which during this space of time 
 I had received from England was far from voluminous. My 
 mother still enjoyed the quiet of her religious retreat. A 
 fire, arising from the negligence of a servant, had consumed 
 nearly the whole of Devereux Court (the fine old house ! till 
 that went, I thought even England held one friend). Upon 
 this accident, Gerald had gone to London; and, though there 
 was now no doubt of his having been concerned in the Eebel- 
 lion of 1715, he had been favourably received at court, and 
 was already renowned throughout London for his pleasures, 
 his excesses, and his munificent profusion. 
 
 Montreuil, whose lot seemed to be always to lose by in- 
 trigue what he gained by the real solidity of his genius, had 
 embarked very largely in the rash but gigantic schemes of 
 Gortz and Alberoni; schemes which, had they succeeded, 
 would not only have placed a new king upon the English 
 throne, but wrought an utter change over the whole face of 
 Europe. With Alberoni and with Gortz fell ^Montreuil. He 
 was banished France and Spain; the penalty of death awaited 
 him in Britain; and he was supposed to have thrown himself 
 
364 DEVEREUX. 
 
 into some convent in Italy, where his name and his character 
 were unknown. In this brief intelligence was condensed all 
 my information of the actors in my first scenes of life. I 
 return to that scene on which I had now entered. 
 
 At the age of thirty-three I had acquired a reputation suffi- 
 cient to content my ambition ; my fortune was larger than my 
 wants ; I was a favourite in courts ; I had been successful in 
 camps ; I had already obtained all that would have rewarded 
 the whole lives of many men superior to myself in merit, 
 more ardent than myself in desires. I was still young; my 
 appearance, though greatly altered, manhood had rather im- 
 proved than impaired. I had not forestalled my constitution 
 by excesses, nor worn dry the sources of pleasure by too large 
 a demand upon their capacities; why was it then, at that 
 golden age, in the very prime and glory of manhood, in the 
 very zenith and summer of success, that a deep, dark, pervad- 
 ing melancholy fell upon me? a melancholy so gloomy that 
 it seemed to me as a thick and impenetrable curtain drawn 
 gradually between myself and the blessed light of human en- 
 joyment. A torpor crept upon me; an indolent, heavy, cling- 
 ing languor gathered over my whole frame, the physical and 
 the mental: I sat for hours without book, paper, object, 
 thought, gazing on vacancy, stirring not, feeling not, — yes, 
 feeling, but feeling only one sensation, a sick, sad, drooping 
 despondency, a sinking in of the heart, a sort of gnawing 
 within as if something living were twisted round my vitals, 
 and, finding no other food, preyed, though with a sickly and 
 dull maw, upon them. This disease came upon me slowly: 
 it was not till the beginning of the second year, from its ob- 
 vious and palpable commencement, that it grew to the height 
 that I have described. It began with a distaste to all that I 
 had been accustomed to enjoy or to pursue. Music, which I 
 had always passionately loved, though from some defect in 
 the organs of hearing, I was incapable of attaining the small- 
 est knowledge of the science, music lost all its diviner spells, 
 all its properties of creating a new existence, a life of dream- 
 ing and vain luxuries, within the mind: it became only a mo- 
 notonous sound, less grateful to the languor of my faculties 
 
DEVEREUX. 365 
 
 than an utter and dead stillness. I had never been what is 
 generally termed a boon companion; but I had had the social 
 vanities, if not the social tastes; I had insensibly loved the 
 board which echoed with applause at my sallies, and the com- 
 rades who, while they deprecated my satire, had been com- 
 plaisant enough to hail it as wit. One of my weaknesses is a 
 love of show, and I had gratified a feeling not the less cher- 
 ished because it arose from a petty source, in obtaining for 
 my equipages, my mansion, my banquets, the celebrity which 
 is given no less to magnificence than to fame; now I grew in- 
 different alike to the signs of pomp, and to the baubles of 
 taste; praise fell upon a listless ear, and (rare pitch of 
 satiety!) the pleasures that are the offspring of our foibles 
 delighted me no more. I had early learned from Bolingbroke 
 a love for the converse of men, eminent, whether for wisdom 
 or for wit: the graceful badinage, or the keen critique; the 
 sparkling flight of the winged words which circled and re- 
 bounded from lip to lip, or the deep speculation upon the 
 mysterious and unravelled wonders of man, of Nature, and the 
 world; the light maxim upon manners, or the sage inquiry 
 into the mines of learning, all and each had possessed a link 
 to bind my temper and my tastes to the graces and fascina- 
 tion of social life. Kow a new spirit entered within me: 
 the smile faded from my lip, and the jest departed from my 
 tongue; memory seemed no less treacherous than fancy, and 
 deserted me the instant I attempted to enter into those con- 
 tests of knowledge in which I had been not undistinguished 
 before. I grew confused and embarrassed in speech; my 
 words expressed a sense utterly different to that which I had 
 intended to convey; and at last, as my apathy increased, I 
 sat at my own board, silent and lifeless, freezing into ice the 
 very powers and streams of converse which I had once been 
 the foremost to circulate and to warm. 
 
 At the time I refer to, I was Minister at one of the small 
 Continental courts, where life is a round of unmeaning eti- 
 quette and wearisome ceremonials, a daily labour of trifles, a 
 ceaseless pageantry of nothings. I had been sent there upon 
 one important event; the business resulting from it had soon 
 
366 DEVEREUX. 
 
 ceased, and all the duties that remained for me to discharge 
 were of a negative and passive nature. Nothing that could 
 arouse, nothing that could occupy faculties that had for years 
 been so perpetually wound up to a restless excitement, was left 
 for me in this terrible reservoir of ennui. I had come thither 
 at once from the skirmishing and wild warfare of a Tartar foe ; a 
 war in which, though the glory was obscure, the action was per- 
 petual and exciting. I had come thither, and the change was 
 as if I had passed from a mountain stream to a stagnant pool. 
 
 Society at this court reminded me of a state fiineral : every- 
 thing was pompous and lugubrious, even to the drapery — 
 even to the feathers — which, in other scenes, would have 
 been consecrated to associations of levity or of grace; the 
 hourly pageant swept on slow, tedious, mournful, and the ob- 
 ject of the attendants was only to entomb the Pleasure which 
 they affected to celebrate. What a change for the wild, the 
 strange, the novel, the intriguing, the varying life, which, 
 whether in courts or camps, I had hitherto led! The internal 
 change that came over myself is scarcely to be wondered at ; 
 the winds stood still, and the straw they had blown from 
 quarter to quarter, whether in anger or in sport, began to 
 moulder upon the spot where they had left it. 
 
 From this cessation of the aims, hopes, and thoughts of 
 life I was awakened by the spreading, as it were, of another 
 disease: the dead, dull, aching pain at my heart was suc- 
 ceeded by one acute and intense ; the absence of thought gave 
 way to one thought more terrible, more dark, more despairing 
 than any which had haunted me since the first year of Isora's 
 death ; and from a numbness and pause, as it were, of exist- 
 ence, existence became too keen and intolerable a sense. I 
 will enter into an explanation. 
 
 At the court of , there was an Italian, not uncelebrated 
 
 for his wisdom, nor unbeloved for an innocence and integrity 
 of life rarely indeed to be met with among his countrymen. 
 The acquaintance of this man, who was about fifty years of 
 age, and who was devoted almost exclusively to the pursuit 
 of philosophical science, I had sedulously cultivated. His 
 conversation pleased me ; his wisdom improved; and his be- 
 
DEVEREUX. 367 
 
 nevolence, which reminded me of the traits of La Fontaine, it 
 was so infantine, made me incline to love him. Upon the 
 growth of the fearful malady of mind which seized nie, I had 
 discontinued my visits and my invitations to the Italian; and 
 Bezoni (so was he called) felt a little offended by my neglect. 
 As soon, however, as he discovered my state of mind, the 
 good man's resentment left him. He forced himself upon my 
 solitude, and would sit by me whole evenings, — sometimes 
 Avithout exchanging a word, sometimes with vain attempts to 
 interest, to arouse, or to amuse me. 
 
 At last, one evening — it was the era of a fearful suffering 
 to me — our conversation turned upon those subjects which 
 are at once the most important and the most rarely discussed. 
 "We spoke of religion. AVe first talked upon the theology of 
 revealed religion. As Bezoni warmed into candour, I per- 
 ceived that his doctrines differed from my own, and that he 
 inly disbelieved that divine creed which Christians profess 
 to adore. From a dispute on the ground of faith, we came to 
 one upon the more debatable ground of reason. We turned 
 from the subject of revealed to that of natural religion ; and 
 we entered long and earnestly into that grandest of all earthly 
 speculations, — the metaphysical proofs of the immortality 
 of the soul. Again the sentiments of Bezoni were opposed to 
 mine. He was a believer in the dark doctrine which teaches 
 that man is dust and that all things are forgotten in the 
 grave. He expressed his opinions with a clearness and pre- 
 cision the more impressive because totally devoid of cavil and 
 of rhetoric. I listened in silence, but with a deep and most 
 chilling dismay. Even now I think I see the man as he sat 
 before me, the light of the lamp falling on his high forehead 
 and dark features; even now I think I hear his calm, low 
 voice — the silver voice of his country — stealing to my heart, 
 and withering the only pure and unsullied hope which I yet 
 cherished there. 
 
 Bezoni left me, unconscious of the anguish he bequeathed 
 me, to think over all he had said. I did not sleep nor even 
 retire to bed. I laid my hea,d upon my hands, and surren- 
 dered myself to turbulent yet intense reflection. Every man 
 
368 DEVEREUX. 
 
 who has lived much in the world, and conversed with its va- 
 rious tribes, has, I fear, met with many who, on this moment- 
 ous subject, profess the same tenets as Bezoni. But he was 
 the first person I had met of that sect who had evidently 
 thought long and deeply upon the creed he had embraced. He 
 was not a voluptuary nor a boaster nor a wit. He had not 
 been misled by the delusions either of vanity or of the senses. 
 He was a man pure, innocent, modest, full of all tender char- 
 ities and meek dispositions towards mankind: it was evi- 
 dently his interest to believe in a future state ; he could have 
 had nothing to fear from it. Not a single passion did he 
 cherish which the laws of another world would have con- 
 demned. Add to this, what I have observed before^ that he 
 was not a man fond of the display of intellect, nor one that 
 brought to the discussions of wisdom the artillery of wit. He 
 was grave, humble, and self-diffident, beyond all beings. I 
 would have given a kingdom to have found something in the 
 advocate by which I could have condemned the cause : I could 
 not, and I was wretched. 
 
 I spent the whole of the next week among my books. I 
 ransacked whatever in my scanty library the theologians had 
 written or the philosophers had bequeathed upon that mighty 
 secret. I arranged their arguments in my mind. I armed 
 myself with their weapons. I felt my heart spring joyously 
 within me as I felt the strength I had acquired, and I sent to 
 the philosopher to visit me, that I might conquer and confute 
 him. He came ; but he spoke with pain and reluctance. He 
 saw that I had taken the matter far more deeply to heart than 
 he could have suj)posed it possible in a courtier and a man of 
 fortune and the world. Little did he know of me or my 
 secret soul. I broke down his reserve at last. I unrolled my 
 arguments. I answered his, and we spent the whole night 
 in controversy. He left me, and I was more bewildered than 
 ever. 
 
 To speak truth, he had devoted years to the subject : I had 
 devoted only a week. He had come to his conclusions step 
 by step; he had reached the great ultimatum with slowness, 
 with care, and, he confessed, with anguish and with reluc- 
 
DEVEREUX. 369 
 
 tance. What a match was I, who brought a hasty temper, 
 and a limited reflection on that subject to a reasoner like this? 
 His candour staggered and chilled me even more than his 
 logic. Arguments that occurred not to me, upon my side of 
 the question, he stated at length and with force; I heard, 
 and, till he replied to them, I deemed they were unanswera- 
 ble : the reply came, and I had no counter-word. A meeting 
 of this nature was often repeated; and when he left me, tears 
 crept into my wild eyes, my heart melted within me, and I 
 wept ! 
 
 I must now enter more precisely than I have yet done into 
 my state of mind upon religious matters at the time this dis- 
 pute with the Italian occurred. To speak candidly, I had 
 been far less shocked with his opposition to me upon matters 
 of doctrinal faith than with that upon matters of abstract 
 reasoning. Bred a Roman Catholic, though pride, consist- 
 ency, custom, made me externally adhere to the Papal Church, 
 I inly perceived its errors and smiled at its superstitions. 
 And in the busy world, where so little but present objects 
 or human anticipations of the future engross the attention, I 
 had never given the subject that consideration which would 
 have enabled me (as it has since) to separate the dogmas of 
 the priest from the precepts of the Saviour, and thus con- 
 firmed my belief as the Christian by the very means which 
 would have loosened it as the Sectarian. So that at the time 
 Bezoni knew me a certain indifference to — perhaps arising 
 from an ignorance of — doctrinal points, rendered me little 
 hurt by arguments against opinions which I embraced indeed, 
 but with a lukewarm and imperfect affection. But it was far 
 otherwise upon abstract points of reasoning, far otherwise, 
 when the hope of surviving this frail and most unhallowed 
 being was to be destroyed.- I might have been indilferent to 
 cavil upon what was the word of God, but never to question 
 of the justice of God Himself. In the whole world there was 
 not a more ardent believer in our imperishable nature, nor 
 one more deeply interested in the belief. Do not let it be 
 supposed that because I have not often recurred to Isora's 
 death (or because I have continued my history in a jesting 
 
 24 
 
370 DEVEREUX. 
 
 and light tone) that that event ever passed from the memory 
 which it had turned to bitterness and gall. Kever in the 
 masses of intrigue, in the festivals of pleasure, in the tu- 
 mults of ambition, in the blaze of a licentious court, or by the 
 rude tents of a barbarous host, — never, my buried love, had I 
 forgotten thee! That remembrance, had no other cause ex- 
 isted, would have led me to God. Every night, in whatever 
 toils or whatever objects, whatever failures or triumphs, the 
 day had been consumed; every night before I laid my head 
 upon my widowed and lonely pillow, — I had knelt down and 
 lifted ray heart to Heaven, blending the hopes of that Heaven 
 with the memory and the vision of Isora. Prayer had seemed 
 to me a commune not only with the living God, but with the 
 dead by whom His dwelling is surrounded. Pleasant and 
 soft was it to turn to one thought, to which all the holiest 
 portions of my nature clung between the wearying acts of this 
 hard and harsh drama of existence. Even the bitterness of 
 Isora's early and unavenged death passed away when I 
 thought of the heaven to which she was gone, and in which, 
 though I journeyed now through sin and travail and recked 
 little if the paths of others differed from my own, I yet 
 trusted with a solemn trust that I should meet her at last. 
 There was I to merit her with a love as undj'ing, and at 
 length as pure, as her own. It was this that at the stated 
 hour in which, after my prayer for our reunion, I surrendered 
 my spirit to the bright and wild visions of her far, but not 
 impassable home, — it was this which for that single hour 
 made all around me a paradise of delighted thoughts! It was 
 not the little earth, nor the cold sky, nor the changing wave, 
 nor the perishable turf, — no, nor the dead wall and the nar- 
 row chamber, — which were around me then! No dreamer 
 ever was so far from the localities of flesh and life as I was 
 in that enchanted hour: a light seemed to settle upon all 
 things around me; her voice murmured on my ear, her kisses 
 melted on my brow; I shut my eyes, and I fancied that I 
 beheld her. 
 
 "Wherefore was this comfort? Whence came the spell which 
 admitted me to this fairy land? What was the source of the 
 
DEVEREUX. 371 
 
 hope and the rapture and the delusion? Was it not the deep 
 certainty that Isora yet existed ; that her spirit, her nature, 
 her love were preserved, were inviolate, were the same? 
 That they watched over me yet, that she knew that in that 
 hour I was with her, that she felt my prayer, that even then 
 she anticipated the moment when my soul should burst the 
 human prison-house and be once more blended with her own? 
 
 What! and was this to be no more? Were those mystic 
 and sweet revealings to be mute to me forever? Were my 
 thoughts of Isora to be henceforth bounded to the charnel- 
 house and the worm? Was she indeed no viore? No 7)iore, — 
 oh, intolerable despair! Why, there was not a thing I had 
 once known, not a dog that I had caressed, not a book that I 
 had read, which I could know that I should see no more, and, 
 knowing, not feel something of regret. No more! were we, 
 indeed, parted forever and forever? Had she gone in her 
 young years, with her warm affections, her new hopes, all 
 green and unwithered at her heart, at once into dust, still- 
 ness, ice? And had I known her only for one year, one little 
 year, to see her torn from me by a violent and bloody death, 
 and to be left a mourner in this vast and eternal charnel, 
 without a solitary consolation or a gleam of hope? Was the 
 earth to be henceforth a mere mass conjured from the bones 
 and fattened by the clay of our dead sires? Were the stars and 
 the moon to be mere atoms and specks of a chill light, no 
 longer worlds, which the ardent spirit might hereafter reach 
 and be fitted to enjoy? Was the heaven — the tender, blue, 
 loving heaven, in whose far regions I had dreamed was Isora's 
 home, and had, therefore, grown better and happier when I 
 gazed upon it — to be nothing but cloud and air? and had the 
 love which had seemed so immortal, and so si)ringing from that 
 which had not blent itself with mortality, been but a gross lamp 
 fed only by the properties of a brute nature, and placed in a dark 
 cell of clay, to glimmer, to burn, and to expire with the frail 
 walls which it had illumined? Dust, death, worms, — were 
 these the heritage of love and hope, of thought, of passion, of 
 all that breathed and kindled and exalted and created Vi'ithin? 
 
 Could I contemplate this idea; could I believe it possible? 
 
372 DEVEREUX. 
 
 / could not. But against the abstract, the logical arguments 
 for this idea, had. I a reply? I shudder as I write that at 
 that time I had not ! I endeavoured to fix my whole thoughts 
 to the study of those subtle reasonings which I had hitherto 
 so imperfectly conned : but my mind was jarring, irresolute, 
 bewildered, confused ; my stake seemed too vast to allow me 
 coolness for the game. 
 
 Whoever has had cause for some refined and deep study in 
 the midst of the noisy and loud world may perhaps readily 
 comprehend that feeling which now possessed me ; a feeling 
 that it was utterly impossible to abstract and concentrate 
 one's thoughts, while at the mercy of every intruder, and 
 fevered and fretful by every disturbance. Men early and 
 long accustomed to mingle such reflections with the avoca- 
 tions of courts and cities have grown callous to these inter- 
 ruptions, and it has been in the very heart of the multitude 
 that the profoundest speculations have been cherished and 
 produced; but I was not of this mould. The world, which 
 before had been distasteful, now grew insufferable; I longed 
 for some seclusion, some utter solitude, some quiet and un- 
 penetrated nook, that I might give my undivided mind to the 
 knowledge of these things, and build the tower of divine rea- 
 sonings by which I might ascend to heaven. It was at this 
 time, and in the midst of my fiercest internal conflict, that 
 the great Czar died, and I was suddenly recalled to Russia. 
 
 "Xow," I said, when I heard of my release, "now shall my 
 wishes be fulfilled ! " 
 
 I sent to Bezoni. He came, but he refused, as indeed he 
 had for some time done, to speak to me further upon the ques- 
 tion which so wildly engrossed me. "I forgive you," said I, 
 when we parted, "I forgive you for all that you have cost 
 me : I feel that the moment is now at hand when my faith 
 shall frame a weapon wherewith to triumph over yours ! " 
 
 Father in Heaven ! thanks be to Thee that my doubts were 
 at last removed, and the cloud rolled away from my soul. 
 
 Bezoni embraced me, and wept over me. "All good men," 
 said he, "have a mighty interest in your success; for me 
 there is nothing dark, even in the mute grave, if it covers the 
 
DEVEREUX. 373 
 
 aslies of one who has loved and served his brethren, and done, 
 with a wilful heart, no living creature wrong." 
 
 Soon afterwards the Italian lost his life in attending the 
 victims of a fearful and contagious disease, whom even the 
 regular practitioners of the healing art hesitated to visit. 
 
 At this moment I am, in the strictest acceptation of the 
 words, a believer and a Christian. I have neither anxiety 
 nor doubt upon the noblest and the most comforting of all 
 creeds, and I am grateful, among the other blessings which 
 faith has brought me, — I am grateful that it has brought me 
 CHARITY! Dark to all human beings was Bezoni's doc- 
 trine, — dark, above all, to those who have mourned on earth; 
 so withering to all the hopes which cling the most enduringly 
 to the heart was his unhappy creed that he who knows how 
 inseparably, though insensibly, our moral legislation is woven 
 with our supposed self-interest will scarcely marvel at, even 
 while he condemns, the unwise and unholy persecution which 
 that creed universally sustains ! Many a most wretched hour, 
 many a pang of agony and despair, did those doctrines inflict 
 upon myself; but I know that the intention of Bezoni was 
 benevolence and that the practice of his life was virtue : and 
 while my reason tells me that God will not punish the re- 
 luctant and involuntary error of one to whom all God's crea- 
 tures were so dear, my religion bids me hope that I shall meet 
 him in that world where no error is, and where the Great 
 Spirit to whom all human passions are unknown avenges the 
 momentary doubt of His justice by a proof of the infinity of 
 His mercy. 
 
BOOK VI. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE KETREAT. 
 
 I ARRIVED at St. Petersburg, and found the Czarina, whose 
 conjugal perfidy was more than suspected, tolerably resigned 
 to the extinction of that dazzling life whose incalculable and 
 god-like utility it is reserved for posterity to appreciate ! I 
 have observed, by the way, that in general men are the less 
 mourned by their families in proportion as they are the more 
 mourned by the community. The great are seldom amiable; 
 and those who are the least lenient to our errors are invariably 
 our relations! 
 
 Many circumstances at that time conspired to make my 
 request to quit the imperial service appear natural and appro- 
 priate. The death of the Czar, joined to a growing jealousy 
 and suspicion between the English monarch and Eussia, 
 which, thoiigh long existing, was now become more evident 
 and notorious than heretofore, gave me full opportunity to 
 observe that my pardon had been obtained from King George 
 three years since, and that private as well as national ties 
 rendered my return to England a measure not only of expedi- 
 ency but necessity. The imperial Catherine granted me my 
 dismissal in the most flattering terms, and added the high 
 distinction of the Order founded in honour of the memorable 
 feat by which she had saved her royal consort and the Russian 
 army to the Order of St. Andrew, which I had already 
 received. 
 
DEVEREUX. 375 
 
 I transferred my wealth, now immense, to England, and, 
 with the pomp which became the rank and reputation Fortune 
 had bestowed upon me, I commenced the long land-journey I 
 had chalked out to myself. Although I had alleged my wish 
 to revisit England as the main reason of my retirement from 
 Kussia, I had also expressed an intention of visiting Italy 
 previous to my return to England. The physicians, indeed, 
 had recommended to me that delicious climate as an antidote 
 to the ills my constitution had sustained in the freezing skies 
 of the north J and in my own heart I had secretly appointed 
 some more solitary part of the Divine Land for the scene of 
 my purposed hermitage and seclusion. It is indeed astonish- 
 ing how those who have lived much in cold climates yearn for 
 lands of mellow light and summer luxuriance ; and I felt for 
 a southern sky the same resistless longing which sailors, in 
 the midst of the vast ocean, have felt for the green fields and 
 various landscape of the shore. 
 
 I traversed, then, the immense tracts of Russia, passed 
 through Hungary, entered Turkey, which I had wished to 
 visit, where I remained a short time; and, crossing the Adri- 
 atic, hailed, for the first time, the Ausonian shore. It was 
 the month of May — that month, of whose lustrous beauty 
 none in a northern clime can dream — that I entered Italy. 
 It may serve as an instance of the power with which a thought 
 that, however important, is generally deemed of too abstract 
 and metaphysical a nature deeply to engross the mind, pos- 
 sessed me then, that I — no cold nor unenthusiastic votary of 
 the classic Muse — made no pilgrimage to city or ruin, but, 
 after a brief sojourn at Ravenna, where I dismissed all my 
 train, set out alone to find the solitary cell for which I now 
 sickened with a hermit's love. 
 
 It was at a small village at the foot of the Apennines that 
 I found the object of my search. Strangely enough, there 
 blended with my philosophical ardour a deep mixture of my 
 old romance. Nature, to whose voice the dweller in cities 
 and struggler with mankind had been so long obtuse, now 
 pleaded audibly at my heart, and called me to her embraces, 
 as a mother calls unto her wearied child. My eye, as with a 
 
376 DEVEREUX. 
 
 new vision, became open to the mute yet eloquent loveliness 
 of this most fairy earth; and hill and valley, the mirror of 
 silent waters, the sunny stillness of woods, and the old 
 haunts of satyr and nymph, revived in me the fountains of 
 past poetry, and became the receptacles of a thousand spells, 
 mightier than the charms of any enchanter save Love, which 
 was departed, — Youth, which was nearly gone, — and Nature, 
 which (more vividly than ever) existed for me still. 
 
 I chose, then, my retreat. As I was fastidious in its choice, 
 I cannot refrain from the luxury of describing it. Ah, little 
 did I dream that I had come thither, not only to find a divine 
 comfort but the sources of a human and most passionate woe ! 
 Mightiest of the Roman bards ! in whom tenderness and rea- 
 son were so entwined, and who didst sanctify even thine un- 
 holy errors with so beautiful and rare a genius! what an 
 invariable truth one line of thine has expressed: "Even in 
 the fairest fountain of delight there is a secret and evil spring 
 eternally bubbling up and scattering its bitter waters over the 
 very flowers which surround its margin ! " 
 
 In the midst of a lovely and tranquil vale was a small cot- 
 tage; that was my home. The good people there performed 
 for me all the hospitable offices I required. At a neighbour- 
 ing monastery I had taken the precaution to make myself 
 known to the superior. Not all Italians — no, nor all monks 
 — belong to either of the two great tribes into which they are 
 generally divided, — knaves or fools. The Abbot Anselmo 
 was a man of rather a liberal and enlarged mind; he not only 
 kept my secret, which was necessary to my peace, but he took 
 my part, which was perhaps necessary to my safety. A phi- 
 losopher, who desires only to convince himself, and upon one 
 subject, does not require many books. Truth lies in a small 
 compass ; and for my part, in considering any speculative sub- 
 ject, I would sooner have with me one book of Euclid as a 
 model than all the library of the Vatican as authorities. But 
 then I am not fond of drawing upon any resources but those 
 of reason for reasonings: wiser men than I am are not so 
 strict. The few books that I did require were, however, of a 
 nature very illicit in Italy; the good Father passed them to 
 
DEVERF.UX. 377 
 
 me from Ravenna, under his own protection. "I was a lioly 
 man," he said, "who wished to render the Catholic Church a 
 great service, by writing a vast book against certain atrocious 
 opinions ; and the works I read were, for the most part, works 
 that I Avas about to confute." This report gained me protec- 
 tion and respect; and, after I had ordered my agent at Ra- 
 venna to forward to the excellent Abbot a piece of plate, and a 
 huge cargo of a rare Hungary wine, it was not the Abbot's fault 
 if I was not the most popular person in the neighbourhood. 
 
 But to my description : my home was a cottage ; the valley 
 in which it lay was divided by a mountain stream, which 
 came from the forest Apennine, a sparkling and wild stranger, 
 and softened into quiet and calm as it proceeded through its 
 green margin in the vale. And that margin, how dazzlingly 
 green it was ! At the distance of about a mile from my hut, 
 the stream was broken into a slight waterfall, whose sound 
 was heard distinct and deep in that still place; and often I 
 paused, from my midnight thoughts, to listen to its enchanted 
 and wild melody. The fall was unseen by the ordinary wan- 
 derer, for, there, the stream passed through a thick copse ; and 
 even when you pierced the grove, and gained the water-side, 
 dark trees hung over the turbulent wave, and the silver spray 
 was thrown upward through the leaves, and fell in diamonds 
 upon the deep green sod. 
 
 This was a most favoured haunt with me : the sun glancing 
 through the idle leaves; the music of the water; the solemn 
 absence of all other sounds, except the songs of birds, to 
 which the ear grew accustomed, and, at last, in the abstrac- 
 tion of thought, scarcely distinguished from the silence ; the 
 fragrant herbs; and the unnumbered and nameless flowers 
 which formed my couch, — were all calculated to make me 
 pursue uninterruptedly the thread of contemplation which I 
 had, in the less voluptuous and harsher solitude of the closet, 
 first woven from the web of austerest thought. I say pursue, 
 for it was too luxurious and sensual a retirement for the con- 
 ception of a rigid and severe train of reflection ; at least it 
 would have been so to me. But when the thought is once 
 born, such scenes seem to me the most fit to cradle and to rear 
 
378 DEVEREUX. 
 
 it. The torpor of the physical appears to leave to the mental 
 frame a full scope and power; the absence of human cares, 
 sounds, and intrusions, becomes the best nurse to contempla- 
 tion; and even that delicious and vague sense of enjoyment 
 which would seem, at first, more genial to the fancy than the 
 mind, preserves the thought undisturbed because contented; 
 so that all but the scheming mind becomes lapped in sleep, 
 and the mind itself lives distinct and active as a dream, — a 
 dream, not vague nor confused nor unsatisfying, but endowed 
 with more than the clearness, the precision, the vigour, of 
 waking life. 
 
 A little way from this waterfall was a fountain, a remnant 
 of a classic and golden age. Never did Naiad gaze on a more 
 glassy mirror, or dwell in a more divine retreat. Through a 
 crevice in an overhanging mound of the emerald earth, the 
 father stream of the fountain crept out, born, like Love, 
 among flowers, and in the most sunny smiles; it then fell, 
 broadening and glowing, into a marble basin, at whose bot- 
 tom, in the shining noon, you might see a soil which mocked 
 the very hues of gold, and the water insects, in their quaint 
 shapes and unknown sports, grouping or gliding in the mid- 
 most wave. A small temple of the lightest architecture stood 
 before the fountain, and in a niche therein a mutilated statue, 
 — possibly of the Spirit of the place. By this fountain my 
 evening walk would linger till the short twilight melted away 
 and the silver wave trembled in the light of the western star. 
 Oh, then what feelings gathered over me as I turned slowly 
 homeward! the air still, breathless, shining; the stars gleam- 
 ing over the woods of the far Apennine; the hills growing 
 huger in the shade; the small insects humming on the wing; 
 and, ever and anon, the swift bat, wheeling round and amidst 
 them; the music of the waterfall deepening on the ear; and 
 the light and hour lending even a mysterious charm to the 
 cry of the weird owl, flitting after its prey, — all this had a 
 harmony in my thoughts and a food for the meditations in 
 which my days and nights were consumed. The World 
 moulders away the fabric of our early nature, and Solitude 
 rebuilds it on a firmer base. 
 
DEVEREUX. 379 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE VICTORY. 
 
 EARTH ! Eeservoir of life, over whose deep bosom brood 
 the wings of the Universal Spirit, shaking upon thee a bless- 
 ing and a power, — a blessing and a power to produce and re- 
 produce the living from the dead, so that our flesh is woven 
 from the same atoms which were once the atoms of our sires, 
 and the inexhaustible nutriment of Existence is Decay! 
 eldest and most solemn Earth, blending even thy loveliness 
 and joy with a terror and an awe! thy sunshine is girt with 
 clouds and circled with storm and tempest; thy day cometh 
 from the womb of darkness, and returneth unto darkness, as 
 man returns unto thy bosom. The green herb that laughs in 
 the valley, the water that sings merrily along the wood; the 
 many-winged and all-searching air, which garners life as a 
 harvest and scatters it as a seed, — all are pregnant with cor- 
 ruption and carry the cradled death within them, as an oak 
 banqueteth the destroying worm. But who that looks upon 
 thee, and loves thee, and inhales thy blessings will ever 
 mingle too deep a moral with his joy? Let us not ask whence 
 come the garlands that we wreathe around our altars or shower 
 upon our feasts: will they not bloom as brightly, and breathe 
 with as rich a fragrance, whether they be plucked from the 
 garden or the grave? Earth, my INIother Earth! dark Sep- 
 ulchre that closes upon all which the Elesh bears, but Vesti- 
 bule of the vast regions which the Soul shall pass, how leaped 
 my heart within me when I first fathomed thy real spell ! 
 
 Yes ! never shall I forget the rapture with which I hailed 
 the light that dawned upon me at last! Never shall I for- 
 get the suffocating, the full, the ecstatic joy with which I saw 
 the mightiest of all human hopes accomplished; and felt, as 
 if an angel spoke, that there is a life beyond the grave ! Tell 
 
380 DEVEREUX. 
 
 me not of the pride of ambition; tell me not of the triumphs 
 of science : never had ambition so lofty an end as the search 
 after immortality ! never had science so sublime a triumph as 
 the conviction that immortality will be gained! I had been 
 at my task the whole night, — pale alchymist, seeking from 
 meaner truths to extract the greatest of all ! At the first hour 
 of day, lo ! the gold was there : the labour for which I would 
 have relinquished life was accomplished; the dove descended 
 upon the waters of my soul. I fled from the house. I was 
 possessed as with a spirit. I ascended a hill, which looked 
 for leagues over the sleeping valley. A gray mist hung 
 around me like a veil; I paused, and the great sun broke 
 slowly forth ; I gazed upon its majesty, and my heart swelled. 
 "So rises the soul," I said, "from the vapours of this dull 
 being; but the soul waneth not, neither setteth it, nor know- 
 eth it any night, save that from which it dawneth ! " The 
 mists rolled gradually away, the sunshine deepened, and the 
 face of Nature lay in smiles, yet silently, before me. It lay 
 before me, a scene that I had often witnessed and hailed and 
 worshipped : but it was not the same ; a glory had passed over 
 it ; it was steeped in a beauty and a holiness, in which neither 
 youth nor poetry nor even love had ever robed it before ! The 
 change which the earth had undergone was like that of some 
 being we have loved, when death is passed, and from a mortal 
 it becomes an angel ! 
 
 I uttered a cry of joy, and was then as silent as all around 
 me. I felt as if henceforth there was a new compact between 
 Nature and myself. I felt as if every tree and blade of grass 
 were henceforth to be eloquent with a voice and instinct with 
 a spell. I felt as if a religion had entered into the earth, and 
 made oracles of all that the earth bears; the old fables of 
 Dodona were to become realized, and the very leaves to be 
 hallowed by a sanctity and to murmur with a truth. I was 
 no longer only a part of that which withers and decays; I 
 was no longer a machine of clay, moved by a spring, and to 
 be trodden into the mire which I had trod; I was no longer 
 tied to humanity by links which could never be broken, and 
 which, if broken, would avail me not. I was become, as if 
 
DEVEREUX. 881 
 
 by a miracle, a part of a vast though unseen spirit. It was 
 not to the matter, but to the essences, of things that I bore 
 kindred and alliance; the stars and the heavens resumed over 
 me their ancient influence ; and, as I looked along the far hills 
 and the silent landscape, a voice seemed to swell from the 
 stillness, and to say, " I am the life of these things, a spirit 
 distinct from the things themselves. It is to me that you be- 
 long forever and forever: separate, but equally indissolu- 
 ble; apart, but equally eternal! " 
 
 I spent the day upon the hills. It was evening when I re- 
 turned. I lingered by the old fountain, and saw the stars 
 rise, and tremble, one by one, upon the wave. The hour was 
 that which Isora had loved the best, and that which the love 
 of her had consecrated the most to me. And never, oh, never, 
 did it sink into m}- heart with a deeper sweetness, or a more 
 soothing balm. I had once more knit my soul to Isora's : I 
 could once more look from the toiling and the dim earth, and 
 forget that Isora had left me, in dreaming of our reunion. 
 Blame me not, you who indulge in a religious hope more se- 
 vere and more sublime; you who miss no footsteps from the 
 earth, nor pine for a voice that your human wanderings can 
 hear no more, — blame me not, you whose pulses beat not for 
 the wild love of the created, but Avhose spirit languishes only 
 for a nearer commune with the Creator, — blame me not too 
 harshly for my mortal wishes, nor think that my faith was 
 the less sincere because it was tinted in the most unchanging 
 dyes of the human heart, and indissolubly woven with the 
 memory of the dead! Often from our weaknesses our strong- 
 est principles of conduct are born ; and from the acorn which 
 a breeze has wafted springs the oak which defies the storm. 
 
 The first intoxication and rapture consequent upon the re- 
 ward of my labour passed away; but, unlike other excite- 
 ment, it was followed not by languor or a sated and torpid 
 calm: a soothing and delicious sensation possessed me; my 
 turbulent senses slept ; and Memory, recalling the world, re- 
 joiced at the retreat which Hope had acquired. 
 
 I now surrendered myself to a nobler philosophy than in 
 crowds and cities I had hitherto known. I no longer satir- 
 
382 DEVEREUX. 
 
 ized; I inquired: I no longer derided; I examined. I looked 
 from the natural proofs of immortality to the written promise 
 of our Father; I sought not to baifle men, but to worship 
 Truth; I applied myself more to the knowledge of good and 
 evil; I bowed my soul before the loveliness of Virtue: and 
 though scenes of wrath and passion yet lowered in the future, 
 and I was again speedily called forth to act, to madden, to 
 contend, perchance to sin, the Image is still unbroken, and 
 the Votary has still an offering for its Altar ! 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE WELL. 
 
 The thorough and deep investigation of those principles 
 from which we learn the immortality of the soul, and the na- 
 ture of its proper ends, leads the mind through such a course 
 of reflection and of study; it is attended with so many exalt- 
 ing, purifying, and, if I may so say, etherealizing thoughts, 
 — that I do believe no man has ever pursued it, and not gone 
 back to the world a better and a nobler man than he was be- 
 fore. Nay, so deeply must these elevating and refining stud- 
 ies be conned, so largely and sensibly must they enter the 
 intellectual system, that I firmly think that even a sensualist 
 who has only considered the subject with a view to convince 
 himself that he is clay, and has therefore an excuse to the 
 curious conscience for his grosser desires; nay, should he 
 come to his wished -for yet desolate conclusion, from which 
 the abhorrent nature shrinks and recoils, I do nevertheless 
 firmly think, should the study have been long and deep, that 
 he would wonder to find his desires had lost their poignancy 
 and his objects their charm. He would descend from the Alp 
 he had climbed to the low level on which he formerly deemed 
 it a bliss to dwell, with the feeling of one who, having long 
 
DEVEREUX. 383 
 
 drawn in high places an empyreal air, has become unable to 
 inhale the smoke and the thick vapour he inhaled of yore. 
 His soul once aroused would stir within him, though he felt 
 it not, and though he grew not a believer, he would cease to 
 be only the voluptuary. 
 
 I meant at one time to have here stated the arguments 
 which had perplexed me on one side, and those which after- 
 wards convinced me on the other. I do not do so for many 
 reasons, one of which will suffice; namely, the evident and 
 palpable circumstance that a dissertation of that nature would, 
 in a biography like the present, be utterly out of place and 
 season. Perhaps, however, at a later period of life, I may 
 collect my own opinions on the subject into a separate work, 
 and bequeath that work to future generations, upon the same 
 conditions as the present memoir. 
 
 One day I was favoured by a visit from one of the monks 
 at the neighbouring abbey. After some general conversation 
 he asked me if I had yet encountered the Hermit of the Well? 
 
 " No, " said I, and I was going to add, that I had not even 
 heard of him, "but I now remember that the good people of 
 the house have more than once spoken to me of him as a rigid 
 and self -mortifying recluse." 
 
 "Yes," said the holy friar; "Heaven forbid that I should 
 say aught against the practice of the saints and pious men to 
 deny unto themselves the lusts of the flesh, but such penances 
 may be carried too far. However, it is an excellent custom, 
 and the Hermit of the Well is an excellent creature. Santa 
 Maria! what delicious stuff is that Hungary wine your 
 scholarship was pleased to bestow upon our father Abbot. 
 He suffered me to taste it the eve before last. I had been 
 suffering with a pain in the reins, and the wine acted power- 
 fully upon me as an efficacious and inestimable medicine. Do 
 you find, my Son, that it bore the journey to your lodging 
 here as well as to the convent cellars?" 
 
 " Why, really, my Father, I have none of it here ; but the 
 people of the house have a few flasks of a better wine than 
 ordinary, if you will deign to taste it in lieu of the Hungary 
 wine." 
 
384 DEVEREUX. 
 
 "Oil — oil!" said the monk, groaning, "my reins trouble 
 me mucli : perliaps tlie "wine may comfort me ! " and tlie wine 
 was brought. 
 
 " It is not of so rare a flavour as that which you sent to our 
 reverend father," said the monk, wiping his mouth with his 
 long sleeve. "Hungary must be a charming place ; is it far 
 from hence? It joins the heretical, — I pray your pardon, — 
 it joins the continent of England, I believe? " 
 
 "Xot exactly, Father; but whatever its topography, it is a 
 rare country — for those who like it! But tell me of this 
 Hermit of the "Well. How long has he lived here? and how 
 came he by his appellation? Of what country is he? and of 
 what birth?" 
 
 "You ask me too many questions at once, my Son. The 
 country of the holy man is a mystery to us all. He speaks 
 the Tuscan dialect well, but with a foreign accent. Never- 
 theless, though the wine is not of Hungary, it has a pleasant 
 flavour. I wonder how the rogues kept it so snugly from the 
 knowledge and comfort of their pious brethren of the 
 monastery ! " 
 
 "And how long has the Hermit lived in your vicinity? " 
 
 "Nearly eight years, my Son. It was one winter's evening 
 that he came to our convent in the dress of a worldly trav- 
 eller, to seek our hospitality, and a shelter for the night, 
 which was inclement and stormy. He stayed with us a few 
 days, and held some conversation with our father Abbot; and 
 one morning, after roaming in the neighbourhood to look at 
 the old stones and ruins, which is the custom of travellers, 
 he returned, put into our box some alms, and two days after- 
 wards he appeared in the place he now inhabits and in the 
 dress he assumes." 
 
 " And of what nature, my Father, is the place, and of what 
 fashion the dress?" 
 
 " Holy Saint Francis ! " exclaimed the Father, with a sur- 
 prise so great that I thought at first it related to the wine, 
 "Holy Saint Francis! have you not seen the well yet?" 
 
 " No, Father, unless you speak of the fountain about a mile 
 and a quarter distant." 
 
DEVEREUX. 385 
 
 "Tush — tush!" said the good man, "what ignoramuses 
 you travellers are! You affect to know what kind of slippers 
 Prester John wears and to have been admitted to the bed- 
 chamber of the Pagoda of China; and yet, when one comes 
 to sound you, you are as ignorant of everything a man of real 
 learning knows as an Englishman is of his missal. Why, I 
 thought that every fool in every country had heard of the 
 Holy Well of St. Francis, situated exactly two miles from 
 our famous convent, and that every fool in the neighbourhood 
 had seen it." 
 
 " What the fools, my Father, whether in this neighbourhood 
 or any other, may have heard or seen, I, who profess not os- 
 tensibly to belong to so goodly an order, cannot pretend to 
 know ; but be assured that the Holy Well of St. Francis is as 
 unfamiliar to me as the Pagoda of China — Heaven bless him 
 — is to you." 
 
 Upon this the learned monk, after expressing due astonish- 
 ment, offered to show it to me ; and as I thought I might by 
 acquiescence get rid of him the sooner, and as, moreover, I 
 wished to see the Abbot, to whom some books for me had been 
 lately sent, I agreed to the offer. 
 
 The well, said the monk, lay not above a mile out of the 
 customary Avay to the monastery ; and after we had finished 
 the flask of wine, we sallied out on our excursion, — the monk 
 upon a stately and strong ass, myself on foot. 
 
 The Abbot, on granting me his friendship and protection, 
 had observed that I was not the only stranger and recluse on 
 whom his favour was bestowed. Ho had then mentioned the 
 Hermit of the Well, as an eccentric and strange being, who 
 lived an existence of rigid penance, harmless to others, pain- 
 ful only to himself. This story had been confirmed in the 
 few conversations I had ever interchanged with my host and 
 hostess, who seemed to take a peculiar pleasure in talking of 
 the Solitary ; and from them I had heard also many anecdotes 
 of his charity towards the poor and his attention to the sick. 
 All these circumstances came into my mind as the good monk 
 indulged his loquacity upon the subject, and my curiosity be- 
 came at last somewhat excited respecting my fellow recluse, 
 
 25 
 
386 DEVEREUX. 
 
 I now learned from the monk that the post of Hermit of 
 the Well was an office of which the present anchorite was by- 
 no means the first tenant. The well was one of those springs, 
 frequent in Catholic countries, to which a legend and a sanc- 
 tity are attached; and twice a year — once in the spring, once 
 in the autumn — the neighbouring peasants flocked together, 
 on a stated day, to drink, and lose their diseases. As the 
 spring most probably did possess some medicinal qualities, a 
 few extraordinary cures had occurred, especially among those 
 pious persons who took not biennial, but constant draughts ; 
 and to doubt its holiness was downright heresy. 
 
 Now, hard by this well was a cavern, which, whether first 
 formed by nature or art, was now, upon the whole, constructed 
 into a very commodious abode; and here, for years beyond 
 the memory of man, some solitary person had fixed his abode 
 to dispense and to bless the water, to be exceedingly well fed 
 by the surrounding peasants, to wear a long gown of serge or 
 sackcloth, and to be called the Hermit of the Well. So fast 
 as each succeeding anchorite died there were enough candi- 
 dates eager to supply his place; for it was no bad metier to 
 some penniless imposter to become the quack and patentee of 
 a holy specific. The choice of these candidates always rested 
 with the superior of the neighbouring monastery; and it is 
 not impossible that he made an indifferently good percentage 
 upon the annual advantages of his protection and choice. 
 
 At the time the traveller appeared, the former hermit had 
 just departed this life, and it was, therefore, to the vacancy 
 thus occasioned that he had procured himself to be elected. 
 The incumbent appeared quite of a different mould from the 
 former occupants of the hermitage. He accepted, it is true, 
 the gifts laid at regular periods upon a huge stone between 
 the hermitage and the well, but he distributed among the 
 donors alms far more profitable than their gifts. He entered 
 no village, borne upon an ass laden with tAvin sacks, for the 
 purpose of sanctimoniously robbing the inhabitants ; no pro- 
 fane songs were ever heard resounding from his dwelling by 
 the peasant incautiously lingering at a late hour too near its 
 vicinity; my guide, the monk, complained bitterly of his un- 
 
DEVEREUX. 387 
 
 sociaLility, and no scandalous legend of nymph-like comfort- 
 ers and damsel visitants haunting the sacred dwelling escaped 
 from the garrulous friar's well-loaded budget. 
 
 "Does he study much?" said I, with the interest of a 
 student. 
 
 ** I fear me not, " quoth the monk. " I have had occasion 
 often to enter his abode, and I have examined all things with 
 a close eye, — for, praised be the Lord, I have faculties more 
 than ordinarily clear and observant, — but I have seen no 
 books thereii}, excepting a missal, and a Latin or Greek Tes- 
 tament, I know not well which; nay, so incurious or un- 
 learned is the holy man that he rejected even a loan of the 
 * Life of Saint Francis, ' notwithstanding it has many and rare 
 pictures, to say nothing of its most interesting and amazing 
 tales." 
 
 More might the monk have said, had we not now suddenly 
 entered a thick and sombre wood. A path cut through it was 
 narrow, and only capable of admitting a traveller on foot or 
 horseback; and the boughs overhead were so darkly interlaced 
 that the light scarcely, and only in broken and erratic glim- 
 merings, pierced the canopy. 
 
 "It is the wood," said the monk, crossing himself, " wherein 
 the wonderful adventure happened to Saint Francis, which I 
 will one day narrate at length to you." 
 
 "And we are near the well, I suppose? " said I. 
 
 " It is close at hand, " answered the monk. 
 
 In effect we had not proceeded above fifty yards before the 
 path brought us into a circular space of green sod, in the midst 
 of which was a small square stone building, of plain but not 
 inelegant shape, and evidently of great antiquity. At one 
 side of this building was an iron handle, for the purpose of 
 raising water, that cast itself into a stone basin, to which 
 was affixed by a strong chain an iron cup. An inscription in 
 monkish Latin was engraved over the basin, requesting the 
 traveller to pause and drink, and importing that what that 
 water was to the body, faith was to the soul; near the cistern 
 was a rude seat, formed by the trunk of a tree. The door o£ 
 the well-house was of iron, and secixred by a chain and lock; 
 
388 DEVEREUX. 
 
 perhaps the pump was so contrived that only a certain quan- 
 tum of the sanctified beverage could be drawn up at a time, 
 without application to some mechanism within; and wayfarers 
 were thereby prevented from helping themselves ad libitum, 
 and thus depriving the anchorite of the profit and the neces- 
 sity of his office. 
 
 It was certainly a strange, lonely, and wild place ; and the 
 green sward, round as a fairy ring, in the midst of trees, 
 which, black, close, and huge, circled it like a wall ; and the 
 solitary gray building in the centre, gaunt and cold, startled 
 the eye with the abruptness of its appearance, and the strong 
 contrast made by its wan hues to the dark verdure and forest 
 gloom around it. 
 
 I took a draught of the water, which was very cold and 
 tasteless, and reminded the monk of his disorder in the reins, 
 to which a similar potation might possibly be efficacious. To 
 this suggestion the monk answered that he would certainly try 
 the water some other time ; but that at present the wine he 
 had drunk might pollute its divine properties. So saying, he 
 turned off the conversation by inviting me to follow him to 
 the hermitage. 
 
 In our way thither he pointed out a large fragment of stone, 
 and observed that the water would do me evil instead of good 
 if I forgot to remunerate its guardian. I took the hint, and 
 laid a piece of silver on the fragment. 
 
 A short journey through the wood brought us to the foot of 
 a hill covered with trees, and having at its base a strong stone 
 door, the entrance to the excavated home of the anchorite. 
 The monk gently tapped thrice at this door, but no answer 
 came. "The holy man is from home," said he, "let us 
 return." 
 
 We did so ; and the monk, keeping behind me, managed, as 
 he thought unseen, to leave the stone as naked as we had 
 found it! We now struck through another path in the wood, 
 and were soon at the convent. I did not lose the opportunity 
 to question the Abbot respecting his tenant : I learned from 
 him little more than the particulars I have already narrated, 
 save that in concluding his details, he said : — 
 
DEVEREUX. 389 
 
 "I can scarcely doubt but that the Hermit is, like yourself, 
 a person of rank; his bearing and his mien appear to denote 
 it. He has given, and gives yearly, large sums to the uses 
 of the convent: and, though he takes the customary gifts of 
 the pious villagers, it is only by my advice and for the pur- 
 pose of avoiding suspicion. Should he be considered rich, 
 it might attract cupidity; and there are enough bold hands 
 and sharp knives in the country to place the wealthy and the 
 unguarded in some peril. Whoever he may be — for he has 
 not confided his secret to me — I do not doubt but that he is 
 doing penance for some great crime; and, whatever be the 
 crime, I suspect that its earthly punishment is nearly over. 
 The Hermit is naturally of a delicate and weak frame, and 
 year after year I have marked him sensibly wearing away; so 
 that when I last saw him, three days since, I was shocked at 
 the visible ravages which disease or penance had engraven 
 upon him. If ever Death wrote legibly, its characters are in 
 that brow and cheek." 
 
 " Poor man ! Know you not even whom to apprise of his 
 decease when he is no more?" 
 
 " I do not yet ; but the last time I saw him he told me that 
 he found himself drawing near his end, and that he should 
 not quit life without troubling me with one request." 
 
 After this the Abbot spoke of other matters, and my visit 
 expired. 
 
 Interested in the recluse more deeply than I acknowledged 
 to myself, I found my steps insensibly leading me homeward 
 by the more circuitous road which wound first by the holy 
 well. I did not resist the impulse, but walked musingly 
 onward by the waning twilight, for the day was now over, 
 until I came to the well. As I emerged from the wood, I 
 started involuntarily and drew back. A figure, robed from 
 head to foot in a long sable robe, sat upon the rude seat be- 
 side the well ; sat so still, so motionless, that coming upon it 
 abruptly in that strange place, the heart beat irregularly at 
 an apparition so dark in hue and so death-like in its repose. 
 The hat, large, broad, and overhanging, which suited the cos- 
 tume, was lying on the ground ; and the face, which inclined 
 
390 DEVEREUX. 
 
 upward, seemed to woo the gentle air of the quiet and soft 
 skies. I approached a few steps, and saw the profile of the 
 countenance more distinctly than I had done before. It was 
 of a marble whiteness; the features, though sharpened and 
 attenuated by disease, were of surpassing beauty; the hair 
 was exceedingly, almost effeminately, long, and hung in 
 waves of perfect jet on either side; the mouth was closed 
 firmly, and deep lines or rather furrows were traced from its 
 corners to either nostril. The stranger's beard, of a hue 
 equally black as the hair, was dishevelled and neglected, but 
 not very long; and one hand, which lay on the sable robe, 
 was so thin and wan you might have deemed the very star- 
 light could have shone through it. I did not doubt that it 
 was the recluse whom I saw ; I drew near and accosted him. 
 
 " Your blessing, holy Father, and your permission to taste 
 the healing of your well." 
 
 Sudden as was my appearance, and abrupt my voice, the 
 Hermit evinced by no startled gesture a token of surprise. 
 He turned very slowly round, cast upon me an indifferent 
 glance, and said, in a sweet and very low tone, — 
 
 "You have my blessing. Stranger: there is water in the 
 cistern; drink, and be healed." 
 
 I dipped the bowl in the basin, and took sparingly of the 
 water. In the accent and tone of the stranger, my ear, accus- 
 tomed to the dialects of many nations, recognized something 
 English; I resolved, therefore, to address him in my native 
 tongue, rather than the indifferent Italian in which I had first 
 accosted him. 
 
 "The water is fresh and cooling- would, holy Father, that 
 it could penetrate to a deeper malady than the ills of flesh ; 
 that it could assuage the fever of the heart, or lave from the 
 wearied mind the dust which it gathers from the mire and 
 travail of the world." 
 
 Now the Hermit testified surprise; but it was slight and 
 momentary. He gazed upon me more attentively than he 
 had done before, and said, after a pause, — 
 
 "My countryman! and in this spot! It is not often that 
 the English penetrate into places where no ostentatious celeb- 
 
DEVEREUX. 891 
 
 rity dwells to sate curiosity and flatter pride. My country- 
 man; it is well, and perhaps fortunate. Yes," he said, after 
 a second pause, " yes ; it were indeed a boon, had the earth a 
 fountain for the wounds which fester and the disease which 
 consumes the heart." 
 
 "The earth has oblivion, Father, if not a cure." 
 
 "It is false!" cried the Hermit, passionately, and starting 
 wildly from his seat; "the earth has no oblivion. The 
 grave, — is that forgetfulness? No, no: there is no grave for 
 the soul! The deeds pass; the flesh corrupts: but the mem- 
 ory passes not, and withers not. From age to age, from 
 world to world, through eternity, throughout creation, it is 
 perpetuated; and immortality, — a curse, — a hell!^^ 
 
 Surprised by the vehemence of the Hermit, I was still more 
 startled by the agonizing and ghastly expression of his face. 
 
 "My Father," said I, "pardon me if I have pressed upon a 
 sore. I also have that within which, did a stranger touch it, 
 would thrill my whole frame with torture, and I would fain 
 ask from your holy, soothing, and pious comfort, something 
 of alleviation or of fortitude." 
 
 The Hermit drew near to me ; he laid his thin hand upon 
 my arm, and looked long and wistfully in my face. It was 
 then that a suspicion crept through me which after observa- 
 tion proved to be true, that the wanderings of those dark eyes 
 and the meaning of that blanched brow were tinctured with 
 insanity. 
 
 "Brother and fellow man," said he, mournfully, "hast thou 
 in truth suffered? and dost thou still smart at the remem- 
 brance? We are friends then. If thou hast suffered as much 
 as I have, I will fall down and do homage to thee as a supe- 
 rior; for pain has its ranks, and I think at times that none 
 ever climbed the height that I have done. Yet yovi look not 
 like one who has had nights of delirium, and days in which 
 the heart lay in the breast, as a corpse endowed with con- 
 sciousness might lie in the grave, feeling the worm gnaw it, 
 and the decay corrupt, and yet incapable of resistance or of 
 motion. Your cheek is thin, but firm; your eye is haughty 
 and bright; you have the air of one who has lived with men, 
 
392 DEVEREUX. 
 
 and struggled and not been vanquished in tlie struggle. Suf- 
 fered! No, man, no, — you have not suffered! " 
 
 " My Father, it is not in the countenance that Fate graves 
 her records. I have, it is true, contended with my fellows; 
 and if wealth and honour be the premium, not in vain : but I 
 have not contended against Sorrow with a like success ; and I 
 stand before you, a being who, if passion be a tormentor and 
 the death of the loved a loss, has borne that which the most 
 wretched will not envy." 
 
 Again a fearful change came over the face of the recluse : 
 he grasped my arm more vehemently, "You speak my own 
 sorrows; you utter my own curse; I will see you again; you 
 may do my last will better than yon monks. Can I trust 
 you? If you have in truth known misfortune, I will! I will! 
 yea, even to the outpouring — merciful, merciful God, what 
 would I say, — what would I reveal!" 
 
 Suddenly changing his voice, he released me, and said, 
 touching his forehead with a meaning gesture and a quiet 
 smile, " You say you are my rival in pain. Have you ever 
 known the rage and despair of the heart mount here ? It is a 
 wonderful thing to be calm as I am now, when that rising 
 makes itself felt in fire and torture ! " 
 
 " If there be aught. Father, which a man who cares not what 
 country he visit, or what deed — so it be not of guilt or shame 
 — he commit, can do towards the quiet of your soul, say it, 
 and I will attempt your will." 
 
 "You are kind, my Son," said the Hermit, resuming his first 
 melancholy and dignified composure of mien and bearing; 
 " and there is something in your voice which seems to me like 
 a tone that I have heard in youth. Do you live near at 
 hand?" 
 
 "In the valley, about four miles hence; I am, like your- 
 self, a fugitive from the world." 
 
 "Come to me then to-morrow at eve; to-morrow! No, that 
 is a holy eve, and I must keep it with scourge and prayer. 
 The next at sunset. I shall be collected then, and I would 
 fain know more of you than I do. Bless you, my Son; adieu." 
 
 "Yet stay. Father, may I not conduct you home?" 
 
DEVEREUX. 393 
 
 "No; my limbs are weak, but I trust they can carry me to 
 tliat home, till I be borne thence to my last. Farewell ! the 
 night grows, and man fills even these shades with peril. The 
 eve after next, at sunset, we meet again." 
 
 So saying, the hermit waved his hand, and I stood apart, 
 watching his receding figure, until the trees cloaked the last 
 glimpse from my view. I then turned homeward, and reached 
 my cottage in safety, despite of the hermit's caution. But 
 I did not retire to rest: a powerful foreboding, rather than 
 suspicion, that, in the worn and wasted form which I had 
 beheld, thera was identity with one whom I had not met for 
 years, and whom I had believed to be no more, thrillingly 
 possessed me. 
 
 "Can — can it be?" thought I. "Can grief have a desola- 
 tion, or remembrance an agony, sufficient to create so awful a 
 change? And of all human beings, for that one to be singled 
 out; that one in whom passion and sin were, if they existed, 
 nipped in their earliest germ, and seemingly rendered barren 
 of all fruit! If too, almost against the evidence of sight and 
 sense, an innate feeling has marked in that most altered form 
 the traces of a dread recognition, would not his memory have 
 been yet more vigilant than mine? Am I so changed that he 
 should have looked me in the face so wistfully, and found 
 there naught save the lineaments of a stranger? " And, act- 
 uated by this thought, I placed the light by the small mirror 
 which graced my chamber. I recalled, as I gazed, my feat- 
 ures as they had been in earliest j'outh. "No," I said, with 
 a sigh, "there is nothing here that he should recognize." 
 
 And I said aright : my features, originally small and deli- 
 cate, had grown enlarged and prominent. The long locks of 
 my youth (for only upon state occasions did my early vanity 
 consent to the fashion of the day) were succeeded by curls, 
 short and crisped; the hues, alternately pale and hectic, that 
 the dreams of romance had once spread over my cheek, had set- 
 tled into the unchanging bronze of manhood; the smooth lip 
 and unshaven chin were clothed with a thick hair; the once 
 unfurrowed brow was habitually knit in thought; and the 
 ardent, restless expression that boyhood wore had yielded to 
 
394 DEVEREUX. 
 
 the quiet unmoved countenance of one in whom long custom 
 has subdued all outward sign of emotion, and many and vari- 
 ous events left no prevalent token of the mind save that of an 
 habitual but latent resolution. My frame, too, once scarcely 
 less slight than a woman's, was become knit and muscular; 
 and nothing was left by which, in the foreign air, the quiet 
 brow, and the athletic form, my very mother could have rec- 
 ognized the slender figure and changeable face of the boy she 
 had last beheld. The very sarcasm of the eye was gone ; and 
 I had learned the world's easy lesson,— the dissimulation of 
 composure. 
 
 I have noted one thing in others, and it was particularly 
 noticeable in me; namely, that few who mix very largely 
 with men, and with the courtier's or the citizen's design, ever 
 retain the key and tone of their original voice. The voice of 
 a young man is as yet modulated by nature, and expresses the 
 passion of the moment; that of the matured pupil of art ex- 
 presses rather the customary occupation of his life. Whether 
 he aims at persuading, convincing, or commanding others, 
 his voice irrevocably settles into the key he ordinarily em- 
 ploys ; and, as persuasion is the means men chiefly employ in 
 their commerce with each other, especially in the regions of a 
 court, so a tone of artificial blandness and subdued insinua- 
 tion is chiefly that in which the accents of worldly men are 
 clothed; the artificial intonation, long continued, grows into 
 nature, and the very pith and basis of the original sound frit- 
 ter themselves away. The change was great in me, for at 
 that time which I brought in comparison with the present my 
 age was one in which the voice is yet confused and undecided, 
 struggling between the accents of youth and boyhood; so that 
 even this most powerful and unchanging of all claims upon 
 the memory v.^as in a great measure absent in me ; and noth- 
 ing but an occasional and rare tone could have produced even 
 that faint and unconscious recognition which the Hermit had 
 confessed. 
 
 I must be pardoned these egotisms, which the nature of my 
 story renders necessary. 
 
 With what eager impatience did I watch the hours to the 
 
DEVEREUX. 395 
 
 appointed interview with the Hermit languish themselves 
 away! However, before that time arrived and towards the 
 evening of the next day, I was surprised by the rare honour 
 of a visit from Anselmo himself. He came attended by two 
 of the mendicant friars of his order, and they carried between 
 them a basket of tolerable size, which, as mine hostess after- 
 wards informed me, with many a tear, went back somewhat 
 heavier than it came, from the load of certain receptacula of 
 that rarer wine which she had had the evening before the in- 
 discreet hospitality to produce. 
 
 The Abbot came to inform me that the Hermit had been with 
 him that morning, making many inquiries respecting me. "I 
 told him," said he, "that I was acquainted with your name 
 and birth, but that I was under a solemn promise not to re- 
 veal them, without your consent ; and I am now here, my Son, 
 to learn from you whether that consent may be obtained? " 
 
 " Assuredly not, holy Father ! " said I, hastily ; nor was I 
 contented until I had obtained a renewal of his promise to 
 that effect. This seemed to give the Abbot some little cha- 
 grin : perhaps the Hermit had offered a reward for my discov- 
 ery. However, I knew that Anselmo, though a griping was 
 a trustworthy man, and I felt safe in his renewed promise. I 
 saw him depart with great satisfaction, and gave myself once 
 more to conjectures respecting the strange recluse. 
 
 As the next evening I prepared to depart towards the her- 
 mitage, I took peculiar pains to give my person a foreign and 
 disguised appearance. A loose dress, of rude and simple 
 material, and a high cap of fur, were pretty successful in ac- 
 complishing this purpose. And, as I gave the last look at 
 the glass before I left the house, I said inly, "If there be 
 any truth in my wild and improbable conjecture respecting 
 the identity of the anchorite, I think time and this dress are 
 sufficient wizards to secure me from a chance of discovery. I 
 will keep a guard upon my words and tones, until, if my 
 thought be verified, a moment fit for unmasking myself ar- 
 rives. But would to God that the thought be groundless ! In 
 such circumstances, and after such an absence, to meet him! 
 No; and yet — Well, this meeting will decide." 
 
396 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTEK IV. 
 
 THE SOLUTION OF MANY MYSTERIES. A DARK VIEW OF THE 
 
 LIFE AND NATURE OF MAN. 
 
 Powerful, though not clearly developed in my own mind, 
 was the motive which made me so strongly desire to preserve 
 the incognito during my interview with the Hermit. I have 
 before said that I could not resist a vague but intense belief 
 that he was a person whom I had long believed in the grave ; 
 and I had more than once struggled against a dark but pass- 
 ing suspicion that that person was in some measure — medi- 
 ately, though not directly — connected with the mysteries of 
 my former life. If both these conjectures were true, I 
 thought it possible that the communication the Hermit wished 
 to make might be made yet more willingly to me as a stranger 
 than if he knew who was in reality his confidant. And, at 
 all events, if I could curb the impetuous gushings of my own 
 heart, which yearned for immediate disclosure, I might by 
 hint and prelude ascertain the advantages and disadvantages 
 of revealing myself. 
 
 I arrived at the well : the Hermit was already at the place 
 of rendezvous, seated in the same posture in which I had 
 before seen him. I made my reverence and accosted him. 
 
 "I have not failed you, Father." 
 
 "That is rarely a true boast with men," said the Hermit, 
 smiling mournfully, but Avithout sarcasm; "and were the 
 promise of greater avail, it might not have been so rigidly 
 kept." 
 
 " The promise, Father, seemed to me of greater weight than 
 you would intimate," answered I. 
 
 "How mean you?" said the Hermit, hastily. 
 
 "Why, that we may perhaps serve each other by our meet- 
 ing : you, Father, may comfort me by your counsels ; I you by 
 my readiness to obey your request." 
 
DEVEREUX. 397 
 
 The Hermit looked at me for some moments, and, as well as 
 I could, I turned away my face from his gaze. I might have 
 spared myself the effort. He seemed to recognize nothing 
 familiar in my countenance; perhaps his mental malady as- 
 sisted my own alteration. 
 
 " I have inquired respecting you, " he said, after a pause, 
 "and I hear that you are a learned and wise man, who has 
 seen much of the world, and played the part both of soldier 
 and of scholar in its various theatres: is my information 
 true? " 
 
 " Not true with the respect to the learning, Father, but true 
 with regard to the experience. I have been a pilgrim in 
 many countries of Europe." 
 
 "Indeed!" said the Hermit, eagerly. "Come with me to 
 my home, and tell me of the wonders you have seen. " 
 
 I assisted the Hermit to rise, and he walked slowly towards 
 the cavern, leaning upon my arm. Oh, how that light touch 
 thrilled through my frame ! How I longed to cry, " Are you 
 not the one whom I have loved, and mourned, and believed 
 buried in the tomb?" But I checked myself. We moved on 
 in silence. The Hermit's hand was on the door of the cavern, 
 when he said, in a calm tone, but with evident effort, and 
 turning his face from me while he spoke: — 
 
 " And did your wanderings ever carry you into the farther 
 regions of the north? Did the fame of the great Czar ever 
 lead you to the city he has founded?" 
 
 "I am right! I am right! " thought I, as I answered, "In 
 truth, holy Father, I spent not a long time at Petersburg; but 
 I am not a stranger either to its wonders or its inhabitants." 
 
 "Possibly, then, you may have met with the English fa- 
 vourite of the Czar of whom I hear in my retreat that men 
 have lately spoken somewhat largely? " The Hermit paused 
 again. We were now in a long, low passage, almost in dark- 
 ness. I scarcely saw him, yet I heard a convulsed movement 
 in his throat before he uttered the remainder of the sentence. 
 "He is called the Count Devereux." 
 
 "Father," said I, calmly, "I have both seen and known the 
 man." 
 
398 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " Ha! " said the Hermit, and he leaned for a moment against 
 the wall; "known him — and — how — how — I mean, where 
 is he at this present time?" 
 
 "That, Father, is a difficult question respecting one who 
 has led so active a life. He was ambassador at the court of 
 , just before I left it." 
 
 We had now passed the passage and gained a room of tol- 
 erable size; an iron lamp burned within, and afforded a suffi- 
 cient but somewhat dim light. The Hermit, as I concluded 
 my reply, sank down on a long stone bench, beside a table of 
 the same substance, and leaning his face on his hand, so that 
 the long, large sleeve he wore perfectly concealed his feat- 
 ures, said, "Pardon me; my breath is short, and my frame 
 weak; I am quite exhausted, but will speak to j^ou more 
 anon. " 
 
 I uttered a short answer, and drew a small wooden stool 
 within a few feet of the Hermit's seat. After a brief silence 
 he rose, placed wine, bread, and preserved fruits before me 
 and bade me eat. I seemed to comply with his request, and 
 the apparent diversion of my attention from himself some- 
 what relieved the embarrassment under which he evidently 
 laboured. 
 
 "May I hope," he said, "that were my commission to this 
 — to the Count Devereux — you would execute it faithfully 
 and with speed? Yet stay: you have a high mien, as of one 
 above fortune, but your garb is rude and poor ; and if aught 
 of gold could compensate your trouble, the Hermit has other 
 treasuries besides this cell." 
 
 "I will do your bidding, Father, without robbing the poor. 
 You wish, then, that I should seek Morton Devereux; you 
 wish that I should summon him hither; you wish to see and 
 to confer with him?" 
 
 " God of mercy forbid ! " cried the Hermit, and with such a 
 vehemence that I was startled from the design of revealing 
 myself, which I was on the point of executing. "I would 
 rather that these walls would crush me into dust, or that this 
 solid stone would crumble beneath my feet, — ay, even into 
 a bottomless pit, than meet the glance of Morton Devereux I " 
 
DEVEREUX. 399 
 
 "Is it even so?" said I, stooping over the wine-cup; "ye 
 have been foes then, I suspect. \Yell, it matters not: tell 
 me your errand, and it shall be done." 
 
 "Done! " cried the Hermit, and a new and certainly a most 
 natural suspicion darted within him, "done! and — fool that 
 I am! — who or what are you that I should believe you take 
 so keen an interest in the wishes of a man utterly unknown 
 to 3'ou? I tell you that my wish is that you should cross seas 
 and traverse lands until you find the man I have named to 
 you. "Will a stranger do this, and without hire? Xo — no — 
 I was a fool, and will trust the monks, and give gold, and 
 then my errand will be sped." 
 
 "Father, or rather brother," said I, with a slow and firm 
 voice, "for you are of mine own age, and you have the pas- 
 sion and the infirmity which make brethren of all mankind, I 
 am one to whom all places are alike : it matters not whether 
 I visit a northern or a southern clime; I have wealth, which 
 is sufficient to smooth toil ; I have leisure, which makes occu- 
 pation an enjoyment. More than this, I am one who in his 
 gayest and wildest moments has ever loved mankind, and 
 would have renounced at any time his own pleasure for the 
 advantage of another. But at this time, above all others, I 
 am most disposed to forget myself, and there is a passion in 
 your words which leads me to hope that it may be a great 
 benefit which I can confer upon you." 
 
 "You speak well," said the Hermit, musingly, "and I maj^ 
 trust you; I will consider yet a little longer, and to-morrow 
 at this hour you shall have my final answer. If you execute 
 the charge I entrust to you, may the blessing of a dying and 
 most wretched man cleave to you forever! But hush; the 
 clock strikes: it is my hour of prayer." 
 
 And, pointing to a huge black clock that hung opposite the 
 door, and indicated the hour of nine (according to our Eng- 
 lish mode of numbering the hours), the Hermit fell on his 
 knees, and, clasping his hands tightly, bent his face over 
 them in the attitude of humiliation and devotion. I fol- 
 lowed his example. After a few minutes he rose : " Once in 
 every three hours," said he, with a ghastly expression, "for 
 
400 DEVEREUX. 
 
 the last twelve years have I bowed my soul in anguish before 
 God, and risen to feel that it was in vain : I am cursed with- 
 out and Avithin ! " 
 
 " My Father, my Father, is this your faith in the mercies of 
 the Redeemer who died for man?" 
 
 " Talk not to me of faith ! " cried the Hermit, wildly. " Ye 
 laymen and worldlings know nothing of its mysteries and its 
 powers. But begone ! the dread hour is upon me, when my 
 tongue is loosed and my brain darkened, and I know not my 
 words and shudder at my own thoughts. Begone ! no human 
 being shall witness those moments : they are only for Heaven 
 and my own soul." 
 
 So saying, this unhappy and strange being seized me by the 
 arm and dragged me towards the passage we had entered. I 
 was in doubt whether to yield to or contend with him; but 
 there was a glare in his eye and a flush upon his brow, which, 
 while it betrayed the dreadful disease of his mind, made me 
 fear that resistance to his wishes might operate dangerously 
 upon a frame so feeble and reduced. I therefore mechani- 
 cally obeyed him. He opened again the entrance to his 
 rugged home, and the moonlight streamed wanly over his 
 dark robes and spectral figure. 
 
 "Go," said he, more mildly than before, "go, and forgive 
 the vehemence of one whose mind and heart alike are broken 
 within him. Go, but return to-morrow at sunset. Your air 
 disposes me to trust you." 
 
 So saying, he closed the door upon me, and I stood without 
 the cavern alone. 
 
 But did I return home? Did I hasten to press my couch in 
 sleep and sweet forgetfulness, while he was in that gloomy 
 sepulture of the living, a prey to anguish, and torn by the 
 fangs of madness and a fierce disease? No: on the damp 
 grass, beneath the silent skies, I passed a night which could 
 scarcely have been less wretched than his own. IVIy conject- 
 ure was now and in full confirmed. Heavens! how I loved 
 that man! how, from my youngest years, had my soul's fond- 
 est affections interlaced themselves with him! with what an- 
 guish had I wept his imagined death ! and now to know that 
 
DEVEREUX. 401 
 
 he lay within those walls, smitten from brain to heart with 
 so fearful and mysterious a curse, — to know, too, that he 
 dreaded the sight of me, — of me who would have laid down 
 my life for his ! the grave, which I imagined his home, had 
 been a mercy to a doom like this. 
 
 "He fears," I murmured, and I wept as I said it, "to look 
 on one who would watch over, and soothe, and bear with him, 
 with more than a woman's love! By what awful fate has 
 this calamity fallen on one so holy and so pure? or by what 
 preordered destiny did I come to these solitudes, to find at 
 the same time a new charm for the earth and a spell to change 
 it again into a desert and a place of woe? " 
 
 All night I kept vigil by the cave, and listened if I could 
 catch moan or sound; but everything was silent: the thick 
 walls of the rock kept even the voice of despair from my ear. 
 The day dawned, and I retired among the trees, lest the Her- 
 mit might come out unawares and see me. At sunrise I saw 
 him appear for a few moments and again retire, and I then 
 hastened home, exhausted and wearied by the internal con- 
 flicts of the night, to gather coolness and composure for the 
 ensuing interview, which I contemplated at once with eager- 
 ness and dread. 
 
 At the appointed hour I repaired to the cavern : the door 
 was partially closed; I opened it, hearing no answer to my 
 knock, and walked gently along the passage ; but I now heard 
 shrieks and groans and wild laughter as I neared the rude 
 chamber. I paused for a moment, and then in terror and dis- 
 may entered the apartment. It was empty, but I saw near 
 the clock a small door, from within which the sounds that 
 alarmed me proceeded. I had no scruple in opening it, and 
 found myself in the Hermit's sleeping chamber, — a small dark 
 room, where, upon a straw pallet, lay the wretched occupant 
 in a state of frantic delirium. I stood mute and horror-struck, 
 v/hile his exclamations of frenzy burst upon my ear. 
 
 "There — there!" he cried, "I have struck thee to the 
 heart, and now I will kneel, and kiss those white lips, and 
 bathe my hands in that blood! Ha! — do I hate thee? — hate 
 — ay — hate, abhor, detest! Have you the beads there? — let 
 
 26 
 
402 DEVEREUX. 
 
 me tell them. Yes, I will go to the confessional — confess? 
 
 — No, no — all the priests in the world could not lift up a 
 soul so heavy with guilt. Help — help — help! I am fall- 
 ing — falling — there is the pit, and the fire, and the devils! 
 Do you hear them laugh? — I can laugh too! — ha I ha! ha! 
 Hush, I have written it all out, in a fair hand ; he shall read 
 it; and then, God! what curses he will heap upon my 
 head! Blessed Saint Francis, hear me! Lazarus, Lazarus, 
 speak for me ! " 
 
 Thus did the Hermit rave, while my flesh crept to hear him. 
 I stood by his bedside, and called on him, but he neither 
 heard nor saw me. Upon the ground, by the bed's head, as 
 if it had dropped from under the pillow, was a packet sealed 
 and directed to myself. I knew the handwriting at a glance, 
 even though the letters were blotted and irregular, and possi- 
 bly traced in the first moment that his present curse fell upon 
 the writer. I placed the packet in my bosom; the Hermit 
 saw not the motion; he lay back on the bed, seemingly in 
 utter exhaustion. I turned away, and hastened to the monas- 
 tery for assistance. As I hurried through the passage, the 
 Hermit's shrieks again broke upon me, with a fiercer vehe- 
 mence than before. I flew from them, as if they were sounds 
 from the abyss of Hades. I flew till, breathless, and half- 
 senseless myself, I fell down exhausted by the gate of the 
 monastery. 
 
 The two most skilled in physic of the brethren were imme- 
 diately summoned, and they lost not a moment in accompany- 
 ing me to the cavern. All that evening, until midnight, the 
 frenzy of the maniac seemed rather to increase than abate. 
 But at that hour, exactly indeed as the clock struck twelve, 
 he fell all at once into a deep sleep. 
 
 Then for the first time, but not till the weary brethren had 
 at this favourable symptom permitted themselves to return 
 for a brief interval to the monastery, to seek refreshment for 
 themselves and to bring down new medicines for the patient, 
 
 — then, for the first time, I rose from the Hermit's couch by 
 which I had hitherto kept watch, and repairing to the outer 
 chamber, took forth the packet superscribed with my name. 
 
DEVEREUX. 403 
 
 There, alone in tliat gray vault, and by the sepulchral light 
 of the single lamp, I read what follows : — 
 
 THE HERMIT'S MANUSCRIPT. 
 
 Morton Devereux, if ever this reach you, read it, shudder, and, what- 
 ever your afflictions, bless God that you are not as I am. Do you re- 
 member my prevailing characteristic as a boy ? No, you do not. You 
 ■will say " devotion ! " It was not I " Gentleness." It was not : it was 
 Jealousy! Now does the truth flash on you? Yes, that was the 
 disease that was in my blood, and in my heart, and through whose 
 ghastly medium every living object was beheld. Did I love you ? Yes, 
 I loved you, — ay, almost with a love equal to your own. I loved my 
 mother ; I loved Gerald ; I loved Montreuil. It was a part of my nature 
 to love, and I did not resist the impulse. You I loved better than all ; 
 but I was jealous of each. If my mother caressed you or Gerald, if you 
 opened your heart to either, it stung me to the quick. I it was who said 
 to my mother, " Caress him not, or I shall think you love him better 
 than me." I it was who widened, from my veriest childhood, the breach 
 between Gerald and yourself. I it was who gave to the childish reproach 
 a venom, and to the childish quarrel a barb. Was this love ? Yes, it 
 was love; but I could not endure that ye should love one another as 
 ye loved me. It delighted me when one confided to my ear a complaint 
 against the other, and said, " Aubrey, this blow could not have come 
 from thee ! " 
 
 IVIontreuil early perceived my bias of temper : he might have cor- 
 rected it and with ease. I was not evil in disposition ; I was insensible 
 of my own vice. Had its malignity been revealed to me, I should have 
 recoiled in horror. Montreuil had a vast power over me ; he could 
 mould me at his will. Montreuil, I repeat, might have saved me, and 
 thyself, and a third being, better and purer than either of us was, even 
 in our cradles. Montreuil did not : he had an object to serve, and he 
 sacrificed our whole house to it. He found me one day weeping over a 
 dog that I had killed. " Why did you destroy it ? " he said ; and I 
 answered, " Because it loved ^Morton better than me ! " And the priest 
 said, " Thou didst right, Aubrey ! " Yes, from that time he took ad- 
 vantage of my infirmity, and could rouse or calm all my passions in 
 proportion as he irritated or soothed it. 
 
 You know this man's object during the latter period of his residence 
 with us : it was the restoration of the House of Stuart. He was alter- 
 nately the spy and the agitator in that cause. Among more comprehen- 
 sive plans for eflfecting this object, was that of securing the heirs to the 
 great wealth and popular name of Sir William Devereux. This was 
 
404 DEVEREUX. 
 
 only a minor mesh in the intricate web of his schemes ; but it is the 
 character of the man to take exactly the same pains, and pursue the 
 same laborious intrigues, for a small object as for a great one. His 
 first impression, on entering our house, was in favour of Gerald ; and I 
 believe he really likes him to this day better than either of us. Partly 
 your sarcasms, partly Gerald's disputes with you, partly my repre- 
 sentations, — for I was jealous even of the love of Montreuil, — prepos- 
 sessed him against you. He thought, too, that Gerald had more talent 
 to serve his purposes than yourself and more facility in being moulded 
 to them ; and he believed our uncle's partiality to you far from being 
 unalienable. I have said that, at the latter period of his residence with 
 us, he was an agent of the exiled cause. At the time I now speak of, 
 he had not entered into the great political scheme which engrossed him 
 afterwards. He was merely a restless and aspiring priest, whose whole 
 hope, object, ambition, was the advancement of his order. He knew 
 that whoever inherited, or whoever shared, my uncle's wealth, could, 
 under legitimate regulation, promote any end which the heads of that 
 order might select ; and he wished therefore to gain the mastery over 
 us all. Intrigue was essentially woven with his genius, and by intrigue 
 only did he ever seek to arrive at any end he had in view.^ He soon 
 obtained a mysterious and pervading power over Gerald and myself. 
 Tour temper at once irritated him, and made him despair of obtaining 
 an ascendant over one who, though he testified in childhood none of the 
 talents for which he has since been noted, testified, nevertheless, a 
 shrewd, penetrating, and sarcastic power of observation and detection. 
 You, therefore, he resolved to leave to the irregularities of your own 
 nature, confident that they would yield him the opportunity of detaching 
 your uncle from you and ultimately securing to Gerald his estates. 
 
 The trial at school first altered his intentions. He imagined that he 
 then saw in you powers which might be rendered availing to him : he 
 conr)uered his pride — a great feature in his character — and he resolved 
 to seek your affection. Your subsequent regularity of habits and suc- 
 cess in study confirmed him in his resolution ; and when he learned from 
 my uncle's own lips that the Devereux estates would devolve on you, he 
 thought that it would be easier to secure your affection to him than to 
 divert that affection which my uncle had conceived for you. At this 
 time, I repeat, he had no particular object in view; none, at least, beyond 
 that of obtaining for the interest of his order the direction of great 
 wealth and some political influence. Some time after — I know not 
 exactly when, but before we returned to take our permanent abode at 
 
 ^ It will be observed that Aubrey frequently repeats former assertions; 
 this is one of the most customary traits of insanity. — Ed. 
 
DEVEREUX. 405 
 
 Devereux Court — a share in the grand poUtical intrigue which was 
 then in so many branches carried on throughout England, and even 
 Europe, was confided to Montreuil. 
 
 In this I beUeve he was the servant of his order, rather than immedi- 
 ately of the exiled House ; and I have since heard that even at that day 
 he had aciiuired a great reputation among the professors of the former 
 You, Morton, he decoyed not into this scheme before he left England : 
 he had not acquired a sufficient influence over you to trust you with the 
 disclosure. To Gerald and myself he was more confidential. Gerald 
 eagerly embraced his projects through a spirit of enterprise ; I through 
 a spirit of awe and of religion Religion 1 Yes. — then, — long after, 
 — now, — when my heart was and is the home of all withering and evil 
 passions. Religion reigned, — reigns, over me a despot and a tyrant. 
 Its terrors haunt me at this hour ; they people the earth and the air 
 with shapes of ghastly menace ! They — Heaven pardon me ! what 
 would my madness utter? Madness? — madness? Ay, that is the real 
 scourge, the real fire, the real torture, the real hell, of this fair earth ! 
 
 Montreuil, then, by different pleas, won over Gerald and myself. He 
 left us, but engaged us in constant correspondence " Aubrey," he said, 
 before he departed, and when he saw that I was wounded by his appar- 
 ent cordiality towards you and Gerald — " Aubrey," he said, soothing 
 me on this point, " think not that I trust Gerald or the arrogant Morton 
 as I trust you. You have my real heart and my real trust. It is neces- 
 sary to the execution of this project, so important to the interests of 
 religion and so agreeable to the will of Heaven, that we should secure 
 all co-operators ; but they, your brothers, Aubrey, are the tools of that 
 mighty design ; you are its friend."' Thus it was that, at all times when 
 he irritated too sorely the vice of my nature, he flattered it into second- 
 ing his views; and thus, instead of conquering my evil passions, he con- 
 quered by them. Curses — No, no, no ! — I will be calm. 
 
 We returned to Devereux Court, and we grew from boyhood into 
 youth. I loved you then, Morton. Ah I what would I not give now 
 for one pure feeling, such as I felt in your love ? Do you remember the 
 day on which you had extorted from my uncle his consent to your leav- 
 ing us for the pleasures and pomps of London ? Do you remember the 
 evening of that day, when I came to seek you, and we sat down on a 
 little mound, and talked over your projects, and you spoke then to me 
 of my devotion and my purer and colder feelings ? ^lorton, at that 
 very moment my veins burned with passion I — at that very moment my 
 heart was feeding the vulture fated to live and prey within it forever I 
 Thrice did I resolve to confide in you, as we then sat together, and 
 thrice did my evil genius forbid it. You seemed, even in your affection 
 to me, so wholly engrossed with your own hopes ; you seemed so little to 
 
406 DEVEREUX. 
 
 regret leaving me ; you stung, so often and so deeply, in our short con- 
 ference, that feeling which made me desire to monopolize all things in 
 those I loved, that I said inly, — " Why should I bare my heart to one 
 who can so little understand it ? " And so we turned home, and you 
 dreamed not of that which was then within me, and which was destined 
 to be your curse and mine 
 
 Not many weeks previous to that night, I had seen one whom to see 
 was to love ! Love ! — I tell you, Morton, that that word is expressive 
 of soft and fond emotion, and there should be another expressive of all 
 that is fierce and dark and unrelenting in the human heart I — all that 
 seems most like the deadliest and the blackest hate, and yet is not hate ! 
 1 saw this being, and from that moment my real nature, which had slept 
 hitherto, awoke ! I remember well it was one evening in the beginning 
 of summer that I first saw her. She sat alone in the little garden beside 
 the cottage door, and I paused, and, unseen, looked over the slight fence 
 that separated us, and fed my eyes with a loveliness that I thought till 
 then only twilight or the stars could wear ! From that evening I came, 
 night after night, to watch her from the same spot ; and every time I 
 beheld her the poison entered deeper and deeper into my system. At 
 length I had an opportunity of being known to her, of speaking to her, 
 of hearing her speak, of touching the ground she had hallowed, of enter- 
 ing the home where she dwelt 1 
 
 I must explain : I said that both Gerald and myself corresponded 
 privately with Montreuil ; we were both bound over to secrecy with 
 regard to you ; and this, my temper and Gerald's coolness with you 
 rendered an easy obligation to both ; — I say my temper, for I loved to 
 think I had a secret not known to another ; and I carried this reserve 
 even to the degree of concealing from Gerald himself the greater part of 
 the correspondence between me and the Abl)e. In his correspondence 
 with each of us, Montreuil acted with his usual skill ; to Gerald, as the 
 elder in years, the more prone to enterprise, and the manlier in aspect 
 and in character, was allotted whatever object was of real trust or im- 
 portance. Gerald it was who, under pretence of pursuing his accus- 
 tomed sports, conferred with the various agents of intrigue who from 
 time to time visited our coast ; and to me the Abbe gave words of 
 endearment and affected the language of more entire trust. " What- 
 ever," he would say, " in our present half mellowed projects, is ex])osed 
 to danger, but does not promise reward, I entrust to Gerald ; hereafter, 
 far higher employment, under far safer and surer auspices, will be 
 yours. We are the heads •• be ours the nobler occupation to plan ; and 
 let us leave to inferior natures the vain and perilous triumph to execute 
 what we design." 
 
 All this I readily assented to ; for, despite my acquiescence in Mon- 
 
DEVEREUX. 407 
 
 treiiil's wishes, I loved not enterprise, or rather I hated whatever 
 roused nie from the dreamy and abstracted indolence which was most 
 dear to my temperament. Sometimes, however, with a <;reat show of 
 confidence, Montreuil would request me to execute some (juiet and un- 
 important commission ; and of this nature was one I received while I 
 was thus, unknown even to the object, steeping my soul in the first 
 intoxication of love. The plots then carried on by certain ecclesiastics 
 I need not say extended, in one linked chain, over the greater part of the 
 Continent. Spain, in especial, was the theatre of these intrigues; and 
 among the tools employed in executing them were some who, though 
 banished from that country, still, by the rank they had held in it, car- 
 ried a certain importance in their very names. Foremost of these was 
 the father of the woman I loved ; and foremost, in whatever promised 
 occupation to a restless mind, he was always certain to be. 
 
 Montreuil now commissioned me to seek out a certain Barnard (an 
 underling in those secret practices or services, for which he afterwards 
 suffered, and who was then in that part of the country), and to com- 
 municate to him some messages of which he was to be the bearer to this 
 Spaniard. A thouglit flashed upon me — Montreuil's letter mentioned, 
 accidentally, that the Spaniard had never hitherto seen Barnard : could 
 I not personate the latter, deliver the messages myself, and thus win 
 that introduction to the daughter which I so burningly desired, and 
 which, from the close reserve of the father's habits, I might not other- 
 wise effect? The plan was open to two objections: one, that I was 
 known personally in the town in the environs of which the Spaniard 
 lived, and he might therefore very soon discover who I really was ; the 
 other that I was not in possession of all the information which Barnard 
 might possess, and which the Spaniard might wish to learn ; but these 
 objections had not much weight with me. To the first, I said inly, " I 
 will oppose the most constant caution ; I will go always on foot and 
 alone ; I will never be seen in the town itself ; and even should the 
 Spaniard, who seems rarely to stir abroad, and who, possibly, does not 
 speak our language, — even should he learn by accident that Barnard 
 is only another name for Aubrey Devereux, it will not be before I have 
 gained my object ; nor, perhaps, before the time when I myself may 
 wish to acknowledge my identity." To the second objection I saw a yet 
 more ready answer. " I will acquaint Montreuil at once," I said, " with 
 my intention ; I will claim his connivance as a proof of his confidence, 
 and as an essay of my own genius of intrigue." I did so ; the priest, 
 perhaps delighted to involve me so deeply, and to find me so ardent in 
 his project, consented. Fortunately, as I before said, Barnard was an 
 underling, — young, unknown, and obscuj-e. My youth, therefore, was 
 not so great a foe to my assumed disguise as it might otherwise have 
 
408 DEVEREUX. 
 
 been. Montreuil supplied all requisite information. I tried (for the 
 first time, with a beating heart and a tremulous voice) the imposition ! 
 it succeeded ; I continued it. Yes, Morton, yes ! — pour forth upon 
 me your bitterest execration, in me, in your brother, in the brother so 
 dear to you, — in the brother whom you imagined so passionless, so 
 pure, so sinless, — behold that Barnard, the lover, the idolatrous lover 
 — the foe, the deadly foe, — of Isora d' Alvarez ! 
 
 Here tlie manuscript was defaced for some pages by inco- 
 hereut and meaningless ravings. It seemed as if one of his 
 dark fits of frenzy had at that time come over the writer. At 
 length, in a more firm and clear character than that immedi- 
 ately preceding it, the manuscript continued as follows : — 
 
 I loved her, but even then it was with a fierce and ominous love 
 (ominous of what it became). Often in the still evenings, when we 
 stood together watching the sun set ; when my tongue trembled, but did 
 not dare to speak ; when all soft and sweet thoughts filled the heart and 
 glistened in the eye of that most sensitive and fairy being ; when my 
 own brow perhaps seemed to reflect the same emotions, — feelings 
 which I even shuddered to conceive raged within me. Had we stood 
 together in those moments upon the brink of a precipice, I could have 
 wound my arms around her and leaped with her into the abyss. Every- 
 thing but one nursed my passion ; nature, solitude, early dreams, all 
 kindled and fed that fire : Religion only combated it ; I knew it was a 
 crime to love any of earth's creatures as I loved. I used the scourge 
 and the fast ; ^ I wept hot, burning tears; I prayed, and the intensity 
 of my prayer appalled even myself, as it rose from my maddened heart, 
 in the depth and stillness of the lone night : but the flame burned higher 
 and more scorchingly from the opposition ; nay, it was the very knowl- 
 edge that my love was criminal that made it assume so fearful and dark 
 a shape. " Thou art the cause of my downfall from Heaven ! " I mut- 
 tered, when I looked upon Isora's calm face : " thou feelest it not, and 
 I could destroy thee and myself, — myself the criminal, thee the cause 
 of the crime ! " 
 
 It must have been that my eyes betrayed my feelings that Isora loved 
 me not, that she shrank from me even at the first : why else should I 
 not have called forth the same sentiments which she gave to you ? Was 
 
 ^ I need not point out to the novel-reader how completely the character of 
 Aubrey has been stolen in a certain celebrated French ri)mauoe. But the 
 writer I allude to is not so unmerciful as M. de Balzac, who has pillaged scenes 
 in " The Disowned " with a most gratifying politeness. 
 
DEVEREUX. 409 
 
 not my form cast in a mould as fair as yours ? did not my voice whisper 
 in as sweet a tone ? did I not love her with as wild a love ? Why should 
 she not have loved me ? I was the first whom she beheld : she would 
 
 — ay, perhaps she would have loved me, if you had not come and 
 marred all. Curse yourself, then, that you were my rival ! curse yourself 
 that you made my heart as a furnace, and smote my brain with frenzy ; 
 curse — O sweet Virgin, forgive me ! — I knuw not, — I know not what 
 my tongue utters or my hand traces I 
 
 You came, then, Morton, you came ; you knew her ; you loved her ; 
 she loved you. 1 learned that you had gained admittance to the cottage, 
 and the moment I learned it, I looked on Isora, and felt my fate, as by 
 intuition : I saw at once that she was prepared to love you ; I saw the 
 very moment when that love kindled from conception into form ; I saw 
 
 — and at that moment my eyes reeled and my ears rang as with the 
 sound of a rushing sea, and I thought I felt a cord snap within my brain, 
 which has never been united again. 
 
 Once only, after your introduction to the cottage, did I think of con- 
 fiding to you my love and rivalship ; you remember one night when we 
 met by the castle cave, and when your kindness touched and softened 
 me despite of myself. The day after that night I sought you, with the 
 intention of communicating to you all ; and while I was yet struggling 
 with my embarrassment and the suffocating tide of my emotions, you 
 premeditated me by giving me your confidence. Engrossed by your 
 own feelings, you were not observant of mind ; and as you dwelt and 
 dilated upon your love for Isora, all emotions, save those of agony and 
 of fury, vanished from my breast. I did not answer you then at any 
 length, for I was too agitated to trust to prolix speech ; but by the next 
 day I had recovered myself, and I resolved, as far as I was able, to play 
 the hypocrite. " He cannot love her as I do !" I said ; " perhaps I 
 may, without disclosure of my rivalship and without sin in the attempt, 
 detach him from her by reason." Fraught with this idea, I collected 
 myself, sought you, remonstrated with you, represented the worldly folly 
 of your love, and uttered all that prudence preaches — in vain, when 
 it preaches against passion ! 
 
 Let me be brief. I saw that I made no impression on you ; I stifled 
 my wrath ; I continued to visit and watch Isora. I timed my oppor- 
 tunities well : my constant knowledge of your motions allowed me to do 
 that ; besides, I represented to the Spaniard the necessity, through 
 political motives, of concealing myself from you; hence, we never en- 
 countered each other. One evening, Alvarez had gone out to meet one 
 of his countrymen and confederates. I found Isora alone, in the most 
 sequestered part of the garden ; her loveliness, and her exceeding gen- 
 tleness of manner, melted me. For the first time audibly my heart 
 
410 DEVEREUX. 
 
 spoke out, and I told her of my idolatry. Idolatry ! ay, that is the only 
 word, since it signifies both worship and guilt ! She heard me timidly, 
 gently, coldly. She spoke ; and I found confirmed from her own lips 
 what my reason had before told me, — that there was no hope for me. 
 The iron that entered also roused my heart. " Enough ! " I cried 
 fiercely, " you love this Morton Devereux, and for him I am scorned." 
 Isora blushed and trembled, and all my senses fled from me. I scarcely 
 know in what words my rage and my despair clothed themselves ; but I 
 know that I divulged myself to her ; I know that I told her I was the 
 brother, the rival, the enemy of the man she loved, — I know that 1 
 uttered the fiercest and the wildest menaces and execrations, — I know 
 that my vehemence so overpowered and terrified her that her mind was 
 scarcely less clouded — less lost, rather — than my own. At that mo- 
 ment the sound of your horse's hoofs was heard. Isora's eyes bright- 
 ened and her mien grew firm. " He comes," she said, " and he will 
 protect me ! " " Hark ! " I said, sinking my voice, and, as my drawn 
 sword flashed in one hand, the other grasped her arm with a savage 
 force, — " hark, woman ! " I said, — and an oath of the blackest fury 
 accompanied my threats, — " swear that you will never divulge to 
 Morton Devereux who is his real rival, that you will never declare to 
 him nor to any, one else that the false Barnard and the true Aubrey 
 Devereux are the same, — swear this, or I swear [and I repeated, with 
 a solemn vehemence, that dread oath] that I will stay here ; that I will 
 confront my rival ; that, the moment he beholds me, I will plunge this 
 sword in his bosom ; and that, before I perish myself, I will hasten to 
 the town, and will utter there a secret which will send your father to 
 the gallows : now, your choice ? " 
 
 Morton, you have often praised, my uncle has often jested at, the 
 womanish softness of my face. There have been moments when I have 
 seen that face in the glass, and known it not, but started in wild affright, 
 and fancied that I beheld a demon ; perhaps in that moment this change 
 was over it. Slowly Isora gazed upon me ; slowly blanched into the 
 hues of death grew her cheek and lip ; slowly that lip uttered the oath 
 I enjoined. I released my gri])e, and she fell to the earth suddenly, 
 and stunned as if struck by lightning. I stayed not to look on what I 
 had done ; I heard your step advance ; I fled by a path that led from 
 the garden to the beach ; and 1 reached my home without retaining a 
 single recollection of the space I had traversed to attain it. 
 
 Despite the night I passed — a night which I will leave you to imagine 
 — I rose the next morning with a burning interest to learn from you 
 what had passed after my flight, and with a power, peculiar to the 
 stormiest passions, of an outward composure while I listened to the 
 recital. I saw that I was safe ; and I heard, with a joy so rapturous 
 
DEVEREUX. 411 
 
 that I question whether even Isora's assent to my love would have given 
 me an equal transport, that she liad rejected you. I uttered some advice 
 to you commonplace enough : it displeased you, and we separated. 
 
 That evening, to my surprise, I was privately visited by Montreuil. 
 He had some designs in hand which brought him from France into the 
 neighbourhood, but which made him desirous of concealment. He soon 
 drew from me my secret; it is marvellous, indeed, what power he had 
 of penetrating, ruling, moulding, my feelings and my thoughts. He 
 wished, at that time, a communication to be made and a letter to be 
 given to Alvarez. 1 could not execute this commission personally ; for 
 you had informed me of your intention of watching if you could not dis- 
 cover or meet with Barnard, and I knew you were absent from home on 
 that very purpose. Nor was Montreuil himself desirous of incurring the 
 risk of being seen by you, — you over whom, sooner or later, he then 
 trusted to obtain a power equal to that which he held over your brothers. 
 Gerald then was chosen to execute the commission. lie did so; he met 
 
 Alvarez for the first and only time on the beach, by the town of . 
 
 You saw him, and imagined you beheld the real Barnard. 
 
 But I anticipate ; for you did not inform me of that occurrence, nor 
 the inference you drew from it, till afterwards. You returned, however, 
 after witnessing that meeting, and for two days your passions (passions 
 which, intense and fierce as mine, show that, under similar circumstances, 
 you might have been equally guilty) terminated in fever. You were con- 
 fined to vour bed for three or four days ; meanwhile I took advantage 
 of the event. Montreuil suggested a plans which I readily embraced. 
 1 sought the Spaniard, and told him in confidence that you were a suitor 
 — but a suitor upon the most dishonourable terms — to his daughter. I 
 told him. moreover, that you had detected his schemes, and, in order to 
 deprive Isora of protection and abate any obstacles arising from her 
 pride, meant to betray him to the Government. I told him that his best 
 and most prudent, nay, his only chance of safety for Isora and himself 
 was to leave his present home and take refuge in the vast mazes of the 
 metropolis. I told him not to betray to you his knowledge of your crim- 
 inal intentions, lest it might needlessly exasperate you. I furnished him 
 wherewithal to repay you the sum which you had lent him, and by 
 which you had commenced his acquaintance ; and I dictated to him the 
 very terms of the note in which the sum was to be inclosed. After this 
 I felt happy. You were separated from Isora: she might forget you; 
 you might forget her. I was possessed of the secret of her father's pres- 
 ent retreat : I mizht seek it at my pleasure, and ultimately — so hope 
 whispered — prosper in ray love. 
 
 Some time afterwards you mentioned your suspicions of Gerald ; I did 
 not corroborate, but I did not seek to destroy them. " They already 
 
412 DEVEREUX. 
 
 hate each other," I said; "can the hate be greater? meanwhile, let it 
 divert suspicion from me ! " Gerald knew of the agency of the real 
 Barnard, though he did not know that I had assumed the name of that 
 person. When you taxed him with his knowledge of the man, he was 
 naturally confused. You interpreted that confusion into the fact of 
 being your rival, while in truth it arose from his belief that you had 
 possessed yourself of his political schemes. Montreuil, who had lurked 
 chiefly in the islet opposite " the Castle Cave," had returned to France 
 on the same day that Alvarez repaired to London. Previous to this, we 
 had held some conferences together upon my love. At first he had 
 opposed and reasoned with it ; but, startled and astonished by the inten- 
 sity with which it possessed me, he gave way to my vehemence at last. 
 I have said that I had adopted his advice in one instance. The fact of 
 having received his advice, — the advice of one so pious, so free from 
 human passion, so devoted to one object, which apjjeared to him the 
 cause of Religion ; advice, too, in a love so fiery and overwhelming, — 
 that fact made me think myself less criminal than I had done before. 
 He advised me yet further. "Do not seek Isora," he said, "till some 
 time has elapsed ; till her new-born love for your brother has died away ; 
 till the impression of fear you have caused in her is somewhat effaced; 
 till time and absence, too, have done their work in the mind of Morton, 
 and you will no longer have for your rival one who is not only a brother, 
 but a man of a fierce, resolute, and unrelenting temper." 
 
 I yielded to this advice : partly because it promised so fair ; partly 
 because I was not systematically vicious, and I wished, if possible, to do 
 away with our rivalship ; and principally, because I knew, in the mean- 
 while, that if I was deprived of her presence, so also were you; and 
 jealousy with me was a far more intolerable and engrossing passion than 
 the very love from which it sprang. So time passed on : you affected 
 to have conquered your attachment; you affected to take pleasure in 
 levity and the idlest pursuits of worldly men. I saw deeper into your 
 heart, for the moment I entertained the passion of love in my own 
 breast, my eyes became gifted with a second vision to penetrate the 
 most mysterious and hoarded secrets in the love of others. 
 
 Two circumstances of importance happened before you left Devereux 
 Court for London ; the one was the introduction to your service of Jean 
 Desmarais, the second was your breach with Montreuil. I speak now 
 of the first. A very early friend did the priest possess, born in tiie 
 same village as himself and in the same rank of life ; he had received a 
 good education and possessed natural genius. At a time when, from 
 some fraud in a situation of trust wliich he had held in a French noble- 
 man's family, he was in destitute and desperate circumstances, it occurred 
 to Montreuil to provide for him by placing him in our family. Some 
 
DEVEREUX. 413 
 
 accidental and frivolous remark of yours which I had repeated in my 
 correspondence with INIontreuil as illustrative of your manner, and your 
 affected pursuits at that time, presented an opportunity to a jilan before 
 conceived. Desmarais came to England in a smuggler's vessel, pre- 
 sented himself to you as a servant, and was accepted. In this plan Mon- 
 treuil had two views : first, that of securing Desmarais a place in England, 
 tolerably profitable to himself and convenient for any plot or scheme 
 which Montreuil might require of him in this country; secondly, that 
 of setting a peri)etual and most adroit spy upon all your motions. 
 
 As to the second occurrence to which I have referred ; namely, your 
 breach with Montreuil — " 
 
 Here Aubrey, with the same terrible distinctness which 
 had characterized his previous details and which shed a double 
 horror over the contrast of the darker and more frantic pas- 
 sages in the manuscript, related what the reader will remem- 
 ber Oswald had narrated before, respecting the letter he had 
 brought from Madame de Balzac. It seems that ^Montreuil's 
 abrupt appearance in the hall had been caused by Desmarais, 
 who had recognized Oswald, on his dismounting at the gate, 
 and had previously known that he was in the employment of 
 the Jansenistical intriguante Madame de Balzac. 
 
 Aubrey proceeded then to say that Montreuil, invested with 
 far more direct authority and power than he had been hitherto 
 in the projects of that wise order whose doctrines he had so 
 darkly perverted, repaired to London ; and that, soon after my 
 departure for the same place, Gerald and Aubrey left Devereux 
 Court in company with each other; but Gerald, whom very 
 trifling things diverted from any project, however important, 
 returned to Devereux Court to accomplish the prosecution of 
 some rustic amovr, without even reaching London. Aubrey, 
 on the contrary, had proceeded to the metropolis, sought the 
 suburb in which Alvarez lived, procured, in order to avoid any 
 probable chance of meeting me, a lodging in the same obscure 
 quarter, and had renewed his suit to Isora. The reader is al- 
 ready in possession of the ill success which attended it. Au- 
 brey had at last confessed his real name to the father. The 
 Spaniard was dazzled by the prospect of so honourable an alli- 
 ance for his daughter. From both came Isora 's persecution, 
 
414 DEVEREUX. 
 
 but in both was it resisted. Passing over passages in the man- 
 uscript of the most stormy incoherence and the most gloomy 
 passion, I come to what follows — 
 
 I learned then from Desmarais that you had taken away her and the 
 dying father, that you had placed them in a safe and honourable home. 
 That man, so imi)lieitly the creature of Montreuil, or rather of his own 
 interest, with which Montreuil was identified, was easily induced to 
 betray you also to me, — me whom he imagined, moreover, utterly the 
 tool of the priest, and of whose torturing interest in this peculiar dis- 
 closure he was not at that time aware. 1 visited Isora in her new abode, 
 and again and again she trembled beneath my rage. Then, for the 
 second time, I attempted force. Ha! ha! Morton, I think 1 see you 
 now ! — I think I hear your muttered curse ! Curse on 1 "\Mien you 
 read this I shall be beyond your vengeance, beyond human power. And 
 yet I think if I were mere clay ; if I were the mere senseless heap of 
 ashes that the grave covers ; if I were not the thing that must live for- 
 ever and forever, far away in unimagined worlds, where nought that has 
 earth's life can come, — I should tremble beneath the sod as your foot 
 pressed and your execration rang over it. A second time I attempted 
 force ; a second time I was repulsed by the same means, — by a woman's 
 hand and a woman's dagger. But I knew that I had one hold over 
 Isora from which, while she loved you, I could never be driven : I linew 
 that by threatening your life, I could command her will and terrify her 
 into compliance with my own. I made her reiterate her vow of conceal- 
 ment ; and I discovered, by some words dropping from her fear, that she 
 believed you already suspected me, and had been withheld by her entrea- 
 ties from seeking me out. I questioned her more, and soon perceived that 
 it was (as indee'd I knew before) Gerald whom you suspected, not me ; 
 but I did not tell this to Isora. I suffered her to cherish a mistake profit- 
 able to my disguise ; but I saw at once that it might betray me, if you ever 
 met and conferred at length with Gerald upon this point, and I exacted 
 from Isora a pledge that she would effectually and forever bind you not 
 to breathe a single suspicion to him. When I had left the room, I re- 
 turned once more to warn her against uniting herself with you. "Wretch, 
 selfish, accursed wretch that you were, why did you suffer her to trans- 
 gress that warning ? 
 
 I fled from the house, as a fiend flies from a being whom he has pos- 
 sessed. I returned at night to look up at the window, and linger by the 
 door, and keep watch beside the home which held Isora. Such, in her 
 former abode, had been my nightly wont. I had no evil thought nor 
 foul intent in this customary vigil, —no, not one! Strangely enough, 
 
DEVEREUX. 415 
 
 with the tempestuous and overwhelming emotions which constituted the 
 greater part of my love was mingled — though subdued and latent — a 
 stream of the softest, yea, I might add almost of the holiest tenderness. 
 Often after one of those outpourings of rage and menace and despair, I 
 would flv to some quiet spot and weep till all the hardness of my heart 
 was wept away. And often in those nightly vigils I would pause by the 
 door and murmur, " This shelter, denied not to the beggar and the 
 bc"-o-ar's child, this would you deny to me if you could dream that I was 
 so near vou. And yet, had you loved me, instead of lavishing upon me 
 all your'hatred and your contempt, — had you loved me, I would have 
 served and worshipped you as man knows not worship or service. You 
 shudder at my vehemence now : I could not then have breathed a whis- 
 per to wound you. You tremble now at the fierceness of my breast : 
 you would then rather have marvelled at its softness." 
 
 I was already at my old watch when you encountered me : you ad- 
 dressed me ; I answered not ; you approached me, and I fled. Fled : 
 there — there was the shame, and the sting of my sentiments towards 
 you. I am not naturally afraid of danger, though my nerves are some- 
 times weak and have sometimes shrunk from it. I have known some- 
 thino- of peril in late years when my frame has been bowed and broken 
 
 perils by storms at sea, and the knives of robbers upon land — and I 
 
 have looked upon it with a quiet eye. But you, Morton Devereux, you 
 I always feared. I had seen from your childhood others whose nature 
 was far stronger than mine yield and recoil ^t yours ; I had seen the 
 giant and bold strength of Gerald quail before your bent brow ; I had 
 seen even the hardy pride of ^lontreuil baffled by your curled lip and 
 the stern sarcasm of your glance ; I had seen you, too, in your wild 
 moments of ungoverned rage, and I knew that if earth held one whose 
 passions were fiercer than my own it was you. But your passions were 
 sustained even in their fiercest excess ; your passions were the mere 
 weapons of your mind : my passions were the torturers and the tyrants 
 of mine. Your passions seconded your will ; mine blinded and over- 
 whelmed it. From my infancy, even while I loved you most, you awed 
 me ; and years, in deepening the impression, had made it indelible. I 
 could not confront the thought of your knowing all, and of mectin!r you 
 after that knowledge. And this fear, while it unnerved me at some 
 moments, at others only maddened my ferocity the more by the stings 
 of shame and self-contempt. 
 
 I fled from you : you pursued ; you gained upon me ; you remember 
 how I was preserved. I dashed throucrh the inebriated revellers who 
 obstructed your path, and reached my own lodiina. which was close at 
 hand ; for the same day on which I learned Isora's change of residence 
 I changed my own in order to be near it. Did I feel joy for my escape? 
 
416 DEVEREUX. 
 
 No : I could have gnawed the very flesh from my bones in the agony of 
 my shame. " I could brave," I said, " I could threat, I could offer 
 violence to the woman who rejected me, and yet I could not face the 
 rival for whom I am scorned ! " At that moment a resolution flashed 
 across my mind, exactly as if a train of living fire had been driven before 
 it. Morton, I resolved to murder you, and in that very hour ! A pistol 
 lay on my table ; I took it, concealed it about my person, and repaired 
 to the shelter of a large portico, beside which I knew that you must pass 
 to your own home in the same street. Scarcely three minutes had 
 elapsed between the reaching my house and the leaving it on this 
 errand. I knew, for I had heard swords clash, that you would be 
 detained some time in the street by the rioters ; I thought it probable 
 also that you might still continue the search for me ; and I knew even 
 that, had you hastened at once to your home, you could scarcely have 
 reached it before I reached my shelter. I hurried on ; I arrived at the 
 spot; I screened myself and awaited your coming. You came, borne 
 in the arms of two men ; others followed in the rear ; I saw your face 
 destitute of the hue and aspect of life, and your clothes streaming with 
 blood. I was horror-stricken. 1 joined the crowd ; I learned that you 
 had been stabbed, and it was feared mortally. 
 
 I did not return home: no, I went into the fields, and lay out all 
 night, and lifted up my heart to God, and wept aloud, and peace fell 
 upon me, — at least, what was peace compared to the tempestuous dark- 
 ness which had before reigned in my breast. The sight of you, bleeding 
 and insensible, — you, against whom I had harboured a fratricide's pur- 
 pose, — had stricken, as it were, the weapon from my hand and the 
 madness from my mind. I shuddered at what T had escaped ; I blessed 
 God for my deliverance ; and with the gratitude and the awe came 
 repentance ; and repentance brnuTht a resolution to fly, since T could 
 not wrestle with my mighty and dread temptation : the moment that 
 resolution was formed, it was as if an incubus were taken from my 
 breast. Even the next morning I did not return home: my anxiety for 
 you was such that I forgot all caution ; I went to your house myself ; I 
 saw one of your servants to whom T was person.ally unknown. I in- 
 quired respecting you, and learned that your wound had not been mor- 
 tal, and that the servant had overheard one of the medical attendants 
 say you were not even in danger. 
 
 At this news I felt the serpent stir again within me, but I resolved to 
 crush it at the first: I would not even expose myself to the temptation 
 of passincT by Tsora's house; T went straight in search of my horse; I 
 mounted, and fled resolutely from the scene of my soul's peril. " I will 
 go," I said, " to the home of our childhood ; I will surround myself by 
 the mute tokens of the early love which my brother bore me ; I will 
 
DEVEREUX. 417 
 
 think, — wJiilo penance and prayer cleanse ray soul from its black guilt, 
 I will think that I am also makinjf a sacrifice to that brother." 
 
 I returned then to Devereux Court, and I resolved to forego all hope 
 — all persecution — of Isoral My brother — my brother, my heart 
 yearns to you at this moment, even though years and distance, and, 
 above all, my own crimes, place a gulf between us which I may never 
 pass ; it yearns to you when I think of those quiet shades, and the 
 scenes where, pure and unsullied, we wandered together, when life was 
 all verdure and freshness, and we dreamed not of what was to come ! If 
 even now my heart yearns to you, Morton, when I think of that home 
 and those days, believe that it had some softness and some mercy for 
 you then. Yes, I repeat, I resolved to subdue my own emotions, and 
 interpose no longer between Isora and yourself. Full of this determina- 
 tion, and utterly melted towards you, I wrote you a long letter ; such as 
 we would have written to each other in our first youth. Two days after 
 that letter all my new purposes were swept away, and the whole soil of 
 evil thoughts which they had covered, not destroyed, rose again as the 
 tide flowed from it, black and rugged as before. 
 
 The very night on which I had writ that letter, came IMontreuil 
 secretly to my chamber. He had been accustomed to visit Gerald by 
 stealth and at sudden moments ; and there was something almost super- 
 natural in the manner in which he seemed to pass from place to place, 
 unmolested and unseen. He had now conceived a villanous project ; 
 and he had visited Devereux Court in order to ascertain the likelihood 
 of its success ; he there found that it was necessary to involve me in his 
 scheme. IMy uncle's physician had said privately that Sir William 
 could not live many months longer. Either from Gerald or my mother 
 Montreuil learned this fact ; and he was resolved, if possible, that the 
 family estates should not glide from all chance of his influence over them 
 into your possession. Montreuil was literally as poor as the rigid law 
 of his order enjoins its disciples to be ; all his schemes required the dis- 
 posal of large sums, and in no private source could he hope for such 
 pecuniary power as he was likely to find in the coffers of any member 
 of our family, yourself only excepted. It was this man's boast to want, 
 and yet to command, all things ; and he was now determined that if any 
 craft, resolution, or guilt could occasion the transfer of my uncle's wealth 
 from you to Gerald or to myself, it should not be wanting. 
 
 Now, then, he found the advantage of the dissensions with each othei 
 which he had cither sown or mellowed in our breasts. He came to turn 
 those wrathful thoughts which when he last saw me I had expressed 
 towards you to the favor and success of his design. He found my mind 
 strangely altered, but he affected to applaud the change. He ques- 
 tioned me respecting my uncle's health, and I told him what had really 
 
 27 
 
418 DEVEREUX. 
 
 occurred ; namely, that my uncle had on the preceding day read over to 
 me some part of a will which lie had just made, and in which the vast 
 bulk of his property was bequeathed to you. At this news Montreuil 
 must have perceived at once the necessity of winning my consent to his 
 project ; for, since I had seen the actual testament, no fraudulent trans- 
 fer of the property therein bequeathed could take place without my 
 knowledge that some fraud had been recurred to. Montreuil knew me 
 well; he knew that avarice, that pleasure, that ambition, were powerless 
 words with me, producing no effect and affording no temptation: but he 
 knew that passion, jealousy, spiritual terrors, were the springs that 
 moved every part and nerve of my moral being. The two former, then, 
 he now put into action ; the last he held back in reserve. He spoke to 
 me no further upon the subject he had then at heart ; not a word 
 further on the disposition of the estates : he spoke to me only of Isora 
 and of you ; he aroused, by hint and insinuation, the new sleep into 
 which all those emotions — the furies of the heart — had been for a 
 moment lulled. He told me he had lately seen Isora ; he dwelt glow- 
 ingly on her beauty ; he commended my heroism in resigning her to a 
 brother whose love for her was little in comparison to mine, who had, 
 in reality, never loved vie, — whose jests and irony had been levelled no 
 less at myself than at others. He painted your person and your mind, 
 in contrast to my own, in colors so covertly depreciating as to irritate 
 more and more that vanity with which jealousy is so woven, and from 
 which, perhaps (a Titan son of so feeble a parent), it is born. He hung 
 lingeringly over all the treasure that you would enjoy and that I — T, 
 the first discoverer, had so nobly and so generously relinquished. 
 
 " Relinquished ! " I cried, " no, I was driven from it ; I left it not while 
 a hope of possessing it remained." The priest affected astonishment. 
 " How ! was I sure of that ? I had, it is true, wooed Isora ; but would 
 she, even if she had felt no preference for Morton, would she have 
 surrendered the heir to a princely wealth for the humble love of the 
 younger son ? I did not know women : with them all love was either 
 wantonness, custom, or pride ; it was the last principle that swayed 
 Isora. Had I sought to enlist it on my side? Xot at all. Again, I 
 had only striven to detach Isora from Morton ; had I ever attempted 
 the much easier task of detaching ^lorton from Isora ? Xo, never ; " 
 and Montreuil repeated his panegyric on my generous surrender of my 
 rights. I interrupted him ; " I had not surrendered : I never would 
 surrender while a hope remained. But, where was that hope, and how 
 was it to be realized?" After much artful prelude, the priest ex- 
 plained. He proposed to use every means to array against your union 
 with Isora all motives of ambition, interest, and aggrandizement. " I 
 know ^lorton's character," said he, " to its very depths. His chief vir- 
 
DEVEREUX. 419 
 
 tue is honour ; liis chief principle is ambition. He will not attempt to 
 win this girl otherwise than by marria<5e ; for the very reasons that 
 would induce most men to attempt it, namely, her unfriended state, her 
 poverty, her confidence in him, and her love, or that semblance of love 
 which he believes to be the passion itself. This virtue, — I call it so, 
 though it is none, for there is no virtue out of religion, — this virtue, 
 then, will place before him only two plans of conduct, either to marry 
 her or to forsake her. Now, then, if we can bring his ambition, that 
 great lever of his conduct, in opposition to the first alternative, only the 
 last remains : I say that we can employ that engine in your behalf ; 
 leave it to me, and I will do so. Then, Aubrey, in the moment of her 
 pique, her resentment, her outraged vanity, at being thus left, you shall 
 appear ; not as you have hitherto done in menace and terror, but soft, 
 subdued, with looks all love, with vows all penitence; vindicating all 
 your past vehemence by the excess of your passion, and promising all 
 future tenderness by the intluenee of the same motive, the motive which 
 to a woman pardons every error and hallows every crime. Then will 
 she contrast your love with your brother's : then will the scale fall from 
 her eyes ; then will she see what hitherto she has been blinded to, that 
 your brother, to yourself, is a satyr to Hyperion; then will she blush 
 and falter, and hide her cheek in your bosom." " Hold, hold ! " I cried : 
 " do with me what you will ; counsel, and I will act ! " 
 
 Here again tlie manuscript was defaced by a sudden burst 
 of execration upon Montreuil, followed hj ravings that grad- 
 ually blackened into the most gloomy and incoherent out- 
 pourings of madness; at length the history proceeded. 
 
 You wrote to ask me to sound our uncle on the subject of your in- 
 tended marriage. Montreuil drew up my answer; and I constrained 
 myself, despite my revived hatred to you, to transcribe its expressions 
 of affection. ]\Iy uncle wrote to you also; and we strengthened his dis- 
 like to the step you had proposed, by hints from myself disrespectful to 
 Tsora, and an anonymous communication dated from London and to 
 the same purport. All this while I knew not that Isora had been in 
 your house ; your answer to my letter seemed to imply that you would 
 not disobey my uncle. INIontreuil, who was still lurking in the neigh- 
 bourhood and who at night privately met or sought me, affected exulta- 
 tion at the incipient success of his advice. He pretended to receive 
 perpetual intelligence of your motions and conduct, and he informed me 
 now that Tsora had come to your house on hearing of your wound ; that 
 you had not (agreeably, ^lontreuil added to his view of your character) 
 taken advantage of her indiscretion ; that immediately on receiving your 
 
420 DEVEREUX, 
 
 uncle's and my own letters, you bad separated yourself from her ; and, 
 that though you still visited her, it was apparently with a view of break- 
 ing off all connection by gradual and gentle steps ; at all events, you 
 had taken no measures towards marriage. " Now, then," said Mon- 
 treuil, " for one finishing stroke, and the prize is yours. Your uncle 
 cannot, you find, live long : could he but be persuaded to leave his 
 property to Gerald or to you, with only a trifling legacy (comparatively 
 speaking) to Morton, that worldly-minded and enterprising person 
 would be utterly prevented from marrying a penniless and unknown 
 foreigner. Nothing but his own high prospects, so utterly above the 
 necessity of fortune in a wife, can excuse such a measure now, even to 
 his own mind ; if therefore, we can effect this transfer of property, and 
 in the meanwhile prevent Morton from marrying, your rival is gone for- 
 ever, and with his brilliant advantages of wealth will also vanish his 
 merits in the eyes of Isora. Do not be startled at this thought : there 
 is no crime in it ; I, your confessor, your tutor, the servant of the 
 Church, am the last person to counsel, to hint even, at what is criminal ; 
 but the end sanctifies all means. By transferring this vast property, 
 you do not only insure your object, but you advance the great cause of 
 Kings, the Church, and of the Religion which presides over both. 
 Wealth, in Morton's possession, will be useless to this cause, perhaps 
 pernicious : in your hands or in Gerald's, it will be of inestimable ser- 
 vice. Wealth produced from the public should be applied to the uses 
 of the public, yea, even though a petty injury to one individual be the 
 price." 
 
 Thus, and in this manner, did Montreuil prepare my mind for the 
 step he meditated ; but I was not yet ripe for it. So inconsistent is 
 guilt, that I could commit murder, wrong, almost all villany that passion 
 dictated, but I was struck aghast by the thought of fraud. Montreuil 
 perceived that I was not yet wholly his, and his next plan was to remove 
 me from a spot where I might check his measures. He persuaded me 
 to travel for a few weeks. " On your return,'' said he, " consider Isora 
 yours ; meanwhile, let change of scene beguile suspense." I was passive 
 in his hands, and I went whither he directed. 
 
 Let me be brief here on the black fraud that ensued. Among the 
 other arts of Jean Desmarais, was that of copying exactly any hand- 
 writing. He was then in London, in your service : Montreuil sent for 
 him to come to the neighbourhood of Devereux Court. ^Meanwhile, the 
 priest had procured from the notary who had drawn up, and who now 
 possessed, the will of my unsuspecting uncle, that document. The 
 notary had been long known to, and sometimes politically employed by, 
 Montreuil, for he was half-brother to that Oswald, whom I have before 
 mentioned as the early comrade of the priest and Desmarais. This 
 
DEVEREUX. 421 
 
 circumstance, it is probable, first induced Montreuil to contemplate the 
 plan of a substituted will. Before Desmarais arrived, in order to copy 
 those parts of the will which my uncle's humour had led him to write in 
 his own hand, you, alarmed by a letter from my uncle, came to the 
 Court, and on the same day Sir William (taken ill the preceding even- 
 ing) died. Between that day and the one on which the funeral occurred 
 the will was copied by Desmarais ; only Gerald's name was substituted 
 for yours, and the forty thousand pounds left to him — a sum equal to that 
 bestowed on myself — was cut down into a legacy of twenty thousand 
 pounds to you. Less than this Montreuil dared not insert as the be- 
 quest to you : and it is possible that the same regard to probabilities 
 prevented all mention of himself in the substituted will. This was all 
 the alteration made. My uncle's writing was copied exactly ; and, save 
 the departure from his apparent intentions in your favour, I believe not 
 a particle in the effected fraud was calculated to excite suspicion. 
 Immediately on the reading of the will, Montreuil repaired to me and 
 confessed what had taken place. 
 
 " Aubrey," he said, " I have done this for your sake partly ; but I 
 have had a much higher end in view than even your happiness or my 
 affectionate wishes to promote it. I live solely for one object, — the 
 aggrandizement of that holy order to which I belong ; the schemes of 
 that order are devoted only to the interests of Heaven, and by serving 
 them I serve Heaven itself. Aubrey, child of my adoption and of my 
 earthly hopes, those schemes require carnal instruments, and work, even 
 through Mammon, unto the goal of righteousness. What I have done ia 
 just before God and man. I have wrested a weapon from the hand of 
 an enemy, and placed it in the hand of an ally. I have not touched one 
 atom of this wealth, though, with the same ease with which I have trans- 
 ferred it from Morton to Gerald, I might have made my own private 
 fortune. I have not touched one atom of it; nor for you, whom I love 
 more than any living being, have I done what my heart dictated. I 
 might have caused the inheritance to pass to you. I have not done so. 
 Why? Because then I should have consulted a selfish desire at the 
 expense of the interests of mankind. Gerald is fitter to be the tool those 
 interests rec^uire than you are. Gerald I have made that tool. You, 
 too, I have spared the pangs which your conscience, so peculiarly, so 
 morbidly acute, might suffer at being selected as the instrument of a 
 seeming wrong to Morton. All required of you is silence. If your 
 wants ever ask more than your legacy, you have, as I have, a claim to 
 that wealth which your pleasure allows Gerald to possess. Meanwhile, 
 let us secure to you that treasure dearer to you than gold." 
 
 If Montreuil did not quite blind me by speeches of this nature, my 
 engrossing, absorbing passion required little to make it cling to any hope 
 
422 DEVEREUX. 
 
 of its fruition. I assented, therefore, though not without many previous 
 struggles, to Montreuil's project, or rather to its concealment ; nay, I 
 wrote some time after, at his desire and his dictation, a letter to you, 
 stating feigned reasons for my uncle's alteration of former intentions, 
 and exonerating Gerald from all connivance in that alteration, or abet- 
 ment in the fraud you professed that it was your open belief had been 
 committed. This was due to Gerald ; for at that time, and for aught 
 I know, at the present, he was perfectly unconscious by what means he 
 had attained his fortune : he believed that your love for Isora had given 
 my uncle offence, and hence your disinheritance; and Montreuil took 
 effectual care to exasperate him against you, by dwelling on the malice 
 which your suspicions and your proceedings against him so glaringly 
 testified. Whether Montreuil really thought you would give over all 
 intention of marrying Isora upon your reverse of fortune, which is likely 
 enough from his estimate of your character ; or whether he only wished 
 by any means to obtain my acquiescence in a measure important to his 
 views, I know not, but he never left me, nor ever ceased to sustain my 
 fevered and unhallowed hopes, from the hour in which he first communi- 
 cated to me the fraudulent substitution of the will till we repaired to- 
 gether to London. This we did not do so long as he could detain me in 
 the country by assurances that I should ruin all by appearing before 
 Isora until you had entirely deserted her. 
 
 Morton, hitherto I have written as if my veins were filled with water, 
 instead of the raging fire that flows through them until it reaches my 
 brain, and there it stops, and eats away all things, — even memory, that 
 once seemed eternal ! Now I feel as I approach the consummation of 
 — ha — of what — ay, of what ? Brother, did you ever, when you thought 
 yourself quite alone, at night, not a breath stirring, — did you ever raise 
 your eyes, and see exactly opposite to you a devil? — a dread thing, that 
 moves not, speaks not, but glares upon you with a fixed, dead, unrelent- 
 ing eye ? — that thing is before me now and witnesses every word I write. 
 But it deters me not ! no, nor terrifies me. I have said that I would 
 fulfil this task, and I have nearly done it; though at times the gray 
 cavern yawned, and I saw its rugged walls stretch — stretch away, on 
 either side, until they reached hell ; and there I beheld — but I will not 
 tell you till we meet there I Now I am calm again : read on. 
 
 We could not discover Isora nor her home : perhaps the priest took 
 care that it should be so; for, at that time, what with his devilish whis- 
 pers and my own heart, I often scarcely knew what I was or what I 
 desired ; and I sat for hours and gazed upon the air, and it seemed so 
 soft and still that I longed to make an opening in my forehead that it 
 might enter there, and so cool and quiet the dull, throbbing, scorching 
 anguish that lay like molten lead in my brain ; at length we found the 
 
DEVEREUX. 423 
 
 house. " To-morrow," said the Abbe, and he shed tears over me, — for 
 there were times wlien that hard man did feel, — " to-morrow, my child, 
 thou shalt see her ; but be soft and calm." To-morrow came ; but Mon- 
 treuil was pale, paler than I had ever seen him, and he gazed upon me 
 and said, '* Not to-day, Son, not to-day ; she has gone out, and w^ill not 
 return till nightfall." My brother, the evening came, and with it came 
 Desmarais ; he came in terror and alarm. " The villain Oswald," he 
 said, " has betrayed all ; he drew me aside and told me so. * Hark ye, 
 Jean,' he whispered, ' hark ye : your master has my brother's written 
 confession and the real will ; but I have provided for your safety, and 
 if he pleases it, for Montreuil's. The packet is not to be opened till the 
 seventh day ; fly before then. But I know," added Desmarais, " where 
 the packet is placed ; " and he took Montreuil aside, and for a while I 
 heard not what they said ; but I did overhear Desmarais at last, and I 
 learned that it was your bridal nicjht. 
 
 What felt I then ? The same tempestuous fury, — the same whirl- 
 wind and storm of heart that I had felt before, at the mere anticipation 
 of such an event ? No ; I felt a bright ray of joy flash through me. 
 Yes, joy; but it was that joy which a conqueror feels when he knows 
 his mortal foe is in his power and when he dooms that enemy to death. 
 " They shall perish, and on this night," I said inly. " I have sworn it; 
 I swore to Isora that the bridal couch should be stained with blood, and 
 I will keep the oath ! " I approached the pair ; they were discussing 
 the means for obtaining the packet. Montreuil urged Desmarais to 
 purloin it from the place where you had deposited it, and then to 
 abscond; but to this plan Desmarais was vehemently opposed. He 
 insisted that there would be no possible chance of his escape from a 
 search so scrutinizing as that which would necessarily ensue, and he evi- 
 dently resolved not alone to incur the danger of the theft. " The Count," 
 said he, " saw that I was present when he put away the packet. Suspi- 
 cion will fall solely on me. Whither should I fly? No : I will serve you 
 with my talents, but not with my life." " Wretch," said ^lontreuil, " if 
 that packet is opened, thy life is already gone." " Yes," said Desmarais; 
 " but we may yet purloin the papers, and throw the guilt upon some 
 other quarter. What if I admit you when the Count is abroad ? What 
 if you steal the packet, and carry away other articles of more seeming 
 value ? What, too, if you wound me in the arm or the breast, and I cola 
 some terrible tale of robbers, and of my resistance, could we not manage 
 then to throw suspicion upon common housebreakers, — nay, could we not 
 throw it upon Oswald himself ? Let us silence that traitor by death, and 
 who shall contradict our tale ? No danger shall attend this plan. I will 
 <rive -^ou the key of the escritoire : the theft will not be the work of a 
 moment." Montreuil at first demurred to this proposal, but Desmarais 
 
424 DEVEREUX. 
 
 was, I repeat, resolved not to incur the danger of the theft alone ; the 
 stake was great, and it was not in Montreuil's nature to shrink from peril, 
 when once it became necessary to confront it. " Be it so," he said, at last, 
 " thouo-h the scheme is full of difficulty and of danger : be it so. We have 
 not a day to lose. To-morrow the Count will place the document in some 
 place of greater safety, and unknown to us : the deed shall be done to-night. 
 Procure the key of the escritoire ; admit me this night ; I will steal dis- 
 guised into the chamber ; I will commit the act from which you, who alone 
 could commit it with safety, shrink. Instruct me exactly as to the place 
 where the articles you speak of are placed : I will abstract them also. 
 See that if the Count wake, he has no weapon at hand. Wound yourself, 
 as you say, in some place not dangerous to life, and to-morrow, or within 
 an hour after my escape, tell what tale you will, I will go, meanwhile, at 
 once to Oswald ; I will either bribe his silence — ay, and his immediate 
 absence from England — or he shall die. A death that secures our own 
 self-preservation is excusable in the reading of all law, divine or human." 
 
 I heard, but they deemed me insensible : they had already begun to 
 grow unheeding of my presence. Montreuil saw me, and his counte- 
 nance grew soft. " I know all," I said, as I caught his eye which looked 
 on me in pity, " I know all : they are married. Enough 1 — with my 
 hope ceases my love : care not for me." 
 
 Montreuil embraced and spoke to me in kindness and in praise. He 
 assured me that you had kept your wedding so close a secret that he 
 knew it not, nor did even Desmarais, till the evening before, — till after 
 he had proposed that I should visit Isora that very day. 1 know not, I 
 care not, whether he was sincere in this. In whatever way one line in 
 the dread scroll of his conduct be read, the scroll was written in guile, 
 and in blood was it sealed. I appeared not to notice Montreuil or his 
 accomplice any more. The latter left the house first. Montreuil stole 
 forth, as he thought, unobserved ; he was masked, and in complete dis- 
 guise. I, too, went forth. I hastened to a shop where such things were 
 jirocured ; I purchased a mask and cloak similar to the priest's. I had 
 heard Montreuil agree with Desmarais that the door of the house should 
 be left ajar, in order to give greater facility to the escape of the former ; 
 I repaired to the house in time to see Montreuil enter it. A strange, 
 sharp sort of cunning, which I had never known before, ran through 
 the dark confusion of my mind. I waited for a minute, till it was likely 
 that Montreuil had gained your chamber ; I then pushed open the door, 
 and ascended the stairs. I met no one ; the moonlight fell around me, 
 and its rays seemed to me like ghosts, pale and shrouded, and gazing 
 upon me with wan and lustreless eyes. I know not how I found your 
 chamber, but it was the only one I entered. I stood in the same room 
 with Isora and yourself: ye lay in sleep; Isora's face — O God! I 
 
DEVEREUX. 425 
 
 know no more — no more of that night of horror — save that I fled from 
 the house reeking with blood, — a murderer, — and the murderer of 
 Isora I 
 
 Then came a long, long dream. I was in a sea of blood, — blood-red 
 was the sky, and one still, solitary star that gleamed far away with a 
 sickly and wan light was the only spot, above and around, which was 
 not of the same intolerable dye. And I thought my eyelids were cut 
 off, as those of the Roman consul are said to have been, and 1 had noth- 
 ing to shield my eyes from that crimson light, and the rolling waters of 
 that unnatural sea. And the red air burned through my eyes into my 
 brain, and then that also, methought, became blood; and all memory, — 
 all images of memory, — all idea, — wore a material shape and a material 
 colour, and were blood too. Everything was unutterably silent, except 
 when my own shrieks rang over the shoreless ocean, as I drifted on. 
 At last I fixed my eyes — the eyes which I might never close — upon 
 that pale and single star ; and after I had gazed a little while, the star 
 seemed to change slowly — slowly — until it grew like the pale face of 
 that murdered girl, and then it vanished utterly, and all was blood ! 
 
 This vision was sometimes broken, sometimes varied by others, but it 
 always returned ; and when at last I completely woke from it, I was in 
 Italy, in a convent. Montreuil had lost no time in removing me from 
 England. But once, shortly after my recovery, for I was mad for many 
 months, he visited me, and he saw what a wreck I had become. He 
 pitied mc ; and when I told him I longed above all things for liberty — 
 for the green earth and the fresh air, and a removal from that gloomy 
 abode — he opened the convent gates and blessed me, and bade me go 
 forth. " All I require of you," said he, " is a promise. If it be under- 
 stood that you live, you will be persecuted by inquiries and questions 
 •which will terminate in a conviction of your crime : let it therefore be 
 reported in England that you are dead. Consent to the report, and 
 promise never to quit Italy nor to see Morton Devereux." 
 
 I promised ; and that promise I have kept : but I promised not that 
 I would never reveal to you, in writing, the black tale which I have now 
 recorded. ]\Iay it reach you ! There is one in this vicinity who has 
 undertaken to bear it to you : he says he has known misery ; and when 
 he said so, his voice sounded in my ear like yours ; and I looked upon 
 him, and thought his features were cast somewhat in the same mould as 
 your own ; so I have trusted him. I have now told all. I have wrenched 
 the secret from my heart in agony and with fear. I have told all : 
 though things which I believe are fiends have started forth from the 
 grim walls around to forbid it ; though dark wings have swept by me, 
 and talons, as of a bird, have attempted to tear away the paper on 
 which I write ; though eyes, whose light was never drunk from earth, 
 
426 DEVEREUX, 
 
 have glared on ine ; and mocking voices and horrible laughter have made 
 my flesh creep, and thrilled through the marrow of my bones, — I have 
 told all ; I have finished my last labour in this world, and I will now lie 
 down and die. 
 
 Aubrey Devereux. 
 
 Tlie paper dropped from my hands. Whatever I had felt 
 in reading it, I had not flinched once from the task. From 
 the first word even to the last, I had gone through the dreadful 
 tale, nor uttered a syllable, nor moved a limb. And now as I 
 rose, though I had found the being who to me had withered 
 this world into one impassable desert; though I had found 
 the unrelenting foe and the escaped murderer of Isora, the 
 object of the execration and vindictiveness of years, — not one 
 single throb of wrath, not one single sentiment of vengeance, 
 was in my breast. I passed at once to the bedside of my 
 brother: he was awake, but still and calm, — the calm and 
 stillness of exhausted nature. I knelt down quietly beside 
 him. I took his hand, and I shrank not from the touch, 
 though by that hand the only woman I ever loved had 
 perished. 
 
 " Look up, Aubrey ! " said I, struggling with tears which, 
 despite of my most earnest effort, came over me ; "' look up : 
 all is forgiven. Who on earth shall withhold pardon from a 
 crime which on earth has been so awfully punished? Look 
 up, Aubrey ; I am your brother, and I forgive you. You are 
 right : my childhood was harsh and fierce ; and had you feared 
 me less you might have confided in me, and you would not 
 have sinned and suffered as you have done now. Fear me no 
 longer. Look up, Aubrey, it is Morton who calls you. Why 
 do you not speak? My brother, my brother, — a word, a sin- 
 gle word, I implore you." 
 
 For one moment did Aubrey raise his eyes, one moment did 
 he meet mine. His lips quivered wildly: I heard the death- 
 rattle; he sank back, and his hand dropped from my clasp. 
 My words had snapped asunder the last chord of life. Merci- 
 ful Heaven! I thank Thee that those words were the words 
 of pardon ! 
 
DEVEREUX. 427 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 IN WHICH THE HISTORY MAKES A GREAT STRIDE TOWARDS 
 
 THE FINAL CATASTROPHE. THE RETURN TO ENGLAND, AND 
 
 THE VISIT TO A DEVOTEE. 
 
 At night, and in the thrilling forms of the Catholic ritual, 
 was Aubrey Devereux consigned to earth. After that cere- 
 mony I could linger no longer in the vicinity of the hermit- 
 age. I took leave of the Abbot and richly endowed his convent 
 in return for the protection it had afforded to the anchorite, 
 and the Masses which had been said for his soul. Before I 
 left Anselmo, I questioned him if any friend to the Hermit 
 had ever, during his seclusion, held any communication with 
 the Abbot respecting him. Anselmo, after a little hesitation, 
 confessed that a man, a Frenchman, seemingly of no high 
 rank, had several times visited the convent, as if to scrutinize 
 the habits and life of the anchorite ; he had declared himself 
 commissioned by the Hermit's relations to make inquiry of 
 him from time to time; but he had given the Abbot no clew 
 to discover himself, though Anselmo had especially hinted at 
 the expediency of being acquainted with some quarter to 
 which he could direct any information of change in the Her- 
 mit's habits or health. This man had been last at the convent 
 about two months before the present date; but one of the 
 brothers declared that he had seen him in the vicinity of the 
 well on the very day on which the Hermit died. The descrip- 
 tion of this stranger was essentially different from that which 
 would have been given of Montreuil, but I imagined that if 
 not the Abbe himself, the stranger was one in his confidence 
 or his employ. 
 
 I now repaired to Eome, where I made the most extensive 
 though guarded inquiries after Montreuil, and at length I 
 learned that he was lying concealed, or rather unnoticed, in 
 England, under a disguised name; having, by friends or by 
 
428 DEVEKEUX. 
 
 money, obtained therein a tacit connivance, though not an 
 open pardon. No sooner did I learn this intelligence, than I 
 resolved forthwith to depart to that country. I crossed the 
 Alps, traversed France, and took ship at Calais for Dover. 
 
 Behold me, then, upon the swift seas bent upon a double 
 purpose, — reconciliation with a brother whom I had wronged, 
 and vengeance, — no, not vengeance, but justice against the 
 criminal I had discovered. No ! it was not revenge : it was 
 no infuriate, no unholy desire of inflicting punishment upon 
 a personal foe which possessed me; it was a steady, calm, 
 unwavering resolution, to obtain justice against the profound 
 and systematized guilt of a villain who had been the bane of 
 all who had come within his contact, that nerved my arm and 
 engrossed my heart. Bear witness, Heaven, I am not a vin- 
 dictive man! I have, it is true, been extreme in hatred as in 
 love; but I have ever had the power to control myself from 
 yielding to its impulse. When the full persuasion of Gerald's 
 crime reigned within me, I had thralled my emotion; I had 
 curbed it within the circle of my own heart, though there, 
 thus pent and self -consuming, it was an agony and a torture ; 
 I had resisted the voice of that blood which cried from the 
 earth against a murderer, and which had consigned the 
 solemn charge of justice to my hands. Year after year I 
 had nursed an unappeased desire; nor ever when it stung 
 the most, suffered it to become an actual revenge. I had 
 knelt in tears and in softness by Aubrey's bed; I had poured 
 forth my pardon over him; I had felt, while I did so, — no, 
 not so much sternness as would have slain a worm. By his 
 hand had the murderous stroke been dealt; on his soul was 
 the crimson stain of that blood which had flowed through the 
 veins of the gentlest and the most innocent of God's creat- 
 ures; and yet the blow was unavenged and the crime for- 
 given. For him there was a palliative, or even a gloomy 
 but an unanswerable excuse. In the confession which had 
 so terribly solved the mystery of my life, the seeds of that 
 curse, which had grown at last into madness, might be dis- 
 covered even in the first dawn of Aubrey's existence. The 
 latent poison might be detected in the morbid fever of his 
 
DEVEREUX. 429 
 
 young devotion, in his jealous cravings of affection, in the 
 first flush of his ill-omened love, even before rivalship and 
 wrath began. Then, too, his guilt had not been regularly- 
 organized into one cold and deliberate system : it broke forth 
 in impetuous starts, in frantic paroxysms ; it was often 
 wrestled with, though by a feeble mind ; it was often con- 
 quered by a tender though a fitful temper ; it might not 
 have rushed into the last and most awful crime, but for 
 the damning instigation and the atrocious craft of one, who 
 (Aubrey rightly said) could wield and mould the unhappy 
 victim at his will. Might not, did I say? Nay, but for Mon- 
 treuil's accursed influence, had I not Aubrey's own word that 
 that crime never would have been committed? He had re- 
 solved to stifle his love, — his heart had already melted to 
 Isora and to me, — he had already tasted the sweets of a vir- 
 tuous resolution, and conquered the first bitterness of opposi- 
 tion to his passion. Why should not the resolution thus 
 auspiciously begun have been mellowed into effect? Why 
 should not the grateful and awful remembrance of the crime 
 he had escaped continue to preserve him from meditating 
 crime anew? And (oh, thought, which, while I now write, 
 steals over me and brings with it an unutterable horde of emo- 
 tions !) but for that all-tainting, all-withering influence, Au- 
 brey's soul might at this moment have been pure from murder 
 and Isora — the living Isora — by my side! 
 
 What wonder, as these thoughts came over me, that sense, 
 feeling, reason, gradually shrank and hardened into one stern 
 resolve? I looked as from a height over the whole conduct 
 of Montreuil. I saw him in our early infancy with no defi- 
 nite motive (beyond the general policy of intrigue), no fixed 
 design, which might somewhat have lessened the callousness 
 of the crime, not only fomenting dissensions in the hearts of 
 brothers; not only turning the season of warm affections, and 
 yet of unopened passion, into strife and rancour, but seizing 
 upon the inherent and reigning vice of our bosoms, which he 
 should have seized to crush, in order only by that master-vice 
 to weave our characters, and sway our conduct to his will, 
 whenever a cool-blooded and merciless policy required us to 
 
430 DEVEREUX. 
 
 be of that will the minions and the tools. Thus had he taken 
 hold of the diseased jealousy of Aubrey, and by that handle, 
 joined to the latent spring of superstition, guided him on 
 his wretched course of misery and guilt. Thus, by a moral 
 irresolution in Gerald had he bowed him also to his purposes, 
 and by an infantine animosity between that brother and my- 
 self, held us both in a state of mutual hatred which I shud- 
 dered to recall. Readily could I now perceive that my charges 
 or my suspicions against Gerald, which, in ordinary circum- 
 stances, he might have dispassionately come forward to dis- 
 prove, had been represented to him by Montreuil in the light 
 of groundless and wilful insults ; and thus he had been led to 
 scorn that full and cool explanation which, if it had not elu- 
 cidated the mystery of my afflictions, would have removed 
 the false suspicion of guilt from himself and the real guilt of 
 wrath and animosity from me. 
 
 The crime of the forged will, and the outrage to the dead 
 and to myself, was a link in his woven guilt which I regarded 
 the least. I looked rather to the black and the consummate 
 craft by which Aubrey had been implicated in that sin ; and 
 my indignation became mixed with horror when I saw Mon- 
 treuil working to that end of fraud by the instigation not only 
 of a guilty and unlawful passion, but of the yet more unnat- 
 ural and terrific engine of frenzy, — of a maniac's despair. 
 Over the peace, the happiness, the honour, the virtue of a 
 whole family, through fraud and through blood, this priest 
 had marched onward to the goal of his icy and heartless am- 
 bition, unrelenting and unrepenting; "but not," I said, as I 
 clenched my hand till the nails met in the flesh, "not forever 
 unchecked and unrequited ! " 
 
 But in what manner was justice to be obtained? A public 
 court of law? What! drag forward the deep dishonour of my 
 house, the gloomy and convulsive history of my departed 
 brother, his crime and his insanity? What! bring that his- 
 tory, connected as it was with the fate of Isora, before the 
 curious and the insolent gaze of the babbling world? Bare 
 that awful record to the jests, to the scrutiny, the marvel and 
 the pity, of that most coarse of all tribunals, — an English 
 
DEVEREUX. 431 
 
 court of law? and that most torturing of all exposures, — the 
 vulgar comments of an English public? Could I do this? 
 Yea, in the sternness of my soul, I felt that I could submit 
 even to that humiliation, if no other way presented itself by 
 which I could arrive at justice. Was there no other way? — 
 at that question conjecture paused: I formed no scheme, or 
 rather, I formed a hundred and rejected them all ; my mind 
 settled, at last, into an indistinct, unquestioned, but prophetic 
 resolution, that, whenever my path crossed Montreuil's, it 
 should be to his destruction. I asked not how, nor when, 
 the blow was to be dealt; I felt only a solemn and exultant 
 certainty that, whether it borrowed the sword of the law, or 
 the weapon of private justice, mine should be the hand which 
 brought retribution to the ashes of the dead and the agony of 
 the survivor. 
 
 So soon as my mind had subsided into this determination, I 
 suffered my thoughts to dwell upon subjects less sternly 
 agitating. Fondly did I look forward to a meeting with Ger- 
 ald, and a reconciliation of all our early and most frivolous 
 disputes. As an atonement for the injustice my suspicions 
 had done him, I resolved not to reclaini my inheritance. My 
 fortune was already ample; and all that I cared to possess of 
 the hereditary estates were the ruins of the old house and the 
 copses of the surrounding park: these Gerald would in all 
 likelihood easily yield to me ; and with the natural sanguine- 
 ness of my temperament, I already planned the reconstruction 
 of the ancient building, and the method of that solitary life 
 in which I resolved that the remainder of my years should be 
 spent. 
 
 Turning from this train of thought, I recurred to the mys- 
 terious and sudden disappearance of Oswald: that I was now 
 easily able to account for. There could be no doubt but that 
 Montreuil had (immediately after the murder), as he declared 
 he would, induced Oswald to quit England, and preserve si- 
 lence, either by bribery or by threats. And when I recalled 
 the impression which the man had made upon me, — an im- 
 pression certainly not favourable to the elevation or the rigid 
 honesty of his mind, — I could not but imagine that one or 
 
432 DEVEREUX. 
 
 the other of tliese means Montreuil found far from difficult of 
 success. The delirious fever into which the wounds and the 
 scene of that night had thrown me, and the long interval that 
 consequently elapsed before inquiry was directed to Oswald, 
 gave him every opportunity and indulgence in absenting him- 
 self from the country, and it was not improbable that he had 
 accompanied Aubrey to Italy. 
 
 Here I paused, in deep acknowledgment of the truth of 
 Aubrey's assertion, that "under similar circumstances I might 
 perhaps have been equally guilty." My passions had indeed 
 been " intense and fierce as his own ; " and there was a dread 
 coincidence in the state of mind into which each of us had 
 been thrown by the event of that night, which made the 
 epoch of a desolated existence to both of us; if mine had 
 been but a passing delirium, and his a confirmed and lasting 
 disease of the intellect, the causes of our malady had been 
 widely different. He had been the criminal; I, only the 
 sufferer. 
 
 Thus, as I leaned over the deck and the waves bore me 
 homeward, after so many years and vicissitudes, did the shad- 
 ows of thought and memory flit across me. How seemingly 
 apart, yet how closely linked, had been the great events in 
 my wandering and wild life! My early acquaintance with 
 Bolingbroke, whom for more than nine years I had not seen, 
 and who, at a superficial glance, would seem to have exercised 
 influence over my public rather than my private life, — how 
 secretly, yet how powerfully, had that circumstance led even 
 to the very thoughts which now possessed me, and to the very 
 object on which I was now bound. But for that circumstance 
 I might not have learned of the retreat of Don Diego d'Al- 
 varez in his last illness ; I might never have renewed my love 
 to Isora; and whatever had been her fate, destitution and 
 poverty would have been a less misfortune than her union 
 with me. But for my friendship for Bolingbroke, I might 
 not have visited France, nor gained the favour of the Eegent, 
 nor the ill offices of Dubois, nor the protection and kindness 
 of the Czar. I might never have been ambassador at the 
 court of , nor met with Bezoni, nor sought an asylum for 
 
DEVEREUX. 433 
 
 a spirit sated with pomp and thirsting for truth, at the foot 
 of the Apennines, nor read that history (which, indeed, might 
 then never have occurred) that now rankled at my heart, urg- 
 ing my movements and colouring my desires. Thus, by the 
 finest but the strongest meshes had the thread of my political 
 honours been woven with that of my private afflictions. And 
 thus, even at the licentious festivals of the Kegent of France, 
 
 or the lifeless parade of the court of , the dark stream 
 
 of events had flowed onward beneath my feet, bearing me 
 insensibly to that very spot of time from which I now sur- 
 veyed the past and looked upon the mist and shadows of the 
 future. 
 
 Adverse winds made the little voyage across the Channel a 
 business of four days. On the evening of the last we landed 
 at Dover. Within thirty miles of that town was my mother's 
 retreat; and I resolved, before I sought a reconciliation with 
 Gerald or justice against Montreuil, to visit her seclusion. 
 Accordingly, the next day I repaired to her abode. 
 
 What a contrast is there between the lives of human be- 
 ings! Considering the beginning and the end of all mortal 
 careers are the same, how wonderfully is the interval varied ! 
 Some, the weeds of the world, dashed from shore to shore, — 
 all vicissitude, enterprise, strife, disquiet; others, the world's 
 lichen, rooted to some peaceful rock, growing, flourishing, 
 withering on the same spot, — scarce a feeling expressed, 
 scarce a sentiment called forth, scarce a tithe of the proper- 
 ties of their very nature expanded into action. 
 
 There was an air of quiet and stillness in the red quad- 
 rangular building, as my carriage stopped at its porch, which 
 struck upon me, like a breathing reproach to those who sought 
 the abode of peace with feelings opposed to the spirit of the 
 place. A small projecting porch was covered with ivy, and 
 thence issued an aged portress in answer to my summons. 
 
 "The Countess Devereux," said she, "is now the superior 
 of this society [convent they called it not], and rarely ad- 
 mits any stranger." 
 
 I gave in my claim to admission, and was ushered into a 
 small parlour: all there, too, was still, — the brown oak wain- 
 
 23 
 
434 DEVEREUX. 
 
 scoting, tlie huge chairs, the few antique portraits, the unin- 
 habited aspect of the chamber, — all were silently eloquent of 
 quietude, but a quietude comfortless and sombre. At length 
 my mother appeared. I sprang forward : my childhood was 
 before me, — years, care, change were forgotten, — I was a boy 
 again, — I sprang forward, and was in my mother's embrace! 
 It was long before, recovering myself, I noted how lifeless 
 and chill was that embrace, but I did so at last, and my 
 enthusiasm withered at once. 
 
 We sat down together, and conversed long and uninter- 
 ruptedly, but our conversation was like that of acquaintances, 
 not the fondest and closest of all relations (for I need scarcely 
 add that I told her not of my meeting with Aubrey, nor unde- 
 ceived her with respect to the date of his death). Every mo- 
 nastic recluse that I had hitherto seen, even in the most 
 seeming content with retirement, had loved to converse of the 
 exterior world, and had betrayed an interest in its events: 
 for my mother only, worldly objects and interests seemed ut- 
 terly dead. She expressed little surprise to see me, — little 
 surprise at my alteration; she only said that my mien was 
 improved, and that I reminded her of my father : she testified 
 no anxiety to hear of my travels or my adventures ; she testi- 
 fied even no willingness to speak of herself; she described to 
 me the life of one day, and then said that the history of ten 
 years was told. A close cap confined all the locks for whose 
 rich luxuriance and golden hue she had once been noted, — for 
 here they were not the victim of a vow, as in a nunnery they 
 would have been, — and her dress was plain, simple, and \\n- 
 adorned. Save these alterations of attire, none were visible 
 in her exterior; the torpor of her life seemed to have par- 
 alyzed even time; the bloom yet dwelt in her unwrinkled 
 cheek ; the mouth had not fallen ; the faultless features were 
 faultless still. But there was a deeper stillness than ever 
 breathing through this frame : it was as if the soul had been 
 lulled to sleep; her mien was lifeless; her voice was lifeless; 
 her gesture was lifeless ; the impression she produced was like 
 that of entering some chamber which has not been entered 
 before for a century. She consented to my request to stay 
 
DEVEREUX. 435 
 
 with her all the day : a bed was prepared for me ; and at sun- 
 rise the next morning I was folded once more in the chilling 
 mechanism of her embrace, and dismissed on my journey to 
 the metropolis. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE RETREAT OF A CELEBRATED MAN, AND A VISIT TO 
 A GREAT POET. 
 
 I ARRIVED in town, and drove at once to Gerald's house. 
 It was not difficult to find it, for in my young day it had been 
 
 the residence of the Duke of ; and wealthy as I knew 
 
 was the owner of the Devereux lands, I was somewhat startled 
 at the extent and the magnificence of his palace. To my in- 
 expressible disappointment, I found that Gerald had left Lon- 
 don a day or two before my arrival on a visit to a nobleman 
 nearly connected with our family, and residing in the same 
 county as that in which Devereux Court was situated. Since 
 the fire, which had destroyed all of the old house but the one 
 tower which I had considered as peculiarly my own, Gerald, 
 I heard, had always, in visiting his estates, taken up his 
 abode at the mansion of one or other of his neighbours; and 
 
 to Lord 's house I now resolved to repair. My journey 
 
 was delayed for a day or two, by accidentally seeing at the 
 door of the hotel, to which I drove from Gerald's house, the 
 favourite servant of Lord Bolingbroke. 
 
 This circumstance revived in me, at once, all my attach- 
 ment to that personage, and hearing he was at his country 
 house, within a few miles from town, I resolved the next 
 morning to visit him. It was not only that I contemplated 
 with an eager yet a melancholy interest an interview with 
 one whose blazing career I had long watched, and whose 
 letters (for during the years we had been parted he wrote to 
 me often) seemed to testify the same satiety of the triumphs 
 
436 DEVEREUX. 
 
 and gauds of ambition which had brought something of wisdom 
 to myself; it was not only that I wished to commune with 
 that Bolingbroke in retirement whom I had known the oracle 
 of statesmen and the pride of courts ; nor even that I loved 
 the man, and was eager once more to embrace him. A fiercer 
 and more active motive urged me to visit one whose knowl- 
 edge of all men and application of their various utilities 
 were so remarkable, and who even in his present peace and 
 retirement would not improbably be acquainted with the 
 abode of that unquiet and plotting ecclesiastic whom I now 
 panted to discover, and whom Bolingbroke had of old often 
 guided or employed. 
 
 When my carriage stopped at the statesman's door, I was 
 informed that Lord Bolingbroke was at his farm. Farm! 
 how oddly did that word sound in my ear, coupled as it was 
 with the name of one so brilliant and so restless! 
 
 I asked the servant to direct me where I should find him, 
 and, following the directions, I proceeded to the search alone. 
 It was a day towards the close of autumn, bright, soft, clear, 
 and calm as the decline of a vigorous and genial age. I walked 
 slowly through a field robbed of its golden grain, and as I 
 entered another I saw the object of my search. He had seem- 
 ingly just given orders to a person in a labourer's dress, who 
 was quitting him, and with downcast eyes he was approach- 
 ing towards me. I noted how slow and even was the pace 
 which, once stately, yet rapid and irregular, had betrayed the 
 haughty but wild character of his mind. He paused often, 
 as if in thought, and I observed that once he stopped longer 
 than usual, and seemed to gaze wistfully on the ground. Af- 
 terwards (when I had joined him) we passed that spot, and I 
 remarked, with a secret smile, that it contained one of those 
 little mounds in which that busy and herded tribe of the in- 
 sect race, which have been held out to man's social state at 
 once as a mockery and a model, held their populous home. 
 There seemed a latent moral in the pause and watch of the 
 disappointed statesman by that mound, which afforded a clew 
 to the nature of his reflections. 
 
 He did not see me till I was close before him, aud had 
 
DEVEREUX. 437 
 
 called him by his name, nor did he at first recognize me, for 
 my garb was foreign, and ray upper lip unshaven; and, as I 
 said before, years had strangely altered me; but when he did, 
 he testified all the cordiality I had anticipated. I linked my 
 arm in his, and we walked to and fro for hours, talking of all 
 that had passed since and before our parting, and feeling our 
 hearts warm to each other as we talked. 
 
 "The last time I saw you," said he, "how widely did our 
 hopes and objects differ ! Yours from my own : you seemingly 
 had the vantage-ground, but it was an artificial eminence, and 
 my level state, though it appeared less tempting, was more 
 secure. I had just been disgraced by a misguided and un- 
 grateful prince. I had already gone into a retirement where 
 my only honours were proportioned to my fortitude in bear- 
 ing condemnation, and my only flatterer was the hope of find- 
 ing a companion and a Mentor in myself. You, my friend, 
 parted with life before you; and you only relinquished the 
 pursuit of Fortune at one court, to meet her advances at an- 
 other. Nearly ten years have flown since that time : my sit- 
 uation is but little changed; I am returned, it is true, to my 
 native soil, but not to a soil more indulgent to ambition and 
 exertion than the scene of my exile. My sphere of action is 
 still shut from me: my mind is still banished.^ You return 
 young in years, but full of successes. Have they brought you 
 happiness, Devereux? or have you yet a temper to envy my 
 content?" 
 
 " Alas ! " said I, " who can bear too close a search beneath 
 the mask and robe? Talk not of me now. It is ungracious 
 for the fortunate to repine; and I reserve whatever may dis- 
 quiet me within for your future consolation and advice. At 
 present speak to me of yourself; you are happy, then?" 
 
 "I am!" said Bolingbroke, emphatically. "Life seems 
 to me to possess two treasures: one glittering and precarious; 
 the other of less rich a show, but of a more solid value. The 
 one is Power, the other Virtue ; and there is this main differ- 
 
 1 I need scarcely remind the reader that Lord Bolingbroke, though he 
 had received a full pardon, was forbidden to resume his seat in the House 
 of Lords. — Ed. 
 
438 DEVEREUX. 
 
 euce between the two, — Power is intrusted to us as a loan 
 ever required again, and with a terrible arrear of interest; 
 Virtue obtained by us as a hoon which we can only lose through 
 our own folly, when once it is acquired. In my youth I was 
 caught by the former ; hence my errors and my misfortunes ! 
 In my declining years I have sought the latter; hence my 
 palliatives and my consolation. But you have not seen my 
 home, and all its attractions," added Bolingbroke, with a 
 smile which reminded me of his former self. " I will show 
 them to you." And we turned our steps to the house. 
 
 As we walked thither I wondered to find how little melan- 
 choly was the change Bolingbroke had undergone. Ten years, 
 which bring man from his prime to his decay, had indeed left 
 their trace upon his stately form, and the still unrivalled 
 beauty of his noble features; but the manner gained all that 
 the form had lost. In his days of more noisy greatness, there 
 had been something artificial and unquiet in the sparkling al- 
 ternations he had loved to adopt. He had been too fond of 
 changing wisdom by a quick turn into wit, — too fond of the 
 affectation of bordering the serious with the gay, business with 
 pleasure. If this had not taken from the polish of his man- 
 ner, it had diminished its dignity and given it the air of be- 
 ing assumed and insincere. Now all was quiet, earnest, and 
 impressive; there was tenderness even in what was melan- 
 choly: and if there yet lingered the affectation of blending 
 the classic character with his own, the character was more 
 noble and the affectation more unseen. But this manner was 
 only the faint mirror of a mind which, retaining much of its 
 former mould, had been embellished and exalted by adversity, 
 and which if it banished not its former faculties, had acquired 
 a thousand new virtues to redeem them. 
 
 "You see," said my companion, pointing to the walls of the 
 hall, which we had now entered, "the subject which at pres- 
 ent occupies the greater part of my attention. I am meditat- 
 ing how to make the hall most illustrative of its owner's 
 pursuits. You see the desire of improving, of creating, and 
 of associating the improvement and the creation with our- 
 selves, follows us banished men even to our seclusion. I 
 
DEVEREUX. 439 
 
 think of having those walls painted with the implements of 
 husbandry, and through pictures of spades and ploughshares 
 to express my employments and testify my content in them." 
 
 "Cincinnatus is a better model than Aristippus: confess 
 it," said I, smiling. "But if the senators come hither to 
 summon you to power, will you resemble the Roman, not only 
 in being found at your plough, but in your reluctance to leave 
 it, and your eagerness to return? " 
 
 "What shall I say to you?" replied Bolingbroke. "Will 
 you play the cynic if I answer no ? We should not boast of 
 despising power, when of use to others, but of being contented 
 to live without it. This is the end of my philosophy ! But 
 let me present you to one whom I value more now than I 
 valued power at any time." 
 
 As he said this, Bolingbroke threw open the door of an 
 apartment, and introduced me to a lady with whom he had 
 found that domestic happiness denied him in his first mar- 
 riage. The niece of Madame de Maintenon, this most charm- 
 ing woman possessed all her aunt's wit, and far more than all 
 her aunt's beauty.-' She was in weak health; but her vivacity 
 was extreme, and her conversation just what should be the 
 conversation of a woman who shines without striving for it. 
 
 The business on which I was bound only allowed me to stay 
 two days with Bolingbroke, and this I stated at first, lest 
 he should have dragged me over his farm. 
 
 "Well," said my host, after vainly endeavouring to induce 
 me to promise a longer stay, "if you can only give us two 
 days, I must write and excuse myself to a great man with 
 whom I was to dine to-day. Yet, if it were not so inhospita- 
 ble, I should like much to carry you with me to his house; 
 for I own that I wish you to see my companions, and to learn 
 that if I still consult the oracles, they are less for the predic- 
 tions of fortune than as the inspirations of the god." 
 
 1 I am not ashamed to say to you that I admire her more every hour of 
 my life. — Letter from Lord Bolingbroke to Swift. 
 
 Bolingbroke loved her to the List ; and perhaps it is just to a man so cele- 
 brated for his gallantries to add that this beautiful and accomplished woman 
 seems to have admired and esteemed as much as she loved him. — Ed. 
 
440 DEVEREUX. 
 
 "Ah!" said Lady Bolingbroke, who spoke in French, "I 
 know whom you allude to. Give him my homage, and assure 
 him, when he next visits us, we will appoint six dames du 
 palais to receive and pet him." 
 
 Upon this I insisted upon accompanying Bolingbroke to 
 the house of so fortunate a being, and he consented to my 
 wish with feigned reluctance, but evident pleasure. 
 
 "And who," said I to Lady Bolingbroke, "is the happy 
 object of so much respect?" 
 
 Lady Bolingbroke answered, laughing, that nothing was so 
 pleasant as suspense, and that it would be cruel in her to de- 
 prive me of it; and we conversed with so much zest that it 
 was not till Bolingbroke had left the room for some moments 
 that I observed he was not present. I took the opportunity 
 to remark that I was rejoiced to find him so happy and with 
 such just cause for happiness. 
 
 " He is happy, though at times he is restless. How, chained 
 to this oar, can he be otherwise?" answered Lady Boling- 
 broke, with a sigh; "but his friends," she added, "who most 
 enjoy his retirement, must yet lament it. His genius is not 
 wasted here, it is true: where could it be wasted? But who 
 does not feel that it is employed in too confined a sphere? 
 And yet — " and I saw a tear start to her eye — " I, at least, 
 ought not to repine. I should lose the best part of my happi- 
 ness if there was nothing I could console him for." 
 
 "Believe me," said I, "I have known Bolingbroke in the 
 zenith of his success ; but never knew him so worthy of con- 
 gratulation as no7v ! " 
 
 "Is that flattery to him or to me?" said Lady Bolingbroke, 
 smiling archly, for her smiles were quick successors to her 
 tears. 
 
 ^^ Detur digmorif" answered I; "bx;t you must allow that, 
 though it is a fine thing to have ail that the world can give, 
 it is still better to gain something that the world cannot 
 take away?" 
 
 " Are you also a philosopher?" cried Lady Bolingbroke, gayly. 
 "Ah, poor me! In my youth, my portion was the cloister;* 
 1 She was brought up at St. Cyr. — Ed. 
 
DEVEREUX. 441 
 
 in my later years I am banished to the porch ! You have 
 no conception, Monsieur Devereux, what wise faces and pro- 
 found maxims we have here, especially as all who come to 
 visit my lord think it necessary to quote Tully, and talk 
 of solitude as if it were a heaven! Les pauvres bons gens! 
 they seem a little surprised when Henry receives them smil- 
 ingly, begs them to construe the Latin, gives them good wine, 
 and sends them back to London with faces half the length 
 they were on their arrival. Mais void, Ilonsieur, le fermier 
 philosophe ! " 
 
 And Bolingbroke entering, I took my leave of this lively 
 and interesting lady and entered his carriage. 
 
 As soon as we were seated, he pressed me for my reasons 
 for refusing to prolong my visit. As I thought they would 
 be more opportune after the excursion of the day was over, 
 and as, in truth, I was not eager to relate them, I begged to 
 defer the narration till our return to his house at night, and 
 then I directed the conversation into a new channel. 
 
 *'My chief companion," said Bolingbroke, after describing 
 to me his course of life, " is the man you are about to visit. 
 He has his frailties and infirmities,-^ and in saying that, I 
 only imply that he is human, — but he is wise, reflective, gen- 
 erous, and affectionate ; add these qualities to a dazzling wit, 
 and a genius deep, if not sublime, and what wonder that we 
 forget something of vanity and something of fretfulness, — 
 effects rather of the frame than of the mind. The wonder 
 only is that, with a body the victim to every disease, crippled 
 and imbecile from the cradle, his frailties should not be more 
 numerous,' and his care, his thoughts, and attentions not 
 wholly limited to his own complaints. For the sickly are al- 
 most of necessity selfish; and that mind must have a vast 
 share of benevolence which can always retain the softness of 
 charity and love for others, when pain and disease constitute 
 the morbid links that perpetually bind it to self. If this 
 great character is my chief companion, my chief correspond- 
 ent is not less distinguished; in a word, no longer to keep 
 you in suspense. Pope is my companion and Swift my 
 correspondent." 
 
442 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " You are fortunate, but so also are they. Your letter in- 
 formed me of Swift's honourable exile in Ireland: how does 
 he bear it?" 
 
 " Too feelingly : his disappointments turn his blood to acid. 
 He said, characteristically enough, in one of his letters, that 
 in fishing once when he was a little boy, he felt a great fish 
 at the end of his line, which he drew up almost to the ground, 
 but it dropped in, and the disappointment, he adds, vexes 
 him to this day, and he believes it to be the type of all his 
 future disappointments : ^ it is wonderful how reluctantly a 
 very active mind sinks into rest." 
 
 1 In this letter Swift adds, " I should be ashamed to say this if you [Lord 
 Bolingbroke] had not a spirit fitter to bear your own misfortuues than I have 
 to think of them ; " and this is true. Nothing can be more striking, or more 
 honourable to Lord Bolingbroke, than the contrast between Swift's letters 
 and that nobleman's upon the subject of their mutual disappointments. I 
 especially note the contrast, because it has been so grievously the cant of 
 Lord Bolingbroke's decriers to represent his affection for retirement as 
 hoUow, and his resignation in adversity as a boast rather than a fact. Now 
 I will challenge any one thoroughly and dispassionately to examine what is 
 left to us of the life of this great man, and after having done so, to select 
 from all modern history an example of one who, in the prime of life and 
 height of ambition, ever passed from a very active and exciting career into 
 retirement and disgrace, and bore the change — long, bitter, and permanent 
 as it was — with a greater and more thoroughly sustained magnanimity than 
 did Lord Bolingbroke. He has been reproached for taking part in political 
 contests in the midst of his praises and " affected enjoyment " of retirement j 
 and this, made matter of reproach, is exactly the subject on which he seems 
 to me the most worthy of praise. For, putting aside all motives for action, 
 on the purity of which men are generally incredulous, as a hatred to ill 
 government (an antipathy wonderfully strong in wise men, and wonderfully 
 weak in fools), the honest impulse of the citizen, and the better and higher 
 sentiment, to which Bolingbroke appeared peculiarly alive, of affection to 
 mankind, — putting these utterly aside, — it must be owned that resignation 
 is the more noble in proportion as it is the less passive ; that retirement is 
 only a morbid selfishness if it prohibit exertions for others ; that it is only 
 really dignified and noble when it is the shade whence issue the oracles that 
 are to instruct mankind ; and that retirement of this nature is the sole seclu- 
 sion which a good and wise man will covet or commend. Tlie very philosophy 
 which makes such a man seek the quiet, makes him eschew the mutiliti/ of the 
 hermitage. Very little praiseworthy to me would have seemed Lord Boling- 
 broke among his haymakers and ploughmen, if among haymnkers and plough* 
 men he had looked with an indifferent eye upon a profligate Minister and 
 
DEVEREUX. 443 
 
 "Yet why should retirement be rest? Do you recollect in 
 the first conversation we ever had together, we talked of 
 Cowley? Do you recollect how justly, and even sublimely, 
 he has said, 'Cogitation is that which distinguishes the soli- 
 tude of a God from that of a wild beast ' ? " 
 
 "It is finely said," answered Bolingbroke; "but Swift was 
 born not for cogitation but action; for turbulent times, not 
 for calm. He ceases to be great directly he is still; and his 
 bitterness at every vexation is so great that I have often 
 thought, in listening to him, of the Abbe de Cyran, who, 
 attempting to throw nutshells out of the bars of his window, 
 and constantly failing in the attempt, exclaimed in a paroxysm 
 of rage, 'Thus does Providence delight in frustrating my 
 designs ! ' " 
 
 " But you are fallen from a far greater height of hope than 
 Swift could ever have attained: you bear this change well, 
 but not / hope without a struggle." 
 
 " You are right, — not without a struggle ; while corruption 
 thrives, I will not be silent; while bad men govern, I will 
 not be still." 
 
 In conversation of this sort passed the time, till we arrived 
 at Pope's villa. 
 
 We found the poet in his study, — indued, as some of his 
 pictures represent him, in a long gown and a velvet cap. He 
 received Bolingbroke with great tenderness, and being, as he 
 said, in robuster health than he had enjoyed for months, 
 he insisted on carrying us to his grotto. I know nothing 
 more common to poets than a pride in what belongs to their 
 houses ; and perhaps to a man not ill-natured, there are few 
 things more pleasant than indulging the little weaknesses of 
 those we admire. We sat down in a small temple made en- 
 tirely of shells ; and whether it was that the Creative Genius 
 gave an undue charm to the place, I know not: but as the 
 
 a A-enal parliament ; very little interest in my eyes would have attached 
 itself to his beans and vetches, had beans and vetches caused him to forget 
 that if he was happier in a farm, he could be more useful in a senate, and 
 made him forego, in the sphere of a bailiff, all care for re-entering that of a 
 legislator. — Ed. 
 
444 DEVEREUX. 
 
 murmur of a rill, glassy as the Blandusian fountain, was 
 caught, and re-given from side to side by a perpetual echo, 
 and through an arcade of trees, whose leaves, ever and anon, 
 fell startingly to the ground beneath the light touch of the 
 autumn air ; as you saw the sails on the river pass and van- 
 ish, like the cares which breathe over the smooth glass of 
 wisdom, but may not linger to dim it, it was not difficult to 
 invest the place, humble as it was, with a classic interest, or 
 to recall the loved retreats of the Eoman bards, without smil- 
 ing too fastidiously at the contrast. 
 
 " Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen, 
 Within thy airy shell, 
 By slow Meander's margin green. 
 
 Or by the violet embroidered vale 
 Where the lovelorn nightingale 
 Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well ; 
 
 Sweet Echo, dost thou shun those haunts of yore, 
 And in the dim caves of a northern shore 
 Delight to dwell ! " 
 
 "Let the compliment to you, Pope," said Bolingbroke, 
 " atone for the profanation of weaving three wretched lines of 
 mine with those most musical notes of Milton." 
 
 '' Ah ! " said Pope, " would that you could give me a fitting 
 inscription for my fount and grotto! The only one I can 
 remember is hackneyed, and yet it has spoilt me, I fear, for 
 all others. 
 
 " ' Hujus Nympha loci, sacri custodia foutis 
 
 Dormio dum blandaj seutio murmur aqua; ; 
 Parce meum, quistpiis tanges cava marmora, somnum 
 Eumpere ; sive bibas, sive lavere, tace.' " ^ 
 
 "We cannot hope to match it," said Bolingbroke, "though 
 
 1 Thus very inadequately translated by Pope (see his Letter to Edward 
 Blount, Esq., descriptive of his grotto) : — 
 
 " Nymph of the grot, these sacred springs I keep. 
 And to tlie murmur of these waters sleep : 
 Ah, spare my shimbers ; gently tread the cave. 
 And drink in silence, or in silence lave." 
 
 It is, however, quite impossible to convey to an unlearned reader the exqui- 
 site and spirit-like beauty of the Latin verses. — Ed. 
 
DEVEREUX. 445 
 
 you know I value myself on these things. But tell me your 
 news of Gay: is he growing wiser?" 
 
 "Not a whit; he is forever a dupe to the spes credula ; al- 
 ways talking of buying an annuity, that he may be indepen- 
 dent, and always spending as fast as he earns, that he may 
 appear munificent." 
 
 "Poor Gay! but he is a common example of the improvi- 
 dence of his tribe, while you are an exception. Yet mark, 
 Devereux, the inconsistency of Pope's thrift and carelessness : 
 he sends a parcel of fruit to some ladies with this note, 'Take 
 care of the papers that wrap the apples, and return them 
 safely; they are the only copies I have of one part of the 
 Iliad. ' Thus, you see, our economist saves his paper, and 
 hazards his epic ! " 
 
 Pope, who is always flattered by an allusion to his negli- 
 gence of fame, smiled slightly and answered, "What man, 
 alas, ever profits by the lessons of his friends? How many 
 exact rules has our good Dean of St. Patrick laid down for 
 both of us ; how angrily still does he chide us for our want 
 of prudence and our love of good living! I intend, in answer 
 to his charges on the latter score, though I vouch, as I well 
 may, for our temperance, to give him the reply of the sage to 
 the foolish courtier — " 
 
 "What was that?" asked Bolingbroke. 
 
 " Why, the courtier saw the sage picking out the best dishes 
 at table. 'How,' said he with a sneer, 'are sages such epi- 
 cures?' — 'Do you think, Sir,' replied the wise man, reach- 
 ing over the table to help himself, 'do you think, Sir, that 
 the Creator made the good things of this world only for 
 fools?'" 
 
 " How the Dean will pish and pull his wig when he reads 
 your illustration," said Bolingbroke, laughing. "We shall 
 never agree in our reasonings on that part of philosophy. 
 Swift loves to go out of his way to find privation or distress, 
 and has no notion of Epicurean wisdom; for my part, I think 
 the use of knowledge is to make us happier. I would com- 
 pare the mind to the beautiful statue of Love by Praxiteles. 
 When its eyes were bandaged the countenance seemed grave 
 
446 DEVEREUX. 
 
 and sad, but the moment you removed the bandage the most 
 serene and enchanting smile diffused itself over the whole 
 face." 
 
 So passed the morning till the hour of dinner, and this re- 
 past was served with an elegance and luxury which the sons 
 of Apollo seldom command.^ As the evening closed, our con- 
 versation fell upon friendship, and the increasing disposition 
 towards it which comes with increasing years. " Whilst my 
 mind," said Bolingbroke, "shrinks more and more from the 
 world, and feels in its independence less yearning to external 
 objects, the ideas of friendship return oftener, — they busy 
 me, they warm me more. Is it that we grow more tender as 
 the moment of our great separation approaches? or is it that 
 they who are to live together in another state (for friendship 
 exists not but for the good) begin to feel more strongly that 
 divine sympathy which is to be the great bond of their future 
 society?"'^ 
 
 While Bolingbroke was thus speaking, and Pope listened 
 with all the love and reverence which he evidently bore to his 
 friend stamped upon his worn but expressive countenance, I 
 inly said, " Surely, the love between minds like these should 
 live and last without the changes that ordinary affections feel ! 
 Who would not mourn for the strength of all human ties, if 
 hereafter these are broken, and asperity succeed to friendship, 
 or aversion to esteem? /, a wanderer, without heir to my 
 memory and wealth, shall pass away, and my hasty and un- 
 mellowed fame will moulder with my clay; but will the 
 names of those whom I now behold ever fall languidly on the 
 ears of a future race, and will there not forever be some sym- 
 pathy with their friendship, softer and warmer than admira- 
 tion for their fame?" 
 
 We left our celebrated host about two hours before mid- 
 night, and returned to Dawley. 
 
 1 Pope seems to have been rather capricious in this respect ; but in general 
 he must be considered open to the sarcasm of displaying the bounteous host 
 to those who did not want a dinner, and the niggard to those who did. — Ed. 
 
 2 This beautiful sentiment is to be found, with very slight alteration, in a 
 letter from Bolingbroke to Swift. — Ed. 
 
DEVEREUX. 447 
 
 On our road thither I questioned Bolingbroke respecting 
 Montreuil, and I found that, as I had surmised, he was able 
 to give me some information of that arch-schemer. Gerald's 
 money and hereditary influence had procured tacit connivance 
 at the Jesuit's residence in England, and Montreuil had for 
 some years led a quiet and unoffending life in close retire- 
 ment. "Lately, however," said Bolingbroke, "I have learned 
 that the old spirit has revived, and I accidentally heard three 
 days ago, when conversing with one well informed on state 
 matters, that this most pure administration has discovered 
 some plot or plots with which Montreuil is connected; I be- 
 lieve he will be apprehended in a few days." 
 
 "And where lurks he?" 
 
 " He was, I heard, last seen in the neighbourhood of your 
 brother's property at Devereux Court, and I imagine it 
 probable that he is still in that neighbourhood." 
 
 This intelligence made me resolve to leave Dawley even 
 earlier than I had intended, and I signified to Lord Boling- 
 broke my intention of quitting him by sunrise the next morn- 
 ing. He endeavoured in vain to combat my resolution. I 
 was too fearful lest Montreuil, hearing of his danger from the 
 state, might baffle my vengeance by seeking some impenetra- 
 ble asylum, to wish to subject my meeting with him and with 
 Gerald, whose co-operation I desired, to any unnecessary de- 
 lay. I took leave of my host therefore that night, and or- 
 dered my carriage to be in readiness by the first dawn of 
 morning. 
 
 CHAPTER YTI. 
 
 THE PLOT APPROACHES ITS D:6x0UEMENT. 
 
 Although the details of my last chapter have somewhat 
 retarded the progress of that denouement with which this vol- 
 ume is destined to close, yet I do not think the destined 
 
448 DEVEREUX. 
 
 reader will regret lingering over a scene in wliich, after years 
 of restless enterprise and exile, he beholds the asylum which 
 fortune had prepared for the most extraordinary character 
 with which I have adorned these pages. 
 
 It was before daybreak that I commenced my journey. The 
 shutters of the house were as yet closed; the gray mists ris- 
 ing slowly from the earth, and the cattle couched beneath the 
 trees, the cold but breezeless freshness of the morning, the 
 silence of the unawakened birds, all gave an inexpressible 
 stillness and quiet to the scene. The horses slowly ascended 
 a little eminence, and I looked from the window of the car- 
 riage on the peaceful retreat I had left. I sighed as I did so, 
 and a sick sensation, coupled with the thought of Isora, came 
 chill upon my heart. Xo man happily placed in this social 
 world can guess the feelings of envy with which a wanderer 
 like me, without tie or home, and for whom the roving eager- 
 ness of youth is over, surveys those sheltered spots in which 
 the breast garners up all domestic bonds, its household and 
 holiest delights; the companioned hearth, the smile of in- 
 fancy, and, dearer than all, the eye that glasses our purest, 
 our tenderest, our most secret thoughts; these — oh, none 
 who enjoy them know how they for whom they are not have 
 pined and mourned for them ! 
 
 I had not travelled many hours, when, upon the loneliest 
 part of the road, my carriage, which had borne me without an 
 accident from Rome to London, broke down. The postilions 
 said there was a small inn about a mile from the spot; thither 
 I repaired : a blacksmith was sent for, and I found the acci- 
 dent to the carriage would require several hours to repair. 
 No solitary chaise did the inn afford; but the landlord, who 
 was a freeholder and a huntsman, boasted one valuable and 
 swift horse, which he declared was fit for an emperor or a 
 highwayman. I was too impatient of delay not to grasp at 
 this intelligence. I gave mine host whatever he demanded 
 for the loan of his steed, transferred my pistols to an immense 
 pair of holsters, which adorned a high demi-pique saddle, 
 wherewith he obliged me, and, within an hour from the date 
 of the accident, recommenced my journey. 
 
DEVEREUX. 449 
 
 The evening closed, as I became aware of the presence of a 
 fellow-traveller. He was, like myself, on horseback. He 
 wore a short, dark gray cloak, a long wig of a raven hue, and 
 a large hat, which, flapping over his face, conspired, with the 
 increasing darkness, to allow me a very imperfect survey of 
 his features. Twice or thrice he had passed me, and always 
 with some salutation, indicative of a desire for further ac- 
 quaintance ; but my mood is not naturally too much inclined 
 to miscellaneous society, and I was at that time peculiarly 
 covetous of my own companionship. I had, therefore, given 
 but a brief answer to the horseman's courtesy, and had ridden 
 away from him with a very unceremonious abruptness. At 
 length, when he had come up to me for the fourth time, and 
 for the fourth time had accosted me, my ear caught some- 
 thing in the tones of his voice which did not seem to me 
 wholly unfamiliar. I regarded him with more attention than 
 I had as yet done, and replied to him more civilly and at 
 length. Apparently encouraged by this relaxation from my 
 reserve, the man speedily resumed. 
 
 "Your horse. Sir," said he, *'is a fine animal, but he seems 
 jaded: you have ridden far to-day, I '11 venture to guess." 
 
 "I have, Sir; but the town where I shall pass the night is 
 not above four miles distant, I believe." 
 
 "Hum — ha! — you sleep at D — — , then?" said the horse- 
 man, inquisitively. 
 
 A suspicion came across me; we were then entering a very 
 lonely road, and one notoriously infested with highwaymen. 
 My fellow equestrian's company might have some sinister 
 meaning in it, I looked to my holsters, and leisurely taking 
 out one of my pistols, saw to its priming, and returned it to 
 its depository. The horseman noted the motion, and he 
 moved his horse rather uneasily, and I thought timidly, to 
 the other side of the road. 
 
 "You travel well armed, Sir," said he, after a pause. 
 
 " It is a necessary precaution. Sir," answered I, com- 
 posedly, " in a road one is not familiar with, and with com- 
 panions one has never had the happiness to meet before," 
 
 "Ahem! — ahem! — Parhleu, Monsieur le Comte, you al- 
 
 29 
 
450 DEVEREUX. 
 
 lude to me; but I warrant this is not the first time vje have 
 met." 
 
 "Ha!" said I, riding closer to my fellow traveller, "you 
 know me, then, and we have met before. I thought I recog- 
 nized your voice, but I cannot remember when or where I last 
 heard it." 
 
 " Oh, Count, I believe it was only by accident that we com- 
 menced acquaintanceship, and only by accident, you see, do 
 we now resume it. But I perceive that I intrude on your 
 solitude. Farewell, Count, and a pleasant night at your inn." 
 
 "Not so fast, Sir," said I, laying firm hand on my compan- 
 ion's shoulder, "I know you now, and I thank Providence 
 that I have found you. Marie Oswald, it is not lightly that 
 I will part with you ! " 
 
 "With all my heart. Sir, with all my heart. But, viorhleu! 
 Monsieur le Comte, do take your hand from my shoulder : I 
 am a nervous man, and your pistols are loaded, and perhaps 
 you are choleric and hasty. I assure you I am far from wish- 
 ing to part with you abruptly, for I have watched you for the 
 last two days in order to enjoy the honour of this interview." 
 
 "Indeed! your wish will save both of us a world of trouble. 
 I believe you may serve me effectually; if so, you will find 
 me more desirous and more able than ever to show my 
 gratitude." 
 
 "Sir, you are too good," quoth Mr. Oswald, with an air far 
 more respectful than he had yet shown me. " Let us make to 
 your inn, and there I shall be most happy to receive your 
 commands." So saying, Marie pushed on his horse, and I 
 urged my own to the same expedition. 
 
 "But tell me," said I, as we rode on, "why you have wished 
 to meet me? — me whom you so cruelly deserted and for- 
 sook? " 
 
 "Oh, parhleu, spare me there! it was not I who deserted 
 you: I was compelled to fly; death, murder, on one side; 
 safety, money, and a snug place in Italy, as a lay-brother of 
 the Institute on the other! What could I do? — you were ill 
 in bed, not likely to recover, not able to protect me in my 
 present peril, in a state that in all probability never would 
 
DEVEREUX. 451 
 
 require my services for the future. Oh, Monsieur le Comte, 
 it Avas not desertion, — that is a cruel word, — it was self-pres- 
 ervation and common prudence." 
 
 "Well," said I, complaisantly, "you apply words better 
 than I applied them. And how long have you been returned 
 to England?" 
 
 "Some few weeks, Count, not more. I was in London when 
 you arrived; I heard of that event; I immediately repaired 
 to your hotel; you were gone to my Lord Bolingbroke's; I 
 followed you thither; you had left Dawley when I arrived 
 there; I learned your route and followed you. Parhleu and 
 morhleu ! I find you, and you take me for a highwayman ! " 
 
 " Pardon my mistake : the clearest-sighted men are subject 
 to commit such errors, and the most innocent to suffer by 
 them. So yiontxQwil jjersuaded you to leave England; did he 
 also persuade you to return? " 
 
 " Xo : I was charged by the Institute with messages to him 
 and others. But we are near the town, Count, let us defer 
 our conversation till then." 
 
 We entered D , put up our horses, called for an apart- 
 ment, — to which summons Oswald added another for wine, 
 — and then the virtuous Marie commenced his explanations. 
 I was deeply anxious to ascertain whether Gerald had ever 
 been made acquainted with the fraud by which he had ob- 
 tained possession of the estates of Devereux; and I found 
 that, from Desmarais, Oswald had learned all that had oc- 
 curred to Gerald since Marie had left England. From Os- 
 wald's prolix communication, I ascertained that Gerald was, 
 during the whole of the interval between my uncle's death 
 and my departure from England, utterly unacquainted with 
 the fraud of the will. He readily believed that my uncle had 
 found good reason for altering his intentions with respect to 
 me; and my law proceedings, and violent conduct towards 
 himself, only excited his indignation, not aroused his suspi- 
 cions. During this time he lived entirely in the country, in- 
 dulging the rural hospitality and the rustic sports which he 
 especially affected, and secretly but deeply involved with 
 Montreuil in political intrigues. All this time the Abbe 
 
452 DEVEREUX. 
 
 made no further use of him than to borrow whatever sums he 
 required for his purposes. Isora's death, and the confused 
 story of the document given me by Oswald, Montreuil had in- 
 terpreted to Gerald according to the interpretation of the 
 world; namely, he had thrown the suspicion upon Oswald, as 
 a common villain, who had taken advantage of my credulity 
 about the will, introduced himself into the house on that 
 pretence, attempted the robbery of the most valuable articles 
 therein, — which, indeed, he had succeeded in abstracting, — 
 and who, on my awaking and contesting with him and his 
 accomplice, had, in self-defence, inflicted the wounds which 
 had ended in my delirium and Isora's death. This part of 
 my tale Montreuil never contradicted, and Gerald believed it 
 to the present day. The affair of 1715 occurred; the govern- 
 ment, aware of Gerald's practices, had anticipated his design 
 of joining the rebels; he was imprisoned; no act of overt 
 guilt on his part was proved, or at least brought forward; 
 and the government not being willing, perhaps, to proceed to 
 violent measures against a very young man, and the head of 
 a very powerful house, connected with more than thirty 
 branches of the English hereditary nobility, he received his 
 acquittal just before Sir William Wyndham and some other 
 suspected Tories received their own. 
 
 Prior to the breaking out of that rebellion, and on the eve 
 of Montreuil's departure for Scotland, the priest summoned 
 Desmarais, whom, it will be remembered, I had previously 
 dismissed, and whom Montreuil had since employed in vari- 
 ous errands, and informed him that he had obtained for his 
 services the same post under Gerald which the Fatalist had 
 filled under me. Soon after the failure of the rebellion, Dev- 
 ereux Court was destroyed by accidental fire ; and Montreuil, 
 who had come over in disguise, in order to renew his attacks 
 on my brother's coffers ^attacks to which Gerald yielded very 
 sullenly, and with many assurances that he would no more 
 incur the danger of political and seditious projects), now ad- 
 vised Gerald to go up to London, and, in order to avoid the 
 suspicion of the government, to mix freely in the gayeties of 
 the court. Gerald readily consented; for, though internally 
 
DEVEREUX. 453 
 
 convinced that the charms of the metropolis were not equal 
 to those of the country, yet he liked change, and Devereux 
 Court being destroyed, he shuddered a little at the idea of re- 
 building so enormous a pile. Before Gerald left the old tower 
 {my tower) which was alone spared by the flames, and at 
 which he had resided, though without his household, rather 
 than quit a place where there was such "excellent shooting," 
 Montreuil said to Desmarais, *'This ungrateful seigneur de 
 villaye already shows himself the niggard; he must know 
 what we know, — that is our only sure hold of him, — but he 
 must not know it yet ; " and he proceeded to observe that it 
 was for the hotbeds of courtly luxury to mellow and hasten 
 an opportunity for the disclosure. He instructed Desmarais 
 to see that Gerald (whom even a valet, at least one so artful 
 as Desmarais, might easily influence) partook to excess of 
 every pleasure, — at least of every pleasure which a gentle- 
 man might without derogation to his dignity enjoy. Gerald 
 went to town, and very soon became all that Montreuil 
 desired. 
 
 Montreuil came again to England; his great project, Al- 
 beroni's project, had failed. Banished France and Spain, 
 and excluded Italy, he was desirous of obtaining an asylum in 
 England, until he could negotiate a return to Paris. For the 
 first of these purposes (the asylum) interest was requisite; 
 for the latter (the negotiation) money was desirable. He 
 came to seek both these necessaries in Gerald Devereux. 
 Gerald had already arrived at that prosperous state when 
 money is not lightly given away. A dispute arose; and 
 Montreuil raised the veil, and showed the heir on what terms 
 his estates were held. 
 
 Rightly Montreuil had read the human heart! So long as 
 Gerald lived in the country, and tasted not the full enjoy- 
 ments of his great wealth, it would have been highly perilous 
 to have made this disclosure; for, though Gerald had no great 
 love for me, and was bold enough to run any danger, yet he 
 was neither a Desmarais nor a Montreuil. He was that most 
 caprioious thing, a man of honour; and at that day he would 
 instantly have given up the estate to me, and Montreuil and 
 
454 DEVEREUX. 
 
 the philosopher to the hangman. But, after two or three 
 years of every luxury that wealth could purchase ; after liv- 
 ing in those circles, too, where wealth is the highest possible 
 merit, and public opinion, therefore, only honours the rich, 
 fortune became far more valuable and the conscience far less 
 nice. Living at Devereux Court, Gerald had only 30,000(?. 
 a year ; living in London, he had all that 30, OOOZ. a year can 
 purchase : a very great difference this indeed ! Honour is a 
 fine bulwark against a small force; but, unbacked by other 
 principle, it is seldom well manned enough to resist a large 
 one. When, therefore, Montreuil showed Gerald that he 
 could lose his estate in an instant; that the world would never 
 give him credit for innocence, when guilt would have con- 
 ferred on him such advantages ; that he would therefore part 
 with all those et cwtera which, now in the very prime of life, 
 made his whole idea of human enjoyments ; that he would no 
 longer be the rich, the powerful, the honoured, the magnificent, 
 the envied, the idolized lord of thousands, but would sink at 
 once into a younger brother, dependent on the man he most 
 hated for his very subsistence, — since his debts would greatly 
 exceed his portion, — and an object through life of contemptu- 
 ous pity or of covert suspicion; that all this change could 
 happen at a word of Montreuil's, what wonder that he should 
 be staggered, — should hesitate and yield? Montreuil ob- 
 tained, then, whatever sums he required; and through Ger- 
 ald's influence, pecuniary and political, procured from the 
 minister a tacit permission for him to remain in England, 
 under an assumed name and in close retirement. Since then, 
 Montreuil (though secretly involved in treasonable practices) 
 had appeared to busy himself solely in negotiating a pardon 
 at Paris. Gerald had lived the life of a man who, if he has 
 parted with peace of conscience, will make the best of the 
 bargain by procuring every kind of pleasure in exchange ; and 
 le petit Jean Desmarais, useful to both priest and spendthrift, 
 had passed his time very agreeably, — laughing at his employ- 
 ers, studying philosophy, and filling his pockets ; for I need 
 scarcely add that Gerald forgave him without much difficulty 
 for his share in the forgery. A man, as Oswald shrewdly 
 
DEVEREUX. 455 
 
 observed, is seldom inexoral)le to those crimes by which he 
 has profited. "And wliere lurks Montveuil uow?" I asked; 
 "in the neighbourhood of Devereux Court?" 
 
 Oswald looked at me with some surprise. " How learned 
 you that, Sir? It is true. He lives quietly and privately 
 iu that vicinity. The woods around the house, the caves in 
 the beach, and the little isle opposite the castle, afford him in 
 turn an asylum; and the convenience with which correspond- 
 ence with France can be there carried on makes the scene of 
 his retirement peculiarly adapted to his purpose." 
 
 I now began to question Oswald respecting himself; for I 
 was not warmly inclined to place implicit trust in the ser- 
 vices of a man who had before shown himself at once mer- 
 cenary and timid. There was little cant or disguise about 
 that gentleman; he made few pretences to virtues which he 
 did not possess; and he seemed now, both by wine and famil- 
 iarity, peculiarly disposed to be frank. It was he who in 
 Italy (among various other and less private commissions) had 
 been appointed by Montreuil to watch over Aubrey; on my 
 brother's death he had hastened to England, not only to ap- 
 prise Montreuil of that event, but charged with some especial 
 orders to him from certain members of the Institute. He 
 had found Montreuil busy, restless, intriguing, even in se- 
 clusion, and cheered by a recent promise, from Fleuri him- 
 self, that he should speedily obtain pardon and recall. It 
 was, at this part of Oswald's story, easy to perceive the causes 
 of his renewed confidence in me. Montreuil, engaged in new 
 plans and schemes, at once complicated and vast, paid but a 
 slight attention to the wrecks of his past projects. Aubrey 
 dead, myself abroad, Gerald at his command, — he perceived, 
 in our house, no cause for caution or alarm. This, appar- 
 ently, rendered him less careful of retaining the venal ser- 
 vices of Oswald than his knowledge of character should have 
 made him; and when that gentleman, then in London, acci- 
 dentally heard of my sudden arrival in this country, he at 
 once perceived how much more to his interest it would be to 
 serve me than to maintain an ill-remunerated fidelity to Mon- 
 treuil. In fact, as I have since learned, the priest's discre- 
 
456 DEVEREUX. 
 
 tion was less to blame than I then imagined; for Oswald was 
 of a remarkably impudent, profligate, and spendthrift turn; 
 and his demands for money were considerably greater than 
 the value of his services; or perhaps, as Montreuil thought, 
 when Aubrey no longer lived, than the consequence of his 
 silence. When, therefore, I spoke seriously to my new ally 
 of my desire of wreaking ultimate justice on the crimes of 
 Montreuil, I found that his zeal was far from being chilled 
 by my determination, — nay, the very cowardice of the man 
 made him ferocious; and the moment he resolved to betray 
 Montreuil, his fears for the priest's vengeance made him 
 eager to destroy where he betrayed. I am not addicted to 
 unnecessary procrastination. Of the unexpected evidence I 
 had found I was most eager to avail myself. I saw at once 
 how considerably Oswald's testimony would lessen any diffi- 
 culty I might have in an explanation with Gerald, as well as 
 in bringing Montreuil to justice: and the former measure 
 seemed to me necessary to insure, or at least to expedite, the 
 latter. I proposed, therefore, to Oswald, that he should im- 
 mediately accompany me to the house in which Gerald was 
 then a visitor; the honest Marie, conditioning only for an- 
 other bottle, which he termed a travelling comforter, readily 
 acceded to my wish. I immediately procured a chaise and 
 horses ; and in less than two hours from the time we entered 
 the inn we were on the road to Gerald. What an impulse to 
 the wheel of destiny had the event of that one day given ! 
 
 At another time, I might have gleaned amusement from the 
 shreAvd roguery of my companion, but he found me then but a 
 dull listener. I served him, in truth, as men of his stamp 
 are ordinarily served: so soon as I had extracted from him 
 whatever was meet for present use, I favoured him with little 
 further attention. He had exhausted all the communications 
 it was necessary for me to know ; so, in the midst of a long 
 story about Italy, Jesuits, and the wisdom of Marie Oswald, 
 I affected to fall asleep ; my companion soon followed my ex- 
 ample in earnest, and left me to meditate, undisturbed, over 
 all that I had heard, and over the schemes now the most 
 promising of success. I soon taught myself to look with a 
 
DEVEREUX. 457 
 
 lenient eye on Gerald's after-connivance in Montreuil's for- 
 gery ; and I felt that I owed to my surviving brother so large 
 an arrear of affection for the long injustice 1 had rendered 
 him that I was almost pleased to find something set upon the 
 opposite score. All men, perhaps, would rather forgive than 
 be forgiven. I resolved, therefore, to affect ignorance of 
 Gerald's knowledge of the forgery; and, even should he con- 
 fess it, to exert all my art to steal from the confession its 
 shame. From this train of reflection my mind soon directed 
 itself to one far fiercer and more intense ; and I felt my heart 
 pause, as if congealing into marble, when I thought of Mon- 
 treuil and anticipated justice. 
 
 It was nearly noon on the following day when we arrived 
 
 at Lord 's house. We found that Gerald had left it the 
 
 day before, for the enjoyment of the lield-sports at Devereux 
 Court, and thither we instantly proceeded. 
 
 It has often seemed to me that if there be, as certain an- 
 cient philosophers fabled, one certain figure pervading all 
 nature, human and universal, it is the circle. Eound, in one 
 vast monotony, one eternal gyration, roll the orbs of space. 
 Thus moves the spirit of creative life, kindling, progressing, 
 maturing, decaying, perishing, reviving and rolling again, 
 and so onward forever through the same course; and thus 
 even would seem to revolve the mysterious mechanism of 
 human events and actions. Age, ere it returns to "the second 
 childishness, the mere oblivion " from which it passes to the 
 grave, returns also to the memories and the thouglits of youth : 
 its buried loves arise; its past friendships rekindle. The 
 wheels of the tired machine are past the meridian, and the 
 arch through which they now decline has a correspondent 
 likeness to the opposing segment through which they had 
 borne upward in eagerness and triumph. Thus it is, too, that 
 we bear within us an irresistible attraction to our earliest 
 home. Thus it is that we say, "It matters not where our 
 midcourse is run, but we will die in the place where we were 
 born, — in the point of space whence began the circle, there 
 also shall it end!'''' This is the grand orbit through which 
 Mortality passes only once ; but the same figure may pervade 
 
458 DEVEREUX. 
 
 all through which it moves on its journey to the grave. Thus, 
 one peculiar day of the round year has been to some an era, 
 always colouring life with an event. Thus, to others, some 
 peculiar place has been the theatre of strange action, influenc- 
 ing all existence, whenever, in the recurrence of destiny, that 
 place has been revisited. Thus was it said by an arch-sorcerer 
 of old, whose labours yet exist, — though perhaps, at the mo- 
 ment I write, there are not three living beings who know of 
 their existence, — that there breathes not that man who would 
 not find, did he minutely investigate the events of life, that, 
 in some fixed and distinct spot or hour or person, there lived, 
 though shrouded and obscure, the pervading demon of his fate ; 
 and whenever, in their several paths, the two circles of being 
 touched, that moment made the unnoticed epoch of coming 
 prosperity or evil. I remember well that this bewildering 
 yet not unsolemn reflection, or rather fancy, was in my mind, 
 as, after the absence of many years, I saw myself hastening 
 to the home of my boyhood, and cherishing the fiery hope of 
 there avenging the doom of that love which I had there con- 
 ceived. Deeply, and in silence, did I brood over the dark 
 shapes which my thoughts engendered ; and I woke not from 
 my revery, till, as the gray of the evening closed around us, 
 we entered the domains of Devereux Court. The road was 
 rough and stony, and the horses moved slowly on. How fa- 
 miliar was everything before me! The old pollards which 
 lay scattered in dense groups on either side, and which had 
 lived on from heir to heir, secure in the little temptation they 
 afforded to cupidity, seemed to greet me with a silent but in- 
 telligible welcome. Their leaves fell around us in the autumn 
 air, and the branches as they waved towards me seemed to 
 say, " Thou art returned, and thy change is like our own : the 
 green leaves of thy heart have fallen from thee one by one ; 
 like us thou survivest, but thou art desolate ! " The hoarse 
 cry of the rooks, gathering to their rest, came fraught with the 
 music of young associations on my ear. Many a time in the 
 laughing spring had I lain in these groves, watching, in 
 the young brood of those citizens of air, a mark for my child- 
 ish skill and careless disregard of life. We acquire mercy as 
 
DEVEREUX. 459 
 
 we acquire thought: I would not now have harmed one of 
 those sable creatures for a king's ransom! 
 
 As we cleared the more wooded belt of the park, and entered 
 the smooth space, on which the trees stood alone and at rarer 
 intervals, while the red clouds, still tinged with the hues of 
 the departed sun, hovered on the far and upland landscape, — 
 like Hope flushing over Futurity, — a mellowed yet rapid 
 murmur, distinct from the more distant dashing of the sea, 
 broke abruptly upon my ear. It was the voice of that brook 
 whose banks had been the dearest haunt of my childhood; 
 and now, as it burst thus suddenly upon me, I longed to be 
 alone, that I might have bowed down my head and wept as if 
 it had been the welcome of a living thing! At once, and as 
 by a word, the hardened lava, the congealed stream of the 
 soul's Etna, was uplifted from my memory, and the bowers 
 and palaces of old, the world of a gone day, lay before me! 
 With how wild an enthusiasm had I apostrophized that stream 
 on the day in which I first resolved to leave its tranquil re- 
 gions and fragrant margin for the tempest and tumult of the 
 world. On that same eve, too, had Aubrey and I taken sweet 
 counsel together; on that same eve had we sworn to protect, 
 to love, and to cherish one another ! — and now ! — I saw the 
 very mound on which we had sat, — a solitary deer made it 
 his couch, and, as the carriage approached, the deer rose, and 
 then I saw that he had been wounded, perhaps in some con- 
 test with his tribe, and that he could scarcely stir from the 
 spot. I turned my face away, and the remains of my ances- 
 tral house rose gradually in view. That house was indeed 
 changed ; a wide and black heap of ruins spread around ; the 
 vast hall, with its oaken rafters and huge hearth, was no 
 more, — I missed that, and I cared not for the rest. The long 
 galleries, the superb chambers, the scenes of revelry or of 
 pomp, were like the court companions who amuse, yet attach 
 us not; but the hall, the old hall, — the old, hospitable hall, 
 — had been as a friend in all seasons, and to all comers, and 
 its mirth had been as open to all as the heart of its last 
 owner! My eyes wandered from the place where it had been, 
 and the tall, lone, gray tower, consecrated to my ill-fated 
 
460 DEVEREUX. 
 
 namesake, and in which my own apartments had been situated, 
 rose like the last of a warrior band, stern, gaunt, and solitary, 
 over the ruins around. 
 
 The carriage now passed more rapidly over the neglected 
 road, and wound where the ruins, cleared on either side, per- 
 mitted access to the tower. In two minutes mxore I was in 
 the same chamber with my only surviving brother. Oh, 
 why — why can I not dwell upon that scene, that embrace, 
 that reconciliation? — alas! the wound is not yet scarred 
 over. 
 
 I found Gerald, at first, haughty and sullen; he expected 
 my reproaches and defiance, — against them he was hardened; 
 he was not prepared for my prayers for our future friend- 
 ship, and my grief for our past enmity, and he melted at 
 once! 
 
 But let me hasten over this. I had well-nigh forgot that, 
 at the close of my historj'-, I should find one remembrance so 
 endearing, and one pang so keen. Eapidly I sketched to 
 Gerald the ill fate of Aubrey, but lingeringiy did I dwell 
 upon Montreuil's organized and most baneful influence over 
 him, and over us all ; and I endeavoured to arouse in Gerald 
 some sympathy with my own deep indignation against that 
 villain. I succeeded so far as to make him declare that he 
 was scarcely less desirous of justice than myself; but there 
 was an embarrassment in his tone of which I was at no loss 
 to perceive the cause. To accuse Montreuil publicly of his 
 forgery might ultimately bring to light Gerald's latter knowl- 
 edge of the fraud. I hastened to say that there was now no 
 necessity to submit to a court of justice a scrutiny into our 
 private, gloomy, and eventful records. No, from Oswald's 
 communications I had learned enough to prove that Boling- 
 broke had been truly informed, and that Montreuil had still, 
 and within the few last weeks, been deeply involved in 
 schemes of treason, full proof of which could be adduced, far 
 more than sufficient to insure his death by the public execu- 
 tioner. Upon this charge I proposed at the nearest town (the 
 
 memorable seaport of ) to accuse him, and to obtain a 
 
 warrant for his immediate apprehension; upon this charge I 
 
DEVEREUX. 461 
 
 proposed alone to proceed against him, and by it alone to take 
 justice upon his more domestic crimes. 
 
 My brother yielded at last his consent to my suggestions. 
 "I understand," said I, "that Montreuil lurks in the neigh- 
 bourhood of these ruins, or in the opposite islet. Know you 
 if he has made his asylum in either at this present time?" 
 
 "jSTo, my brother," answered Gerald, "but I have reason to 
 believe that he is in our immediate vicinity, for I received a 
 
 letter from him three days ago, when at Lord 's, urging 
 
 a request that I would give him a meeting here, at my earli- 
 est leisure, previous to his leaving England." 
 
 "Has he really then obtained permission to return to 
 France?" 
 
 " Yes, " replied Gerald, " he informed me in this letter that 
 he had just received intelligence of his pardon." 
 
 " May it fit him the better, " said I, with a stern smile, " for 
 a more lasting condemnation. But if this be true we have 
 not a moment to lose : a man so habitually vigilant and astute 
 will speedily learn my visit hither, and forfeit even his ap- 
 pointment with you, should he, which is likely enough, enter- 
 tain any suspicion of our reconciliation with each other; 
 moreover, he may hear that the government have discovered 
 his designs, and may instantly secure the means of flight. 
 
 Let me, therefore, immediately repair to , and obtain a 
 
 warrant against him, as well as officers to assist our search. 
 In the meanwhile you shall remain here, and detain him, 
 should he visit you; but where is the accomplice? — let us 
 seize him instantly, for I conclude he is with you." 
 
 "What, Desmarais?" rejoined Gerald. "Yes, he is the 
 only servant, besides the old portress, which these poor 
 ruins will allow me to entertain in the same dwelling with 
 
 myself; the rest of my suite are left behind at Lord 's. 
 
 But Desmarais is not now within; he went out about two 
 hours ago." 
 
 "Hal " said I, "in all likelihood to meet the priest; shall 
 we wait his return, and extort some information of Mon- 
 treuil's lurking-hole?" 
 
 Before Gerald could answer, we heard a noise without, and 
 
462 DEVEREUX. 
 
 presently I distinguished the bland tones of the hypocritical 
 Fatalist, in soft expostulation with the triumphant voice of 
 Mr. Marie Oswald. I hastened out, and discovered that the 
 lay-brother, whom I left in the chaise, having caught a glimpse 
 of the valet gliding among the ruins, had recognized, seized, 
 and by the help of the postilions, dragged him to the door of 
 the tower. The moment Desmarais saw me he ceased to 
 struggle : he met my eye with a steady but not disrespectful 
 firmness ; he changed not even the habitual hue of his counte- 
 nance, — he remained perfectly still in the hands of his ar- 
 resters ; and if there was any vestige of his mind discoverable 
 in his sallow features and glittering eye, it was not the sign 
 of fear, or confusion, or even surjDrise; but a ready prompt- 
 ness to meet danger, coupled, perhaps, with a little doubt 
 whether to defy or to seek first to diminish it. 
 
 Long did I gaze upon him, — struggling with internal rage 
 and loathing, the mingled contempt and desire of destruction 
 with which we gaze upon the erect aspect of some small but 
 venomous and courageous reptile, — long did I gaze upon him 
 before I calmed and collected my voice to speak : — 
 
 "So I have thee at last! First comes the base tool, and 
 that will I first break, before I lop off the guiding hand." 
 
 "So please Monsieur my Lord the Count," answered Des- 
 marais, bowing to the ground, " the tool is a file, and it would 
 be useless to bite against it." 
 
 "We will see that," said I, drawing my sword; "prepare 
 to die ! " and I pointed the blade to his throat with so sudden 
 and menacing a gesture that his eyes closed involuntarily, 
 and the blood left his thin cheek as white as ashes : but he 
 shrank not. 
 
 "If Monsieur," said he, with a sort of smile, "will kill his 
 poor, old, faithful servant, let him strike. Fate is not to be 
 resisted; and prayers are useless! " 
 
 "OsAvald," said I, "release your prisoner; wait here, and 
 keep strict watch. Jean Desmarais, follow me ! " 
 
 I ascended the stairs, and Desmarais followed. "Now," I 
 said, when he was alone with Gerald and myself, "your days 
 are numbered : you will fall ; not by my hand, but by that of 
 
DEVEREUX. 463 
 
 the executioner. Not only your forgery, but your robbery, 
 your abetment of murder, are known to me; your present 
 lord, with an indignation equal to my own, surrenders you to 
 justice. Have you aught to urge, not in defence — for to that 
 I will not listen — but in atonement? Can you now commit 
 any act which will cause me to forego justice on those which 
 you Art ve committed?" Desmarais hesitated. "Speak," said 
 I. He raised his eyes to mine with an inquisitive and wist- 
 ful look. 
 
 "Monsieur," said the wretch, with his obsequious smile, 
 "Monsieur has travelled, has shone, has succeeded; Monsieur 
 must have made enemies ; let him name them, and his poor, 
 old, faithful servant will do his best to become the humble 
 instrument of their /«^e / " 
 
 Gerald drew himself aside, and shuddered. Perhaps till 
 then he had not been fully aware how slyly murder, as well 
 as fraud, can lurk beneath urbane tones and laced ruffles. 
 
 "I have no enemy," said I, "but one; and the hangman will 
 do my office upon him; but point out to me the exact spot 
 where at this moment he is concealed, and you shall have full 
 leave to quit this country forever. That enemy is Julian 
 Montreuil ! " 
 
 "Ah, ah!" said Desmarais, musingly, and in a tone very 
 different from that in which he usually spoke ; " must it be 
 so, indeed? For twenty years of youth and manhood I have 
 clung to that man, and woven my destiny with his, because I 
 believed him born under the star which shines on statesmen 
 and pontiffs. Does dread Necessity now impel me to betray 
 him? — him, the only man I ever loved. So — so — so ! Count 
 Devereux, strike me to the core : I will not betray Bertrand 
 Collinot!" 
 
 " Mysterious heart of man ! " I exclaimed inly, as I gazed 
 upon the low brow, the malignant eye, the crafty lip of this 
 wretch, who still retained one generous and noble sentiment 
 at the bottom of so base a breast. But if it sprang there, it 
 only sprang to wither! 
 
 "As thou wilt," said I; "remember, death is the alterna- 
 tive. By thy birth-star, Jean Desmarais, I should question 
 
464 DEVEREUX. 
 
 whether perfidy be not better luck than hanging: but time 
 speeds; farewell; I shall meet thee on thy day of trial." 
 
 I turned to the door to summon Oswald to his prisoner. 
 Desmarais roused himself from the revery in which he ap- 
 peared to have sunk. 
 
 "Why do I doubt?" said he, slowly. "Were the alterna- 
 tive his, would he not hang me as he would hang his dog if it 
 went mad and menaced danger? My very noble and merciful 
 master," continued the Fatalist, turning to me, and relapsing 
 into his customary mannei, "it is enough! I can refuse 
 nothing to a gentleman who has such insinuating manners. 
 Montreuil may be in your power this night; but that rests 
 solely with me. If I speak not, a few hours will place him 
 irrevocably beyond your reach. If I betray him to you, 
 will Monsieur swear that I shall have my pardon for past 
 errors ? " 
 
 "On condition of leaving England," I answered, for slight 
 was my comparative desire of justice against Desmarais; and 
 since I had agreed with Gerald not to bring our domestic rec- 
 ords to the glare of day, justice against Desmarais was not 
 easy of attainment; while, on the other hand, so precarious 
 seemed the chance of discovering Montreuil before he left 
 England, without certain intelligence of his movements, that 
 I was willing to forego any less ardent feeling, for the speedy 
 gratification of that which made the sole surviving passion 
 of my existence. 
 
 "Be it so," rejoined Desmarais; "there is better wine in 
 France! And Monsieur my present master, IMonsieur Ger- 
 ald, will you too pardon your poor Desmarais for his proof of 
 the great attachment he always bore to you?" 
 
 "Away, wretch!" cried Gerald, shrinking back; "your 
 villany taints the very air!" 
 
 Desmarais lifted his eyes to heaven, with a look of appeal- 
 ing innocence ; but I was wearied with this odious farce. 
 
 "The condition is made," said I: "remember, it only holds 
 good if Montreuil's person is placed in our power. Now 
 explain. " 
 
 "This night, then," answered Desmarais, "Montreuil pro- 
 
DEVEREUX. 465 
 
 poses to leave England by means of a French privateer, or 
 pirate, if that word please you better. Exactly at the hour 
 of twelve, he will meet some of the sailors upon the seashore, 
 by the Castle Cave ; thence they proceed in boats to the islet, 
 off which the pirate's vessel awaits them. If you would seize 
 Montreuil, you must provide a force adequate to conquer the 
 companions he will meet. The rest is with you; my part is 
 fuliilled." 
 
 "Kemember! I repeat if this be one of thy inventions, 
 thou wilt hang." 
 
 "I have said what is true," said Desmarais, bitterly; "and 
 were not life so very pleasant to me, I would sooner have met 
 the rack." 
 
 I made no reply; but, summoning Oswald, surrendered 
 Desmarais to his charge. I then held a hasty consultation 
 with Gerald, whose mind, however, obscured by feelings of 
 gloomy humiliation, and stunned perhaps by the sudden and 
 close following order of events, gave me but little assistance 
 in my projects. I observed his feelings wdth great pain; but 
 that was no moment for wrestling with them. I saw that I 
 could not depend upon his vigorous co-operation; and that 
 even if Montreuil sought him, he might want the presence of 
 mind and the energy to detain my enemy. I changed there- 
 fore the arrangement we had first proposed. 
 
 "I will remain here," said I, "and I will instruct the old 
 portress to admit to me any one who seeks audience with you. 
 Meanwhile, Oswald and yourself, if you will forgive, and 
 
 grant my request to that purport, wdll repair to , and 
 
 informing the magistrate of our intelligence, procure such 
 armed assistance as may give battle to the pirates, should 
 that be necessary, and succeed in securing ^Montreuil ; the as- 
 sistance maybe indispensable; at all events, it will be pru- 
 dent to secure it: perhaps for Oswald alone, the magistrates 
 would not use that zeal and expedition which a word of yours 
 can command." 
 
 "Of mine?" said Gerald, "say rather of yours; you are 
 the lord of these broad lands ! " 
 
 "jS"ever, my dearest brother, shall they pass to me from 
 
 30 
 
466 DEVEREUX. 
 
 their present owner : but let us hasten now to execute justice ; 
 we will talk afterwards of friendship." 
 
 I then sought Oswald, who, if a physical coward, was mor- 
 ally a ready, bustling, and prompt man; and I felt that I 
 could rely more upon him than I could at that moment upon 
 Gerald. I released him therefore of his charge, and made 
 Desmarais a close prisoner in the inner apartment of the 
 tower. I then gave Oswald the most earnest injunctions to 
 procure the assistance we might require, and to return with it 
 as expeditiously as possible ; and cheered by the warmth and 
 decision of his answer, I saw him depart with Gerald, and 
 felt my heart beat high with the anticipation of midnight 
 and retribution. 
 
 CHAPTER ^^II. 
 
 THE CATASTROPHE. 
 
 It happened unfortunately that the mission to was in- 
 dispensable. The slender accommodation of the tower for- 
 bade Gerald the use of his customary attendants, and the 
 neighbouring villagers were too few in number, and too ill 
 provided with weapons, to encounter men cradled in the very 
 lap of danger; moreover, it was requisite, above all things, 
 that no rumour or suspicion of our intended project should 
 obtain wund, and, by reaching Montreuil's ears, give him 
 some safer opportunity of escape. I had no doubt of the 
 sincerity of the Fatalist's communications, and if I had, the 
 subsequent conversation I held with him, when Gerald and 
 Oswald were gone, would have been sufficient to remove it. 
 He was evidently deeply stung by the reflection of his own 
 treachery, and, singularly enough, with Montreuil seemed to 
 perish all his worldly hopes and aspirations. Desmarais, I 
 found, was a man of much higher ambition than I had im- 
 agined; and he had linked himself closely to INIontreuil, be- 
 cause, from the genius and the resolution of the priest, he 
 
DEVEREUX. 467 
 
 had drawn the most sanguine auguries of his future power. 
 A.S the night advanced, he grew visibly anxious; and, having 
 fully satisfied myself that I might count indisputably upon 
 his intelligence, I once more left him to his meditations, and, 
 alone in the outer chamber, I collected myself for the coming 
 event. I had fully hoped that Montreuil would have repaired 
 to the tower in search of Gerald, and this was the strongest 
 reason which had induced me to remain behind: but time 
 waned; he came not, and at length it grew so late that I 
 
 began to tremble lest the assistance from should not 
 
 arrive in time. 
 
 It struck the first quarter after eleven : in less than an hour 
 my enemy would be either in my power or beyond its reach ; 
 still Gerald and our allies came not; my suspense grew intol- 
 erable, my pulse raged with fever ; I could not stay for two 
 seconds in the same spot ; a hundred times had I drawn my 
 sword, and looked eagerly along its bright blade. "Once," 
 thought I, as I looked, "thou didst cross the blade of my 
 mortal foe, and to my danger rather than victory ; years have 
 brought skill to the hand which then guided thee, and in the 
 red path of battle thou hast never waved in vain. Be stained 
 but once more with human blood, and I will prize every drop 
 of that blood beyond all the triumphs thou hast brought 
 me ! " Yes, it had been with a fiery and intense delight that 
 I had learned tliat Montreuil would have companions to his 
 flight in lawless and hardened men, who would never yield 
 him a prisoner without striking for his rescue ; and I knew 
 enough of the courageous and proud temper of my purposed 
 victim to feel assured that, priest as he was, he would not 
 hesitate to avail himself of the weapons of his confederates or 
 to aid them with his own. Then would it be lawful to oppose 
 violence to his resistance, and with my own hand to deal the 
 death-blow of retribution. Still as these thoughts flashed 
 over me my heart grew harder, and my blood rolled more 
 burningly through my veins. "They come not; Gerald re- 
 turns not," I said, as my eye dwelt on the clock, and saw the 
 minutes creep one after the other: "it matters not; he at 
 least shall not escape ! — were he girt by a million, I would 
 
468 DEVEREUX. 
 
 single him from tlie herd; one stroke of this right hand is all 
 that I ask of life, then let them avenge him if they will." 
 Thus resolved, and despairing at last of the return of Gerald, 
 I left the tower, locked the outer door, as a still further se- 
 curity against my prisoner's escape, and repaired with silent 
 but swift strides to the beach by the Castle Cave. It wanted 
 about half an hour to midnight; the night was still and 
 breathless; a dim mist spread from sea to sky, through 
 which the stars gleamed forth heavily, and at distant inter- 
 vals. The moon was abroad, but the vapours that surrounded 
 her gave a watery and sicklied dulness to her light, and where- 
 ever in the niches and hollows of the cliff the shadows fell, 
 all was utterly dark and unbroken by the smallest ray; only 
 along the near waves of the sea and the whiter parts of the 
 level sand were objects easily discernible. I strode to and 
 fro for a few minutes before the Castle Cave ; I saw no one, 
 and I seated myself in stern vigilance upon a stone, in a worn 
 recess of the rock, and close by the mouth of the Castle Cave. 
 The spot where I sat was wrapped in total darkness, and I felt 
 assured that I might wait my own time for disclosing myself. 
 I had not been many minutes at my place of watch before I 
 saw the figure of a man approach from the left; he moved 
 with rapid steps, and once when he passed along a place 
 where the wan light of the skies was less obscured I saw 
 enough of his form and air to recognize Montreuil. He 
 neared the cave; he paused; he was within a few paces of 
 me ; I was about to rise, when another figure suddenly glided 
 from the mouth of the cave itself. 
 
 "Ha!" cried the latter, "it is Bertrand CoUinot: Fate be 
 lauded!" 
 
 Had a voice from the grave struck my ear, it would have 
 scarcely amazed me more than that which I now heard. 
 Could I believe my senses? the voice was that of Desmarais, 
 whom I had left locked within the inner chamber of the 
 tower! "Fly," he resumed, "fly instantly; you have not a 
 moment to lose : already the stern Morton waits thee ; already 
 the hounds of justice are on thy track; tarry not for the pi- 
 rates, but begone at once." 
 
DEVEREUX. 469 
 
 "You rave, man! What mean you? the boats will be here 
 immediately. While you yet speak methinks I can descry 
 them on the sea. Something of this I dreaded when, some 
 
 hours ago, I caught a glimpse of Gerald on the road to . 
 
 I saw not the face of his companion; but I would not trust 
 myself in the tower: yet I must await the boats; flight is in- 
 deed requisite, but thoy make the only means by which flight 
 is safe ' " 
 
 " Pray, then, thou who believest, pray that they may come 
 soon, or thou diest and I with thee! Morton is returned, — is 
 reconciled to his weak brother. Gerald and Oswald are away 
 
 to for men to seize and drag thee to a public death. I 
 
 was arrested, — threatened; but one way to avoid prison and 
 cord was shown me. Curse me, Bertrand, for I embraced it. 
 I told them thou wouldst fly to-night, and with whom. They 
 locked me in the inner chamber of the tower; Morton kept 
 guard without. At length I heard him leave the room; I 
 heard him descend the stairs, and lock the gate of the tower. 
 Ha! ha! little dreamed he of the wit of Jean Desmarais! 
 Thy friend must scorn bolt and bar, Bertrand Collinot. They 
 had not searched me : I used my instruments ; thou knowest 
 that with those instruments I could glide through stone walls ! 
 — I opened the door ; I was in the outer room ; I lifted the 
 trap door which old Sir William had had boarded over, and 
 Avhich thou hadst so artfully and imperceptibly replaced, 
 when thou wantedst secret intercourse with thy pupils; 1 
 sped along the passage, came to the iron door, touched the 
 spring thou hadst inserted in the plate which the old knight 
 had placed over the key-hole, and have come to repair my 
 coward treachery, to save and to fly with thee. But while I 
 speak we tread on a precipice. Morton has left the house, 
 and is even now perhaps in search of thee." 
 
 "Ha! I care not if he be," said Montreuil, in a low but 
 haughty tone. " Priest though I am, I have not assumed the 
 garb, without assuming also the weapon, of the layman. 
 Even now I have my hand upon the same sword which shone 
 under the banners of ]\rar; and which once, but for my fool- 
 ish mercy, would have rid me forever of this private foe." 
 
470 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " Unslieath it now, Julian Montreuil ! " said I, coming 
 from my retreat, and confronting tlie pair. 
 
 Montreuil recoiled several paces. At that instant a shot 
 boomed along the waters. 
 
 " Haste, haste ! " cried Desmarais, hurrying to the waves, 
 as a boat, now winding the cliff, became darkly visible: 
 "haste, Bertrand, here are Bonjean and his men; but they 
 are pursued ! " 
 
 Once did Montreuil turn, as if to fly ; but my sword was at 
 his breast, and, stamping fiercely on the ground, he drew his 
 rapier and parried and returned my assault; but he retreated 
 rapidly towards the water while he struck; and wild and 
 loud came the voices from the boat, which now touched the 
 shore. 
 
 "Come — come — come — the officers are upon us; we can 
 wait not a moment ! " and Montreuil, as he heard the cries, 
 mingled with oaths and curses, yet quickened his pace to- 
 wards the quarter whence they came. His staps were tracked 
 by his blood: twice had my sword passed through his flesh; 
 but twice had it failed my vengeance, and avoided a mortal 
 part. A second boat, filled also with the pirates, followed 
 the first ; but then another and a larger vessel bore black and 
 fast over the water ; the rush and cry of men were heard on 
 land; again and nearer a shot broke over the heavy air, — an- 
 other and another, — a continued fire. The strand was now 
 crowded with the officers of justice. The vessel beyond for- 
 bade escape to the opposite islet. There was no hope for the 
 pirates but in contest, or in dispersion among the cliffs or 
 woods on the shore. They formed their resolution at once, 
 and stood prepared and firm, partly on their boats, partly on 
 the beach around them. Though the officers were far more 
 numerous, the strife — fierce, desperate, and hand to hand — 
 seemed equally sustained. Montreuil, as he retreated before 
 me, bore back into the general meUe, and, as the press thick- 
 ened, we were for some moments separated. It was at this 
 time that I caught a glimpse of Gerald; he seemed also then 
 to espy me, and made eagerly towards me. Suddenly he was 
 snatched from my view. The fray relaxed; the officers, evi- 
 
dp:vereux. 471 
 
 dently worsted, retreated towards the land, and the pirates 
 appeared once more to entertain the hope of making their 
 escape by water. Probably they thought that the darkness 
 of the night might enable them to baffle the pursuit of the 
 adverse vessel, which now lay expectant and passive on the 
 wave. However this be, they made simultaneously to their 
 boats, and among their numbers I descried Montreuil. I set 
 my teeth with a calm and prophetic wrath. But three strokes 
 did my good blade make through that throng before I was by 
 his side; he had at that instant his hold upon the boat's edge, 
 and he stood knee-deep in the dashing waters. I laid my 
 grasp upon his shoulder, and my cheek touched his own as I 
 hissed in his ear, " I am with thee yet! " He turned fiercely; 
 he strove in vain to shake off my grasp. The boat pushed 
 away, and his last hope of escape was over. At this moment 
 the moon broke away from the mist, and we saw each other 
 plainly, and face to face. There was a ghastly but set de- 
 spair in Montreuil's lofty and proud countenance, which 
 changed gradually to a fiercer aspect, as he met my gaze. 
 Once more, foot to foot and hand to hand, we engaged; the 
 increased light of the skies rendered the contest more that of 
 skill than it had hitherto been, and Montreuil seemed to col- 
 lect all his energies, and to fight with a steadier and a cooler 
 determination. Nevertheless the combat was short. Once 
 my antagonist had the imprudence to raise his arm and ex- 
 pose his body to my thrust: his sword grazed my cheek, — I 
 shall bear the scar to my grave, — mine passed twice through 
 his breast, and he fell, bathed in his blood, at my feet. 
 
 "Lift him!" I said, to the men who now crowded round. 
 They did so, and he unclosed his eyes, and glared upon me as 
 the death-pang convulsed his features, and gathered in foam 
 to his lips. But his thoughts were not upon his destroyer, 
 nor upon the wrongs he had committed, nor upon any solitary 
 being in the linked society which he had injured. 
 
 "Order of Jesus," he muttered, "had I but lived three 
 months longer, I — " 
 
 So died Julian Montreuil. 
 
472 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 MoNTREuiL was not the only victim in the brief combat of 
 that night; several of the pirates and their pursuers perished, 
 and among the bodies we found Gerald. He had been pierced, 
 by a shot, through the brain, and was perfectly lifeless when 
 his body was discovered. By a- sort of retribution, it seems 
 that my unhappy brother received his death-wound from a 
 shot, fired (probably at random) by Desmarais ; and thus the 
 instrument of the fraud he had tacitly subscribed to became 
 the minister of his death. Nay, the retribution seemed even 
 to extend to the very method by which Desmarais had escaped ; 
 and, as the reader has perceived, the subterranean communi- 
 cation which had been secretly reopened to deceive my uncle 
 made the path which had guided Gerald's murderer to the 
 scene which afterwards ensued. The delay of the officers had 
 been owing to private intelligence, previously received by the 
 magistrate to whom Gerald had applied, of the number and 
 force of the pirates, and his waiting in consequence for a mil- 
 itary reinforcement to the party to be despatched against 
 them. Those of the pirates who escaped the conflict escaped 
 also the pursuit of the hostile vessel ; they reached the islet, 
 and gained their captain's ship. A few shots between the 
 two vessels were idly exchanged, and the illicit adventurers 
 reached the French shore in safety. With them escaped 
 Desmarais, and of him, from that hour to this, I have heard 
 nothing: so capriciously plays Time with villains! 
 
 Marie Oswald has lately taken unto himself a noted inn on 
 the North Road, a place eminently calculated for the display 
 of his various talents ; he has also taken unto himself a wife, 
 of whose tongue and temper he has been known already to 
 complain with no Socratic meekness ; and we may therefore 
 opine that his misdeeds have not altogether escaped their 
 fitting share of condemnation. 
 
DEVEREUX. 473 
 
 Succeeding at once, by the death of my poor brother, to the 
 Devereux estates, I am still employed in rebuilding, on a yet 
 more costly scale, my ancestral mansion. So eager and im- 
 patient is my desire for the completion of my undertaking 
 that I allow rest neither by night nor day, and half of the 
 work will be done by torchlight. With the success of this 
 project terminates my last scheme of Ambition. 
 
 Here, then, at the age of thirty -four, I conclude the history 
 of my life. Whether in the star which, as I now write, 
 shines in upon me, and which a romance, still unsubdued, 
 has often dreamed to be the bright prophet of my fate, some- 
 thing of future adventure, suffering, or excitement is yet 
 predestined to me ; or whether life will muse itself away in 
 the solitudes which surround the home of my past childhood 
 and the scene of my present retreat, — creates within me but 
 slight food for anticipation or conjecture. I have exhausted 
 the sources of those feelings which flow, whether through the 
 channels of anxiety or of hope, towards the future ; and the 
 restlessness of my manhood, having attained its last object, 
 has done the labour of time, and bequeathed to me the in- 
 difference of age. 
 
 If love exists for me no longer, I know well that the mem- 
 ory of that which has been is to me far more than a living 
 love is to others ; and perhaps there is no passion so full of 
 tender, of soft, and of hallowing associations as the love 
 which is stamped by death. If I have borne much, and my 
 spirit has worked out its earthly end in travail and in tears, 
 yet I would not forego the lessons which my life has be- 
 queathed me, even though they be deeply blended with sad- 
 ness and regret. No! were I asked what best dignifies the 
 present and consecrates the past; what enables us alone to 
 draw a just moral from the tale of life; what sheds the purest 
 light upon our reason; what gives the firmest strength to our 
 religion; and, whether our remaining years pass in seclusion 
 or in action, is best fitted to soften the heart of man, and to 
 elevate the soul to God, — I would answer, with Lassus, it is 
 "Experience ! " 
 
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