a
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 Peter Scott
 
 THE NOVELS AND ROMANCES 
 
 OF 
 
 EDWARD BULWER LYTTON 
 
 (LORD LYTTON) 
 
 i^antip Ht&rarp tuition 
 
 THE DISOWNED
 
 , 

 
 " A captive in Augusta's towers, 
 To beauty and her train." 
 
 The Disowned.
 
 
 
 
 
 , THE NOVELL , 
 
 
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 AND • ROMANCES 
 
 
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 EDWARD • BULWER 
 LYTTON 
 
 (LORD LYTTON) 
 THE DISOWNED 
 
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 ^Q^aL y^sj/^Jt^^^^^/T^. ^A^3s 
 
 
 BOSTON 
 LITTLE • BROWN 
 a/7flT COMPANY
 
 Copyright, 1S93, 1894, 1891, 
 By Little, Brown, and Compant. 
 
 Shtftrrstto ^rrss : 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.
 
 
 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 PAET FIRST.
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 In this edition of a work composed in early youth, 1 
 have not attempted to remove those faults of construc- 
 tion which may he sufficiently apparent in the plot; 
 hut which could not indeed he thoroughly rectified with- 
 out re-writing the whole work. I can only hope that 
 with the defects of inexperience may be found some oi 
 the merits of frank and artless enthusiasm. I have, 
 however, lightened the narrative of certain episodical 
 and irrelevant passages, and relieved the general style 
 of some boyish extravagances of diction. At the time 
 this work was written I was deeply engaged in the study 
 of metaphysics and ethics, — and out of that study grew 
 the character of Algernon Mordaunt. He is represented 
 as a type of the heroism of Christian philosophy, — a 
 union of love and knowledge placed in the midst of 
 sorrow, and laboring on through the pilgrimage of 
 life, strong in the fortitude that comes from belief in 
 heaven. 
 
 E. B. L. 
 
 Kneb worth, May 1852. 
 
 2227567
 
 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I '11 tell you a story, if you please to attend. 
 
 Limbo, by G. Kxight. 
 
 It was the evening of a soft, warm day in the May of 
 17 — . The sun had already set, and the twilight was 
 gathering slowly over the large, still masses of wood 
 which lay on either side of one of those green lanes so 
 peculiar to England. Here and there the outline of 
 the trees irregularly shrank back from the road, leav- 
 ing broad patches of waste land covered with fern, 
 and the yellow blossoms of the dwarf furze, and at 
 more distant intervals, thick clusters of rushes, from 
 which came the small hum of gnats, — those "evening 
 revellers, " — alternately rising and sinking in the cus- 
 tomary manner of their unknown sports, till, as the 
 shadows grew darker and darker, their thin and airy 
 shapes were no longer distinguishable, and no solitary 
 token of life or motion broke the voiceless monotony of 
 the surrounding woods. 
 
 The first sound which invaded the silence came from 
 the light, quick footsteps of a person whose youth be- 
 trayed itself in its elastic and unmeasured tread, and 
 in the gay, free carol which broke out by fits and starts 
 upon the gentle stillness of the evening. 
 
 VOL. I. — 1
 
 2 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 There was something rather indicative of poetical taste 
 than musical science in the selection of this vesper hymn, 
 which always commenced with, — 
 
 'T is merry, 't is merry, in good, green wood, 
 
 and never proceeded a syllable farther than the end of 
 the second line, — 
 
 When birds are about and singing ; 
 
 from the last word of which, after a brief pause, it in- 
 variably started forth into joyous " iteration. " 
 
 Presently a heavier yet still more rapid step than that 
 of the youth was heard behind; and, as it overtook 
 the latter, a loud, clear, good-humored voice gave the 
 salutation of the evening. The tone in which this 
 courtesy was returned was frank, distinct, and peculiarly 
 harmonious. 
 
 " Good-evening, my friend. How far is it to W ? 
 
 I hope I am not out of the direct road ? " 
 
 " To W , sir ? " said the man, touching his hat, 
 
 is he perceived, in spite of the dusk, something in the 
 air and voice of his new acquaintance which called for a 
 greater degree of respect than he was at first disposed to 
 
 accord to a pedestrian traveller, — "to W , sir? 
 
 Why, you will not surely go there to-night? It is more 
 than eight miles distant, and the roads none of the 
 
 best." 
 
 " Now, a curse on all rogues! " quoth the youth, with 
 a serious sort of vivacity. " Why, the miller, at the 
 foot of the hill, assured me I should be at my journey's 
 end in less than an hour." 
 
 "He may have said right, sir," returned the man; 
 " yet you will not reach W in twice that time." 
 
 " How do you mean ? " said the younger stranger.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 3 
 
 " Why, that you may for once force a miller to speak 
 truth in spite of himself, and make a public-house, about 
 three miles hence, the end of your day's journey." 
 
 " Thank you for the hint, " said the youth. " Does 
 the house you speak of lie on the roadside ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; the lane branches off about two miles hence, 
 and you must then turn to the right; but till then our 
 way is the same, and if you would not prefer your own 
 company to mine, we can trudge on together." 
 
 "With all my heart," rejoined the younger stranger; 
 " and not the less willingly from the brisk pace you 
 walk. I thought I had few equals in pedestrianism ; 
 but it should not be for a small wager that I would un- 
 dertake to keep up with you. " 
 
 " Perhaps, sir, " said the man, laughing, " I have had 
 in the course of my life a better usage and a longer ex- 
 perience of my heels than you have. " 
 
 Somewhat startled by a speech of so equivocal a mean- 
 ing, the youth for the first time turned round to ex- 
 amine, as well as the increasing darkness would permit, 
 the size and appearance of his companion. He was not 
 perhaps too well satisfied with his survey. His fellow- 
 pedestrian was about six feet high, and of a corres- 
 pondent girth of limb and frame, which would have 
 made him fearful odds in any encounter where bodily 
 strength was the best means of conquest. Notwith- 
 standing the mildness of the weather, he was closely 
 buttoned in a rough greatcoat, which was well calcu- 
 lated to give all due effect to the athletic proportions of 
 the wearer. 
 
 There was a pause of some moments. 
 
 " This is but a wild, savage sort of scene for England, 
 sir, in this day of new-fashioned ploughs and farming 
 improvements, " said the tall stranger, looking round at
 
 4 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 the ragged wastes and grim woods which lay steeped in 
 the shade beside and before them. 
 
 " True, " answered the youth ; " and, in a few years, 
 agricultural innovation will scarcely leave, even in these 
 wastes, a single furze-blossom for the bee, or a tuft of 
 greensward for the grasshopper; but, however unpleas- 
 ant the change may be for us foot-travellers, we must 
 not repine at what they tell us is so sure a witness of 
 the prosperity of the country." 
 
 " They tell us! who tell us? " exclaimed the stranger, 
 with great vivacity. " Is it the puny and spiritless ar- 
 tisan, or the debased and crippled slave of the counter 
 and the till, or the sallow speculator on morals, who 
 would mete us out our liberty, our happiness, our very 
 feelings, by the yard and inch and fraction? No, no; 
 let them follow what the books and precepts of their 
 own wisdom teach them ; let them cultivate more highly 
 the lands they have already parcelled out by dikes and 
 fences, and leave, though at scanty intervals, some green 
 patches of unpolluted land for the poor man's beast and 
 the free man's foot. " 
 
 " You are an enthusiast on this subject, " said the 
 yoiuiger traveller, not a little surprised at the tone and 
 words of the last speech; "and if I were not just about 
 to commence the world with a firm persuasion that en- 
 thusiasm on any matter is a great obstacle to success, I 
 could be as warm, though not so eloquent as yourself. " 
 
 " Ah, sir, " said the stranger, sinking into a more 
 natural and careless tone, " I have a better right than 
 I imagine you can claim to repine or even to inveigh 
 against the boundaries which are day by day, and hour 
 by hour, encroaching upon what I have learned to look 
 upon as my own territory. You were, just before I 
 joined you, singing an old song. I honor you for your
 
 THE DISOWNED. 5 
 
 taste; and, no offence, sir, but a sort of fellowship in 
 feeling made me take the liberty to accost you. I am 
 no very great scholar in other things, but I owe my 
 present circumstances of life solely to my fondness for 
 those old songs and quaint madrigals. And I believe no 
 person can better apply to himself Will Shakespeare's 
 invitation : — 
 
 ' Under the greenwood tree 
 Who loves to lie with me, 
 And tune his merry note 
 Unto the sweet bird's throat, 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither ; 
 Here shall he see 
 No enemy 
 But winter and rough weather."' 
 
 Relieved from his former fear, but with increased 
 curiosity at this quotation, which was half said, half 
 sung, in a tone which seemed to evince a hearty relish 
 for the sense of the words, the youth replied, — 
 
 " Truly, I did not expect to meet among the trav- 
 ellers of this wild country with so well-stored a mem- 
 ory. And, indeed, I should have imagined that the 
 only persons to whom your verses could exactly have 
 applied were those honorable vagrants from the Nile, 
 whom in vulgar language we term gypsies. " 
 
 " Precisely so, sir, " answered the tall stranger, indif- 
 ferently ; " precisely so. It is to that ancient body that 
 I belong." 
 
 " The devil you do ! " quoth the youth, in unsophis- 
 ticated surprise ; " the progress of education is indeed 
 astonishing ! " 
 
 " Why, " answered the stranger, laughing, " to tell you 
 the truth, sir, I am a gypsy by inclination, not birth.
 
 6 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 The illustrious Bamfylde Moore Carew is not the only 
 example of one of gentle blood and honorable education 
 •whom the fleshpots of Egypt have seduced." 
 
 " I congratulate myself, " quoth the youth, in a tone 
 that might have been in jest, " upon becoming ac- 
 quainted with a character at once so respectable and so 
 novel ; and to return your quotation in the way of a 
 compliment, I cry out with the most fashionable author 
 of Elizabeth's days, — 
 
 ' Oh for a bowl of fat Canary, 
 Rich Palermo, — sparkling sherry.' 
 
 in order to drink to our better acquaintance. " 
 
 " Thank you, sir, — thank you, " cried the strange 
 gypsy, seemingly delighted with the spirit with which 
 his young acquaintance appeared to enter into his 
 character, and his quotation from a class of authors at 
 that time much less known and appreciated than at 
 present ; " and if you have seen already enough of the 
 world to take up with ale when neither Canary, 
 Palermo, nor sherry are forthcoming, I will promise, 
 at least, to pledge you in large draughts of that homely 
 beverage. What say you to passing a night with us? 
 Our tents are yet more at hand than the public-house of 
 which I spoke to you." 
 
 The young man hesitated a moment, then replied, - 
 " I will answer you frankly, my friend, even though I 
 may find cause to repent my confidence. I have a few 
 guineas about me, which, though not a large sum, are 
 my all. Now, however ancient and honorable your 
 fraternity may be, they labor under a sad confusion, I 
 fear, in their ideas of meum and tuimi. " 
 
 " Faith, sir, I believe you are right ; and were you 
 some years older, I think you would not have favored me
 
 THE DISOWNED. 7 
 
 with the same disclosure you have done now, — but you 
 may be quite easy on that score. If you were made of 
 gold, the rascals would not filch off the corner of your 
 garment as long as you were under my protection. 
 Does this assurance satisfy you 1 " 
 
 " Perfectly, " said the youth : " and now, how far are 
 we from your encampment? I assure you I am all 
 eagerness to be among a set of which I have witnessed 
 fcdch a specimen." 
 
 "Kay, nay," returned the gypsy, "you must not 
 judge of all my brethren by me; I confess that tbey 
 are but a rough tribe. However, I love them dearly ; 
 and am only the more inclined to think them honest to 
 each other, because they are rogues to all the rest of the 
 world." 
 
 By this time our travellers had advanced nearly two 
 miles since they had commenced companionship; and, 
 at a turn in the lane, about three hundred yards further 
 on, they caught a glimpse of a distant fire, burning 
 brightly through the dim trees. They quickened their 
 ■ .-ace, and, striking a little out of their path into a com- 
 mon, soon approached two tents, the Arab homes of the 
 vagrant and singular people with whom the gypsy 
 Jaimed brotherhood and alliance.
 
 8 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Here we securely live and eat 
 
 The cream of meat ; 
 
 And keep eternal fires 
 
 By which we sit and do divine. 
 
 Heriuck. — Ode to Sir Clipseby Crew. 
 
 Around a fire which Mazed and crackled beneath the 
 large seething-pot that seemed an emblem of the mys- 
 tery and a promise of the good cheer which are the 
 supposed characteristics of the gypsy race, were grouped 
 seven or eight persons, upon whose swarthy and strong 
 countenances the irregular and fitful name cast a pic- 
 turesque and not unbecoming glow. All of these, with 
 the exception of an old crone who was tending the pot, 
 and a little boy who was feeding the lire with sundry 
 fragments of stolen wood, started to their feet upon the 
 entrance of the stranger. 
 
 " What ho, my bob cuffins, " cried the gypsy guide ; 
 " I have brought you a gentry cove, to whom you will 
 show all proper respect; and hark ye, my maunders, 
 if ye dare beg, borrow, or steal a single croaker, ay, but 
 a bawbee of him, I '11 — but ye know me." The gypsy 
 stopped abruptly, and turned an eye, in which menace 
 vainly struggled with good-humor, upon each of his 
 brethren, as they submissively bowed to him and his 
 protege, and poured forth a profusion of promises, to 
 which their admonitor did not even condescend to listen. 
 He threw off his greatcoat, doubled it down by the best 
 place near the fire, and made the youth forthwith possess
 
 THE DISOWNED. 9 
 
 himself of the seat it afforded. He then lifted the cover 
 of the mysterious caldron. " Well, Mort, " cried he to 
 the old woman, as he bent wistfully down, " what have 
 we here 1 " 
 
 " Two ducks, three chickens, and a rabbit, with some 
 potatoes, " growled the old hag, who claimed the usual 
 privilege of her culinary office to be as ill-tempered as 
 she pleased. 
 
 " Good ! " said the gypsy ; " and now, Mini, my cull, 
 go to the other tent, and ask its inhabitants, in my name, 
 to come here and sup. Bid them bring their caldron to 
 eke out ours, — I '11 find the lush. " 
 
 With these words (which Mini, a short, swarthy 
 member of the gang, with a countenance too astute to 
 be pleasing, instantly started forth to obey) the gypsy 
 stretched himself at full length by the youth's side, 
 and began reminding him, with some jocularity and at 
 some length, of his promise to drink to their better 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Something there was in the scene, the fire, the cal- 
 dron, the intent figure and withered countenance of 
 the old woman, the grouping of the other forms, the 
 rude but not unpicturesque tent, the dark, still woods 
 on either side, with the deep and cloudless skies above, 
 as the stars broke forth one by one upon the silent air, 
 which (to use the orthodox phrase of the novelist) 
 would not have been wholly unworthy the bold pencil 
 of Salvator himself. 
 
 The youth eyed, with that involuntary respect which 
 personal advantages always command, the large yet sym- 
 metrical proportions of his wild companion ; nor was the 
 face which belonged to that frame much less deserving 
 of attention. Though not handsome , it was both shrewd 
 and prepossessing in its expression : the forehead was
 
 10 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 prominent; the brows overhung the eyes, which were 
 large, dark, and, unlike those of the tribe in general, 
 rather calm than brilliant; the complexion, though sun- 
 burnt, was not swarthy; and the face was carefully and 
 cleanly shaved, so as to give all due advantage of con- 
 trast to the brown, luxuriant locks which fell, rather 
 in flakes than curls, on either side of the healthful and 
 manly cheeks. In age he was about thirty-live, and 
 though his air and mien were assuredly not lofty, nor 
 aristocratic, yet they were strikingly above the bearing of 
 his vagabond companions; those companions were in all 
 respects of the ordinary race of gypsies, — the cunning 
 and Hashing eye, the raven locks, the dazzling teeth, the 
 bronzed color, and the low, slight, active form, were as 
 strongly their distinguishing characteristics as the tokens 
 of all their tribe. 
 
 But to these the appearance of the youth presented a 
 striking and beautiful contrast. 
 
 He had only just passed the stage of boyhood ; perhaps 
 he might have seen eighteen summers, — probably not 
 so many. He had, in imitation of his companion, and 
 perhaps from mistaken courtesy to his new society, doffed 
 his hat ; and the attitude which he had chosen fully de- 
 veloped the noble and intellectual turn of his head and 
 throat. His hair, as yet preserved from the disfiguring 
 fashions of the day, was of a deep auburn, which was 
 rapidly becoming of a more chestnut hue, and curled in 
 short close curls from the nape of the neck to the com- 
 mencement of a forehead singularly white and high. His 
 brows, finely and lightly pencilled, and his long lashes 
 of the darkest dye, gave a deeper and perhaps softer 
 shade than they otherwise would have worn to eyes quick 
 and observant in their expression, and of a light hazel in 
 their color. His cheek was very fair, and the red light
 
 THE DISOWNED. 11 
 
 of the fire cast an artificial tint of increased glow upon a 
 complexion that had naturally rather hloom than color; 
 while a dark riding-frock set off in their full beauty the fine 
 outline of his chest, and the slender symmetry of his frame. 
 
 But it was neither his features nor his form, eminently 
 handsome as they were, which gave the principal charm 
 to the young stranger's appearance, — it was the strik- 
 ingly bold, buoyant, frank, and almost joyous expression 
 which presided over all. There seemed to dwell the 
 first glow and life of youth, undimmed by a single fear, 
 and unba fried in a single hope. There were the elastic 
 spring, the inexhaustible wealth of energies, which defied, 
 in their exulting pride, the heaviness of sorrow and the 
 harassments of time. It was a face that, while it filled 
 you with some melancholy foreboding of the changes and 
 chances which must, in the inevitable course of fate, 
 cloud the openness of the unwrinkled brow, and soberize 
 the fire of the daring and restless eye, instilled also with- 
 in you some assurance of triumph, and some omen of 
 success, — a vague but powerful sympathy with the adven- 
 turous and cheerful spirit which appeared literally to 
 speak in its expression. It was a face you might imagine 
 in one born under a prosperous star ; and you felt, as you 
 gazed, a confidence in that bright countenance, which, 
 like the shield of the British prince, 1 seemed possessed 
 with a spell to charm into impotence the evil spirits who 
 menaced its possessor. 
 
 "Well, sir," said his friend the gypsy, who had in his 
 turn been surveying with admiration the sinewy and 
 agile frame of his young guest, — " well, sir, how fares 
 your appetite 1 Old Dame Bingo will be mortally offended 
 if you do not do ample justice to her good cheer. " 
 
 1 Prince Arthur. — See " The Faery Queen."
 
 12 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 " If so, " answered our traveller, who, young as he was, 
 had learned already the grand secret of making, in every 
 situation, a female friend, — " if so, I shall be likely to 
 olFend her still more." 
 
 " And how, my pretty master ? " said the old crone, 
 with an iron smile. 
 
 " Why, I shall be bold enough to reconcile matters 
 with a kiss, Mrs. Bingo, " answered the youth. 
 
 "Ha! ha!" shouted the tall gypsy; "it is many a 
 long day since my old Mort slapped a gallant's face for 
 such an affront. But here come our messmates. Good- 
 evening, my mumpers, — make your bows to this gentle- 
 man who has come to bowse with us to-night. 'Gad, 
 we '11 show him that old ale 's none the worse for keeping 
 company with the moon's darlings. Come, sit down, 
 sit down. Where 's the cloth, ye ill-mannered loons, 
 and the knives and platters? Have we no holiday cus- 
 toms for strangers, think ye ? Mim, my cove, oil' to 
 tni/ caravan, — bring out the knives, and all other rattle- 
 traps; and hark ye, my culfin, this small key opens the 
 inner hole, where you will rind two barrels; bring one 
 of them. I '11 warrant it of the best, for the brewer him- 
 self drank some of the same sort but two hours before 
 I nimmeel them. Come, stump, my cull, make your- 
 self wings. Ho, Dame Bingo, is not that pot of thine 
 seething yet? Ah, my young gentleman, you commence 
 betimes, so much the better: if love 's a summer's day, 
 we all know how early a summer morning begins," added 
 the jovial Egyptian, in a lower voice (feeling perhaps 
 that he was only understood by himself), as he gazed 
 complacently on the youth, who, with that happy facility 
 of making himself everywhere at home, so uncommon to 
 his countrymen, was already paying compliments suited 
 to their understanding to two fair daughters of the tribe,
 
 THE DISOWNED. 13 
 
 who had entered with the new-comers. Yet had he too 
 much craft or delicacy, call it which you will, to continue 
 his addresses to that limit where ridicule or jealousy, 
 from the male part of the assemblage, might commence ; 
 on the contrary, he soon turned to the men, and ad- 
 dressed them with a familiarity so frank, and so suited 
 to their taste, that he grew no less rapidly in their favor 
 than he had already done in that of the women ; and, when 
 the contents of the two caldrons were at length set upon 
 the coarse but clean cloth which, in honor of his arrival, 
 covered the sod, it was in the midst of a loud and uni- 
 versal peal of laughter, which some broad witticism of 
 the young stranger had produced, that the party sat down 
 to their repast. 
 
 Bright were the eyes and sleek the tresses of the 
 damsel who placed herself by the side of the stranger, 
 and many were the alluring glances and insinuated 
 compliments which replied to his open admiration and 
 profuse flattery; but still there was nothing exclusive 
 in his attentions. Perhaps an ignorance of the customs 
 of his entertainers, and a consequent discreet fear of 
 offending them, restrained him; or perhaps he found 
 ample food for occupation in the plentiful dainties which 
 his host heaped before him. 
 
 "Now tell me," said the gypsy chief (for chief he 
 appeared to be), " if we lead not a merrier life than you 
 dreamed of; or would you have us change our coarse 
 fare and our simple tents, our vigorous limbs and free 
 hearts, for the meagre board, the monotonous chamber, 
 the diseased frame, and the toiling, careful, and with- 
 ered spirit of some miserable mechanic 1 " 
 
 "Change!" cried the youth, with an earnestness 
 which, if affected, was an exquisite counterfeit, — "by 
 Heaven, I would change with you myself!"
 
 14 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 "Bravo, my fine cove!" cried the host, and all the 
 gang echoed their sympathy with his applause. 
 
 The youth continued: ".Meat, and that plentiful; 
 air, and that strong; women, and those pretty ones: 
 what can man desire more?" 
 
 "Ay," cried the host, "and all for nothing, — no, 
 not even a tax: who else in this kingdom can say that? 
 Come, Mim, push round the ale." 
 
 And the ale ivas pushed round, and if coarse the 
 merriment, loud at least was the laugh that rang ever 
 and anon from the old tent; and though, at moments, 
 something in the guest's eye and lip might have seemed, 
 to a very shrewd ohserver, a little wandering and ahsent, 
 yet, upon the whole, he was almost as much at ease as 
 the rest, and if he was not quite as talkative, he was to 
 the full as noisy. 
 
 By degrees, as the hour grew later and the barrel less 
 heavy, the conversation changed into one universal clat- 
 ter. Some told their feats in beggary; others their 
 achievements in theft; not a viand they had fed on but 
 had its appropriate legend; even the old rabbit, which 
 had been as tough as old rabbit can well be, had not 
 been honestly taken from his burrow , — no less a person 
 than Mim himself had purloined it from a widow's 
 footman, who was carrying it to an old maid from her 
 nephew the Squire. 
 
 " Silence! " cried the host, who loved talking as well 
 as the rest, and who for the last ten minutes had been 
 vainly endeavoring to obtain attention, — "silence! my 
 maunders; it 's late, and we shall have the queer cuf- 
 fins 1 upon us if we keep it up much longer. What, ho, 
 Mim! are you still gabbling at the foot of the table 
 when your betters are talking? As sure as my name 's 
 
 1 Magistrates.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 15 
 
 King Cole, I '11 choke you with your own rahhit-skin if 
 you don't hush your prating cheat; nay, never look so 
 abashed, — if you will make a noise, come forward and 
 sing us a gypsy song. You see, my young sir (turn- 
 ing to his guest), " that we are not without our preten- 
 sions to the fine arts." 
 
 At this order Mini started forth, and taking his 
 station at the right hand of the soi-disant King Cole, 
 began the following song, the chorus of which was 
 chanted in full diapason by the whole group, with tin 
 additional force of emphasis that knives, feet, and fists 
 could bestow. 
 
 THE GYPSY'S SONG. 
 
 The king to his hall, and the steed to his stall, 
 
 And the cit to his bilking board ; 
 But we are not bound to an acre of ground, 
 
 For our home is the houseless sward. 
 We sow not, nor toil ; yet we glean from the soil 
 
 As much as its reapers do ; 
 And wherever we rove, we feed on the cove 
 
 Who gibes at the mumping crew. 
 
 Chorus — So the king to his hall, etc. 
 
 We care not a straw for the limbs of the law, 
 
 Nora fig for the cuffin queer; 
 While Hodge and his neighbor shall lavish and labot, 
 
 Our tent is as sure of its cheer. 
 
 Chorus — So the king to his hall, etc. 
 
 The worst have an awe of the harman's l claw, 
 
 And the best will avoid the traj} ; 2 
 But our wealth is as free of the bailiff's see 
 
 As our necks of the twisting crap. s 
 
 Cliorus — So the king to his hall, etc. 
 
 i Constable. 2 Bailiff. 3 Gallows.
 
 16 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 They say it is sweet to win the meat 
 For the which one lias sorely wrought ; 
 
 But I never could find that we lacked the mind 
 For the food that has cost us nought. 
 
 Chorus — So the king to his hall, etc. 
 
 And when we have ceased from our fearless feast, 
 
 Why, qui jigger x will need no bars ; 
 Our sentry shall be on the owlet's tree, 
 
 And our lamps the glorious stars. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 So the king to his hall, and the steed to his stall, 
 
 And the cit to his bilking board ; 
 But we are not bound to an acre of ground, 
 
 For our home is the houseless sward. 
 
 Rude as was this lawless stave, the spirit with which 
 it was sung atoned to the young stranger for its obscurity 
 and quaintness; as for his host, that curious personage 
 took a lusty and prominent part in the chorus, — nor did 
 the old woods refuse their share of the burden, but sent 
 back a merry echo to the chief's deep voice, and the 
 harsher notes of his jovial brethren. 
 
 When the glee had ceased, King Cole rose, the whole 
 band followed his example, the cloth was cleared in a 
 trice, the barrel, — oh! what a falling-off was there! — 
 was rolled into a corner of the tent, and the crew to 
 whom the awning belonged began to settle themselves 
 forest; while those who owned the other encampment 
 inarched forth with King Cole at their head. Leaning 
 with no light weight upon his guest's arm, the lover of 
 ancient minstrelsy poured into the youth's ear a strain 
 of eulogy, rather eloquent than coherent, upon the scene 
 they had just witnessed. 
 
 1 Door.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 17 
 
 " What," cried his majesty, in an enthusiastic tone, 
 
 — " what can be so truly regal as our state 1 Can any 
 man control us 1 Are we not above all laws 1 Are we 
 not the most despotic of kings? Nay, more than the 
 kings of earth, — are we not the kings of Fairyland 
 itself 1 Do we not realize the golden dreams of the old 
 rhymers, — luxurious dogs that they were 1 Who would 
 not cry out, — 
 
 ' Blest silent groves ! Oh, may ye be 
 Forever Mirth's best nursery ! 
 May pure Contents 
 Forever pitch their tents 
 Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these 
 mountains ' 1 " 
 
 Uttering this notable extract from the thrice-honored 
 Sir Henry Wotton, King Cole turned abruptly from 
 the common, entered the wood which skirted it, and, 
 only attended by his guest and his minister Mim, came 
 suddenly, by an unexpected and picturesque opening in 
 the trees, upon one of those itinerant vehicles termed 
 caravans; he ascended the few steps which led to the 
 entrance , opened the door, and was instantly in the arms 
 of a pretty and young woman. On seeing our hero (for 
 such we fear the youth is likely to become) she drew 
 back with a blush not often found upon regal cheeks. 
 
 " Pooh," said King Cole, half tauntingly, half fondly, 
 
 — "pooh, Lucy, blushes are garden flowers, and ought 
 never to be found wild in the woods;" then changing 
 his tone, he said, " Come, put some fresh straw in the 
 corner; this stranger honors our palace to-night. Mim, 
 unload thyself of our royal treasures, — watch without, 
 and vanish from within ! " 
 
 Depositing on his majesty's floor the appurtenances 
 
 VOL. I. — 2
 
 18 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 of the regal supper-table, Mini made his respectful 
 adieus, and disappeared; meanwhile the queen scat- 
 tered some fresh straw over a mattress in the narrow 
 chamber, and laying over all a sheet of singularly snowy 
 hue, made her guest some apology for the badness of his 
 lodging; this King Cole interrupted by a most elabo- 
 rately noisy yawn, and a declaration of extreme sleepi- 
 ness. " Xow, Lucy, let us leave the gentleman to what 
 he will like better than soft words, even from a queen. 
 Good-night, sir ; we shall be stirring at daybreak ; " and 
 with this farewell King Cole took the lady's arm, and 
 retired with her into an inner compartment of the 
 caravan. 
 
 Left to himself, our hero looked round witli sur- 
 prise at the exceeding neatness which reigned over the 
 whole apartment. But what chiefly engrossed the at- 
 tention of one to whose early habits books had always 
 been treasures, were several volumes, ranged in comely 
 shelves fenced with wire-work, on either side of the fire- 
 place. " Courage," thought he, as he stretched himself 
 on his humble couch; "my adventures have commenced 
 well. A gypsy tent, to be sure, is nothing very new, but 
 a gyP s y wll ° quotes poetry and enjoys a modest wife, 
 speaks better than books do for the improvement of the 
 world."
 
 THE DISOWNED. 19 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Hath not old custom made this life more sweet 
 Than that of painted pomp ? 
 
 As You Like It. 
 
 i'he sun broke cheerfully through the small lattice of 
 the caravan as the youth opened his eyes and saw the 
 good-humored countenance of his gypsy host bending 
 over him complacently. 
 
 "You slept so soundly, sir, that I did not like to 
 disturb you; but my good wife only waits your rising to 
 have all ready for breakfast." 
 
 " It were a thousand pities," cried the guest, leaping 
 from his bed, " that so pretty a face should look cross on 
 my account, so I will not keep her waiting an instant." 
 
 The gypsy smiled, as he answered, " I require no 
 professional help from the devil, sir. to foretell your 
 fortune. " 
 
 «^t o! _ an d what is it?" 
 
 "Honor, reputation, success, — all that are ever won 
 ^y a soft tongue, if it be backed by a bold heart." 
 
 Bright and keen was the flash which shot over the 
 countenance of the one for whom this prediction was 
 made, as he listened to it with a fondness for which his 
 reason rebuked him. He turned aside with a sigh, 
 which did not escape the gypsy, and bathed his face in 
 the water which the provident hand of the good woman 
 had set out for his lavations. 
 
 " Well," said his host, when the youth had finished 
 his brief toilet, " suppose we breathe the fresh air while 
 Lucy smooths your bed and prepares the breakfast. "
 
 20 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 " With all my heart," replied the youth, and they 
 descended the .steps which led into the wood. It was a 
 beautiful, fresh morning; the air was like a draught 
 from a spirit's fountain, and filled the heart with new 
 youth, and the blood with a rapturous delight; the 
 leaves — the green, green leaves of spring — were quiv- 
 ering on the trees, among which the happy birds flut- 
 tered, and breathed the gladness of their souls in song. 
 While the dewdrops, that 
 
 Strewed 
 A baptism o'er the flowers, 
 
 gave back, in their million mirrors, the reflected smiles 
 of the cloudless and rejoicing sun. 
 
 " Nature," said the gypsy, " has bestowed on her 
 children a gorgeous present in such a morning." 
 
 " True," said the youth; "and you, of us two, per- 
 haps, only deserve it. As for me, when I think of the 
 long road of dust, heat, and toil, that lies before me, I 
 could almost wish to stop here and ask admission into 
 the gypsies' tents." 
 
 " You could not do a wiser thing," said the gypsy, 
 gravely. 
 
 "But fate leaves me no choice," continued the youth, 
 as seriously as if he were in earnest; " and I must quit 
 you immediately after I have a second time tasted of 
 your hospitable fare." 
 
 " If it must be so," answered the gypsy, " I will see 
 you at least a mile or two on your road." The youth 
 thanked him for a promise which his curiosity made 
 acceptable, and they turned once more to the caravan. 
 
 The meal, however obtained, met with as much honor 
 as it could possibly have received from the farmer from 
 whom its materials were borrowed.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 21 
 
 It was not without complacency that the worthy pair 
 beheld the notice that their guest lavished upon a fair, 
 curly-headed boy of about three years old, the sole child 
 and idol of the gypsy potentates. But they did not per- 
 ceive, when the youth rose to depart, that he slipped 
 into the folds of the child's dress a ring of some value, 
 the only one he possessed. 
 
 " And now," said he, after having thanked his enter, 
 tainers for their hospitality, " I must say good-by to 
 your flock, and set out upon my day's journey." 
 
 Lucy, despite her bashfulness, shook hands with her 
 handsome guest, and the latter, accompanied by the 
 gypsy chief, strolled down the encampments. 
 
 Open and free was his parting farewell to the inmates 
 of the two tents, and liberal was the hand which show- 
 ered upon all — especially on the damsel who had been 
 his Thais of the evening feast — the silver coins which 
 made no inconsiderable portion of his present property. 
 
 It was amidst the oracular wishes and favorable pre- 
 dictions of the whole crew that he recommenced his 
 journey with the gypsy chief. 
 
 When the tents were fairly out of sight, and not till 
 then, King Cole broke the silence which had as yet 
 subsisted between them. 
 
 " I suppose , my young gentleman , that you expect to 
 
 meet some of your friends or relations at W 1 I 
 
 know not what they will say when they hear where you 
 have spent the night." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said the youth ; " whoever hears my ad- 
 ventures, relation or not, will be delighted with my 
 description; but in sober earnest, I expect to find no 
 
 one at W more my friend than a surly innkeeper, 
 
 unless it be his dog." 
 
 " Why, they surely do not suffer a stripling of your
 
 22 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 youth, and evident quality, to wander alone!" cried 
 King Cole, in undisguised surprise. 
 
 The young traveller made no prompt answer, but bent 
 down as if to pluck a wild-flower which grew by the 
 roadside; after a pause, he said, — 
 
 " Nay, Master Cole, you must not set me the exam- 
 ple of playing the inquisitor, or you cannot guess how 
 troublesome I shall be. To tell you truth, I am dying 
 with curiosity to know something more about you than 
 you may be disposed to tell me ; you have already con- 
 fessed that, however boon companions your gypsies may 
 be, it is not among gypsies that you were born and 
 bred." 
 
 King Cole laughed ; perhaps he was not ill-pleased by 
 the curiosity of his guest, nor by the opportunity it 
 afforded him of being his own hero. 
 
 " My story, sir," said he, " would be soon told, if you 
 thought it worth the hearing, nor does it contain any- 
 thing which should prevent my telling it. " 
 
 " If so," quoth the youth, " I shall conceive your sat- 
 isfying my request a still greater favor than those yon 
 have already bestowed upon me." 
 
 The gypsy relaxed his pace into an indolent saunter, 
 as he commenced: — 
 
 " The first scene that I remember was similar to that 
 which you witnessed last night. The savage tent, and 
 the green moor, the fagot blaze, the eternal pot, with its 
 hissing note of preparation, the old dame who tended 
 it, and the ragged urchins who learned from its contents 
 the first reward of theft, and the earliest temptation to 
 it, — all these are blended into agreeable confusion as 
 the primal impressions of my childhood. The woman 
 who nurtured me as my mother was rather capricious 
 than kind, and my infancy passed away, like that of
 
 THE DISOWNED. 23 
 
 more favored scions of fortune, in alternate chastisement 
 and caresses. In good truth, Kinching Meg had the 
 shrillest voice and the heaviest hand of the whole crew, 
 and I cannot complain of injustice, since she treated me 
 no worse than the rest. Notwithstanding the irregu- 
 larity of my education, I grew up strong and healthy, 
 and my reputed mother had taught me so much fear for 
 herself that she left me none for anything else ; accord- 
 ingly, I became bold, reckless, and adventurous, and at 
 the age of thirteen was as thorough a reprobate as the 
 tribe could desire. At that time a singular change be- 
 fell me; we (that is, my mother and myself) were beg- 
 ging, not many miles hence, at the door of a rich man's 
 house, in which the mistress lay on her death-bed. 
 That mistress was my real mother, from whom Meg 
 had stolen me in my first year of existence. Whether 
 it was through the fear of conscience, or the hope of 
 reward, no soone? had Meg learned the dangerous state 
 of my poor mother, the constant grief which they said 
 had been the sole, though slow cause of her disease, and 
 the large sums which had been repeatedly offered for my 
 recovery, — no sooner, I say, did Meg ascertain all these 
 particulars, than she fought her way up to the sick- 
 chamber, fell on her knees before the bed, owned her 
 crime, and produced myself. Various little proofs of 
 time, place, circumstance: the clothing I had worn when 
 stolen, and which was still preserved, joined to the 
 striking likeness I bore to both my parents, especially 
 to my father, silenced all doubt and incredulity; I was 
 welcomed home with a joy which it is in vain to de- 
 scribe. My return seemed to recall my mother from the 
 grave ; she lingered on for many months longer than her 
 physicians thought it possible, and when she died, her 
 last words commended me to my father's protection.
 
 24 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 " My surviving parent needed no such request. He 
 lavished upon me all that superfluity of fondness and 
 food of which those good people who are resolved to 
 spoil their children are so prodigal. He could not bear 
 the idea of sending me to school; accordingly he took a 
 tutor for me, a simple-hearted, gentle, kind man, who 
 possessed a vast store of learning rather curious than 
 useful. He was a tolerable, and at least an enthusiastic, 
 antiquarian, — a more than tolerable poetaster; and he 
 had a prodigious budget full of old ballads and songs, 
 which he loved better to teach and / to learn than all 
 the ' Latin, Greek, geography, astronomy, and the use 
 of the globes,' which my poor father had so sedulously 
 bargained for. 
 
 " Accordingly, I became exceedingly well-informed in 
 all the ' precious conceits ' and ' golden garlands ' of our 
 British ancients, and continued exceedingly ignorant of 
 everything else, save and except a few )f the most fash- 
 ionahle novels of the day, and the contents of six lying 
 volumes of voyages and travels, which flattered both my 
 appetite for the wonderful and my love of the adventu- 
 rous. My studies, such as they were, were not by any 
 means suited to curb or direct the vagrant tastes my 
 childhood had acquired; on the contrary, the old poets, 
 with their luxurious description of the ' green wood,' 
 and the forest life; the fashionable novelists, with their 
 spirited accounts of the wanderings of some fortunate 
 rogue; and the ingenious travellers, with their wild 
 fables, so dear to the imagination of every boy, only 
 fomented within me a strong though secret regret at my 
 change of life, and a restless disgust to the tame home 
 and bounded roamings to which I was condemned. 
 When [ was about seventeen, my father sold his prop- 
 erty (which he had become possessed of in right of my
 
 THE DISOWNED. 25 
 
 mother), and transferred the purchase-money to the 
 security of the Funds. Shortly afterwards he died: 
 the bulk of his fortune became mine ; the remainder 
 was settled upon a sister, many years older than myself, 
 who, in consequence of her marriage and residence in a 
 remote part of Wales, I had never yet seen. 
 
 " Now, then, I was perfectly free and unfettered; my 
 guardian lived in Scotland, and left me entirely to the 
 guidance of my tutor, who was both too simple and too 
 indolent to resist my inclinations. I went to London, 
 became acquainted with a set of most royal scamps, fre- 
 quented the theatres and the taverns, the various resorts 
 which constitute the gayeties of a blood just above the 
 middle class, and was one of the noisiest and wildest 
 ' blades ' that ever heard ' the chimes by midnight,' and 
 the magistrate's lecture for matins. I was a sort of 
 leader among the jolly dogs I consorted with. My ear- 
 lier education gave a raciness and nature to my delinea- 
 tions of ' life,' which delighted them. But, somehow 
 or other, I grew wearied of this sort of existence. About 
 a year after I was of age , my fortune was more than three 
 parts spent; I fell ill with drinking, and grew dull with 
 remorse , — need I add that my comrades left me to my- 
 self? A fit of the spleen, especially if accompanied with 
 duns makes one woefully misanthropic; so when I re- 
 covered from my illness I set out on a tour through 
 Great Britain and France, — alone, and principally on 
 foot. Oh, the rapture of shaking off the half friends 
 and cold formalities of society, and finding one's self all 
 unfettered, with no companion but nature, no guide but 
 youth , and no flatterer but hope ! 
 
 " Well, my young friend, I travelled for two years, 
 and saw, even in that short time, enough of this busy 
 world to weary and disgust me with its ordinary customs.
 
 26 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 I -was not made to be polite, still less to he ambitious. 
 I sighed after the coarse comrades and the free tents of 
 my first associates, and a thousand remembrances of the 
 gypsy wanderings, steeped in all the green and exhila- 
 rating colors of childhood, perpetually haunted my mind. 
 On my return from my wanderings, I found a letter from 
 my sister, who, having become a widow, had left Wales, 
 and had now fixed her residence in a well-visited water- 
 ing-place in the west of England. I had never yet seen 
 her, and her letter was a fine, ladylike sort of epistle, 
 with a great deal of romance and a very little sense, 
 written in an extremely pretty hand, and ending with a 
 quotation from Pope. (I never could endure Pope, nor 
 indeed any of the poets of the days of Anne and her 
 successors.) It was a beautiful season of the year; I 
 had been inured to pedestrian excursions, so I set off on 
 foot to see my nearest surviving relative. On the way, 
 I fell in (though on a very different spot) with the very 
 encampment you saw last night. By Heavens! that was 
 a merry meeting to me; I joined, and journeyed with 
 them for several days, — never do I remember a happier 
 time. Then, after many years of bondage, and stiffness, 
 and accordance with the world, I found myself at ease, 
 like a released bird; with what zest did I join in the 
 rude jokes and the knavish tricks, the stolen feasts and 
 the roofless night9 of those careless vagabonds. 
 
 " I left my fellow-travellers at the entrance of the 
 town where my sister lived. Now came the contrast. 
 Somewhat hot, rather coarsely clad, and covered with 
 the dust of a long siimmer's day, I was ushered into a 
 little drawing-room, eighteen feet by twelve, as I was 
 afterwards somewhat pompously informed. A flaunting 
 carpet, green, red, and yellow, covered the floor. A 
 full-length picture of a thin woman, looking most agree*
 
 THE DISOWNED. 27 
 
 ably ill-tempered, stared down at me from the chimney- 
 piece ; three stuffed birds — how emblematic of domestic 
 life! — stood stiff and imprisoned, even after death, in a 
 glass cage. A fire-screen and a bright fireplace, chairs 
 covered with holland to preserve them from the atmos- 
 phere, and long mirrors wrapped, as to the framework, 
 in yellow muslin, to keep off the flies, finish the pano- 
 rama of this watering-place mansion. The door opened; 
 silks rustled, — voice shrieked ' My brother! ' And a 
 figure — a thin figure, the original of the picture over 
 the chimney-piece — rushed in." 
 
 " I can well fancy her joy," said the youth. 
 
 " You can do no such thing, begging your pardon, sir," 
 resumed King Cole. " She had no joy at all; she was 
 exceedingly surprised and disappointed. In spite of my 
 early adventures, I had nothing picturesque or romantic 
 about me at all. I was very thirsty, and I called for 
 beer; I was very tired, and I lay down on the sofa; I 
 wore thick shoes, and small buckles; and my clothes 
 were made, God knows where, and were certainly put 
 on God knows how. My sister was miserably ashamed 
 of me ; she had not even the manners to disguise it. In 
 a higher rank of life than that which she held, she would 
 have suffered far less mortification; for I fancy great 
 people pay but little real attention to externals. Even 
 if a man of rank is vulgar, it makes no difference in 
 the orbit in which he moves ; but your ' genteel gentle- 
 women ' are so terribly dependent upon what Mrs. 
 Tomkins will say; so very uneasy about their rela- 
 tions, and the opinion they are held in; and, above all, 
 so made up of appearances and clothes, — so undone if 
 they do not eat, drink, and talk a la mode, that I can 
 fancy no shame like that of my poor sister having found, 
 and being found with a vulgar brother.
 
 128 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 " I saw how unwelcome I was, and I did not punish 
 myself by a long visit. I left her house, and returned 
 towards London. On my road I again met with my 
 gypsy friends; the warmth of their welcome enchanted 
 me, — you may guess the rest. 1 stayed with them so 
 long that I could not bear to leave them ; I re-entered 
 their crew ; I am one among them. Not that I have lie- 
 come altogether and solely of the tribe : I still leave them 
 whenever the whim seizes me, and repair to the great 
 cities and thoroughfares of man. There I am soon 
 driven back again to my favorite and fresh fields, as a 
 reed upon a wild stream is dashed back upon the green 
 rushes from which it has been torn. You perceive that 
 I have many comforts and distinctions above the rest; 
 for, alas, sir, there is no society, however free and demo- 
 cratic, where wealth will not create an aristocracy. The 
 remnant of my fortune provides me with my unostenta- 
 tious equipage, and the few luxuries it contains; it 
 repays secretly to the poor what my fellow-vagrants 
 occasionally filch from them; it allows me to curb among 
 the crew all the grosser and heavier offences against the 
 law to which want might otherwise compel them; and 
 it serves to keep up that sway and ascendancy which my 
 superior education and fluent spirits enabled me at first 
 to attain. Though not legally their king, I assume 
 that title over the few encampments with which I am 
 accustomed to travel, and you perceive that I have given 
 my simple name both to the jocular and kingly dignity 
 of which the old song will often remind you. My 
 story is done." 
 
 " Not quite," said his companion : " your wife ? How 
 came you by that blessing 1 " 
 
 "Ah! thereby hangs a pretty and a love-sick tale, 
 which would not sound ill in an ancient ballad; but I
 
 THE DISOWNED. 29 
 
 will content myself with briefly sketching it. Lucy is 
 the daughter of a gentleman farmer; about four years 
 ago I fell in love with her. I wooed her clandestinely, 
 and at last I owned I was a gypsy ; I did not add my 
 birth nor fortune, — no, I was full of the romance 
 of the Nut-brown Maid's lover, and attempted a trial 
 of woman's affection, which even in these days was not 
 disappointed. Still her father would not consent to our 
 marriage, till, very luckily, things went bad with him: 
 corn, crops, cattle, — the deuce was in them all; an exe- 
 cution was in his house, and a writ out against his 
 person. I settled these matters for him, and in return 
 received a father-in-law's blessing, and we are now the 
 best friends in the world. Poor Lucy is perfectly recon- 
 ciled to her caravan and her wandering husband, and has 
 never, I believe, once repented the day on which she 
 became the gypsy's wife! " 
 
 " I thank you heartily for your history," said the 
 youth, who had listened very attentively to this detail; 
 " and though my happiness and pursuits are centred in 
 that world which you despise, yet I confess that I feel a 
 sensation very like envy at your singular choice ; and I 
 would not dare to ask of my heart whether that choice 
 is not happier, as it is certainly more philosophical than 
 mine. " 
 
 They had now reached a part of the road where the 
 country assumed a totally different character ; the woods 
 and moors were no longer visible, but a broad and some- 
 what bleak extent of country lay before them. Here and 
 there only a few solitary trees broke the uniformity of 
 the wide fields and scanty hedgerows, and at distant 
 intervals the thin spires of the scattered churches rose 
 like the prayers of which they were the symbols, to 
 mingle themselves with heaven.
 
 30 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 The gypsy paused: " I will accompany you," said he, 
 "no farther; your way lies straight onwards, and you 
 
 will reach W before noon. Farewell, and may God 
 
 watch over you ! " 
 
 " Farewell ! " said the youth , warmly pressing the hand 
 which was extended to him. " If we ever meet again, it 
 will probably solve a curious riddle, — namely, whether 
 you are not disgusted with the caravan, and 1 with the 
 world! " 
 
 " The latter is more likely than the former," said the 
 gypsy; " for one stands a much greater chance of being 
 disgusted with others than with one's self; so, changing 
 a little the old lines, I will wish you adieu after my 
 own fashion, — namely, in verse: — 
 
 ' Go, set thy heart on winged wealth, 
 
 Or unto honor's towers aspire ; 
 But give me freedom and my health, 
 And there 's the sum of my desire ! ' "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 31 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The letter, Madam, — have you none for me? 
 
 The Rendezvous. 
 Provide surgeons. — The Lover's Progress. 
 
 Our solitary traveller pursued his way with the light 
 step and gay spirits of youth and health. 
 
 "Turn gypsy, indeed! " he said, talking to himself; 
 " there is something hetter in store for me than that. 
 Ay, I have all the world before me where to choose, 
 — not my place of rest. No, many a long year will pass 
 away ere any place of rest will he my choice ! I wonder 
 
 whether I shall find the letter at W ; the letter, 
 
 the last letter I shall ever have from home : hut it is no 
 home to me now; and i" — I, insulted, reviled, trampled 
 upon, without even a name! Well, well, I will earn a 
 still fairer one than that of my forefathers. They shall 
 he proud to own me yet." And with these words the 
 speaker broke off abruptly, with a swelling chest and a 
 flashing eye; and as, an unknown and friendless adven- 
 turer, he gazed on the expanded and silent country 
 around him, he felt, like Castruccio Castrucani, that he 
 could stretch his hands to the east and to the west, and 
 exclaim, " Oh, that my power kept pace with my spirit, 
 then should it grasp the corners of the earth. " 
 
 The road wound at last from the champaign country, 
 through which it had for some miles extended itself, 
 into a narrow lane, girded on either side by a dead fence. 
 As the youth entered this lane, he was somewhat 
 startled by the abrupt appearance of a horseman, whose 
 steed leaped the hedge so close to our hero as almost to
 
 32 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 endanger his safety. The rider, a gentleman of about 
 five-and-twenty, pulled up, and, in a tone of great cour- 
 tesy, apologized for his inadvertency; the apology was 
 readily admitted, and the horseman rode onwards in the 
 direction of W . 
 
 Trilling as this incident was, the air and mien of the 
 stranger were sufficient to arrest, irresistibly, the 
 thoughts of the young traveller; and before they had 
 flowed into a fresh channel he found himself in the town, 
 and at the door of the inn to which his expedition was 
 bound. He entered the bar ; a buxom landlady and a 
 still more buxom daughter were presiding over the spirits 
 of the place. 
 
 " You have some boxes and a letter for me, I believe," 
 said the young gentleman to the comely hostess. 
 
 " To you, sir! the name, if you please? " 
 
 "To — to — to C. L. ," said the youth; "the initials 
 C. L. , to be left till called for." 
 
 " Yes, sir, we have some luggage, — came last night 
 by the van, — and a letter besides, sir, to C. L. also." 
 
 The daughter lifted her large, dark eyes at the hand- 
 some stranger, and felt a wonderful curiosity to know 
 what the letter to C. L. could possibly be about; mean- 
 while mine hostess, raising her hand to a shelf on which 
 stood an Indian slop-basin, the great ornament of the bar 
 at the Golden Fleece, brought from its cavity a well- 
 folded and well-sealed epistle. 
 
 "That is it," cried the youth; "show me a private 
 room instantly." 
 
 "What can he want a private room for?" thought 
 the landlady's daughter. 
 
 " Show the gentleman to the Griffin, No. 4, John 
 Merry lack," said the landlady herself. 
 
 With an impatient step the owner of the letter fol-
 
 THE DISOWNED. 33 
 
 t 
 
 lowed a slip-shod and marvellously unwashed waiter into 
 No. 4, — a small, square asylum for town travellers, 
 country yeomen, and " single gentlemen ; " presenting, on 
 the one side, an admirable engraving of the Marquess of 
 Granhy, and on the other an equally delightful view of 
 the stable-yard. 
 
 Mr. C. L. flung himself on a chair (there were only 
 four chairs in No. 4), watched the waiter out of the 
 room, seized his letter, broke open the seal, and read 
 — yea, reader, you shall read it too — as follows: — 
 
 " Enclosed is the sum to which you are entitled ; remember, 
 that it is all which you can ever claim at my hands ; remember 
 also, that you have made the choice which, now, nothing can 
 persuade me to alter. Be the name you have so long iniqui- 
 tously borne henceforth and always forgotten; upon that con- 
 dition you may yet hope, from my generosity, the future assist- 
 ance which you must want, but which you could not ask from 
 my affection. Equally, by my heart and my reason, you are 
 forever disowned." 
 
 The letter fell from the reader's hands. He took up 
 the enclosure; it was an order payable in London for 
 £1000; to him it seemed like the rental of the Indies. 
 
 " Be it so! " he said aloud, and slowly, — " be it so! 
 With this will I carve my way; many a name in history 
 was built upon a worse foundation ! " 
 
 With these words he carefully put up the money, 
 re-read the brief note which enclosed it, tore the latter 
 into pieces, and then, going towards the aforesaid view 
 of the stable-yard, threw open the window and leaned 
 out, apparently in earnest admiration of tAVO pigs, which 
 marched, gruntingly, towards him, one goat regaling 
 himself upon a cabbage, and a broken-winded, emaciated 
 horse, which having just been, what the hostler called, 
 vol. i. — 3
 
 34 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 "nibbed down," was just going to be, what the hostler 
 called, "fed." 
 
 While engaged in this interesting survey, the clatter 
 of hoofs was suddenly heard upon the rough pavement: 
 a bell rang, a dog barked, the pigs grunted, the hostler 
 ran out, and the stranger, whom our hero had before met 
 on the road, trotted into the yard. 
 
 It was evident from the obsequiousness of the atten- 
 dants, that the horseman was a personage of no mean im- 
 portance; and indeed there was something singularly 
 distinguished and high-bred in his air and carriage. 
 
 " Who can that be 1 " said the youth, as the horseman, 
 having dismounted, turned towards the door of the inn: 
 the question was readily answered, " There goes pride 
 and poverty! " said the hostler. — " Here comes Squire 
 Mordaunt!" said the landlady. 
 
 At the further end of the stable-yard, through a nar- 
 row gate, the youth caught a glimpse of the green sward 
 and springing flowers of a small garden. Wearied with 
 the sameness of No. 4, rather than with his journey, he 
 sauntered towards the said gate, and, seating himself in 
 a small arbor within the garden, surrendered himself to 
 reflection. 
 
 The result of this self-conference was a determination 
 to leave the Golden Fleece by the earliest conveyance 
 which went to that great object and emporium of all his 
 plans and thoughts, London. As, full of this resolution, 
 and buried in the dreams which it conjured up, he was 
 returning with downcast eyes and unheeding steps 
 through the stable-yard, to the delights of No. 4, he was 
 suddenly accosted by a loud and alarmed voice, — 
 
 " For God's sake, sir, look out, or — " 
 
 The sentence was broken off, the intended warning 
 came too late, our hero staggered back a few steps, and
 
 THE DISOWNED. 35 
 
 fell, stunned and motionless, against the stable-door. 
 Unconsciously he had passed just behind the heels of the 
 stranger's horse, which, being by no means in good 
 humor with the clumsy manoeuvres of his shampooer, 
 the hostler, had taken advantage of the opportunity pre- 
 sented to him of working off his irritability, and had 
 consequently inflicted a severe kick upon the right 
 shoulder of Mr. C. L. 
 
 The stranger, honored by the landlady with the name 
 and title of Squire Mordaunt, was in the yard at the 
 moment. He hastened towards the sufferer, who as 
 yet was scarcely sensible, and led him into the house. 
 The surgeon of the village was sent for, and appeared. 
 This disciple of Galen, commonly known by the name of 
 Jeremiah Bossolton, was a gentleman considerably more 
 inclined to breadth than length. He was exactly five 
 feet one inch in height, but thick and solid as a mile- 
 stone; a wig of modern cut, carefully curled and pow- 
 dered, gave somewhat of a modish, and therefore un- 
 seemly grace to a solemn eye ; a mouth drawn down at 
 the corners ; a nose that had something in it exceedingly 
 consequential; eyebrows sage and shaggy; ears large 
 and fiery ; and a chin that would have done honor to a 
 mandarin. Now, Mr. Jeremiah Bossolton had a certain 
 peculiarity of speech to which I fear I shall find it diffi- 
 cult to do justice. Nature had impressed upon his mind 
 a prodigious love of the grandiloquent; Mr. Bossolton, 
 therefore, disdained the exact language of the vulgar, 
 and built unto himself a lofty fabric of words in which 
 his sense managed very frequently to lose itself. More- 
 over, upon beginning a sentence of peculiar dignity, Mr. 
 Bossolton was, it must be confessed, sometimes at a loss 
 to conclude it in a period worthy of the commencement; 
 and this caprice of nature, which had endowed him with
 
 36 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 more words than thoughts (necessity is, indeed, the 
 mother of invention), drove him into a very ingenious 
 method of remedying the deficiency: this was simply 
 the plan of repeating the sense hy inverting the sentence. 
 
 " How long a period of time," said Mr. Bossolton, 
 " has elapsed since this deeply-to-be-regretted and 
 seriously-to-be -investigated accident occurred? " 
 
 "Not many minutes," said Mr. Mordaunt: " make no 
 further delay, I beseech you, but examine the arm; it is 
 not broken, I trust 1 " 
 
 " In this world, Mr. Mordaunt," said the practitioner, 
 bowing very low, for the person he addressed was of the 
 most ancient lineage in the county, — ■ " in this world, 
 Mr. Mordaunt, even at the earliest period of civiliza- 
 tion, delay in matters of judgment has ever been consid- 
 ered of such vital importance, and — and such important 
 vitality, that we find it inculcated in the proverbs of the 
 Greeks, and the sayings of the Chaldeans, as a principle 
 of the most expedient utility, and — and — the most 
 useful expediency! " 
 
 " Mr. Bossolton," said Mordaunt, in a tone of remarka- 
 ble and even artificial softness and civility," have the kind- 
 ness immediately to examine this gentleman's bruises." 
 
 Mr. Bossolton looked up to the calm but haughty face 
 of the speaker, and, without a moment's hesitation, pro- 
 ceeded to handle the arm which was already stripped for 
 his survey. 
 
 "It frequently occurs," said Mr. Bossolton, "in the 
 course of my profession, that the forcible, sudden, and 
 vehement application of any hard substance, like the 
 hoof of a quadruped, to the soft, tender, and carniferous 
 parts of the human frame, such as the arm, occasions a 
 pain, a pang, I should rather say, of the intensest acute- 
 ness, and — and of the acutest intensity. "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 37 
 
 "Pray, Mr. Bossolton, is the bone broken?" asked 
 Mordaunt. 
 
 By this time the patient, who had been hitherto in 
 that languor which extreme pain always produces at 
 first, especially on young frames, was sufficiently recov- 
 ered to mark and reply to the kind solicitude of the last 
 speaker: " I thank you, sir," said he, with a smile, " for 
 your anxiety, but I feel that the bone is not broken, the 
 muscles are a little hurt, — that is all." 
 
 "Young gentleman," said Mr. Bossolton, " you must 
 permit me to say that they who have all their lives been 
 employed in the pursuit and the investigation, and the 
 analysis of certain studies, are, in general, better ac- 
 quainted with those studies than they who have neither 
 given them any importance of consideration, nor — nor 
 any consideration of importance. Establishing this as 
 my hypothesis, I shall now proceed to — " 
 
 " Apply immediate remedies, if you please, Mr. Bos- 
 solton," interrupted Mr. Mordaunt, in that sweet and 
 honeyed tone which somehow or other always silenced 
 even the garrulous practitioner. 
 
 Driven into taciturnity, Mr. Bossolton again inspected 
 the arm, and proceeded to urge the application of lini- 
 ments and bandages, which he promised to prepare with 
 the most solicitudinous despatch and the most despatch- 
 ful solicitude.
 
 38 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Your name, sir I 
 
 Ha ! my name, you say, — my name * 
 T is well ; my name — is — nay, I must consider. 
 
 Pedrillo. 
 
 This accident occasioned a delay of some days in the 
 plans of the young gentleman, for whom we trust, very 
 soon, both for our own convenience and that of our 
 reader, to find a fitting appellation. 
 
 Mr. Mordaunt, after seeing every attention paid to 
 him, both surgical and hospitable, took his departure 
 with a promise to call the next day, leaving behind 
 him a strong impression of curiosity and interest to serve 
 our hero as some mental occupation until his return. 
 The bonny landlady came up in a new cap, with blue 
 ribbons, in the course of the evening, to pay a visit of 
 inquiry to the handsome patient, who was removed from 
 the Griffin, No. 4, to the Dragon, No. 8: a room whose 
 merits were exactly in proportion to its number, — 
 namely, twice as great as those of No. 4. 
 
 " Well, sir," said Mrs. Taptape, with a courtesy, " I 
 trust you find yourself better. " 
 
 " At this moment I do," said the gallant youth, with 
 a significant air. 
 
 " Hem! " quoth the landlady. 
 
 A pause ensued. In spite of the compliment, a cer- 
 tain suspicion suddenly darted across the mind of the 
 hostess. Strong as are the prepossessions of the sex, 
 those of the profession are much stronger.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 39 
 
 "Honest folk," thought the landlady, "don't travel 
 with their initials only ; the last ' Whitehall Evening* 
 was full of shocking accounts of swindlers and cheats; 
 and I gave nine pounds odd shillings for the silver 
 teapot John has brought him up, — as if the delf one was 
 not good enough for a foot traveller. " 
 
 Pursuing these ideas, Mrs. Taptape, looking bashfully 
 down, said, — 
 
 " By the by, sir, Mr. Bossolton asked me what game 
 he should put down in his book for the medicines : what 
 would you please me to say, sir? " 
 
 " Mr. who? " said the youth, elevating his eyebrows. 
 
 "Mr. Bossolton, sir, the apothecary." 
 
 " Oh, Bossolton! very odd name that: not near so 
 pretty as — dear me what a beautiful cap that is of 
 yours ! " said the young gentleman. 
 
 " Lord, sir, do you think so? The ribbon is pretty 
 enough; but — but, as I was saying, what name shall I 
 tell Mr. Bossolton to put in his book? " This, thought 
 Mrs. Taptape, is coining to the point. 
 
 "Well!" said the youth, slowly, and as if in a 
 profound reverie, — "well, Bossolton is certainly the 
 most singular name I ever heard; he does right to 
 put it in a book, — it is quite a curiosity! Is he 
 clever ? " 
 
 "Very, sir," said the landlady, somewhat sharply; 
 " but it is your name, not his, that he wishes to put into 
 his book. " 
 
 " Mine ! " said the youth , who appeared to have been 
 seeking to gain time in order to answer a query which 
 most men find requires very little deliberation, — 
 " mine, you say; my name is Linden, Clarence Linden, 
 — you understand ? " 
 
 " What a pretty name! " thought the landlady's
 
 40 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 daughter, who was listening at the keyhole; "but how 
 could he admire that odious cap of Ma's! " 
 
 "And now, landlady, I wish you would send up my 
 boxes; and get me a newspaper, if you please." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the landlady, and she rose to retire. 
 
 "I do not think," said the youth to himself, "that 
 I could have hit on a prettier name, — and so novel a 
 one too! Clarence Linden, — why, if I were that pretty 
 girl at the bar, I could fall in love with the very words. 
 ►Shakespeare was quite wrong when he said, — 
 
 ' A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. 
 
 A rose by any name would not smell as sweet; if a rose's 
 name was Jeremiah Bossolton, for instance, it would not, 
 to my nerves, at least, smell of anything but an apothe- 
 cary's shop! " 
 
 When Mordaunt called the next morning, he found 
 Clarence much better, and carelessly turning over va- 
 rious books, part of the contents of the luggage super- 
 scribed C. L. A book of whatever description was 
 among the few companions for whom Mordaunt had 
 neither fastidiousness nor reserve ; and the sympathy of 
 taste between him and the sufferer gave rise to a conver- 
 sation less cold and commonplace than it might other- 
 wise have been. And when Mordaunt, after a stay of 
 some length, rose to depart, he pressed Linden to return 
 his visit before he left that part of the country ; his 
 place, he added, was only about five miles distant from 
 
 W . Linden, greatly interested in his visitor, was 
 
 not slow in accepting the invitation; and, perhaps for 
 the first time in his life, Mordaunt was shaking hands 
 with a stranger he had only known two days.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 41 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 While yet a child, and long before his time, 
 He had perceived the presence and the power 
 Of greatness. 
 
 But eagerly he read, and read again. 
 
 . • . . • 
 
 Yet still uppermost 
 Nature was at his heart, as if he felt, 
 Though yet he knew not how, a wasting power 
 In all things that from her sweet influence 
 Might seek to wean him. Therefore with her hues, 
 Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms, 
 He clothed the nakedness of austere truth. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Algernon Mordaunt was the last son of an old and 
 honorable race, which had, centuries back, numbered 
 princes in its line. His parents had had many children, 
 but all (save Algernon, the youngest) died in their in- 
 fancy. His mother perished in giving him birth. Con- 
 stitutional infirmity, and the care of mercenary nurses, 
 contributed to render Algernon a weakly and delicate 
 child : hence came a taste for loneliness and a passion 
 for study; and from these sprang, on the one hand, the 
 fastidiousness and reserve which render us apparently 
 unamiable, and, on the other, the loftiness of spirit and 
 the kindness of heart, which are the best and earliest 
 gifts of literature, and more than counterbalance our 
 deficiencies in the " minor morals " due to society by 
 their tendency to increase our attention to the greater 
 ones belonging to mankind. Mr. Mordaunt was a man
 
 42 THE DISOWNED- 
 
 of luxurious habits and gambling propensities. Wedded 
 to London, he left the house of his ancestors to moulder 
 into desertion and decay; hut to this home Algernon 
 was constantly consigned during his vacations from 
 school; and its solitude and cheerlessness gave to a 
 disposition naturally melancholy and thoughtful, those 
 colors which suhsequent events were calculated to deepen, 
 not efface. 
 
 Truth obliges us to state, despite our partiality to 
 Mordaunt, that when he left his school, after a residence 
 of six years, it was with the hitter distinction of having 
 been the most unpopular hoy in it. Why, nobody could 
 exactly explain, for his severest enemies could not accuse 
 him of ill-nature, cowardice, or avarice, and these make 
 the three capital offences of a schoolboy ; but Algernon 
 Mordaunt had already acquired the knowledge of him- 
 self, and could explain the cause, though with a bitter 
 and swelling heart. His ill health, his long residence 
 at home, his unfriended and almost orphan situation, his 
 early habits of solitude and reserve, — all these, so calcu- 
 lated to make the spirit shrink within itself, made him, 
 on his entrance at school, if not unsocial, appear so. 
 This was the primary reason of his unpopularity; the 
 second was that he perceived, fin- he was sensitive (and 
 consequently acute) to the extreme, the misfortune of 
 his manner, and in his wish to rectify it, it became 
 doubly unprepossessing; to reserve, it now added embar- 
 rassment, — to coldness gloom; and the pain he felt in 
 addressing or being addressed by another, was naturally 
 and necessarily reciprocal, for the effects of sympathy 
 are nowhere so wonderful, yet so invisible, as in the 
 manners. 
 
 By degrees he shunned the intercourse which had f < >r 
 him nothing but distress, and his volatile acquaintances
 
 THE DISOWNED. 43 
 
 were perhaps the first to set him the example. Often in 
 his solitary walks he stopped afar off to gaze upon the 
 sports, which none ever solicited him to share ; and as 
 the shout of laughter and of happy hearts came, peal 
 after peal, upon his ear, he turned enviously, yet not 
 malignantly away with tears, which not all his pride 
 could curb, and muttered to himself, " And these, these 
 hate me ! " 
 
 There are two feelings common to all high or affec- 
 tionate natures : that of extreme susceptibility to opinion, 
 and that of extreme bitterness at its injustice. These 
 feelings were Mordaunt's; but the keen edge which one 
 blow injures, the repetition blunts; and, by little and 
 little, Algernon became not only accustomed, but, as he 
 persuaded himself, indifferent to his want of popularity. 
 His step grew more lofty, and his address more collected, 
 and that which was once diffidence gradually hardened 
 into pride. 
 
 His residence at the university was neither without 
 honor nor profit. A college life was then, as now, either 
 the most retired or the most social of all others : Ave need 
 scarcely say which it was to Mordaunt; but his was the 
 age when solitude is desirable, and when the closet forms 
 the mind better than the world. Driven upon itself, his 
 intellect became inquiring, and its resources profound; 
 admitted to their inmost recesses, he revelled among the 
 treasures of ancient lore, and in his dreams of the 
 Nymph and Naiad, or his researches after truth in the 
 deep wells of the Stagyrite or the golden fountains of 
 Plato, he forgot the loneliness of his lot, and exhausted 
 the hoarded enthusiasm of his soul. 
 
 But his mind, rather thoughtful than imaginative, 
 found no idol like " Divine Philosophy. " It delighted 
 to plunge itself into the mazes of metaphysical investi-
 
 44 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 gation, to trace the springs of the intellect, to connect 
 the arcana of the universe, to descend into the darkest 
 caverns, or to wind through the minutest mysteries of 
 nature, and rise, step hy step, to that arduous elevation 
 on which thought stands dizzy and confused, looking be- 
 neath upon a clouded earth, and ahove, upon an un- 
 fathomable heaven. 
 
 Rarely wandering from his chamber, known personally 
 to few, and intimately by none, Algernon yet left be- 
 hind him at the university the most remarkable reputa- 
 tion of his day. He had obtained some of the highest of 
 academical honors, and, by that proverbial process of 
 vulgar minds which ever frames the magnificent from the 
 unknown , — the seclusion in which he lived , and the 
 recondite nature of his favorite pursuits, attached to his 
 name a still greater celebrity and interest than all the 
 orthodox and regular dignities he had acquired. There 
 are few men who do not console themselves for not being 
 generally loved, if they can reasonably hope that they 
 are generally esteemed. Mordaunt had now grown 
 reconciled to himself and to his kind. He had opened 
 to his interest a world in his own breast, and it consoled 
 him for his mortification in the world without. But, 
 better than this, his habits as well as studies had strength- 
 ened the principles and confirmed the nobility of his 
 mind. He was not, it is true, more kind, more benevo- 
 lent, more upright than before; but those virtues now 
 emanated from principle, not emotion: and principle to 
 the mind is what a free constitution is to a people; 
 without that principle, or that free constitution, the one 
 may be for the moment as good, the other as happy, but 
 we cannot tell how long the goodness and the happiness 
 will continue. 
 
 Un leaving the university, his father sent for him to
 
 THE DISOWNED. 45 
 
 London. He stayed there a short time, and mingled 
 partially in its festivities; but the pleasures of English 
 dissipation have for a century been the same, heartless 
 without gayety, and dull without refinement. Nor 
 could Mordaunt, the most fastidious yet warm-hearted 
 of human beings, reconcile either his tastes or his affec- 
 tions to the cold insipidities of patrician society. His 
 father's habits and evident distresses deepened his 
 disgust to his situation; for the habits were incurable, 
 and the distresses increasing, and nothing but a circum- 
 stance, which Mordaunt did not then understand, pre- 
 vented the final sale of an estate, already little better 
 than a pompous encumbrance. 
 
 It was, therefore, with the half-painful, half-pleasur- 
 able sensation, with which we avoid contemplating a 
 ruin we cannot prevent, that Mordaunt set out upon that 
 Continental tour deemed then so necessary a part of 
 education. His father, on taking leave of him, seemed 
 deeply affected. " Go, my son ," said he ; " may God bless 
 you, and not punish me too severely. I have wronged 
 you deeply, and I cannot bear to look upon your face." 
 
 To these words Algernon attached a general, but they 
 cloaked a peculiar meaning ; in three j^ears he returned 
 to England, — his father had been dead some months, 
 and the signification of his parting address was already 
 deciphered; but of this hereafter. 
 
 In his travels, Mordaunt encountered an Englishman, 
 whose name I will not yet mention, a person of great 
 reputed wealth, a merchant, yet a man of pleasure, a 
 voluptuary in life, yet a saint in reputation, — or, to 
 abstain from the antithetical analysis of a character, 
 which will not be corporeally presented to the reader, 
 till our tale is considerably advanced, — one who drew 
 from nature a singular combination of shrewd but false
 
 4G THE DISOWNED. 
 
 conclusions, and a peculiar philosophy, destined here- 
 after to contrast the colors, and prove the practical utility 
 of that which was espoused by Mordaunt. 
 
 There can he no education in which the lessons of the 
 world do not form a share. Experience, in expanding 
 Algernon's powers, had ripened his virtues. Nor had 
 the years which had converted knowledge into wisdom 
 failed in imparting polish to refinement. His person 
 had acquired a greater grace, and his manners an easier 
 dignity than before. His noble and generous mind had 
 worked its impress upon his features, and his mien; and 
 those who could overcome the first coldness and shrink- 
 ing hauteur of his address, found it required no minute 
 examination to discover the real expression of the elo- 
 quent eye and the kindling lip. 
 
 He had not been long returned, before he found two 
 enemies to his tranquillity, — the one was love, the 
 other appeared in the more formidable guise of a claim- 
 ant to his estate. Before Algernon was aware of the 
 nature of the latter, he went to consult with his lawyer. 
 
 " If the claim be just, I shall not, of course, proceed 
 to law," said Mordaunt. 
 
 " But without the estate, sir, you have nothing! " 
 
 " True," said Algernon, calmly. 
 
 But the claim was not just, and to law he went. 
 
 In this lawsuit, however, he had one assistant in an 
 old relation who had seen, indeed, but very little of him, 
 but who compassionated his circumstances, and, above 
 all, hated his opponent. This relation was rich and 
 childless; and there were not wanting those who pre- 
 dicted that his money would ultimately discharge the 
 mortgages and repair the house of the young representa- 
 tive of the Mordaunt honors. But the old kinsman was 
 obstinate, self-willed, and under the absolute dominion
 
 THE DISOWNED. 47 
 
 of patrician pride ; and it was by no means improbable 
 that the independence of Mordaunt's character would 
 soon create a disunion between them, hj clashing against 
 the peculiarities of his relation's temper. 
 
 It was a clear and sunny morning when Linden, tol- 
 erably recovered of his hurt, set out upon a sober and 
 aged pony, which, after some natural pangs of shame, 
 he had hired of his landlord, to Mordaunt Court. 
 
 Mordaunt's house was situated in the midst of a wild 
 and extensive park, surrounded with woods, and inter- 
 spersed with trees of the stateliest growth, now scattered 
 into irregular groups, now marshalled into sweeping 
 avenues; while, ever and anon, Linden caught glimpses 
 of a rapid and brawling rivulet, which, in many a slight 
 but sounding waterfall, gave a music strange and spirit- 
 like to the thick copses and forest glades through which 
 it went exulting on its way. The deer lay half con- 
 cealed by the fern among which they couched, turning 
 their stately crests towards the stranger, but not stirring 
 from their rest; while from the summit of beeches, 
 which would have shamed the pavilion of Tityrus, the 
 rooks — those monks of the feathered people — were loud 
 in their confused, but not displeasing, confabulations. 
 
 As Linden approached the house, he was struck with 
 the melancholy air of desolation which spread over 
 and around it : fragments of stone, above which climbed 
 the rank weed, insolently proclaiming the triumph of 
 nature's meanest offspring over the wrecks of art; a 
 moat dried up; a railing, once of massy gilding, in- 
 tended to fence a lofty terrace on the right from the 
 incursions of the deer, but which, shattered and de- 
 cayed, now seemed to ask, with the satirist, — 
 
 " To what end did our lavish ancestors 
 Erect of old these stately piles of ours I "
 
 48 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 — a cL&pel on the left, perfectly in ruins, — all appeared 
 strikingly to denote that time had outstripped fortune, 
 and that the years, which alike hallow and destroy, had 
 broken the consequence, in deepening the antiquity of 
 the House of Mordaunt. 
 
 The building itself agreed hut too well with the 
 tokens of decay around it: most of the windows were 
 shut up, and the shutters of dark oak, richly gilt, con- 
 trasted forcibly with the shattered panes and mouldered 
 framing of the glass. It was a house of irregular archi- 
 tecture. Originally built in the fifteenth century, it 
 had received its last improvement, with the most lavish 
 expense, during the reign of Anne; and it united the 
 Gallic magnificence of the latter period with the strength 
 and grandeur of the former. It was in a great part 
 overgrown with ivy, and, where that insidious orna- 
 ment had not reached, the signs of decay, and even 
 ruin, were fully visible. The sun itself, bright and 
 cheering as it shone over nature, making the green sod 
 glow like emeralds, and the rivulet flash in its beam, 
 like one of those streams of real light imagined by 
 Swedenborg in his visions of heaven, and clothing tree 
 and fell, brake and hillock, with the lavish hues of 
 infant summer, — the sun itself only made more deso- 
 late, because more conspicuous, the venerable fabric, 
 which the youthful traveller frequently paused more 
 accurately to survey; and its laughing and sportive 
 beams, playing over chink and crevice, seemed almost 
 as insolent and untimeous as the mirth of the young, 
 mocking the silent grief of some gray-headed and solitary 
 mourner. 
 
 Clarence had now reached the porch, and the sound 
 of the shrill bell he touched rang with a strange note 
 through the general stillness of the place. A single
 
 THE DISOWNED. 49 
 
 servant appeared, and ushered Clarence through a screen 
 hall, hung round with relics of armor, and ornamented 
 on the side opposite the music gallery with a solitary- 
 picture of gigantic size, exhibiting the full length of 
 the gaunt person and sable steed of that Sir Piers de 
 Mordaunt who had so signalized himself in the field in 
 which Henry of Richmond changed his coronet for a 
 crown. Through this hall Clarence was led to a small 
 chamber clothed with uncouth and tattered arras, in 
 which, seemingly immersed in papers, he found the 
 owner of the domain. 
 
 " Your studies," said Linden, after the salutations of 
 the day, "seem to harmonize with the venerable an- 
 tiquity of your home ; " and he pointed to the crabbed 
 characters and faded ink of the papers on the table. 
 
 "So they ought," answered Mordaunt, with a faint 
 smile ; " for they are called from their quiet archives in 
 order to support my struggle for that home. But I fear 
 the struggle is in vain, and that the quibbles of law 
 will transfer into other hands a possession I am foolish 
 enough to value the more from my inability to main- 
 tain it." 
 
 Something of this Clarence had before learned from 
 the communicative gossip of his landlady; and, less 
 desirous to satisfy his curiosity than to lead the con- 
 versation from a topic which he felt must be so unwel- 
 come to Mordaunt, he expressed a wish to see the state 
 apartments of the house. With something of shame 
 at the neglect they had necessarily experienced, and 
 something of pride at the splendor which no neglect 
 could efface, Mordaunt yielded to the request, and led 
 the way up a staircase of black oak, the walls and ceil- 
 ing of which were covered with frescos of Italian art, 
 to a suite of apartments in which time and dust seemed 
 
 VOL. I. — 4
 
 50 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 the only tenants. Lingeringly did Clarence gaze upon 
 the rich velvet, the costly mirrors, the motley paintings 
 of a hundred ancestors, and the antique cabinets, con- 
 taining, among the most hoarded relics of the Mordaunt 
 race, curiosities which the hereditary enthusiasm of a 
 line of cavaliers had treasured as the most sacred of 
 heirlooms, and which, even to the philosophical mind 
 of Mordaunt, possessed a value he did not seek too 
 minutely to analyze. Here was the goblet from which 
 the first prince of Tudor had drunk after the field of 
 Bosworth. Here the ring with which the chivalrous 
 Francis I. had rewarded a signal feat of that famous 
 Robert de Mordaunt, who, as a poor but adventurous 
 cadet of the house, had brought to the " first gentleman 
 of France " the assistance of his sword. Here was the 
 glove which Sir Walter had received from the royal 
 hand of Elizabeth, and worn in the lists upon a crest 
 which the lance of no antagonist in that knightly court 
 could abase. And here, more sacred than all, because 
 connected with the memory of misfortune, was a small 
 box of silver, which the last king of a fated line had 
 placed in the hand of the gray -headed descendant of that 
 Sir Walter after the battle of the Boyne, saying, " Keep 
 this, Sir Everard Mordaunt, for the sake of one who 
 has purchased the luxury of gratitude at the price of a 
 throne ! " 
 
 As Clarence glanced from these relics to the figure of 
 Mordaunt, who stood at a little distance leaning against 
 the window, with arms folded on his breast, and with 
 eyes abstractedly wandering over the noble woods and 
 extended park which spread below, he could not but 
 feel that if birth had indeed the power of setting its 
 seal upon the form, it was never more conspiciious than 
 in the broad front and lofty air of the last descendant
 
 THE DISOWNED. 51 
 
 of the race by whose memorials he was surrounded. 
 Touched by the fallen fortunes of Mordaunt, and inter- 
 ested by the uncertainty which the chances of law threw 
 over his future fate, Clarence could not resist exclaim- 
 ing, with some warmth and abruptness, — 
 
 " And by what subterfuge, or cavil, does the present 
 claimant of these estates hope to dislodge their rightful 
 possessor ? " 
 
 "Why," answered Mordaunt, "it is a long story in 
 detail, but briefly told in epitome. My father was a 
 man whose habits greatly exceeded his fortune, and a 
 few months after his death, Mr. Vavasour, a distant 
 relation, produced a paper, by which it appeared that 
 my father had, for a certain sum of ready money, dis- 
 posed of his estates to this Mr. Vavasour, upon condi- 
 tion that they should not be claimed, nor the treaty 
 divulged, till after his death; the reason for this proviso 
 seems to have been the shame my father felt for his 
 exchange, and his fear of the censures of that world to 
 which he was always devoted." 
 
 " But how unjust to you! " said Clarence. 
 
 " Not so much as it seems," said Mordaunt, deprecat- 
 ingly; "for I was then but a sickly boy, and, according 
 to the physicians, and I sincerely believe according also 
 to my poor father's belief, almost certain of a premature 
 death. In that case Vavasour would have been the 
 nearest heir; and this expectancy, by the by, joined to 
 the mortgages on the property, made the sum given 
 ridiculously disproportioned to the value of the estate. 
 I must confess that the news came upon me like a thun- 
 derbolt. I should have yielded up possession immedi- 
 ately, but was informed by my lawyers that my father 
 had no legal right to dispose of the property ; the dis- 
 cussion of that right forms the ground of the present
 
 52 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 lawsuit. But," continued Mordaunt, proudly, yet 
 mournfully, " I am prepared for the worst; if, indeed, 
 I should call that the worst which can affect neither 
 intellect, nor health, nor character, nor conscience." 
 
 Clarence was silent, and Mor daunt, after a brief pause, 
 once more resumed his guidance. Their tour ended in 
 a large library filled with books, and this, Mordaunt 
 informed his guest, was his chosen sitting-room. 
 
 An old carved table was covered with works which 
 for the most part possessed for the young mind of Clar- 
 ence, more accustomed to imagine than reflect, but a 
 very feeble attraction; on looking over them, he, how- 
 ever, found, half hid by a huge folio of Hobbes, and 
 another of Locke, a volume of Milton's poems: this 
 paved the way to a conversation, in which both had an 
 equal interest; for both were enthusiastic in the char- 
 acter and genius of that wonderful man, for whom " the 
 divine and solemn countenance of Freedom " was dearer 
 than the light of day, and whose solitary spell, accom- 
 plishing what the whole family of earth once vainly 
 began upon the plain of Shinar, has built of materials 
 more imperishable than " slime and brick," " a city and 
 a tower whose summit has reached to heaven. " 
 
 It was with mutual satisfaction that Mordaunt and 
 his guest continued their commune till the hour of 
 dinner was announced to them by a bell, which, for- 
 merly intended as an alarm, now served the peaceful 
 purpose of a more agreeable summons. 
 
 The same servant who had admitted Clarence ushered 
 them through the great hall into the dining-room, and 
 was their solitary attendant during their repast. 
 
 The temper of Mordaunt was essentially grave and 
 earnest, and his conversation almost invariably took the 
 tone of his mind; this made their conference turn upon
 
 THE DISOWNED. 53 
 
 less minute and commonplace topics than one between 
 such new acquaintances, especially of different ages, 
 usually does. 
 
 " You will positively go to London to-morrow, then? " 
 said Mordaunt, as the servant, removing the appurte- 
 nances of dinner, left them alone. 
 
 " Positively," answered Clarence. " I go there to 
 carve my own fortunes, and, to say truth, I am impa- 
 tient to begin." 
 
 Mordaunt looked earnestly at the frank face of the 
 speaker, and wondered that one so young, so well edu- 
 cated, and, from his air and manner, evidently of gentle 
 blood, should appear so utterly thrown upon his own 
 resources. 
 
 " I wish you success," said he, after a pause; " and it 
 is a noble part of the organization of this world, that by 
 increasing those riches which are beyond fortune, we do 
 in general take the surest method of obtaining those 
 which are in its reach." 
 
 Clarence looked inquiringly at Mordaunt, who, per- 
 ceiving it, continued, " I see that I should explain my- 
 self further. I will do so by using the thoughts of a 
 mind not the least beautiful and accomplished which 
 this country has produced. ' Of all which belongs to 
 us,' said Bolingbroke, ' the least valuable parts can alone 
 fall under the will of others. Whatever is best is 
 safest, lies out of the reach of human power, can 
 neither be given nor taken away. Such is this great 
 and beautiful work of nature, the world. Such is the 
 mind of man, which contemplates and admires the world 
 whereof it makes the noblest part. These are insepar- 
 ably ours, and as long as we remain in one we shall 
 enjoy the other.' " 
 
 " Beautiful, indeed! " exclaimed Clarence, with the
 
 54 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 enthusiasm of a young and pure heart, to which every 
 loftier sentiment is always beautiful. 
 
 " And true as beautiful ! " said Mordaunt. " Nor is 
 this all, for the mind can even dispense Avith that world, 
 ' of which it forms a part,' if we can create within it a 
 world still more inaccessible to chance. But (and I 
 now return to and explain my former observation) the 
 means by which we can effect this peculiar world, can 
 be rendered equally subservient to our advancement and 
 prosperity in that which we share in common with our 
 race; for the riches, which by the aid of wisdom we 
 heap up in the storehouses of the mind, are, though not 
 the only, the most customary coin by which external pros- 
 perity is bought. So that the philosophy which can alone 
 give independence to ourselves, becomes, under the name 
 of honesty, the best policy in commerce with our kind." 
 
 In conversation of this nature, which the sincerity 
 and lofty enthusiasm of Mordaunt rendered interesting 
 to Clarence, despite the distaste to the serious so ordi- 
 nary to youth, the hours passed on, till the increasing 
 evening warned Linden to depart. 
 
 " Adieu ! " said he to Mordaunt. " I know not when 
 we shall meet again, but if we ever do, I will make it 
 my boast, whether in prosperity or misfortune, not to 
 have forgotten the pleasure I have this day enjoyed! " 
 
 Returning his guest's farewell with a warmth unusual 
 to his manner, Mordaunt followed him to the door, and 
 saw him depart. 
 
 Fate ordained that they should pursue, in very differ- 
 ent paths, their several destinies; nor did it afford them 
 an opportunity of meeting again, till years and events 
 had severely tried the virtue of one, and materially 
 altered the prospects of the other. 
 
 The next morning Clarence Linden was on his road 
 to London.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 55 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " Upon my word," cries Jones, " thou art a very odd fellow, and I 
 like thy humor extremely." — Fielding. 
 
 The rumbling and jolting vehicle which conveyed 
 Clarence to the metropolis stopped at the door of a 
 tavern in Holborn. Linden was ushered into a close 
 coffee-room and presented with a bill of fare. While he 
 was deliberating between the respective merits of mutton- 
 chops and beefsteaks, a man with a brown coat, brown 
 breeches, and a brown wig, walked into the room; he 
 cast a curious glance at Clarence, and then turned to the 
 waiter. 
 
 " A pair of slippers ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; " and the waiter disappeared. 
 
 " I suppose, " said the brown gentleman to Clarence, — 
 " I suppose, sir, you are the gentleman just come to 
 town 1 " 
 
 " You are right, sir, " said Clarence. 
 
 " Very well, — very well, indeed, " resumed the stran- 
 ger, musingly. " I took the liberty of looking at your 
 boxes in the passage ; I knew a lady, sir, a relation of 
 yours, I think." 
 
 " Sir ! " exclaimed Linden, coloring violently. 
 
 " At least, I suppose, for her name was just the same 
 as yours, only, at least, one letter difference between 
 them: yours is Linden, I see, sir; hers was Minden. 
 Am I right in my conjecture, that you are related to 
 her?"
 
 56 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 " Sir, " answered Clarence, gravely, " notwithstanding 
 the similarity of our names, we arc not related." 
 
 " Very extraordinary," replied the stranger. 
 
 " Very, " repeated Linden. 
 
 " I had the honor, sir, " said the brown gentleman, 
 "to make Mrs. Minden many presents of value, and I 
 should have been very happy to have obliged you in the 
 same manner, had you been any way connected with 
 that worthy gentlewoman." 
 
 " You are very kind," said Linden, — " you are very 
 kind; and since such were your intentions, I believe I 
 must have been connected with Mrs. Minden. At all 
 events, as you justly observe, there is only the difference 
 of a letter between our names : a discrepancy too slight, 
 I am sure, to alter your benevolent intentions." 
 
 Here the waiter returned with the slippers. 
 
 The stranger slowly unbuttoned his gaiters. " Sir, " 
 said he to Linden, " we will renew our conversation 
 presently. " 
 
 No sooner had the generous friend of Mrs. Minden 
 deposited his feet into their easy tenements than he 
 quitted the room. 
 
 " Pray, " said Linden to the waiter, when he had 
 ordered his simple repast, " who is that gentleman hi 
 brown 1 " 
 
 " Mr. Brown, " replied the waiter. 
 
 "And who, or what is Mr. Brown? " asked our hero. 
 
 Before the waiter could reply, Mr. Brown returned 
 with a large bandbox, carefully enveloped in a blue hand- 
 kerchief. " You come from , sir? " said Mr. Brown, 
 
 quietly seating himself at the same table as Linden. 
 
 " No, sir, I do not. " 
 
 « From , then ? " 
 
 " No, sir ! — from W . "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 57 
 
 " vy ! ay — well, I know a lady with a name 
 
 very like W (the late Lady AVaddilove) extremely 
 
 well. I made her some valuable presents, — her lady- 
 ship was very sensible of it. " 
 
 " I don't doubt it, sir, " replied Clarence ; " such in- 
 stances of general beneficence rarely occur ! " 
 
 " I have some magnificent relics of her ladyship in 
 this box," returned Mr. Brown. 
 
 " Really ! then she was no less generous than your- 
 self, T presume! " 
 
 " Yes, her ladyship was remarkably generous. About 
 a week before she died (the late Lady Waddilove was 
 quite sensible of her danger) she called me to her: 
 1 Brown, ' said she, ' you are a good creature ; I have 
 had my most valuable things from you. I am not un- 
 grateful ; I will leave you — my maid ! She is as clever as 
 you are, and as good.' I took the hint, sir, and married. 
 It was an excellent bargain. My wife is a charming 
 woman ; she entirely fitted up Mrs. Minden's wardrobe, 
 and I furnished the house. Mrs. Minden was greatly 
 indebted to us." 
 
 " Heaven help me ! " thought Clarence, " the man is 
 certainly mad." 
 
 The waiter entered with the dinner ; and Mr. Brown, 
 who seemed to have a delicate aversion to any conversa- 
 tion in the presence of the Ganymede of the Holborn 
 tavern, immediately ceased his communications : mean- 
 while Clarence took the opportunity to survey him more 
 minutely than he had hitherto done. 
 
 His new acquaintance was in age about forty-eight ; in 
 stature, rather under the middle height] and thin, dried, 
 withered, yet muscular withal, like a man who, in stint- 
 ing his stomach for the sake of economy, does not the 
 less enjoy the power of undergoing any fatigue or exer-
 
 53 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 tion that an object of adequate importance may demand. 
 We have said already that he was attired, like twilight, 
 "in a suit of sober In-own ; " and there was a formality, 
 a precision, and a cat-like sort of cleanliness in his garb 
 which savored strongly of the respectable coxcombry of 
 the counting-house. His face was lean, it is true, but 
 not emaciated; and his complexion, sallow and adust, 
 harmonized well with the colors of his clothing. An 
 eye of the darkest hazel, sharp, shrewd, and flashing at 
 times, especially at the mention of the euphonious name 
 of Lady Waddilove, — a name frequently upon the lips 
 of the inheritor of her Abigail, — with a fire that might 
 be called brilliant, was of that modest species which can 
 seldom encounter the straightforward glance of another ; 
 on the contrary, it seemed restlessly uneasy in any 
 settled place, and wandered from ceiling to floor, and 
 corner to corner, with an inquisitive, though apparently 
 careless glance, as if seeking for something to admire or 
 haply to appropriate; it also seemed to be the especial 
 care of Mr. Brown to veil, as far as he was able, the vi- 
 vacity of his looks beneath an expression of open and un- 
 heeding good-nature, an expression strangely enough con- 
 trasting with the closeness and sagacity which nature had 
 indelibly stamped upon features pointed, aquiline, and 
 impressed with a strong mixture of the Judaical physi- 
 ognomy. The manner and bearing of this gentleman 
 partook of the same undecided character as his counte- 
 nance : they seemed to be struggling between civility and 
 importance ; a real eagerness to make the acquaintance of 
 the person he addressed, and an assumed recklessness of 
 the advantages which that acquaintance could bestow. 
 It was like the behavior of a man who is desirous of 
 having the best possible motives imputed to him, but is 
 fearful lest that desire should not be utterly fulfilled.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 59 
 
 At the first glance you would have pledged yourself for 
 his respectability; at the second, you would have half 
 suspected him to be a rogue; and, after you had been 
 half an hour in his company, you would confess yourself 
 in the obscurest doubt which was the better guess, the 
 first or the last. 
 
 " Waiter ! " said Mr. Brown, looking enviously at the 
 viands upon which Linden, having satisfied his curiosity, 
 was now, with all the appetite of youth, regaling him- 
 self, — "waiter!" 
 
 "Yes, sir! " 
 
 " Bring me a sandwich, and — and, waiter, see that I 
 have plenty of — plenty of — " 
 
 "What, sir?" 
 
 " Plenty of mustard, waiter. 
 
 " Mustard " (and here Mr. Brown addressed himself 
 to Clarence) " is a very wonderful assistance to the 
 digestion. By the by, sir, if you want any curiously 
 fine mustard, I can procure you some pots quite capital: 
 a great favor, though — they were smuggled from France 
 especially for the use of the late Lady Waddilove. " 
 
 " Thank you, " said Linden, dryly ; " I shall be very 
 happy to accept anything you may wish to offer me." 
 
 Mr. Brown took a pocketbook from his pouch. " Six 
 pots of mustard, sir, — shall I say six 1 " 
 
 " As many as you please, " replied Clarence ; and Mr. 
 Brown wrote down " Six pots of French mustard. " 
 
 " You are a very young gentleman, sir, " said Mr. 
 Brown, " probably intended for some profession, — I 
 don't mean to be impertinent, but if I can be of any 
 assistance — " 
 
 " You can, sir, " replied Linden, " and immediately, 
 — have the kindness to ring the bell. " 
 
 Mr. Brown, with a grave smile, did as he was desired ;
 
 CO THE DISOWNED. 
 
 the waiter re-entering, and receiving a whispered order 
 from Clarence, again disappeared. 
 
 "What profession did you say, sir?" renewed Mr. 
 Brown, artfully. 
 
 " None ! " replied Linden. 
 
 " Oh, very well, very well indeed. Then as an idle, 
 independent gentleman, you will of course he a hit of a 
 heau : want some shirts, possibly ; fine cravats, too, — 
 gentlemen wear a particular pattern now: gloves, gold, 
 or shall I say gilt chain, watch and seals, a ring or two, 
 and a snuff-box 1 " 
 
 " Sir, you are vastly obliging, " said Clarence, in un- 
 disguised surprise. 
 
 " Not at all, I would do anything for a relation of Mrs. 
 Minden." The waiter re-entered: "Sir," said he to 
 Linden, " your room is quite ready. " 
 
 " I am glad to hear it, " said Clarence, rising. " Mr. 
 Brown, I have the honor of wishing you a good 
 evening. " 
 
 "Stay, sir, — stay; you have not looked into these 
 things belonging to the late Lady Waddilove." 
 
 " Another time, " said Clarence, hastily. 
 
 " To-morrow at ten o'clock, " muttered Mr. Brown. 
 
 " I am exceedingly glad I have got rid of that fellow, " 
 said Linden to himself, as he stretched his limbs in his 
 easy-chair, and drank off the last glass of his pint of port. 
 " If I have not already seen, I have already guessed 
 enough of the world, to know that you are to look to 
 your pockets when a man offers you a present; they who 
 'give,' also 'take away.' So here I am in London, with 
 an order for £1000 in my purse, the wisdom of Dr. Lati- 
 nas in my head, and the health of eighteen in my veins; 
 will it not be my own fault if I do not both enjoy and 
 make myself — "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 61 
 
 And then, yielding to meditations of future success, 
 partaking strongly of the inexperienced and sanguine 
 temperament of the soliloquist, Clarence passed the 
 hours, till his pillow summoned him to dreams no less 
 ardent and perhaps no less unreal.
 
 62 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Oh ! how I long to be employed. — Every Man in his Humor. 
 
 Clarence was sitting the next morning over the very 
 unsatisfactory breakfast which tea made out of broom- 
 sticks, and cream out of chalk (adulteration thrived 
 even in 17 — ), afforded, when the waiter threw open 
 the door, and announced Mr. Brown. 
 
 "Just in time, sir, you perceive," said Mr. Brown; 
 "I am punctuality itself; exactly a quarter of a minute 
 to ten. I have brought you the pots of French mus- 
 tard, and I have some very valuable articles, which you 
 must want besides." 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said Linden, not well knowing 
 what to say ; and Mr. Brown, untying a silk handker- 
 chief, produced three shirts, two pots of pomatum, a 
 tobacco-canister, with a German pipe, four pair of silk 
 stockings, two gold seals, three rings, and a stuffed 
 parrot ! 
 
 "Beautiful articles these, sir," said Mr. Brown, with 
 a snuffle "of inward sweetness long drawn out," and 
 expressive of great admiration of his offered treasures, — ■ 
 " beautiful articles, sir, are n't they?" 
 
 " Very ; the parrot in particular, " said Clarence. 
 
 "Yes, sir," returned Mr. Brown; "the parrot is in- 
 deed quite a jewel ; it belonged to the late Lady Wad- 
 dilove; I offer it to you with considerable regret, 
 for — "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 63 
 
 " Oh ! " interrupted Clarence, " pray do not rob your- 
 self of such a jewel, it really is of no use to me." 
 
 " I know that, sir, — I know that, " replied Mr. Brown ; 
 " but it will be of use to your friends ; it Avill be ines- 
 timable to any old aunt, sir, any maiden lady living at 
 Hackney, any curious elderly gentleman fond of a knick- 
 nack. I knew you would know some one to send 
 it to as a present, even though you should not want 
 it yourself." 
 
 " Bless me ! " thought Linden, " was there ever such 
 generosity 1 Not content with providing for my wants, 
 he extends his liberality even to any possible relations I 
 may possess! " 
 
 Mr. Brown now retied " the beautiful articles " in his 
 handkerchief. " Shall I leave them, sir 1 " said he. 
 
 " Why, really, " said Clarence, " I thought yesterday 
 that you were in jest; but you must be aware that I 
 cannot accept presents from any gentleman so much — 
 so much a stranger to me as you are." 
 
 " No , sir, I am aware of that, " replied Mr. Brown ; 
 " and in order to remove the impleasantness of such a 
 feeling, sir, on your part, — merely in order to do that, I 
 assure you with no other view, sir, in the world, — I 
 have just noted down the articles on this piece of paper; 
 but, as you will perceive, at a price so low as still to 
 make them actually presents in every thing but the 
 name. Oh, sir, I perfectly understand your delicacy, 
 and would not for the world violate it." 
 
 So saying, Mr. Brown put a paper into Linden's 
 hands, the substance of which a very little more expe- 
 rience of the world would have enabled Clarence to 
 foresee ; it ran thus : —
 
 04 
 
 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 4 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 
 10 
 
 
 
 
 
 12 
 
 6 
 
 1 
 
 18 
 
 
 
 2 
 
 8 
 
 
 
 16 6 
 
 12 6 
 12 6 
 
 Clarence Linden, Esq., Dr. 
 
 To Mr. Morris Brown. 
 
 To Six Pota of French Mustard £14 
 
 To Three Superfine Holland Shirts, with Cambric Bo- 
 soms, complete ....... 
 
 To Two Pots of Superior French Pomatum 
 To a Tobacco-Canister of enamelled Tin, with a finely- 
 executed head of the Pretender ; slight Haw in the same 
 To a German Pipe, second-hand, as good as new, be- 
 longing to the late Lady Waddilove 
 To four pair of Black Silk Hose, ditto, belonging to 
 her Ladyship's husband ...... 
 
 To Two Superfine Embossed Gold Watch-seals, with a 
 Classical Motto and device to each, — namely, Mouse- 
 Trap and " Prenez Garde " to one, and " Who the 
 devil can this be from ? " 1 to the other . . .110 
 To a remarkably fine Antique Ping, having the head 
 
 of a Monkey 
 
 A ditto, with blue stones 
 
 A ditto, with green ditto 
 
 A Stuffed Green Parrot, a remarkable favorite of the 
 late Lady W 
 
 Sum Total .... 
 
 Deduction for Ready Money 
 
 Mr. Brown's Profits for Brokerage . 
 
 Sum Total .... 
 
 Received of Clarence Linden Esq., this day of 17 — . 
 
 It would have been no unamusing study to watch the 
 expression of Clarence's face as it lengthened over each 
 article until he had reached the final conclusion. He 
 then carefully folded up the paper, restored it to Mr. 
 Brown, with a low how, and said, " Excuse me, sir, I 
 will not take advantage of your generosity; keep your 
 parrot and other treasures for some more Avorthy person. 
 
 1 One would not have thought these ingenious devices had been 
 of so ancient a date as the year 17 — . 
 
 2 
 
 2 
 
 
 
 £15 
 
 18 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 13 
 
 6 
 
 £15 
 
 4 
 
 6 
 
 1 
 
 10 
 
 
 
 £16 
 
 14 
 
 6
 
 THE DISOWNED. 65 
 
 I cannot accept of what you are pleased to term your 
 very valuable presents ! " 
 
 " Oh, very well, — very well, " said Mr. Brown, 
 pocketing the paper, and seeming perfectly unconcerned 
 at the termination of his proposals ; " perhaps I can serve 
 you in some other way 'I " 
 
 " In none, I thank you, " replied Linden. 
 
 " Just consider, sir! — you will want lodgings: I can 
 find them for you, cheaper than you can yourself; or 
 perhaps you would prefer going into a nice, quiet, gen- 
 teel family, where you can have both board and lodging, 
 and be treated in every way as the pet child of the 
 master 1 " 
 
 A thought crossed Linden's mind. He was going to 
 stay in town some time : he was ignorant of its ways ; 
 he had neither friends nor relations, at least none wbom 
 he could visit and consult; moreover, hotels, he knew, 
 were expensive; lodgings, though cheaper, might, if 
 tolerably comfortable, greatly exceed the sum prudence 
 would allow him to expend; would not this plan pro- 
 posed by Mr. Brown, of going into a " nice, quiet, gen- 
 teel family, " be the most advisable one he could adopt ? 
 The generous benefactor of the late and ever-to-be-re- 
 membered Lady Waddilove perceived his advantage, and 
 making the most of Clarence's hesitation, continued, — 
 
 " I know of a charming little abode, sir, situated in 
 the suburbs of London, quite rus in urbe, as the scholars 
 say ; you can have a delightful little back parlor, looking 
 out upon the garden, and all to yourself, I daresay. " 
 
 " And pray, Mr. Brown, " interrupted Linden, " what 
 price do you think would be demanded for such enviable 
 accommodation? If you offer me them as ' a present,' 
 I shall have nothing to say to them." 
 
 " Oh, sir, " answered Mr. Brown, " the price will he a 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 trifle, — a mere trifle; but I will inquire, and let you 
 know the exact sum in the course of the day: all they 
 want is a respectable gentlemanlike lodger ; and I am 
 sure so near a relation of Mrs. Minden will, upon my 
 recommendation, be received with avidity. Then, you 
 won't have any of these valuable articles, sir? You'll 
 repent it, sir; take my word for it, — hem! " 
 
 "Since," replied Clarence, dryly, "your word appears 
 of so much more value than your articles, pardon me if 
 I prefer taking the former instead of the latter." 
 
 Mr. Brown forced a smile. " Well, sir, very well, — 
 very well, indeed. You will not go out before two 
 o'clock; and at that time I shall call upon you respect- 
 ing the commission you have favored me with. " 
 
 " I will await you, " said Clarence ; and he bowed Mr. 
 Brown out of the room. 
 
 " Now, really, " said Linden to himself, as he paced 
 the narrow limits of his apartment, " I do not see what 
 better plan I can pursue, — but let me well consider 
 what is my ultimate object. A high step in the world's 
 ladder ! — how is this to be obtained 1 First, by the 
 regular method of professions; but what profession 
 should I adopt? The church is incompatible with my 
 object, — the army and navy with my meaus. Next 
 come the regular methods of adventure and enterprise, 
 such as marriage with a fortune, " — here he paused, 
 and looked at the glass, — " the speculation of a political 
 pamphlet, or an ode to the minister; attendance on 
 some dying miser of my own name, without a relation 
 in the world, — or, in short, any other mode of making 
 money that may decently offer itself. Now, situated as 
 I am, without a friend in this great city, I might as 
 well purchase my experience at as cheap a rate and 
 in as brief a time as possible, nor do I see any plan
 
 THE DISOWNED. 67 
 
 of doing so more promising than that proposed by Mr. 
 Brown. " 
 
 These and such like reflections, joined to the inspiriting 
 pages of the " Newgate Calendar " and " The Covent 
 Garden Magazine," two works which Clarence dragged 
 from their concealment under a black teatray, afforded 
 him ample occupation till the hour of two, punctual to 
 which time Mr. Morris Brown returned. 
 
 " Well, sir, " cried Clarence, " what is your report 1 " 
 
 The friend of the late Lady W wiped his brow and 
 
 gave three long sighs before he replied: " A long Avalk, 
 sir, — a very long walk I have had; but I have suc- 
 ceeded. No thanks, sir, — no thanks; the lady, a most 
 charming, delightful, amiable woman, will receive you 
 with pleasure — you will have the use of a back parlor 
 (as I said) all the morning, and a beautiful little bed- 
 room entirely to yourself — think of that, sir. You will 
 have an egg for breakfast, and you will dine with the fam- 
 ily at three o'clock ; quite fashionable hours you see, sir. " 
 
 " And the terms? " said Linden, impatiently. 
 
 " Why, sir," replied Mr. Brown, " the lady was too 
 genteel to talk to me about them, — you had better walk 
 with me to her house and see if you cannot yourself agree 
 with her." 
 
 "I will," said Clarence. "Will you wait here till 
 I have dressed 1 " 
 
 Mr. Brown bowed his assent. 
 
 " I might as well," thought Clarence, as he ascended 
 to his bedroom, " inquire into the character of this gen- 
 tleman, to whose good offices I am so rashly intrusting 
 myself. " He rang his bell, — the chambermaid appeared, 
 and was dismissed for the waiter. The character was 
 soon asked, and soon given. For our reader's sake, 
 we will somewhat enlarge upon it.
 
 68 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 Mr. Morris Brown originally came into the world 
 with the simple appellation of Moses, a name which 
 his father — honest man — had, as the Minories can still 
 testify, honorably borne before him. Scarcely, however, 
 had the little Moses attained the age of live, when his 
 father, for causes best known to himself, became a 
 Christian. Somehow or other there is a most potent 
 connection between the purse and the conscience, and 
 accordingly the blessings of Heaven descended in golden 
 showers upon the proselyte. " I shall die worth a plum," 
 said Moses the elder (who had taken unto himself the 
 Christian cognomen of Brown) , — "I shall die worth a 
 plum," repeated he, as he went one fine morning to 
 speculate at the Exchange. A change of news, sharp 
 and unexpected as a change of wind, lowered the stocks 
 and blighted the plum. Mr. Brown was in the " Ga- 
 zette " that week, and his wife in weeds for him the 
 next. He left behind him, besides the said wife, 
 several debts and his son Moses. Beggared by the 
 former, our widow took a small shop in Wardour Street 
 to support the latter. Patient, but enterprising, — 
 cautious of risking pounds, indefatigable in raising 
 pence, — the little Moses inherited the propensities of 
 his Hebrew ancestors; and, though not so capable as 
 his immediate progenitor of making a fortune, he was 
 at least far less likely to lose one. In spite, however, 
 of all the industry, both of mother and son, the gains of 
 the shop were but scanty : to increase them capital was 
 required, and all Mr. Moses Brown's capital lay in his 
 brain. " It is a bad foundation," said the mother, with 
 a sigh. " Not at all ! " said the son, and, leaving the 
 shop, he turned broker. Now a broker is a man who 
 makes an income out of other people's funds, a gleaner 
 of stray extravagances; and by doing the public the
 
 THE DISOWNED. 69 
 
 honor of living upon them, may fairly he termed a little 
 sort of state minister in his way. What with haunting 
 sales, hawking china, selling the curiosities of one old 
 lady, and purchasing the same for another, Mr. Brown 
 managed to enjoy a very comfortable existence. Great 
 pains and small gains will at last invert their antithesis, 
 and make little trouble and great profit ; so that by the 
 time Mr. Brown had attained his fortieth year, the 
 petty shop had become a large warehouse; and, if the 
 worthy Moses, now Christianized into Morris, was not 
 so sanguine as his father in the gathering of plums, he 
 had been at least fortunate in the collecting of windfalls. 
 To say truth, the Abigail of the defunct Lady Waddi- 
 love had been no unprofitable helpmate to our broker. 
 As ingenious as benevolent, she was the owner of certain 
 rooms of great resort in the neighborhood of St. James's, 
 
 — rooms where caps and appointments were made better 
 than anywhere else, and where credit was given, and 
 character lost, upon terms equally advantageous to the 
 accommodating Mrs. Brown. 
 
 Meanwhile her husband, continuing through liking 
 what he had begun through necessity, slackened not 
 his industry in augmenting his fortune: on the contrary, 
 small profits were but a keener incentive to large ones, 
 
 — as the glutton only sharpened by luncheon his appe- 
 tite for dinner. Still was Mr. Brown the very Alci- 
 biades of brokers: the universal genius, — suiting every 
 man to his humor. Business, of whatever description, 
 from the purchase of a borough to that of a brooch, was 
 alike the object of Mr. Brown's most zealous pursuit: 
 taverns, where country cousins put up ; rustic habita- 
 tions where ancient maidens resided; auction or barter; 
 city, or hamlet, — all were the same to that enterprising 
 spirit, which made out of every acquaintance, — a com-
 
 70 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 mission! Sagacious and acute, Mr. Brown perceived 
 the value of eccentricity in covering design, and found, 
 by experience, that whatever can be laughed at as odd 
 Avill be gravely considered as harmless. Several of the 
 broker's peculiarities were, therefore, more artificial 
 than natural; and many were the sly bargains whicli he 
 smuggled into effect under the comfortable cloak of 
 singularity. No wonder, then, that the crafty Morris 
 grew gradually in repute as a person of infinite utility 
 and excellent qualifications; or that the penetrating 
 friends of his deceased sire bowed to the thriving itin- 
 erant, with a respect which they denied to many in 
 loftier professions and more general esteem.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 71 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Trust me you have an exceeding fine lodging here, — very neat 
 and private. — Ben Joxson. 
 
 It was a tolerable long walk to the abode of which the 
 worthy broker spoke in such high terms of commendation. 
 At length, at the suburbs towards Paddington, Mr. 
 Brown stopped at a very small house; it stood rather 
 retired from its surrounding neighbors, which were of a 
 loftier and more pretending aspect than itself, and, in 
 its awkward shape and pitiful bashfulness, looked ex- 
 ceedingly like a schoolboy finding himself for the first 
 time in a grown-up party, and shrinking with all possi- 
 ble expedition into the obscurest corner he can discover. 
 Passing through a sort of garden, in which a spot of 
 grass lay in the embraces of a stripe of gravel, Mr. 
 Brown knocked upon a very bright knocker at a very 
 new door. The latter was opened, and a footboy 
 appeared. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Copperas within 1 " asked the broker. 
 
 " Yees, sir," said the boy. 
 
 " Show this gentleman and myself upstairs," resumed 
 Brown. 
 
 " Yees," reiterated the lackey. 
 
 Up a singularly narrow staircase, into a singularly 
 diminutive drawing-room, Clarence and his guide were 
 ushered. There, seated on a little chair by a little work- 
 table, with one foot on a little stool and one hand on a 
 little book, was a little, very little lady.
 
 72 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 "This is the young gentleman," said Mr. Brown; 
 and Clarence bowed low, in token of the introduction. 
 
 The lady returned the salutation with an affected 
 hend, and said, in a mincing and grotesquely-subdued 
 tone, " You are desirous, sir, of entering into the bosom 
 of my family. We possess accommodations of a most 
 elegant description : accustomed to the genteelest circles, 
 enjoying the pure breezes of the Highgate hills, — 
 and presenting to any guest we may receive the attrac- 
 tions of a home rather than of a lodging, you will rind 
 our retreat no less eligible than unique. You are I 
 presume, sir, in some profession, some city avocation, 
 or — or trade ? " 
 
 " I have the misfortune," said he, smiling, " to belong 
 to no profession." 
 
 The lady looked hard at the speaker, and then at the 
 broker. With certain people to belong to no profession 
 is to be of no respectability. 
 
 " The most unexceptionable references will be given, 
 — and required" resumed Mrs. Copperas. 
 
 " Certainly," said Mr. Brown, — "certainly; the gen- 
 tleman is a relation of Mrs. Minden, a very old customer 
 of mine." 
 
 " In that case," said Mrs. Copperas, "the affair is set- 
 tled; " and, rising, she rang the bell, and ordered the 
 footboy, Avhom she addressed by the grandiloquent name 
 of De Warens, to show the gentleman the apartments. 
 While Clarence was occupied in surveying the luxuries 
 of a box at the top of the house, called a bed-chamber, 
 which seemed just large and just hot enough for a chrys- 
 alis, and a corresponding box below, termed the back 
 parlor, which would certainly not have been large 
 enough for the said chrysalis when turned into a butter- 
 fly, Mr. Morris Brown, after duly expatiating on the
 
 THE DISOWNED. 73 
 
 merits of Clarence, proceeded to speak of the terms; 
 these were soon settled, for Clarence was yielding, and 
 the lady not above three times as extortionate as she 
 ought to have been. 
 
 Before Linden left the house, the bargain was con- 
 cluded. That night his trunks were removed to his 
 new abode, and having with incredible difficult}'' been 
 squeezed into the bedroom, Clarence surveyed them with 
 the same astonishment with which the virtuoso beheld 
 the flies in amber, — 
 
 Not that the things were either rich or rare, 
 He wondered how the devil they got there I
 
 74 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Such scenes had tempered with a pensive grace, 
 The maiden lustre of that faultless face; 
 Had hung a sail and dreamlike spell upon 
 The gliding music of her silver tone, 
 And shaded the soft soul winch loved to lie 
 In the deep pathos of that volumed eye. 
 
 O'Neill, or the Rebel. 
 
 The love thus kindled between them was of no common or calcula- 
 ting nature; it was vigorous and delicious, and at times so sud- 
 denly intense as to appear to their young hearts, for a moment 
 or so, with almost an awful character. — Inesilla. 
 
 The reader will figure to himself a small chamber, in a 
 remote wing of a large and noble mansion, — the walls 
 were covered with sketches, whose extreme delicacy of 
 outline and coloring betrayed the sex of the artist ; a few 
 shelves filled with books supported vases of flowers. A 
 harp stood neglected at the farther end of the room, and 
 just above hung the slender prison of one of those golden 
 wanderers from the Canary Isles which bear to our 
 colder land some of the gentlest music of their skies and 
 zephyrs. The window, reaching to the ground, was 
 open, and looked through the clusters of jasmine and 
 honeysuckle which surrounded the low veranda beyond, 
 upon thick and frequent copses of blossoming shrubs, 
 redolent of spring, and sparkling in the sunny tears of a 
 May shower, which had only just wept itself away. 
 Embosomed in these little groves lay plots of flowers, 
 girdled with turf as green as ever wooed the nightly 
 dances of the fairies; and, afar off, through one artful
 
 THE DISOWNED. 75 
 
 opening, the eye caught the glittering wanderings of 
 water, on whose light and smiles the universal happi- 
 ness of the young year seemed reflected. 
 
 But in that chamber, heedless of all around, and cold 
 to the joy with which everything else, equally youth- 
 ful, beautiful, and innocent, seemed breathing and in- 
 spired, sat a very young and lovety female. Her cheek 
 leaned upon her hand, and large tears flowed fast and 
 burningly over the small and delicate fingers. The 
 comb that had confined her tresses lay at her feet, and 
 the high dress which concealed her swelling breast had 
 been loosened, to give vent to the suffocating and indig- 
 nant throbbings which had rebelled against its cincture, 
 — all appeared to announce that bitterness of grief when 
 the mind, as it were, wreaks its scorn upon the body in 
 its contempt for external seemings, and to proclaim that 
 the present more subdued and softened sorrow had only 
 succeeded to a burst far less quiet and uncontrolled. 
 Woe to those who eat the bread of dependence, — their 
 tears are wrung from the inmost sources of the heart. 
 
 Isabel St. Leger was the only child of a captain in 
 the army, who died in her infancy. Her mother had 
 survived him but a few months; and to the reluctant 
 care and cold affections of a distant and wealthy relation 
 of the same name, the warm-hearted and penniless 
 orphan was consigned. Major-General Cornelius St. 
 Leger, whose riches had been purchased in India at 
 the price of his constitution, was of a temper as hot as 
 his curries, and he wreaked it the more unsparingly on 
 his ward, because the superior ill-temper of his maiden 
 sister had prevented his giving vent to it upon her. 
 That sister, Miss Diana St. Leger, was a meagre gen- 
 tlewoman of about six feet high, with a loud voice and 
 commanding aspect. Long in awe of her brother, she
 
 76 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 rejoiced at heart to find some one whom she had such 
 ri" ht and reason to make in awe of herself ; and from 
 the age of four to that of seventeen, Isahel suffered 
 every insult and every degradation which could be in- 
 flicted upon her by the tyranny of her two protectors. 
 Her spirit, however, was far from being broken by the 
 rude shocks it received; on the contrary, her mind, 
 gentleness itself to the kind, rose indignantly against 
 the unjust. It was true that the sense of wrong did not 
 break forth audibly ; for, though susceptible, Isabel was 
 meek, and her pride was concealed by the outward soft- 
 ness and feminacy of her temper; but she stole away 
 from those who had wounded her heart, or trampled 
 upon its feelings, and nourished with secret but pas- 
 sionate tears the memory of the harshness or injustice 
 she had endured. Yet she was not vindictive, — her 
 resentment was a noble, not a debasing feeling; once, 
 when she was yet a child, Miss Diana was attacked 
 with a fever of the most malignant and infectious kind ; 
 her brother loved himself far too well to risk his safety 
 by attending her; the servants were too happy to wreak 
 their hatred under the pretence of obeying their fears, 
 — they consequently followed the example of their mas- 
 ter; and Miss Diana St. Leger might have gone down 
 to her ancestors " unwept, unhonored, and unsung," if 
 Isabel had not volunteered and enforced her attendance. 
 Hour after hour her fairy form flittered around the sick- 
 chamber, or sat mute and breathless by the feverish bed : 
 she had neither fear for contagion, nor bitterness for past 
 oppression; everything vanished beneath the one hope 
 of serving, the one gratification of feeling herself, in 
 the wide waste of creation, not utterly without use, as 
 she had been hitherto without friends. 
 
 Miss St. Leger recovered. " For your recovery, in
 
 THE DISOWNED. 77 
 
 the first place," said the doctor, "you will thank 
 Heaven; in the second, you will thank your young 
 relation; " and for several days the convalescent did 
 overwhelm the happy Isabel with her praises and 
 caresses. But this change did not last long : the chaste 
 Diana had been too spoiled by the prosperity of many 
 years, for the sickness of a single month to effect much 
 good in her disposition. Her old habits were soon 
 resumed; and though it is probable that her heart was 
 in reality softened towards the poor Isabel, that soften- 
 ing by no means extended to her temper. In truth, the 
 brother and sister were not without affection for one so 
 beautiful and good; but they had been torturing slaves 
 all their lives, and their affection was, and could be, 
 but that of a taskmaster or a planter. 
 
 But Isabel was the only relation who ever appeared 
 within their walls, and, among the guests with whom 
 the luxurious mansion was crowded, she passed no less 
 for the heiress than the dependant; to her, therefore, was 
 offered the homage of many lips and hearts, and if her 
 pride was perpetually galled, and her feelings insulted 
 in private, her vanity (had that equalled her pride, and 
 her feelings, in its susceptibility) would in no slight 
 measure have recompensed her in public. Unhappily, 
 however, her vanity was the least prominent quality 
 she possessed ; and the compliments of mercenary adula- 
 tion were not more rejected by her heart than despised 
 by her understanding. 
 
 Yet did she bear within her a deep fund of buried 
 tenderness, and a mine of girlish and enthusiastic ro- 
 mance: dangerous gifts to one so situated, which, while 
 they gave to her secret moments of solitude a powerful 
 but vague attraction, probably only prepared for her 
 future years the snare which might betray them into
 
 78 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 error, or the delusion which would color them with 
 regret. 
 
 Among those whom the ostentatious hospitality of 
 General St. Leger attracted to his house, was one of very 
 different character and pretensions to the rest. Formed 
 to be unpopular with the generality of men, the very 
 qualities that made him so were those which principally 
 fascinate the higher description of women. Of ancient 
 birth, which rendered still more displeasing the pride 
 and coldness of his mien; of talents peculiarly framed to 
 attract interest as well as esteem ; of a deep and somewhat 
 morbid melancholy, which, while it turned from ordi- 
 nary ties, inclined yearningly towards passionate affec- 
 tions; of a temper where romance was only concealed 
 from the many, to become more seductive to the few; 
 unsocial, but benevolent; disliked, but respected; of 
 the austerest demeanor, but of passions the most fervid, 
 though the most carefully concealed, — this man united 
 within himself all that repels the common mass of his 
 species, and all that irresistibly wins and fascinates the 
 rare and romantic few. To these qualities were added a 
 carriage and bearing of that high and commanding order 
 which men mistake for arrogance and pretension, and 
 women overrate in proportion to its contrast to their 
 own. Something of mystery there was in the com- 
 mencement of the deep and eventful love which took 
 place between this person and Isabel, which I have 
 never been able to learn. Whatever it was, it seemed 
 to expedite and heighten the ordinary progress of love; 
 and when in the dim twilight, beneath the first melan- 
 choly smile of the earliest star, their hearts opened au- 
 dibly to each other, that confession had been made 
 silently long since, and registered in the inmost recesses 
 of the soul.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 79 
 
 But their passion, which began in prosperity, was 
 soon darkened. Whether he took offence at the haughti- 
 ness of Isabel's lover, or whether he desired to retain 
 about him an object which he could torment and tyran- 
 nize over, no sooner did the General discover the attach- 
 ment of his young relation, than he peremptorily forbade 
 its indulgence, and assumed so insolent and overbearing 
 an air towards the lover that the latter felt he could 
 no longer repeat his visits to or even continue his ac- 
 quaintance with the nabob. 
 
 To add to these adverse circumstances, a relation of 
 the lover, from whom his expectations had been large, 
 was so enraged, not only at the insult his cousin had 
 received, but at the very idea of his forming an alliance 
 with one in so dependent a situation, and connected 
 with such new blood, as Isabel St. Leger, that with 
 that arrogance which relations, however distant, think 
 themselves authorized to assume, he enjoined his cousin, 
 upon pain of forfeiture of favor and fortune, to renounce 
 all idea of so disparaging an alliance. The one thus 
 addressed was not of a temper patiently to submit to 
 such threats: he answered them with disdain, and the 
 breach, so dangerous to his pecuniary interest, was 
 already begun. 
 
 So far had the history of our lover proceeded at the 
 time in which we have introduced Isabel to the reader, 
 and described to him the chamber to which, in all her 
 troubles and humiliations, she was accustomed to fly, as 
 to a sad, but still unviolated sanctuary of retreat. 
 
 The quiet of this asylum was first broken by a slight 
 rustling among the leaves; but Isabel's back was turned 
 towards the window, and in the engrossment of her feel- 
 ings she heard it not. The thick copse that darkened 
 the left side of the veranda was pierced, and a man
 
 80 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 passed within the covered space, and stood still and 
 silent before the window, intently gazing upon the figure 
 Avhich (though the face was turned from him) betrayed 
 in its proportions that beauty which, in his eyes, bad 
 neither an equal nor a fault. 
 
 The figure of the stranger, though not very tall, was 
 above the ordinary height, and gracefully, rather than 
 robustly, formed. He was dressed in the darkest colors 
 and the simplest fashion, which rendered yet more strik- 
 ing the nobleness of his mien, as well as the clear and 
 almost delicate paleness of his complexion ; his features 
 were finely and accurately formed; and had not ill- 
 health, long travel, or severe thought deepened too 
 much the lines of the countenance, and sharpened its 
 contour, the classic perfection of those features would 
 have rendered him undeniably and even eminently hand- 
 some: as it was, the paleness and the somewhat worn 
 character of his face, joined to an expression, at first 
 glance, rather haughty and repellent, made him lose in 
 physical, what he certainly gained in intellectual beauty. 
 His eyes were large, deep, and melancholy; and had the 
 hat which now hung over his brow been removed, it 
 would have displayed a forehead of remarkable boldness 
 and power. 
 
 Altogether, the face was cast in a rare and intellectual 
 mould, and, if wanting in those more luxuriant attrac- 
 tions common to the age of the stranger, who could 
 scarcely have attained his twenty-sixth year, it beto- 
 kened, at least, that predominance of mind over body, 
 which, in some eyes, is the most requisite characteristic 
 of masculine beauty. 
 
 With a soft and noiseless step, the stranger moved 
 from his station without the window, and, entering the 
 room, stole towards the spot on which Isabel was sitting.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 81 
 
 He leaned over her chair, and his eye rested upon bis 
 own picture, and a letter in his own writing, over which 
 the tears of the young orphan flowed fast. 
 
 A moment more of agitated happiness for one, of 
 unconscious and continued sadness for the other, — 
 
 'T is past, — her lover 's at her feet. 
 
 And what indeed " was to them the world beside, with 
 all its changes of time and tide?" Joy, hope, — all 
 blissful and bright sensations, lay mingled like meet- 
 ing waters, in one sunny stream of heartfelt and un- 
 fathomable enjoyment; but this passed away, and the 
 remembrance of bitterness and evil succeeded. 
 
 " Oh, Algernon! " said Isabel, in a low voice, " is this 
 your promise ? " 
 
 " Believe me," said Mordaunt, for it was indeed he, 
 "I struggled long with my feelings, but in vain; and 
 for both our sakes, I rejoice at the conquest they ob- 
 tained. I listened only to a deceitful delusion when I 
 imagined I was obeying the dictates of reason. Ah, 
 dearest, why should we part for the sake of dubious and 
 distant evils, when the misery of absence is the most 
 certain, the most unceasing evil we can endure ? " 
 
 " For your sake, and therefore for mine! " interrupted 
 Isabel, struggling with her tears. " I am a beggar and 
 an outcast. You must not link your fate with mine. 
 I could bear, Heaven knows how willingly, poverty and 
 all its evils for you and with you; but I cannot bring 
 them upon you." 
 
 "Nor will you," said Mordaunt, passionately, as he 
 covered the hand he held with his burning kisses. 
 "Have I not enough for both of us? It is my love, 
 not poverty, that I beseech you to share." 
 
 "No! Algernon, you cannot deceive me: your own 
 vol. i. — 6
 
 82 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 estate will be torn from you by the law; if you marry 
 me, your cousin will not assist you: I, you know too 
 well, can command nothing; and I shall see you, for 
 whom in my fond and bright dreams I have presaged 
 everything great and exalted, buried in an obscurity 
 from which your talents can never rise, and suffering 
 the pangs of poverty, and dependence, and humiliation 
 like my own, and — and — I — should be the wretch 
 who caused you all. Never, Algernon, never! I love 
 you too, — too well! " 
 
 But the effort which wrung forth the determination 
 of the tone in which these words were uttered was too 
 violent to endure ; and, as the full desolation of her 
 despair crowded fast and dark upon the orphan's mind, 
 she sank back upon her chair in very sickness of soul, 
 nor heeded, in her unconscious misery, that her hand 
 was yet clasped by her lover, and that her head drooped 
 upon his bosom. 
 
 " Isabel," he said, in a low, sweet tone, Avhich to her 
 ear seemed the concentration of all earthly music, — 
 " Isabel, look up, my own, my beloved, — look up and 
 hear me. Perhaps you say truly when you tell me that 
 the possessions of my house shall melt away from me, 
 and that my relation will not oifcr to me the precarious 
 bounty which, even if he did offer, I would reject; but, 
 dearest, are there not a thousand paths open to me, — 
 the law, the state, the army 1 ? — you are silent, Isabel, 
 — speak ! " 
 
 Isabel did not reply ; but the soft eyes which rested 
 upon his told, in their despondency, how little her 
 reason was satisfied by the arguments he urged. 
 
 "Besides," he continued, " we know not yet whether 
 the law may not decide in my favor; at all events, years 
 may pass before the judgment is given: those years make
 
 THE DISOWNED. 83 
 
 the prime and verdure of our lives, — let us not waste 
 them in mourning over blighted hopes and severed hearts ; 
 let us snatch what happiness is yet in our power, nor 
 anticipate, while the heavens are still bright above us, 
 the burden of the thunder or the cloud. " 
 
 Isabel was one of the least selfish and most devoted of 
 human beings, yet she must be forgiven if at that mo- 
 ment her resolution faltered, and the overpowering 
 thought of being in reality his forever flashed upon her 
 mind. It passed from her the moment it was formed, 
 and, rising from a situation in which the touch of that 
 dear hand, and the breath of those wooing lips endan- 
 gered the virtue, and weakened the strength of her re- 
 solves, she withdrew herself from his grasp, and while 
 she averted her eyes, which dared not encounter his, she 
 said in a low but firm voice, — 
 
 " It is in vain, Algernon; it is in vain. I can be to 
 you nothing but a blight or burden, — nothing but a 
 source of privation and anguish. Think you that I will 
 be this 1 — no, I will not darken your fair hopes, and 
 impede your reasonable ambition. Go " (and here her 
 voice faltered for a moment, but soon recovered its tone) 
 — " go, Algernon, dear Algernon ; and, if my foolish 
 heart will not ask you to think of me no more, I can at 
 least implore you to think of me only as one Avho would 
 die rather than cost you a moment of that poverty and 
 debasement, the bitterness of which she has felt herself, 
 and who, for that very reason, tears herself away from 
 you forever." 
 
 " Stay , Isabel , stay ! " cried Mordaunt, as he caught 
 hold of her robe; " give me but one word more, and you 
 shall leave me. Say that if I can create for myself a 
 new source of independence ; if I can carve out a road 
 where the ambition you erroneously impute to me can
 
 84 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 be gratified, as well as the more moderate wishes our 
 station has made natural to us to form; say, that if I do 
 this, I may permit myself to hope; say, that when I 
 have done it, I may claim you as my own ! " 
 
 Isabel paused, and turned once more her face towards 
 his own. Her lips moved, and though the words died 
 within her heart, yet Mordaunt read well their import 
 in the blushing chock and the heaving bosom, and the 
 lips which one ray of hope and comfort was sufficient to 
 kindle into smiles. He gazed, and all obstacles, all 
 difficulties disappeared; the gulf of time seemed past, 
 and he felt as if already he had earned and won his 
 reward. 
 
 He approached her yet nearer: one kiss on those lips, 
 one pressure of that thrilling hand, one long, last em- 
 brace of that shrinking and trembling form, — and then, 
 as the door closed upon his view, he felt that the sun- 
 shine of nature had passed away, and that in the midst 
 of the laughing and peopled earth he stood in darkness 
 and alone.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 85 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 He who would know mankind must be at home with all men. 
 
 Stephen Montague. 
 
 We left Clarence safely deposited in his little lodgings. 
 Whether from the heat of his apartment or the restless- 
 ness of a migration of beds produces in certain constitu- 
 tions, his slumbers on the first night of his arrival were 
 disturbed and brief. He rose early and descended to 
 the parlor; Mr. de Warens, tbe nobly-appellatived 
 footboy, was laying the breakfast-cloth. From three 
 painted shelves, which constituted the library of " Cop- 
 peras Bower," as its owners gracefully called their 
 habitation, Clarence took down a book very prettily 
 bound : it was " Poems by a Nobleman. " ISTo sooner 
 had he read two pages than he did exactly what the 
 reader would have done, and restored the volume re- 
 spectfully to its place. He then drew his chair towards 
 the window, and wistfully eyed sundry ancient nursery- 
 maids, who were leading their infant charges to the 
 "fresh fields and pastures new," of what is now the 
 Eegent's Park. 
 
 In about an hour Mrs. Copperas descended, and 
 mutual compliments were exchanged; to her succeeded 
 Mr. Copperas, who was well scolded for his laziness; 
 and to them, Master Adolphus Copperas, who was also 
 chidingly termed a naughty darling for the same offence. 
 Now, then, Mrs. Copperas prepared the tea, which she 
 did in the approved method, adopted by all ladies to 
 whom economy is dearer than renown, — namely, the
 
 86 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 least possible quantity of the soi-disant Chinese plant 
 was first sprinkled by the least possible quantity of hot 
 water! after this mixture had become as black and as 
 bitter as it could possibly be, without any adjunct from 
 the apothecary's skill, it was suddenly drenched with a 
 copious diffusion, and as suddenly poured forth, weak, 
 washy, and abominable, into four cups, severally apper- 
 taining unto the four partakers of the matutinal nectar. 
 
 Then the conversation began to flow. Mrs. Copperas 
 was a fine lady, and a sentimentalist, — very observant 
 of the little niceties of phrase and manner. Mr. Cop- 
 peras was a stock-jobber and a wit; loved a good hit in 
 each capacity ; was very round, very short, and very 
 much like a John Dory, — and saw in the features and 
 mind of the little Copperas the exact representative of 
 himself. 
 
 "Adolphus, my love," said Mrs. Copperas, "mind 
 what I told you, and sit upright. Mr. Linden, will 
 you allow me to cut you a leetle piece of this roll 1 " 
 
 " Thank you," said Clarence, " I will trouble you 
 rather for the whole of it." 
 
 Conceive Mrs. Copperas's dismay! from that moment 
 she saw herself eaten out of house and home; besides, 
 as she afterwards observed to her friend, Miss Barbara 
 York, the " vulgarity of such an amazing appetite! " 
 
 "Any commands in the city, Mr. Linden?" asked 
 the husband: " a coach will pass by our door in a few 
 minutes, — must be on 'Change in half an hour. Come, 
 my love, another cup of tea; make haste, — I have 
 scarcely a moment to take my fare for the inside, be- 
 fore coachee takes his for the outside. Ha, ha, ha! 
 Mr. Linden." 
 
 "Lord, Mr. Copperas," said his helpmate, "how can 
 you be so silly 1 — setting such an example to your son
 
 THE DISOWNED. 87 
 
 too; never mind him, Adolphus, my love, — fie, child, 
 a'n't you ashamed of yourself ? — never put the spoon in 
 your cup till you have done tea. I must really send 
 you to school to learn manners. — We have a very pretty 
 little collection of books here, Mr. Linden, if you would 
 like to read an hour or two after breakfast, — child, take 
 your hands out of your pockets, — all the best English 
 classics, I believe, — ' Telemachus,' and Young's ' Night 
 Thoughts,' and ' Joseph Andrews,' and the ' Spectator,' 
 and Pope's ' Iliad,' and Creech's ' Lucretius; ' but you 
 will look over them yourself! This is Liberty Hall, 
 as well as Copperas Bower, Mr. Linden ! " 
 
 " Well, my love," said the stock-jobber, " I believe 
 I must be off. Here, Tom, Tom " (Mr. de Warens had 
 just entered the room with some more hot water, to 
 weaken still farther " the poor remains of what was 
 once" — the tea!), — " Tom, just run out and stop the 
 coach, it will be by in five minutes." 
 
 " Have not I prayed, and besought you, many and 
 many a time, Mr. Copperas," said the lady, rebukingly, 
 " not to call De Warens by his Christian name? Don't 
 you know that all people in genteel life who only keep 
 one servant invariably call him by his surname, as if he 
 were the butler, you know ? " 
 
 "Now, that is too good, my love," said Copperas. 
 " I will call poor Tom by any surname you please, but 
 I really can't pass him off for a butler! Ha, ha, ha! 
 — you must excuse me there, my love! " 
 
 "And pray, why not, Mr. Copperas? I ha\>e known 
 many a butler bungle more at a cork than he does; and 
 pray tell me, who did you ever see wait better at 
 dinner ? " 
 
 " He wait at dinner, my love! it is not he who 
 waits."
 
 88 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 "Who then, Mr. Copperas?" 
 
 "Why we, my love, — it 's we who wait for dinner: 
 but that 'a the cook's fault, not his." 
 
 "Pshaw, Mr. Copperas, — Adolphus, my love, sit 
 upright, darling." 
 
 Here De Warens cried from the bottom of the stairs : 
 " Measter, the coach be coming up." 
 " There won't be room for it to turn, then," said the 
 facetious Mr. Copperas, looking round the apartment, as 
 if he took the words literally. 
 "What coach is it, boy?" 
 
 Now that was not the age in which coaches scoured 
 the city every half-hour, and Mr. Copperas knew the 
 name of the coach as well as he knew his own. 
 " It be the Swallow coach, sir." 
 
 "Oh, very well; then since I have swallowed in 
 the roll, I will now roll into the Swallow, — ha, ha, ha! 
 Good-by, Mr. Linden." 
 
 No sooner had the witty stock-jobber left the room 
 than Mrs. Copperas seemed to expand into a new exist- 
 ence. " My husband, sir," said she, apologetically, " is 
 so odd, but he 's an excellent, sterling character; and 
 that, yon know, Mr. Linden, tells more in the bosom of 
 a family than all the shining qualities which captivate 
 the imagination. I am sure, Mr. Linden, that the 
 moralist is right in admonishing us to prefer the gold to 
 the tinsel. I have now been married some years, and 
 every year seems happier than the last; but then, Mr. 
 Linden, it is such a pleasure to contemplate the growing 
 graces of the sweet pledge of our mutual love, — Adol- 
 phus, my dear, keep your feet still, and take your hands 
 out of your pockets ! " 
 A short pause ensued. 
 " We see a great deal of company," said Mrs. Cop-
 
 THE DISOWNED. 89 
 
 peras, pompously, " and of the very best description. 
 Sometimes we are favored by the society of the great Mr. 
 Talbot, a gentleman of immense fortune, and quite the 
 courtier: he is, it is true, a little eccentric in his dress; 
 but then he was a celebrated beau in his young days. 
 He is our next neighbor; you can see his house out of 
 the window, just across the garden, — there! We have 
 also, sometimes, our humble board graced by a very 
 elegant friend of mine, Miss Barbara York, a lady of 
 very high connections, her first cousin was a lord mayor, 
 — Adolphus, my dear, what are you about? Well, Mr. 
 Linden, you will find your retreat quite undisturbed. 
 I must go about the household affairs; not that I do 
 anything more than superintend, you know, sir; but I 
 think no lad} T should be above consulting her husband's 
 interests, — that 's what I call true old English conjugal 
 affection. Come, Adolphus, my dear." 
 
 And Clarence was now alone. " I fear," thought he, 
 " that I shall get on very indifferently with these 
 people. But it will not do for me to be misanthropical 
 (and, as Dr. Latinas was wont to say), the great merit 
 of philosophy, when we cannot command circumstances, 
 is to reconcile us to them."
 
 90 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A retired beau is one of the most instructive spectacles in the world. 
 
 Stephen Montague. 
 
 It was quite true that Mrs. Copperas saw a great deal 
 of company ; for, at a certain charge, upon certain days, 
 any individual might have the honor of sharing her 
 family repast: and many, of various callings, though 
 chiefly in commercial life, met at her miscellaneous 
 board. Clarence must, indeed, have been difficult to 
 please, or obtuse of observation, if, in the variety of her 
 guests he had not found something either to interest or 
 amuse him. Heavens! what a motley group were ac- 
 customed, twice in the week, to assemble there! the 
 little dining-parlor seemed a human oven; and it must 
 be owned that Clarence was no slight magnet of attrac- 
 tion to the female part of the guests. Mrs. Copperas's 
 bosom friend in especial, the accomplished Miss Barbara 
 York, darted the most tender glances on the handsome 
 young stranger; but whether or not a nose remarkably 
 prominent and long, prevented the glances from taking 
 full effect, it is certain that Clarence seldom repaid them 
 with that affectionate ardor which Miss Barbara York 
 had ventured to anticipate. The only persons, indeed, 
 for whom he felt any sympathetic attraction, were of 
 the same sex as himself. The one was Mr. Talbot, the 
 old gentleman whom Mrs. Copperas had described as the 
 perfect courtier; the other, a young artist of the name 
 of Warner. Talbot, to Clarence's great astonishment 
 (for Mrs. Copperas's eulogy had prepared him for some-
 
 THE DISOWNED. 91 
 
 thing eminently displeasing), was a man of birth, for- 
 tune, and manners peculiarly graceful and attractive. 
 It is true, however, that, despite of his vicinity, and 
 Mrs. Copperas's urgent solicitations, he very seldom 
 honored her with his company, and he always cautiously 
 sent over his servant in the morning to inquire the 
 names and number of her expected guests: nor was he 
 ever known to share the plenteous board of the stock- 
 jobber's lady whenever any other partaker of its dainties, 
 save Clarence and the young artist, was present. The 
 latter the old gentleman really liked; and as for one 
 truly well-born and well-bred, — there is no vulgarity 
 except in the mind, — the slender means, obscure birth, 
 and struggling profession of Warner, were circumstances 
 which, as they increased the merit of a gentle manner 
 and a fine mind, spoke rather in his favor than the re- 
 verse. Mr. Talbot was greatly struck by Clarence Lin- 
 den's conversation and appearance; and indeed there was 
 in Talbot's taste so strong a bias to aristocratic externals, 
 that Clarence's air alone would have been sufficient to 
 win the good graces of a man who had, perhaps more 
 than most courtiers of his time, cultivated the arts of 
 manner and the secrets of address. 
 
 " You will call upon me soon? " said he to Clarence, 
 when, after dining one day with the Copperases and 
 their inmate, he rose to return home. And Clarence, 
 delighted with the urbanity and liveliness of his new 
 acquaintance, readily promised that he would. 
 
 Accordingly, the next day, Clarence called upon Mr. 
 Talbot. The house, as Mrs. Copperas had before said, 
 adjoined her own, and was only separated from it by a 
 garden. It was a dull mansion of brick, which had 
 disdained the frippery of paint and whitewashing, and 
 had indeed been built many years previously to the erec-
 
 92 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 tion of the modorn habitations which surrounded it. It 
 was, therefore, as a conseqxience of this priority of 
 birth, more sombre than the rest, and had a peculiarly 
 forlorn and solitary look. As Clarence approached the 
 door, he was struck with the size of the house, — it was 
 of very considerable extent, and in the more favorable 
 situations of London would have passed for a very desir- 
 able and spacious tenement. An old man, whose accurate 
 precision of dress bespoke the tastes of the master, 
 opened the door, and, after ushering Clarence through 
 two long, and to his surprise, almost splendidly- 
 furnished rooms, led him into a third, where, seated at 
 a small writing-table, he found Mr. Talbot. That 
 person, one whom Clarence then little thought would 
 hereafter exercise no small influence over his fate, was 
 of a figure and countenance well worthy the notice of a 
 description. 
 
 His own hair, quite white, was carefully and artifi- 
 cially curled, and gave a Grecian cast to features whose 
 original delicacy, and exact, though small proportions, 
 not even age could destroy. His eyes were large, black, 
 and sparkled with almost youthful vivacity ; and his 
 mouth, which was the best feature he possessed, devel- 
 oped teeth, white and even as rows of ivory. Though 
 small and somewhat too slender in the proportions of 
 his figure, nothing could exceed the ease and the grace 
 of his motions and air; and his dress, though singularly 
 rich in its materials, eccentric in its fashion, and, from 
 its evident study, unseemly to his years, served, never- 
 theless, to render rather venerable than ridiculous a 
 mien which could almost have carried off any absurdity, 
 and which the fashion of the garb peculiarly became. 
 The tout ensemble was certainly that of a man who was 
 still vain of his exterior, and conscious of its effect;
 
 THE DISOWNED. 93 
 
 and it was as certainly impossible to converse with Mr. 
 Talbot for five minutes, without merging every less re- 
 spectful impression in the magical fascination of his 
 manner. 
 
 " I thank you, Mr. Linden," said Talbot, rising, "for 
 your accepting so readily an old man's invitation. If I 
 have felt pleasure in discovering that we were to be 
 neighbors, you may judge what that pleasure is to-day 
 at rinding you my visitor." 
 
 Clarence, who, to do him justice, was always ready 
 at returning a fine speech, replied in a similar strain, and 
 the conversation flowed on agreeably enough. There 
 was more than a moderate collection of books in the 
 room, and this circumstance led Clarence to allude to 
 literary subjects ; these Mr. Talbot took up with avidity, 
 and touched with a light but graceful criticism upon 
 many of the then modern, and some of the older writers. 
 He seemed delighted to find himself understood and 
 appreciated by Clarence, and every moment of Linden's 
 visit served to ripen their acquaintance into intimacy. 
 At length they talked upon Copperas Bower and its 
 inmates. 
 
 " You will find your host and hostess," said the old 
 gentleman, "certainly of a different order from the per- 
 sons with whom it is easy to see you have associated ; 
 but, at your happy age, a year or two may be very well 
 thrown awaj r upon observing the manners and customs 
 of those whom, in later life, you may often be called 
 upon to conciliate, or perhaps to control. That man 
 will never be a perfect gentleman who lives only Avith 
 gentlemen. To be a man of the world, we must view 
 that world in every grade , and in every perspective. In 
 short, the most practical art of wisdom is that which 
 extracts from things the very quality they least appear
 
 94 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 to possess; and the actor in the world, like the actor on 
 the stage, should find ' a basket-hilted sword very con- 
 venient to carry milk in.' x As for me, I have survived 
 my relations and friends. I cannot keep late hours, nor 
 adhere to the unhealthy customs of good society ; nor do 
 I think that, to a man of my age and habits, any re- 
 muneration would adequately repay the sacrifice of 
 health or comfort. I am, therefore, well content to 
 sink into a hermitage in an obscure corner of this great 
 town, and only occasionally to revive my ' past remem- 
 brances of higher state,' by admitting a few old acquain- 
 tances to drink my bachelor's tea, and talk over the 
 news of the day. Hence, you see, Mr. Linden, I pick 
 up two or three novel anecdotes of state and scandal, 
 and maintain my importance at Copperas Bower by 
 retailing them second hand. Now that you are one of 
 the inmates of that abode, I shall be more frequently its 
 guest. By the by, I will let you into a secret: know 
 that I am somewhat a lover of the marvellous, and like 
 to indulge a little embellishing exaggeration in any 
 place where there is no chance of finding me out. Mind, 
 therefore, my dear Mr. Linden, that you take no ungen- 
 erous advantage of this confession; but suffer me, now 
 and then, to tell my stories my own way, even when 
 you think truth would require me to tell them in 
 another. " 
 
 "Certainly," said Clarence, laughing; "let us make 
 an agreement: you shall tell your stories as you please, 
 if you will grant me the same liberty in paying my 
 compliments; and, if I laugh aloud at the stories, you 
 shall promise me not to laugh aloud at the compliments." 
 
 " It is a bond," said Talbot; " and a very fit exchange 
 of service it is. It will be a problem in human nature 
 
 1 See the witty inventory of a player's goods in the " Tatler."
 
 THE DISOWNED. 95 
 
 to see who has the best of it: you shall pay your court 
 by nattering the people present, and I mine by abusing 
 those absent. Now, in spite of your youth and curling 
 locks, I will wager that I succeed the best; for in 
 vanity there is so great a mixture of envy, that no com- 
 pliment is like a judicious abuse, — to enchant your ac- 
 quaintance, ridicule his friends." 
 
 "Ah, sir," said Clarence, " this opinion of yours, is, 
 I trust, a little in the French School, where brilliancy 
 is more studied than truth, and where an ill opinion of 
 our species always has the merit of passing for 
 profound. " 
 
 Talbot smiled, and shook his head. " My dear young 
 friend," said he, " it is quite right that you, who are 
 coming into the world, should think well of it; and it 
 is also quite right that I, who am going out of it, should 
 console myself by trying to despise it. However, let me 
 tell you, my young friend, that he whose opinion of 
 mankind is not too elevated, will always be the most 
 benevolent, because the most indulgent to those errors 
 incidental to human imperfection: to place our nature 
 in too flattering a view is only to court disappointment, 
 and end in misanthropy. The man who sets out with 
 expecting to find all his fellow-creatures heroes of virtue, 
 will conclude by condemning them as monsters of vice; 
 and, on the contrary, the least exacting judge of actions 
 will be the most lenient. If God, in his own perfec- 
 tion, did not see so many frailties in us, think you he 
 would be so gracious to our virtues 1 " 
 
 " And yet," said Clarence, " we remark every day 
 examples of the highest excellence. " 
 
 " Yes," replied Talbot, " of the highest, but not of the 
 most constant excellence. He knows very little of the 
 human heart who imagines we cannot do a good action;
 
 96 THC DISOWNED. 
 
 but, alas! he knows still less of it who supposes we can 
 be always doing good actions. In exactly the same ratio 
 we see every day the greatest crimes are committed; but 
 we find no wretch so depraved as to be always com- 
 mitting crimes. Man cannot be perfect even in guilt." 
 
 In this manner Talbot and his young visitor con- 
 versed, till Clarence, after a stay of unwarrantable 
 length, rose to depart. 
 
 " Well," said Talbot, " if we now rightly understand 
 each other, we shall be the best friends in the world. 
 As we shall expect great things from each other some- 
 times, we will have no scruple in exacting an heroic 
 sacrifice every now and then; for instance, I will ask 
 you to punish yourself by an occasional tete-a-tete, with 
 an ancient gentleman ; and as we can also, by the same 
 reasoning, pardon great faults in each other, if they are 
 not often committed, so I will forgive you with all my 
 heart whenever you refuse my invitations, if you do not 
 refuse them often. And now farewell till we meet 
 again." 
 
 It seemed singular, and almost unnatural to Linden, 
 that a man like Talbot, of birth, fortune, and great 
 fastidiousness of taste and temper, should have formed 
 any sort of acquaintance, however slight and distant, 
 with the facetious stock-jobber and his wife ; but the 
 fact is easily explained by a reference to the vanity 
 which Ave shall see hereafter made the ruling passion 
 of Talbot's nature. This vanity, which, branching 
 forth into a thousand eccentricities, displayed itself in 
 the singularity of his dress, the studied yet graceful 
 warmth of his manner, his attention to the minutiae of 
 life, — his desire, craving and insatiate, to receive from 
 every one, however insignificant, his obolam of admira- 
 tion: this vanity, once flattered by the obsequious horn-
 
 THE DISOWNED. 97 
 
 age it obtained from the wonder and reverence of the 
 Copperases, reconciled his taste to the disgust it so fre- 
 quently and necessarily conceived ; and, having in great 
 measure resigned his former acquaintance, and wholly 
 outlived his friends, he was contented to purchase the 
 applause which had become to him a necessary of life, at 
 the humble market more immediately at his command. 
 
 There is no dilemma in which vanity cannot find an 
 expedient to develop its form, — no stream of circum- 
 stances in which its buoyant and light nature will not 
 rise to float upon the surface. And its ingenuity is as 
 fertile as that of the player who (his wardrobe allowing 
 him no other method of playing the fop) could still 
 exhibit the prevalent passion for distinction by wearing 
 stockings of different colors. 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Who dares 
 Interpret then my life for me, as 't were 
 One of the undistiuguishable many ? 
 
 Coleridge's Wallenstein. 
 
 The first time Clarence had observed the young artist, 
 he had taken a deep interest in his appearance. Pale, 
 thin, undersized, and slightly deformed, the sanctifying 
 mind still shed over the humble frame a spell more 
 powerful than beauty. Absent in manner, melancholy 
 in air, and never conversing except upon subjects upon 
 which his imagination was excited, there was yet a gen- 
 tleness about him which could not fail to conciliate and 
 prepossess; nor did Clarence omit any opportunity to 
 soften his reserve, and wind himself into his more in- 
 timate acquaintance. Warner, the only support of an 
 aged and infirm grandmother (who had survived her 
 immediate children), was distantly related to Mrs. Cop- 
 peras; and that lady extended to him, with ostentatious 
 benevolence, her favor and support. It is true that she 
 did not impoverish the young Adolphus to enrich her 
 kinsman, but she allowed him a seat at her hospitable 
 board, whenever it was not otherwise filled; and all 
 that she demanded in return was a picture of herself, 
 another of Mr. Copperas, a third of Master Adolphus, 
 a fourth of the black cat, and from time to time sundry 
 other lesser productions of his genius, of which, through 
 the agency of Mr. Brown, she secretly disposed at a price 
 that sufficiently remunerated her for whatever havoc the 
 slender appetite of the young painter was able to effect.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 99 
 
 By this arrangement, Clarence had many opportuni- 
 ties of gaining that intimacy with Warner which had 
 become to him an object; and though the painter, con- 
 stitutionally diffident and shy, was at first averse to, and 
 even awed by, the ease, boldness, fluent speech, and 
 confident address of a man much younger than himself, 
 yet at last he could not resist being decoyed into famil- 
 iarity ; and the youthful pair gradually advanced from 
 companionship into friendship. There was a striking 
 contrast between the two : Clarence was bold and frank , 
 Warner close and timid. Both had superior abilities, 
 — but the abilities of Clarence were for action , those of 
 Warner for art; both were ambitious, but the ambition 
 of Clarence was that of circumstances rather than char- 
 acter; compelled to carve his own fortunes without 
 sympathy or aid, he braced his mind to the effort, 
 though naturally too gay for the austerity and too genial 
 for the selfishness of ambition. But the very essence 
 of Warner's nature was the feverish desire of fame; it 
 poured through his veins like lava ; it preyed as a worm 
 upon his cheek ; it corroded his natural sleep ; it black- 
 ened the color of his thoughts; it shut out, as with an 
 impenetrable wall, the wholesome energies and enjoy- 
 ments and objects of living men; and, taking from him 
 all the vividness of the present, all the tenderness of the 
 past, constrained his heart to dwell forever and forever 
 amidst the dim and shadowy chimeras of a future he was 
 fated never to enjoy. 
 
 But these differences of character, so far from dis- 
 turbing, rather cemented their friendship; and while 
 Warner (notwithstanding his advantage of age) paid 
 involuntary deference to the stronger character of Clar- 
 ence, he, in his turn, derived that species of pleasure 
 by which he was most gratified, from the affectionate
 
 100 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 and unenvious interest Clarence took in his speculations 
 of future distinction, and the unwearying admiration 
 with which he would sit by his side and watch the 
 colors start from the canvas beneath the real, though 
 uncultured genius of the youthful painter. Hitherto 
 Warner had bounded his attempts to some of the lesser 
 efforts of the art; he had now yielded to the urgent 
 enthusiasm of his nature, and conceived the plan of an 
 historical picture. Oh! what sleepless nights, what 
 struggles of the teeming fancy with the dense brain, 
 what labors of the untiring thought, wearing and intense 
 as disease itself, did it cost the ambitious artist to work 
 out in the stillness of his soul, and from its confused 
 and conflicting images, the design of this long-meditated 
 and idolized performance. Cut when it was designed; 
 when shape upon shape grew and swelled, and glowed 
 from the darkness of previous thought upon the painter's 
 mind; when, shutting his eyes in the very credulity of 
 delight, the whole work arose before him, glossy with 
 its fresh hues, bright, completed, faultless, arrayed, as 
 it were, and decked out for immortality, — oh! then 
 what a full and gushing moment of rapture broke like 
 a released stream upon his soul! What a recompense 
 for wasted years, health, and hope! What a coronal to 
 the visions and transports of genius; brief, it is true, 
 but how steeped in the very halo of a light that might 
 well be deemed the glory of heaven ! 
 
 Cut the vision fades, the gorgeous shapes sweep on 
 into darkness, and, waking from his reverie, the artist 
 sees before him only the dull walls of his narrow cham- 
 ber; the canvas stretched a blank upon its frame; the 
 works, maimed, crude, unfinished, of an inexperienced 
 hand, lying idly around; and feels himself — himself, 
 but one moment before the creator of a world of wonders,
 
 THE DISOWNED. 101 
 
 the master spirit of shapes glorious and majestical be- 
 yond the shapes of men — dashed down from his mo- 
 mentary height, and despoiled both of his sorcery and 
 his throne. 
 
 It was just in such a moment that Warner, starting 
 up, saw Linden (who had silently entered his room) 
 standing motionless before him. 
 
 "Oh! Linden," said the artist, "I have had so 
 superb a dream, — a dream which, though I have before 
 snatched some such vision by fits and glimpses, I 
 never beheld so realized, so perfect as now : and — but 
 you shall see, you shall judge for yourself; I will 
 sketch out the design for you;" and with a piece of 
 chalk, and a rapid hand, Warner conveyed to Linden 
 the outline of his conception. His young friend was 
 eager in his praise and his predictions of renown, and 
 Warner listened to him with a fondness which spread 
 over his pale cheek a richer flush than lover ever caught 
 from the whispers of his beloved. 
 
 " Yes," said he, as he rose, and his sunken and small 
 eye flashed out with a feverish brightness, — " yes, if my 
 hand does not fail my thought, it shall rival even — " 
 Here the young painter stopped short, abashed at that 
 indiscretion of enthusiasm about to utter to another the 
 hoarded vanities hitherto locked in his heart of hearts 
 as a sealed secret, almost from himself. 
 
 " But come," said Clarence, affectionately, " your hand 
 is feverish and dry, and of late you have seemed more 
 languid than you were wont, — come , Warner, you want 
 exercise ; it is a beautiful evening, and you shall explain 
 your picture still farther to me as we walk." 
 
 Accustomed to yield to Clarence, Warner mechani- 
 cally and abstractedly obeyed; they walked out into the 
 open streets.
 
 102 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 "Look around us," said Warner, pausing, — "look 
 among this toiling, and busy, and sordid mass of beings, 
 who claim with us the fellowship of clay. The poor 
 labor, the rich feast; the only distinction between them 
 is that of the insect and the brute: like them they fulfil 
 the same end, and share the same oblivion, — they die, 
 a new race springs up, and the very grass upon their 
 graves fades not so soon as their memory. Who that 
 is conscious of a higher nature would not pine and fret 
 himself away to be confounded with these 1 Who would 
 not burn, and sicken, and parch with a delirious longing 
 to divorce themselves from so vile a herd 1 What have 
 their petty pleasures and their mean aims to atone for 
 the abasement of grinding down our spirits to their 
 level ? Is not the distinction from their blended and 
 common name a sufficient recompense for all that am- 
 bition suffers or foregoes? Oh, for one brief hour (I 
 ask no more) of living honor, one feeling of conscious, 
 unfearing certainty, that fame has conquered death; 
 and then for this humble and impotent clay, this drag 
 on the spirit which it does not assist but fetter, this 
 wretched machine of pains and aches and feverish throb- 
 bings and vexed inquietudes, why, let the worms con- 
 sume it, and the grave hide, — for Fame there is no 
 grave. " 
 
 At that moment one of those unfortunate women who 
 earn their polluted sustenance by becoming the hypo- 
 crites of passion, abruptly accosted them. 
 
 "Miserable wretch!" said Warner, loathingly, as he 
 pushed her aside; but Clarence, with a kindlier feeling, 
 noticed that her haggard cheek was wet with tears, and 
 that her frame, weak and trembling, could scarcely sup- 
 port itself; he, therefore, with that promptitude of 
 charity which gives ere it discriminates, put some
 
 THE DISOWNED. 103 
 
 pecuniary assistance in her hand, and joined his 
 comrade. 
 
 " You would not have spoken so tauntingly to the poor 
 girl had you remarked her distress," said Clarence. 
 
 " And why," said Warner, mournfully, — " why be so 
 cruel as to prolong, even for a few hours, an existence 
 which mercy would only seek to bring nearer to the 
 tomb? That unfortunate is but one of the herd, one of 
 the victims to pleasures which debase by their progress, 
 and ruin by their end. Yet perhaps she is not worse 
 than the usual followers of love: of love, that passion 
 the most worshipped, yet the least divine, — selfish and 
 exacting, — drawing its aliment from destruction, and 
 its very nature from tears." 
 
 " Nay," said Clarence, " you confound the two loves, 
 the Eros and the Anteros, gods whom my good tutor 
 was wont so sedulously to distinguish; you surely do 
 not inveigh thus against all love ? " 
 
 "I cry you mercy," said Warner, with something of 
 sarcasm in his pensiveness of tone. " We must not 
 dispute, so I will hold my peace; but make love all 
 you will, what are the false smiles of a lip which a few 
 years can blight as an autumn leaf? What the homage 
 of a heart as feeble and mortal as your own? Why, I, 
 with a few strokes of a little hair and an idle mixture 
 of worthless colors will create a beauty in whose mouth 
 there shall be no hollowness, in whose lip there shall be 
 no fading, — there, in your admiration you shall have 
 no need of flattery, and no fear of falsehood; you shall 
 not be stung with jealousy, nor maddened with treach- 
 ery; nor watch with a breaking heart over waning 
 bloom, and departing health, till the grave open, and 
 your perishable paradise is not. No; the mimic work 
 is mightier than the original, for it outlasts it: your
 
 104 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 love cannot wither it, or your desertion destroy, — your 
 v< rv death, as the being who called it into life, only 
 stamps it with a holier value." 
 
 " And so then," said Clarence, "you would seriously 
 relinquish, for the mute copy of the mere features, those 
 affections which no painting can express?" 
 
 " Ay," said the painter, with an energy unusual to his 
 quiet manner, and slightly wandering in his answer 
 from Clarence's remark, — " ay, one serves not two mis- 
 tresses : mine is the glory of my art. Oh ! what are the 
 cold shapes of this tame earth , where the footsteps of the 
 gods have vanished, and left no trace, — the blemished 
 forms, the debased brows, and the jarring features, to 
 the glorious and gorgeous images which I can conjure 
 up at my will? Away with human beauties, to him 
 whose nights are haunted with the forms of angels and 
 wanderers from the stars, the spirits of all things lovely 
 and exalted in the universe: the universe as it was, — 
 when to fountain, and stream, and hill, and to every tree 
 which the summer clothed, was allotted the vigil of a 
 Nymph! — when through glade and by waterfall, at 
 glossy noontide, or under the silver stars, the forms of 
 Godhead and Spirit were seen to walk ; when the sculptor 
 modelled his mighty work from the beauty and strength 
 of Heaven, and the poet lay in the shade to dream of 
 the Naiad and the Faun, and the Olympian dwellers 
 whom he waked in rapture to behold ; and the painter, not 
 as now, shaping from shadow and in solitude the dim 
 glories of his heart, caught at once his inspiration from 
 the glow of earth and its living wanderers, and, lo, the 
 canvas breathed! Oh! what are the dull realities and 
 the abortive offspring of this altered and humbled world 
 — the world of meaner and dwarfish men — to him whose 
 realms are peopled with visions like these 1 ? "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 105 
 
 And the artist, whose ardor, long excited, and pent 
 within, had at last thus audibly, and to Clarence's 
 astonishment, burst forth, paused as if to recall himself 
 from his wandering enthusiasm. Such moments of ex- 
 citement were, indeed, rare with him, except when 
 utterly alone, and even then, were almost invariably 
 followed by that depression of spirit by which all over- 
 wrought susceptibility is succeeded. A change came 
 over his face, like that of a cloud when the sunbeam 
 which gilded, leaves it, and, with a slight sigh and a 
 subdued tone , he resumed : — 
 
 " So, my friend, you see what our art can do even for 
 the humblest professor, when I, a poor, friendless, 
 patronless artist, can thus indulge myself by forgetting 
 the present. But I have not yet explained to you the 
 attitude of my principal figure; " and Warner proceeded 
 once more to detail the particulars of his intended 
 picture. It must be confessed that he had chosen a 
 fine, though an arduous subject: it was the "Trial of 
 Charles I. ; " and as the painter, with the enthusiasm of 
 his profession and the eloquence peculiar to himself, 
 dwelt upon the various expressions of the various forms 
 which that extraordinary judgment-court afforded, no 
 wonder that Clarence forgot, with the artist himself, 
 the disadvantages Warner had to encounter, in the in- 
 experience of an unregulated taste, and an imperfect 
 professional education.
 
 106 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 All manners take a tincture from our own, 
 Or come discolored through our passions shown. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 What ! give up liberty, property, and, as the " Gazetteer " says, lie 
 down to be saddled with wooden shoes. — Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 There was something in the melancholy and reflective 
 character of Warner resembling that of Mordaunt. Had 
 they lived in these days, perhaps both the artist and 
 the philosopher had been poets. But (with regard to 
 the latter) at that time poetry was not the customary 
 vent for deep thought or passionate feeling. Gray, it 
 is true, though unjustly condemned as artificial and 
 meretricious in his style, had infused into the scanty 
 works which he has bequeathed to immortality, a pathos 
 and a richness foreign to the literature of the age ; and, 
 subsequently, Goldsmith, in the affecting, yet somewhat 
 enervate simplicity of his verse, had obtained for poetry 
 a brief respite from a school at once declamatory and 
 powerless, and led her forth for a " Sunshine Holiday, " 
 into the village green, and under the hawthorn shade. 
 But, though the softer and meeker feelings had strug- 
 gled into a partial and occasional vent, those which par- 
 took more of passion and of thought, the deep, the wild, 
 the fervid, were still without " the music of a voice. " 
 For the after century it was reserved to restore what we 
 may be permitted to call the spirit of our national litera- 
 ture ; to forsake the clinquant of the French mimickers 
 of classic gold; to exchange a thrice-adulterated Hippo-
 
 THE DISOWNED. 107 
 
 crene for the pure well of Shakespeare and of nature ; to 
 clothe philosophy in the gorgeous and solemn majesty of 
 appropriate music ; and to invest passion with a language 
 as burning as its thought and rapid as its impulse. At 
 that time reflection found its natural channel in meta- 
 physical inquiry or political speculation ; both valuable, 
 perhaps, but neither profound. It was a bold, and a free, 
 and an inquisitive age, but not one in which thought ran 
 over its set and stationary banks, and watered even the 
 common flowers of verse : not one in which Lucretius 
 could have embodied the dreams of Epicurus; Shake- 
 speare lavished the mines of a superhuman wisdom upon 
 his fairy palaces and enchanted isles ; or the Beautifier 1 
 of this common earth have called forth, — 
 
 The motion of the spirit that impels 
 
 All thinking things, all objects of all thought; 
 
 or Disappointment and Satiety have hallowed their hu- 
 man griefs by a pathos wrought from whatever is mag- 
 nificent, and grand, and lovely in the unknown universe ; 
 or the speculations of a great, but visionary, 2 mind have 
 raised, upon subtlety and doubt, a vast and irregular 
 pile of verse, full of dim-lighted cells, and winding gal- 
 leries, in which what treasures lie concealed ! That was 
 an age in which poetry took one path, and contemplation 
 another: those who were addicted to the latter pursued 
 it in its orthodox roads ; and many, whom nature, per- 
 haps, intended for poets, the wizard custom converted 
 into speculators or critics. 
 
 It was this which gave to Algernon's studies their pe- 
 culiar hue ; while, on the other hand, the taste for the fine 
 arts which then universally prevailed, directed to the 
 creations of painting, rather than those of poetry, more 
 
 1 Wordsworth. a Shelley.
 
 1U8 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 really congenial to his powers, the intense imagination 
 and passion for glory which marked and pervaded the 
 character of the artist. 
 
 But, as we have seen that that passion for glory made 
 tin! great characteristic difference between Clarence and 
 Warner, so also did that passion terminate any resem- 
 blance which Warner bore to Algernon Mordannt. With 
 the former, a rank and unwholesome plant, it grew up 
 to the exclusion of all else ; with the latter, subdued and 
 regulated, it sheltered, not withered the virtues by 
 which it was surrounded. With Warner, ambition was 
 a passionate desire to separate himself by fame from 
 the herd of other men; with Mordaunt, to bind himself 
 by charity yet closer to his kind : with the one it pro- 
 duced a disgust to his species; with the other, a pity 
 and a love : with the one, power was the badge of distinc- 
 tion ; with the other, the means to bless ! But our story 
 lingers. 
 
 It was now the custom of Warner to spend the whole 
 day at his work, and wander out with Clarence, when 
 the evening darkened, to snatch a brief respite of exer- 
 cise and air. Often, along the lighted and populous 
 streets, would the two young and unfriended competitors 
 for this world's high places, roam with the various crowd, 
 moralizing as they went, or holding dim conjecture upon 
 their destinies to be. And often would they linger be- 
 neath the portico of some house where, "haunted with 
 great resort," Pleasure and Pomp held their nightly 
 revels, to listen to the music that, through the open win- 
 dows, stole over the rare exotics with which wealth 
 mimics the southern scents, and floated, mellowing by 
 distance, along the unworthy streets ; and while they 
 stood together, silent, and each feeding upon separate 
 thoughts, the artist's pale lip would curl with scorn, as
 
 THE DISOWNED. 109 
 
 he heard the laugh and the sounds of a frivolous and 
 hollow mirth ring from the crowd within, and startle the 
 air from the silver spell which music had laid upon it. 
 "These," would he say to Clarence, — "these are the 
 dupes of the same fever as ourselves : like us, they strive, 
 and toil, and vex their little lives for a distinction from 
 their race. Amhition comes to them, as to all ; but they 
 throw for a different prize than we do: theirs is the 
 honor of a day , ours is immortality ; yet they take the 
 same labor, and are consumed by the same care. And, 
 fools that they are, with their gilded names and their 
 gaudy trappings, they would shrink in disdain from that 
 comparison with us which we, with a juster fastidious- 
 ness, blush at this moment to acknowledge." 
 
 From these scenes they would rove on, and, both de- 
 lighting in contrast, enter some squalid and obscure 
 quarter of the city. There, one night, quiet observers 
 of their kind, they paused beside a group congregated 
 together by some common cause of obscene merriment or 
 unholy fellowship, — a group on which low vice had set 
 her sordid and hideous stamp, — to gaze and draw strange 
 humors or a motley moral from that depth and ferment 
 of human nature into whose sink the thousand streams 
 of civilization had poured their dregs and offal. 
 
 " You survey these, " said the painter, marking each 
 with the curious eye of his profession: "they are a base 
 horde, it is true; but they have their thirst of fame, 
 their aspirations even in the abyss of crime, or the 
 loathsomeness of famished want. Down in yon cellar, 
 where a farthing rushlight glimmers upon haggard 
 cheeks, distorted with the idiotcy of drink ; there in that 
 foul attic, from whose casement you see the beggar's 
 rags hang to dry, or rather to crumble in the reeking and 
 filthy air; farther on, within those walls which, black
 
 110 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 and heavy as the hearts they hide, close our miserable 
 prospect; there, even there, in the mildewed dungeon, 
 in the felon's cell, on the very scaffold self, — Ambition 
 hugs her own hope, or scowls upon her own despair. 
 Yes! the inmates of those walls had their perilous game 
 of honor, their ' hazard of the die, ' in which vice was 
 triumph, and infamy success. We do but share their 
 passion, though we direct it to a better object." 
 
 Pausing for a moment, as his thoughts flowed into a 
 somewhat different channel of his character, Warner 
 continued, " We have now caught a glimpse of the two 
 great divisions of mankind : they who riot in palaces, and 
 they who make mirth hideous in rags and hovels ; own 
 that it is but a poor survey in either. Can we be con- 
 temptible with these, or loathsome with those? Or 
 rather have we not a nobler spark within us which 
 we have but to fan into a flame that shall burn forever, 
 when these miserable meteors sink into the corruption 
 from which they rise 1 " 
 
 " But, " observed Clarence, " these are the two ex- 
 tremes: the pinnacle of civilization too worn and bare 
 for any more noble and vigorous fruit, and the base upon 
 which the cloud descends in rain and storm. Look to 
 the central portion of society; there the soil is more 
 genial, and its produce more rich." 
 
 " Is it so, in truth 1 " answered Warner ; " pardon me, 
 I believe not; the middling classes are as human as the 
 rest. There is the region, — the heart of Avarice, — 
 systematized, spreading, rotting, the very fungus and 
 leprosy of social states ; suspicion, craft, hypocrisy, ser- 
 vility to the great, oppression to the low, the waxlike 
 mimicry of courtly vices, the hardness of flint to humble 
 woes; thought, feeling, the faculties and impulses of 
 man, all ulcered into one great canker, — gain; — these
 
 THE DISOWNED. Ill 
 
 make the general character of the middling class, the 
 unleavened mass of that mediocrity which it has heen 
 the wisdom of the shallow to applaud. Pah! %ve too are 
 of this class, this potter's earth, this paltry mixture of 
 mud and stone ; but we, my friend, we will knead gold 
 into our clay." 
 
 " But look, " said Clarence, pointing to the group be- 
 fore them, — " look : yon wretched mother, whose voice 
 an instant ago uttered the coarsest accents of maudlin 
 and intoxicated prostitution, is now fostering her infant, 
 with a fondness stamped upon her worn cheek and 
 hollow eye which might shame the nice maternity of 
 nobles; and there, too, yon wretch whom, in the reck- 
 less effrontery of hardened abandonment, we ourselves 
 heard a few minutes since boast of his dexterity in theft, 
 and openly exhibit his token, — look, he is now, with a 
 Samaritan's own charity, giving the very goods for which 
 his miserable life was risked to that attenuated and 
 starving stripling! No, Warner, no! even this mass is 
 not unleavened. The vilest infamy is not too deep for 
 the Seraph Virtue to descend and illumine its abyss ! " 
 
 " Out on the weak fools ! " said the artist, bitterly : 
 " it would be something, if they could be consistent even 
 in crime! " and, placing his arm in Linden's, he drew 
 him away. 
 
 As the picture grew beneath the painter's hand, 
 Clarence was much struck with the outline and expres- 
 sion of countenance given to the regicide Bradshaw. 
 
 " They are but an imperfect copy of the living origi- 
 nal from whom I have borrowed them," said "Warner, 
 in answer to Clarence's remark upon the sternness of the 
 features. " But that original, a relation of mine, is 
 coming here to-day, — you shall see him." 
 
 While Warner was yet speaking, the person in ques-
 
 112 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 tion entered. His wort>, indeed, the form and face 
 worthy to be seized by the painter. The peculiarity of 
 his character made him affect a plainness of dress un- 
 usual to the day, and approaching to the simplicity, but 
 not the neatness, of Quakerism. His hair — then, with 
 all the better ranks, a principal object of cultivation — 
 was wild, dishevelled, and, in wiry flakes of the sablest 
 hue, rose abruptly from a forehead on which either 
 thought or passion had written its annals with an iron 
 pen; the lower part of the brow, which overhung the 
 eye, was singularly sharp and prominent; while the lines, 
 or rather furrows, traced under the eyes and nostrils, 
 spoke somewhat of exhaustion and internal fatigue. But 
 this expression was contrasted and contradicted by the 
 firmly-compressed lip ; the lighted, steady, stern eye ; the 
 resolute and even stubborn front, joined to proportion." 
 strikingly athletic, and a stature of uncommon height. 
 
 "Well, Wolfe," said the young painter to the person 
 we have described, " it is indeed a kindness to give me a 
 second sitting." 
 
 " Tush, boy ! " answered Wolfe : " all men have theii 
 vain points, and I own that I am not ill pleased that 
 these rugged features should be assigned, even in fancy, 
 to one of the noblest of those men who judged the 
 mightiest cause in which a country was ever plaintiff, a 
 tyrant criminal, and a world witness! " 
 
 While Wolfe was yet speaking, his countenance, so 
 naturally harsh, took a yet sterner aspect, and the artist, 
 by a happy touch, succeeded in transferring it to the 
 canvas. 
 
 " But, after all, " continued Wolfe, " it shames me to 
 lend aid to an art frivolous in itself, and almost culpable 
 in times when Freedom wants the head to design, and, 
 perhaps, the hand to execute far other and nobler works
 
 THE DISOWNED. 113 
 
 than the blazoning of her past deeds upon perishable 
 
 canvas." 
 
 A momentary anger at the slight put upon his art 
 crossed the pale brow of the artist ; but he remembered 
 the character of the man, and continued his work in 
 silence. 
 
 " You consider then, sir, that these are times in which 
 liberty is attacked 1 " said Clarence. 
 
 "Attacked?" repeated Wolf e, — " attacked ! " and 
 then suddenly sinking his voice into a sort of sneer; 
 " why, since the event which this painting is designed to 
 commemorate, — I know not if we have ever had one 
 solitary gleam of liberty break along the great chaos of 
 jarring prejudice and barbarous law which we term, 
 forsooth, a glorious constitution. Liberty attacked! no, 
 ■boy, — but it is a time when liberty may be gained. " 
 
 Perfectly unacquainted with the excited politics of 
 the day, or the growing and mighty spirit which then 
 stirred through the minds of men, Clarence remained 
 silent; but his evident attention flattered the fierce 
 republican, and he proceeded. 
 
 " Ay, " he said slowly, and as if drinking in a deep 
 and stern joy from his conviction in the truth of the 
 words he uttered, — "ay, I have wandered over the face 
 of the earth, and I have warmed my soul at the fires 
 which lay hidden under its quiet surface ; I have been in 
 the city and the desert, — the herded and banded crimes 
 of the Old World, and the scattered, but bold hearts 
 which are found among the savannahs of the New, — 
 and in either I have beheld that seed sown, which, from 
 a mustard-grain too scanty for a bird's beak, shall grow 
 up to be a shelter and a home for the whole family of 
 man. I have looked upon the thrones of kings, and lo ! 
 the anointed ones were in purple and festive pomp ; and 
 vol. i. — 8
 
 114 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 I looked beneath the thrones, and I saw want and 
 hunger and despairing wrath gnawing the foundations 
 away. I have stood in the streets of that great city 
 where mirth seems to hold an eternal jubilee, and he- 
 held the nohle riot while the peasant starved; and the 
 priest build altars to Mammon, piled from the earnings 
 of groaning lahor, and cemented with blood and tears. 
 But I looked farther, and saw, in the rear, chains 
 sharpened into swords, misery ripening into justice, and 
 famine darkening into revenge ; and I laughed as I be- 
 held, for I knew that the day of the oppressed was at 
 hand." 
 
 Somewhat awed by the prophetic tone, though re- 
 volted by what seemed to him the novelty and the 
 fierceness, of the sentiments of the republican, Clarence, 
 after a brief pause, said, — 
 
 " And what of our own country 1 " 
 
 Wolfe's brow darkened. " The oppression here, " 
 said he, " has not been so weighty, therefore the reac- 
 tion will be less strong; the parties are more blended, 
 therefore their separation will be more arduous; the 
 extortion is less strained, therefore the endurance will be 
 more meek; but, soon or late, the struggle must come: 
 bloody will it be, if the strife be even; gentle and lasting, 
 if the people predominate." 
 
 " And if the rulers be the strongest 1 " said Clarence. 
 
 "The struggle will be renewed," replied Wolfe, 
 doggedly. 
 
 ' You still attend those oratorical meetings, cousin, 
 I think ? " said Warner. 
 
 " I do, " said Wolfe ; " and if you are not so utterly 
 absorbed in your vain and idle art as to be indifferent 
 to all things nobler, you will learn yourself to take 
 interest in what concerns, — I will not say your country,
 
 THE DISOWNED. 115 
 
 but — mankind. For you, young man " (and the repub- 
 lican turned to Clarence), " I would fain hope that life 
 has not already been diverted from the greatest of human 
 objects; if so, come to-morrow night to our assembly, 
 and learn from worthier lips than mine the precepts and 
 the hopes for which good men live or die. " 
 
 " I will come at all events to listen, if not to learn, " 
 said Clarence, eagerly, for his curiosity was excited. 
 And the republican, having now fulfilled the end of his 
 visit, rose and departed.
 
 116 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Bound to suffer persecution 
 And martyrdom with resolution, 
 T' oppose himself against the hate 
 And vengeance of the incensed state. 
 
 Hudibras. 
 
 Borx of respectable though not wealthy parents, John 
 Wolfe was one of those fiery and daring spirits which, 
 previous to some mighty revolution, fate seems to scatter 
 over various parts of the earth, even those removed from 
 the predestined explosion : heralds of the events in which 
 they are fitted, though not fated, to be actors. The 
 period at which he is presented to the reader was one 
 considerably prior to that French Revolution so much 
 debated and so little understood. But some such event, 
 though not foreseen by the common, had been already 
 foreboded by the more enlightened eye ; and Wolfe, from 
 a protracted residence in France, among the most discon- 
 tented of its freer spirits, had brought hope to that 
 burning enthusiasm which had long made the pervading 
 passion of his existence. 
 
 Bold to ferocity, generous in devotion to folly in 
 self-sacrifice, unflinching in his tenets to a degree which 
 rendered their ardor ineffectual to all times, because 
 utterly inapplicable to the present, Wolfe was one of 
 those zealots whose very virtues have the semblance of 
 vice, and whose very capacities for danger become harm- 
 less from the rashness of their excess. 
 
 It was not among the philosophers and reasoners of 
 France that Wolfe had drawn strength to his opinions:
 
 THE DISOWNED. 117 
 
 whatever such companions might have done to his 
 tenets, they would at least have moderated his actions. 
 The philosopher may aid or expedite a change, but 
 never does the philosopher in any age or of any sect coun- 
 tenance a crime. But of philosophers Wolfe knew little, 
 and probably despised them for their temperance : it was 
 among fanatics, ignorant but imaginative, that he had 
 strengthened the love without comprehending the nature 
 of republicanism. Like Lucian's painter, whose flattery 
 portrayed the one-eyed prince in profile, he viewed only 
 that side of the question in which there was no defect, 
 and gave beauty to the whole by concealing the half. 
 Thus, though on his return to England herding with 
 the common class of his reforming brethren, Wolfe pos- 
 sessed many peculiarities and distinctions of character 
 which, in rendering him strikingly adapted to the pur- 
 pose of the novelist, must serve as a caution to the 
 reader not to judge of the class by the individual. 
 
 With a class of republicans in England there was a 
 strong tendency to support their cause by reasoning. 
 With Wolfe, whose mind was little wedded to logic, 
 all was the offspring of turbulent feelings, which, in 
 rejecting argument, substituted declamation for syllogism. 
 This effected a powerful and irreconcilable distinction 
 between Wolfe and the better part of his comrades; for 
 the habits of cool reasoning, whether true or false, are 
 little likely to bias the mind towards those crimes to 
 which Wolfe's irregulated emotions might possibly 
 urge him, and give to the characters to which they are 
 a sort of common denominator something of method and 
 much of similarity. But the feelings — those orators 
 which allow no calculation, and baffle the tameness of 
 comparison — rendered Wolfe alone, unique, eccentric in 
 opinion or action, whether of vice or virtue.
 
 118 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 Private ties frequently moderate the ardor of our 
 public enthusiasm. Wolfe had none. His nearest re- 
 lation was Warner, and it may readily be supposed that 
 with the pensive and contemplative artist he had very 
 little in common. He had never married, nor had ever 
 seemed to wander from his stern and sterile path in the 
 most transient pursuit of the pleasures of sense. Inflex- 
 ibly honest, rigidly austere, — in his moral character his 
 bitterest enemies could detect no flaw, — poor, even to 
 indigence, he had invariably refused all overtures of the 
 government; thrice imprisoned and heavily fined for 
 his doctrines, no fear of a future, no remembrance of 
 the past punishment could ever silence his bitter elo- 
 quence or moderate the passion of his distempered zeal; 
 kindly, though rude, his scanty means were ever shared 
 by the less honest and disinterested followers of his 
 faith; and he had been known for days to deprive him- 
 self of food, and for nights of shelter, for the purpose of 
 yielding food and shelter to another. 
 
 Such was the man doomed to forsake, through a' long 
 and wasted life, every substantial blessing, in pursuit of 
 a shadowy good; with the warmest benevolence in his 
 heart, to relinquish private affections, and to brood even 
 to madness over public offences, — to sacrifice everything, 
 in a generous though erring devotion, for that freedom 
 whose cause, instead of promoting, he was calculated to 
 retard; and, while he believed himself the martyr of a 
 high and uncompromising virtue, to close his career with 
 the greatest of human crimes.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 119 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Faith, methinks his humor is good, and his purse will buy good 
 company. — The Parson's Wedding. 
 
 When Clarence returned home, after the conversation 
 recorded in our last chapter, he found a note from Tal- 
 hot, inviting him to meet some friends of the latter at 
 supper that evening. It was the first time Clarence had 
 been asked, and he looked forward with some curiosity 
 and impatience to the hour appointed in the note. 
 
 It is impossible to convey any idea of the jealous ran- 
 cor felt by Mr. and Mrs. Copperas on hearing of this 
 distinction, — a distinction which " the perfect courtier " 
 had never once bestowed upon themselves. 
 
 Mrs. Copperas tossed her head, too indignant for 
 words; and the stock-jobber, in the bitterness of his 
 soul, affirmed, with a meaning air, " that he dared say, 
 after all, that the old gentleman was not so rich as he 
 gave out." 
 
 On entering Talbot's drawing-room, Clarence found 
 about seven or eight people assembled: their names, in 
 proclaiming the nature of the party, indicated that the 
 aim of the host was to combine aristocracy and talent. 
 The literary acquirements and worldly tact of Talbot, 
 joined to the adventitious circumstances of birth and 
 fortune, enabled him to effect this object, so desirable in 
 polished society, far better than we generally find it 
 effected now. The conversation of these guests was 
 light and various. The last bon mot of Chesterfield, 
 the last sarcasm of Horace Walpole, Goldsmith's " Trav-
 
 120 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 ellcr, " Shcnstone's "Pastorals," and the attempt of Mrs. 
 Montagu to bring Shakespeare into fashion, — in all 
 these subjects the graceful wit and exquisite taste of 
 Talbot shone pre-eminent; and he had almost succeeded 
 in convincing a profound critic that Gray was a poet 
 more likely to live than Mason, when the servant 
 announced supper. 
 
 That was the age for suppers! Happy age! Meal of 
 ease and mirth; when wine and night lit the lamp of 
 Avit! Oh, what precious things were said and looked lit 
 those banquets of the soul! There, epicurism was in 
 the lip as well as the palate, and one had humor for a 
 hors d'ceuvre, and repartee for an entremet. In dinner 
 there is something too pompous, too formal, for the 
 true ease of table talk. One's intellectual appetite, like 
 the physical, is coarse but dull. At dinner one is fit 
 only for eating; after dinner only for politics. But 
 supper was a glorious relic of the ancients. The bustle 
 of the day had thoroughly wound up the spirit, and 
 every stroke upon the dial-plate of wit was true to tho 
 genius of the hour. The wallet of diurnal anecdote was 
 full, and craved unloading. The great meal — that vul- 
 gar first love of the appetite — was over, and one now 
 only flattered it into coquetting with another. Tho 
 mind, disengaged and free, was no longer absorbed in 
 a cutlet or burdened with a joint. The gourmand 
 carried the nicety of his physical perception to his 
 moral, and applauded a bon mot instead of a bonne 
 bouche. 
 
 Then, too, one had no necessity to keep a reserve of 
 thought for the after evening; supper was the final con- 
 summation, the glorious funeral pyre of the day. One 
 could be merry till bed-time without an interregnum. 
 Nay, if in the ardor of convivialism one did, — I merely
 
 THE DISOWNED. 121 
 
 hint at the possibility of such an event, — if one did 
 exceed the narrow limits of strict ebriety, and open the 
 heart with a ruby key, one had nothing to dread from 
 the cold, or, what is worse, the warm looks of ladies in 
 the drawing-room; no fear that an imprudent word, in 
 the amatory fondness of the fermented blood, might ex- 
 pose one to matrimony and settlements. There was no 
 tame trite medium of propriety and suppressed confi- 
 dence, no bridge from board to bed, over which a false 
 step (and your wine cup is a marvellous corrupter of 
 ambulatory rectitude) might precipitate into an irrecov- 
 erable abyss of perilous communication or unwholesome 
 truth. One's pillow became at once the legitimate and 
 natural bourn to " the overheated brain ; " and the 
 generous rashness of the conatorial reveller was not 
 damped by untimeous caution or ignoble calculation. 
 
 But " we have changed all that now : " sobriety has 
 become the successor of suppers; the great ocean of 
 moral encroachment has not left us one little island of 
 refuge. Miserable supper-lovers that we are, like the 
 native Indians of America, a scattered and daily disap- 
 pearing race, we wander among strange customs, and 
 behold the innovating and invading dinner spread gradu- 
 ally over the very space of time in which the majesty of 
 supper once reigned undisputed and supreme ! 
 
 " ye heavens, be kind, 
 And feel, thou earth, for this afflicted race." 1 
 
 As he was sitting down to the table, Clarence's notice 
 was arrested by a somewhat suspicious and unpleasing 
 occurrence. The supper room was on the ground floor, 
 and, owing to the heat of the weather, one of the win- 
 dows facing the small garden, was left open. Through 
 
 1 Wordsworth.
 
 122 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 this window Clarence distinctly saw the face of a man 
 look into the room for one instant, with a prying and 
 curious gaze, and then as instantly disappear. As no 
 one else seemed to remark this incident, and the general 
 attention was somewhat noisily engrossed by the subject 
 of conversation, Clarence thought it not worth while to 
 mention a circumstance for which the impertinence of 
 any neighboring servant or drunken passer-by might 
 easily account. An apprehension, however, of a more 
 unpleasant nature shot across him, as his eye fell upon 
 the costly plate which Talbot rather ostentatiously dis- 
 played, and then glanced to the single and aged servant, 
 who was, besides his master, the only male inmate of 
 the house. Nor could he help saying to Talbot, in the 
 course of the evening, that he wondered he was not 
 afraid of hoarding so many articles of value in a house at 
 once lonely and ill-guarded. 
 
 " Ill-guarded ! " said Talbot, rather affronted, " why, I 
 and my servant always sleep here ! " 
 
 To this Clarence thought it neither prudent nor well- 
 bred to offer further remark.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 123 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Meetings, or public calls, he never missed, 
 To dictate often, always to assist. 
 
 • • ■ • • 
 
 To his experience and his native sense, 
 
 He joined a bold, imperious eloquence ; 
 
 The grave, stern look of men informed and wise, 
 
 A full command of feature, heart, and eyes, 
 
 An awe-compelling frown, and fear-inspiring size. 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 The next evening Clarence, mindful of Wolfe's invita- 
 tion, inquired from Warner (who repaid the contempt 
 of the republican for the painter's calling by a similar 
 feeling for the zealot's) the direction of the oratorical 
 meeting, and repaired there alone. It was the most 
 celebrated club (of that description) of the day, and well 
 worth attending, as a gratification to the curiosity, if not 
 an improvement to the mind. 
 
 On entering, he found himself in a long room, toler- 
 ably well lighted, and still better filled. The sleepy 
 countenances of the audience, the whispered conversa- 
 tion carried on at scattered intervals, the listless atti- 
 tudes of some, the frequent yawns of others, the eager- 
 ness with which attention was attracted to the opening 
 door, when it admitted some new object of interest, the 
 desperate resolution with which some of the more ener- 
 getic turned themselves towards the orator, and then, 
 with a faint shake of the head, turned themselves again 
 hopelessly away, — were all signs that denoted that no 
 very eloquent declaimer was in possession of the
 
 124 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 "house." It was, indeed, a singularly dull, monotonous 
 voice which, arising from the upper end of the room, 
 dragged itself on towards the middle, and expired with 
 a sighing sound before it reached the end. The face of 
 the speaker suited his vocal powers : it was small, mean, 
 and of a round stupidity, without anything even in fault 
 that could possibly command attention, or even the ex- 
 citement of disapprobation ; the very garments of the 
 orator seemed dull and heavy, and, like the Melancholy 
 of Milton, had a " leaden look. " Now and then some 
 words more emphatic than others, — - stones breaking, as it 
 were, with a momentary splash the stagnation of the 
 heavy stream, — produced from three very quiet, un- 
 happy-looking persons, seated next to the speaker, his 
 immediate friends, three single insolated " hears ! " 
 
 The force of friendship could no further go. 
 
 At last the orator having spoken through, suddenly 
 stopped; the whole meeting seemed as if a weight had 
 been taken from it; there was a general buzz of awak- 
 ened energy, each stretched his limbs, and resettled him- 
 self in his place, 
 
 And turning to his neighbor, said, " Rejoice ! " 
 
 A pause ensued; the chairman looked round, — the 
 eyes of the meeting followed those of their president, 
 with a universal and palpable impatience, towards an 
 obscure corner of the room : the pause deepened for one 
 moment, and then was broken ; a voice cried " Wolfe ! " 
 and at that signal the whole room shook with the name. 
 The place which Clarence had taken did not allow him 
 to see the object of these cries till he rose from his situa- 
 tion, and, passing two rows of benches, stood forth in
 
 THE DISOWNED. 125 
 
 the middle space of the room; then, from one to one, 
 went round the general roar of applause; feet stamped, 
 hands clapped, umbrellas set their sharp points to the 
 ground, and walking-sticks thumped themselves out of 
 shape in the universal clamor. Tall, gaunt, and erect, 
 the speaker possessed, even in the mere proportions of 
 his frame, that physical power which never fails, in a 
 popular assembly, to gam attention to mediocrity, and to 
 throw dignity over faults. He looked very slowly round 
 the room, remaining perfectly still and motionless, till 
 the clamor of applause had entirely subsided, and every 
 ear, Clarence's no less eagerly than the rest, was strained, 
 and thirsting to catch the first syllables of his voice. 
 
 It was then with a low, very deep, and somewhat 
 hoarse tone that he began; and it was not till he had 
 spoken for several minutes that the iron expression of his 
 face altered, that the drooping hand was raised, and that 
 the suppressed, yet powerful voice began to expand and 
 vary in its volume. He had then entered upon a new 
 department of his subject. The question was connected 
 with the English constitution, and Wolfe was now pre- 
 paring to put forth, in long and blackened array, the 
 alleged evils of an aristocratical form of government. 
 Then it was as if the bile and bitterness of years were 
 poured forth in a terrible and stormy wrath, then his 
 action became vehement, and his eye flashed forth unut- 
 terable fire ; his voice, solemn, swelling and increasing 
 with each tone in its height and depth, filled, as with 
 something palpable and perceptible, the shaking walls. 
 The listeners, — a various and unconnected group, bound 
 by no tie of faith or of party, many attracted by curiosity, 
 many by the hope of ridicule : some abhorring the tenets 
 expressed, and nearly all disapproving their principles 
 or doubting their wisdom, — the listeners, certainly not
 
 126 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 a group previously formed or moulded into enthusiasm, 
 became rapt and earnest, their very breath forsook 
 them. 
 
 Linden had never before that night heard a public 
 speaker ; but he was of a thoughtful and rather calculat- 
 ing mind, and his early habits of decision, and the pre- 
 mature cultivation of his intellect, rendered him little 
 susceptible, in general, to the impressions of the vulgar; 
 nevertheless, in spite of himself, he was hurried away by 
 the stream, and found that the force and rapidity of the 
 speaker did not allow him even time for the dissent and 
 disapprobation which his republican maxims and fiery 
 denunciations perpetually excited in a mind aristocratic 
 both by creed and education. At length, after a perora- 
 tion of impetuous and magnificent invective, the orator 
 ceased. 
 
 In the midst of the applause that followed, Clarence 
 left the assembly ; he could not endure the thought that 
 any duller or more commonplace speaker should fritter 
 away the spell which yet bound and engrossed his 
 spirit.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 127 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 At the bottom of the staircase was a small door, which gave way 
 before Nigel, as he precipitated himself upon the scene of action, 
 a cocked pistol in one hand, etc. — Fortunes of Nigel. 
 
 The night, though not utterly dark, was rendered capri- 
 cious and dim hy alternate wind and rain ; and Clarence 
 was delayed in his return homeward by seeking occa- 
 sional shelter from the rapid and heavy showers which 
 hurried by. It was during one of the temporary cessa- 
 tions of the rain that he reached Copperas Bower, and 
 while he was searching in his pockets for the key which 
 was to admit him, he observed two men loitering about 
 his neighbor's house. The light was not sufficient to 
 give him more than a scattered and imperfect view of 
 their motions. Somewhat alarmed, he stood for several 
 moments at the door, watching them as well as he was 
 able; nor did he enter the house till the loiterers had 
 left their suspicious position, and, walking onwards, 
 were hid entirely from him by the distance and 
 darkness. 
 
 " It really is a dangerous thing for Talbot," thought 
 Clarence , as he ascended to his apartment, " to keep so 
 many valuables, and only one servant, and that one as 
 old as himself too. However, as I am by no means 
 sleepy, and my room is by no means cool, I may as well 
 open my window, and see if those idle fellows make 
 their reappearance." Suiting the action to the thought 
 Clarence opened his little casement, and leaned wist- 
 fully out.
 
 128 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 He had no light in his room, for none was ever left 
 for him. This circum tance, however, of course enabled 
 him the better to penetrate the dimness and haze of the 
 night, and, by the help of the fluttering lamps, he was 
 enabled to take a general, though not minute survey 
 of the scene below. 
 
 I think I have before said that there was a garden 
 between Talbot's house and Copperas Bower; this was 
 bounded by a wall, which confined Talbot's peculiar 
 territory of garden, and this wall, describing a parallelo- 
 gram, faced also the road. It contained two entrances, 
 — one the principal adytus, in the shape of a comely 
 iron gate, the other a wooden door, which, being a pri- 
 vate pass, fronted the intermediate garden before men- 
 tioned, and was exactly opposite to Clarence's window. 
 
 Linden had been more than ten minutes at his post, 
 and had just begun to think his suspicions without 
 foundation, and his vigil in vain, when he observed 
 the same figures he had seen before advance slowly from 
 the distance, and pause by tne front gate of Talbot's 
 mansion. 
 
 Alarmed and anxious, he redoubled his attention; he 
 stretched himself, as far as his safety would permit, out 
 of the window; the lamps, agitated by the wind, which 
 swept by in occasional gusts, refused to grant to his 
 straining sight more than an inaccurate and unsatisfying 
 survey. Presently a blast, more violent than ordinary, 
 suspended as it were the falling columns of rain, and 
 left Clarence in almost total darkness; it rolled away, 
 and the momentary calm which ensued enabled him to 
 see that one of the men was stooping by the gate, and 
 the other standing apparently on the watch at a little 
 distance. Another gust shook the lamps, and again 
 obscured his view; and when it had passed onward in
 
 THE DISOWNED. 129 
 
 its rapid course, the men had left the gate, and were in 
 the garden beneath his window. They crept cautiously 
 but swiftly along the opposite wall, till they came to 
 the small door we have before mentioned; here they 
 halted, and one of them appeared to occupy himself in 
 opening the door. Now then, fear was changed into 
 certainty, and it seemed without doubt that the men, 
 having found some difficulty or danger in forcing the 
 stronger or more public entrance, had changed their 
 quarter of attack. No more time Avas to be lost ; Clar- 
 ence shouted aloud, but the high wind probably pre- 
 vented the sound reaching the ears of the burglars, or at 
 least rendered it dubious and confused. The next 
 moment, and before Clarence could repeat his alarm, 
 they had opened the door, and were within the neighbor- 
 ing garden, beyond his view. Very young men, unless 
 their experience has outstripped their youth, seldom 
 have much presence of mind; that quality, which is the 
 opposite to surprise, comes to us in those years when 
 nothing seems to us strange or unexpected. But a 
 much older man than Clarence might have well been at 
 a loss to know what conduct to adopt in the situation in 
 which our hero was placed. The visits of the watch- 
 man to that (then) obscure and ill-inhabited neighbor- 
 hood, were more regulated by his indolence than his 
 duty, and Clarence knew that it would be in vain to 
 listen for his cry or tarry for his assistance. He him- 
 self was utterly unarmed, but the stock-jobber had a pair 
 of horse-pistols, and as this recollection flashed upon 
 him, the pause of deliberation ceased. 
 
 With a swift step he descended the first flight of stairs, 
 
 and pausing at the chamber door of the faithful couple, 
 
 knocked upon its panels with a loud and hasty summons. 
 
 The second repetition of the noise produced the sen- 
 
 vol. i. — 9
 
 130 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 tence, uttered in a very trembling voice, of " Who '3 
 
 there 1 " 
 
 "It is I, Clarence Linden," replied our hero; "lose 
 no time in opening the door. " 
 
 This answer seemed to re-assure the valorous stock- 
 jobber. He slowly undid the bolt and turned the key. 
 
 " In Heaven's name, what do you want, Mr. Linden ? " 
 said he. 
 
 " Ay," cried a sharp voice from the more internal 
 recesses of the chamber, "what do you want, sir, dis- 
 turbing us in the bosom of our family, and at the dead 
 of night?" 
 
 With a rapid voice, Clarence repeated what he had 
 seen, and requested the broker to accompany him to 
 Talbot's house, or at least to lend him his pistols. 
 
 "He shall do no such thing," cried Mrs. Copperas. 
 " Come here, Mr. C, and shut the door directly." 
 
 "Stop, my love," said the stock-jobber, "stop a 
 moment. " 
 
 " For God's sake," cried Clarence, "make no delay; 
 the poor old man may be murdered by this time. " 
 
 "It's no business of mine," said the stock-jobber. 
 " If Adolphus had not broken the rattle I would not 
 have minded the trouble of springing it; but you are 
 very much mistaken if you think I am going to leave 
 my warm bed in order to have my throat cut. " 
 
 " Then give me your pistols," cried Clarence; " I will 
 go alone." 
 
 " I shall commit no such folly," said the stock- 
 jobber; " if you are murdered, I may have to answer it 
 to your friends, and pay for your burial. Besides, you 
 owe us for your lodgings, — go to your bed, young man, 
 as I shall to mine." And so saying, Mr. Copperas 
 proceeded to close the door.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 131 
 
 But enraged at the brutality of the man, and excited 
 by the urgency of the case , Clarence did not allow him 
 so peaceable a retreat. With a strong and fierce grasp, 
 he seized the astonished Copperas by the throat, and 
 shaking him violently, forced his own entrance into the 
 sacred nuptial chamber. 
 
 " By .Heaven," cried Linden, in a savage and stern 
 tone, for his blood was up, ' I will twist your coward's 
 throat, and save the murderer his labor, if you do not 
 instantly give me up your pistols. " 
 
 The stock-jobber was panic-stricken. " Take them," 
 he cried in the extremest terror; " there they are on 
 the chimney-piece, close by." 
 
 "Are they primed and loaded?" said Linden, not 
 relaxing his gripe. 
 
 " Yes, yes! " said the stock-jobber, " loose my throat, 
 or you will choke me ! " and, at that instant, Clarence 
 felt himself clasped by the invading hrnds of Mrs. 
 Copperas. 
 
 " Call off your wife," said he, " or I will choke you! " 
 and he tightened his hold, " and tell her to give me the 
 pistols." 
 
 The next moment Mrs. Copperas extended the debated 
 weapons towards Clarence. He seized them, flung the 
 poor stock-jobber against the bed-post, hurried down- 
 stairs, opened the back door, which led into the garden, 
 flew across the intervening space, arrived at the door, 
 and entering Talbot's garden, paused to consider what 
 was the next step to be taken. 
 
 A person equally brave as Clarence, but more cautious, 
 would not have left the house without alarming Mr. 
 de Warens, even in spite of the failure of his master; 
 but Linden only thought of the pressure of time, and 
 the necessity of expedition, and he would have been a
 
 132 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 very unworthy hero of romance had he felt fear for two 
 antagonists, with a brace of pistols at his command, and 
 a high and good action in view. 
 
 After a brief but decisive halt, he proceeded rapidly 
 round the house, in order to ascertain at which part the 
 ruffians had admitted themselves, should they (as indeed 
 there was little doubt) have already effected their 
 entrance. 
 
 He found the shutters of one of the principal rooms 
 on the ground floor had been opened, and through the 
 aperture he caught the glimpse of a moving light, which 
 was suddenly obscured. As he was about to enter, the 
 light again flashed out; he drew back just in time, care- 
 fully screened himself behind the shutter, and through 
 one of the chinks observed what passed within. Oppo- 
 site to the window was a door which conducted tc the 
 hall and principal staircase; this door Avas open, and in 
 the hall, at the foot of the stairs, Clarence saw two 
 men; one carried a dark lantern from which the light 
 proceeded, and some tools, of the nature of which Clar- 
 ence was naturally ignorant: this was a middle-sized 
 muscular man, dressed in the rudest garb of an ordinary 
 laborer; the other was much taller and younger, and his 
 dress was of rather a less ignoble fashion. 
 
 "Hist! hist!" said the taller one, in a low tone, 
 "did you not hear a noise, Ben? " 
 
 " Not a pin fall; but stow your whids man! " 
 
 This was all that Clarence heard in a connected form; 
 but as the wretches paused in evident doubt how to pro- 
 ceed, he caught two or three detached words, which his 
 ingenuity readily formed into sentences. " No, no! 
 sleeps to the left — old man above — plate-chest — we 
 must have the blunt too. Come, track up the dancers, 
 and dowse the glim. " And at the last words the light
 
 THE DISOWNED. 133 
 
 was extinguished, and Clarence's quick and thirsting 
 ear just caught their first steps on the stairs; they died 
 away, and all was hushed. 
 
 It had several times occurred to Clarence to rush 
 from his hiding-place and fire at the ruffians : and per- 
 haps that measure would have been the wisest he could 
 have taken ; but Clarence had never discharged a pistol in 
 his life, and he felt, therefore, that his aim must be un- 
 certain enough to render a favorable position and a short 
 distance essential requisites. Both these were at pre- 
 sent denied to him; and although he saw no weapons 
 about the persons of the villains, yet he imagined they 
 would not have ventured on so dangerous an expedition 
 without fire-arms; and if he failed, as would have been 
 most probable in his two shots, he concluded that though 
 the alarm would be given, his own fate would be 
 inevitable. 
 
 If this was reasoning upon false premises, — for house- 
 breakers seldom or never carry loaded fire-arms, and 
 never stay for revenge when their safety demands escape, 
 — Clarence may be forgiven for not knowing the customs 
 of house-breakers, and for not making the very best of 
 an extremely novel and dangerous situation. 
 
 No sooner did he find himself in total darkness, than 
 he bitterly reproached himself for his late backwardness; 
 and inwardly resolving not again to miss any oppor- 
 tunity which presented itself, he entered the window, 
 groped along the room int^ the hall, and found his way 
 very slowly, and after much circumlocution, to the 
 staircase. 
 
 He had just gained the summit when a loud cry broke 
 upon the stillness: it came from a distance, and was 
 instantly hushed; but he caught at brief intervals the 
 sound of angry and threatening voices. Clarence bent
 
 134 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 down anxiously, in the hope that some solitary ray 
 would escape through the crevice of the door within 
 which the robhers were engaged. But though the 
 sounds came from the same floor as that on which he 
 now trod, ihey seemed far and remote, and not a gleam 
 of light broke the darkness. 
 
 He continued, however, to feel his way in the direc- 
 tion from which the sounds proceeded, and soon found 
 himself in a narrow gallery; the voices seemed more 
 loud and near as he advanced ; at last he distinctly heard 
 the words, — 
 
 " Will you not confess where it is placed ? " 
 
 " Indeed, indeed," replied an eager and earnest voice, 
 which Clarence recognized as Talbot's, " this is all the 
 money I have in the house ; the plate is above : my ser- 
 vant has the key, take it — take all — but save his life 
 and mine." 
 
 "None of your gammon," said another and rougher 
 voice than that of the first speaker : " we know you have 
 more blunt than this, — a paltry sum of fifty pounds, 
 indeed!" 
 
 " Hold! " cried the other ruffian, " here is a picture set 
 with diamonds, that will do, Ben. Let go the old 
 man. " 
 
 Clarence was now just at hand, and, probably from a 
 sudden change in tbe position of the dark lantern within, 
 a light abruptly broke from beneath the door, and 
 streamed along the passage. "No, no, no!" cried the 
 old man, in a loud yet tremulous voice, — " no, not that, 
 anything else, but I will defend that with my life." 
 
 " Ben, my lad," said the ruffian, " twist the old fool's 
 neck : we have no more time to lose. " 
 
 At that very moment the door was flung violently 
 open, and Clarence Linden stood within three paces of
 
 THE DISOWNED. 135 
 
 the reprobates and their prey. The taller villain had 
 a miniature in his hand, and the old man clung to his 
 legs with a convulsive but impotent clasp; the other 
 fellow had already his gripe upon Talbot's neck, and his 
 right hand grasped a long case-knife. 
 
 With a fierce and flashing eye, and a cheek deadly 
 pale with internal and resolute excitement, Clarence 
 confronted the robbers. 
 
 "Thank Heaven," cried he, "lam not too late!" 
 And, advancing yet another step towards the shorter 
 ruffian, who, struck mute with the suddenness of the 
 apparition, still retained his grasp of the old man, he 
 fired his pistol with a steady and close aim ; the ball 
 penetrated the wretch's brain, and, without sound or 
 sigh, he fell down dead at the very feet of his just de- 
 stroyer. The remaining robber had already meditated, 
 and a second more sufficed to accomplish, his escape. 
 He sprang towards the door; the ball whizzed beside 
 him, but touched him not. With a safe and swift step, 
 long inured to darkness, he fled along the passage ; and 
 Linden, satisfied with the vengeance he had taken 
 upon his comrade, did not harass him with an unavail- 
 ing pursuit. 
 
 Clarence turned to assist Talbot. The old man was 
 stretched upon the floor insensible , but his hand grasped 
 the miniature which the plunderer had dropped in his 
 flight and terror, and his white and ashen lip was 
 pressed convulsively upon the recovered treasure. 
 
 Linden raised and placed him on his bed, and while 
 employed in attempting to revive him, the ancient do- 
 mestic, alarmed by the report of the pistol, came, poker 
 in hand, to his assistance. 
 
 By little and little they recovered the object of their 
 attention.
 
 136 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 His eyes rolled wildly round the room, and he 
 muttered , — 
 
 " Off, off! ye shall not roh me of my only relic of 
 her, — where is it? — have you got it? — the picture, 
 the picture ! " 
 
 " It is here, sir, it is here," said the old servant; " it 
 is in your own hand." 
 
 Talbot's eye fell upon it; he gazed at it for some 
 moments, pressed it to his lips, and then, sitting erect, 
 and looking wildly round, he seemed to awaken to the 
 sense of his late danger and his present deliverance.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 137 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Ah, fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, 
 
 Or the death they bear, 
 The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove, 
 
 With the wings of care ! 
 In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, 
 
 Shall mine cling to thee ! 
 Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, 
 
 It may bring to thee ! 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 LETTER FROM ALGERNON MORDAUXT TO ISABEL ST. 
 
 LEGER. 
 
 You told me not to write to you. You know how long, 
 but not how uselessly I have obeyed you. Did you think, 
 Isabel, that my love was of that worldly and common order 
 which requires a perpetual aliment to support it ? Did you 
 think that if you forbade the stream to flow visibly its sources 
 would be exhausted and its channel dried up 1 This may be 
 the passion of others ; it is not mine. Months have passed 
 since we parted, and since then you have not seen me : this 
 letter is the first token you have received from a remembrance 
 which cannot die. But do you think that I have not watched 
 and tended upon you, and gladdened my eyes with gazing on 
 your beauty when you have not dreamed that I was by ? Ah, 
 Isabel, your heart should have told you of it, — mine would 
 had you been so near me ! 
 
 You receive no letters from me, it is true, — think you that 
 my hand and heart are therefore idle ? No. I write to you 
 a thousand burning lines; I pour out my soul to you; I tell 
 you of all I suffer; my thoughts, my actions, my very dreams, 
 are all traced upon the paper. I send them not to you, but I 
 read them over and over, aud when I come to your name I
 
 133 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 pause, and shut ray eyes, and then "Fancy has her power," 
 and, lo ! " you arc by my side ! " 
 
 [sabel, our love has not been a holiday and joyous senti- 
 ment ; but I feel a solemn and unalterable conviction that our 
 union is ordained. 
 
 Others have many objects to distract and occupy the thoughts 
 which are once forbidden a single direction, hut we have none. 
 At hast, to me you are everything. Pleasure, splendor, am- 
 bition, — all are merged into one great and eternal thought, 
 and that is you ! 
 
 Others have told me, and I believed them, that I was hard, 
 and cold, and stern, — so, perhaps, I was before I knew you, 
 but now I am weaker and softer than a child. There is a 
 stone which is of all the haidest and the chillest, but when 
 once set on fire it is unquenchable. You smile at my image 
 perhaps, and I should smile if I saw it in the writing of an- 
 other ; for all that I have ridiculed in romance as exaggerated, 
 seems now to me too cool and too commonplace for reality. 
 
 But this is not what I meant to write to you ; you are ill, 
 dearest and noblest Isabel, you are ill! I am the cause, and 
 you conceal it from me ; and you would rather pine away and 
 die than suffer me to lose one of those worldly advantages 
 which are in my eyes but as dust in the balance, — it is in 
 vain to deny it. I heard from others of your impaired health ; 
 I have witnessed it myself. Do you remember, last night, 
 when you were in the room with your relations, and they made 
 you sing, — a song, too, which you used to sing to me, — and 
 when you came to the second stanza your voice failed you, 
 and you burst into tears, and they, instead of soothing, re- 
 proached and chid you, and you answered not, but wept on 1 
 Isabel, do you remember that a sound was heard at the win- 
 dow, and a groan ! Even they were startled, but they thought 
 it was the wind ; for the night was dark and stormy, and they 
 saw not that it was 2, — yes, my devoted, my generous love, 
 it was I who gazed upon you, and from whose heart that voice 
 of anguish was wrung; and I saw your cheek was pale and 
 thin, and that the canker at the core had preyed upon the 
 blossom.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 139 
 
 Think you, after this, that I could keep silence or obey your 
 request ? No, dearest, no ! Is not my happiness your object? 
 I have the vanity to believe so ; and am I not the best judge 
 how that happiness is to be secured ! I tell you, I say it 
 calmly, coldly, dispassionately, — not from the imagination, 
 not even from the heart, but solely from the reason, — that I 
 can bear everything rather than the loss of you ; and that if 
 the evil of my love scathe and destroy you, I shall consider 
 and curse myself as your murderer ! Save me from this ex- 
 treme of misery , my — yes, my Isabel ! I shall be at the 
 copse, where we have so often met before, to-morrow, at noon. 
 You will meet me ; and if I cannot convince you, I will not 
 ask you to be persuaded. 
 
 A. M. 
 
 And Isabel read this Tetter, and placed it at her heart, 
 and felt less miserable than she had done for months; 
 for, though she wept, there was sweetness in the tears 
 which the assurance of his love, and the tenderness of 
 his remonstrance, had called forth. She met him, — 
 how could she refuse 1 — and the struggle was past. 
 Though not "convinced," she ivas "persuaded;" for 
 her heart, which refused his reasonings, melted at his 
 reproaches and his grief. But she would not consent to 
 unite her fate with him at once, for the evils of that step 
 to his interests were immediate and near; she was only 
 persuaded to permit their correspondence and occasional 
 meetings, in which, however imprudent they might be 
 for herself, the disadvantages to her lover were distant 
 and remote. It was of him only that she thought, for 
 him she trembled ; for him she was the coward and the 
 woman : for herself she had no fears, and no forethought. 
 
 And Algernon was worthy of this devoted love, and 
 returned it as it was given. Man's love, in general, 
 is a selfish and exacting sentiment: it demands every
 
 140 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 sacrifice, and refuses all. But the nature of Mordaunt 
 was essentially high and disinterested, and his honor, 
 like his love, was not that of the world: it was the 
 ethereal and spotless honor of a lofty and generous mind, 
 the honor which custom can neither give nor take away ; 
 and, however impatiently he hore the deferring of a 
 union in which he deemed that he was the only sufferer, 
 he would not have littered a sigh or urged a prayer for 
 that union, could it, in the minutest or remotest degree, 
 have injured or degraded her. 
 
 These are the hearts and natures which make life 
 beautiful ; these are the shrines which sanctify love ; 
 these are the diviner spirits for whom there is kin- 
 dred and commune with everything exalted and holy 
 in heaven and earth. For tlmn nature unfolds her 
 hoarded poetry, and her hidden spells; for their steps 
 are the lonely mountains, and the still woods have a 
 murmur for their ears ; for them there is strange music 
 in the wave, and in the whispers of the light leaves, and 
 rapture in the voices of the birds; their souls drink, and 
 are saturated with the mysteries of the Universal Spirit, 
 which the philosophy of old times believed to be God 
 himself. They look upon the sky with a gifted vision, 
 and its dove-like quiet descends and overshadows their 
 hearts: the moon and the night are to them wells of 
 Castalian inspiration and golden dreams; and it was one 
 of them, who, gazing upon the evening star, felt in the 
 inmost sanctuary of his soul its mysterious harmonies 
 with his most worshipped hope, his most passionate 
 desire, and dedicated it to — love.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 141 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Maria. Here 's the brave old man's love, 
 Bianca. That loves the young man. 
 
 The Woman's Prize; or, the Tamer Tamed. 
 
 u No, my dear Clarence, you have placed confidence in 
 me, and it is now my duty to return it; you have told 
 me your history and origin, and I will inform you of 
 mine, but not yet. At present we will talk of you. 
 You have conferred upon me what our universal love of 
 life makes us regard as the greatest of human obliga- 
 tions; and though I can bear a large burden of gratitude, 
 yet I must throw off an atom or two, in using my little 
 power in your behalf. Nor is this all : your history has 
 also given you another tie upon my heart, and in grant- 
 ing you a legitimate title to my good offices, removes 
 any scruple you might otherwise have had in accepting 
 them. 
 
 " I have just received this letter from Lord , the 
 
 minister for foreign affairs: you will see that he has 
 
 appointed you to the office of attache at . You 
 
 will also oblige me by looking over this other letter at 
 your earliest convenience; the trifling sum which it 
 contains will be repeated every quarter : it will do very 
 well for an attache, — when you are an ambassador, 
 why, we must equip you by a mortgage on Scarsdale; 
 and now, my dear Clarence, tell me all about the 
 Copperases. " 
 
 I need not say who was the speaker of the above sen- 
 tences, — sentences, apparently of a very agreeable
 
 142 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 nature ; nevertheless, Clarence seemed to think otherwise, 
 for the tears gushed into his eyes, and he was unable 
 for several moments to reply. 
 
 "Come, my young friend," said Talbot, kindly; "I 
 have no near relations among whom I can choose a son 
 I like better than you, nor you any at present from 
 whom you might select a more desirable father; con- 
 sequently, you must let me look upon you as my own 
 flesh and blood; and as I intend to be a very strict and 
 peremptory father, I expect the most silent and scrupu- 
 lous obedience to my commands. My first parental 
 order to you is to put up those papers, and to say noth- 
 ing more about them; for I have a great deal to talk to 
 you about upon other subjects." 
 
 And by these and similar kind-hearted and delicate 
 remonstrances, the old man gained his point. From 
 that moment Clarence looked upon him with the grateful 
 and venerating love of a son ; and I question very much 
 if Talbot had really been the father of our hero, whether 
 he would have liked so handsome a successor half so 
 well. 
 
 The day after this arrangement, Clarence paid his 
 debt to the Copperases, and removed to Talbot's house. 
 With this event commenced a new era in his existence: 
 he was no longer an outcast and a wanderer; out of alien 
 ties he had wrought the link of a close and even paternal 
 friendship; life, brilliant in its prospects, and elevated 
 in its ascent, opened flatteringly before him; and the 
 fortune and courage which had so well provided for the 
 present were the best omens and auguries for the future. 
 
 One evening, when the opening autumn had made its 
 approaches felt, and Linden and his new parent were 
 seated alone by a blazing fire, and had come to a full 
 pause in their conversation, Talbot, shading his face
 
 THE DISOWNED. 143 
 
 with the friendly pages of the " Whitehall Evening 
 Paper," as if to protect it from the heat, said, — 
 
 " I rold you, the other day, that I would give you, at 
 some early opportunity, a brief sketch of my life. This 
 confidence is due to you in return for yours ; and since 
 you will soon leave me, and I am an old man whose life 
 no prudent calculation can fix, I may as well choose the 
 present time to favor you with my confessions." 
 
 Clarence expressed and looked his interest, and the 
 old man thus commenced: — 
 
 THE HISTORY OF A VAIN MAN. 
 
 " I was the favorite of my parents, for I was quick at 
 my lessons, and my father said I inherited my genius 
 from him; and comely in my person, and my mother 
 said that my good looks came from her. So the honest 
 pair saw in their eldest son the union of their own at- 
 tractions, and thought they were making much of them- 
 selves when they lavished their caresses upon me. They 
 had another son : poor Arthur, — I think I see him now ! 
 He was a shy, quiet, subdued boy, of a very plain per- 
 sonal appearance. My father and mother were vain, 
 showy, ambitious people of the world, and they were 
 as ashamed of my brother as they were proud of myself. 
 However, he afterwards entered the army and distin- 
 guished himself highly. He died in battle, leaving an 
 only daughter, who married, as yon know, a nobleman 
 of high rank. Her subsequent fate it is now needless 
 to relate. 
 
 " Petted and pampered from my childhood, I grew up 
 with a profound belief in my own excellences, and a 
 feverish and irritating desire to impress every one who 
 came in my way with the same idea. There is a sen-
 
 144 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 fence in Sir William Temple which I have often thought 
 of with a painful conviction of its truth: ' A restlessness 
 in men's minds to be something they are not, and to have 
 something they have not, is the root of all immorality.' 1 
 At school, I was confessedly the cleverest boy in my 
 remove; and, what I valued equally as much, I was the 
 best cricketer of the best eleven. Here, then, you will 
 say my vanity was satisfied, — no such thing! There 
 Avas a boy who shared my room, and was next me in the 
 school; we were therefore always thrown together. He 
 was a great, stupid, lubberly cub, equally ridiculed by 
 the masters, and disliked by the boys; will you believe 
 that this individual was the express and almost sole 
 object of my envy? He was more than my rival, — he 
 was my superior; and I hated him with all the unleav- 
 ened bitterness of my soul. 
 
 " I have said he was my superior, — it was in one 
 thing. He could balance a stick, nay, a cricket-bat, a 
 poker, upon his chin, and I could not. You laugh, and 
 so can I now; but it was no subject of laughter to me 
 then. This circumstance, trifling as it may appear to 
 you, poisoned my enjoyment. The boy saw my envy, 
 for I could not conceal it; and as all fools are mali- 
 cious, and most fools ostentatious, he took a particular 
 pride and pleasure in displaying his dexterity, and 
 ' showing off my discontent. You can form no idea of 
 the extent to which this petty insolence vexed and dis- 
 quieted me. Even in my sleep, the clumsy and grin- 
 ning features of this tormenting imp haunted me like a 
 spectre ; my visions were nothing but chins and cricket- 
 bats, — walking-sticks sustaining themselves upon hu- 
 man excrescences, and pokers dancing a hornpipe upon 
 the tip of a nose. I assure you that I have spent hours 
 
 1 And of all good. — Author.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 145 
 
 in secret seclusion, practising to rival my hated com- 
 rade, and my face — see how one vanity quarrels with 
 another — was little better than a map of bruises and 
 discolorations. 
 
 " I actually became so uncomfortable as to write home, 
 and request to leave the school. I was then about six- 
 teen, and my indulgent father, in granting my desire, 
 told me that I was too old and too advanced in my 
 learning to go to any other academic establishment than 
 the university. The day before I left the school, I gave, 
 as was visually the custom, a breakfast to all my friends; 
 the circumstance of my tormentor's sharing my room 
 obliged me to invite him among the rest. However, I 
 was in high spirits, and, being a universal favorite with 
 my schoolfellows, I succeeded in what was always to me 
 an object of social ambition, and set the table in a roar; 
 yet, when our festival was nearly expired, and I began 
 to allude more particularly to my approaching departure, 
 my vanity was far more gratified, for my feelings were 
 far more touched, by observing the regret, and receiving 
 the good wishes, of all my companions. I still recall 
 that hour as one of the proudest and happiest of my life ; 
 but it had its immediate reverse. My evil demon pub 
 it into my tormentor's head to give me one last parting 
 pang of jealousy. A large umbrella happened acciden- 
 tally to be in my room : Crompton — such was my school- 
 fellow's name — saw and seized it: ' Look, Talbot,' said 
 he, with his taunting and hideous sneer, ' you can't do 
 this ; ' and placing the point of the umbrella upon his 
 forehead, just above the eyebrow, he performed various 
 antics round the room. 
 
 " At that moment I was standing by the fireplace, and 
 conversing with two boys upon whom, above all others, 
 X wished to leave a favorable impression. My foolish 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 soreness on this one subject had been often remarked, 
 and as I turned, in abrupt and awkward discomposure, 
 from the exhibition, I observed my two schoolfellows 
 smile and exchange looks. I am not naturally pas- 
 sionate, and even at that age I had, in ordinary cases, 
 great self-command; but this observation, and the cause 
 which led to it, threw me off my guard. Whenever we 
 are utterly under the command of one feeling, we cannot 
 be said to have our reason: at that instant I literally 
 believe I was beside myself. What! in the very rlush 
 of the last triumph that that scene would ever afford me ; 
 amidst the last regrets of my early friends, to whom I 
 fondly hoped to bequeath a long and brilliant remem- 
 brance, to be thus bearded by a contemptible rival, and 
 triumphed over by a pitiful, yet insulting, superiority; 
 to close my condolences with laughter; to have the final 
 solemnity of my career thus terminating in mockery, 
 and ridicule substituted as an ultimate reminiscence in 
 the place of an admiring regret, — all this, too, to be 
 effected by one so long hated one whom I was the only 
 being forbidden the comparative happiness of despising, 
 — I could not brook it; the insult, — the insulter were 
 too revolting. As the unhappy buffoon approached me, 
 thrusting his distorted face towards mine, T seized and 
 pushed him aside, with a brief curse and a violent hand. 
 The sharp point of the umbrella slipped ; my action gave 
 it impetus and weight; it penetrated his eye, and — > 
 spare me, spare me the rest." 1 
 
 The old man bent down, and paused for a few mo- 
 ments before he resumed. 
 
 " Crompton lost his eye, but my punishment was as 
 severe as his. People who are very vain are usually 
 
 1 This instance of vanity, and indeed the whole of Talbot's his- 
 tory, is literally from facts.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 147 
 
 equally susceptible, and they who feel one thing acutely 
 will so feel another. For years, ay, for many years 
 afterwards, the recollection of my folly goaded me with 
 jhe bitterest and most unceasing remorse. Had I com- 
 mitted murder, my conscience could scarce have afflicted 
 me more severely. I did not regain my self-esteem till 
 I had somewhat repaired the injury I had done. Long 
 after that time, Crompton was in prison, in great and 
 overwhelming distress. I impoverished myself to re- 
 lease him; I sustained him and his family till fortune 
 rendered my assistance no longer necessary; and no tri- 
 umphs were ever more sweet to me than the sacrifices I 
 was forced to submit to, in order to restore him to 
 prosperity. 
 
 " It is natural to hope that this accident had at lea^t 
 the effect of curing me of my fault ; but it requires phi- 
 losophy in yourself, or your advisers, to render remorse 
 of future avail. How could I amend my fault, when I 
 was not even aware of it ? Smarting under the effects, 
 I investigated not the cause, and I attributed to irasci- 
 bility and vindictiveness what had a deeper and more 
 dangerous origin. 
 
 " At college, in spite of all my advantages of birth, 
 fortune, health, and intellectual acquirements, I had 
 many things besides the one enemy of remorse to corrode 
 my tranquillity of mind. I was sure to find some one 
 to excel me in something, and this was enough to em- 
 bitter my peace. Our living Goldsmith is my favorite 
 poet, and I perhaps insensibly venerate the genius the 
 more because I find something congenial in the infirmi- 
 ties of the man. I can fully credit the anecdotes re- 
 corded of him. I too could once have been jealous of a 
 pappet handling a spontoon ; 7" too could once have been 
 miserable if two ladies at the theatre were more the
 
 148 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 objects of attention than myself! You, Clarence, will 
 not despise me for this confession; those who knew 
 me less would. Fools! there is no man so great as not 
 to have some littleness more predominant than all his 
 greatness. Our virtues are the dupes, and often only 
 the playthings, of our follies! 
 
 "I entered the world, — with what advantages and 
 what avidity! I smile, but it is mournfully, in looking 
 back to that day. Though rich, high-born, and good- 
 looking, I possessed not one of these three qualities in 
 that eminence which could alone satisfy my love of supe- 
 riority, and desire of effect. I knew this somewhat 
 humiliating truth; for, though vain, I was not con- 
 ceited. Vanity, indeed, is the very antidote to conceit; 
 for while the former makes us all nerve to the opinion 
 of others, the latter is perfectly satisfied with its opin- 
 ion of itself. 
 
 " I knew this truth, and as Pope, if he could not be 
 the greatest of poets, resolved to be the most correct, so 
 I strove, since I could not be the handsomest, the 
 wealthiest, and the noblest of my contemporaries, to 
 excel them, at least, in the grace and consummateness of 
 manner; and in this, after incredible pains, after dili- 
 gent apprenticeship in the world, and intense study in 
 the closet, I at last flattered myself that I had succeeded. 
 Of all success, while we are yet in the flush of youth, 
 and its capacities of enjoyment, I can imagine none more 
 intoxicating or gratifying than the success of society, and 
 I had certainly some years of its triumph and eclat. I 
 was courted, followed, flattered, and sought by the most 
 envied and fastidious circles in England, and even in 
 Paris; for society, so indifferent to those who disdain it, 
 overwhelms with its gratitude — profuse though brief — 
 those who devote themselves to its amusement. The
 
 THE DISOWNED. 149 
 
 victim to sameness and ennui, it offers, like the pallid 
 and luxurious Roman, a reward for a new pleasure; and, 
 as long as our industry or talent can afford the pleasure, 
 the reward is ours. At that time, then, I reaped the 
 full harvest of my exertions; the disappointment and 
 vexation were of later date. 
 
 "I now come to the great era of my life, — love. 
 Among my acquaintance was Lady Mary Walden, a 
 widow of high birth, and noble, though not powerful 
 connections. She lived about twenty miles from Lon- 
 don, in a beautiful retreat; and, though not rich, her 
 jointure, rendered ample by economy, enabled her to 
 indulge her love of society. Her house was always as 
 full as its size would permit, and I was among the most 
 welcome of its visitors. She had an only daughter, — 
 even now, through the dim mists of years, that beauti- 
 ful and fairy form rises still and shining before me, 
 undimmed by sorrow, unfaded by time. Caroline 
 Walden was the object of general admiration, and her 
 mother, who attributed the avidity with which her in- 
 vitations were accepted by all the wits and fine gentle- 
 men of the day to the charms of her own conversation, 
 little suspected the face and wit of her daughter to be 
 the magnet of attraction. I had no idea at that time of 
 marriage, still less could I have entertained such a no- 
 tion, unless the step had greatly exalted my rank and 
 prospects. 
 
 " The poor and powerless Caroline Walden was there- 
 fore the last person for whom 1 had what the jargon of 
 mothers terms 'serious intentions.' However, I was 
 struck with her exceeding loveliness, and amused by the 
 vivacity of her manners; moreover, my vanity was ex- 
 cited by the hope of distancing all my competitors for 
 the smiles of the young beauty. Accordingly, I laid
 
 150 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 myself out to please, and neglected none of those subtle 
 and almost secret attentions which, of all flatteries, are 
 the most delicate and successful ; and I succeeded. 
 Caroline loved me with all the earnestness and devotion 
 which characterize the love of woman. It never oc- 
 curred to her that I was only trifling with those afivc- 
 tions which it seemed so ardently my intention to win. 
 She knew that my fortune was large enough to dispense 
 with the necessity of fortune with my wife, and in birth 
 she would have equalled men of greater pretensions to 
 myself; added to this, long adulation had made her 
 sensible, though not vain of her attractions, and she 
 listened with a credulous ear to the insinuated flatteries 
 I was so well accustomed to instil. 
 
 "Never shall I forget — no, though I double my 
 present years — the shock, the wildness of despair with 
 which she first detected the selfishness of my homage ; 
 with which she saw that I had only mocked her trusting 
 simplicit}'; and that while she had been lavishing the 
 richest treasures of her heart before the burning altars of 
 Love, my idol had been Vanity, and my offerings deceit. 
 She tore herself from the profanation of my grasp ; she 
 shrouded herself from my presence. Ail interviews with 
 me were rejected; all my letters returned to me un- 
 opened; and though, in the repentance of my heart, I 
 entreated, I urged her to accept vows that were no longer 
 insincere, her pride became her punishment, as well as 
 my own. In a moment of bitter and desperate feeling, 
 she accepted the offers of another, and made the marriage 
 bond a fatal and irrevocable barrier to our reconciliation 
 and union. 
 
 " Oh ! how I now cursed my infatuation ; how passion- 
 ately I recalled the past! how coldly I turned from the 
 hollow and false world, to whose service I had sacrificed
 
 THE DISOWNED. 151 
 
 my happiness, to muse and madden over the prospects I 
 had destroyed, and the loving and noble heart I had re- 
 jected! Alas! after all, what is so ungrateful as that 
 world for which we renounce so much! Its votaries re- 
 semble the Gymnosophists of old, and while they pro- 
 f ess to make their chief end pleasure , we can only learn 
 that they expose themselves to every torture and every 
 pain ! 
 
 " Lord Merton, the man whom Caroline now called 
 husband, was among the wealthiest and most dissipated 
 of his order; and two years after our separation I met 
 once more with the victim of my unworthiness, blazing 
 in ' the full front ' of courtly splendor, — the leader of 
 its gayeties, and the cynosure of her followers. Inti- 
 mate with the same society, we were perpetually cast to- 
 gether, and Caroline was proud of displaying the indiffer- 
 ence towards me, which, if she felt not, she had at least 
 learned artfully to assume. This indifference was her 
 ruin. The depths of my evil passion were again sounded 
 and aroused, and I resolved yet to humble the pride and 
 conquer the coldness which galled to the very quick the 
 morbid acuteness of my self-love. I again attached my- 
 self to her train, — I bowed myself to the very dust hefore 
 her. What to me were her chilling reply and disdainful 
 civilities! — only still stronger excitements to persevere. 
 
 " I spare you and myself the gradual progress of my 
 schemes. A woman may recover her first passion, it is 
 true ; but then she must replace it with another. That 
 other was denied to Caroline : she had not even children 
 to engross her thoughts and to occupy her affections; 
 and the gay world, which to many becomes an object, 
 was to her only an escape. 
 
 "Clarence, my triumph came! Lady Walden (who 
 had never known our secret) invited me to her house:
 
 152 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 Caroline was there. In the same spot where we had so 
 often stood before, and in which her earliest affections 
 were insensibly breathed away, in that same spot I drew 
 from her colorless and trembling lipa the confession of 
 her weakness, the restored and pervading power of my 
 remembrance. 
 
 " But Caroline was a proud and virtuous woman: even 
 while her heart betrayed her, her mind resisted; and in 
 the very avowal of her unconquered attachment, she 
 renounced and discarded me forever. I was not an un- 
 generous, though a vain man; but my generosity was 
 wayward, tainted, and imperfect. I could have borne 
 the separation; I could have severed myself from her; 
 I could have flown to the uttermost parts of the earth ; I 
 could have hoarded there my secret yet unextinguished 
 love, and never disturbed her quiet by a murmur; but 
 then the fiat of separation must have come from me ! 
 My vanity could not bear that her lips should reject me ; 
 that my part was not to lie the nobility of sacrifice, but 
 the submission of resignation. However, my better 
 feelings were aroused, and though I could not stifle, I 
 concealed, my selfish repinings. We parted: she re- 
 turned to town, I buried myself in the country; and 
 amidst the literary studies to which, though by fits and 
 starts, I was passionately devoted, I endeavored to forget 
 my ominous and guilty love. 
 
 " But I was then too closely bound to the world not to 
 be perpetually reminded of its events. My retreat was 
 thronged with occasional migrators from London; my 
 books were mingled with the news and scandal of the 
 day. All spoke to me of Lady Merton; not as 1 loved 
 to picture her to myself, pale and sorrowful, and brood- 
 ing over my image, but gay, dissipated, the dispenser 
 of smiles, the prototype of joy. 1 contrasted this ac-
 
 THE DISOWNED. 153 
 
 count of her with the melancholy and gloom of my own 
 feelings, and I resented her seeming happiness as an in- 
 sult to myself. 
 
 " In this angry and fretful mood I returned to London. 
 My empire was soon resumed; and now, Linden, comes 
 the most sickening part of my confessions. Vanity is a 
 growing and insatiable disease : what seems to its desires 
 as wealth to-day, to-morrow it rejects as poverty. I was 
 at first contented to know that I was beloved; by de- 
 grees, slow, yet sure, I desired that others should know 
 it also. I longed to display my power over the cele- 
 brated and courted Lady Merton ; and to put the last 
 crown to my reputation and importance. The envy of 
 others is the food of our own self-love. Oh, you know 
 not, you dream not, of the galling mortifications to 
 which a proud woman, whose love commands her pride, 
 is subjected! I imposed upon Caroline the most humili- 
 ating, the most painful trials; I would allow her to see 
 none but those I pleased; to go to no place where I 
 withheld my consent; and I hesitated not to exert and 
 testify my power over her affections, in proportion to 
 the publicity of the opportunity. 
 
 " Yet, with all this littleness, would you believe that 
 I loved Caroline with the most ardent and engrossing 
 passion 1 I have paused behind her, in order to kiss 
 the ground she trod on ; I have stayed whole nights be- 
 neath her window, to catch one glimpse of her passing 
 form, even though I had spent hours of the day-time in. 
 her society ; and, though my love burned and consumed 
 me like a fire, I would not breathe a single wish against 
 her innocence, or take advantage of my power to accom- 
 plish what I knew, from her virtue and pride, no atone- 
 ment could possibly repay. Such are the inconsistencies 
 of the heart, and such , while they prevent our perfection
 
 154 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 redeem us from the utterness of vice! Never, even in my 
 wildest days, was I blind to the glory of virtue, yet never, 
 till my latest years, have I enjoyed the faculty to avail 
 myself of my perception. I resembled the mole, which 
 by Boyle is supposed to possess the idea of light, but to 
 be unable to comprehend the objects on which it shines. 
 " Among the varieties of my prevailing sin, was a 
 weakness, common enough to worldly men. While 1 
 ostentatiously played off the love I had excited, I could 
 not bear to show the love I felt. In our country, and 
 perhaps, though in a less degree, in all other highly 
 artificial states, enthusiasm, or even feeling of any kind, 
 is ridiculous; and I could not endure the thought that 
 my treasured and secret affections should be dragged 
 from their retreat, to be cavilled and carped at by 
 
 Every beardless, vain comparative. 
 
 " This weakness brought on the catastrophe of my 
 love; for, mark me, Clarence, it is through our weakness 
 that our vices are punished! One night I went to a 
 masquerade; and while I was sitting in a remote cor- 
 ner, three of my acquaintances, whom I recognized, 
 though they knew it not, approached and rallied me 
 upon my romantic attachment to Lady Merton. One 
 of them was a woman of a malicious and sarcastic wit ; 
 the other two were men whom I disliked, because their 
 pretensions interfered with mine: they were diners-out, 
 and anecdote-mongers. Stung to the quick by their sar- 
 casms and laughter, I replied in a train of mingled arro- 
 gance and jest; at last I spoke slightingly of the person 
 in question; and these profane and false lips dared not 
 only to disown the faintest love to that being who was 
 more to me than all on earth, but even to speak of her- 
 self with ridicule, and her affection with disdain.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 155 
 
 " In the midst of this, I turned and beheld, within 
 hearing, a figure which I knew upon the moment. O 
 Heaven! the burning shame and agony of that glance! 
 It raised its mask; I saw that blanched cheek, and 
 that trembling lip ! and I knew that the iron had indeed 
 entered into her 3Gul. 
 
 " Clarence, I never beheld her again alive. Within 
 a week from that time she was a corpse. She had borne 
 much, suffered much, and murmured not; but this shock 
 pressed too hard, came too home, and from the hand of 
 him for whom she would have sacrificed all! I stood by 
 her in death; I beheld my work; and I turned away, a 
 wanderer and a pilgrim upon the face of the earth. 
 Verily, I have had my reward." 
 
 The old man paused, in great emotion; and Clarence, 
 who could offer him no consolation, did not break the 
 silence. In a few minutes Talbot continued, — 
 
 " From that time the smile of woman was nothing to 
 me; I seemed to grow old in a single day. Life lost 
 to me all its objects. A dreary and desert blank 
 stretched itself before me ; the sounds of creation had 
 only in my ears one voice; the past, the future, one 
 image. I left my country for twenty years, and lived 
 an idle and hopeless man in the various courts of the 
 Continent. 
 
 "At the age of fifty I returned to England. The 
 wounds of the past had not disappeared, but they were 
 scarred over; and I longed, like the rest of my species, 
 to have an object in view. At that age, if we have seen 
 much of mankind, and possess the talents to profit by 
 our knowledge, we must be one of two sects: a politi- 
 cian or a philosopher. My time was not yet arrived 
 for the latter, so I resolved to become the former: but 
 this was denied me, for my vanity had assumed a differ-
 
 156 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 ent shape. It is true that T cared no longer for the 
 reputation women can bestow; hut I was eager for the 
 applause of men, and I did not like the long labor 
 necessary to attain it. I wished to make a short road to 
 my object, and I eagerly followed every turn hut the 
 right one, in the hopes of its leading me sooner to my 
 
 goal. 
 
 " The great characteristic of a vain man , in contradis- 
 tinction to an ambitious man, and his eternal obstacle to 
 a high and honorable fame, is this: he requires for any 
 expenditure of trouble too speedy a rewardj ne cannot 
 wait for years, and climb, step by step, to a lofty object; 
 whatever he attempts, he must seize at a single grasp. 
 Added to this, he is incapable of an exclusive attention 
 to one end ; the universality of his cravings is not con- 
 tented, unless it devours all; and thus he is perpetually 
 doomed to fritter away his energies by grasping at the 
 trifling baubles within his reach, and in gathering the 
 worthless fruit, which a single sun can mature. 
 
 "This, then, was my fault, and the cause of my fail- 
 ure. I could not give myself up to finance, nor puzzle 
 through the intricacies of commerce: even the common 
 parliamentary drudgeries of constant attendance and late 
 hours, were insupportable to me ; and so, after two or 
 three 'splendid orations,' as my friends termed them, I 
 was satisfied with the putl's of the pamphleteers, and 
 closed my political career. I was now, then, the wit 
 and the conversationalist. With my fluency of speech and 
 variety of information, these were easy distinctions; and 
 the popularity of a dinner-table, or the approbation of a 
 literary coterie, consoled me for the more public and 
 more durable applause I had resigned. 
 
 " But even this gratification did not last long. I fell 
 ill; and the friends who gathered round the wit, fled
 
 THE DISOWNED. 157 
 
 from the valetudinarian. This disgusted me , and when 
 I was sufficiently recovered, I again returned to the 
 Continent. But I had a fit of misanthropy and solitude 
 upon me, and so it was not to courts and cities, the 
 scenes of former gayeties, that I repaired; on the con- 
 trary, I hired a house by one of the most sequestered of 
 the Swiss lakes, and, avoiding the living, I surrendered 
 myself, without interruption or control, to commune 
 with the dead. I surrounded myself with books, and 
 pored, with a curious and searching eye, into those 
 works which treat particularly upon 'man. 5 My pas- 
 sions were over, my love of pleasure and society was 
 dried up, and I had now no longer the obstacles which 
 forbid us to be wise ; I unlearned the precepts my man- 
 hood had acquired, and in my old age I commenced phi- 
 losopher; Religion lent me her aid, and by her holy 
 lamp my studies were conned and my hermitage illu- 
 mined. 
 
 "There are certain characters which, in the world, 
 are evil, and in seclusion are good: Rousseau, whom I 
 know well, is one of them. These persons are of a 
 morbid sensitiveness, which is perpetually galled by 
 collision with others. In short, they are under the do- 
 minion of vanity; and that vanity, never satisfied, and 
 always restless in the various competitions of society, 
 produces 'envy, malice, hatred, and all uncharitable- 
 ness! ' But, in solitude, the good and benevolent dispo- 
 sitions with which our self-love no longer interferes, 
 have room to expand and ripen without being cramped 
 by opposing interests: this will account for many 
 seeming discrepancies in character. There are also some 
 men in whom old age supplies the place of solitude, 
 and Rousseau's antagonist and mental antipodes, Vol- 
 taire, is of this order. The pert, the malignant, the
 
 158 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 arrogant, the lampooning author, in his youth and man- 
 hood, has become, in his old age, the mild, the benevo- 
 lent, and the venerable philosopher. Nothing is more 
 absurd than to receive the characters of great men so im- 
 plicitly upon the word of a biographer; and nothing 
 can be less surprising than our eternal disputes upon 
 individuals; for no man throughout life is the same 
 being, and each season of our existence contradicts the 
 characteristics of the last. 
 
 " And now, in my solitude and my old age, a new 
 spirit entered within me; the game in which I had 
 engaged so vehemently was over for me; and I joined 
 to my experience as a player, my coolness as a spectator. 
 I no longer struggled with my species, and I began 
 insensibly to love them. I established schools, and 
 founded charities; and in secret, but active, services to 
 mankind, I employed my exertions and lavished my 
 desires. 
 
 " From this amendment I date the peace of mind and 
 elasticity which I now enjoy; and in my later years, 
 the happiness which I pursued in my youth and maturity 
 so hotly, yet so ineffectually, has flown unsolicited to 
 my breast. 
 
 " About five years ago I came again to England, with 
 the intention of breathing my last in the country which 
 gave me birth. I retired to my family home; I en- 
 deavored to divert myself in agricultural improvements, 
 and my rental was consumed in speculation. This did 
 not please me long; I sought society, — society in York- 
 shire! You may imagine the result: I was out of my 
 element; the mere distance from the metropolis, from 
 all genial companionship, sickened me with a vague 
 feeling of desertion and solitude ; for the first time in 
 my life I felt my age and my celibacy. Once more I
 
 THE DISOWNED. 159 
 
 returned to town; a complaint attacked my lungs, the 
 physicians recommended the air of this neighborhood, 
 and I chose the residence I now inhabit. Without 
 being exactly in London, I can command its advan- 
 tages, and obtain society as a recreation, without buying 
 it by restraint. I am not fond of new faces, nor any 
 longer covetous of show; my old servant therefore con- 
 tented me; for the future, I shall, however, satisfy 
 your fears, remove to a safer habitation, and obtain a 
 more numerous guard. It is, at all events, a happiness to 
 me that fate, in casting me here, and exposing me to 
 something of danger, has raised up, in you, a friend for 
 my old age, and selected from this great universe of 
 strangers one being to convince my heart that it has 
 not outlived affection. My tale is done: may you 
 profit by its moral ! " 
 
 When Talbot said that our characters were undergoing: 
 a perpetual change, he should have made this reserva- 
 tion, the one ruling passion remains to the last; it may 
 be modified, but it never departs : and it is these modifi- 
 cations which do, for the most part, shape out the chan- 
 nels of our change, or, as Helvetius has beautifully ex- 
 pressed it, " we resemble those vessels which the waves 
 still carry towards the south, when the north wind has 
 ceased to blow;" but in our old age, this passion, 
 having little to feed on, becomes sometimes dormant 
 and inert, and then our good qualities rise, as it were, 
 from an incubus, and have their sway. 
 
 Yet these cases are not common, and Talbot was a 
 remarkable instance, for he was a remarkable man. His 
 mind had not slept while the age advanced, and thus it 
 had swelled as it were from the bondage of its earlier 
 passions and prejudices. But little did he think, in the
 
 1G0 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 blindness of self-delusion, — though it was so obvious to 
 Clarence that he could Lave smiled if he had not rather 
 inclined to weep at the frailties of human nature, — little 
 did he think that the vanity which had cost him so 
 much, remained "a monarch still," undeposed alike by 
 his philosophy, las religion, or his remorse; and that, 
 debarred by circumstances from all wider and more dan- 
 gerous fields, it still lavished itself upon trifles unworthy 
 of his powers, and puerilities dishonoring his age. 
 Folly is a courtesan whom we ourselves seek, whose 
 favors we solicit at an enormous price, and who, like 
 Lais, finds philosophers at her door, scarcely less fre- 
 quently than the rest of mankind!
 
 THE DISOWNED. 161 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Mrs. Trinket. What d' ye buy, — what d' ye lack, gentlemen ? 
 Gloves, ribbons, and essences, — ribbons, gloves, and essences. 
 
 Etherege. 
 
 "Axd so; my love," said Mr. Copperas, one morning 
 at breakfast, to his wife, his right leg being turned over 
 his left, and his dexter hand conveying to his mouth a 
 huge morsel of buttered cake, — " and so, my love, they 
 say that the old fool is going to leave the jackanapes all 
 his fortune 1 " 
 
 " They do say so, Mr. C. : for my part I am quite out 
 of patience with the art of the young man ; I daresay he 
 is no better than he should be; he always had a sharp 
 look, and for ought I know, there may be more in that 
 robbery than you or I dreamed of, Mr. Copperas. It was 
 a pity," continued Mrs. Copperas, upbraiding her lord 
 with true matrimonial tenderness and justice, for the 
 consequences of his having acted from her advice, — " it 
 was a pity, Mr. C, that you should have refused to 
 lend him the pistols to go to the old fellow's assistance, 
 for then who knows but — " 
 
 " I might have converted them into pocket pistols, " 
 interrupted Mr. C, ''and not have overshot the mark, 
 my dear, — ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 " Lord, Mr. Copperas, you are always making a joke 
 of everything." 
 
 "No, my dear, for once I am making a joke of 
 nothing. " 
 
 VOL. I. — 11
 
 161' THE DISOWNED. 
 
 " Well, I declare it's shameful," cried Mrs. Copperas, 
 still following up hex own indignant meditations, "and 
 after taking such notice of Adolphus, too, and all! " 
 
 "Notice, my dear! mere words," returned Mr. Cop- 
 peras, — " mere words, like ventilators, which make a great 
 deal of air, but never raise the wind; but don't put 
 yourself in a stew, my love, for the doctors say that cop? 
 2)eras in a stew is poison ! " 
 
 At this moment, Mr. de Warens, throwing open the 
 door, announced Mr. Brown: that gentleman entered, 
 with a sedate, but cheerful air. " Well, Mrs. Copperas, 
 your servant; any table-linen wanted? Mr. Copperas, 
 how do you do ? I can give you a hint about the stocks. 
 Master Copperas, you are looking bravely; don't you 
 think he wants some new pinbefores, ma'am? But Mr. 
 Clarence Linden, where is he ? Not up yet, I daresay 1 
 Ah, the present generation is a generation of sluggards, 
 as his worthy aunt, Mrs. Minden, used to say." 
 
 "I am sure, "said Mrs. Copperas, with a disdainful 
 toss of the head, " I know nothing about the young man. 
 He has left us: a very mysterious piece of business, in- 
 deed, Mr. Brown; and now I think of it, I can't help 
 saying that we were by no means pleased with your intro- 
 duction ; and, by the by, the chairs you bought for us at 
 the sale were a mere take-in, so slight that Mr. AValruss 
 broke two of them by only sitting down. " 
 
 " Indeed, ma'am ? " said Mr. Brown, with expostulat- 
 ing gravity; " but then Mr. AValruss is so very corpulent. 
 But the young gentleman, what of him ? " continued the 
 broker, artfully turning from the point in dispute. 
 
 " Lord, Mr. Brown, don't ask me : it was the unluck- 
 iest step we ever made to admit him into the bosom of 
 our family; quite, a viper, I assure you; absolutely 
 robbed poor Adolphus."
 
 THE DISOWNED. 163 
 
 " Lord help us! " said Mr. Brown, with a look which 
 "cast a browner horror" o'er the room; "who would 
 have thought it 1 And such a pretty young man ! " 
 
 " Well, " said Mr. Copperas, who, occupied in finish- 
 ing the buttered cake, had hitherto kept silence, "I 
 must be off. Tom, — I mean De Warens, — have you 
 stopped the coach 1 " 
 
 " Yees, sir. " 
 
 " And what coach is it ? " 
 
 " It be the Swallow, sir. " 
 
 " Oh, very well. And now, Mr. Brown, having swal- 
 lowed in the roll, I will e'en roll in the Swallow, — 
 ha, ha, ha ! At any rate, " thought Mr. Copperas, as he 
 descended the stairs; " he has not heard that before." 
 
 " Ha, ha ! " gravely chuckled Mr. Brown ; " what a 
 very facetious, lively gentleman Mr. Copperas is. But 
 touching this ungrateful young man, Mr. Linden, 
 ma'am 1 " 
 
 " Oh, don't tease me, Mr. Brown, I must see after my 
 domestics; ask Mr. Talbot, the old miser, in the next 
 house, the havarr, as the French say." 
 
 " Well, now, " said Mr. Brown, following the good 
 lady downstairs, — " how distressing for me : and to say 
 that he was Mrs. Minden's nephew, too ! " 
 
 But Mr. Brown's curiosity was not so easily satisfied, 
 and finding Mr. de Warens leaning over the "front" 
 gate, and " pursuing with wistful eyes " the departing 
 " Swallow, " he stopped, and, accosting him, soon pos- 
 sessed himself of the facts that " old Talbot had been 
 robbed and murdered, but that Mr. Linden had brought 
 him to life again; and that old Talbot had given him 
 a hundred thousand pounds, and adopted him as his son; 
 and that how Mr. Linden was going to be sent to foreign 
 parts, as an ambassador, or governor, or great person;
 
 1C4 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 and that how meester and meeses were quite ' cut up ' 
 about it. " 
 
 All these particulars having been duly deposited in 
 the mind of Mr. Brown, they produced an immediate 
 desire to call upon the young gentleman, who, to say 
 nothing of his being so very nearly related to his old 
 customer Mrs. Minden, was always so very great a 
 favorite with him, Mr. Brown. 
 
 Accordingly, as Clarence was musing over his ap- 
 proaching departure, which was now very shortly to 
 take place, he was somewhat startled by the apparition 
 of Mr. Brown, " Charming day, sir, — charming day, " 
 said the friend of Mrs. Minden, — " just called hi to con- 
 gratulate you. I have a few articles, sir, to present 
 you with: quite rarities, I assure you, — quite presents, 
 I may say. I picked them up at a sale of the late 
 Lady Waddilove's most valuable effects. They are just 
 the things, sir, for a gentleman going on a foreign mis- 
 sion. A most curious ivory chest, with an Indian pad- 
 lock, to hold confidential letters, — belonged formerly, 
 sir, to the Great Mogid ; and a beautiful diamond snuff- 
 box, sir, with a picture of Louis XIV. on it, prodig- 
 iously fine, and will look so loyal, too; and, sir, if you 
 have any old aunts in the country, to send a farewell 
 present to, I have some charmingly fine cambric, a su- 
 perb Dresden tea-set, and a lovely little ' ape, ' stuffed by 
 the late Lady W. herself." 
 
 " My good sir — " began Clarence. 
 
 "Ob, no thanks, sir, none at all; too happy to serve 
 a relation of Mrs. Minden, — always proud to keep up 
 family connections. You will be at home to-morrow, sir, 
 at eleven 1 I will look in, — your most humble servant, 
 Mr. Linden. " And, almost upsetting Talbot, who had 
 just entered, Mr. Brown bowed himself out.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 165 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 We talked with open heart and tongue 
 
 Affectionate and true 
 A pair of friends, though I was young 
 
 And Matthew seventy-two. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Meanwhile the young artist proceeded rapidly with 
 his picture. Devoured by his enthusiasm, and utterly 
 engrossed by the sanguine anticipation of a fame which 
 appeared to him already won, he allowed himself no 
 momentary interval of relaxation; his food was eaten 
 by starts, and without stirring from his easel; his sleep 
 was broken and brief by feverish dreams; he no longer 
 roved with Clarence, when the evening threw her shade 
 over his labors; all air and exercise he utterly relin- 
 quished; shut up in his narrow chamber, he passed 
 the hours in a fervid and passionate self-commime, which, 
 even in suspense from his work, riveted his thoughts the 
 closer to its object. All companionship, all intrusion, 
 he bore with irritability and impatience. Even Clarence 
 found himself excluded from the presence of his friend; 
 even his nearest relation, who doated on the very ground 
 which he hallowed with his footstep, was banished from 
 the haunted sanctuary of the painter; from the most 
 placid of human beings, Warner seemed to have grown 
 the most morose. 
 
 Want of rest, abstinence from food, the impatience 
 of the strained spirit and jaded nerves, — all contributed 
 to waste the health, while they excited the genius of 
 the artist. A crimson spot, never before seen there,
 
 166 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 burned in the centre of his pale cheek ; his eye glowed 
 with a brilliant, but unnatural fire; his features grew 
 sharp and attenuated ; his bones worked from his whiten- 
 ing and transparent skin ; and the soul and frame, turned 
 from their proper and kindly union, seemed contesting 
 with fierce struggles, which should obtain the mastery 
 and the triumph. 
 
 But neither his new prospects, nor the coldness of his 
 friend, diverted the warm heart of Clarence from medi- 
 tating how he could most effectually serve the artist 
 before he departed from the country. It was a peculiar 
 object of desire to Warner that the most celebrated 
 painter of the day, who was in terms of intimacy with 
 Talbot, and who, with the benevolence of real superior- 
 ity was known to take a keen interest in the success of 
 more youthful and inexperienced genius, — it was a pe- 
 culiar object of desire to Warner that Sir Joshua Rey- 
 nolds should see his picture before it was completed ; and 
 Clarence, aware of this wish, easily obtained from Talbot 
 a promise that it should be effected. That was the least 
 service of his zeal: touched by the earnestness of Lin- 
 den's friendship, anxious to oblige in any way his pre- 
 server, and well pleased himself to be the patron of 
 merit, Talbot readily engaged to obtain for Warner 
 whatever the attention and favor of high rank or literary 
 distinction could bestow. " As for his picture, " said 
 Talbot (when, the evening before Clarence's departure, 
 the latter was renewing the subject), " I shall myself 
 become the purchaser, and at a price which will enable 
 our friend to afford leisure and study for the completion 
 of his next attempt; but even at the risk of offending 
 your friendship, and disappointing your expectations, 
 I will frankly tell you that I think Warner overrates, 
 perhaps not his talents, but his powers; not his ability
 
 THE DISOWNED. 167 
 
 for doing something great hereafter, hut his capacity of 
 doing it at present. In the pride of Lis heart he has 
 shown me many of his designs, and I am somewhat of a 
 judge; they want experience, cultivation, taste, and, 
 above all, a deeper study of the Italian masters. They 
 all have the defects of a feverish coloring, an ambitious 
 desire of effect, a wavering and imperfect outline, an 
 ostentatious and unnatural strength of light and shadow; 
 they show, it is true, a genius of no ordinary stamp, but 
 one ill-regulated, inexperienced, and utterly left to its 
 own suggestions for a model. HoAvever, I am glad he 
 wishes for the opinion of one necessarily the best judge : 
 let him bring the picture here by Thursday; on that 
 day my friend has promised to visit me ; and now let us 
 talk of you and your departure. " 
 
 The intercourse of men of different ages is essentially 
 unequal : it must always partake more or less of advice 
 on one side, and deference on the other; and although 
 the easy and unpedantic turn of Talbot's conversation 
 made his remarks rather entertaining than obviously 
 admonitory, yet they were necessarily tinged by his ex- 
 perience, and regulated by his interest in the fortunes of 
 his young friend. 
 
 " My dearest Clarence, " said he, affectionately ; " we 
 are about to bid each other a long farewell. I will not 
 damp your hopes and anticipations by insisting on the 
 little chance there is that you should ever see me again. 
 You are about to enter upon the great world, and have 
 within you the desire and the power of success; let me 
 flatter myself that you can profit by my experience. 
 Among the Colloquia of Erasmus there is a very enter- 
 taining dialogue between Apicius and a man who, de- 
 sirous of giving a feast to a very large and miscellaneous 
 party, comes to consult the epicure what will be the
 
 16S THE DISOWNED. 
 
 best means to give satisfaction to all. Now, you shall 
 be this Spudaeus (so I think he is called), and I will be 
 Apicius; for the world, after all, is nothing more than a 
 great feast of different strangers, with different tastes, 
 and of different ages, and we must learn to adapt our- 
 selves to their minds, and our temptations to their 
 passions, if we wish to fascinate or even to content them. 
 Let me then call your attention to the hints and maxims 
 which I have in this paper amused myself with drawing 
 up for your instruction. Write to me from time to 
 time, and I will, in replying to your letters, give you 
 the best advice in my power. For the rest, my dear 
 boy, I have only to request that you will be frank ; and 
 I, in my turn, will promise that when I cannot assist, I 
 will never reprove. And now, Clarence, as the hour is 
 late, and you leave us early to-morrow, I will no longer 
 detain you. God bless you, and keep you. You are 
 going to enjoy life, I to anticipate death; so that you 
 can find in me little congenial to yourself; but as the 
 good Pope said to our Protestant countryman, 'What- 
 ever the difference between us, I know well that an old 
 man's blessing is never without its value. ' " 
 
 As Clarence clasped his benefactor's hand, the tears 
 gushed from his eyes. Is there one being, stubborn as 
 the rock to misfortune, whom kindness does not affect? 
 For my part, kindness seems to me to come with a 
 double grace and tenderness from the old; it seems in 
 them the hoarded and long purified benevolence of years, 
 — as if it had survived and conquered the baseness and 
 selfishness of the ordeal it had passed ; as if the winds, 
 which had broken the form, had swept in vain across the 
 heart, and the frosts, which had chilled the blood and 
 whitened the thin locks, had possessed no power over 
 the warm tide of the affections. It is the triumph of
 
 THE DISOWNED. 169 
 
 nature over art; it is the voice of the angel which is yet 
 within us. Nor is this all: the tenderness of age is 
 twice Messed, — blessed in its trophies over the obduracy 
 of incrusting and withering years ; blessed, because it is 
 tinged with the sanctity of the grave, — because it tells 
 us that the heart will blossom even upon the precincts of 
 the tomb, and flatters us with the inviolacy and immor- 
 tality of love.
 
 170 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Cannot I create, 
 Cannot I form, cannot I fashion forth 
 Another world, another universe ? 
 
 Keats. 
 
 The next morning Clarence, in his way out of town, 
 directed his carriage (the last and not the least accept- 
 able present from Talbot) to stop at Warner's door. 
 Although it was scarcely sunrise, the aged grandmother 
 of the artist was stirring, and opened the door to the 
 early visitor. Clarence passed her with a brief saluta- 
 tion, hurried up the narrow stairs, and found himself 
 in the artist's chamber. The windows were closed, and 
 the air of the room was confined and hot. A few books, 
 chiefly of history and poetry, stood in confused disorder 
 upon some shelves opposite the window. Upon a table 
 beneath them lay a flute, once the cherished recreation 
 of the young painter, but now long neglected and dis- 
 used ; and placed exactly opposite to Warner, so that 
 his eyes might open upon his work, was the high-prized 
 and already more than half-finished picture. 
 
 Clarence bent over the bed ; the cheek of the artist 
 rested upon his arm in an attitude unconsciously pic- 
 turesque; the other arm was tossed over the coverlid, 
 and Clarence was shocked to see how emaciated it had 
 become. But ever and anon the lips of the sleeper 
 moved restlessly, and words, low and inarticulate, broke 
 out. Sometimes lie started abruptly, and a bright but 
 evanescent flush darted over his faded and hollow cheek ;
 
 THE DISOWNED. 171 
 
 and once the fingers of the thin hand, which lay upon 
 the hed, expanded, and suddenly closed in a firm and 
 almost painful grasp; it was then that, for the first time, 
 the words of the artist became distinct. 
 
 "Ay, ay," said he, " I have thee, I have thee at last. 
 Long, very long, thou hast burned up my heart like 
 fuel, and mocked me, and laughed at my idle efforts; 
 but now, now I have thee. Fame, honor, immortality, 
 whatever thou art called, I have thee, and thou canst 
 not escape ; but it is almost too late ! " And, as if wrung 
 by some sudden pain, the sleeper turned heavily round, 
 groaned audibly, and awoke. 
 
 " My friend," said Clarence, soothingly, and taking 
 his hand, " I have come to bid you farewell. I am just 
 setting off for the Continent, but I could not leave Eng- 
 land without once more seeing you. I bave good news, 
 too, for you. " And Clarence proceeded to repeat Tal- 
 bot's wish that Warner should bring the picture to his 
 house on the following Thursday, that Sir Joshua might 
 inspect it. He added also, in terms the flattery of 
 which his friendship could not resist exaggerating, Tal- 
 bot's desire to become the purchaser of the picture. 
 
 "Yes," said the artist, as his eye glanced delightedly 
 over his labor, — " yes, I believe when it is once seen 
 there will be many candidates." 
 
 " No doubt," answered Clarence ; " and for that reason 
 you cannot blame Talbot for wishing to forestall all 
 other competitors for the prize;" and then, continuing 
 the encouraging nature of the conversation, Clarence 
 enlarged upon the new hopes of his friend, besought 
 him to take time, to spare his health, and not to injure 
 both himself and his performance by over-anxiety and 
 hurry. Clarence concluded by retailing Talbot's assur- 
 ance that in ail cases and circumstances he (Talbot) con-
 
 172 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 sidered himself pledged to be "Warner's supporter and 
 friend. 
 
 With something of impatience, mingled with pleas- 
 ure, the painter listened to all these details: nor was it 
 to Linden's zeal, nor to Talbot's generosity, but rather 
 to the excess of his own merit, that he secretly attri- 
 buted the brightening prospect afforded him. 
 
 The indifference which Warner, though of a disposi- 
 tion naturally kind, evinced at parting with a friend 
 who had always taken so strong an interest in his be- 
 half, and whose tears at that moment contrasted forcibly 
 enough with the apathetic coldness of his own farewell, 
 was a remarkable instance how acute vividness on a 
 single point will deaden feeling on all others. Occu- 
 pied solely and burningly with one intense thought, 
 which was to him love, friendship, health, peace, 
 wealth, Warner could not excite feelings, languid and 
 exhausted with many and fiery conflicts, to objects of 
 minor interest; and perhaps he inwardly rejoiced that 
 his musings and his study would henceforth be sacred 
 even from friendship. 
 
 Deeply affected, — for his nature was exceedingly 
 unselfish, generous, and susceptible, — Clarence tore 
 himself away, placed in the grandmother's hand a con- 
 siderable portion of the sum he had received from Tal- 
 bot, hurried into his carriage, and found himself on 
 the high-road to fortune, pleasure, distinction, and the 
 Continent. 
 
 But while Clarence, despite of every advantage before 
 him, hastened to a court of dissipation and pleasure, 
 with feelings in which regretful affection for those he 
 had left darkened his worldly hopes, and mingled with 
 the sanguine anticipations of youth, Warner, poor, low- 
 born, wasted with sickness, destitute of friends, shut
 
 THE DISOWNED. 173 
 
 out by his temperament from the pleasures of his age, 
 burned with hopes far less alloyed than those of Clar- 
 ence, and found in them, for the sacrifice of all else, not 
 only a recompense but a triumph. 
 
 Thursday came. "Warner had made one request of 
 Talbot, which had with difficulty been granted: it was 
 that he himself might, unseen, be the auditor of the 
 great painter's criticisms, and that Sir Joshua should be 
 perfectly unaware of his presence. It had been granted 
 with difficulty, because Talbot wished to spare Warner 
 the pain of hearing remarks which he felt would be 
 likely to fall far short of the sanguine self-elation of the 
 young artist; and it had been granted because Talbot 
 imagined that, even should this be the case, the pain 
 would be more than counterbalanced by the salutary 
 effect it might produce. Alas! vanity calculates but 
 poorly upon the vanity of others! What a virtue we 
 should distil from frailty, what a world of pain we 
 should save our brethren, if we would suffer our own 
 weakness to be the measure of theirs. 
 
 Thursday came ; the painting was placed by the artist's 
 own hand in the most favorable light. A curtain, hung 
 behind it, served as a screen for Warner, who, retiring 
 to his hiding-place, surrendered his heart to delicious 
 forebodings of the critic's wonder, and golden anticipa- 
 tions of the future destiny of his darling work. Not a 
 fear dashed the full and smooth cup of his self-enjoy- 
 ment. He had lain awake the whole of the night, in 
 restless and joyous impatience for the morrow. At day- 
 break he had started from his bed, he had unclosed his 
 shutters, he had hung over his picture with a fondness 
 greater if possible than he had ever known before ; like 
 a mother, he felt as if his own partiality was but a part 
 of a universal tribute ; and as his aged relative turned
 
 174 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 her dim eyes to the painting, and in her innocent idol- 
 airy rather of the artist than his work, praised and 
 expatiated and foretold, his heart whispered, " If it 
 wring this worship from ignorance, what will be the 
 homage of science ? " 
 
 He who first laid down the now hackneyed maxim, 
 that diffidence is the companion of genius, knew very 
 little of the workings of the human heart. True, there 
 may have been a few such instances, and it is probable 
 that in this maxim, as in most, the exception made the 
 rule. But what could ever reconcile genius to its suffer- 
 ings, its sacrifices, its fevered inquietudes, the intense 
 labor which can alone produce what the shallow world 
 deems the giant offspring of a momentary inspiration, — 
 what could ever reconcile it to these but the haughty 
 and unquenchable consciousness of internal power; the 
 hope which has the fulness of certainty that in propor- 
 tion to the toil is the reward; the sanguine and impetu- 
 ous anticipation of glory, which bursts the boundaries of 
 time and space, and ranges immortality with a prophet's 
 rapture? Rob genius of its confidence, of its lofty self- 
 esteem, and you clip the wings of the eagle: you 
 domesticate, it is true, the wanderer you could not 
 hitherto comprehend, in the narrow bounds of your 
 household affections; j t ou abase and tame it more to 
 the level of your ordinary judgments, but you take from 
 it the power to soar, the hardihood which was content 
 to brave the thunder-cloud and build its eyrie on the 
 rock, for the proud triumph of rising above its kind, 
 and contemplating with a nearer eye the majesty of 
 heaven. 
 
 But if something of presumption is a part of the very 
 essence of genius, in Warner it was doubly natural, for 
 he was still in the heat and flush of a design, the defects
 
 THE DISOWNED. 175 
 
 of which he had not yet had the leisure to examine; and 
 his talents, self-taught and self-modelled, had never re- 
 ceived either the excitement of emulation or the chill of 
 discouragement from the study of the masterpieces of 
 his art. 
 
 The painter had not been long alone in his conceal- 
 ment, before he heard steps; his heart beat violently, 
 the door opened, and he saw, through a small hole 
 which he had purposely made in the curtain, a man 
 with a benevolent and prepossessing countenance, whom 
 he instantly recognized as Sir Joshua Reynolds, enter 
 the room, accompanied by Talbot. They walked up 
 to the picture; the painter examined it closely, and in 
 perfect silence. " Silence," thought Warner, " is the 
 best homage of admiration; " but he trembled with im- 
 patience to hear the admiration confirmed by words, — 
 those words came too soon. 
 
 " It is the work of a clever man, certainly," said Sir 
 Joshua ; " but " (terrible monosyllable) " of one utterly 
 unskilled in the grand principles of his art: look here, 
 and here, and here, for instance; " and the critic, per- 
 fectly unconscious of the torture he inflicted, proceeded 
 to point out the errors of the work. Oh! the agony, the 
 withering agony of that moment to the ambitious artist! 
 In vain he endeavored to bear up against the judg- 
 ment, — in vain he endeavored to persuade himself that 
 it was the voice of envy which in thoee cold, measured, 
 defining accents, fell like drops of poison upon his 
 heart. He felt at once, and as if by a magical inspira- 
 tion, the truth of the verdict; the scales of self-delusion 
 fell from his eyes; by a hideous mockery, a kind of 
 terrible pantomime, his goddess seemed at a word, a 
 breath, transformed into a monster: life, which had 
 been so lately concentrated into a single hope, seemed
 
 17G THE DISOWNED. 
 
 now, at once and forever, cramped, curdled, blistered 
 into a single disappointment. 
 
 " Hut," said Talbot, who had in vain attempted to 
 arrest the criticisms of the painter (who, very deaf at all 
 times, was, at that time in particular, engrossed by the 
 self-satisfaction always enjoyed by one expatiating on 
 his favorite topic), — -" but," said Talbot, in a louder 
 voice, "you own there is great genius in the design? " 
 
 " Certainly , there is genius," replied Sir Joshua, in 
 atone of calm and complacent good-nature; "but what 
 is genius without culture 1 You say the artist is young, 
 very young; let him take time, — I do not say let him 
 attempt a humbler walk, — let him persevere in the 
 lofty one he has chosen, but let him first retrace every 
 step he has taken; let him devote days, months, years 
 to the most diligent study of the immortal masters of 
 the divine art, before he attempts (to exhibit, at least) 
 another historical picture. He has mistaken altogether 
 the nature of invention: a fine invention is nothing 
 more than a fine deviation from or enlargement on a 
 fine model; imitation, if noble and general, insures the 
 best hope of originality. Above all, let your young 
 friend, if he can afford it, visit Italy." 
 
 "He shall afford it," said Talbot, kindly, "for he 
 shall have whatever advantages I can procure him; but 
 you see the picture is only half completed, — he could 
 alter it!" 
 
 " He had better bum it ! " replied the painter, with 
 a gentle smile. 
 
 And Talbot, in benevolent despair, hurried his visitor 
 out of the room. He soon returned to seek and console 
 the artist, but the artist was gone; the despised, the 
 fatal picture, the blessing and curse of so many anxious 
 and wasted hours, had vanished also with its creator.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 177 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 What is this soul then 1 Whence 
 Came it ? — It does not seem my own, and I 
 Have no self-passion or identity ! 
 Some fearful end must he — 
 
 There never lived a mortal man, who hent 
 His appetite heyond his natural sphere, 
 But starved and died. 
 
 Keats's Endymion. 
 
 Ox entering his home, "Warner pushed aside, for the 
 first time in his life with disrespect, his aged and kindly 
 relation, who, as if in mockery of the unfortunate artist, 
 stood prepared to welcome and congratulate his return. 
 Bearing his picture in his arms, he rushed upstairs, 
 hurried into his room, and locked the door. Hastily 
 he tore aside the cloth which had been drawn over the 
 picture; hastily and tremblingly he placed it upon the 
 frame accustomed to support it, and then, with a long, 
 long, eager, searching, scrutinizing glance, he surveyed 
 the once beloved mistress of his worship. Presumption, 
 vanity, exaggerated self-esteem, are, in their punish- 
 ment, supposed to excite ludicrous, not sympathetic, 
 emotion; but there is an excess of feeling, produced by 
 whatever cause it may be, into which in spite of our- 
 selves we are forced to enter. Even fear, the most 
 contemptible of the passions, becomes tragic the mo- 
 ment it becomes an agony. 
 
 "Well, well!" said "Warner at last, speaking very 
 slowly, "it is over; it was a pleasant dream, — but it is 
 vol. i. — 12
 
 178 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 over: I ought to he thankful for the lesson." Then 
 suddenly changing his mood and tone he repeated, 
 "Thankful! for what? that I am a wretch, — a wretch 
 more utterly hopeless and miserable and abandoned 
 than a man who freights with all his wealth, his chil- 
 dren, his wife, the hoarded treasures and blessings of 
 an existence, one ship, one frail, worthless ship, and 
 standing himself on the shore, sees it suddenly go down! 
 Oh, was I not a fool, a right noble fool, a vain fool, 
 an arrogant fool, a very essence and concentration of all 
 things that make a fool, to believe such delicious mar- 
 vels of myself! What, man!" here his eye saw in 
 the opposite glass his features, livid and haggard with 
 disease, and the exhausting feelings which preyed within 
 him, — " what, man! would nothing serve thee but to 
 be a genius, — thee, whom nature stamped with her 
 curse! Dwarfdike and distorted, mean in stature and 
 in lineament, thou wert indeed a glorious being to per- 
 petuate grace and beauty, the majesties and dreams of 
 art! Fame for thee, indeed, — ha, ha! Glory, — ha, 
 ha! a place with Titian, Correggio, Raphael, — ha, ha, 
 ha! O thrice modest, thrice reasonable fool! But this 
 vile daub; this disfigurement of canvas; this loathed 
 and wretched monument of disgrace; this notable can- 
 didate for — ha, ha — immortality — this I have, at 
 least, in my power." And seizing the picture he 
 dashed it to the ground, and trampled it with his feet 
 upon the dusty boards, till the moist colors presented 
 nothing but one confused and dingy stain. 
 
 This sight seemed to recall him for a moment. He 
 paused, lifted up the picture once more, and placed it 
 on the table. "But," he muttered, "might not this 
 critic be envious? am I sure that he judged rightly, — 
 fairly? The greatest masters have looked askant and
 
 THE DISOWNED. 179 
 
 jealous at their pupil's works. And then, how slow, 
 how cold, how damned cold, how indifferently he spoke; 
 why, the very art should have warmed him more. 
 Could he have — No, no, no; it ivas true, it was! I 
 felt the conviction thrill through me like a searing iron. 
 Burn it, — did he say, ay, — hum it; it shall he done 
 this instant." 
 
 And hastening to the door, he undid the holt. He 
 staggered back as he beheld his old and nearest surviv- 
 ing relative, the mother of his father, seated upon the 
 ground beside the door, terrified by the exclamations 
 she did not dare to interrupt. She rose slowly, and 
 with difficulty, as she saw him; and throwing around 
 him the withered arms which had nursed his infancy, 
 exclaimed, " My child! my poor, poor child! what has 
 come to you of late 1 You, who were so gentle, so mild, 
 so quiet, — you are no longer the same; and oh, my 
 son, how ill you look! Your father looked so just before 
 he died!" 
 
 "111! " said he, with a sort of fearful gayety, — " ill; 
 no, I never was so well; I have been in a dream till 
 xiow, — but I have woke at last. Why, it is true that 
 I have been silent and shy, but I will be so no more. 
 I will laugh, and talk, and walk, and make love, and 
 drink wine, and be all that other men are. Oh, 
 we will be so merry. But stay here, while I fetch a 
 light." 
 
 " A light, my child, for what? " 
 
 " For a funeral ! " shouted Warner, and rushing past 
 her he descended the stairs, and returned almost in an 
 instant with a light,. 
 
 Alarmed and terrified, the poor old woman had re- 
 mained motionless, and Aveeping violently. Her tears 
 Warner did not seem to notice; he pushed her gently
 
 180 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 into the room, and began deliberately, and without 
 uttering a syllable, to cut the picture into shreds. 
 
 "What are you about, my child?" cried the old 
 woman; "you are mad, — it is your beautiful picture 
 that you are destroying." 
 
 Warner did not reply, but, going to the hearth, piled 
 together, with nice and scrupulous care, several pieces 
 of paper, and stick, and matches, into a sort of pyre; 
 then placing the shreds of the picture upon it, he applied 
 the light, and the Avhole was instantly in a blaze. 
 
 " Look, look! " cried he, in an hysterical tone, "how 
 it burns, and crackles, and blazes! What master ever 
 equalled it now 1 — no fault now in those colors, — no 
 false tints in that light and shade! See how that flame 
 darts up and soars! — that flame is my spirit! Look, — 
 is it not restless 1 — does it not aspire bravely 1 — why, 
 all its brother flames are grovellers to it! — and now, — 
 why don't you look 1 — it falters, fades, droops, and — 
 ha, ha, ha! — poor idler, the fuel is consumed, and — it 
 is darkness! " 
 
 As Warner uttered these words his eyes reeled ; the 
 room swam before him; the excitement of his feeble 
 frame had reached its highest pitch; the disease of many 
 weeks had attained its crisis; and tottering back a few 
 paces he fell upon the floor, the victim of a delirious 
 and raging fever. 
 
 But it was not thus that the young artist was to die. 
 He was reserved for a death that, like his real nature, 
 had in it more of gentleness and poetry. He recovered, 
 by slow degrees, and his mind, almost in spite of him- 
 self, returned to that profession from which it was im- 
 possible to divert the thoughts and musings of many 
 years. Not that he resumed the pencil and the easel; 
 on the contrary, he could not endure them in his sight;
 
 THE DISOWNED. 181 
 
 they appeared, to a mind festered and sore , like a memo- 
 rial and monument of shame. But he nursed within him 
 a strong and ardent desire to become a pilgrim to that 
 beautiful land of which he had so often dreamed, and 
 which the innocent destroyer of his peace had pointed 
 out as the theatre of inspiration, and the nursery of 
 future fame. 
 
 The physicians who, at Talbot's instigation, attended 
 him, looked at his hectic cheek and consumptive frame, 
 and readily flattered his desire; and Talbot, no less in- 
 terested in Warner's behalf on his own account, than 
 bound by his promise to Clarence, generously extended 
 to the artist that bounty which is the most precious 
 prerogative of the rich. Notwithstanding her extreme 
 age, his grandmother insisted upon attending him: there 
 is in the heart of woman so deep a well of love that no 
 age can freeze it. They made the voyage : they reached 
 the shore of the myrtle and the vine, and entered the 
 imperial city. The air of Rome seemed at first to 
 operate favorably upon the health of the English artist. 
 His strength appeared to increase, his spirit to expand ; 
 and though he had relapsed into more than his original 
 silence and reserve, he resumed, with apparent energy, 
 the labors of the easel: so that they who looked no 
 deeper than the surface might have imagined the scar 
 healed, and the real foundation of future excellence 
 begun. 
 
 But while "Warner most humbled himself before the 
 gods of the pictured world; while the true principles of 
 the mighty art opened in their fullest glory on his soul ; 
 precisely at this very moment shame and despondency 
 were most bitter at his heart; and while the enthusiasm 
 of the painter kindled, the ambition of the man de- 
 spaired. But still he went on, transfusing into hi3
 
 182 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 canvas the grandeur and simplicity of the Italian school; 
 still, though he felt palpably within him the creeping 
 advance of the deadliest and surest enemy to fame, he 
 pursued, with an unwearied ardor, the mechanical com- 
 pletion of his task; still, the morning found him bend- 
 ing before the easel, and the night brought to his 
 solitary couch meditation rather than sleep. The tire, 
 the irritability which he had evinced before his illness 
 had vanished, and the original sweetness of his temper 
 had returned; he uttered no complaint, he dwelt upon 
 no anticipation of success, — hope and regret seemed 
 equally dead within him; and it was only when he 
 caugbt the fond, glad eyes of his aged attendant that his 
 own filled with tears, or that the serenity of his brow 
 darkened into sadness. 
 
 This went on for some months, till one evening they 
 found the painter by his window, seated opposite to an 
 unfinished picture. The pencil was still in his hand; the 
 quiet of settled thought was still upon his countenance; 
 the soft breeze of a southern twilight waved the hair 
 livingly from his forehead ; the earliest star of a south- 
 ern sky lent to his cheek something of that subdued 
 lustre which, when touched by enthusiasm, it had been 
 accustomed to wear. But these were only the mockeries 
 of life: life itself was no more! He had died, recon- 
 ciled, perhaps, to the loss of fame, — in discovering that 
 art is to be loved for itself, and not for the rewards it 
 may bestow upon the artist. 
 
 There are two tombs close to each other in the 
 stranger's burial-place at Rome: they cover those for 
 whom life, unequally long, terminated in the same 
 month. The one is of a woman, bowed with the 
 burden of many years ; the other darkens over the dust 
 of the young artist.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 183 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Think upon my grief, 
 And on the justice of my flying hence, 
 To keep me from a most unholy match. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 "But are you quite sure," said General St. Leger, — 
 " are you quite sure that this girl still permits Mor- 
 daunt's addresses?" 
 
 "Sure!" cried Miss Diana St. Leger, — " sure, Gen- 
 eral ! I saw it with my own eyes. They were standing 
 together in the copse, when I, who had long had my 
 suspicions, crept up, and saw them; and Mr. Mordaunt 
 held her hand, and kissed it every moment. Shocking 
 and indecorous! " 
 
 "I hate that man! — as proud as Lucifer," growled 
 the general. " Shall we lock her up, or starve her? " 
 
 " No, General, something better than that." 
 
 " What , my love ? Flog her ! " 
 
 " She 's too old for that, brother; we '11 marry her." 
 
 "Marry her!" 
 
 "Yes; to Mr. Glumford, — you know that he has 
 asked her several times." 
 
 " But she cannot bear him." 
 
 " We '11 make her bear him, General St. Leger." 
 
 " But if she marries, I shall have nobody to nurse me 
 when I have the gout." 
 
 "Yes, brother: I know of a nice little girl, Martha 
 Richardson, your second cousin's youngest daughter; 
 you know he has fourteen children, and you may have 
 them all, one after another, if you like. "
 
 184 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 "Very true, Diana, — let the jade marry Mr. Glum- 
 ford." 
 
 " She shall," said the sister; "and I '11 go about it 
 this very moment; meautime I '11 take care that she 
 does not see her lover any more." 
 
 About three weeks after this conversation, Mordaunt, 
 who had in vain endeavored to see Isabel, who had not 
 even heard from her, whose letters had been returned to 
 him unopened, and who, consequently, was in despair, 
 received the following note : — 
 
 This is the first time I have been able to write to you, at 
 least to get my letter conveyed : it is a strange messenger that 
 I have employed, but I happened formerly to make his ac- 
 quaintance, and accidentally seeing him to-day, the extremity 
 of the case induced me to give him a commission which I could 
 trust to no one else. Algernon, are not the above sentences 
 written with admirable calmness? are they not very explana- 
 tory, very consistent, very cool 1 and yet do you know that I 
 firmly believe I am going mad. My brain turns round and 
 round, and my hand burns so that I almost think that, like 
 our old nurse's stories of the fiend, it will scorch the paper as 
 I write. And I see strange faces in my sleep and in my wak- 
 ing, all mocking at me, and they torture and haunt me ; and 
 when I look at those faces, I see no human relenting, no ! 
 though I weep and throw myself on my knees, and implore 
 them to save me. Algernon, my only hope is in you. You 
 know that I have always hitherto refused to ruin you ; and 
 even now, though I implore you to deliver me, I will not be 
 so selfish as — as — I know not what I write, but if I cannot 
 be your wife, — I will not be his 1 No ! if they drag me to 
 church, it shall be to my grave, not my bridal. 
 
 Isabel St. Leger. 
 
 When Mordaunt had read this letter, which, in spite 
 of its incoherence, his fears readily explained, he rose 
 hastily; his eye rested upon a sober-looking man, clad
 
 THE DISOWNED. 185 
 
 in brown. The proud love no spectators to their 
 emotions. 
 
 " Who are you, sir? " said Algernon, quickly. 
 
 " Morris Brown," replied the stranger, coolly and 
 civilly. " Brought that letter to you, sir ; shall he 
 very happy to serve you with anything else; just fitted 
 out a young gentleman as ambassador, a nephew to Mrs. 
 Minclen, — very old friend of mine. Beautiful slabs 
 you have here, sir, but they want a few nick-nacks; 
 shall be most happy to supply you ; got a lovely little 
 ape, sir, stuffed by the late Lady Waddilove; it would 
 look charming with this old-fashioned carving; give the 
 room quite the air of a museum!" 
 
 "And so," said Mordaunt, for whose ear the elo- 
 quence of Mr. Brown contained only one sentence, — 
 " and so you brought this note, and will take back my 
 answer ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir; anything to keep up family connections: 
 I know a Lady Morden very well, — very well, indeed, 
 sir: a relation of yours, I presume, by the similarity of 
 the name; made her many valuable presents; shall be 
 most happy to do the same to you, when you are mar- 
 ried, sir. You will refurnish the house, I suppose? 
 Let me see: fine proportions to this room, sir, — about 
 thirty-six feet by twenty-eight; I '11 do the thing 
 twenty per cent cheaper than the trade; and touching 
 the lovely little — " 
 
 "Here," interrupted Mordaunt, "you will take back 
 this note, and be sure that Miss Isabel St. Leger has it 
 as soon as possible; oblige me by accepting this trifle, — 
 a trifle indeed compared with my gratitude if this note 
 reaches its destination safely." 
 
 " I am sure," said Mr. Brown, looking with surprise 
 at the gift, which he held with no unwilling hand, —
 
 186 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 " I am sure, sir, that you are xcvy generous, and strongly 
 remind me of your relation, Lady Morden; and if you 
 would like the lovely little ape as a present, — I mean 
 really a present, — you shall have it, Mr. Mordaunt." 
 
 But Mr. Mordaunt had left the room, and the soher 
 Morris, looking round, and cooling in his generosity, 
 said to himself, " It is well he did not hear me, however; 
 but I hope he will marry the nice young lady, for I love 
 doing a kindness. This house must he refurnished, — ■ 
 no lady will like these old-fashioned chairs."
 
 THE DISOWNED. 187 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Squire and fool are the same thing here. — Farquhar. 
 
 In such a night 
 Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew, 
 And, with an unthrift love, did run from Venice. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 The persecutions which Isahel had undergone had in- 
 deed preyed upon her reason as well as her health ; and 
 in her brief intervals of respite from the rage of the 
 uncle, the insults of the aunt, and worse than all, the 
 addresses of the intended bridegroom, her mind, shocked 
 and unhinged, reverted with such intensity to the suf- 
 ferings she endured as to give her musings the character 
 of insanity. It was in one of these moments that she 
 had written to Mordaunt; and had the contest con- 
 tinued much longer, the reason of the unfortunate and 
 persecuted girl would have totally deserted her. 
 
 She was a person of acute, and even poignant sensi- 
 bilities, and these the imperfect nature of her education 
 had but little served to guide or to correct; but as her 
 habits were pure and good, the impulses which spring 
 from habit were also sinless and exalted, and if they 
 erred, " they leaned on virtue's side," and partook rather 
 of a romantic and excessive generosity than of the weak- 
 ness of womanhood or the selfishness of passion. All 
 the misery and debasement of her equivocal and de- 
 pendent situation had not been able to drive her into 
 compliance with Mordaunt' s passionate and urgent 
 prayers ; and her heart was proof even to the eloquence
 
 188 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 of love, when that eloquence pointed towards the worldly 
 injury and depreciation of her lover; but this new per- 
 secution was utterly unforeseen in its nature and intol- 
 erable from its cause. To marry another; to he torn 
 forever from one in whom her whole heart was wrapped ; 
 to be forced not only to forego his love, but to feel that 
 the very thought of him was a crime, — all this backed 
 by the vehement and galling insults of her relations, and 
 the sullen and unmoved meanness of her intended bride- 
 groom, who answered her candor and confession with a 
 stubborn indifference and renewed overtures, made a 
 load of evil which could neither be borne with resigna- 
 tion nor contemplated with patience. 
 
 She was sitting, after she had sent her letter, with her 
 two relations, for they seldom trusted her out of their 
 sight, when Mr. Glumford was announced. ]S T ow, Mr. 
 George Glumford was a country gentleman of what 
 might be termed a third-rate family in the country : he 
 possessed about twelve hundred a year, to say nothing 
 of the odd pounds, shillings, and pence, which, how- 
 ever, did not meet with such contempt in his memory 
 or estimation; was of a race which could date as far 
 hack as Charles II. ; had been educated at a country 
 school with sixty others, chiefly inferior to himself in 
 rank; and had received the last finish at a very small 
 hall at Oxford. In addition to these advantages, he 
 had been indebted to nature for a person five feet eight 
 inches high, and stout in proportion; for hair very 
 short, very straight, and of a red hue, which even 
 through powder cast out a mellow glow; for an obsti- 
 nate dogged sort of nose, beginning in snub, and ending 
 in bottle; for cold, small gray eyes, a very small mouth, 
 pinched up and avaricious; and very large, very freckled, 
 yet rather white hands, the nails of which were punc-
 
 THE DISOWNED. 189 
 
 tiliously cut into a point every other day with a pair of 
 scissors which Mr. Glumford often boasted had been in 
 his possession since his eighth year, — namely, for about 
 thirty-two legitimate revolutions of the sun. 
 
 He was one of those persons who are equally close and 
 adventurous; who love the eclat of a little speculation, 
 but take exceeding good care that it should be, in their 
 own graceful phrase , " on the safe side of the hedge. " 
 In pursuance of this characteristic of mind, he had re- 
 solved to fall in love with Miss Isabel St. Leger; for 
 she being very dependent, he could boast to her of his 
 disinterestedness, and hope that she would be economi- 
 cal through a principle of gratitude; and being the 
 nearest relation to the opulent General St. Leger, and 
 his unmarried sister, there seemed to be every rational 
 probability of her inheriting the bulk of their for- 
 tunes. Upon these hints of prudence spake Mr. George 
 Glumford. 
 
 Now, when Isabel, partly in her ingenuous frankness, 
 partly from the passionate promptings of her despair, 
 revealed to him her attachment to another, and her reso- 
 lution never, with her own consent, to become his, it 
 seemed to the slow but not uncalculating mind of Mr. 
 Glumford not by any means desirable that he should 
 forego his present intentions, but by all means desir- 
 able that he should make this reluctance of Isabel's 
 an excuse for sounding the intentions and increasing 
 the posthumous liberality of the East Indian and his 
 sister. 
 
 " The girl is of my nearest blood," said the major- 
 general, " and if I don't leave my fortune to her, who 
 the devil should I leave it to, sir; " and so saying, the 
 speaker, who was in a fell paroxysm of the gout, looked 
 so fiercely at the hinting wooer, that Mr. George Glum-
 
 190 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 ford, who was no Achilles, was somewhat frightened, 
 and thought it expedient to hint no more. 
 
 " My brother," said Miss Diana, " is so odd; but he 
 is the most generous of men : besides, the girl has claims 
 upon him." 
 
 Upon these speeches, Mr. Glumford thought himself 
 secure, and inly resolving to punish the fool for her 
 sulkiness and bad taste as soon as he lawfully could, 
 he continued his daily visits, and told his sporting 
 acquaintance that his time was coming. 
 
 Revenons a nos moutons, forgive this preliminary 
 detail, and let us return to Mr. Glumford himself, whom 
 we left at the door, pulling and fumbling at the glove 
 which covered his right hand, in order to present the 
 naked palm to Miss Diana St. Leger. After this act 
 was performed, he approached Isabel, and, drawing his 
 chair near to her, proceeded to converse with her as the 
 Ogre did with Puss in Boots, — namely, "as civilly as 
 an Ogre could do." 
 
 This penance had not proceeded far before the door 
 was again opened, and Mr. Morris Brown presented 
 himself to the conclave. 
 
 " Your servant, General ; your servant, Madam. I 
 took the liberty of coming back again, Madam, because 
 I forgot to show you some very fine silks, the most 
 extraordinary bargain in the world , — quite presents ; 
 and I have a Sevres bowl here, a superb article, from 
 the cabinet of the late Lady Waddilove. " 
 
 Now Mr. Brown was a very old acquaintance of Miss 
 Diana St. Leger ; for there is a certain class of old maids 
 with whom our fair readers are no doubt acquainted, 
 who join to a great love of expense, a great love of bar- 
 gains, and who never purchase at the regular place if 
 they can find any irregular vender. They are great
 
 THE DISOWNED. 191 
 
 friends of Jews and itinerants, hand-in-glove with 
 smugglers, Ladies Bountiful to pedlers, are diligent 
 readers of puffs and advertisements, and eternal haunt- 
 ers of sales and auctions. Of this class was Miss Diana 
 a most prominent individual; judge, then, how accept- 
 able to her was the acquaintance of Mr. Brown. That 
 indefatigable merchant of miscellanies had, indeed, at 
 a time when brokers were perhaps rather more rare and 
 respectable than now, a numerous country acquaintance, 
 and thrice a year he performed a sort of circuit to all his 
 customers and connections; hence his visit to St. Leger 
 House, and hence Isabel's opportunity of conveying her 
 epistle. 
 
 "Pray," said Mr. Glumford, who had heard much of 
 Mr. Brown's "presents" from Miss Diana, — "pray 
 don't you furnish rooms, and things of that sort?" 
 
 "Certainly, sir, certainly, in the best manner pos- 
 sible." 
 
 "Oh! very well, I .shall want some rooms furnished 
 soon, — a bedroom, and a dressing-room; and things of 
 that sort, you know. And so, perhaps you may have 
 something in your box that will suit me, gloves or 
 handkerchiefs, or shirts, or things of that sort." 
 
 " Yes, sir; everything, — I sell everything," said Mr. 
 Brown, opening bis box. "I beg pardon, Miss Isabel, 
 I have dropped my handkerchief by your chair; allow 
 me to stoop," and Mr. Brown, stooping under the table, 
 managed to effect his purpose; unseen by the rest, a 
 note was slipped into Isabel's hand, and under pre- 
 tence of stooping too, she managed to secure the treas- 
 ure. Love need well be honest if, even when it is most 
 true, it leads us into so much that is false! 
 
 Mr. Brown's box was now unfolded before the eyes 
 of the crafty Mr. Glumford, who, having selected three
 
 192 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 pair of gloves, offered the exact half of the sum 
 demanded. 
 
 Mr. Brown lifted up his hands and eyes. 
 
 "You see," said the imperturbable G-lumford, "that 
 if you let me have them for that, and they last me well, 
 and don't come unsewn, and stand cleaning, you '11 have 
 my custom in furnishing the house, and rooms, and — 
 things of that sort." 
 
 Struck with the grandeur of this opening, Mr. Brown 
 yielded, and the gloves were bought. 
 
 " The fool! " thought the noble George, laughing in 
 his sleeve, — " as if I should ever furnish the house from 
 his box!" 
 
 Strange that some men should be proud of being 
 mean. 
 
 The moment Isabel escaped to dress for dinner, she 
 opened her lover's note. It was as follows: — 
 
 Be in the room, your retreat, at nine this evening. Let the 
 window be left unclosed. Precisely at that hour I will be 
 with you. I shall have everything in readiness for your flight. 
 Be sure, dearest Isabel, that nothing prevents your meeting me 
 there, even if all your house follow or attend you. I will hear 
 you from all. Oh, Isabel! in spite of the mystery and wretch- 
 edness of your letter, I feel too happy, too blessed at the thought 
 that our fates will he at length united, and that the union is at 
 hand. Remember, nine. 
 
 A. M. 
 
 Love is a feeling which has so little to do with the 
 world, a passion so little regulated by the. known laws 
 of our more steady and settled emotions, that the thoughts 
 which it produces are always more or less connected with 
 exaggeration and romance. To the secret spirit of en- 
 terprise which, however chilled by his pursuits and 
 habits, still burned within Mordaunt's breast, there was
 
 THE DISOWNED. 193 
 
 a wild pleasure in the thought of hearing off his mistress 
 and his bride from the very home and hold of her false 
 friends and real foes; while in the contradictions of the 
 same passion, Isabel, so far from exulting at her ap- 
 proaching escape, trembled at her danger, and blushed 
 for her temerity ; and the fear and the modesty of woman 
 almost triumphed over her brief energy and fluctuating 
 resolve. 
 
 VOL. I. — 13
 
 194: THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 tVe haste, — the chosen and the lovely bringing ; 
 
 Love still goes with her from her place of birth ! 
 Deep, silent joy, within her soul is springing, 
 
 Though in her glance the light no more is mirth. 
 
 Mks. Hemans. 
 
 " Damn it! " said the general. 
 
 " The vile creature ! " cried Miss Diana. 
 
 " I don't understand things of that sort," ejaculated 
 the bewildered Mr. Glumford. 
 
 " She has certainly gone," said the valiant general. 
 
 " Certainly! " grunted Miss Diana. 
 
 " Gone ! " echoed the bridegroom not to he. 
 
 And she was gone ! never did more loving and tender 
 heart forsake all, and cling to a more loyal and generous 
 nature. The skies were darkened with clouds, 
 
 And the dim stars rushed through them rare and fast ; 
 
 and the winds wailed with a loud and ominous voice; 
 and the moon came forth, with a faint and sickly smile, 
 from her chamber in the mist, and then shrank hack, 
 and was seen no more ; but neither omen nor fear was 
 upon Mordaunt's breast, as it swelled beneath the dark 
 locks of Isabel, which were pressed against it. 
 
 As Faith clings the more to the cross of life, while the 
 wastes deepen around her steps, and the adders creep 
 forth upon her path, so Love clasps that which is its 
 hope and comfort the closer, for the desert which encom- 
 passes and the dangers which harass its way.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 195 
 
 They had fled to London, and Isahel had been placed 
 with a very distant, and very poor, though very high- 
 born relative of Algernon, till the necessary prelim- 
 inaries could be passed, and the final bond knit. Yet 
 still the generous Isabel would have refused, despite 
 the injury to her own fame, to have ratified a union 
 which filled her with gloomy presentiments for Mor- 
 daunt's fate; and still Mordaunt by little and little 
 broke down her tender scruples and self-immolating 
 resolves, and ceased not his eloquence and his suit till 
 the day of his nuptials was set and come. 
 
 The morning rose bright and clear, — the autumn was 
 drawing towards its close, and seemed willing to leave 
 its last remembrance tinged with the warmth and soft- 
 ness of its parent summer, rather than with the stern 
 gloom and severity of its chilling successor. 
 
 And they stood beside the altar, and their vows were 
 exchanged. A slight tremor came over Algernon's 
 frame, a slight shade darkened his countenance; for 
 even in that bridal hour an icy and thrilling foreboding 
 curdled to his heart; it passed, — the ceremony was 
 over, and Mordaunt bore his blushing and weeping bride 
 from the church. His carriage was in attendance; for, 
 not knowing how long the home of his ancestors might 
 be his, he was impatient to return to it. The old 
 Countess d'Arcy, Mordaunt's relation, with whom Isabel 
 had been staying, called them back to bless them ; for, 
 even through the coldness of old age, she was touched 
 by the singularity of their love, and affected by their 
 nobleness of heart. She laid her wan and shrivelled 
 hand upon each, as she bade them farewell, and each 
 shrank back involuntarily, for the cold and light touch 
 seemed like the fingers of the dead. 
 
 Fearful indeed is the vicinity of death and life, — the
 
 106 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 bridal chamber and the charnel. That night the old 
 woman died. It appeared as if fate had set its seal 
 upon the union it had so long forbidden, and had 
 woven a dark thread even in the marriage bond. At 
 least, it tore from two hearts, over which the cloud and 
 the blast lay couched in a " grim repose," the last shel- 
 ter, which, however frail and distant, seemed left to 
 them upon the inhospitable earth.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 197 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Live while ye may, yet happy pair : enjoy 
 Short pleasures, for long woes are to succeed. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 The autumn and the winter passed away; Mordaunt's 
 relation continued implacable. Algernon grieved for 
 this, independent of worldly circumstances; for, though 
 he had seldom seen that relation , yet he loved him for 
 former kindness — rather promised, to be sure, than yet 
 shown — with the natural warmth of an affection which 
 has but few objects. However, the old gentleman (a 
 very short, very fat person, — very short and very fat 
 people, when they are surly, are the devil and all; 
 for the humors of their mind, like those of their body, 
 have something corrupt and unpurgeable in them) 
 wrote him one bluff, contemptuous letter, in a witty 
 strain, — for he was a bit of a humorist; disowned his 
 connection, and very shortly afterwards died, and left all 
 his fortune to the very Mr. Vavasour who was at law 
 with Mordaunt, and for whom he had always openly 
 expressed the strongest personal dislike, — spite to one 
 relation is a marvellous tie to another. Meanwhile, the 
 lawsuit went on less slowly than lawsuits usually do, 
 and the final decision was very speedily to be given. 
 
 We said the autumn and the winter were gone; and 
 it was in one of those latter days in March, when, 
 like a hoiden girl subsiding into dawning womanhood, 
 the rude weather mellows into a softer and tenderer 
 month, that, by the side of a stream, overshadowed by 
 many a brake and tree, sat two persons.
 
 198 THE DISOWNED. . 
 
 "I know not, dearest Algernon," said one, who was 
 a female, " if this is not almost the sweetest month in 
 the year, because it is the month of Hope." 
 
 "Ay, Isabel; and they did it wrong who called it 
 harsh, and dedicated it to Mars. I exult even in the 
 fresh winds which hardier frames than mine shrink from, 
 and I love feeling their wild breath fan my cheek as I 
 ride against it. I remember," continued Algernon, mus- 
 ingly, " that on this very day three years ago, I was trav- 
 elling through Germany, alone and on horseback, and I 
 paused, not far from Ens, on the banks of the Danube. 
 The waters of the river were disturbed and fierce, and the 
 winds came loud and angry against my face, dashing the 
 spray of the waves upon me, and filling my spirit with 
 a buoyant and glad delight; and at that time I had been 
 indulging old dreams of poetry, and had laid my philos- 
 ophy aside; and in the inspiration of the moment I 
 lifted up my hand towards the quarter whence the winds 
 came, and questioned them audibly of their birthplace 
 and their bourn ; and as the enthusiasm increased, I com- 
 pared them to our human life, which a moment is, and 
 then is not; and proceeding from folly to folly, I asked 
 them, as if they were the interpreters of Heaven, for a 
 type and sign of my future lot. " 
 
 " And what said they? " inquired Isabel, smiling, yet 
 smiling timidly. 
 
 "They answered not," replied Mordaunt; "but a 
 voice within me seemed to say, 'Look above! ' and I 
 raised my eyes; but I did not see thee, love, — £0 the 
 Book of Fate lied. " 
 
 "Nay, Algernon, what did you see?" asked Isabel, 
 more earnestly than the question deserved. 
 
 " I saw a thin cloud, alone amidst many dense and 
 dark ones scattered around; and as I gazed, it seemed
 
 THE DISOWNED. 199 
 
 to take the likeness of a funeral procession, — coffin, 
 bearers, priest, all, — as clear in the cloud as I have seen 
 them on the earth; and I shuddered as I saw. But the 
 winds hlew the vapor onwards, and it mingled with the 
 broader masses of cloud; and then, Isabel, the sun shone 
 forth for a moment, and I mistook, love, when I said 
 you were not there, for that sun was you. But suddenly 
 the winds ceased, and the rain came on fast and heavy ; 
 so my romance cooled, and my fever slaked. I thought 
 on the inn at Ens, and the blessings of a wood fire, which 
 is lighted in a moment, and I spurred on my horse 
 accordingly." 
 
 " It is very strange," said Isabel. 
 
 " What, love 1 " whispered Algernon, kissing her 
 cheek. 
 
 " Nothing, dearest, nothing." 
 
 At that instant, the deer, which lay waving their 
 lordly antlers to and fro beneath the avenue which 
 sloped upward from the stream to the house, rose hur- 
 riedly and in confusion, and stood gazing, with watchful 
 eyes, upon a man advancing towards the pair. 
 
 It was one of the servants with a letter. Isabel saw 
 a faint change (which none else could have seen) in 
 Mordaunt's countenance as he recognized the writing 
 and broke the seal. When he had read the letter, his 
 eyes fell upon the ground, and then, with a slight start, 
 he lifted them up, and gazed long and eagerly around. 
 Wistfully did he drink, as it were, into his heart the 
 beautiful and expanded scene which lay stretched on 
 either side : the noble avenue Avhich his forefathers had 
 planted as a shelter to their sons, and which now, in its 
 majestic growth and its waving boughs, seemed to say, 
 "Lo! ye are repaid!" and the never silent and silver 
 stream, by which his boyhood had sat for hours, lulled
 
 200 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 by its music, and inhaling the fragrance of the reed and 
 Id flower that decoyed the hee to its glossy hanks; 
 and the deer, to whose melancholy belling he had lis- 
 tened so often in the gray twilight with a rapt and 
 dreaming ear; and the green fern waving on the gentle 
 hill, from whose shade his young feet had startled the 
 hare and the infant fawn; and far and faintly gleaming 
 through the thick trees, which clasped it as with a 
 girdle, the old Hall, so associated with vague hopes and 
 mnsing dreams, and the dim legends of gone time and 
 the lofty prejudices of ancestral pride, — all seemed to 
 sink within him, as he gazed, like the last looks of 
 deporting friends; and when Isabel, who had not dared 
 to break a silence which partook so strongly of gloom, at 
 length laid her hand upon his arm, and lifted her dark, 
 deep, tender eyes to bis, he said, as be drew her towards 
 him, and a faint and sickly smile played upon his 
 lips,— 
 
 "It is past, Isabel; henceforth we have no wealth 
 but in each other. The cause has been decided, and — 
 and — we are beggars ! "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 201 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIX. 
 
 We expose our life to a quotidian ague of frigid impertinences, 
 which would make a wise man tremble to think of. — Cowley. 
 
 We must suppose a lapse of four years from the date of 
 those events which concluded the last chapter; and to 
 recompense the reader who, I know, has a little pen- 
 chant for "High Life," even in the last century, for 
 having hitherto shown him human "beings in a state of 
 societ}' not wholly artificial, I heg him to picture to 
 himself a large room, brilliantly illuminated and crowded 
 " with the magnates of the land. " Here (some in salta- 
 tory motion, some in sedentary rest) are dispersed various 
 groups of young ladies and attendant swains, talking 
 upon the subject of Lord Rochester's celebrated poem, 
 — namely, Nothing ! — and lounging around the doors, 
 meditating probably upon the same subject, stand those 
 unhappy victims of dancing daughters, denominated 
 " papas. " 
 
 The music has ceased; the dancers have broken up, 
 and there is a general but gentle sweep towards the re- 
 freshment-room. In the crowd — having just entered — 
 there glided a young man of an air more distinguished 
 and somewhat more joyous than the rest. 
 
 "How do you do, Mr. Linden?" said a tall and 
 (though somewhat passee) very handsome woman, blaz- 
 ing with diamonds; " are you just come ? " 
 
 And here, by the way, I cannot resist pausing to 
 observe that a friend of mine, meditating a novel, sub- 
 mitted a part of the MS. to a friendly publisher. " Sir,"
 
 202 TILE DISOWNED. 
 
 said the "bookseller, " your book is very clever, but it 
 wants dialogue." 
 
 " Dialogue 1 " cried my friend, — " you mistake : it is 
 all dialogue." 
 
 " Ay, sir, but not what we call dialogue ; we want a 
 little conversation in fashionable life, — a little elegant 
 chit chat or so; and as you must have seen so much 
 of the beau monde, you could do it to the life. We must 
 have something light and witty and entertaining." 
 
 "Light, witty, and entertaining!" said our poor 
 friend ; ' and how the deuce then is it to be like conver- 
 sation in ' fashionable life ' 1 When the very best con- 
 versation one can get is so insufferably dull, how do you 
 think people will be amused by reading a copy of the 
 very worsts " 
 
 " They are amused, sir," said the publisher, " and 
 works of this kind sell ! " 
 
 " I am convinced," said my friend; for he was a man 
 of a placid temper. He took the hint, and his book did 
 sell! 
 
 ]STow this anecdote rushed into my mind after the pen- 
 ning of the little address of the lady in diamonds, — 
 " How do you do, Mr. Linden? Are you just come? " 
 — and it received an additional weight from my utter 
 inability to put into the mouth of Mr. Linden — not- 
 withstanding my desire of representing him in the most 
 brilliant colors — any more happy and eloquent answer 
 than, " Only this instant! " 
 
 However, as this is in the true spirit of elegant dia- 
 logue, I trust my readers will find it as light, witty, and 
 entertaining as, according to the said publisher, the 
 said dialogue is always found by the public. 
 
 Wbile Clarence was engaged in talking with this lady, 
 a very pretty, lively, animated girl, with laughing blue
 
 THE DISOWNED. 203 
 
 eyes, which, joined to the dazzling fairness of her com- 
 plexion, gave a Hebe-like youth to her features and 
 expression, was led up to the said lady by a tall young 
 man, and consigned, with the ceremonious bow of the 
 viellle cour, to her protection. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Linden," cried the young lady, "I am 
 very glad to see you, — such a beautiful ball! Every- 
 body here that I most like. Have you had any re- 
 freshments, Mamma? But I need not ask, for lam 
 sure you have not; do come, Mr. Linden will be our 
 cavalier. " 
 
 "Well, Flora, as you please," said the elder lady, 
 with a proud and fond look at her beautiful daughter; 
 and they proceeded to the refreshment-room. 
 
 No sooner were they seated at one of the tables than 
 they were accosted by Lord St. George, a nobleman 
 whom Clarence, before he left England, had met more 
 than once at Mr. Talbot's. 
 
 " London," said his lordship to her of the diamonds, 
 " has not seemed like the same place since Lady West- 
 borough arrived ; your presence brings out all the other 
 luminaries; and therefore a young acquaintance of 
 mine — God bless me, there he is, seated by Lady 
 Flora — very justly called you ' the evening star.' 
 
 "Was that Mr. Linden's pretty saying?" said Lady 
 Westborough, smiling. 
 
 " It was," answered Lord St. George, — " and, by the 
 by, he is a very sensible, pleasant person, and greatly 
 improved since he left England last. " 
 
 " What ! " said Lady Westborough in a low tone (for 
 Clarence, though in earnest conversation with Lady 
 Flora, was within bearing), and making room for Lord 
 St. George beside her, — " what! did you know him be- 
 fore he went to 1 You can probably tell me, then,
 
 204 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 who — that is to say — what family he is exactly of, — 
 the Lindens of Devonshire, or — or — " 
 
 "Why, really," said Lord St. George, a little con- 
 fused, for no man likes to be acquainted with persons 
 whose pedigree he cannot explain, " I don't know what 
 may be his family. I met him at Talbot's four or five 
 years ago; he was then a mere boy, but he struck me 
 as being very clever, and Talbot since told me that he 
 was a nephew of his own. " 
 
 " Talbot," said Lady Westborough, musingly, — 
 "what Talbot?" 
 
 " Oh! the Talbot, — the ci-devant jeune homme! " 
 
 "What, that charming, clever, animated old gentle- 
 man, who used to dress so oddly, and had been so cele- 
 brated a beau gargon in his day ? " 
 
 "Exactly so," said Lord St. George, taking snuff, 
 and delighted to find he had set his young acquaintance 
 on so honorable a footing. 
 
 " I did not know he was still alive," said Lady West- 
 borough; and then, turning her eyes towards Clarence 
 and her daughter she added carelessly , " Mr. Talbot is 
 very rich, is he not? " 
 
 "Rich as Croesus," replied Lord St. George, with a 
 sigh. 
 
 " And Mr. Linden is his heir, I suppose? " 
 
 "In all probability," answered Lord St. George; 
 " though I believe I can boast a distant relationship to 
 Talbot. However, I could not make him fully under- 
 stand it the other day, though I took particular pains to 
 explain it." 
 
 While this conversation was going on between the 
 Marchioness of Westborough and Lord St. George, a 
 dialogue ('<|uully interesting to the parties concerned, 
 and, I hope, equally light, witty, and entertaining to
 
 THE DISOWNED. 205 
 
 readers in general, was sustained between Clarence and 
 Lady Flora. 
 
 "How long shall you stay in England?" asked the 
 latter, looking down. 
 
 "I have not yet been able to decide," replied Clar- 
 ence ; " for it rests with the ministers, not me. Directly 
 Lord Aspeden obtains another appointment, I am prom- 
 ised the office of Secretary of Legation; but till then 
 I am 
 
 'A captive in Augusta's towers, 
 To beauty and her train.'" 
 
 " Oh! " cried Lady Flora, laughing, " you mean Mrs. 
 Desborough and her train; see where they sweep! Pray 
 go and render her homage. " 
 
 "It is rendered," said Linden, in a low voice,— 
 "without so long a pilgrimage, but perhaps despised." 
 
 Lady Flora's laugh was hushed; the deepest blushes 
 suffused her cheeks, and the whole character of that face, 
 before so playful and joyous, seemed changed, as by a 
 spell, into a grave, subdued, and even timid look. 
 
 Linden resumed, and his voice scarcely rose above a 
 whisper. A whisper! delicate and fairy sound! 
 music that speaketh to the heart, as if loth to break the 
 spell that binds it while it listens! Sigh breathed into 
 words, and freighting love in tones languid, like home- 
 ward bees, by the very sweets with which they are 
 charged ! 
 
 " Do you remember," said he, " that evening at , 
 
 when we last parted, and the boldness which at that 
 time you were gentle enough to forgive? " 
 
 Lady Flora replied not. 
 
 " And do you remember," continued Clarence, " that I 
 told you that it was not as an unknown and obscure
 
 206 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 adventurer, that I would claim the hand of her whose 
 heart, as an adventurer, I had won? " 
 
 Lady Flora raised her eyes for one moment, and, en- 
 countering the ardent gaze of Clarence, as instantly 
 dropped them. 
 
 "The time is »ot yet come," said Linden, "for the 
 fulfilment of this promise; hut may I — dare I hope, 
 that when it does, I shall not he — " 
 
 "Flora, my love," said Lady Westhorough, "let me 
 introduce to you Lord Borodaile." 
 
 Lady Flora turned, — the spell was broken; and the 
 lovers were instantly transformed into ordinary mortals. 
 But, as Flora, after returning Lord Borodaile 's address, 
 glanced her eye towards Clarence, she was struck with 
 the sudden and singular change of his countenance. 
 The flush of youth and passion was fled, his complexion 
 was deadly pale, and his eyes were fixed with a searching 
 and unaccountable meaning upon the face of the young 
 nobleman, who was alternately addressing, with a quiet 
 and somewhat haughty fluency, the beautiful mother, 
 and the more lovely though less commanding daughter. 
 Directly Linden perceived that he was observed, he rose, 
 turned away, and was soon lost among the crowd. 
 
 Lord Borodaile, the son and heir of the powerful Earl 
 of Ulswater, was about the age of thirty, small, slight, 
 and rather handsome than otherwise, though his com- 
 plexion was dark and sallow, and a very aquiline nose 
 gave a stern and somewhat severe air to his countenance. 
 He had been for several years abroad, in various parts of 
 the Continent, and (no other field for an adventurous 
 and fierce spirit presenting itself) had served with the 
 gallant Earl of Effingham, in the war between the Turks 
 and Russians, as a volunteer in the armies of the latter. 
 In this service he had been highly distinguished for
 
 THE DISOWNED. 207 
 
 courage and conduct, and on his return to England 
 about a twelvemonth since had obtained the command 
 of a cavalry regiment. Passionately fond of his profes- 
 sion, he entered into its minutest duties with a zeal not 
 exceeded by the youngest and poorest subaltern in the 
 army. 
 
 His manners were very cold, haughty, collected, and 
 self-possessed, and his conversation that of a man who 
 has cultivated his intellect rather in the world than the 
 closet. I mean that, perfectly ignorant of things, he 
 was driven to converse solely upon persons, and having 
 imbibed no other philosophy than that which worldly 
 deceits and disappointments bestow, his remarks, though 
 shrewd, were bitterly sarcastic, and partook of all the 
 ill-nature for which a very scanty knowledge of the 
 world gives a sour and malevolent mind so ready an 
 excuse. 
 
 "How very disagreeable Lord Borodaile is!" said 
 Lady "Flora, when the object of the remark turned away, 
 and rejoined some idlers of his corps. 
 
 " Disagreeable! " said Lady Westborough, — " I think 
 him charming ; he is so sensible. How true his remarks 
 on the world are ! " 
 
 Thus it is always: the young judge harshly of those 
 who undeceive or revolt their enthusiasm; and the 
 more advanced in years, who have not learned by a 
 diviner wisdom to look upon the human follies and 
 errors by which they have suffered with a pitying and 
 lenient eye, consider every maxim of severity on those 
 frailties as the proof of a superior knowledge, and praise 
 that as a profundity of thought which in reality is but 
 an infirmity of temper. 
 
 Clarence is now engaged in a minuet de la eour, with 
 the beautiful Countess of , the best dancer of the
 
 208 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 day in England. Lady Flora is flirting with half-a- 
 dozen beaux, the more violently in proportion as she 
 
 observes the animation with which Clarence converses, 
 and the grace with which his partner moves; and hav- 
 ing thus left our two principal personages occupied and 
 engaged, let us turn for a moment to a room which we 
 have not entered. 
 
 This is a forlorn, deserted chamber, destined to raids, 
 which are never played in this temple of Terpsichore. 
 At the far end of this room, opposite to the fireplace, 
 are seated four men, engaged in earnest conversation. 
 
 The tallest of these was Lord Quintown, a nobleman 
 remarkable at that day for his personal advantages, his 
 good fortune with the beau sexe, his attempts at par- 
 liamentary eloquence, in which he was lamentably un- 
 successful, and his adherence to Lord North. Next to 
 him sat Mr. St. George, the younger brother of Lord 
 St. George, a gentleman to whom power and place 
 seemed married without hope of divorce; for, whatever 
 had been the changes of ministry for the last twelve 
 years, he, secure in a lucrative, though subordinate 
 situation, had " smiled at the whirlwind, and defied the 
 storm," and while all things shifted and vanished 
 round him, like clouds and vapors, had remained fixed 
 and stationary as a star. " Solid St. George " was his 
 appellative by his friends, and his enemies di 1 not 
 grudge him the title. The third was the minister for 
 
 ; and the fourth was Clarence's friend, Lord 
 
 Aspeden. Now this nobleman, blessed with a benevo- 
 lent, smooth, calm countenance, valued himself espe- 
 cially upon his diplomatic elegance in turning a 
 compliment. 
 
 Having a great taste for literature as well as diplo- 
 macy, this respected and respectable peer also possessed
 
 THE DISOWNED. 209 
 
 a curious felicity for applying quotation; and nothing 
 rejoiced him so much as when, in the same phrase, he 
 was enabled to set the two jewels of his courtliness of 
 flattery and his profundity of erudition. Unhappily 
 enough, his compliments were seldom as well taken as 
 they were meant; and, whether from the ingratitude of 
 the persons complimented, or the ill-fortune of the 
 noble adulator, seemed sometimes to produce indigna- 
 tion in place of delight. It has been said that his civil- 
 ities had cost Lord Aspeden four duels and one beating; 
 but these reports were probably the malicious invention 
 of those who had never tasted the delicacies of his 
 flattery. 
 
 Now these four persons being all members of the 
 Privy Council, and being thus engaged in close and 
 earnest conference, were, you will suppose, employed in 
 discussing the gravities and secrets of state , — no such 
 thing: that whisper from Lord Quintown, the handsome 
 nobleman, to Mr. St. George, is no hoarded and valuable 
 information which would rejoice the heart of the editor 
 of an opposition paper, no direful murmur, " perplexing 
 monarchs with the dread of change ; " it is only a recent 
 piece of scandal, touching the virtue of a lady of the 
 court, which (albeit the sage listener seems to pay so de- 
 vout an attention to the news) is far more interesting 
 to the gallant and handsome informant than to his brother 
 statesman ; and that emphatic and vehement tone with 
 
 which Lord Aspeden is assuring the minister for 
 
 of some fact, is merely an angry denunciation of the 
 chicanery practised at the last Newmarket. 
 
 " By the by, Aspeden," said Lord Quintown, " who is 
 that good-looking fellow always flirting with Lady Flora 
 Ardenne, — an attache of yours, is he not? " 
 
 " Oh! Linden, I suppose you mean. A very sensible, 
 vol. i. — 14
 
 210 THE DISOWN BR 
 
 clever young fellow who has a great genius for business, 
 and plays the flute admirably. I must have him for my 
 secretary, my dear lord, mind that." 
 
 " With such a recommendation, Lord Aspeden," said 
 the minister, with a how, " the state would be a great 
 loser did it not elect your attache, who plays so admir- 
 ably on the flute, to the office of your secretary. Let us 
 join the dancers." 
 
 " I shall go and talk with Count B ," quoth Mr. 
 
 St. George. 
 
 " And I shall make my court to his beautiful wife," 
 said the minister, sauntering into the ball-room, to 
 which his fine person and graceful manner were much 
 better adapted than was his genius to the cabinet, or his 
 eloquence to the senate. 
 
 The morning had long dawned, and Clarence, for 
 whose mind pleasure was more fatiguing than business, 
 lingered near the door, to catch one last look of Lady 
 Flora before he retired. He saw her leaning on the 
 arm of Lord Borodaile, and hastening to join the 
 dancers, with her usual light step and laughing air; 
 for Clarence's short conference with her had, in spite of 
 his subsequent flirtations, rendered her happier than she 
 had ever felt before. Again a change passed over Clar- 
 ence's countenance, — a change which I find it difficult 
 to express without borrowing from those celebrated 
 German dramatists who could portray in such exact 
 colors "a look of mingled joy, sorrow, hope, passion, 
 rapture, and despair;" for the look was not that of 
 jealousy alone, although it certainly partook of its 
 nature, but a little also of interest, and a little of sor- 
 row; and when he turned away, and slowly descended 
 the stairs, bis eyes were full of tears, and his thoughts 
 far, far away, — whither?
 
 THE DISOWNED. 211 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Quse fert adolescentia 
 Ea ne me celet consuefeci filium. 1 
 
 Terent. 
 
 The next morning Clarence was lounging over his break- 
 fast, and glancing listlessly now at the pages of the 
 newspapers, now at the various engagements for the 
 week, which lay confusedly upon his table, when he 
 received a note from Talbot, requesting to see him as 
 soon as possible. 
 
 "Had it not been for that man," said Clarence to 
 himself, " what should I have been now? But, at least, 
 I have not disgraced his friendship. I have already 
 ascended the roughest, because the lowest steps on the 
 hill where Fortune builds her temple. I have already 
 won for the name I have chosen some ' golden opinions,' 
 to gild its obscurity. One year more may confirm my 
 destiny, and ripen hope into success; then — then, I 
 may perhaps throw off a disguise that, while it be- 
 friended, has not degraded me, and avow myself to her ! 
 Yet how much better to dignify the name I have as- 
 sumed, than to owe respect only to that which I have 
 not been deemed worthy to inherit. Well, well, these 
 are bitter thoughts ; let me turn to others. How beau- 
 tiful Flora looked last night! and, he — he — but enough 
 of this. I must dress, and then to Talbot. " 
 
 Muttering these wayward fancies, Clarence rose, com- 
 pleted his toilet, sent for his horses, and repaired to a 
 
 1 The things which youth proposes I accustomed my son that 
 he should never conceal from me.
 
 212 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 village about seven miles from London, where Talbot, 
 Laving yielded to Clarence's fears and solicitations, and 
 left his former insecure tenement, now resided under the 
 guard and care of an especial and private watchman. 
 
 It was a pretty, quiet villa, surrounded by a planta- 
 tion and pleasure-ground of some extent for a suburban 
 residence, in which the old philosopher (for though, in 
 some respects, still frail and prejudiced, Talbot deserved 
 that name) held his home. The ancient servant, on 
 whom four years had passed lightly and favoringly, 
 opened the door to Clarence, with his usual smile of 
 greeting, and familiar yet respectful salutation, and 
 ushered our hero into a room furnished with the usual 
 fastidious and rather feminine luxury which characterized 
 Talbot's tastes. Sitting with his back turned to the 
 light, in a large easy-chair, Clarence found the wreck of 
 the once gallant, gay Lothario. 
 
 There was not much alteration in his countenance 
 since we last saw him: the lines, it is true, were a little 
 more decided, and the cheeks a little more sunken, but 
 the dark eye beamed with all its wonted vivacity, and 
 the delicate contour of the mouth preserved all its physi- 
 ognomical characteristics of the inward man. He rose 
 with somewhat more difficulty than he was formerly 
 wont to do, and his limbs had lost much of their sym- 
 metrical proportions; yet the kind clasp of his hand was 
 as firm and warm as when it had pressed that of the 
 boyish attache four years since; and the voice which 
 expressed his salutation, yet breathed its unconquered 
 suavity and distinctness of modulation. After the cus- 
 tomary greetings and inquiries were given and returned, 
 the young man drew his chair near to Talbot's, and 
 said, — 
 
 " You sent for me, dear sir; have you anything more
 
 THE DISOWNED. 213 
 
 important than usual to impart to me! or — and I hope 
 this is the case — have you at last thought of any com- 
 mission, however trifling, in the execution of which I 
 can be of use 1 " 
 
 "Yes, Clarence, I wish your judgment to select me 
 some strawberries, — you know that I am a great epicure 
 in fruit, — and get me the new work Dr. Johnson has 
 just published. There, are you contented 1 ? And now, 
 tell me all about your horse, — does he step well 1 Has 
 he the true English head and shoulder 1 Are his legs 
 fine, yet strong? Is he full of spirit and devoid of 
 vice 1 " 
 
 " He is all this, sir, thanks to you for him." 
 
 "Ah!" cried Talbot,— 
 
 " Old as I am, for riding feats unfit, 
 The shape of horses I remember yet. 
 
 And now let us hear how you like Ranelagh; and above 
 all how you liked the ball last night ? " 
 
 And the vivacious old man listened with the pro- 
 foundest appearance of interest to all the particulars of 
 Clarence's animated detail. His vanity, which made 
 him wish to be loved, had long since taught him the 
 surest method of becoming so; and with him every 
 visitor, old, young, the man of books, or the disciple of 
 the world, was sure to find the readiest and even eagerest 
 sympathy in every amusement or occupation. But for 
 Clarence, this interest lay deeper than in the surface of 
 courtly breeding. Gratitude had first bound to him his 
 adopted son, then a tie, yet unexplained, and lastly, but 
 not least, the pride of protection. He was vain of the 
 personal and mental attractions of his protege, and eager 
 for the success of one whose honors would reflect credit 
 on himself.
 
 214 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 But there was one part of Clarence's account of the 
 last night to which the philosopher paid a still deeper 
 attention, and on which lie was more minute in his 
 advice; what this was, I cannot, as yet, reveal to the 
 reader. 
 
 The conversation then turned on light and general 
 matters, — the scandal, the literature, the politics, the 
 on dits of the day; and lastly upon women; thence 
 Talbot dropped into his office of Mentor. 
 
 "A celebrated cardinal said, very wisely, that few 
 ever did anything among men until women were no 
 longer an object to them. That is the reason, by the 
 by, why I never succeeded with the former, and why 
 people seldom acquire any reputation except for a hat, 
 or a horse, till they marry. Look round at the various 
 occupations of life. How few bachelors are eminent in 
 any of them! So you see, Clarence, you will have my 
 leave to marry Lady Flora as soon as you please." 
 
 Clarence colored, and rose to depart. Talbot followed 
 him to the door, and then said in a careless way, " By the 
 by, I had almost forgotten to tell you that, as you have 
 now many new expenses, you will find the yearly sum 
 you have hitherto received doubled. To give you this 
 information is the chief reason why I sent for you this 
 morning. God bless you, my dear boy." 
 
 And Talbot shut the door, despite his politeness, in 
 the face and thanks of his adopted son.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 215 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 There is a great difference between seeking to raise a laugh from 
 everything, and seeking in everything what justly may be 
 laughed at. — Lord Shaftesbury. 
 
 Behold our hero, now in the zenith of distinguished 
 dissipations! Courteous, attentive, and animated, the 
 women did not esteem him the less for admiring them 
 rather than himself; while hy the gravity of his de- 
 meanor to men, the eloquent yet unpretending flow of 
 his conversation whenever topics of intellectual interest 
 were discussed, the plain and solid sense which he threw 
 into his remarks, and the avidity with which he courted 
 the society of all distinguished for literary or political 
 eminence, he was silently, but surely, establishing him- 
 self in esteem as well as popularity, and laying the 
 certain foundation of future honor and success. 
 
 Thus, although he had only been four months re- 
 turned to England, he was already known and courted 
 in every circle, and universally spoken of as among 
 " the most rising young gentlemen " whom fortune and 
 the administration had marked for their own. His his- 
 tory, during the four years in which we have lost sight 
 of him, is briefly told. 
 
 He soon won his way into the good graces of Lord 
 Aspeden, became his private secretary, and occasionally 
 his confidant. Universally admired for his attraction 
 of form and manner, and, though aiming at reputation, 
 not averse to pleasure, he had that position which 
 fashion confers at the Court of , when Lady West-
 
 216 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 borough, and her beautiful daughter, then only seven- 
 teen, came to , in the progress of a Continental 
 
 tour, about a year before his return fco England. Clar- 
 ence and Lady Flora -were naturally brought much to- 
 gether in the restricted circle of a small court, and 
 intimacy soon ripened into attachment. 
 
 Lord Aspcdcn being recalled, Clarence accompanied 
 him to England; and the ex-minister, really liking 
 much one who was so useful to him, had faithfully 
 promised to procure him the office and honor of sec- 
 retary whenever his lordship should be reappointed 
 minister. 
 
 Three intimate acquaintances had Clarence Linden. 
 The one was the Honorable Henry Trollolop, the 
 second Mr. Callythorpe, and the third Sir Christopher 
 Findlater. We will sketch them to you in an instant. 
 Mr. Trollolop was a short, stout gentleman , with a very 
 thoughtful countenance, — that is to say, he wore spec- 
 tacles, and took snuff. Mr. Trollolop — we delight in 
 pronouncing that soft, liquid name — ■ was eminently 
 distinguished by a love of metaphysics. Metaphysics 
 were in a great measure the order of the day ; but fate 
 had endowed Mr. Trollolop with a singular and felici- 
 tous confusion of idea. Reid, Berkeley, Cudworth, 
 Hobbes, all lay jumbled together in most edifying chaos 
 at the bottom of Mr. Trollolop's capacious mind; and 
 whenever he opened his mouth, the imprisoned enemies 
 came rushing and scrambling out, overturning and con- 
 tradicting each other, in a manner quite astounding to 
 the ignorant spectator. Mr. Callythorpe was meagre, 
 thin, sharp, and yellow. Whether from having a great 
 propensity for nailing stray acquaintances, or being par- 
 ticularly heavy company, or from any other cause better 
 known to the wits of the period than to us, he was
 
 THE DISOWNED. 217 
 
 occasionally termed by his friends, the " yellow ham- 
 mer." The peculiar characteristics of this gentleman 
 were his sincerity and friendship. These qualities led 
 him into saying things the most disagreeable, with the 
 civilest and coolest manner in the world , — always pre- 
 facing them with, " You know, my dear so-and-so, I 
 am your true friend." If this proof of amity was now 
 and then productive of altercation, Mr. Callythorpe, 
 who was a great patriot, had another and a nobler plea, 
 -. — " Sir," he would say, putting his hand to his heart, 
 — " sir, I 'm an Englishman: I know not what it is to 
 feign. " Of a very different stamp was Sir Christopher 
 Findlater. Little cared he for the subtleties of the 
 human mind, and not much more for the disagreeable 
 duties of " an Englishman." Honest and jovial, red in 
 the cheeks, empty in the head, born to twelve thousand 
 a yea^ educated in the country, and heir to an earldom, 
 Sir Christopher Findlater piqued himself, notwithstand- 
 ing his worldly advantages, usually so destructive to the 
 kindlier affections, on having the best heart in the 
 world, and this good heart having a very bad head to 
 regulate and support it, was the perpetual cause of error 
 to the owner and evil to the public. 
 
 One evening, when Clarence was alone in his rooms, 
 Mr. Trollolop entered. 
 
 " My dear Linden," said the visitor, " how are you? " 
 
 "I am, as I hope you are, very well," answered 
 Clarence. 
 
 " The human mind," said Trollolop, taking off his 
 greatcoat, — " Sir Christopher Findlater, and Mr. Cally- 
 thorpe, sir," said the valet. 
 
 " Pshaw ! What has Sir Christopher Findlater to do 
 with the human mind? " muttered Mr. Trollolop. 
 
 Sir Christopher entered with a swagger and a laugh.
 
 218 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 " Well, old fellow, how do you do? Deuced cold this 
 
 evening." 
 
 " Though it is an evening in May," observed Clar- 
 ence; "but then, this cursed climate! " 
 
 "Climate!" interrupted Mr. Callythorpe, "it is the 
 best climate in the world; I am an Englishman, and I 
 never abuse my country. 
 
 England, with all thy faults, I love thee still." 
 
 " As to climate," said Trollolop, " there is no climate, 
 neither here nor elsewhere. The climate is in your mind, 
 the chair is in your mind, and the table too, though I 
 daresay you are stupid enough to think the two latter are 
 in the room; the human mind, my dear Findlater — " 
 
 "Don't mind me, Trollolop," cried the baronet, "I 
 can't bear your clever heads; give me a good heart, — 
 that's worth all the heads in the world, d — n me if it 
 is not! Eh, Linden?" 
 
 "Your good heart," cried Trollolop, in a passion (for 
 all your self-called philosophers are a little choleric), — 
 " your good heart is all cant and nonsense, there is no 
 heart at all : we are all mind. " 
 
 "I '11 be hanged if I 'm all mind," said the baronet. 
 
 "At least," quoth Linden, gravely, " no one ever 
 accused you of it before." 
 
 " We are all mind," pursued the reasoner, — " we are 
 all mind, un moxdin a vahonnement. Our ideas are 
 derived from two sources, sensation or memory. That 
 neither our thoughts, nor passions, nor ideas formed by 
 the imagination, exist without the mind, everybody will 
 allow; 1 therefore, you see, the human mind is — in 
 short, there is nothing in the world but the human 
 mind!" 
 
 1 Berkeley : Principles of Human Knoideihje, sect. iii.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 219 
 
 " Xothing could be better demonstrated," said 
 Clarence. 
 
 "I don't believe it," quoth the baronet. 
 
 " But you do believe it, and you must believe it," 
 cried Trollolop; "for, 'the Supreme Being has im- 
 planted within us the principle of credulity,' and there- 
 fore you do believe it." 
 
 " But I don't," cried Sir Cbristopher. 
 
 "You are mistaken," replied the metaphysician, 
 calmly; "because I must speak truth." 
 
 " Why must you, pray 1 " said the baronet. 
 
 " Because," answered Trollolop, taking snuff, " there 
 is a principle of veracity implanted in our nature." 
 
 " I wish I were a metaphysician," said Clarence, with 
 a sigh. 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say so; for you know, my 
 dear Linden," said Callythorpe, "that I am your true 
 friend, and I must therefore tell you that you are shame- 
 fully ignorant. You are not offended 1 " 
 
 " Not at all! " said Clarence, trying to smile. 
 
 " And you, my dear Findlater " (turning to the bar- 
 onet), "you know that I wish you well, — you know 
 that I never flatter, I 'm your real friend, so you must 
 not be angry; but you really are not considered a 
 Solomon." 
 
 " Mr. Callythorpe ! " exclaimed the baronet, in a rage 
 (the best-hearted people can't always bear truth), " what 
 do you mean 1 " 
 
 "You must not be angry, my good sir, — you must 
 not, really. I can't help telling you of your faults; for 
 I am a true Briton, sir, a true Briton, and leave lying to 
 slaves and Frenchmen. " 
 
 " You are in an error," said Trollolop; "Frenchmen 
 don't lie, at least not naturally, for in the human mind,
 
 220 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 as T before said, the Divine Author has implanted a 
 principle of veracity which — " 
 
 " My dear sir," interrupted Callythorpe, very affection- 
 ately, "you remind me of what people say of t/ou." 
 
 " Memory may be reduced to sensation, since it is only 
 a weaker sensation," quoth Trollolop; " but proceed." 
 
 "You know, Trollolop," said Callythorpe, in a sin- 
 gularly endearing intonation of voice, — " you know that 
 I never natter; flattery is unbecoming a true friend, — 
 nay, more, it is unbecoming a native of our happy isles, 
 and people do say of you that you know nothing whatso- 
 ever, no, not an iota, of all that nonsensical, worthless 
 philosophy, of which you are always talking. Lord 
 St. George said the other day ' that you were very con- 
 ceited. ' 'No, not conceited,' replied Dr. , 'only 
 
 ignorant;' so if I were you, Trollolop, I would cut 
 metaphysics, — you 're not offended 1 " 
 
 "By no means," cried Trollolop, foaming at the 
 mouth. 
 
 " For my part," said the good-hearted Sir Christopher, 
 whose wrath had now subsided, rubbing his hands, — 
 " for my part, I see no good in any of those things. I 
 never read, — never, — and I don't see how I 'm a bit 
 the worse for it. A good man, Linden, in my opinion, 
 only wants to do his duty, and that is very easily done." 
 
 " A good man ! — and what is good 1 " cried the meta- 
 physician, triumphantly. "Is it implanted within us? 
 Hobbes, according to K,eid, who is our last and con- 
 sequently best philosopher, endeavors to demonstrate 
 that there is no difference between right and wrong." 
 
 " I have no idea of what you mean," cried Sir 
 Christopher. 
 
 "Idea!" exclaimed the pious philosopher. "Sir 
 give me leave to tell you that no solid proof has ever
 
 THE DISOWNED. 221 
 
 been advanced of the existence of ideas ; they are a mere 
 fiction and hypothesis. Nay, sir, ' hence arises that 
 scepticism which disgraces our philosophy of the mind. ' 
 Ideas! — Findlater, you are a sceptic and an idealist." 
 
 "II" cried the affrighted baronet ; " upon my honor 
 I am no such thing. Everybody knows that I am a 
 Christian, and — " 
 
 "Ah! " interrupted Callythorpe, with a solemn look, 
 " everybody knows that you are not one of those horrid 
 persons, — those atrocious deists and atheists and scep- 
 tics from whom the church and freedom of old Eng- 
 land have suffered such danger. I am a true Briton 
 of the good old school; and I confess, Mr. Trollolop, 
 that I do not like to hear any opinions but the right 
 ones. " 
 
 " Right ones, being only those which Mr. Callythorpe 
 professes," said Clarence. 
 
 " Exactly so ! " rejoined Mr. Callythorpe. 
 
 "The human mind — " commenced Mr. Trollolop, 
 stirring the fire; when Clarence, who began to be some- 
 what tired of this conversation, rose. " You will excuse 
 me," said he, "but I am particularly engaged, and it is 
 time to dress. Harrison will get you tea, or whatever 
 else you are inclined for. " 
 
 " The human mind — " renewed Trollolop, not heed- 
 ing the interruption; and Clarence forthwith left the 
 room.
 
 222 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 Yon blame Martins for being proud. — Coriolanug. 
 
 Here is another fellow, a marvellous pretty hand at fashioning a 
 compliment. — The Tanner of Tybum. 
 
 There was a brilliant ball at Lady T 's, a person- 
 age who, every one knows, did, in the year 17 — , give 
 the best balls, and have the best-dressed people at them, 
 in London. It was about half-past twelve when Clar- 
 ence, released from his three friends, arrived at the 
 countess's. When he entered, the first thing which 
 struck him was Lord Borodaile in close conversation 
 with Lady Flora. 
 
 Clarence paused for a few moments, and then, saun- 
 tering towards them, caught Flora's eye, colored, and 
 advanced. Noav, if there was a haughty man in Europe, 
 it was Lord Borodaile. He was not proud of his birth 
 or fortune, but he was proud of himself; and, next to 
 that pride, he was proud of being a gentleman. He had 
 an exceeding horror of all common people, — a Claver- 
 house-sort of supreme contempt to " puddle blood." His 
 lip seemed to wear scorn as a garment; a lofty and stern 
 self-admiration, rather than self-love, sat upon his fore- 
 head as on a throne. He had, as it were, an awe of 
 himself; his thoughts were so many mirrors of Viscount 
 Borodaile, dressed en dieu. His mind was a little Ver- 
 sailles, in which self sat like Louis XIV., and saw 
 nothing but pictures of its self , sometimes as Jupiter, 
 and sometimes as Apollo. What marvel, then, that 
 Lord Borodaile was a very unpleasant companion; for
 
 THE DISOWNED. 223 
 
 every human "being he had " something of contempt. " 
 His eye was always eloquent in disdaining: to the ple- 
 heian it said, " You are not a gentleman; " to the prince, 
 " You are not Lord Borodaile." 
 
 Yet, with all this, he had his good points. He was 
 brave as a lion, strictly honorable, and, though very 
 ignorant and very self-sufficient, had that sort of dogged 
 good sense which one very often finds in men of stern 
 hearts, who, if they have many prejudices, have little 
 feeling to overcome. 
 
 Very stiffly and very haughtily did Lord Borodaile 
 draw up when Clarence approached and addressed Lady 
 Flora; much more stiffly and much more haughtily 
 did he return, though with old-fashioned precision of 
 courtesy, Clarence's bow, when Lady Westborough in- 
 troduced them to each other. Not that this hauteur 
 was intended as a particular affront; it was only the 
 agreeability of his lordship's general manner. 
 
 " Are you engaged 1 " said Clarence to Flora. 
 
 " I am, at present, to Lord Borodaile." 
 
 " After him, may I hope? " 
 
 Lady Flora nodded assent, and disappeared with Lord 
 Borodaile. 
 
 His Royal Highness the Duke of came up to 
 
 Lady Westborough; and Clarence, with a smiling coun- 
 tenance and an absent heart, plunged into the crowd. 
 There he met Lord Aspeden, in conversation with the 
 Earl of Holdenworth, one of the administration. 
 
 "Ah, Linden! " said the diplomatist, "let me intro- 
 duce you to Lord Holdenworth, — a clever young man, 
 my dear lord, and plays the flute beautifully." With 
 this eulogium, Lord Aspeden glided away; and Lord 
 Holdenworth, after some conversation with Linden, hon- 
 ored him by an invitation to dinner the next day.
 
 224 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 T is true his nature may with faults abound j 
 But who will cavil when the heart is sound ! 
 
 Stephen Montagde. 
 
 Dum vitant stulti vitia, in contraria currunt. 1 — Hor. 
 
 The next day Sir Christopher Findlater called on 
 Clarence. " Let us lounge into the park," said he. 
 
 " With pleasure," replied Clarence; and into the park 
 they lounged. 
 
 By the way they met a crowd, who were hurrying a 
 man to prison. The good-hearted Sir Christopher 
 stopped: " Who is that poor fellow? " said he. 
 
 " It is the celebrated " (in England all criminals are 
 celebrated. Thurtell was a hero, Thistlewood a patriot, 
 and Fauntleroy was discovered to be exactly like Buona- 
 parte! ), — " it is the celebrated robber, John Jefleries, 
 who broke into Mrs. Wilson's house, and cut the throats 
 of herself and her husband, wounded the maid-servant, 
 and split the child's skull with the poker." 
 
 Clarence pressed forward : " 1 have seen that man be- 
 fore," thought he. He looked again, and recognized 
 the face of the robber Avho had escaped from Talbot's 
 house, on the eventful night which had made Clarence's 
 fortune. It was a strongly-marked and rather handsome 
 countenance, wbich would not be easily forgotten; and 
 a single circumstance of excitement will stamp features 
 on the memory as deeply as the commonplace inter- 
 course of years. 
 
 J The foolish while avoiding vice run into the opposite extremes.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 225 
 
 "John Jefferies!" exclaimed the baronet, "let us 
 come away. 
 
 "Linden," continued Sir Christopher, "that fellow 
 was my servant once. He robbed me to some consid- 
 erable extent. I caught him. He appealed to my 
 heart, and you know, my dear fellow, that was irresis- 
 tible, so I let him off. Who could have thought he 
 would have turned out so 1 " And the baronet proceeded 
 to eulogize his own good-nature, by which it is just 
 necessary to remark that one miscreant had been saved 
 for a few years from transportation, in order to rob and 
 murder ad libitum, and having fulfilled the office of a 
 common pest, to suffer on the gallows at last. What a 
 fine thing it is to have a good heart! 
 
 Both our gentlemen now sunk into a reverie, from 
 which they were awakened, at the entrance of the park, 
 by a young man in rags, who, with a piteous tone, sup- 
 plicated charity. Clarence, who, to his honor be it 
 spoken, had spent an allotted and considerable part of 
 his income in judicious and laborious benevolence, and 
 had read a little of political morals, then beginning to 
 be understood, walked on. The good-hearted baronet 
 put his hand in his pocket and gave the beggar half 
 a guinea, by which a young, strong man, who had only 
 just commenced the trade, was confirmed in his im- 
 position for the rest of his life, and, instead of the 
 useful support, became the pernicious encumbrance of 
 society. 
 
 Sir Christopher had now recovered his spirits. 
 " What 's like a good action 1 " said he to Clarence, with 
 a swelling breast. 
 
 The park was crowded to excess; our loungers were 
 joined by Lord St. George. His lordship was a stanch 
 Tory. He could not endure Wilkes, liberty, or general 
 
 VOL. I. — 15
 
 226 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 education. He launched out against the enlightenment 
 of domestics. 1 
 
 " What has made you so bitter? " said Sir Christopher. 
 
 "My valet," cried Lord St. George, — "he has in- 
 vented a new toasting-fork, is going to take out a patent, 
 make his fortune, and leave me ; that \s what 1 call in- 
 gratitude, Sir Christopher; for I ordered his wages to be 
 raised five pounds but last year." 
 
 " It tvas very ungrateful," said the ironical Clarence. 
 
 " Very! " reiterated the good-hearted Sir Christopher. 
 
 " You cannot recommend me a valet, Findlater," re- 
 newed his lordship, " a good, honest, sensible fellow, 
 who can neither read nor write 1 " 
 
 "N-o-o; that is to say, yes! I can; my old ser- 
 vant, Collard, is out of place, and is as ignorant as — 
 as — " 
 
 "I — or you are 1 " said Lord St. George, with a laugh. 
 
 " Precisely," replied the baronet. 
 
 " Well, then, I take your recommendation; send him 
 to me to-morrow at twelve." 
 
 " I will," said Sir Christopher. 
 
 "My dear Findlater," cried Clarence, when Lord St. 
 George was gone; " did you not tell me, some time ago, 
 that Collard was a great rascal, and very intimate with 
 Jetieries 1 — and now you recommend him to Lord St. 
 George!" 
 
 "Hush, hush, hush! " said the baronet; "he was a 
 great rogue to be sure; but, poor fellow, he came to me 
 
 1 The ancestors of our present footmen, if we may believe Sir 
 "William Temple, seem to have beeu to the full as intellectual as 
 their descendants. " I have had," observes the philosophic states- 
 man, "several servants far <rone, in divinity, others in poetry, have 
 known in the families of some friends, a keeper deep in the Ltosi- 
 crucian mysteries, aud a laundress linn in those of Epicurus."
 
 THE DISOWNED. 227 
 
 yesterday, with tears in his eyes, and said he should 
 starve if I would not give him a character; so what 
 could I do 1 " 
 
 " At least, tell Lord St. George the truth," observed 
 Clarence. 
 
 "But then Lord St. George would not take him!" 
 rejoined the good-hearted Sir Christopher, with forcible 
 naivete. " No, no, Linden, we must not be so hard- 
 hearted: we must forgive and forget;" and, so saying, 
 the baronet threw out his chest with the conscious ex- 
 ultation of a man who has uttered a noble sentiment. 
 The moral of this little history is, that Lord St. George, 
 having been pillaged " through thick and thin," as the 
 proverb has it, for two years, at last missed a gold watch, 
 and Monsieur Collard finished his career as his exem- 
 plary tutor, Mr. John Jefferies, had done before him. 
 Ah ! what a fine thing it is to have a good heart. 
 
 But to return: just as our wanderers had arrived at 
 the farther end of the park, Lady Westborough and her 
 daughter passed them. Clarence, excusing himself to 
 his friend, hastened towards them, and was soon occu- 
 pied in saying the prettiest things in the world to the 
 prettiest person, at least in his eyes; while Sir Chris- 
 topher, having done as much mischief as a good heart 
 well can do in a walk of an hour, returned home to 
 write a long letter to his mother, against " learning, and 
 all such nonsense, which only served to blunt the affec- 
 tions and harden the heart. " 
 
 " Admirable young man! " cried the mother, with 
 tears in her eyes. " A good heart is better than all 
 the heads in the world." 
 
 Amen.
 
 228 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 " Make way, Sir Geoffrey Peveril, or you will compel me to do 
 that I may be sorry for ! " 
 
 "You shall make no way here hut at your peril," said Sir 
 Geoffrey ; " this is my ground." — Peveril of the Peak. 
 
 One night, on returning home from a party at Lady 
 Westhorough's, in Hanover Square, Clarence observed 
 a man before him walking with an uneven and agitated 
 step. His right hand was clenched, and he frequently 
 raised it as with a sudden impulse, and struck fiercely 
 as if at some imagined enemy. 
 
 The stranger slackened his pace. Clarence passed 
 him, and turning round to satisfy the idle curiosity 
 which the man's eccentric gestures had provoked, his 
 eye met a dark, lowering, iron countenance, which, de- 
 spite the lapse of four years, ho recognized on the mo- 
 ment, — it was Wolfe, the republican. 
 
 Clarence moved, involuntarily, with a quicker step; 
 but in a few minutes, Wolfe, who was vehemently talk- 
 ing to himself, once more passed him: the direction he 
 took was also Clarence's way homeward, and he there- 
 fore followed the republican, though at some slight dis- 
 tance, and on the opposite side of the way. A gentle- 
 man on foot, apparently returning from a party, met 
 Wolfe, and, with an air, half haughty, half unconscious, 
 took the wall; though, according to old-fashioned rules 
 of street courtesy, he was on the wrong side for asserting 
 the claim. The stern republican started, drew himself 
 up to his full height, and sturdily and doggedly placed
 
 THE DISOWNED. 229 
 
 himself directly in the way of the unjust claimant. 
 Clarence was now nearly opposite to the two, and saw 
 all that was going on. 
 
 With a motion, a little rude and very contemptuous, 
 the passenger attempted to put Wolfe aside, and win his 
 path. Little did he know of the unyielding nature he 
 had to do with ; the next instant the republican, with a 
 strong hand, forced him from the pavement into the 
 very kennel, and silently and coldly continued his way. 
 
 The wrath of the discomfited passenger was vehemently 
 kindled. 
 
 " Insolent dog," cried he, in a loud and arrogant tone, 
 "your baseness is your protection." Wolfe turned 
 rapidly, and made but two strides before he was once 
 more by the side of his defeated opponent. 
 
 "What did you say 1 ?" he asked, in his low, deep, 
 hoarse voice. 
 
 Clarence stopped. " There will be mischief done 
 here," thought he, as he called to mind the stern tem- 
 per of the republican. 
 
 " Merely," said the other, struggling with his rage, 
 " that it is not for men of my rank to avenge the insults 
 offered us by those of yours ! " 
 
 " Your rank," said Wolfe, bitterly retorting the con- 
 tempt of the stranger, in a tone of the loftiest disdain, 
 
 — "your rank, poor changeling! And what are you, 
 that you should lord it over me 1 ? Are your limbs 
 stronger, your muscles firmer, your proportions juster, 
 your mind acuter, your conscience clearer? Fool, fool, 
 
 — go home and measure yourself with lackies! " 
 
 The republican ceased, and pushing the stranger 
 aside, turned slowly away. But this last insult enraged 
 the passenger beyond all prudence. Before Wolfe had 
 proceeded two paces, he muttered a desperate but brief
 
 230 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 oath, and struck the reformer with a strength so much 
 beyond what his figure (which was small and slight) 
 appeared to possess, that the powerful and gaunt frame 
 of Wolfe recoiled backward several steps, and had it 
 not been for the iron railing of the neighboring area, 
 would have fallen to the ground. 
 
 Clarence pressed forward: the face of the rash aggressor 
 was turned towards him ; the features were Lord Boro- 
 daile's. He had scarcely time to make this discovery, 
 before Wolfe had recovered himself. With a wild and 
 savage cry, rather than exclamation, he threw himself 
 upon his antagonist, twined his sinewy arms round the 
 frame of the struggling, but powerless, nobleman, raised 
 him in the air, with the easy strength of a man lifting 
 a child, held him aloft for one moment, with a bitter 
 and scornful laugh of wrathful derision, and then dashed 
 him to the ground, and, planting his foot upon Boro- 
 daile's breast, said, — ■ 
 
 " So shall it be with all of you: there shall be but 
 one instant between your last offence and your first but 
 final debasement. Lie there! it is your proper place! 
 By the only law which you yourself acknowledge, the 
 law which gives the right divine to the strongest, if you 
 stir limb or muscle, I will crush the breath from your 
 body!" 
 
 But Clarence was now by the side of Wolfe, a new 
 and more powerful opponent. 
 
 "Look you," said he: " you have received an insult, 
 and you have done justice yourself. I condemn the 
 offence , and quarrel not with you for the punishment ; but 
 that punishment is now past. Remove your foot, or — " 
 
 " What! " shouted Wolfe, fiercely, his lurid and vin- 
 dictive eye flashing with the released fire of long-pent 
 and cherished passions.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 231 
 
 " Or," answered Clarence, calmly, " I will hinder you 
 from committing murder." 
 
 At that instant the watchman's voice was heard, and 
 the night's guardian himself was seen hastening from the 
 far end of the street towards the place of contest. 
 Whether this circumstance, or Clarence's answer, some- 
 what changed the current of the repuhlican's thoughts, 
 or whether his anger, suddenly raised, was now as 
 suddenly subsiding, it is not easy to decide; but he 
 slowly and deliberately moved his foot from the breast 
 of his baffled foe, and, bending down, seemed endeavor- 
 ing to ascertain the mischief he had done. Lord Boro- 
 daile was perfectly insensible. 
 
 " You have killed him! " cried Clarence, in a voice of 
 horror, " but you shall not escape ; " and he placed a 
 desperate and nervous hand on the republican. 
 
 " Stand off," said Wolfe, " my blood is up! I would 
 not do more violence to-night than I have done. Stand 
 off! the man moves; see! " 
 
 And Lord Borodaile, uttering a long sigh, and at- 
 tempting to rise, Clarence released his hold of the repub- 
 lican, and bent down to assist the fallen nobleman. 
 Meanwhile, Wolfe, muttering to himself, turned from 
 the spot, and strode haughtily away. 
 
 The watchman now came up, and, with his aid, 
 Clarence raised Lord Borodaile. Bruised, stunned, 
 half insensible as he was, that personage lost none of 
 his characteristic stateliness; he shook off the watch- 
 man's arm, as if there was contamination in the touch; 
 and his countenance, still menacing and defying in its 
 expression, turned abruptly towards Clarence, as if he 
 yet expected to meet, and struggle with a foe. 
 
 " How are you, my lord 1 " said Linden ; " not severely 
 hurt, I trust 1 "
 
 232 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 " Well, quite well," cried Borodaile. " Mr. Linden, 
 
 I think? — I thank you cordially for your assistance; 
 but the dog, — the rascal, — where is he? " 
 
 " Gone," said Clarence. 
 
 "Gone! Where, -where?" cried Borodaile; "that 
 living man should insult me, and yet escape! " 
 
 " \Vhicli way did the fellow go?" said the watch- 
 man, anticipative of half a crown. " I will run after 
 him in a trice, your honor, — /warrant I nab him." 
 
 "No — no," said Borodaile, haughtily; "I leave my 
 quarrels to no man ; if I could not master him myself, 
 no one else shall do it for me. Mr. Linden, excuse me, 
 but T am perfectly recovered, and can walk very well 
 without your polite assistance. Mr. Watchman, I am 
 obliged to you; there is a guinea to reward your 
 trouble." 
 
 With these words, intended as a farewell, the proud 
 patrician, smothering his pain, bowed with extreme 
 courtesy to Clarence, again thanked him, and walked 
 on unaided and alone. 
 
 " He is a game blood," said the watchman, pocketing 
 the guinea. 
 
 " He is worthy his name," thought Clarence; " though 
 he was in the wrong, my heart yearns to him."
 
 THE DISOWNED. 233 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Things wear a vizard which I think to like not. 
 
 Tanner of Tyburn. 
 
 Clarence, from that night, appeared to have formed a 
 sudden attachment to Lord Borodaile. He took every 
 opportunity of cultivating his intimacy, and invariably 
 treated him with a degree of consideration which his 
 knowledge of the world told him was well calculated 
 to gain the goodwill of his haughty and arrogant ac- 
 quaintance; but all this was ineffectual in conquering 
 Borodaile's coldness and reserve. To have been once 
 seen in a humiliating and degrading situation is quite 
 sufficient to make a proud man hate the spectator, and, 
 with the confusion of all prejudiced minds, to transfer 
 the sore remembrance of the event to the association of 
 the witness. Lord Borodaile, though always ceremo- 
 niously civil, was immovably distant, and avoided, as 
 well as he was able, Clarence's insinuating approaches 
 and address. To add to his indisposition to increase 
 his acquaintance with Linden , a friend of his, a captain 
 in the Guards, once asked him who that Mr. Linden 
 was; and on his lordship replying that he did nov. 
 know, Mr. Percy Bobus, the son of a wine-merchant, 
 though the nephew of a duke, rejoined, "Nobody aoes 
 know. " 
 
 " Insolent intruder! " thought Lord Borodaile ; " a man 
 whom nobody knows to make such advances to me ! ' 
 
 A still greater cause of dislike to Clarence arose from 
 jealousy. Ever since the first night of his acquaintance
 
 234 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 with Lady Flora, Lord Borodaile had paid her unceasing 
 attention. In good earnest, he was greatly struck by her 
 beauty, and had for the last year meditated the necessity 
 of presenting the world with a Lady Borodaile. Now, 
 though his lordship did look upon himself in as favor- 
 able a light as a man well can do, yet he could not but 
 own that Clarence was very handsome, had a devilish 
 gentleman-like air, talked with a better grace than the 
 generality of young men, and danced to perfection. " I 
 detest that fellow! " said Lord Borodaile, involuntarily 
 and aloud, as these unwilling truths forced themselves 
 upon his mind. 
 
 " Whom do you detest 1 " asked Mr. Percy Bobus, 
 who was lying on the sofa in Lord Borodaile 's drawing- 
 room, and admiring a pair of red-heeled shoes which 
 decorated his feet. 
 
 " That puppy, Linden! " said Lord Borodaile, adjust- 
 ing his cravat. 
 
 "He is a deuced puppy, certainly!" rejoined Mr. 
 Percy Bobus, turning round in order to contemplate 
 more exactly the shape of his right shoe. " I can't bear 
 conceit, Borodaile. " 
 
 "Nor I: I abhor it, — it is so d — d disgusting!" 
 replied Lord Borodaile, leaning his chin upon his two 
 hands, and looking full into the glass. " Do you use 
 MacNeile's divine pomatum?" 
 
 "No, it's too hard; I get mine from Paris. Shall I 
 send you some 1 " 
 
 " Do," said Lord Borodaile. 
 
 "Mr. Linden, my lord," said the servant, throwing 
 open the door; and Clarence entered. 
 
 " I am very fortunate," said he, with that smile which 
 so few ever resisted, " to find you at home, Lord Boro- 
 daile; but as the day was wet, I thought I should have
 
 THE DISOWNED. 235 
 
 some chance of that pleasure ; I therefore wrapped my- 
 self up in my roquelaure and here I am ! " 
 
 Now, nothing could be more diplomatic than the com- 
 pliment of choosing a wet day for a visit, and exposing 
 one's self to the " pitiless shower," for the greater 
 probability of finding the person visited at home. Not 
 so thought Lord Borodaile; he drew himself up, bowed 
 very solemnly, and said, with cold gravity, — 
 
 " You are very obliging, Mr. Linden." 
 
 Clarence colored, and bit his lip as he seated himself. 
 Mr. Percy Bobus, with true insular breeding, took up 
 the newspaper. 
 
 "I think I saw you at Lady C.'s last night," said 
 Clarence ; " did you stay there long 1 " 
 
 "No, indeed," answered Borodaile; "I hate her 
 parties." 
 
 " One does meet such odd people there," observed Mr. 
 Percy Bobus ; " creatures one never sees anywhere else. " 
 
 "I hear," said Clarence, who never abused any one, 
 even the givers of stupid parties, if he could help it, and 
 therefore thought it best to change the conversation , — 
 " I hear, Lord Borodaile, that some hunters of yours are 
 to be sold. I purpose being a bidder for Thunderbolt. " 
 
 "I have a horse to sell you, Mr. Linden," cried Mr. 
 Percy Bobus, springing from the sofa into civility; " a 
 superb creature." 
 
 "Thank you," said Clarence, laughing; "but I can 
 only afford to buy one, and I have taken a great fancy to 
 Thunderbolt." 
 
 Lord Borodaile, whose manners were very antiquated 
 in their affability, bowed. Mr. Bobus sank back into 
 his sofa and resumed the paper. 
 
 A pause ensued. Clarence was chilled in spite of 
 himself. Lord Borodaile played with a paper-cutter.
 
 236 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 "Have you been to Lady Westborough's lately?" 
 said Clarence, breaking silence. 
 
 " I was there last night," replied Lord Borodaile. 
 
 " Indeed ! " cried Clarence. " I wonder I did not see 
 you there, for I dined with them." 
 
 Lord Borodaile 's hair curled of itself. " He dined 
 there, and I only asked in the evening," thought he; 
 but his sarcastic temper suggested a very different reply. 
 
 "Ah," said he, elevating his eyebrows, " Lady West- 
 borough told me she had had some people to dinner, 
 whom she had been obliged to ask. Bobus, is that the 
 ' Public Advertiser ' % See whether that d— cl fellow 
 Junius has been writing any more of his venomous 
 letters. " 
 
 Clarence was not a man apt to take offence, but he 
 felt his bile rise, — " It will not do to show it," thought 
 he ; so he made some further remark in a jesting vein ; 
 and after a very ill-sustained conversation of some 
 minutes longer, rose, apparently in the best humor 
 possible, and departed, with a solemn intention never 
 again to enter the house. Thence he went to Lady 
 Westborough's. 
 
 The marchioness was in her boudoir. Clarence was, 
 as usual, admitted; for Lady Westborough loved amuse- 
 ment above all things in the world, and Clarence had 
 the art of affording it better than any young man of her 
 acquaintance. On entering, he saw Lady Flora hastily 
 retreating through an opposite door. She turned her 
 face towards him for one moment, — that moment was 
 sufficient to freeze his blood ; the large tears were roll- 
 ing down her cheeks, which were as white as death, and 
 the expression of those features, usually so laughing and 
 joyous, was that of utter and ineffable despair. 
 
 Lady Westborough was as lively, as bland, and as
 
 THE DISOWNED. 237 
 
 agreeable as ever; but Clarence thought he detected 
 something restrained and embarrassed lurking beneath 
 all the graces of her exterior manner; and the single 
 glance he had caught of the j)ale and altered face of 
 Lady Flora was not calculated to reassure his mind or 
 animate his spirits. His visit was short ; when he left 
 the room, he lingered for a few moments in the ante- 
 chamber, in the hope of again seeing Lady Flora. 
 While thus loitering, his ear caught the sound of Lady 
 Westborough's voice: "When Mr. Linden calls again, 
 you have my orders never to admit him into this room ; 
 he will be shown into the drawing-room." 
 
 With a hasty step and a burning cheek Clarence 
 quitted the house, and hurried, first to his solitary apart- 
 ments, and thence, impatient of loneliness, to the peace- 
 ful retreat of his benefactor.
 
 238 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 A maiden's thoughts do check my trembling hand. — Drayton. 
 
 *&• 
 
 There is something very delightful in turning from 
 the unquietness and agitation, the fever, the ambition, 
 the harsh and worldly realities of man's character, to the 
 gentle and deep recesses of woman's more secret heart. 
 Within her musings is a realm of haunted and fairy 
 thought, to which the things of this turbid and troubled 
 life have no entrance. What to her are the changes of 
 state, the rivalries and contentions which form the staple 
 of our existence 1 For her there is an intense and fond 
 philosophy, before whose eye substances flit and fade 
 like shadows, and shadows grow glowingly into truth. 
 Her soul's creations are not as the moving and mortal 
 images seen in the common day: they are things, like 
 spirits steeped in the dim moonlight, heard when all 
 else are still, and busy when earth's laborers are at rest. 
 
 They are 
 
 Such stuff 
 As dreams are made of, and their little life 
 Is rounded by a sleep. 
 
 Hers is the real and uncentred poetry of being, which 
 pervades and surrounds her as with an air, which peoples 
 her visions and animates her love, which shrinks from 
 earth into itself, and finds marvel and meditation in all 
 that it beholds within, and which spreads even over the 
 heaven in whose faith she so ardently believes, the 
 mystery and the tenderness of romance.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 239 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 FROM LADY FLORA ARDENNE TO MISS ELEANOR TREVANION. 
 
 You say that I have not written to you so punctually of late 
 as I used to do hei'ore I came to Loudon, and you impute my 
 negligence to the gayeties and pleasures by which I am sur- 
 rounded. Eh bien ! mj r dear Eleanor, could you have thought 
 of a better excuse for me ? You know how fond we — ay, 
 dearest, you as well as I — used to be of dancing, and how 
 earnestly we were wont, to anticipate those children's balls at 
 my uncle's, which were the only ones we were ever permitted 
 to attend. I found a stick the. other day on which I had cut 
 seven notches, significant of seven days more to the next ball, 
 
 — we reckoned time by balls then, and danced chronologically. 
 Well, my dear Eleanor, here I am now, brought out, tolerablv 
 well-behaved, only not dignified enough, according to mamma, 
 
 — as fond of laughing, talking, and dancing as ever; and yet, 
 do you know, a ball, though still very delightful, is far from 
 being the most important event in creation ; its anticipation 
 does not keep me awake of a night ; and, what is more to the 
 purpose, its recollection does not make me lock up my writing- 
 desk, burn my portefeuille, and forget you, all of which you 
 seem to imagine it has been able to effect. 
 
 No, dearest Eleanor, you are mistaken ; for were she twice 
 as giddy, and ten times as volatile as she is, your own Flora 
 could never, never forget you, nor the happy hours we have 
 spent together, nor the pretty goldfinches we had in common, 
 nor the little Scotch duets we used to sing together, nor our 
 longings to change them into Italian, nor our disappointment 
 when we did so, nor our laughter at Signior Shrikalini, nor 
 our tears when poor, darling Bijou died. And do you remem- 
 ber, dearest, the charming green lawn where we used to play 
 together, and plan tricks for your governess ? She was very, 
 very cross ; though, I think, we were a little to blame too. 
 However, I was much the worst ! And pray, Eleanor, don't 
 you remember how we used to like being called pretty, and 
 told of the conquests we should make ! Do you like all that
 
 240 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 now ? For my part, I am tired of it, — at least from the gen- 
 erality of one's flatterers. 
 
 Ah ! Eleanor, or " heigho! " as the young ladies in novels 
 
 write, do you remember Low jealous I was of you at , and 
 
 how spiteful 1 was, and how you were an angel, and bore with 
 me, and kissed me, and told me that — that I had nothing to 
 tear ] Well, Clar — , I mean Mr. Linden, is now iu town, and 
 
 so popular, and so admired ! I wish we were at again, 
 
 for there we saw him every day, and now we don't meet more 
 than three times a week; and though I like hearing him praised 
 above all things, yet I feel very uncomfortable when that 
 praise comes from very, very pretty women. 1 wish we were 
 
 at again I Mamma, who is looking more beautiful than 
 
 ever, is very kind ! She says nothing, to be sure, but she must 
 see how — that is to say — she must know that — that I — I 
 mean that Clarence is very attentive to me, and that I blush 
 and look exceedingly silly whenever he is ; and, therefore, I 
 suppose that whenever Clarence thinks fit to ask me, I shall 
 not be under the necessity of getting up at six o'clock, and 
 travelling to Gretna Green, through that odious North Road, 
 up the Highgate Hill, and over Finchley Common. 
 
 "But when Mill he ask you?" My dearest Eleanor, that 
 is more than I can say. To tell you the truth, there is some- 
 thing about Linden which I cannot thoroughly understand. 
 They say he is nephew and heir to the Mr. Talbot whom you 
 may have heard papa talk of; but if so, why the hints, the 
 insinuations, of not being what he seems, which Clarence per- 
 petually throws out, and which only excite my interest with- 
 out gratifying my curiosity ? " It is not," he has said, more 
 than once, "as an obscure adventurer that I will claim your 
 love :" and if I venture, which is very seldom (for I am a 
 little afraid of him), to question his meaning, he either sinks 
 into utter silence, for which, if I had loved according to book, 
 and not so naturally, I should be very angry with him, or 
 twist his words into another signification, such as that he 
 would not claim me till he had become something higher and 
 nobler than he is now. Alas, my dear Eleanor, it takes a long 
 time to make an ambassador out of an attache.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 241 
 
 See now if you reproached me justly with scanty correspon- 
 dences. If I write a line more, I must begin a new sheet, and 
 that will be beyond the power of a frank, — a thing which 
 would, I know, break the heart of your dear, good, generous, 
 but a little too prudent aunt, and irrevocably ruin me in her 
 esteem. So God bless you, dearest Eleanor, and believe me 
 
 most affectionately yours, 
 
 Flora Ardenne. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 Pray, dearest Eleanor, does that good aunt of yours — now, 
 don't frown, I am not going to speak disrespectfully of her — 
 ever take a liking to young gentlemen whom you detest, and 
 insist upon the fallacy of your opinion, and the unerring recti- 
 tude of hers I If so, you can pity and comprehend my grief. 
 Mamma has formed quite an attachment to a very disagreeable 
 person ! He is Lord Borodaile, the eldest, and, I believe, the 
 only son of Lord Ulswater. Perhaps you may have met him 
 abroad, for he has been a great traveller ; his family is among 
 the most ancient in England, and his father's estate covers half 
 a county. All this mamma tells me, with the most earnest air 
 in the world, whenever I declaim upon his impertinence or 
 disagreeabUity (is there such a word I there ought to be). 
 " Well," said I to-day, " what 's that to me ? " " It may he a 
 great deal to you," replied mamma, significantly, and the blood 
 rushed from my face to my heart. She could not, Eleanor, 
 she could not mean, after all hev kindness to Clarence, and iu 
 spite of all her penetration into my heart, — oh, no, no ; she 
 could not. How terribly suspicious this love makes one ! 
 
 But if I disliked Lord Borodaile at first, I have hated him 
 of late; for, somehow or other, he is always in the way. If 
 I see Clarence hastening through the crowd to ask me to dance, 
 at that very instant up steps Lord Borodaile with his cold, 
 changeless face, and his haughty, old-fashioned bow, and his 
 abominable dark complexion; and mamma smiles; and he 
 hopes he finds me disengaged ; and I am hurried off, — and 
 
 VOL. I. — 16
 
 242 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 poor Clarence looks so disappointed and so wretched ! You 
 have no idea how ill-tempered this makes me. I could not 
 help asking Lord Borodaile, yesterday, if he was never going 
 abroad again; and the hateful creature played with his cravat, 
 and answered "Never!" I was in hopes that ray sullenness 
 would drive his lordship away ; tout au contraire, " Nothing," 
 said he to me the other day, when he was in full pout, — 
 " nothing is so plebeian as good-humor ! " 
 
 I wish then, Eleanor, that he could see your governess; she 
 must he majesty itself in his eyes! 
 
 Ah, dearest, how we belie ourselves. At this moment, when 
 you might think, from the, idle, rattling, silly flow of my letter, 
 that my heart was as light and free as it was when we used to 
 play on the green lawn, and under the sunny trees, in the 
 merry days of our childhood, the tears are running down my 
 cheeks; see where they have fallen on the page, and my head 
 throbs as if my thoughts were too full and heavy for it to con- 
 tain. It is past one ! I am alone, and in my own room. 
 
 Mamma is gone to a rout at H House ; but I knew I 
 
 should not meet Clarence there, and so I said I was ill, and 
 remained at home. I have done so often of late, whenever I 
 have learned from him that he was not going to the same place 
 as mamma. Indeed, I love much better to sit alone and think 
 over his words and looks ; and I have drawn, after repeated 
 attempts, a profile likeness of him; and oh, Eleanor, I cannot 
 tell you how dear it is to me ; and yet there is not a line, not 
 a look of his countenance which I have not learned by heart, 
 without such useless aids to my memory. But I am ashamed 
 of telling you all this, and my eyes ache so, that I can write 
 no more. 
 
 Ever, as ever, dearest Eleanor, your affectionate friend. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 Eleanor, I am undone ! My mother — my mother has been 
 so cruel ; but she cannot, she cannot intend it, or she knows 
 very little of my heart. With some, ties may be as easily
 
 THE DISOWNED. 243 
 
 broken as formed ; with others they are twined around life 
 itself. 
 
 Clarence dined with us yesterday, and was unusually ani- 
 mated and agreeable. He was engaged on business with Lord 
 Aspeden afterwards, and left us early. We had a few people 
 in the evening, Lord Borodaile among the rest ; and my 
 mother spoke of Clarence, and his relationship to, and expec- 
 tations from, Mr. Talbot. Lord Borodaile sneered; "You are 
 mistaken," said he, sarcastically; " Mr. Linden may feel it con- 
 venient to give out that he is related to so old a family as the 
 Talbots ; and since Heaven ouly knows who or what he is, 
 he may as well claim alliance with one person as another; but 
 he is certainly not the nephew of Mr. Talbot of Scarsdale Park, 
 for that gentleman had no sisters, and but one brother, who 
 left an only daughter; that daughter had also but one child, 
 certainly no relation to Mr. Linden. I can vouch for the 
 truth of this statement ; for the Talbots are related to, or are 
 at least nearly connected with myself; and I thank Heaven 
 that I have a pedigree, even in its collateral branches, worth 
 learning by heart." And then Lord Borodaile — I little 
 thought, when I railed against him, what serious cause I should 
 have to hate him — turned to me, and harassed me with his 
 tedious attentions the whole of the evening. 
 
 This morning mamma sent for me into her boudoir. " I 
 have observed," said she, with the greatest indifference, " that 
 Mr. Linden has, of late, been much too particular in his man- 
 ner towards you, — your foolish and undue familiarity with 
 every one has perhaps given him encouragement. After the 
 gross imposition which Lord Borodaile exposed to us last night, 
 I cannot but consider the young man as a mere adventurer, 
 and must not only insist on your putting a total termination 
 to civilities, which we must henceforth consider presumption, 
 but I myself shall consider it incumbent upon me greatly to 
 limit the advances he has thought proper to make towards my 
 acquaintance." 
 
 You may guess how thunderstruck I w r as by this speech. I 
 could not answer ; my tongue literally clove to my mouth, and 
 I was only relieved by a sudden and violent burst of tears.
 
 244 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 Mamma looked exceedingly displeased, and was just going to 
 speak, when the servant threw open the door and announced 
 Mr. Linden. I rose hastily, and had only just time to escape 
 as he entered ; but when I heard that dear, dear voice, I could 
 not resist turning for one moment. He saw me, and was 
 struck mute; for the agony of my soul was stamped visibly on 
 my countenance. That moment was over, — with a violent 
 effort I tore myself away. 
 
 Eleanor, I can now write no more. God bless you! and me 
 too, — for I am very, very unhappy. 
 
 F. A.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 245 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVII. 
 
 What a charming character is a kind old man. 
 
 Stephen Montague. 
 
 "Cheer up, my dear boy," said Talbot, kindly, "we 
 must never despair. What though Lady Westborough 
 has forbidden you the boudoir; a boudoir is a very differ- 
 ent thing from a daughter, and you have no right to sup- 
 pose that the veto extends to both. But now that we are 
 on this subject, do let me reason with you seriously. 
 Have you not already tasted all the pleasures, and been 
 sufficiently annoyed by some of the pains, of acting the 
 ' Incognito ' 1 Be ruled by me : resume your proper 
 name ; it is at least one which the proudest might ac- 
 knowledge; and its discovery will remove the greatest 
 obstacle to the success which you so ardently desire." 
 
 Clarence, who was laboring under strong excitement, 
 paused for some moments, as if to collect himself, be- 
 fore he replied: " I have been thrust from my father's 
 home, I have been made the victim of another's crime, 
 I have been denied the rights and name of son ; perhaps 
 (and I say this bitterly) justly denied them, despite 
 of my own innocence. What would you have me do 1 
 Resume a name never conceded to me, — perhaps not 
 righteously mine ; thrust myself upon the unwilling 
 and shrinking hands which disowned and rejected me ; 
 blazon my virtues by pretensions which I myself have 
 promised to forego, and foist myself on the notice of 
 strangers by the very claims which my nearest relations
 
 246 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 dispute? Never, never, never! With the simple name 
 I have assumed, the friend I myself have won, — you, 
 my generous benefactor, my real father, who never for- 
 sook nor insulted me for my misfortunes, — with these, 
 I have gained some steps in the ladder; with these, and 
 those gifts of nature, a stout heart, and a willing hand, 
 of which none can rob me, I will either ascend the rest, 
 even to the summit, or fall to the dust, unknown, but 
 not contemned; unlamented, but not despised." 
 
 "Well, well," said Talbot, brushing away a tear 
 which he could not deny to the feeling, even while he 
 disputed the judgment of the young adventurer, — 
 "well, this is all very fine and very foolish; but you 
 shall never want friend or father while I live, or when I 
 have ceased to live; but come, — sit down, share my 
 dinner, which is not very good, and my dessert, which 
 is. Help me to entertain two or three guests who are 
 coming to me in the evening, to talk on literature, sup, 
 and sleep; and to-morrow you shall return home, and 
 see Lady "Flora in the drawing-room, if you cannot in 
 the boudoir." 
 
 And Clarence was easily persuaded to accept the 
 invitation. 
 
 Talbot was not one of those men who are forced to 
 exert themselves to be entertaining. He had the 
 pleasant and easy way of imparting his great general and 
 curious information, that a man, partly humorist, partly 
 philosopher, who values himself on being a man of 
 letters, and is in spite of himself a man of the world, 
 always ought to possess. Clarence was soon beguiled 
 from the remembrance of his mortifications, and, by little 
 and little, entirely yielded to the airy and happy flow 
 of Talbot's conversation. 
 
 In the evening, three or four men of literary eminence
 
 THE DISOWNED. 247 
 
 (as many as Talbot's small Tusculum would accommo- 
 date with beds) arrived, and in a conversation, free alike 
 from the jargon of pedants and the insipidities of fash- 
 ion, the night fled away swiftly and happily even to 
 the lover.
 
 248 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 We are here (in the country) among the vast and noble scenes of 
 nature; we are there (in the town) among the pitiful shifts of 
 policy. We walk here in the light and open ways of the divine 
 bounty ; we grope there in the dark and confused labyrinths of 
 human malice ; our senses are here feasted with all the clear and 
 genuine taste of their objects, which are all sophisticated there, 
 and for the most part overwhelmed with their contraries. Here 
 pleasure, methinks, looks like a beautiful, constant, and modest 
 wife ; it is there an impudent, fickle, and painted harlot. 
 
 Cowley. 
 
 Draw up the curtain ! The scene is the opera. 
 
 The pit is crowded ; the connoisseurs in the front row 
 are in a very ill humor. It must he confessed, that ex- 
 treme heat is a little trying to the temper of a critic. 
 
 The opera then was not what it is now, nor even what 
 it had been in a former time. It is somewhat amusing 
 to find Goldsmith questioning, in one of his Essays, 
 whether the opera could ever become popular in Eng- 
 land. But on the night on which the reader is sum- 
 moned to that " theatre of sweet sounds," a celebrated 
 singer from the Continent made his first appearance in 
 London, and all the world thronged to " that odious 
 opera-house," to hear or to say they had heard the 
 famous Sopraniello. 
 
 With a nervous step, Clarence proceeded to Lady 
 Westborough's box; and it was many minutes that 
 he lingered by the door before he summoned courage to 
 obtain admission. 
 
 He entered: the box was crowded; but Lady Flora 
 was not there. Lord Borodaile was sitting next to Lady
 
 THE DISOWNED. 249 
 
 Westborough. As Clarence entered Lord Borodaile 
 raised his eyebrows, and Lady Westborough her glass. 
 However disposed a great person may be to drop a lesser 
 one, no one of real birth or breeding ever cuts another. 
 Lady Westborough, therefore, though much colder, was 
 no less civil than usual; and Lord Borodaile bowed 
 lower than ever to Mr. Linden, as he punctiliously 
 called him. But Clarence's quick eye discovered in- 
 stantly that he was no welcome intruder, and that his 
 day with the beautiful marchioness was over. His 
 visit, consequently, was short and embarrassed. When 
 he left the box he heard Lord Borodaile's short, 
 slow, sneering laugh, followed by Lady Westborough's 
 " hush" of reproof. 
 
 His blood boiled. He hurried along the passage with 
 his eyes fixed upon the ground and his hand clenched. 
 
 "What ho! Linden, my good fellow; why, you 
 look as if all the ferocity of the great Figg were in your 
 veins," cried a good-humored voice. Clarence started, 
 and saw the young and high-spirited Duke of Haverfield. 
 
 " Are you going behind the scenes 1 " said his grace. 
 " I have just come thence; and you had much better 
 drop into La Meronville's box with me. You sup with 
 her to-night, do you not? " 
 
 "No, indeed!" replied Clarence; "I scarcely know 
 her, except by sight." 
 
 " Well, and what think you of her 1 ? " 
 
 " That she is the prettiest Frenchwoman I ever 
 saw. " 
 
 "Commend me to secret sympathies! " cried the duke. 
 " She has asked me three times who you were, and told 
 me three times that you were the handsomest man in 
 London, and had quite a foreign air ; the latter recom- 
 mendation being of course far greater than the former.
 
 a 
 
 2.">0 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 So, after this, you cannot refuse to accompany me to 
 her box, and make her acquaintance." 
 
 " Nay," answered Clarence, " I shall be too happy to 
 profit by the taste of so discerning a person ; but it i 
 cruel in you, Duke, not to feign a little jealousy, — a 
 little reluctance to introduce so formidable; a rival." 
 
 " Oh, as to me," said the duke, " 1 only like her for 
 her mental, not her personal attractions. She is very 
 agreeable, and a little witty; sufficient attractions for 
 one in her situation." 
 
 " But do tell me a little of her history," said Clarence; 
 " for, in spite of her renown, I only know her as La 
 Belle Meronville. Is she not living en ami with some 
 one of our acquaintance 1 " 
 
 " To be sure," replied the duke, " with Lord Borodaile. 
 She is prodigiously extravagant; and Borodaile affects 
 to be prodigiously fond ; but as there is only a certain 
 fund of affection in the human heart, and all Lord Boro- 
 daile's is centred in Lord Borodaile, that cannot really 
 be the case." 
 
 " Is he jealous of her ? " said Clarence. 
 
 "Not in the least, nor indeed does she give him any 
 cause. She is very gay, very talkative, gives excellent 
 suppers, and always has her box at the opera crowded 
 with admirers; but that is all. She encourages many, 
 and favors but one. Happy Borodaile! My lot is less 
 fortunate! You know, I suppose, that Julia has de- 
 serted me 1 " 
 
 " You astonish me, — and for what ? " 
 
 " Oh, she told me, with a vehement burst of tears, 
 that she was convinced I did not love her, and that a 
 hundred pounds a month was not sufficient to maintain 
 a milliner's apprentice. I answered the first assertion 
 by an assurance that I adored her; but I preserved a
 
 THE DISOWNED. 251 
 
 total silence with regard to the latter ; and so I found 
 Trevanion tete-a-tete with her the next day." 
 
 " What did you? " said Clarence. 
 
 " Sent my valet to Trevanion with an old coat of 
 mine, my compliments, and my hopes that, as Mr. 
 Trevanion was so fond of my cast-off conveniences, 
 he would honor me by accepting the accompanying 
 trifle." 
 
 " He challenged you, without doubt ? " 
 
 " Challenged me! ISTo; he tells all his friends that I 
 am the wittiest man in Europe." 
 
 " A fool can speak the truth, you see," said Clarence, 
 laughing. 
 
 "Thank you, Linden; you shall have my good word 
 with La Meronville for that; mais allons." 
 
 Mademoiselle de la Meronville, as she pointedly en- 
 titled herself, was one of those charming adventuresses 
 who, making the most of a good education and a prepos- 
 sessing person, a delicate turn for letter-writing, and a 
 lively vein of conversation, come to England for a year 
 or two, as Spaniards were wont to go to Mexico, and 
 who return to their native country with a profound con- 
 tempt for the barbarians whom they have so egregiou.-lv 
 despoiled. Mademoiselle de la Meronville was small, 
 beautifully formed, had the prettiest hands and feet in 
 the world, and laughed musically. By the by, how 
 difficult it is to laugh, or even to smile, at once naturally 
 and gracefully. It is one of Steele's finest touches of 
 character where he says of Will Honeycomb, " He can 
 smile when one speaks to him, and laughs easily." 
 
 In a word, the pretty Frenchwoman was precisely 
 formed to turn the head of a man like Lord Borodaile, 
 who loved to be courted, and who required to be 
 amused. " Mademoiselle de la Meronville received Clar-
 
 252 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 ence with a great deal of grace, and a little reserve, the 
 first chiefly natural, the last wholly artificial. 
 
 " Well, " said the duke (in French), " you have not 
 told me who are to he of your party this evening, — 
 Borodaile, I suppose, of course 1 " 
 
 " No, he cannot come to-night. " 
 
 "Ah, quel malheurf then the hock will not he iced 
 enough, — Borodaile's looks are the hest wine-coolers in 
 the world." 
 
 " Fie ! " cried La Meronville, glancing towards Clar- 
 ence : " I cannot endure your malevolence ; wit makes 
 you very hitter." 
 
 " And that is exactly the reason why La Belle Meron- 
 ville loves me so. Nothing is so sweet to one person as 
 bitterness upon another ; it is human nature and French 
 nature (which is a very different thing) into the 
 bargain." 
 
 "Bah! my lord duke, you judge of others by your- 
 self." 
 
 " To be sure I do," cried the duke; " and that is the 
 best way of forming a right judgment. Ah! what a 
 foot that little figurante has, — you don't admire her, 
 Linden ? " 
 
 "No, Duke; my admiration is like the bird in the 
 cage, — chained here, and cannot fly away!" answered 
 Clarence, with a smile at the frippery of his compli- 
 ment. 
 
 " Ah, Monsieur," cried the pretty Frenchwoman, 
 leaning back, " you have been at Paris, I see, — one does 
 not learn those graces of language in England. 1 have 
 been five months in your country, — brought over the 
 prettiest dresses imaginable, and have only received 
 three compliments, and (pity me!) two out of the three 
 were upon my pronunciation of ' How do you do 1 '
 
 THE DISOWNED. 253 
 
 " Well, " said Clarence, " I should have imagined that 
 in England, ahove all other countries, your vanity would 
 have been gratified; for you know we pique ourselves 
 on our sincerity, and say all we think." 
 
 " Yes ! then you always think very unpleasantly ; 
 what an alternative ! which is the best, to speak ill, or 
 to think ill of one ? " 
 
 "Pour V amour de Dieu," cried the duke, "don't 
 ask such puzzling questions ; you are always getting into 
 those moral subtleties, which I suppose you learn from 
 Borodaile. He is a wonderful metaphysician, I hear, 
 
 — I can answer for his chemical powers ; the moment he 
 enters a room the very Avails grow damp ; as for me, I 
 dissolve; I should flow into a fountain, like Arethusa, 
 if happily his lordship did not freeze one again into sub- 
 stance as fast as he dampens one into thaw." 
 
 " Fi done ! " cried La Meronville. " I should be 
 very angry, had you not taught me to be very in- 
 ditt'erent — " 
 
 " To him ! " said the duke, dryly. " I 'm glad to hear 
 it. He is not worth une grande jiassion, believe me, 
 
 — but tell me, ma belle, who else sups with you 1 " 
 
 " D'abord, Monsieur Linden, I trust," answered La 
 Meronville, with a look of invitation to which Clarence 
 
 bowed and smiled his assent, " Milord D , and Mons. 
 
 Trevanion, Mademoiselle Caumartin, and Le Prince 
 Pietro del Ordino." 
 
 "Nothing can be better arranged," said the duke. 
 " But see, they are just going to drop the curtain. Let 
 me call your carriage." 
 
 " You are too good, Milord," replied La Meronville, 
 with a bow, which said, "Of course;" and the duke, 
 who would not have stirred three paces for the first prin- 
 cess of the blood, hurried out of the box (despite of
 
 254 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 Clarence's offer to undertake the commission) to inquire 
 after the carriage of the most notorious adventuress of 
 the day. 
 
 Clarence was alone in the box with the beautiful 
 Frenchwoman. To say truth, Linden was far too 
 much in love with Lady Flora, and too occupied, as to 
 his other thoughts, with the projects of ambition, to be 
 easily led into any disreputable or criminal liaison; he 
 therefore conversed with his usual ease, though with 
 rather more than his usual gallantry, without feeling 
 the least touched by the charms of La Meronville, or 
 the least desirous of supplanting Lord Borodaile in her 
 favor. 
 
 The duke reappeared, and announced the carriage. 
 As, with La Meronville leaning on his arm, Clarence 
 hurried out, he accidentally looked up, and saw on the 
 head of the stairs Lady Westborough with her party 
 (Lord Borodaile among the rest) in waiting for her 
 carriage. For almost the first time in his life, Clarence 
 felt ashamed of himself; his cheek burned like fire, and 
 he involuntarily let go the fair hand which was leaning 
 upon his arm. However, the weaker our cause the 
 better face we should put upon it, and Clarence, recover- 
 ing his presence of mind, and vainly hoping he had not 
 been perceived, buried his face as well as he was able in 
 the fur collar of his cloak, and hurried on. 
 
 " You saw Lord Korodaile ? " said the duke to La 
 Meronville, as he handed her into her carriage. 
 
 " Yes, I accidentally looked back after we had passed 
 him, and then I saw him." 
 
 "Looked back! " said the duke; " I wonder he did 
 not turn you into a pillar of salt." 
 
 " Fi done ! " cried La Belle Meronville, tapping his 
 grace playfully on the arm, in order to do which she
 
 THE DISOWNED. 255 
 
 was forced to lean a little harder upon Clarence's, which 
 she had not yet relinquished, — " Ji done ! — Francois, 
 chez moi ! " 
 
 " My carriage is just hehind," said the duke. " You 
 will go with me to La Meronville's, of course." 
 
 "Really, my dear duke," said Clarence, "I wish I 
 could excuse myself from this party. I have another 
 engagement. " 
 
 " Excuse yourself 1 — and leave me to the mercy of 
 Mademoiselle Caumartin, who has the face of an ostrich, 
 and talks me out of breath! Never, my dear Linden, 
 never! Besides, I want you to see how well I shall 
 behave to Trevanion. Here is the carriage. Entrez, 
 mon cher." 
 
 And Clarence, weakly and foolishly (but he was very 
 young and very unhappy, and so longing for an escape 
 from his own thoughts) , entered the carriage, and drove 
 to the supper party, in order to prevent the Duke of 
 Haverfield being talked out of breath by Mademoiselle 
 Caumartin, who had the face of an ostrich.
 
 256 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 Yet truth is keenly sought for, and the wind, 
 Charged with rich words, poured out in thought's defence, 
 Whether the church inspire that eloquence, 
 Or a Platonic piety, confined 
 To the sole temple of the inward mind ; 
 And one there is who builds immortal lays, 
 Though doomed to tread in solitary ways ; 
 Darkness before, and danger's voice behind ! 
 
 Yet not alone. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 London, — thou Niobe, who sittest in stone, amidst thy 
 stricken and fated children ; nurse of the desolate, that 
 hidest in thy bosom the shame, the sorrows, the sins of 
 many sons; in whose arms the fallen and the outcast 
 shroud their distresses, and shelter from the proud man's 
 contumely ; epitome and focus of the disparities and 
 maddening contrasts of this wrong world, that assem- 
 blest together in one great heap the woes, the joys, the 
 elevations, the debasements of the various tribes of man; 
 mightiest of levellers, confounding in thy Whirlpool all 
 ranks, all minds, the graven labors of knowledge, the 
 straws of the maniac, purple and rags, the regalities and 
 the loathsomeness of earth, — palace and lazar-house 
 combined! Grave of the living, where, mingled and 
 massed together, we couch, but rest not; "for in that 
 sleep of life what dreams do come," each vexed with a 
 separate vision, — " shadows " which " grieve the heart," 
 unreal in their substance, but faithful in their warnings, 
 flitting from the eye, but graving unrleeting memories
 
 THE DISOWNED. 257 
 
 on the mind, which reproduce new dreams over and 
 over, until the phantasm ceases, and the pall of a 
 heavier torpor falls upon the Drain, and all is still 
 and dark and hushed ! — " From the stir of thy great 
 Babel," and the fixed tinsel glare in which sits Pleas- 
 ure like a star, " which shines, but warms not with 
 its powerless rays," we turn to thy deeper and 
 more secret haunts. Thy wilderness is all before us, 
 — where to choose our place of rest; and, to our eyes, 
 thy hidden recesses are revealed. 
 
 The clock of St. Paul's had toiled the second hour of 
 morning. Within a small and humble apartment, La 
 the very heart of the city, there sat a writer, whose 
 lucubrations, then obscure and unknown, were destined, 
 years afterwards, to excite the vague admiration of the 
 crowd, and the deeper homage of the wise. They were 
 of that nature which is slow in winning its way to 
 popular esteem, — the result of the hived and hoarded 
 knowledge of years, the produce of deep thought and 
 sublime aspirations, influencing in its bearings the in- 
 terests of the many, yet only capable of analysis by the 
 judgment of the few. But the stream broke forth at 
 last from the cavern to the daylight, although the source 
 was never traced; or, to change the image, — albeit none 
 know the hand which executed, and the head which 
 designed, — the monument of a mighty intellect has 
 been at length dug up, as it were, from the envious 
 earth, the brighter for its past obscurity, and the more 
 certain of immortality from the temporary neglect it has 
 sustained. 
 
 The room was, as we before said, very small and 
 meanly furnished ; yet were there a few articles of cost- 
 liness and luxury scattered about, which told that the 
 tastes of its owner had not been quite humbled to the 
 vol. i. — 17
 
 258 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 level of his fortunes. One side of the narrow chamber 
 was covered with shelves, which supported hooks in 
 various languages ; and though chiefly on scientific sub- 
 jects, not utterly confined to them. Among the doc- 
 trines of the philosopher, and the golden rules of the 
 moralist, were also seen the pleasant dreams of poets, 
 the legends of Spenser, the refining moralities of Pope, 
 the lofty errors of Lucretius, and the sublime relics of 
 our "dead kings of melody." 1 And over the hearth 
 was a picture, taken in more prosperous days, of one 
 who had been, and was yet, to the tenant of that abode, 
 better than fretted roofs and glittering banquets, the 
 objects of ambition, or even the immortality of fame. 
 It was the face of one very young and beautiful, and the 
 deep, tender eyes looked down, as with a watchful 
 fondness, upon the lucubrator and his labors. While 
 beneath the window, which was left unclosed, for it was 
 scarcely June, were simple yet not inelegant vases filled 
 with flowers: 
 
 " These lovely leaves, where we 
 May read how soon things have 
 Their end, though ne'er so hrave." 2 
 
 The writer was alone, and had just paused from his 
 employment; he was leaning his face upon one hand, in 
 a thoughtful and earnest mood, and the air, which came 
 chill but gentle from the window, slightly stirred the 
 locks from the broad and marked brow, over which they 
 fell in thin but graceful waves. Partly owing, perhaps, 
 to the waning light of the single lamp and the lateness 
 of the hour, his cheek seemed very pale, and the com- 
 plete, though contemplative rest of the features partook 
 greatly of the quiet of habitual sadness, and a little of 
 
 i Shakespeare and Milton. a Herrick.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 259 
 
 the languor of shaken health; yet the expression , despite 
 the proud cast of the brow and profile, was rather be- 
 nevolent than stern or dark in its pensiveness, and the 
 lines spoke more of the wear and harrow of deep 
 thought, than the inroads of ill-regulated passion. 
 
 There was a slight tap at the door, — the latch was 
 raised, and the original of the picture I have described 
 entered the apartment. 
 
 Time had not been idle with her since that portrait 
 had been taken : the round elastic figure had lost much 
 of its youth and freshness; the step, though light, was 
 languid, and in the centre of the fair smooth cheek, 
 which was a little sunken, burned one deep, bright 
 spot, — fatal sign to those who have watched the pro- 
 gress of the most deadly and deceitful of our national 
 maladies; yet still the form and countenance were emi- 
 nently interesting and lovely; and though the bloom 
 was gone forever, the beauty, which not even death 
 could wholly have despoiled, remained to triumph over 
 debility, misfortune, and disease. 
 
 She approached the student, and laid her hand upon 
 his shoulder, — 
 
 "Dearest!" said he, tenderly yet reproachfully, "yet 
 up, and the hour so late, and yourself so weak? Fie, I 
 must learn to scold you. " 
 
 " And how," answered the intruder, "how could I 
 sleep or rest while you are consuming your very life in 
 those thankless labors 1 " 
 
 "By which," interrupted the writer, with a faint 
 smile , " we glean our scanty subsistence. " 
 
 " Yes," said the wife (for she held that relation to the 
 student), and the tears stood in her eyes; " I know well 
 that every morsel of bread, every drop of water, is wrung 
 from your very heart's blood, and I — I am the cause of
 
 260 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 all; but surely you exert yourself too much, more than 
 can be requisite. These night damps, this sickly and 
 chilling air, heavy with the rank vapors of the coming 
 morning, are not suited to thoughts and toils which are 
 alone sufficient to sear your mind and exhaust your 
 strength. Come, my own love, to bed; and yet, first, 
 come and look upon our child, — how sound she sleeps! 
 I have leaned over her for the last hour, and tried to 
 fancy it was you whom I watched; for she has learned 
 already your smile, and has it even when she sleeps." 
 
 " She has cause to smile," said the husband, bitterly. 
 
 " She has, for she is yours ! and even in poverty and 
 humble hopes, that is an inheritance which may well 
 teach her pride and joy. Come, love, the air is keen, 
 and the damp rises to your forehead, — yet stay, till I 
 have kissed it away." 
 
 "Mine own love," said the student, as he rose and 
 wound his arm round the slender waist of his wife, 
 " wrap your shawl closer over your bosom, and let us 
 look for one instant upon the night. I cannot sleep till 
 I have slaked the fever of my hlood ; the air has noth- 
 ing of coldness in its breath to me." 
 
 And they walked to the window, and looked forth. 
 All was hushed and still in the narrow street; the cold 
 gray clouds were hurrying fast along the sky, and the 
 stars, weak and waning in their light, gleamed forth at 
 rare intervals upon the mute city, like the expiring 
 watch-lamps of the dead. 
 
 They leaned out, and spoke not; but when they 
 looked above upon the melancholy heavens, they drew 
 nearer to each other, as if it were their natural instinct 
 to do so, whenever the world without seemed discour- 
 aging and sad. 
 
 At length the student broke the silence; but his
 
 THE DISOWNED. 261 
 
 thoughts, which were wandering and disjointed, were 
 breathed less to her than vaguely and unconsciously to 
 himself: "Morn breaks, — another and another! — day 
 upon day ! — while we drag on our load like the blind 
 beast which knows not when the burden shall be cast off, 
 and the hour of rest be come. " 
 
 The woman pressed his hand to her bosom, but made 
 no rejoinder, — she knew his mood, — and the student 
 continued. 
 
 " And so life frets itself away ! Four years have 
 passed over our seclusion, — four years! — a great seg- 
 ment in the little circle of our mortality ; and of those 
 years, what day has pleasure won from labor, or what 
 night has sleep snatched wholly from the lamp 1 Weaker 
 than the miser, the insatiable and restless mind traverses 
 from east to west ; and from the nooks and corners and 
 crevices of earth collects, fragment by fragment, grain 
 by grain, atom by atom, the riches which it gathers to 
 its coffers, — for what? — to starve amidst the plenty! 
 The fantasies of the imagination bring a ready and sub- 
 stantial return, — not so the treasures of thought. Better 
 that I had renounced the soul's labor for that of its 
 hardier frame ; better that I had ' sweated in the eye of 
 Phoebus,' than ' eat my heart with crosses and with 
 cares,' — seeking truth and wanting bread; adding to 
 the indigence of poverty its humiliation; wroth with 
 the arrogance of men, who weigh in the shallow scales 
 of their meagre knowledge the product of lavish thought, 
 and of the hard hours for which health and sleep and 
 spirit have been exchanged; sharing the lot of those who 
 would enchant the old serpent of evil, which refuses the 
 voice of the charmer! — struggling against the prejudice 
 and bigoted delusion of the bandaged and fettered herd 
 to whom, in our fond hopes and aspirations, we trusted
 
 262 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 to give light and freedom; seeing the slavish judgments 
 we would have redeemed from error clashing their chains 
 at us in ire; made criminal by our very benevolence: 
 the martyrs whose zeal is rewarded with persecution, 
 whose prophecies are crowned with contempt! l>etter, 
 oh, better that I had not listened to the vanity of a 
 heated brain, — better that I had made my home with 
 the lark and the wild bee, among the fields and the 
 quiet hills, where life, if obscurer, is less debased, and 
 hope, if less eagerly indulged, is less bitterly disap- 
 pointed. The frame, it is true, might have been bowed 
 to a harsher labor ; but the heart would at least have 
 had its rest from anxiety, and the mind its relaxation 
 from thought." 
 
 The wife's tears fell upon the hand she clasped. The 
 student turned, and his heart smote him for the selfish- 
 ness of his complaints. He drew her closer and closer 
 to his bosom; and gazing fondly upon those eyes which 
 years of indigence and care might have robbed of their 
 young lustre, but not of their undying tenderness, he 
 kissed away her tears and addressed her in a voice which 
 never failed to charm her grief into forgetfulness. 
 
 " Dearest and kindest," he said, " was I not to blame 
 for accusing those privations or regrets which have only 
 made us love each other the more! Trust me, mine own 
 treasure, that it is only in the peevishness of an incon- 
 stant and fretful humor, that I have murmured against 
 my fortune. For, in the midst of all, I look upon you, 
 my angel, my comforter, my young dream of love, which 
 God, in his mercy, breathed into waking life, — I look 
 upon you , and am blessed and grateful. Nor in my juster 
 moments do I accuse even the nature of these studies, 
 though they bring us so scanty a reward. Have I not 
 hours of secret and overflowing delight, the triumphs of
 
 THE DISOWNED. 263 
 
 gratified research, — flashes of sudden light, which re- 
 ward the darkness of thought, and light up my solitude 
 as a revel 1 These feelings of rapture, which nought 
 but science can afford, amply repay her disciples for 
 worse evils and severer hardships than it has been my 
 destiny to endure. Look along the sky, — Iioav the 
 vapors struggle with the still yet feeble stars : even so 
 have the mists of error been pierced, though not scat- 
 tered by the dim but holy lights of past wisdom; and 
 now the morning is at hand, and in that hope we jour- 
 ney on, doubtful, but not utterly in darkness. Nor is 
 this all ?rt,?/hope; there is a loftier and more steady 
 comfort than that which mere philosophy can bestow. 
 If the certainty of future fame bore Milton rejoicing 
 through his blindness, or cheered Galileo in his dun- 
 geon, what stronger and holier support shall not be 
 yiven to him who has loved mankind as his brothers, 
 and devoted his labors to their cause ? — who has not 
 sought, but relinquished, his own renown 1 — who has 
 braved the present censures of men for their future 
 benefit, and trampled upon glory in the energy of be- 
 nevolence 1 Will there not be for him something more 
 powerful than fame to comfort his sufferings and to sus- 
 tain his hopes 1 If the wish of mere posthumous honor 
 be a feeling rather vain than exalted, the love of our 
 race affords us a more rational and noble desire of re- 
 membrance. Come what will, that love, if it animates 
 our toils, and directs our studies, shall, when we are 
 dust, make our relics of value, our efforts of avail, and 
 consecrate the desire of fame, which were else a passion 
 selfish and impure, by connecting it with the welfare 
 of ages, and the eternal interests of the world and its 
 Creator'. Come, we will to bed."
 
 204 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 A man may be formed by nature for an admirable citizen, and yet, 
 from the purest motives, be a dangerous one to the State in which 
 the accident of birth has placed him. — Stephen Montague. 
 
 The night again closed, and the student once more 
 resumed his labors. The spirit of his hope and com- 
 forter of his toils sat by him, ever and anon lifting her 
 fond eyes from her work to gaze upon his counte- 
 nance, to sigh, and to return sadly and quietly to her 
 employment. 
 
 A heavy step ascended the stairs, the door opened, 
 and the tall figure of Wolfe, the republican, presented 
 itself. The female rose, pushed a chair towards him 
 with a smile and grace suited to better fortunes, and, 
 retiring from the table, reseated herself silent and 
 apart. 
 
 " It is a fine night," said the student, when the mutual 
 greetings were over. " Whence come you ? " 
 
 " From contemplating human misery and worse than 
 human degradation," replied Wolfe, slowly seating 
 himself. 
 
 " Those words specify no place, — they apply univer- 
 sally," said the student, with a sigh. 
 
 "Ay, Glendower, for misgovernment is universal," 
 rejoined Wolfe. 
 
 Glendower made no answer. 
 
 "Oh!" said Wolfe, in the low, suppressed tone of 
 intense passion which was customary to him, " it mad-
 
 THE DISOWNED. 265 
 
 dens me to look xipon the willingness with which men 
 hug their trappings of slavery, — bears, proud of the rags 
 which deck, and the monkeys which ride them. But it 
 frets me yet more when some lordling sweeps along, 
 lifting his dull eyes above the fools whose only crime 
 and debasement are — what 1 — their subjection to him ! 
 Such an one I encountered a few nights since ; and he 
 will remember the meeting longer than I shall. I 
 taught that 'god to tremble.'" 
 
 The female rose, glanced towards her husband, and 
 silently withdrew. 
 
 Wolfe paused for a few moments, looked curiously 
 and pryingly round, and then rising, went forth into the 
 passage to see that no loiterer or listener was near, — 
 returned, and drawing his chair close to Glendower, 
 fixed his dark eye upo™ him, and said, — 
 
 " You are poor, and your spirit rises against your lot; 
 you are just, and your heart swells against the general 
 oppression you behold : can you not dare to remedy your 
 ills and those of mankind 1 " 
 
 " I can dare," said Glendower, calmly, though haugh- 
 tily, " all things but crime." 
 
 " And which is crime 1 — the rising against, or the 
 submission to evil government? Which is crime, I 
 ask you 1 " 
 
 "That which is the most imprudent," answered 
 Glendower. " We may sport in ordinary cases with our 
 own safeties, but only in rare cases with the safety of 
 others. " 
 
 Wolfe rose, and paced the narrow room impatiently to 
 and fro. He paused by the window, and threw it open. 
 " Come here," he cried, — " come, and look out." 
 
 Glendower did so, — all was still and quiet. 
 
 " Why did you call me 1 " said he; " I see nothing."
 
 26 G THE DISOWNED. 
 
 " Nothing! " exclaimed "Wolfe; "look again, — look 
 on yon sordid and squalid huts; look at yon court, that 
 from this wretched street leads to abodes to which these 
 are as palaces; look at yon victims of vice and famine, 
 ] dying beneath the midnight skies their filthy and in- 
 fectious trade. Wherever you turn your eyes, what see 
 you? — misery, loathsomeness, sin. Are you a man, and 
 call you these nothing! And now lean forth still more, 
 — see afar off, by yonder lamp, the mansion of ill- 
 gotten and griping wealth. He who owns those build- 
 ings, what did he that he should riot while we starve? 
 He wrung from the negro's tears and bloody sweat the 
 luxuries of a pampered and vitiated taste; he pandered 
 to the excesses of the rich ; he heaped their tables with 
 the product of a nation's groans. Lo! his reward! 
 He is rich, prosperous, honored! He sits in the legis- 
 lative assembly; he declaims against immorality; he 
 contends for the safety of property, and the equilibrium 
 of ranks. Transport yourself from this spot for an in- 
 stant, — imagine that you survey the gorgeous homes of 
 aristocracy and power, — the palaces of the west. What 
 see you there? — the few sucking, draining, exhausting 
 the blood, the treasure, the very existence of the many. 
 Are we, who are o/the many, wise to suffer it? " 
 
 " Are we of the many ? " said Glendower. 
 
 " We could be," said Wolfe, hastily. 
 
 " I doubt it," replied Glendower. 
 
 " Listen," said the republican, laying his hand upon 
 Glendower's shoulder, — " listen to me. There are in 
 this country men whose spirits not years of delayed 
 hope, wearisome persecution, and, bitterer than all, mis- 
 representation from some and contempt from others, have 
 yet quelled and flamed. We watch our opportunity; the 
 growing distress of the country, the increasing severity
 
 THE DISOWNED. 267 
 
 and misrule of the administration, will soon afford it us. 
 Your talents, your benevolence, render you worthy to 
 join us. Do so, and — " 
 
 "Hush!" interrupted the student; "you know not 
 what you say: you weigh not the folly, the madness of 
 your design! I am a man more fallen, more sunken, 
 more disappointed than you. I, too, have had at my 
 heart the burning and lonely hope which, through years 
 of misfortune and want, has comforted me with the 
 thought of serving and enlightening mankind, — I, too, 
 have devoted to the fulfilment of that hope days and 
 nights in which the brain grew dizzy and the heart 
 heavy and clogged with the intensity of my pursuits. 
 Were the dungeon and the scaffold my reward, Heaven 
 knows that I would not flinch eye or hand, or abate a 
 jot of heart and hope in the thankless prosecution of my 
 toils. Know me, then, as one of fortunes more des- 
 perate than your own ; of an ambition more unquench- 
 able; of a philanthropy no less ardent; and, I will add, 
 of a courage no less firm, — and behold the utter hopeless- 
 ness of your projects with others, when to me they only 
 appear the visions of an enthusiast. " 
 
 Wolfe sank down in the chair. 
 
 " Is it even so 1 " said he, slowly and musingly. " Are 
 my hopes but delusions ? Has my life been but one 
 idle, though convulsive dream? Is the goddess of our 
 religion banished from this great and populous earth, to 
 the seared and barren hearts of a few solitary worship- 
 pers whom all else despise as madmen or persecute as 
 idolaters? And if so, shall we adore her the less? 
 No! though we perish in her cause, it is around her 
 altar that our corpses shall be found ! " 
 
 " My friend," said Glendower, kindly, for he was 
 touched by the sincerity, though opposed to the opin-
 
 268 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 ions of the republican, " the flight is yet early; we will 
 sit down to discuss our several doctrines calmly, and in 
 the spirit of truth and investigation." 
 
 "Away!" cried Wolfe, rising and slouching his hat 
 over his bent and lowering brows, — "away! I will 
 not listen to you; I dread your reasonings, — I would 
 not have a particle of my faith shaken. If I err, I 
 have erred from my birth: erred with Brutus and Tell, 
 Hampden and Milton, and all whom the thousand tribes 
 and parties of earth consecrate with their common grati- 
 tude and eternal reverence. In that error I will die! 
 If our party can struggle not with hosts, there may yet 
 arise some minister with the ambition of Caesar, if not 
 his genius, of whom a single dagger can rid the earth! " 
 
 " And if not! " said Glendower. 
 
 " I have the same dagger for myself! " replied Wolfe, 
 as he closed the door.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 269 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 Bolingbroke has said that, " Man is his own sharper and his own 
 bubble ; " and certainly he who is acutest in duping others is 
 ever the most ingenious in outwitting himself. The criminal 
 is always a sophist, and finds in his own reason a special pleader 
 to twist laws human and divine into a sanction of his crime. 
 The rogue is so much in the habit of cheating, that he packs the 
 cards even when playing at Patience with himself. — Stephen 
 Montague. 
 
 The only two acquaintances in this populous city 
 whom Glendower possessed, who were aware that in a 
 former time he had known a better fortune, were Wolfe, 
 and a person of far higher worldly estimation, of the 
 name of Crauford. With the former, the student had 
 become acquainted by the favor of chance, which had 
 for a short time made them lodgers in the same house. 
 Of the particulars of Glendower's earliest history, 
 Wolfe was utterly ignorant; but the addresses upon 
 some old letters which he had accidentally seen, had 
 informed him that Glendower had formerly borne an- 
 other name, — and it was easy to glean from the student's 
 conversation that something of greater distinction and 
 prosperity than he now enjoyed was coupled with the 
 appellation he had renounced. Proud, melancholy, 
 austere, — brooding upon thoughts whose very loftiness 
 received somewhat of additional grandeur from the 
 gloom which encircled it, — Glendower found, in the 
 ruined hopes and the solitary lot of the republican, that 
 congeniality which neither Wolfe's habits, nor the ex- 
 cess of his political fervor, might have afforded to a
 
 270 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 nature which philosophy had rendered moderate and 
 early circumstances refined. Crauford was far hetter ac- 
 quainted than Wolfe with the reverses Glendower had 
 undergone. Many years ago, he had known, and indeed 
 travelled with hi in upon the Continent; since then, 
 they had not met till about six months prior to the 
 time in which Glendower is presented to the reader. It 
 was in an ohscure street of the city that Crauford had 
 then encountered Glendower, whose haunts were so little 
 frequented hy the higher orders of society that Crauford 
 was the first, and the only one, of his former acquaint- 
 ance with whom for years he had heen brought into con- 
 tact. That person recognized him at once, accosted 
 him, followed him home, and three days afterwards, sur- 
 prised him with a visit. Of manners which, in their 
 dissimulation, extended far beyond the ordinary ease 
 and breeding of the world, Crauford readily appeared not 
 to notice the altered circumstances of his old acquaint- 
 ance ; and by a tone of conversation artfully respectful , 
 he endeavored to remove from Glendower's mind that 
 soreness which his knowledge of human nature told 
 him his visit was calculated to create. 
 
 There is a certain species of pride which contradicts 
 the ordinary symptoms of the feeling, and appears most 
 elevated when it would be reasonable to expect it should 
 be most depressed. Of this sort was Glendower's. 
 When he received the guest who had known him in 
 his former prosperity, some natural sentiment of emotion 
 called, it is true, to his pale cheek a momentary flush, 
 as he looked round his humble apartment, and the evi- 
 dent signs of poverty it contained ; but his address was 
 calm and self-possessed, and whatever mortification he 
 might have felt, no intonation of his voice, no tell-tale 
 embarrassment of manner, revealed it. Encouraged by
 
 THE DISOWNED. 271 
 
 this air, even while he was secretly vexed by it, and 
 perfectly unable to do justice to the dignity of mind 
 which gave something of majesty, rather than humilia- 
 tion, to misfortune, Crauford resolved to repeat his visit, 
 and by intervals, gradually lessening, renewed it, till 
 acquaintance seemed, though little tinctured, at least on 
 Glendower's side, by friendship, to assume the sem- 
 blance of intimacy. It was true, however, that he had 
 something to struggle against in Glendower's manner, 
 which certainly grew colder in proportion to the repeti- 
 tion of the visits; and at length Glendower said, with 
 an ease and quiet which abashed, for a moment, an 
 effrontery both of mind and manner which was almost 
 parallel, "Believe me, Mr. Crauford, I feel fully sen- 
 sible of your attentions; but as circumstances at present 
 are such as to render an intercourse between us little 
 congenial to the habits and sentiments of either, you 
 will probably understand and forgive my motives in 
 wishing no longer to receive civilities which, however 
 I may feel them, I am unable to return." 
 
 Crauford colored, and hesitated, before he replied: 
 "Forgive me then," said he, "fur my fault. 1 did 
 venture to hope that no circumstances would break off 
 an acquaintance to me so valuable. Forgive me if I did 
 imagine that an intercourse between mind and mind 
 could be equally carried on, whether the mere body 
 were lodged in a palace or a hovel ; " and then suddenly 
 changing his tone into that of affectionate warmth, Crau- 
 ford continued : " My dear Glendower, my dear friend, 
 I would say, if I durst, is not your pride rather to 
 blame here 1 Believe me, in my turn, I fully compre- 
 hend and bow to it ; but it wounds me beyond expression. 
 Were you in yoxir proper station, a station much higher 
 than my own , I would come to you at once and proffer
 
 272 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 my friendship, — as it is, I cannot; but your pride 
 wrongs me, Grlendower, — indeed it does." 
 
 And Cratiford turned away, apparently in the bitter- 
 ness of wounded feeling. 
 
 Glendower was touched; and his nature, as kind as it 
 was proud, immediately smote him for conduct certainly 
 ungracious, and perhaps ungrateful. He held out his 
 hand to Crauford; with the most respectful warmth, 
 that personage seized and pressed it; and from that time 
 Crauford's visits appeared to receive a license which, 
 if not perfectly Avelcome, was at least never again 
 questioned. 
 
 "I shall have this man now," muttered Crauford, 
 between his ground teeth, as he left the house and took 
 his way to his counting-house. There, cool, bland, 
 fawning, and weaving in his close and dark mind various 
 speculations of guilt and craft, he sat among his bills 
 and gold, like the very gnome and personification of that 
 Mammon of gain to which he was the most supple, 
 though concealed, adherent. 
 
 Richard Crauford was of a new but not unimportant 
 family. His father had entered into commerce, and left 
 a flourishing firm, and a name of great respectability in 
 his profession, to his son. That son was a man whom 
 many and opposite qualities rendered a character of 
 very singular and uncommon stamp. Fond of the la- 
 borious acquisition of money, he was equally attached 
 to the ostentatious pageantries of expense. Profoundly 
 skilled in the calculating business of his profession, he 
 was devoted equally to the luxuries of pleasure; but 
 the pleasure was suited well to the mind which pursued 
 it. The divine intoxication of that love where the de- 
 licacies and purities of affection consecrate the humanity 
 of passion, was to him a thing of which not even his
 
 THE DISOWNED. 273 
 
 youngest imagination had ever dreamed. The social 
 concomitants of the wine-cup (which have for the lenient 
 an excuse, for the austere a temptation), the generous 
 expanding of the heart, the increased yearning to kindly 
 affection , the lavish spirit throwing off its exuberance in 
 the thousand lights and emanations of wit, — these, 
 which have rendered the molten grape, despite of its 
 excesses, not unworthy of the praises of immortal hymns, 
 and taken harshness from the judgment of those averse 
 to its enjoyment: these never presented an inducement 
 to the stony temperament and dormant heart of Richard 
 Crauford. 
 
 He looked upon the essences of things internal as 
 the common eye upon outward nature, and loved the 
 many shapes of evil as the latter does the varieties of 
 earth, not for their graces, but their utility. His Joves, 
 coarse and low, fed their rank fires from an unmingled 
 and gross depravity. His devotion to wine was either 
 solitary and unseen, — for he loved safety better than 
 mirth, — or in company with those whose station flattered 
 his vanity, not whose fellowship ripened his crude and 
 nipped affections. Even the recklessness of vice in him 
 had the character of prudence; and in the most rapid 
 and turbulent stream of his excesses, one might detect 
 the rocky and unmoved heart of the calculator at the 
 bottom. 
 
 Cool, sagacious, profound in dissimulation, and not 
 only observant of, but deducing sage consequences from 
 those human inconsistencies and frailties b} r which it 
 was his aim to profit, he cloaked his deeper vices with 
 a masterly hypocrisy ; and for those, too dear to forego 
 and too difficult to conceal, he obtained pardon hy the 
 intercession of virtues it cost him nothing to assume. 
 Regular in his attendance at worship; professing rigid- 
 yol. i. — 18
 
 274 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 ness of faith beyond the tenets of the orthodox church ; 
 subscribing to the public charities, where the common 
 eye knoweth what the private hand giveth ; methodically 
 constant to the forms of business; primitively scrupu- 
 lous in the proprieties of speech; hospitable, at least to 
 his superiors; and being naturally smooth, both of 
 temper and address, popular with his inferiors, — it 
 was no marvel that one part of the world forgave, to a 
 man rich and young, the irregularities of dissipation; 
 that another forgot real immorality in favor of affected 
 religion, — or that the remainder allowed the most unex- 
 ceptionable excellence of words to atone for the unob- 
 trusive errors of a conduct which did not prejudice 
 them. 
 
 "It is true," said his friends, " that he loves women 
 too much ; but he is young, — he will marry and amend. " 
 
 Mr. Crauford did marry ; and, strange as it may seem, 
 for love, — at least for that brute-like love of which 
 alone he was capable. After a few years of ill-usage on 
 his side, and endurance on his wife's, they parted. 
 Tired of her person, and profiting by her gentleness of 
 temper, he sent her to an obscure corner of the country, 
 to starve upon the miserable pittance which was all he 
 il lowed her from his superfluities. Even then — such 
 is the effect of the showy proprieties of form and word — 
 Mr. Crauford sank nut in the estimation of the world. 
 
 " It was easy to see," said the spectators of his domes- 
 tic drama, " that a man in temper so mild, in his business 
 so honorable, so civil of speech, so attentive to the stocks 
 and the sermon, could not have been the party to 
 blame. One never knew the rights of matrimonial 
 disagreements, nor could sufficiently estimate the pro- 
 voking disparities of temper. Certainly, Mrs. Crauford 
 never did look in good humor, and had not the open
 
 THE DISOWNED. 275 
 
 countenance of her husband; and certainly the very ex- 
 cesses of Mr. Crauford betokened a generous warmth of 
 heart, which the sullenness of his conjugal partner 
 might easily chill and revolt." 
 
 And thus, unquestioned and unhlamed, Mr. Crauford 
 walked onward in his beaten way ; and, secretly laugh- 
 ing at the toleration of the crowd, continued at his 
 luxurious villa the orgies of a passionless yet brutal 
 sensuality. 
 
 So far might the character of Richard Crauford find 
 parallels in hypocrisy and its success. Dive we now 
 deeper into his soul. Possessed of talents which, though 
 of a secondary rank, were in that rank consummate, Mr. 
 Crauford could not be a villain by intuition, or the 
 irregular bias of his nature ; he was a villain upon a 
 grander scale: he was a villain upon system. Having 
 little learning and less knowledge, out of his profession, 
 his reflection expended itself upon apparently obvious 
 deductions from the great and mysterious book of life. 
 He saw vice prosperous in externals, and from this sight 
 his conclusion was drawn. " Vice," said he, " is not an 
 obstacle to success; and, if so, it is at least a pleasanter 
 road to it than your narrow and thorny ways of virtue. " 
 But there are certain vices which require the mask of 
 virtue, and Crauford thought it easier to wear the mask 
 than to school his soul to the reality. So to the villain 
 he added the hypocrite. He found the success equalled 
 his hopes ; for he had both craft and genius, — nor was 
 he, naturally, without the minor amiabilities, which, to 
 the ignorance of the herd, seem more valuable than coin 
 of a more important amount. Blinded as we are by 
 prejudice, we not only mistake, but prefer decencies to 
 moralities; and like the inhabitants of Cos when of- 
 fered the choice of two statues of the same goddes6, we
 
 276 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 choose, not that which is the most beautiful, but that 
 which is the most dressed. 
 
 Accustomed easily to dupe mankind, Crauford soon 
 grew to despise them; and from justifying roguery by 
 his own interest, he now justified it by the folly of 
 others; and as no wretch is so unredeemed as to be 
 without excuse to himself, Crauford actually persuaded 
 his reason that he was vicious upon principle, and a 
 rascal on a system of morality. But why the desire of 
 this man, so consummately worldly and heartless, for 
 an intimacy with the impoverished and powerless stu- 
 dent? This question is easily answered. In the first 
 place, during Crauford's acquaintance with Glendower 
 abroad, the latter had often, though innocently, galled 
 the vanity and self-pride of the parvenu affecting the 
 aristocrat, and in poverty the parvenu was anxious to 
 retaliate. But this desire would probably have passed 
 away after he had satisfied his curiosity, or gloated 
 his spite, by one or two insights into Glendower's home, 
 — for Crauford, though at times a malicious, was not a 
 vindictive man, — had it not been for a much more pow- 
 erful object which afterwards occurred to him. In an 
 extensive scheme of fraud, which for many years this 
 man had carried on, and which for secrecy and boldness 
 was almost unequalled, it had of late become necessary 
 to his safety to have a partner, or rather tool. A man of 
 education, talent, and courage was indispensable, and 
 Crauford had resolved that Glendower should be that 
 man. With the supreme confidence in his own powers 
 which long success had given him; with a sovereign 
 contempt for, or rather disbelief in human integrity; 
 and with a thorough conviction, that the bribe to him 
 was the bribe with all, and that none could on any ac- 
 count be poor if they had the offer to be rich, — Crauford
 
 THE DISOWNED. 277 
 
 did not bestow a moment's consideration upon the diffi- 
 culty of his task, or conceive that in the nature and 
 mind of Glendower there could exist any obstacle to 
 his design. 
 
 Men addicted to calculation are accustomed to suppose 
 those employed in the same mental pursuit arrive, or 
 ought to arrive, at the same final conclusion. Now, 
 looking upon Glendower as a philosopher, Oauford 
 looked upon him as a man who, however he might con- 
 ceal his real opinions, secretly laughed like Crauford's 
 self, not only at the established customs, but at the estab- 
 lished moralities of the world. Ill acquainted with 
 books, the worthy Richard was, like all men similarly 
 situated, somewhat infected by the very prejudices he 
 affected to despise ; and he shared the vulgar disposition 
 to doubt the hearts of those who cultivate the head. 
 Glendower himself had confirmed this opinion by laud- 
 ing, though he did not entirely subscribe to those moral- 
 ists who have made an enlightened self-interest the 
 proper measure of all human conduct; and Crauford, 
 utterly unable to comprehend this system in its grand, 
 naturally interpreted it in a partial sense. Espousing 
 self-interest as his own code, he deemed that in reality 
 Glendower's principles did not differ greatly from his; 
 and as there is no pleasure to a hypocrite like that of 
 finding a fit opportunity to unburden some of his real 
 sentiments, Crauford was occasionally wont to hold 
 some conference and argument with the student, in 
 which his opinions were not utterly cloaked in their 
 usual disguise ; but cautious even in his candor, he 
 always forbore stating such opinions as his own: he 
 merely mentioned them as those which a man, behold- 
 ing the villanies and follies of his kind might be tempted 
 to form ; and thus Glendower, though not greatly
 
 278 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 esteeming his acquaintance, looked upon him as one 
 ignorant in his opinions, but not likely to err in his 
 conduct. 
 
 These conversations did, however, it is true, increase 
 Crauford's estimate of Glendower's integrity, but they 
 by no means diminished his confidence of subduing it. 
 Honor, a deep and pure sense of the divinity of good, 
 the steady desire of rectitude, and the supporting aid of 
 a sincere religion, — these he did not deny to his in- 
 tended tool ; he rather rejoiced that he possessed them. 
 With the profound arrogance, the sense of immeasurable 
 superiority which men of no principle invariably feel for 
 those who have it, Crauford said to himself, " Those very 
 virtues will be my best dupes, — they cannot resist the 
 temptations I shall offer, but they can resist any offer to 
 betray me afterwards, for no man can resist hunger; but 
 your fine feelings, your nice honor, your precise religion, 
 — he ! he ! he ! — these can teach a man very well to resist 
 a common inducement: they cannot make him submit to 
 be his own executioner; but they can prevent his turn- 
 ing king's evidence, and being executioner to another. 
 No, no ; it is not to your common rogues that I may dare 
 trust my secret, — my secret, which is my life! It is 
 precisely of such a fine, Athenian, moral rogue as I 
 shall make my proud friend, that I am in want. But 
 he has some silly scruples ; we must beat them away. 
 We must not be too rash; and, above all, we must leave 
 the best argument to poverty. Want is your finest ora- 
 tor : a starving wife , a famished brat , — he ! he ! — these 
 are your true tempters, your true fathers of crime, and 
 fillers of jails and gibbets. Let me see: he has no 
 money, I know, but what he gets from that bookseller. 
 What bookseller, by the by 1 ? Ah, rare thought! I '11 
 find out, and cut off that supply. My lady wife's cheek
 
 THE DISOWNED. 279 
 
 will look somewhat thinner next month, I fancy, — 
 he! he! But 't is a pity, for she is a glorious creature! 
 Who knows hut I may serve two purposes? However, 
 one at present! business first and pleasure afterwards, 
 — and faith, the business is damnably like that of life 
 and death. " 
 
 Muttering such thoughts as these, Crauford took his 
 way one evening to Glendower's house.
 
 280 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 Iago. — Virtue ; a fig ! — 't is in ourselves that we are thus and thus. 
 
 Othello. 
 
 "So, so, my little one, don't let me disturb you. 
 Madam, dare I venture to hope your acceptance of this 
 fruit? I chose it myself, and I am somewhat of a 
 judge. Oh! Glendower, here is the pamphlet you 
 wished to see." 
 
 With this salutation, Crauford drew his chair to the 
 table by which Glendower sat, and entered into con- 
 versation with his purposed victim. A comely and a 
 pleasing countenance had Richard Crauford ! — the lonely 
 light of the room fell upon a face which, though forty 
 years of guile had gone over it, was as fair and un- 
 wrinkled as a boy's. Small, well-cut features, a bloom- 
 ing complexion, eyes of the lightest blue, a forehead 
 high, though narrow, and a mouth from which the smile 
 was never absent: these, joined to a manner at once soft 
 and confident, and an elegant, though unaffected study 
 of dress, gave to Crauford a personal appearance well 
 suited to aid the effect of his hypocritical and dissem- 
 bling mind. 
 
 "Well, my friend," said he, "always at your books, 
 eh! Ah! it is a happy taste: would that I had culti- 
 vated it more; but we, who are condemned to business, 
 have little leisure to follow our own inclinations. It is 
 only on Sundays that I have time to read; and then 
 (to say truth, I am an old-fashioned man whom the 
 gayer part of the world laughs at), — and then I am too
 
 THE DISOWNED. 281 
 
 occupied with the Book of Books to think of any less 
 important study." 
 
 Not deeming that a peculiar reply was required to this 
 pious speech, Glendower did not take that advantage of 
 Crauford's pause which it was evidently intended that 
 he should. With a glance towards the student's wife, 
 our mercantile friend continued: " I did once — once, in 
 my young dreams, intend that whenever I married, I 
 would relinquish a profession for which, after all, I am 
 but little calculated. I pictured to myself a country 
 retreat, well stored with books; and having concen- 
 trated in one home all the attractions which could have 
 tempted my thoughts abroad, I had designed to surren- 
 der myself solely to those studies which, I lament to 
 say, were but ill attended to in my earlier education. 
 But — but" (here Mr. Crauford sighed deeply, and 
 averted his face) — "fate willed it otherwise." 
 
 Whatever reply of sympathetic admiration or con- 
 dolence Glendower might have made, was interrupted 
 by one of those sudden and overpowering attacks of 
 faintness which had of late seized the delicate and de- 
 clining health of his wife. He rose, and leaned over 
 her with a fondness and alarm which curled the lip of 
 his visitor. 
 
 "Thus it is," said Crauford to himself, "with weak 
 minds, under the influence of habit. The love of lust 
 becomes the love of custom, and the last is as strong as 
 the first." 
 
 When she had recovered, she rose and (with her 
 child) retired to rest, the only restorative she ever 
 found effectual for her complaint. Glendower went 
 with her, and after having seen her eyes, which swam 
 Avith tears of gratitude at his love, close in the seeming 
 slumber she affected in order to release him from his
 
 282 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 watch, he returned to Crauford. He found that gen- 
 tleman leaning against the chimney-piece, with folded 
 arms, and apparently immersed in thought. A very 
 good opportunity had Glendower's absence afforded to 
 a man whose boast it was never to lose one. Looking 
 over the papers on the table, he had seen and possessed 
 himself of the address of the bookseller the student dealt 
 with. " So much for business, — now for philanthropy/' 
 said Mr. Crauford, in his favorite antithetical phrase, 
 throwing himself in his attitude against the chimney- 
 piece. 
 
 As Glendower entered, Crauford started from his 
 reverie, and with a melancholy air and pensive voice, 
 said, — 
 
 " Alas, my friend, when I look upon this humble 
 apartment, the weak health of your unequalled wife, 
 your obscurity, your misfortune, — when I look upon 
 these, and contrast them with your mind, your talents, 
 all that you were born and fitted for, I cannot but feel 
 tempted to believe with those who imagine the pursuit 
 of virtue a chimera, and who justify their own worldly 
 policy by the example of all their kind." 
 
 "Virtue," said Glendower, "would indeed be a 
 chimera, did it require support from those whom you 
 have cited." 
 
 "True, — most true," answered Crauford, somewhat 
 disconcerted in reality, though not in appearance; "and 
 yet, strange as it may seem, I have known some of those 
 persons very good, admirably good men. They were 
 extremely moral and religious; they only played the 
 great game for worldly advantages upon the same terms 
 as the other players; nay, they never made a move in it 
 without most fervently and sincerely praying for divine 
 assistance."
 
 THE DISOWNED. 283 
 
 " I readily believe you," said Glendower, who always, 
 if possible, avoided a controversy, — " the easiest person 
 to deceive is one's own self." 
 
 "Admirably said," answered Crauford, who thought 
 it, nevertheless, one of the most foolish observations he 
 had ever heard, — " admirably said! — and yet my heart 
 does grieve bitterly for the trials and distresses it sur- 
 veys. One must make excuses for poor human frailty ; 
 and one is often placed in such circumstances as to render 
 it scarcely possible, without the grace of God " (here 
 Crauford lifted up his eyes), "not to be urged, as it 
 were, into the reasonings and actions of the world." 
 
 Not exactly comprehending this observation, and not 
 very closely attending to it, Glendower merely bowed, 
 as in assent, and Crauford continued. 
 
 " I remember a remarkable instance of this truth. 
 One of my partner's clerks had, through misfortune or 
 imprudence, fallen into the greatest distress. His wife, 
 his children (he had a numerous family) , were on the 
 literal and absolute verge of starvation. Another clerk, 
 taking advantage of these circumstances, communicated 
 to the distressed man a plan for defrauding his employer. 
 The poor fellow yielded to the temptation, and was at 
 last discovered. I spoke to him myself, for I was in- 
 terested in his fate, and had always esteemed him. 
 'What,' said I, 'was your motive for this fraud?' 
 4 My duty! ' answered the man fervently, — ' my duty! 
 Was I to suffer my wife, my children, to starve before 
 my face, when I could save them at a little personal 
 risk? No, — my duty forbade it!' — and in truth, 
 Glendower, there was something very plausible in this 
 manner of putting the question." 
 
 "You might, in answering it," said Glendower, 
 " have put the point in a manner equally plausible
 
 284 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 and more true: was he to commit a great crime agairist 
 the millions connected by social order, for the sake of 
 serving a single family, — and that his own?" 
 
 " Quite right," answered Oauford, — " that was just 
 the point of view in which I did put it; hut the man, 
 who was something of a reasoner, replied: ' Public law 
 is instituted for public happiness. "Now if mine and 
 my children's happiness is infinitely and immeasurably 
 more served by this comparatively petty fraud than my 
 employer's is advanced by my abstaining from, or in- 
 jured by my committing it, why, the origin of law itself 
 allows me to do it.' What say you to that, Grlen- 
 dower? It is something in your Utilitarian, or, as you 
 term it, Epicurean 1 principle, is it not 1 ? " and (Jrauford, 
 shading his eyes, as if from the light, watched nar- 
 rowly Glendower's countenance, while he concealed his 
 own. 
 
 " Poor fool ! " said Glendower : " the man was ignorant 
 of the first lesson in his moral primer. Did he not 
 know that no rule is to be applied to a peculiar instance, 
 but extended to its most general bearings? Is it neces- 
 sary even to observe that the particular consequence of 
 fraud in this man might, it is true, be but the ridding 
 his employer of superfluities, scarcely missed, for the 
 relief of most urgent want in two or three individuals; 
 but the general consequences of fraud and treachery 
 would be the disorganization of all society 1 Do not 
 think, therefore, that this man was a disciple of my, 
 or of any system of morality." 
 
 " It is very just, very," said Mr. Oauford, with a 
 
 1 See the article on Mr. Moore's Epicurean, in the " Westmin- 
 ster Review." Though the strictures on that work are harsh and 
 unjust, yet the part relating to the real philosophy of Epicurus ia 
 one of the most masterly things in criticism.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 285 
 
 benevolent sigh; "but you will own that want seldom 
 allows great nicety in moral distinctions, and that, when 
 those whom you love most in the world are starving, 
 you may be pitied, if not forgiven, for losing sight of 
 the after laws of nature, and recurring to her first ordi- 
 nance , self-preservation . " 
 
 "We should be harsh indeed," answered Glendower, 
 " if we did not pity ; or even while the law condemned, 
 if the individual did not forgive." 
 
 " So I said, so I said," cried Crauford; " and in in- 
 terceding for the poor fellow, whose pardon, I am happy 
 to say, I procured, I could not belp declaring that, if I 
 were placed in the same circumstances, I am not sure 
 that my crime would not have been the same." 
 
 " No man could feel sure ! " said Glendower, dejectedly. 
 
 Delighted and surprised with this confession, Crauford 
 continued: " I believe, — I fear not. Thank God, our 
 virtue can never be so tried; but even you, Glendower, 
 even you, philosopher, moralist as you are, — just, good, 
 wise, religious, — even you might be tempted, if you 
 saw your angel wife dying for want of the aid, the very 
 sustenance necessary to existence, and your innocent and 
 beautiful daughter stretch her little hands to you, and 
 cry in the accents of famine for bread." 
 
 The student made no reply for a few moments, but 
 averted his countenance, and then in a slow tone said, 
 " Let us drop this subject: none know their strength till 
 they are tried; self-confidence should accompany virtue, 
 but not precede it." 
 
 A momentary flash broke from the usually calm, cold 
 eye of Eichard Crauford. "He is mine," thought he: 
 " the very name of want abases his pride; what will the 
 reality do? human nature, how I know and mock 
 thee!"
 
 286 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 "You are right," said Crauford, aloud; " let us talk 
 of the pamphlet." 
 
 And after a short conversation upon indifferent sub- 
 jects, the visitor departed. 
 
 Early the next morning was Mr. Crauford seen on 
 foot, taking his way to the bookseller, whose address he 
 had learned. The bookseller was known as a man of 
 a strongly evangelical bias. " We must insinuate a lie 
 or two," said Crauford, inly, "about Glendower's prin- 
 ciples. He! he! it will be a fine stroke of genius to 
 make the upright tradesman suffer Glendower to starve, 
 out of a principle of religion. But who would have 
 thought my prey had been so easily snared! — why, if I 
 had proposed the matter last night, I verily think he 
 would have agreed to it." 
 
 Amusing himself with these thoughts, Crauford ar- 
 rived at the bookseller's. There he found fate had 
 saved him from one crime at least. The whole house 
 was in confusion, — the bookseller had that morning 
 died of an apoplectic fit. 
 
 "Good God! how shocking!" said Crauford to the 
 foreman; "but he was a most worthy man, and Provi- 
 dence could no longer spare him. The ways of Heaven 
 are inscrutable ! Oblige me with three copies of that 
 precious tract termed the ' Divine Call.' I should like 
 to be allowed permission to attend the funeral of so ex- 
 cellent a man. Good-morning, sir, — alas! alas;" and, 
 shaking his head piteously, Mr. Crauford left the shop. 
 
 "Hurrah!" said he, almost audibly, when he was 
 once more in the street, — " hurrah! my victim is made, 
 my game is won : death or the devil fights for me. But, 
 hold : there are other booksellers in this monstrous city ! 
 — ay, but not above two or three in our philosopher's 
 way. I must forestall him there ; so, so, — that is soon
 
 THE DISOAVNED. 287 
 
 settled. Xow, then, I must leave him, a little while 
 undisturbed, to his fate. Perhaps my next visit may be 
 to him in jail; your debtor's side of the Fleet is almost 
 as good a pleader as an empty stomach, — he! he! he! 
 — but the stroke must be made soon, for time presses, 
 and this d — d business spreads so fast that if I don't 
 have a speedy help, it will be too much for my hands, 
 griping as they are. However, if it holds on a year 
 longer, I will change my seat in the Lower House for 
 one in the Upper; twenty thousand pounds to the min- 
 ister may make a merchant a very pretty peer. 
 brave Richard Crauford, wise Richard Crauford, fortu- 
 nate Richard Crauford, noble Richard Crauford! Why, 
 if thou art ever hanged, it will be by a jury of peers. 
 Gad, the rope would then have a dignity in it instead of 
 
 disgrace. But stay, here comes the Dean of ; not 
 
 orthodox, it is said, — rigid Calvinist! — out with the 
 * Divine Call ' ! " 
 
 When Mr. Richard Crauford repaired next to Glen- 
 dower, what was his astonishment and dismay at hear- 
 ing he had left his home , none knew whither, nor could 
 give the inquirer the slightest clew. 
 
 "How long has he left?" said Crauford to the 
 landlady. 
 
 "Five days, sir." 
 
 " And will he not return to settle any little debts he 
 may have incurred 1 " said Crauford. 
 
 "Oh, no; sir, — he paid them all before he went. 
 Poor gentleman, — for though he was poor, he was the 
 finest and most thorough gentleman I ever saw! — my 
 heart bled for him. They parted with all their valu- 
 ables to discharge their debts: the books and instru- 
 ments and busts, — all went; and what I saw, though 
 he spoke so indifferently about it, hurt him the most,
 
 2bS THE DISOWNED. 
 
 he sold even the lady's picture. 'Mrs. Croftson,' 
 
 said he, ' Mr. , the painter, will send for that pic- 
 ture the day after I leave you. See that he has it, and 
 that the greatest care is taken of it in delivery.' 
 
 " And you cannot even guess where he has gone to? " 
 "No, sir; a single porter was sufficient to convey his 
 remaining goods, and he took him from some distant 
 part of the town." 
 
 "Ten thousand devils!" muttered Crauford, as he 
 turned away, " I should have foreseen this! He is lost 
 now. Of course he will again change his name; and in 
 the d — d holes and corners of this gigantic puzzle of 
 houses, how shall I ever find him out? — and time 
 presses too! Well, well, well! there is a fine prize for 
 being cleverer, or, as fools would say, more rascally 
 than others ; but there is a world of trouble in winning 
 it. But come, — I will go home, lock myself up, and 
 get drunk! I am as melancholy as a cat in love, and 
 about as stupid; and, faith, one must get spirits in 
 order to hit on a new invention. But if there be con- 
 sistency in fortune, or success in perseverance, or wit in 
 Kichard Crauford, that man shall yet be my victim — 
 and preserver! "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 2S9 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 Revenge is now the cud 
 That I do chew. — I '11 challenge him. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 We return to " the world of fashion," as the admirers of 
 
 the polite novel of would say. The noonday sun 
 
 broke hot and sultry through half-closed curtains of ro- 
 seate silk, playing in broken beams upon rare and fra- 
 grant exotics, which cast the perfumes of southern 
 summers over a chamber, moderate, indeed, as to its 
 dimensions, but decorated with a splendor rather gaudy 
 than graceful, and indicating much more a passion for 
 luxury than a refinement of taste. 
 
 At a small writing-table sat the beautiful La Meron- 
 ville. She had just finished a note, written (how Jean 
 Jacques would have been enchanted!) upon paper 
 couleur de rose, with a mother-of-pearl pen, formed as 
 one of Cupid's darts, dipped into an inkstand of the 
 same material, which was shaped as a quiver, and placed 
 at the back of a little Love, exquisitely wrought. She 
 was folding this billet when a page, fantastically dressed, 
 entered, and announcing Lord Borodaile, was imme- 
 diately followed by that nobleman. Eagerly and almost 
 blushingly did La Meronville thrust the note into her 
 bosom, and hasten to greet and to embrace her adorer. 
 Lord Borodaile flung himself on one of the sofas with a 
 listless and discontented air. The experienced French- 
 woman saw that there was a cloud on his brow. 
 
 " My dear friend," said she, in her own tongue, " you 
 seem vexed, — has anything annoyed you 1 " 
 vol. i. — 19
 
 290 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 " No, Cecile, no. By the by, who supped with you 
 last night?" 
 
 " Oh! the Duke of Haverfield, — your friend." 
 
 "My friend!" interrupted Borodaile, haughtily, — 
 " he 's no friend of mine: a vulgar, talkative fellow, — 
 my friend, indeed! " 
 
 " Well, I beg your pardon: then there was Mademoi- 
 selle Caumartin, and the Prince Pietro del Orbino, and 
 Mr. Trevanion, and Mr. Lin — Lin — Linten, or 
 Linden. " 
 
 " And, pray, will you allow me to ask how you be- 
 came acquainted with Mr. Lin — Lin — Linten, or 
 Linden 1 " 
 
 " Assuredly, — through the Duke of Haverfield." 
 
 " Humph, Cecile, my love, that young man is not fit 
 to be the acquaintance of my friend; allow me to strike 
 him from your list." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly! " said La Meronville, hastily; 
 and stooping as if to pick up a fallen glove, though 
 in reality to hide her face from Lord Borodaile 's search- 
 ing eye, the letter she had written fell from her bosom. 
 Lord Borodaile's glance detected the superscription, and 
 before La Meronville could regain the note, he had 
 possessed himself of it. 
 
 "A Monsieur, Monsieur Linden!" said he, coldly, 
 reading the address; "and pray, how long have you 
 corresponded with that gentleman? " 
 
 Now La Meronville's situation at that moment was 
 by no means agreeable. She saw at one glance that no 
 falsehood or artifice could avail her; for Lord Borodaile 
 might deem himself fully justified in reading the note, 
 which would contradict any glossing statement she 
 might make. She saw this. She was a woman of 
 independence, cared not a straw for Lord Borodaile at
 
 THE DISOWNED. 291 
 
 present, though she had had a caprice for him, knew 
 that she might choose her bon ami out of all London, 
 and replied, — 
 
 " That is the first letter I ever wrote to him; hut I 
 own that it will not be the last. " 
 
 Lord Borodaile turned pale. 
 
 "And will you suffer me to read it?" said he; for 
 even in these cases he was punctiliously honorable. 
 
 La Meronville hesitated. She did not know him. 
 " If I do not consent," thought she, " he will do it with- 
 out the consent: better submit with a good grace. — 
 Certainly! " she answered, with an air of indifference. 
 
 Borodaile opened and read the note; it was as 
 follows : — 
 
 You have inspired me with a feeling for you which aston- 
 ishes myself. Ah, why should that love be the strongest 
 which is the swiftest in its growth ? I used to love Lord 
 Borodaile ; I now only esteem him, — the love has flown to 
 you. If I judge rightly from your words and your eyes, this 
 avowal will not be unwelcome to vou. Come and assure me, 
 in person, of a persuasion so dear to mv heart. 
 
 C. L. M. 
 
 "A very pretty effusion!" said Lord Borodaile, sar- 
 castically, and only showing his inward rage by the 
 increasing paleness of his complexion, and a slight com- 
 pression of his lip. " I thank you for your confidence in 
 me. All I ask is, that you will not send this note till 
 to-morrow. Allow me to take my leave of you first, and 
 to find in Mr. Linden a successor rather than a rival. " 
 
 "Your request, my friend," said La Meronville, 
 adjusting her hair, " is but reasonable. I see that you 
 understand these arrangements; and, for my part, I 
 think that the end of love should always be the begin- 
 ning of friendship, — let it be so with us! "
 
 292 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 " You do me too much honor," said Borodaile, howiner 
 profoundly. " Meanwhile, I depend upon your promise, 
 and bid you, as a lover, farewell forever." 
 
 With his usual slow step, Lord Borodaile descended 
 the stairs, and walked towards the central quart ier of 
 the town. His meditations were of no soothing nature. 
 " To be seen by that man in a ridiculous and degrading 
 situation, to be pestered with his d — d civility, to be 
 rivalled by him with Lady Flora, to be duped and 
 outdone by him with my mistress! Ay, — all this have 
 I been ; hut vengeance shall come yet. As for La 
 Meronville, the loss is a gain; and, thank Heaven, I 
 did not betray myself by venting my passion and making 
 a scene. But it was I who ought to have discarded her, 
 — not the reverse ; and — death and confusion — for that 
 upstart, above all men! And she talked in her letter 
 about his eyes and words. Insolent coxcomb, to dare 
 to have eyes and words for one who belonged to me. 
 Well, well, he shall smart for this. But let me con- 
 sider: I must not play the jealous fool, must not fight 
 
 for a , must not show the world that a man, nobody 
 
 knows who, could really outwit and outdo me — me, 
 Francis Borodaile! No, no; 1 must throw the insult 
 upon him: must myself be the aggressor and the chal- 
 lenged; then, too, I shall have the choice of weapons, — 
 pistols, of course. Where shall I hit him, by the by? 
 I wish I shot as well as I used to do at Naples. I 
 was in full practice then. Cursed place, where there 
 was nothing else to do but to practise! " 
 
 Immersed in these, or somewhat similar reflections, 
 did Lord Borodaile enter Pall Mall. 
 
 "Ah, Borodaile!" said Lord St. George, suddenly 
 emerging from a shop. " This is really fortunate : you 
 are going my way exactly, — allow me to join you."
 
 THE DISOWNED. 293 
 
 Now Lord Borodaile, to say nothing of his happening 
 at that time to be in a mood more than visually unsocial, 
 could never at any time bear the thought of being made 
 an instrument of convenience, pleasure, or good fortune 
 to another. He therefore, with a little resentment at 
 Lord iSt. George's familiarity, coldly replied, " I am 
 sorry that I cannot avail myself of your offer. I am sure 
 my way is not the same as yours." 
 
 "Then," replied Lord St. George, who was a good- 
 natured, indolent man, who imagined everybody was as 
 averse to walking alone as he was, — " then I will make 
 mine the same as yours." 
 
 Borodaile colored: though always uncivil, he did not 
 like to be excelled in good manners; and therefore re- 
 plied, that nothing but extreme business at White's 
 could have induced him to prefer his own way to that 
 of Lord St. George. 
 
 The good-natured peer took Lord Borodaile's arm. It 
 was a natural incident, but it vexed the punctilious 
 viscount, that any man should take, not offer the 
 support. 
 
 "So, they say," observed Lord St. George, "that 
 young Linden is to marry Lady Flora Ardenne." 
 
 a Les on-d its font la gazette desfous," rejoined Boro- 
 daile, with a sneer. " I believe that Lady Flora is little 
 likely to contract such a mesalliance." 
 
 " Mesalliance I " replied Lord St. George. " I thought 
 Linden was of a very old family, which you know the 
 Westbcroughs are not, and he has great expectations — " 
 
 " Which are never to be realized," interrupted Boro- 
 daile, laughing scornfully. 
 
 "Ah, indeed!" said Lord St. George, seriously. 
 " Well, at all events, he is a very agreeable, unaffected 
 young man, — and by the by, Borodaile, you will
 
 204 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 meet him chez moi to-day: you know you dine with 
 me ? " 
 
 "Meet Mr. Linden! I shall he proud to have that 
 honor," said Borodaile, with sparkling eyes; " will Lady 
 Westborough he also of the party 1 " 
 
 "]STo; poor Lady St. George is very ill, and I have 
 taken the opportunity to ask only men." 
 
 " You Lave done wisely, my lord," said Borodaile, 
 serum multa revolvens ; " and I assure you I wanted no 
 hint to remind me of your invitation." 
 
 Here the Duke of Haverfield joined them. The duke 
 never bowed to any one of the male sex ; he therefore 
 nodded to Borodaile, who, with a very supercilious for- 
 mality, took off his hat in returning the salutation. The 
 viscount had at least this merit in his pride : that if it 
 was reserved to the humble, it was contemptuous to the 
 high, — his inferiors he wished to remain where they 
 were; his equals he longed to lower. 
 
 " So I dine with you, Lord St. George, to-day," said 
 the duke ; " whom shall I meet 1 " 
 
 " Lord Borodaile, for one," answered St. George : " my 
 brother, Aspeden, Findlater, Orbino, and Linden." 
 
 " Linden! " cried the duke; " I 'm very glad to hear 
 it, e'est un homme fait eocpres pour moi. He is very 
 clever, and not above playing the fool; has humor with- 
 out setting up for a wit, and is a good fellow without 
 being a bad man. I like him excessively." 
 
 " Lord St. George," said Borodaile, who seemed that 
 day to be the very martyr of the unconscious Clarence, 
 " I wish you good-morning. I have only just remem- 
 bered an engagement which I must keep before I go to 
 White's." 
 
 And, with a bow to the duke, and a remonstrance from 
 Lord St. George, Borodaile effected his escape. His
 
 THE DISOWNED. 295 
 
 complexion -was, insensibly to himself, more raised than 
 usual, his step more stately; his mind, for the first lime 
 for years, was fully excited and engrossed. Ah, what a 
 delightful thing it is for an idle man, who has been 
 dying of ennui, to find an enemy.
 
 296 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 You must challenge him ; 
 There's no avoiding, — one or both must drop. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 " Ha , ha, ha, — bravo, Linden! " cried Lord St. George, 
 from the head of his splendid board, in approbation of 
 some witticism of Clarence's; and ha, ha, ha! or he, 
 he, he ! according to the cachinnatory intonations of the 
 guests, rang around. 
 
 " Your lordship seems unwell," said Lord Aspeden to 
 Borodaile ; " allow me to take wine with you." 
 
 Lord Borodaile bowed his assent. 
 
 " Pray," said Mr. St. George to Clarence, " have you 
 seen my friend Talbot lately ? " 
 
 "This very morning," replied Linden: "indeed, I 
 generally visit him three or four times a week, — he 
 often asks after you. " 
 
 " indeed! " said Mr. St. George, rather nattered: " he 
 does me much honor, — but he is a distant connection of 
 mine, and I suppose I must attribute his recollection of 
 me to that cause. He is a near relation of yours too, I 
 think, — is he hot?" 
 
 " 1 am related to him," answered Clarence, coloring. 
 
 Lord Borodaile loaned forward, and Lis lip curled. 
 Though in some respects a very unamiable man, be had, 
 as we have said, his good points. He hated a lie as 
 much as Achilles did; and be believed in his heart of 
 hearts that Clarence had just uttered one. 
 
 " Why," observed Lord Aspeden, — " why, Lord Boro- 
 daile, the Talbots of Scarsdale are branches of //our
 
 THE DISOWNED. 297 
 
 genealogical tree : therefore your lordship must "be re- 
 lated to Linden : you are ' two cherries on one stalk ! ' 
 
 " We are by no means related," said Lord Borodaile, 
 ■with a distinct and clear voice, intended expressly for 
 Clarence ; " that is an honor which I must beg leave most 
 positively to disclaim." 
 
 There was a dead silence, — the eyes of all who heard 
 a remark so intentionally rude were turned immediately 
 towards Clarence. His cheek burned like fire; he hesi- 
 tated a moment, and then said, in the same key, though 
 with a little trembling in his intonation, — 
 
 " Lord Borodaile cannot be more anxious to disclaim 
 it than T am. " 
 
 " And yet," returned the viscount, stung to the soul, 
 " they who advance false pretensions ought at least to 
 support them! " 
 
 " I do not understand you, my lord," said Clarence. 
 " Possibly not," answered Borodaile, carelessly: 
 " there is a maxim which says that people not accustomed 
 to speak truth cannot comprehend it in others. " 
 
 Unlike the generality of modern heroes, who are 
 always in a passion, — off-hand, dashing fellows, in 
 whom irascibility is a virtue, — Clarence was peculiarly 
 sweet-tempered by nature, and had, by habit, acquired 
 a command over all his passions to a degree very uncom- 
 mon in so young a ?nan. He made no reply to the in- 
 excusable affront he had received. His lip quivered a 
 little, and the flush of his countenance was succeeded by 
 an extreme paleness, — this was all: he did not even 
 leave the room immediately, but waited till the silence 
 was broken by some well-bred member of the party ; and 
 then, pleading an early engagement as an excuse for his 
 retiring so soon, he rose, and departed. 
 
 There was throughout the room a universal feeling of
 
 208 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 sympathy with the affront, and indignation against the 
 offender; for, to say nothing of Clarence's popularity, 
 and the extreme dislike in which Lord Borodaile was 
 held, there could be no doubt as to the wantonness of the 
 outrage, or the moderation of the aggrieved party. Lord 
 Borodaile already felt the punishment of his offence: his 
 very pride, while it rendered him indifferent to the 
 spirit, had hitherto kept him scrupulous as to the for- 
 malities of social politeness; and he could not but see 
 the grossness with which lie had suffered himself to vio- 
 late them, and the light in which his conduct was re- 
 garded. However, this internal discomfort only rendered 
 him the more embittered against Clarence, and the more 
 confirmed in his revenge. Resuming, by a strong 
 effort, all the external indifference habitual to his man- 
 ner, he attempted to enter into a conversation with those 
 of the party who were next to him; but his remarks 
 produced answers brief and cold. Even Lord Aspeden 
 forgot his diplomacy and his smile; Lord St. George 
 replied to his observations by a monosyllable ; and the 
 Duke of Haverfield, for the first time in his life, asserted 
 the prerogative which his rank gave him of setting the 
 example, — his grace did not reply to Lord Borodaile at 
 all. In truth, every one present was seriously dis- 
 pleased. All civilized societies have a paramount interest 
 in repressing the rude. Nevertheless, Lord Borodaile 
 bore the brunt of his unpopularity with a steadiness and 
 Unembarrassed composure worthy of a better cause ; and 
 finding at last a companion disposed to be loquacious in 
 the person of Sir Christopher Findlater (whose good 
 heart, though its first impulse resented more violently 
 than that of any heart present the discourtesy of the 
 viscount, yet soon warmed to the d4sa/jreme?is of his 
 situation, and hastened to adopt its favorite maxim of
 
 THE DISOWNED. 299 
 
 forgive and forget) , Lord Borodaile sat the meeting 
 out; and if he did not leave the latest, he was, at least, 
 not the first to follow Clarence. " L'orgueil ou donne 
 le courage, ou il y supplee." 1 
 
 ^Meanwhile Linden had returned to his solitary home. 
 He hastened to his room, locked the door, flung himself 
 on his sofa, and hurst into a violent and almost feminine 
 paroxysm of tears. This fit lasted for more than an 
 hour ; and when Clarence at length stilled the indignant 
 swellings of his heart, and rose from his supine position, 
 he started as his eye fell upon the opposite mirror, so 
 haggard and exhausted seemed the forced and fearful 
 calmness of his countenance. With a hurried step, 
 with arms now folded on his hosom, now wildly tossed 
 from him, and the hand so firmly clenched that the very 
 hones seemed working through the skin, with a hrow 
 now fierce, now only dejected, and a complexion which 
 one while hurned as with the crimson flush of a fever, 
 and at another was wan and colorless like his whose 
 cheek a spectre has blanched , Clarence paced his apart- 
 ment, the victim not only of shame, — the bitterest of 
 tortures to a young and high mind, — but of other 
 contending feelings, which alternately exasperated and 
 palsied his wrath, and gave to his resolves at one moment 
 an almost savage ferocity, and at the next, an almost 
 cowardly vacillation. 
 
 The clock had just struck the hour of twelve, when 
 a knock at the door announced a visitor. Steps were 
 heard on the stairs, and presently a tap at Clarence's 
 room door. He unlocked it, and "the Duke of Haver- 
 field entered. 
 
 " I am charmed to find you at home," cried the duke, 
 with his usual half -kind, half-careless address. " I was 
 
 1 Pride either gives courage or supplies the place of it.
 
 300 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 determined to call upon you, and be the first to offer my 
 services in this unpleasant aifair. " 
 
 Clarence pressed the duke's hand, but made no 
 answer. 
 
 " Nothing could be so unhandsome as Lord Borodaile's 
 conduct," continued the duke. " I hope you both fence 
 and shoot well. I shall never forgive you if you do 
 not put an end to that piece of rigidity." 
 
 Clarence continued to walk about the room in great 
 agitation; the duke looked at him with some surprise. 
 At last Linden paused by the window, and said, half un- 
 consciously, " It must be so, — I cannot avoid fighting! " 
 
 " Avoid fighting! " cried his grace in undisguised as- 
 tonishment. " No, indeed ; but that is the least part of 
 the matter, — you must kill as well as fight him." 
 
 "Kill him!" cried Clarence, wildly, "whom ! " and 
 then sinking into a chair, he covered his face with his 
 hands for a few moments, and seemed to struggle with 
 his emotions. 
 
 " Well," thought the duke, " I never was more mis- 
 taken in my life. I could have bet my black horse 
 against Trevanion's Julia, which is certainly the most 
 worthless thing I know, that Linden had been a brave 
 fellow ; but these English heroes always go into fits at a 
 duel: one manages such things, as Sterne says, better 
 in France." 
 
 Clarence now rose, calm and collected. He sat down, 
 wrote a brief note to Lorodaile, demanding the fullest 
 apology, or the earliest meeting, put it into the duke's 
 hands, and said, with a faint smile, "My dear duke, 
 dare I ask you to be second to a man who has been so 
 grievously affronted, and whose genealogy has been so 
 disputed 1 " 
 
 " My dear Linden," said the duke, warmly, "I have
 
 THE DISOWNED. 301 
 
 always been grateful to my station in life for this advan- 
 tage, the freedom with which it has enabled me to select 
 my own acquaintance, and to follow my own pursuits. 
 I am now more grateful to it than ever, because it has 
 given me a better opportunity than I should otherwise 
 have had of serving one whom I have always esteemed. 
 In entering into your quarrel, I shall at least show the 
 world that there are some men, not inferior in preten- 
 sions to Lord Borodaile, who despise arrogance and re- 
 sent overbearance even to others. Your cause I consider 
 the common cause of society; but I shall take it up, if 
 you will allow me, with the distinguishing zeal of a 
 friend." 
 
 Clarence, who was much affected by the kindness of 
 this speech, replied in a similar vein; and the duke, 
 having read and approved the letter, rose. " There is, 
 in my opinion," said he, "no time to be lost. I will 
 go to Borodaile this very evening, — adieu, mon clier : 
 you shall kill the Argus, and then carry off the Io. I 
 feel in a double passion with that ambulating poker 
 who is only malleable when he is red hot, when I think 
 how honorably scrupulous you were with La Meronville 
 last night, notwithstanding all her advances; but I go 
 to bury Caesar, not to scold him. Au revoir."
 
 302 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 Conon. — You 're well met, Crates. 
 Crates. — If we part so, Conon. 
 
 Queen of Corinth. 
 
 It was as might be expected from the character of the 
 aggressor. Lord Borodaile refused all apology, and 
 agreed with avidity to a speedy rendezvous. He chose 
 pistols (choice, then, was not merely nominal), and 
 selected Mr. Percy Bobus for his second, a gentleman 
 who was much fonder of acting in that capacity than in 
 the more honorable one of a principal. The author of 
 " Lacon, " says, "that if all seconds were as averse to 
 duels as their principals, there would he very little 
 blood spilled in that way ; " and it was certainly astonish- 
 ing to compare the zeal with which Mr. Bobus busied 
 himself about this " affair," with that testified by him 
 on another occasion, when he himself was more imme- 
 diately concerned. 
 
 The morning came. Bobus breakfasted with his 
 friend. "Damn it, Borodaile," said he, as the latter 
 was receiving the ultimate polish of the hair-dresser, 
 " I never saw you look better in my life. It will be a 
 great pity if that fellow shoots you." 
 
 " Shoots me! " said Lord Borodaile, very quietly, — 
 "me, — no! that is quite out of the question; but, 
 joking apart, Bobus, I will not kill the young man. 
 Where shall I hit him?" 
 
 " Tn the cap of the knee," said Mr. Percy, breaking 
 an egg.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 30 
 
 o 
 
 " Nay, that will lame him for life," said Lord Boro- 
 daile, putting on his cravat with peculiar exactitude. 
 
 "Serve him right," said Mr. Bobus. "Hang him, 
 I never got up so early in my life, — it is quite impos- 
 sible to eat at this hour. Oh, a -projjos, Borodaile, 
 have you left any little memoranda for me to execute 1 " 
 
 " Memoranda! — for what? " said Borodaile, who had 
 now just finished his toilet. 
 
 " Oh! " rejoined Mr. Percy Bobus, "in case of acci- 
 dent, you know: the man may shoot well, though I 
 never saw him in the gallery." 
 
 " Pray," said Lord Borodaile, in a great though sup- 
 pressed passion, — "pray, Mr. Bobus, how often have 
 I to tell you that it is not by Mr. Linden that my days 
 are to terminate ; you are sure that Carabine saw to that 
 trigger ? " 
 
 "Certain," said Mr. Percy, with his mouth full, — 
 " certain. Bless me, here 's the carriage, and break- 
 fast not half done yet! " 
 
 "Come, come," cried Borodaile, impatiently, "we 
 must breakfast afterwards. Here, Roberts, see tbat we 
 have fresh chocolate and some more cutlets when we 
 return." 
 
 " I would rather have them now," sighed Mr. Bobus, 
 foreseeing the possibility of the return being single, — • 
 "Ibis! redibis?" etc. 
 
 "Come, we have not a moment to lose," exclaimed 
 Borodaile, hastening down the stairs; and Mr. Percy 
 Bobus followed, with a strange mixture of various re- 
 grets, partly for the breakfast that was lost, and partly 
 for the friend that might be. 
 
 "When they arrived at the ground, Clarence and the 
 duke were already there; the latter, who was a dead 
 shot, had fully persuaded himself that Clarence was
 
 304 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 equally adroit, and had, in his providence for Boro- 
 daile, brought a surgeon. This was a circumstance of 
 which the viscount, in the plenitude of his confidence 
 for himself and indifference for his opponent, had never 
 once dreamed. 
 
 The ground was measured, — the parties were about 
 to take the ground. All Linden's former agitation was 
 vanished: his mien was firm, grave, and determined, 
 but he showed none of the careless anil fierce hardihood 
 which characterized his adversary; on the contrary, a 
 close observer might have remarked something sad and 
 dejected amidst all the tranquillity and steadiness of 
 his brow and air. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake," whispered the duke, as he 
 withdrew from the spot, " square your body a little 
 more to your left, and remember your exact level. 
 Borodaile is much shorter than you." 
 
 There was a brief, dread pause; the signal was given, 
 Borodaile tired: his ball pierced Clarence's side; the 
 wounded man staggered one step, but fell not. He 
 raised his pistol ; the duke bent eagerly forward ; an 
 expression of disappointment and surprise passed his 
 lips: Clarence had fired in the air. The next moment 
 Linden felt a deadly sickness come over him, — he fell 
 into the arms of the surgeon. Borodaile, touched by 
 a forbearance which he had so little right to expect, 
 hastened to the spot. He leaned over his adversary in 
 greater remorse and pity than he would have readily 
 confessed to himself. Clarence unclosed his eyes; they 
 dwelt for one moment upon the subdued and earnest 
 countenance of Borodaile. 
 
 "Thank God," he said faintly, "that you were not 
 the victim," and with those words he fell back insen- 
 sible. They carried him to his lodgings. His wound
 
 THE DISOWNED. 305 
 
 was accurately examined. Though not mortal, it was 
 of a dangerous nature; and the surgeons ended a 
 very painful operation, by promising a very lingering 
 recovery. 
 
 What a charming satisfaction tor being insulted ! 
 
 vol. i. — 20
 
 306 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 Je me contente de ce qui peut s'ecrire, et je reve tout ce qui pcut 
 se rever. 1 — De Sevigne. 
 
 About a week after his wound, and the second morning 
 of his return to sense and consciousness, when Clarence 
 opened his eyes, they fell upon a female form seated 
 watchfully and anxiously by his bedside. He raised 
 himself in mute surprise, and the figure, startled by the 
 motion, rose, drew the curtain, and vanished. With 
 great difficulty he rang his bell. His valet, Harrison, 
 on whose mind, though it was of no very exalted order, 
 the kindness and suavity of his master had made a great 
 impression, instantly appeared. 
 
 " Who was that lady 1 " asked Linden, — " how came 
 she here 1 " 
 
 Harrison smiled: "Oh, sir, pray please to lie down, 
 and make yourself easy, The lady knows you very well, 
 and would come here; she insists upon staying in the 
 house, so we made up a bed in the drawing-room, and 
 she has watched by you night and day. She speaks 
 very little English to be sure, but your honor knows, 
 begging your pardon, how well I speak French." 
 
 "French!" said Clarence, faintly , — " French ? In 
 Heaven's name, who is she?" 
 
 " A Madame — Madame — La Melonveal , or some such 
 name, sir," said the valet. 
 
 1 I content myself with writing what I am able, and I dream all 
 I possibly can dream.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 307 
 
 Clarence fell back. At that moment his hand was 
 pressed. He turned, and saw Talbot by his side. 
 The kind old man had not suffered La Meronville to be 
 Linden's only nurse, — notwithstanding his age and 
 peculiarity of habits, he had fixed his abode all the day 
 in Clarence's house, and at night, instead of returning 
 to his own home, had taken up his lodgings at the 
 nearest hotel. 
 
 With a jealous and anxious eye to the real interest 
 and respectability of his adopted son, Talbot had ex- 
 erted all his address, and even all his power, to induce 
 La Meronville, who had made her settlement previous 
 to Talbot's, to quit the house, but in vain. With that 
 obstinacy which a Frenchwoman, when she is senti- 
 mental, mistakes for nobility of heart, the ci-devant 
 amante of Lord Borodaile insisted upon watching and 
 tending one of whose sufferings, she said and believed, 
 she was the unhappy though innocent cause : and 
 whenever more urgent means of removal were hinted 
 at, La Meronville flew to the chamber of her beloved, 
 apostrophized him in a strain worthy of one of D'Arlin- 
 court's heroines, and, in short, was so unreasonably 
 outrageous, that the doctors, trembling for the safety 
 of their patient, obtained from Talbot a forced and re- 
 luctant acquiescence in the settlement she had obtained. 
 
 Ah! what a terrible creature a Frenchwoman is, when, 
 instead of coquetting with a caprice, she insists upon 
 conceiving a grande passion. Little, however, did 
 Clarence, despite his vexation when he learned of the 
 bienveillance of La Meronville, foresee the whole extent 
 of the consequences it would entail upon him: still less 
 did Talbot, who in his seclusion knew not the celebrity 
 of the handsome adventuress, calculate upon the notoriety 
 of her motions, or the ill effect her ostentatious attach-
 
 308 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 ment would have upon Clarence's prosperity as a lover 
 to Lady Flora. In order to explain these consequences 
 more fully, let us, for the present, leave our hero to the 
 care of the surgeon, his friends, and his would-be mis- 
 tress; and while he is more rapidly recovering than 
 the doctors either hoped or presaged, let us renew our 
 acquaintance with a certain fair correspondent. 
 
 LETTER FROM THE LADY FLORA ARDENNE TO MISS ELEANOR 
 
 TREVANION. 
 
 My dearest Eleanor, — I have been very ill, or you would 
 sooner have received an answer to your kind, — too kind and 
 consoling letter. Indeed, I have only just left my bed. They 
 say that I have been delirious, and I believe it ; for you can- 
 not conceive what terrible dreams I have had. But these are 
 all over now, and every one is so kind to me, — my poor 
 mother above all ! It is a pleasant thing to be ill when we 
 have those who love us to watch our recovery. 
 
 I have only been in bed a few days ; yet it seems to me as 
 if a long portion of my existence were past, — as if I had 
 stepped into a new era. You remember that my last letter 
 attempted to express my feelings at mamma's speech about 
 Clarence, and at my seeing him so suddenly. Now, dearest, 
 I cannot but look on that day, on these sensations, as on a 
 distant dream. Every one is so kind to me, mamma caresses 
 and soothes me so fondly, that I fancy I must have been under 
 some illusion. I am sure they could not seriously have meant 
 to forbid his addresses. No, no ; I feel that all will yet be 
 we ll ; — so well, that even you, who are of so contented a 
 temper, will own that if you were not Eleanor you would be 
 Flora. 
 
 I wonder whether Clarence knows that I have been ill. I 
 wish you knew him. —Well, dearest, this letter — a very un- 
 handsome return, I own, for yours — must content you at 
 present, for they will not let me write more, — though, so far
 
 THE DISOWNED. 309 
 
 as I am concerned, I am never so weak, in frame I mean, but 
 what I could scribble to you about him. — Addio, carissima, 
 
 F. A. 
 
 I have prevailed on mamma, who wished to sit by me and 
 amuse me, to go to the opera to-night, the only amusement of 
 which she is particularly fond. Heaven forgive me for my 
 insincerity, but he always comes into our box, and I long to 
 hear some news of him. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 Eleanor, dearest Eleanor, I am again very ill, but not as 
 I was before, ill from a foolish vexation of mind ; no, I am 
 now calm, and even happy. It was from an increase of cold 
 only that I have suffered a relapse. You may believe this, I 
 assure you, in spite of your well-meant but bitter jests upon 
 my infatuation, as you very rightly call it, for Mr. Linden. 
 You ask me what news from the opera ? Silly girl that I was, 
 to lie awake hour after hour, and refuse even to take my 
 draught, lest I should be surprised into sleep, till mamma re- 
 turned. I sent Jermyn down directly I heard her knock at 
 the door (oh, how anxiously I had listened for it !) to say that 
 I was still awake and longed to see her. So, of course, 
 mamma came up, and felt my pulse, and said it was very fever- 
 ish, and wondered the draught had not composed me, — with 
 a great deal more to the same purpose, which I bore as pa- 
 tiently as I could till it was my turn to talk ; and then I 
 admired her dress and her coiffure, and asked if it was a full 
 house, and whether the prima donna was in voice, etc., etc. : 
 till, at last, I won my way to the inquiry of who were her 
 
 visitors. " Lord Borodaile," said me, " and the Duke of , 
 
 and Mr. St. George, and Captain Leslie, and Mr. de Retz, and 
 many others." I felt so disappointed, Eleanor, but did not 
 dare ask whether he was not of the list ; till at last my mother, 
 observing me narrowly, said, " And, by the by, Mr. Linden 
 looked in for a few minutes. I am glad, my dearest Elora,
 
 310 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 that I spoke to you so decidedly about him the other day." 
 "Why, mamma?" said I, hiding my face under the clothes. 
 " Because," said she, in rather a raised voice, " he is quite un- 
 worthy of you 1 — but it is late now, and you should go to 
 sleep, — to-morrow I will tell you more." 
 
 I would have given worlds to press the question then, but 
 could not venture. Mamma kissed and left me. I tried to 
 twist her words into a hundred meanings, but in each I only 
 thought that they were dictated by some worldly information, 
 — some new doubts as to his birth or fortune; and, though 
 that supposition distressed me greatly, yet it could not alter 
 my love, or deprive me of hope ; and so I cried and guessed, 
 and guessed and cried, till at last I cried myself to sleep. 
 
 When I awoke, mamma was already up, and sitting beside 
 me : she talked to me for more than an hour upon ordinary 
 subjects, till at last, perceiving how absent or rather impa- 
 tient I appeared, she dismissed Jermyn, and spoke to me 
 thus : — 
 
 " You know, Flora, that I have always loved you, more 
 perhaps than I ought to have done, more certainly than I 
 have loved your brothers and sisters; but you were my eldest 
 child, my first-born, and all the earliest associations of a 
 mother are blent and entwined with you. You may be sure, 
 therefore, that I have ever had only your happiness in view, 
 and that it is only with a regard to that end that I now speak 
 to you." 
 
 I was a little frightened, Eleanor, by this opening, but I 
 was much more touched, so I took mamma's hand, and kissed 
 and wept silently over it, she continued : " I observed Mr. 
 
 Linden's attention to you, at . I knew nothing more of 
 
 his rank and birth then than I do at present ; but his situa- 
 tion in the embassy and his personal appearance naturally in- 
 duced me to suppose him a gentleman of family, and therefore 
 if not a great, at least not an inferior match for you, so far as 
 worldly distinctions are concerned. Added to this, he was un- 
 commonly handsome, and had that general reputation for 
 talent which is often better than actual wealth or hereditary 
 titles. I therefore did not check, though I would not encour-
 
 THE DISOWNED. 311 
 
 age any attachment you might form for him; and nothing 
 
 being declared or decisive on either side when we left , 
 
 I imagined that if your flirtation with him did even amount 
 to a momentary and girlish fantasy, absence and change of 
 scene would easily and rapidly efface the impression. I believe 
 that in a great measure it was effaced, when Lord Aspeden re- 
 turned to England, and with him, Mr. Linden. You again 
 met the latter in society almost as constantly as before ; a 
 caprice nearly conquered, was once more renewed; and in my 
 anxiety that you should marry, not for aggrandizement, but 
 happiness, I own to my sorrow, that I rather favored than 
 forbade his addresses. The young man — remember, Flora 
 — appeared in society as the nephew and heir of a gentleman 
 of ancient family and considerable property ; he was rising in 
 diplomacy, popular in the woi'ld, and so far as we could see, 
 of irreproachable character ; this must plead my excuse for 
 tolerating his visits, without instituting further inquiries re- 
 specting him, and allowing your attachment to proceed with- 
 out ascertaining how far it had yet extended. I was awakened 
 to a sense of my indiscretion by an inquiry, which Mr. Lin- 
 den's popularity rendered general, — namely, if Mr. Talbot 
 was his uncle, who was his father, who his more immediate 
 relations ? — and at that time Lord Borodaile informed us of the 
 falsehood, he had either asserted or allowed to be spread, in 
 claiming Mr. Talbot as his relation. This you will observe 
 entirely altered the situation of Mr. Linden with respect to 
 you. Not only his rank in life became uncertain, but suspi- 
 cious. Nor was this all : his very personal respectability was 
 no longer unimpeachable. Was this dubious and intrusive 
 person, without a name, and with a sullied honor, to be your 
 suitor 1 No, Flora ; and it was from this indignant conviction 
 that I spoke to you some days since. Forgive me, my child, 
 if I was less cautious, less confidential than I am now. I did 
 not imagine the wound was so deep, and thought that I should 
 best cure you by seeming unconscious of your danger. The 
 case is now changed ; your illness has convinced me of my 
 fault, and the extent of your unhappy attachment; but will 
 my own dear child pardon me if I still continue, if I even con-
 
 312 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 firm, my disapproval of her choice ? Last night at the opera 
 Mr. Linden entered my box. I own that I wa.s cooler to him 
 than usual, lie soon left us, and after the opera 1 saw him 
 with the Duke of Havertield, one of the most incorrigible 
 roues of the day, leading out a woman of notoriously bad charac- 
 ter, and of the most ostentatious profligacy. He might have 
 had some propriety, some decency, some concealment at least, 
 but he passed just before me, — before the mother of the 
 woman to whom his vows of honorable attachment were due, 
 and who at that very instant was suffering from her infatuation 
 for him. Now, Flora, for this man, an obscure, and possibly 
 a plebeian adventurer, whose oidy claim to notice has been 
 founded on falsehood, whose only merit, a love of you, has 
 been, if not utterly destroyed, at least polluted and debased, — 
 for this man, poor alike in fortune, character, and honor, can 
 you any longer profess affection or esteem 1 " 
 
 " Never, never, never ! " cried I, springing from the bed, 
 and throwing myself upon my mother's neck. " Never: I am 
 your own Flora once more. I will never suffer any one again 
 to make me forget you," — and then I sobbed so violently that 
 mamma was frightened, and made me lie down, and left me 
 to sleep. Several hours have passed since then, and I could 
 not sleep nor think, and I would not cry, for he is no longer 
 worthy of my tears ; so I have written to you. 
 
 Oh, how I despise and hate myself for having so utterly, in 
 my vanity and folly, forgotten my mother, that dear, kind, 
 constant friend, who never cost me a single tear, but for my 
 own ingratitude. Think, Eleanor, what an affront to me, — 
 to me, who, he so often said, had made all other women worth- 
 less in his eyes. Do I hate him 1 No, I cannot hate. Do I 
 despise? No, I will not despise; but I will forget him, and 
 keep my contempt and hatred for myself. 
 
 God bless you, — I am worn out. Write soon, or rather 
 come, if possible, to your affectionate but unworthy friend, 
 
 F. A. 
 
 Good Heavens ! Eleanor, he is wounded. He has fought 
 with Lord Borodaile. I have just heard it ; Jermyn told me.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 313 
 
 Can it, can it be true? What, — what have I said against 
 him I Hate I — forget? No, no! I never loved him till 
 now. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 (After an interval of several weeks.) 
 
 Time has flown, my Eleanor, since you left me, after your 
 short but kind visit, with a heavy but healing wing. I do 
 not think I shall ever again be the giddy girl I have been; 
 but my head will change, not my heart : that was never giddy, 
 and that shall still be as much yours as ever. You are wrong 
 in thinking I have not forgotten, at least renounced all affec- 
 tion for Mr. Linden. I have, though with a long and bitter 
 effort. The woman for whom he fought, went, you know, 
 to his house, immediately on hearing of his wound. She 
 has continued with him ever since. He had the audacity 
 to write to me once ; my mother brought me the note, and 
 said nothing. She read my heart aright. I returned it un- 
 opened. He has even called since his convalescence. Mamma 
 was not at home to him. I hear that he looks pale and altered. 
 I hope not, — at least, I cannot resist praying for his recovery. 
 I stay within entirely : the season is now over, and there are 
 no parties; but T tremble at the thought of meeting him even 
 in the Park or the Gardens. Papa talks of going into the 
 country next week. I cannot tell you how eagerly I look for- 
 ward to it ; and you will then come and see me, — will you 
 not, dearest Eleanor ? 
 
 Ah ! what happy days we will have yet ; we will read 
 Italian together, as we used to do; you shall teach me your 
 songs, and I will instruct you in mine ; we will keep birds 
 as we did — let me see — eight years ago. You will never 
 talk to me of my folly : let that be as if it had never been ; 
 but I will wonder with you about your future choice, and 
 grow happy in anticipating your happiness. Oh, how selfish 
 I was some weeks ago, — then I could only overwhelm you
 
 314 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 with my egotisms ; now, Eleanor, it is your turn, and you 
 shall see how patiently I will listen to yours. Never tear that 
 yuu can be too prolix : the dilluser you are, the easier 1 shall 
 forgive my sell'. 
 
 Are you loud of poetry, Eleanor ? I used to say so, but I 
 never felt that 1 was till lately. I will show you my favorite 
 passages in my favorite poets when you come to see me. You 
 shall see if yours correspond with mine. 1 am so impatient 
 to leave this horrid town, where everything seems dull, yet 
 feverish, — insipid, yet false. Shall we not be happy when 
 we meet ? If your dear aunt will come with you, she shall 
 see how 1 (that is, my mind) am improved. — Farewell. 
 
 Ever your most all'ectionate, 
 
 F.A.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 PART SECOND.
 
 
 flW 
 
 *;*»■ 
 
 a 
 
 
 
 
 m^?m
 
 Linden felt a deadly sickness come over him. 
 
 The Disowned.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 Brave Talbot, we will follow thee. — Henry the Sixth. 
 
 " My letter insultingly returned ; myself refused admit- 
 tance; not a single inquiry made during my illness; 
 indifference joined to positive contempt. By Heaven, 
 it is insupportable ! " 
 
 " My dear Clarence," said Talbot, to his young friend, 
 who, fretful from pain, and writhing beneath his mor- 
 tification, walked to and fro his chamber with an im- 
 patient stride, — "my dear Clarence, do sit down, and 
 not irritate your wound by such violent exercise. I am 
 as much enraged as yourself at the treatment you have 
 received, and no less at a loss to account for it. Your 
 duel, however unfortunate the event, must have done 
 you credit, and obtained you a reputation both for gen- 
 erosity and spirit ; so that it cannot be to that occurrence 
 that you are to attribute the change. Let us rather sup- 
 pose that Lady Flora's attachment to you has become 
 evident to her father and mother, — that they natu- 
 rally think it would be very undesirable to marry their 
 daughter to a man whose family nobody knows, and 
 whose respectability he is forced into fighting in order 
 to support. Suffer me then to call upon Lady West- 
 borough, whom I knew many years ago, and explain 
 your origin, as well as your relationship to me." 
 
 VOL. II.— l
 
 2 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 Linden paused irresolutely. 
 
 " Were I sure that Lady Flora was not utterly in- 
 fluenced by her mother's worldly views, I would gladly 
 consent to your proposal , but — " 
 
 "Forgive me, Clarence," cried Talbot; "but you 
 really argue much more like a very young man than I 
 ever heard you do before, — even four years ago. To be 
 sure, Lady Flora is influenced by her mother's views. 
 Would you have her otherwise ? Would you have her, 
 in defiance of all propriety, modesty, obedience to her 
 parents, and right feeling for herself, encourage an attach- 
 ment to a person not only unknown, but who does not 
 even condescend to throw off the incognito to the woman 
 he addresses? Come, Clarence, give me my instruc- 
 tions , and let me act as your ambassador to-morrow. " 
 
 Clarence was silent. 
 
 "I may consider it settled then," replied Talbot ; 
 " meanwhile you shall come home and stay with me : 
 the pure air of the country, even so near town, will do 
 you more good than all the doctors in London; and, 
 besides, you will thus be enabled to escape from that 
 persecuting Frenchwoman." 
 
 " In what manner ? " said Clarence. 
 
 " Why, when you are in my house, she cannot well 
 take up her abode with you; and you shall, while I am 
 forwarding your suit with Lady Flora, write a very 
 flattering, very grateful letter of excuses to Madame 
 la Meronville. But leave me alone to draw it up for 
 you ; meanwhile, let Harrison pack up your clothes and 
 medicines, and we will effect our escape while Madame 
 la Meronville yet sleeps." 
 
 Clarence rang the bell ; the orders were given, exe- 
 cuted, and in less than an hour he and his friend were 
 on their road to Talbot's villa.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 3 
 
 As they drove slowly through the grounds to the 
 house, Clarence was sensibly struck with the quiet and 
 stillness which breathed around. On either side of the 
 road the honeysuckle and rose cast their sweet scents to 
 the summer wind, which, though it was scarcely noon, 
 stirred freshly among the trees, and waved, as if it 
 breathed a second youth over the wan cheek of the con- 
 valescent. The old servant's ear had caught the sound 
 of wheels, and he came to the door with an expression 
 of quiet delight on his dry countenance, to welcome in 
 his master. They had lived together for so many years, 
 that they were grown like one another. Indeed, the 
 veteran valet prided himself on his happy adoption of 
 his master's dress and manner. A proud man, we ween, 
 was that domestic, whenever he had time and listeners 
 for the indulgence of his honest loquacity; many an 
 ancient tale of his master's former glories was then 
 poured from his unburdening remembrance. With 
 what a glow, with what a racy enjoyment did he ex- 
 pand upon the triumphs of the past; bow eloquently 
 did he particularize the exact grace with which young 
 Mr. Talbot was wont to enter the room, in which he 
 instantly became the cynosure of ladies' eyes; how 
 faithfully did he minute the courtly dress, the exqui- 
 site choice of color, the costly splendor of material, 
 which were the envy of gentles, and the despairing 
 wonder of their valets; and then the zest with which 
 the good old man would cry, "I dressed the boy!" 
 Even still, this modern Scipio (Le Sage's Scipio, not 
 Eome's) would not believe that his master's sun was 
 utterly set; he was only in a temporary retiremeat, and 
 would, one day or other, reappear and reastonish the 
 London world. " I would give my rigbt arm," Jasper 
 was wont to say, " to see master at court. How fond
 
 4 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 the king would be of him. Ah! well, well; I wish he 
 was not so melancholy like with his books, but would 
 go out like other people!" 
 
 Poor Jasper! Time is, in general, a harsh wizard in 
 his transformations; but the change which thou didst 
 lament so bitterly, was happier for thy master than all 
 his former " palmy state " of admiration and homage. 
 " Nous avons recherche le plaisir" says Rousseau, in 
 one of his own inimitable antitheses, — " et le bonheur 
 a fui loin cle nous." 1 But in the pursuit of pleasure 
 we sometimes chance on wisdom, and wisdom leads us 
 to the right track, which, if it take us not so far as 
 happiness, is sure at least of the shelter of content. 
 
 Talbot leaned kindly upon Jasper's arm as he de- 
 scended from the carriage, and inquired into his ser- 
 vant's rheumatism with the anxiety of a friend. The 
 old housekeeper, waiting in the hall, next received his 
 attention; and in entering the drawing-room, with that 
 consideration, even to animals, which his worldly benev- 
 olence had taught him, he paused to notice and caress 
 a large gray cat which rubbed herself against his legs. 
 Doubtless there is some pleasure in making even a gray 
 cat happy! 
 
 Clarence having patiently undergone all the shrugs 
 and sighs and exclamations of compassion at his re- 
 duced and wan appearance, which are the especial pre- 
 rogatives of ancient domestics, followed the old man 
 into the room. Papers and books, though carefully 
 dusted, were left scrupulously in the places in which 
 Talbot had last deposited them (incomparable good for- 
 tune ! what would we not give for such chamber hand- 
 maidens!) ; fresh flowers were in all the stands and 
 
 1 We have pursued pleasure, aud happiuess lias fled far from 
 our reach.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 vases; the large library-chair was jealously set in its 
 accustomed place, and all wore, to Talbot's eyes, that 
 cheerful yet sober look of welcome and familiarity 
 which makes a friend of our house. 
 
 The old man was in high spirits : — 
 
 " I know not how it is," said he, " but I feel younger 
 than ever ! You have often expressed a wish to see my 
 family seat at Scarsdale. It is certainly a great distance 
 hence; but as you will be my travelling companion, I 
 think I will try and crawl there before the summer is 
 over; or, what say you, Clarence, shall I lend it to you 
 and Lady Flora for the honeymoon? You blush! A 
 diplomatist blush!— ah, how the world has changed 
 since my time! But come, Clarence, suppose you write 
 to La Meronville 1 " 
 
 " Not to-day, sir, if you please," said Linden, " I feel 
 so very weak." 
 
 "As you please, Clarence; but some years hence you 
 will learn the value of the present. Youth is always a 
 procrastinator, and, consequently, always a penitent." 
 And thus Talbot ran on into a strain of conversation, 
 half serious, half gay, which lasted till Clarence went 
 upstairs to lie down and muse on Lady Flora Ardenne.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 " La vie est un sommeil. — Les vieillaids sont ceux dont le som- 
 nieil a e'te plus long : ils ne commeiiceiit a se reveiller que quand 
 il faut inourir." l — La Buuyere. 
 
 " You wonder why I have never turned author, with 
 my constant love of literature, and my former desire of 
 fame," said Talbot, as he and Clarence sat alone after 
 dinner, "discussing many things: " " the fact is, that I 
 have often intended it, and as often been frightened 
 from my design. Those terrible feuds, those vehement 
 disputes, those recriminations of abuse, so inseparable 
 from literary life, appear to me too dreadful for a man 
 not utterly hardened or malevolent voluntarily to en- 
 counter. Good Heavens! what acerbity sours the blood 
 of an author! The manifestos of opposing generals, 
 advancing to pillage, to burn, to destroy, contain not a 
 tithe of the ferocity which animates the pages of literary 
 controversialists! No term of reproach is too severe, no 
 vituperation too excessive! — the blackest passions, the 
 bitterest, the meanest malice, pour caustic and poison 
 upon every page! It seems as if the greatest talents, 
 the most elaborate knowledge, only sprung from the 
 weakest and worst-regulated mind, as exotics from dung. 
 The private records, the public works of men of letters, 
 teem with an immitigable fury ! Their histories might 
 
 1 Life is asleep, — the nged are those whose sloop has been the 
 longest; they begin to awaken themselves just as they are obliged 
 to die.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 7 
 
 all be reduced into these sentences: they were born, 
 they quarrelled, they died!" 
 
 " But," said Clarence, " it would matter little to the 
 world if these quarrels were confined merely to poets 
 and men of imaginative literature, in whom irritability 
 is, perhaps, almost necessarily allied to the keen and 
 quick susceptibilities which constitute their genius. 
 These are more to be lamented and wondered at among 
 philosophers, theologians, and men of science; the cool- 
 ness, the patience, the benevolence, which ought to 
 characterize their works, should at least moderate their 
 jealousy and soften their disputes." 
 
 " Ah! " said Talbot; " but the vanity of discovery is 
 no less acute than that of creation: the self-love of a 
 philosopher is no less self-love than that of a poet. 
 Besides, those sects the most sure of their opinions, 
 whether in religion or science, are always the most 
 bigoted and persecuting. Moreover, nearly all men 
 deceive themselves in disputes, and imagine that they 
 are intolerant, not through private jealousy, but public 
 benevolence; they never declaim against the injustice 
 done to themselves, — no, it is the terrible injury done 
 to society which grieves and inflames them. It is not 
 the bitter expressions against their dogmas which give 
 them pain: by no means; it is the atrocious doctrines, 
 — so prejudicial to the country, if in politics, so per- 
 nicious to the world, if in philosophy, — which their 
 duty, not their vanity, induces them to denounce and 
 anathematize." 
 
 " There seems," said Clarence, " to be a sort of reac- 
 tion in sophistry and hypocrisy: there has, perhaps, 
 never been a deceiver who was not, by his own passions, 
 himself the deceived." 
 
 "Very true," said Talbot; "and it is a pity that
 
 8 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 historians have not kept that fact in view: we shouhl 
 then have had a better notion of the Cromwells and 
 Mahomets of the past than we have now, nor judged 
 those as utter impostors who were probably half dupes. 
 
 " But to return to myself. I think you will already 
 be able to answer your own question, why I did not 
 turn author, now that we have given a momentary con- 
 sideration to the penalties consequent on such a profes- 
 sion. But, in truth, as I near the close of my life, I 
 often regret that I had not more courage, for there is in 
 us all a certain restlessness in the persuasion, whether 
 true or false, of superior knowledge or intellect, and 
 this urges us on to the proof; or, if we resist its im- 
 pulse, renders us discontented with our idleness, and 
 disappointed with the past. I have everything now in 
 my possession which it has been the desire of my later 
 years to enjoy: health, retirement, successful study, and 
 the affection of one in whose breast, when I am gone, 
 my memory will not utterly pass away. With these 
 advantages, added to the gifts of fortune, and an ha- 
 bitual elasticity of spirit, I confess that my happiness 
 is not free from a biting and frequent regret : I would 
 fain have been a better citizen ; I would fain have died 
 in the consciousness, not only that I had improved my 
 mind to the utmost, but that I had turned that improve- 
 ment to the benefit of my fellow-creatures. As it is, in 
 living wholly for myself I feel that my philosophy has 
 wanted generosity; and my indifference to glory has 
 proceeded from a weakness, not, as I once persuaded 
 myself, from a virtue; but the fruitlessness of my ex- 
 istence has been the consequence of the arduous frivoli- 
 ties and the petty objects in which my early years were 
 consumed; and my mind, in losing the enjoyments 
 which it formerly possessed, had no longer the vigor to
 
 THE DISOWNED. 9 
 
 create for itself a new soil, from which labor it could 
 only hope for more valuable fruits. It is no contradic- 
 tion to see those who most eagerly courted society in 
 their youth shrink from it the most sensitively in their 
 age; for they who possess certain advantages, and are 
 morbidly vain of them, will naturally be disposed to 
 seek that sphere for which those advantages are best 
 calculated ; and when youth and its concomitants depart, 
 the vanity so long fed still remains, and perpetually 
 mortifies them by recalling, not so much the qualities 
 they have lost, as the esteem which those qualities con- 
 ferred, and by contrasting not so much their own present 
 alteration as the change they experience in the respect 
 and consideration of others. What wonder, then, that 
 they eagerly fly from the world, which has only morti- 
 fication for their self-love, or that we find, in biography, 
 how often the most assiduous votaries of pleasure have 
 become the most rigid of recluses. For my part, I think 
 that that love of solitude which the ancients so emi- 
 nently possessed, and which to this day is considered by 
 some as the sign of a great mind, nearly always arises 
 from a tenderness of vanity, easily wounded in the 
 commerce of the rough world; and that it is under the 
 shadow of disappointment that we must look for the her- 
 mitage. Diderot did well, even at the risk of offending 
 Rousseau, to write against solitude. The more a mor- 
 alist binds man to man, and forbids us to divorce our 
 interests from our kind, the more effectually is the end 
 of morality obtained. They only are justifiable in 
 seclusion who, like the Greek philosophers, make that 
 very seclusion the means of serving and enlightening 
 their race, — who from their retreats send forth their 
 oracles of wisdom, and render the desert which sur- 
 rounds them eloquent with the voice of truth. But
 
 10 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 remember, Clarence (and let my life, useless in itself, 
 have at least this moral), that for him who in nowise 
 cultivates his talent for the benefit of others; who is 
 contented with being a good hermit at the expense of 
 being a bad citizen ; who looks from his retreat upon a 
 life wasted in the difficlles nugce of the most frivolous 
 part of the world, nor redeems in the closet the time he 
 has misspent in the saloon, — remember, that for him 
 seclusion loses its dignity, philosophy its comfort, be- 
 nevolence its hope, and even religion its balm. Knowl- 
 edge, unemployed, may preserve us from vice; but 
 knowledge beneficently employed is virtue. Perfect hap- 
 piness, in our present state, is impossible ; for Hobbes 
 says justly, that our nature is inseparable from desires, 
 and that the very word desire (the craving for something 
 not possessed) implies that our present felicity is not 
 complete. But there is one way of attaining what we 
 may term, if not utter, at least mortal happiness ; it is 
 this, — a sincere and unrelaxing activity for the happi- 
 ness of others. In that one maxim is concentrated what- 
 ever is noble in morality, sublime in religion, or un- 
 answerable in truth. In that pursuit we have all scope 
 for whatever is excellent in our hearts, and none for the 
 petty passions which our nature is heir to. Thus en- 
 gaged, whatever be our errors, there will be nobility, 
 not weakness, in our remorse; whatever our failure, 
 virtue, not selfishness, in our regret; and in success, 
 vanity itself will become holy and triumph eternal. 
 As astrologers were wont to receive upon metals ' the 
 benign aspect of the stars, so as to detain and fix, as it 
 were, the felicity of that hour which would otherwise 
 be volatile and fugitive,' x even so will that success 
 leave imprinted upon our memory a blessing which 
 
 1 Bacon.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 11 
 
 cannot pass away, — preserve forever upon our names, 
 as on a signet, the hallowed influence of the hour in 
 which our great end was effected, and treasure up ' the 
 relics of heaven ' in the sanctuary of a human fame. " 
 
 As the old man ceased, there was a faint and hectic 
 flush over his face, an enthusiasm on his features, which 
 age made almost holy, and which Clarence had never 
 observed there before. In truth, his young listener was 
 deeply affected, and the advice of his adopted parent was 
 afterwards impressed with a more awful solemnity upon 
 his remembrance. Already he had acquired much 
 worldly lore from Talbot's precepts and conversation. 
 He had obtained even something better than worldly 
 lore, — a kindly and indulgent disposition to his fellow- 
 creatures; for he had seen that foibles were not incon- 
 sistent with generous and great qualities, and that we 
 judge wrongly of human nature when we ridicule its 
 littleness. The very circumstances which make the 
 shallow misanthropical, incline the wise to be benevo- 
 lent. Fools discover that frailty is not incompatible 
 with great men: they wonder and despise; but the dis- 
 cerning find that greatness is not incompatible with 
 frailty, and they admire and indulge. 
 
 But a still greater benefit than this of toleration did 
 Clarence derive from the commune of that night. He 
 became strengthened in his honorable ambition, and 
 nerved to unrelaxing exertion. The recollection of Tal- 
 bot's last words, on that night, occurred to him often 
 and often when sick at heart, and languid with baffled 
 hope ! — it roused him from that gloom and despondency 
 which are always unfavorable to virtue, and incited him 
 once more to that labor in the vineyard which, whether 
 our hour be late or early, will, if earnest, obtain a bless- 
 ing and reward.
 
 12 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 The hour was now waxing late, and Talbot, mindful 
 of his companion's health, rose to retire. As he pree ed 
 Clarence's hand and bade him farewell for the night, 
 Linden thought there was something more than usu- 
 ally impressive in his manner and affectionate in his 
 words. Perhaps this was the natural result of their 
 conversation. 
 
 The next morning Clarence was awakened by a noise. 
 He listened, and heard distinctly an alarmed cry pro- 
 ceeding from the room in which Talbot slept, and which 
 was opposite to his own. He rose hastily and hurried 
 to the chamber. The door was open, the old servant 
 was bending over the bed; Clarence approached, and 
 saw that he supported his master in his arms. " Good 
 God ! " he cried, " what is the matter 1 " The faithful 
 old man lifted up his face to Clarence, and the big tears 
 rolled fast from eyes, in which the sources of such 
 emotion were well-nigh dried up. 
 
 " He loved you well, sir! " he said, and could say no 
 more. He dropped the body gently, and throwing him- 
 self on the floor, sobbed aloud. With a forehoding and 
 chilled heart, Clarence bent forward; the face of his 
 benefactor lay directly before him, and the hand of 
 death was upon it. The soul had passed to its account 
 hours since, in the hush of night: passed, apparently, 
 without a struggle or a pang, like the wind, which ani- 
 mates the harp one moment, and the next is gone. 
 
 Linden seized his hand, — it was heavy and cold, his 
 eye rested upon the miniature of the unfortunate Lady 
 Merton, which, since the night of the attempted robbery, 
 Talbot had worn constantly round his neck. Strange 
 and powerful was the contrast of the pictured face, in 
 which not a color had yet faded, and where the hues 
 and fulness and prime of youth dwelt, unconscious of
 
 THE DISOWNED. 13 
 
 the lapse of years, with the aged and shrunken counte- 
 nance of the deceased. 
 
 In that contrast was a sad and mighty moral ; it 
 wrought, as it were, a contract between youth and age, 
 and conveyed a rapid but full history of our passions and 
 our life. 
 
 The servant looked up once more on the countenance; 
 he pointed towards it, and muttered, " See, — see! how 
 awfully it is changed ! " 
 
 " But there is a smile upon it! " said Clarence, as he 
 flung himself beside the body , and burst into tears.
 
 14 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 Virtue is like precious odors, most fragrant when they are incensed 
 or crushed; for prosperity doth best discover vice, hut adversity 
 doth best discover virtue. — Bacon. 
 
 It is somewhat remarkable that while Talhot was be- 
 queathing to Clarence, as the most valuable of legacies, 
 the doctrines of a philosophy he had acquired, perhaps 
 too late to practise, Glendower was carrying those very- 
 doctrines, so far as his limited sphere would allow, into 
 the rule and exercise of his life. 
 
 Since the death of the bookseller, which we have 
 before recorded, Glendower had been left utterly with- 
 out resource. The others to whom he applied were indis- 
 posed to avail themselves of an unknown ability. The 
 trade of book-making was not then as it is now, and 
 if it had been, it would not have suggested itself to tbe 
 high-spirited and unworldly student. Some publishers 
 offered , it is true, a reward tempting enough for an im- 
 moral tale ; others spoke of the value of an attack upon 
 the Americans; one suggested an ode to the minister; 
 and another hinted that a pension might possibly be 
 granted to one who would prove extortion not tyranny. 
 But these insinuations fell upon a dull ear, and the 
 tribe of Barabbas were astonished to find that an author 
 could imagine interest and principle not synonymous. 
 
 Struggling with want, which hourly grew more im- 
 perious and urgent; wasting his heart on studies which 
 brought fever to his pulse, and disappointment to his 
 ambition; gnawed to the very soul by the mortifications 
 which his poverty gave to his pride; and watching with
 
 THE DISOWNED. 15 
 
 tearless eyes, but a maddening brain, the slender form of 
 his wife, now waxing weaker and fainter, as the canker 
 of disease fastened upon the core of her young but 
 blighted life, — there was yet a high, though, alas! not 
 constant consolation within him, whenever, from the 
 troubles of this dim spot his thoughts could escape, like, 
 birds released from their cage, and lose themselves in 
 the lustre and freedom of their native heaven. 
 
 " If," thought he, as he looked upon his secret and 
 treasured work, — " if the wind scatter, or the rock re- 
 ceive these seeds, they were at least dispersed by a hand 
 which asked no selfish return, and a heart which would 
 have lavished the harvest of its labors upon those who 
 know not the husbandman, and trample his hopes into 
 the dust. " 
 
 But, by degrees, this comfort cf a noble and generous 
 nature, these whispers of a vanity rather to be termed 
 holy than excusable, began to grow unfrequent and low. 
 The cravings of a more engrossing and heavy want than 
 those of the mind, came eagerly and rapidly upon him; 
 the fair cheek of his infant became pinched and hollow ; 
 his wife conquered nature itself by love , and starved her- 
 self in silence, and set bread before him with a smile, 
 and bade him eat. 
 
 "But you, — you?" he would ask inquiringly, and 
 then pause. 
 
 "I have dined, dearest: I want nothing; eat, love, 
 eat. " 
 
 But he ate not. The food robbed from her seemed to 
 him more deadly than poison; and he would rise and 
 dash his hand to his brow, and go forth alone, with 
 nature unsatisfied, to look upon this luxurious world, 
 and learn content. 
 
 It was after such a scene that, one day, he wandered
 
 16 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 forth into the streets, desperate and eonfused in mind, 
 and fainting with hunger, and half insane with fiery and 
 wrong thoughts, which dashed over his harren and 
 gloomy soul, and desolated, but conquered not! It 
 was evening ; he stood (for he had stridden on so rapidly 
 at first that his strength was now exhausted, and he was 
 forced to pause) leaning against the railed area of a 
 house, in a lone and unfrequented street. No passenger 
 shared the dull and ohscure thoroughfare. He stood, 
 literally, in scene as in heart, solitary amidst the great 
 city, and wherever he looked, — lo! there were none ! 
 
 " Two days," said he, slowly and faintly, — " two days, 
 and hread has only once passed my lips ; and that was 
 snatched from her, — from those lips which I have fed 
 with sweet and holy kisses, and whence my sole comfort 
 in this weary life has heen drawn. And she, — ay, she 
 starves, and my child too. They complain not, they 
 murmur not ; but they lift up their eyes to me and ask 
 for — merciful God, thou didst make man in benevo- 
 lence; thou dost survey this world with a pitying and 
 paternal eye, — save, comfort, cherish them, and crush 
 me if thou wilt ! " 
 
 At that moment a man darted suddenly from an ob- 
 scure alley, and passed Glendower at full speed; pres- 
 ently came a cry and a shout and the rapid trampling 
 of feet, and in another moment, an eager and breathless 
 crowd rushed upon the solitude of the street. 
 
 " Where is he ? " cried a hundred voices to Glendower, 
 — "where — which road did the robber take?" But 
 Glendower could not answer; his nerves Avere unstrung, 
 and his dizzy brain swam and reeled ; and the faces 
 winch peered upon him, and the voices which shrieked 
 and yelled in his car, were to him as the forms and 
 sounds of a ghastly and phantasmal world. His head
 
 THE DISOWNED. 17 
 
 dropped upon his bosom, he clung to the area for sup- 
 port; the crowd passed on, — they were in pursuit of 
 guilt, they were thirsting after blood, they were going to 
 fill the dungeon and feed the gibbet, — what to them was 
 the virtue they could have supported , or the famine they 
 could have relieved 1 But they knew not his distress, 
 nor the extent of his weakness, or some would have 
 tarried and aided, for there is, after all, as much kind- 
 ness as cruelty in our nature ; perhaps they thought it 
 was only some intoxicated and maudlin idler, — or, per- 
 haps, in the heat of their pursuit, they thought not at 
 all. 
 
 So they rolled on, and their voices died away, and 
 their steps were hushed, and Glendower, insensible and 
 cold as the iron he clung to, was once more alone. 
 Slowly he revived; he opened his dim and glazing eyes, 
 and saw the evening star break from its chamber, and, 
 though sullied by the thick and foggy air, scatter its 
 holy smiles upon the polluted city. 
 
 He looked quietly on the still night, and its first 
 watcher among the hosts of heaven, and felt something 
 of balm sink into his soul; not, indeed, that vague and 
 delicious calm which, in his boyhood of poesy and ro- 
 mance, he had drunk in, by green solitudes, from the 
 mellow twilight, but a quiet, sad and sober, circling 
 gradually over his mind, and bringing it back from its 
 confused and disordered visions and darkness, to the 
 recollection and reality of his bitter life. 
 
 By degrees, the scene he had so imperfectly witnessed, 
 the flight of the robber, and the eager pursuit of the 
 mob, grew over him: a dark and guilty thought burst 
 upon his mind. 
 
 "I am a man, like that criminal," said he, fiercely. 
 "I have nerves, sinews, muscles, flesh; I feel hunger, 
 
 VOL. II. — 2
 
 18 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 thirst, pain, as acutely; why should T endure more than 
 he can? Perhaps he had a wife, a child, — and he saw 
 them starving inch hy inch, and he felt that he ought to 
 be their protector, and so he sinned. And 1 — I , can I 
 not sin too for mine; can I not dare what the wild beast 
 and the vulture and the fierce hearts of my brethren 
 dare for their mates and young 1 ? One gripe of this hand, 
 one cry from this voice, and my board might be heaped 
 with plenty, and my child fed, and she smile as she was 
 wont to smile, — for one night at least." 
 
 And as these thoughts broke upon him, Glendower 
 rose, and with a step firm even in weakness, he strode 
 unconsciously onward. 
 
 A figure appeared; Glendower's heart beat thick. 
 He slouched his hat over his brows, and for one moment 
 wrestled with his pride and his stern virtue ; the virtue 
 conquered, but not the pride ; the virtue forbade him to 
 be the robber, — the pride submitted to be the suppliant. 
 He sprang forward, extended his hands towards the 
 stranger, and cried in a sharp voice, the agony of which 
 rang through the long dull street with a sudden and 
 echoless sound, " Charity, — food! " 
 
 The stranger paused, — one of the boldest of men in 
 his own line, he was as timid as a woman in any other; 
 mistaking the meaning of the petitioner, and terrified by 
 the vehemence of his gesture, he said, in a trembling 
 tone, as he hastily pulled out his purse, — 
 
 "There, there! do not hurt me! Take it, — take 
 all ! " 
 
 Glendower knew the voice, as a sound not unfamiliar 
 to him; his pride returned in full force. "None," 
 thought he, " who know me, shall know my full degra- 
 dation also/' And he turned away; but the stranger, 
 mistaking this motion, extended his hand to him, saying
 
 THE DISOWNED. 19 
 
 "Take this, my friend, — you will have no need of 
 violence ! " and as he advanced nearer to his supposed 
 assailant, he heheld, hy the pale lamp-light, and in- 
 stantly recognized his features. 
 
 " Ah!" cried he, in astonishment, hut with internal 
 rejoicing, — "ah! is it you who are thus reduced ! " 
 
 "You say right, Crauford," said Glendower, sullenly, 
 and drawing himself up to his full height, "it is It 
 hut you are mistaken ; I am a beggar, not a ruffian ! " 
 
 " Good Heavens ! " answered Crauford ; " how fortu- 
 nate that we should meet ! Providence watches over us 
 unceasingly ! I have long sought you in vain. But " 
 (and here the wayward malignity, sometimes, though 
 not always, the characteristic of Crauford's nature, irre- 
 sistibly broke out) — " but that you, of all men, should 
 suffer so, — you, proud, susceptible, virtuous beyond 
 human virtue; you, whose fibres are as acute as the 
 naked eye, — that you should bear this, and wince not ! " 
 
 "You do my humanity wrong!" said Glendower, 
 with a bitter and almost ghastly smile ; " I do worse 
 than wince! " 
 
 " Ay, is it so ! " said Crauford: " have you awakened 
 at last? Has your philosophy taken a more impassioned 
 dye I " 
 
 "Mock me not!" cried Glendower; and his eye, 
 usually soft in its deep thoughtfulness, glared wild and 
 savage upon the hypocrite who stood trembling, yet 
 half sneering, at the storm he had raised, " my passions 
 are even now beyond my mastery; loose them not upon 
 you ! " 
 
 "Nay," said Crauford, gently, "I meant not to vex 
 or wound you. I have sought you several times since 
 the last night we met, but in vain; you had left your 
 lodgings, and none knew whither. I would fain talk
 
 20 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 with you. I have a scheme to propose to you which 
 will make you rich forever, rich, — literally rich! — . 
 not merely above poverty, hut high in affluence ! " 
 
 Glendower looked incredulously at the speaker, who 
 continued, — 
 
 " The scheme has danger, — that you can dare ! " 
 
 Glendower was still silent; hut his set and Btern 
 countenance was sufficient reply. " Some sacrifice of 
 your pride," continued Crauford, — " that also you can 
 hear? " and the tempter almost grinned with pleasure as 
 he asked the question. 
 
 " He who is poor," said Glendower, speaking at last, 
 " has a right to pride. He who starves has it too ; hut 
 he who sees those whom he loves famish, and cannot aid, 
 has it not ! " 
 
 "Come home with me, then," said Crauford; "you 
 seem faint and weak: nature craves food; come and 
 partake of mine, — we will then talk over this scheme, 
 and arrange its completion." 
 
 " I cannot," answered Glendower, quietly. 
 
 " And why 1 " 
 
 " Because they starve at home! " 
 
 " Heavens ! " said Crauford, affected for a moment into 
 sincerity, — " it is indeed fortunate that business should 
 have led me here; but, meanwhile, you will not refuse 
 this trifle, — as a loan merely. By-and-by our scheme 
 will make you so rich that I must be the borrower." 
 
 Glendower did hesitate for a moment, — he did swal- 
 low a bitter rising of the heart ; but he thought of those 
 at home, and the struggle was over. 
 
 "I thank you," said he, — "I thank you for their 
 sake: the time may come," — and the proud gentleman 
 stopped short, for his desolate fortunes rose before him, 
 and forbade all hope of the future.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 21 
 
 " Yes ! " cried Crauford, " the time may come when 
 you will repay me this money a hundredfold. But 
 where do you live 1 You are silent. Well, you will not 
 inform me, — I understand you. Meet me, then, here, on 
 this very spot, three nights hence, — you will not fail 1 " 
 
 " I will not," said Glendower; and pressing Crauford's 
 hand with a generous and grateful warmth, which might 
 have softened a heartless obdurate, he turned away. 
 
 Folding his arms while a hitter yet joyous expression 
 crossed his countenance, Crauford stood still, gazing 
 upon the retreating form of the noble and unfortunate 
 man whom he had marked for destruction. 
 
 " Now," said he, " this virtue is a fine thing, a very 
 fine thing to talk so loftily about. A little craving 
 of the gastric juices, a little pinching of this vile body, 
 as your philosophers and saints call our better part, and, 
 lo ! virtue oozes out like water through a leaky vessel, 
 — and the vessel sinks! No, no; virtue is a weak game, 
 and a poor game, and a losing game. Why, there is 
 that man, the very pink of integrity and rectitude, he 
 is now only wanting temptation to fall, — and he will 
 fall, in a fine phrase, too, I '11 be sworn! And then, 
 having once fallen, there will be no medium, — he will 
 become utterly corrupt; while /, honest Dick Crauford, 
 doing as other wise men do, cheat a trick or two, in 
 playing with fortune, without being a whit the worse 
 for it. Do I not subscribe to charities; am I not con- 
 stant at church, ay, and meeting to boot; kind to my 
 servants, obliging to my friends, loyal to my king 1 ? 
 'Gad, if I were less loving to myself, I should have been 
 far less useful to my country! And now, now, let me 
 see what has brought me to these filthy suburbs ! Ah, 
 
 Madam H . Woman, incomparable woman ! On, 
 
 Richard Crauford, thou hast made a good night's work
 
 22 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 of it hitherto ! — business seasons pleasure ! " and the 
 villain upon system moved away. 
 
 Glendower hastened to his home; it was miserably 
 changed, even from the humble abode in which we 
 last saw him. The unfortunate pair had chosen their 
 present residence from a melancholy refinement in lux- 
 ury ; they had chosen it because none else shared it with 
 them, and their famine and pride and struggles and 
 despair were without witness or pity. 
 
 With a heavy step Glendower entered the chamber 
 where his wife sat. When at a distance he had heard a 
 faint moan, but as he had approached, it ceased; for she, 
 from whom it came, knew his step, and hushed her grief 
 and pain, that they might not add to his own. The 
 peevishness, the querulous and stinging irritations of 
 want, came not to that affectionate and kindly heart; 
 nor could all those biting and bitter evils of fate, which 
 turn the love that is born of luxury into rancour and 
 gall, scathe the beautiful and holy passion which had 
 knit into one those two unearthly natures. They rather 
 clung the closer to each other, as all things in heaven 
 and earth spoke in tempest or in gloom around them, 
 and coined their sorrows into endearment, and their 
 looks into smiles, and strove each from the depth of 
 despair, to pluck hope and comfort for the other. 
 
 This, it is true, was more striking and constant in 
 her than in Glendower; for in love, man, be he ever so 
 generous, is always outdone. Yet even when in moments 
 of extreme passion and conflict, the strife broke from 
 his breast into words, never once was his discontent 
 vented upon her, nor his. reproaches lavished on any but 
 fortune or himself, nor his murmurs mingled with a 
 single breath wounding to her tenderness, or detracting 
 from his love.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 23 
 
 He threw open the door; the wretched light cast its 
 sickly beams over the squalid walls, foul with green 
 damps, and the miserable yet clean bed, and the tireless 
 hearth, and the empty board, and the pale cheek of the 
 wife, as she rose and flung her arms round his neck, and 
 murmured out her joy and welcome. " There," said he, 
 as he extricated himself from her, and flung the money 
 upon the table, — "there, love, pine no more, feed 
 yourself and our daughter, and then let us sleep and be 
 happy in our dreams. " 
 
 A writer, one of the most gifted of the present day, 
 has told the narrator of this history, that no interest of 
 a high nature can be given to extreme poverty. I know 
 not if this be true; yet if I mistake not our human 
 feelings, there is nothing so exalted or so divine as a 
 great and brave spirit working out its end through every 
 earthly obstacle and evil, — watching through the utter 
 darkness, and steadily defying the phantoms which 
 crowd around it; wrestling with the mighty allure- 
 ments, and rejecting the fearful voices of that want 
 which is the deadliest and surest of human tempters; 
 nursing through all calamity the love of species, and 
 the warmer and closer affections of private ties; sacri- 
 ficing no duty, resisting all sin; and, amidst every 
 horror and every humiliation, feeding the still and 
 bright light of that genius, which, like the lamp of the 
 fabulist, though it may waste itself for years amidst the 
 depths of solitude, and the silence of the tomb, shall live 
 and burn immortal and undimmed, when all around it is 
 rottenness and decay ! 
 
 And yet I confess that it is a painful and bitter task 
 to record the humiliations, the wearing, petty, stinging 
 humiliations of poverty : to count the drops as they 
 slowly fall, one by one, upon the fretted and indignant
 
 24 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 heart; to particularize, with the scrupulous and nice 
 hand of indifference, the fractional and divided move- 
 ments in the dial-plate of misery; to behold the refine- 
 ment of birth, the masculine pride of blood, the digni- 
 ties of intellect, the wealth of knowledge, the delicacy 
 and graces of womanhood, — all that ennoble and soften 
 the stony mass of commonplaces which is our life, frit- 
 tered into atoms, trampled into the dust and mire of the 
 meanest thoroughfares of distress; life and soul, the 
 energies and aims of man, ground into one prostrating 
 want, cramped into one levelling sympathy with the 
 dregs and refuse of his kind, blistered into a single 
 galling and festering sore. This is, I own, a painful and 
 a bitter task; but it hath its redemption, — a pride even 
 in debasement, a pleasure even in woe; and it is there- 
 fore that, while I have abridged, I have not shunned it. 
 There are some whom the lightning of fortune blasts, 
 only to render holy. Amidst all that humbles and 
 scathes, amidst all that shatters from their life its 
 verdure, smites to the dust the pomp and summit of 
 their pride, and in the very heart of existence writeth a 
 sudden and "strange defeature," they stand erect, riven, 
 not uprooted , — a monument less of pity than of awe ! 
 There are some who pass through the Lazar-house of 
 misery with a step more august than a Caesar's in his 
 ball. The very things which, seen alone, are despicable 
 and vile, associated with them, become almost venerable 
 and divine; and one ray, however dim and feeble, of 
 that intense holiness which, in the infant God, shed 
 majesty over the manger and the straw, not denied to 
 those who, in the depth of affliction, cherish His patient 
 image, flings over the meanest localities of earth an 
 emanation from the glory of Heaven! 
 
 I
 
 THE DISOWNED. 25 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 Letters from divers hands, which will absolve 
 Ourselves from long narration. 
 
 Tanner of Tyburn. 
 
 One morning, about a fortnight after Talbot's death, 
 Clarence was sitting alone, thoughtful and melancholy, 
 when the three following letters were put into his 
 hand : — 
 
 LETTER FROM THE DUKE OF HAVERFIELD. 
 
 Let me, my dear Linden, be the first to congratulate you 
 upon your accession of fortune : five thousand a ) r ear, Scars- 
 dale, and eighty thousand pounds in the Funds, are very pretty 
 foes to starvation ! Ah, my dear fellow, if you had but shot 
 that frosty Caucasus of humanity, that pillar of the state, made 
 not to bend, that — but you know already whom I meau, and 
 so I will spare you more of my lamentable metaphors : had 
 you shot Lord Borodaile, your happiness would now be com- 
 plete ! Everybody talks of your luck. La Meronville tending 
 on you with her white hands, the prettiest hands in the world, 
 — who would not be wounded, even by Lord Borodaile, for 
 such a nurse ? And then Talbot's — yet, I will not speak of 
 that, for you are very unlike the present generation ; and who 
 knows but you may have some gratitude, some affection, some 
 natural feeling in you. 1 had once ; but that was before I 
 went to France, — those Parisians, with their fine sentiments 
 and witty philosophy, play the devil with one's good, old- 
 fashioned feelings. So Lord Aspedeu is to have an Italian 
 ministry. By the by, shall you go with him, or will you not 
 rather stay at home, and enjoy your new fortunes: hunt, race? 
 dine out, dance, vote in the House of Commons, and, in short,
 
 26 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 do all that an Englishman and a gentleman should do 1 ma- 
 in ■ n to e splendor del secol nostro. Write me a line whenever 
 you have nothing better to do ; and believe me, most truly 
 yours, 
 
 Haverfield. 
 
 Will you sell your black mare, or will you buy my brown 
 one ? Utrum horum mavis accipe, the only piece of Latin I 
 remember. 
 
 LETTER FROM LORD ASPEDEN. 
 
 My dear Linden, — Suffer me to enter most fully into your 
 feeling. Death, my friend, is common to all ; we must sub- 
 mit to its dispensations. I heard accidentally of the great 
 fortune left you by Mr. Talbot (your father, I suppose I may 
 venture to call him). Indeed, though there is a silly preju- 
 dice against illegitimacy, yet, as our immortal bard says, 
 
 Wherefore base? 
 When thy dimensions are as well compact, 
 Thy mind as generous and thy shape as true 
 As honest madam's issue ! 
 
 For my part, my dear Linden, I say on your behalf, that it la 
 very likely that you are a natural son, for such are always the 
 luckiest and the best. 
 
 You have probably heard of the honor his Majesty has con- 
 ferred on me, in appointing to my administration the city of 
 
 . As the choice of a secretary has been left to me, I need 
 
 not say how happy I shall be to keep my promise to you. 
 Indeed, as I told Lord yesterday morning, I do not know- 
 anywhere a young man who has more talent, or who plays 
 better on the flute. — Adieu, my dear young friend ; and be- 
 lieve me, very truly yours, 
 
 Aspeden. 
 
 letter from madame de la meronville. 
 
 (Translated.) 
 
 You have done me wrong, — great wrong. I loved you, I 
 waited on you, tended you, nursed you, gave all up for you ;
 
 THE DJSCTWNED. 27 
 
 and you forsook me, — forsook me without a word. True, 
 that you have been engaged in a melancholy duty, but, at least, 
 you had time to write a line, to cast a thought, to one who 
 had shown for you the love that I have done. But we will 
 pass over all this; I will not reproach you, — it is beneath 
 me. The vicious upbraid, — the virtuous forgive ! I have, for 
 several days, left your house. I should never have come to it, 
 had you not been wounded, and, as I fondly imagined, for my 
 sake. Return when you will, I shall no longer be there to 
 persecute and torment you. 
 
 Pardon this letter. I have said too much for myself, — a 
 hundred times too much to you ; but I shall not sin again. 
 This intrusion is my last. 
 
 Cecile de la Meronville. 
 
 These letters will, probably, suffice to clear up that 
 part of Clarence's history Avhich had not hitherto been 
 touched upon; they will show that Talbot's will (after 
 several legacies to his old servants, his nearest connec- 
 tions, and two charitable institutions which he had 
 founded and for some years supported) had bequeathed 
 the bulk of his property to Clarence. The words in 
 which the bequest was made were kind and somewhat 
 remarkable: "To my relation and friend, commonly 
 known by the name of Clarence Linden, to whom I am 
 bound alike by blood and affection," etc. These ex- 
 pressions, joined to the magnitude of the bequest, the 
 apparently unaccountable attachment of the old man to 
 his heir, and the mystery which wrapped the origin of 
 the latter, all concurred to give rise to an opinion, easily 
 received, and soon universally accredited, that Clarence 
 was a natural son of the deceased ; and so strong in Eng- 
 land is the aristocratic aversion to an unknown lineage, 
 that this belief, unflattering as it was, procured for 
 Linden a mucli higher consideration on the score of
 
 28 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 birth than he might otherwise have enjoyed. Further- 
 more will the above correspondence testify the general 
 iclab of Madame la Meronvillc's attachment, and the 
 construction naturally put upon it. Xor do we see 
 much left for us to explain, with regard to the French- 
 woman herself, which cannot equally well be gleaned, 
 by any judicious and intelligent reader, from the epistle 
 last honored by his perusal. Clarence's sense of gal- 
 lantry did, indeed, smite him severely for his negligence 
 and ill requital to one who, whatever her faults or fol- 
 lies, had at least done nothing with which he. had a 
 right to reproach her. It must, however, be considered, 
 in his defence, that the fatal event which had so lately 
 occurred, the relapse which Clarence had suffered in 
 consequence, and the melancholy confusion and bustle 
 in which the last week or ten days had been passed, were 
 quite sufficient to banish her from his remembrance. 
 Still she was a woman, and had loved, or seemed to 
 love; and Clarence, as he wrote to her a long, kind, 
 and almost brotherly letter, in return for her own, felt 
 that, in giving pain to another, one often suffers almost 
 as much for avoiding as for committing a sin. 
 
 We have said his letter was kind, — it was also frank, 
 and yet prudent. In it he said that he had long loved 
 another, which love alone could have rendered him in- 
 sensible Co her attachment; that he, nevertheless, should 
 always recall her memory with equal interest and ad- 
 miration; and then, with a tact of flattery which the 
 nature of the correspondence and the sex of the person 
 addressed rendered excusable, he endeavored, as far as 
 he was aide, to soothe and please the vanity which the 
 candor of his avowal was calculated to wound. 
 
 When lie had finished this letter, he despatched an- 
 other to Lord Aspeden , claiming a reprieve of some days
 
 THE DISOWNED. 29 
 
 before lie answered the proposal of the diplomatist. 
 After these epistolary efforts, he summoned his valet, 
 and told him, apparently in a careless tone, to find out 
 if Lady Westborough was still in town. Then, throw- 
 ing himself on the couch, he wrestled with the grief and 
 melancholy which the death of a friend, and more than 
 a father, might well cause in a mind less susceptible 
 than his, and counted the dull hours crawl onward till 
 his servant returned. " Lady Westborough and all the 
 family had been gone a week to their seat in . " 
 
 " Well," thought Clarence, " had he been alive, I 
 could have intrusted my cause to a mediator; as it is, I 
 will plead, or rather assert it, myself. — Harrison," said 
 he, aloud, " see that my black mare is ready by sunrise 
 to-morrow ; I shall leave town for some days. " 
 
 "Not in your present state of health, sir, surely?" 
 said Harrison, with the license of one who had been a 
 nurse. 
 
 " My health requires it, — no more words, my good 
 Harrison: see that I am obeyed." And Harrison, 
 shaking his head doubtfully, left the room. 
 
 " Eich, independent, free to aspire to the heights 
 which in England are only accessible to those who join 
 wealth to ambition, I have at least," said Clarence, 
 proudly, " no unworthy pretensions even to the hand of 
 Lady Flora Ardenne. If she can love me for myself, 
 if she can trust to my honor, rely on my love, feel proud 
 in my pride, and aspiring in my ambition, then, indeed, 
 this wealth will be welcome to me, and the disguised 
 name, which has cost me so many mortifications, become 
 grateful, since she will not disdain to share it."
 
 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 A little druid wight, 
 Of withered aspect ; hut his eye was keen 
 With sweetuess mixed, — in russet brown bedight. 
 
 THOMSON'S Castle oj Indolence. 
 
 Tims holding high discourse, they came to where 
 The cursed carle was at his wonted trade, 
 Still tempting heedless men into his snare, 
 In witching wise, as I before have said. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 It was a fine, joyous summer morning when Clarence 
 set out, alone, and on horseback, upon his enterprise of 
 love and adventure. If there be anything on earth more 
 reviving and inspiriting than another, it is, to my taste, 
 a bright day, a free horse, a journey of excitement before 
 one, and loneliness! Rousseau — in bis own way, a 
 great, though rather a morbid epicure of this world's 
 enjoyments — talks with rapture of his pedestrian ram- 
 bles, when in his first youth. But what are your foot- 
 ploddings to the joy which lifts you into the air with 
 the bound of your mettled steed? 
 
 Rut there are times when an iron and stern sadness 
 locks, as it were, within itself our capacities of enjoy- 
 ment; and the song of the birds, and the green freshness 
 of the summer morning, and the glad motion of the eager 
 horse, brought neither relief nor change to the musings 
 of the young adventurer. 
 
 He roile on for several miles without noticing any- 
 thing on his road, and only now and then testifying the 
 nature of his thoughts, and his consciousness of solitude
 
 THE DISOWNED. 31 
 
 by brief and abrupt exclamations and sentences, which 
 proclaimed tbe melancholy yet exciting subjects of bis 
 meditations. During tbe heat of the noon, he rested 
 
 at a small public-house about miles from town ; and 
 
 resolving to take his horse at least ten miles further be- 
 fore his day's journey ceased, he remounted towards the 
 evening, and slowly resumed his way. 
 
 He was now entering the same county in which he 
 first made his appearance in this history. Although 
 several miles from the spot on which the memorable 
 night with the gypsies had been passed, his thoughts 
 reverted to its remembrance, and he sighed as he recalled 
 the ardent hopes which then fed and animated his heart. 
 While thus musing, he heard the sound of hoofs behind 
 him, and presently came by a sober-looking man, on a 
 rough, strong pony, laden (besides its master's weight), 
 with saddle-bags of uncommon size, and to all appear- 
 ance substantially and artfully filled. 
 
 Clarence looked, and after a second survey, recog- 
 nized the person of his old acquaintance Mr. Morris 
 Brown. 
 
 Not equally reminiscent was the worshipful itinerant, 
 who, in the great variety of forms and faces which it was 
 his professional lot to encounter, coidd not be expected 
 to preserve a very nice or distinguishing recollection of 
 each. 
 
 "Your servant, sir, your servant," said Mr. Brown, 
 as he rode his pony alongside of our traveller. " Are 
 you going as far as W this evening 1 " 
 
 " I hardly know yet," answered Clarence; " the length 
 of my ride depends upon my horse rather than myself. " 
 
 " Oh, well, very well," said Mr. Brown ; " but you will 
 allow me, perhaps, sir, the honor of riding with you as 
 far as you go."
 
 32 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 "You give me much gratification by your proposal, 
 j\I r. Brotra! " said Clarence. 
 
 The broker looked in surprise at his companion. " So 
 you know me, sir? " 
 
 " I do," replied Clarence. " I am surprised that you 
 have forgotten me ! " 
 
 Slowly Mr. Brown gazed, till at last his memory 
 began to give itself the rousing shake. " God bless me, 
 sir, I beg you a thousand pardons: I now remember 
 you perfectly, — Mr. Linden, the nephew of my old 
 patroness, Mrs. Minden. Dear, dear, how could I be so 
 forgetful! I hope, by the by, sir, that the shirts wore 
 well. I am thinking you will want some more. I have 
 some capital cambric of curiously fine quality and tex- 
 ture, from the wardrobe of the late Lady Waddilove." 
 
 "What, Lady Waddilove still!" cried Clarence. 
 " Why, my good friend, you will offer next to furnish 
 me with pantaloons from her ladyship's wardrobe." 
 
 " Why, really, sir, I see you preserve your fine spirits; 
 but I do think I have one or two pair of plum-colored 
 velvet inexpressibles, that passed into my possession 
 when her ladyship's husband died, which might, per- 
 haps, with a leetle alteration, fit you, and at all events, 
 would be a very elegant present from a gentleman to his 
 valet. " 
 
 " Well, Mr. Brown, whenever I or my valet wear 
 plum-colored velvet breeches, I will certainly purchase 
 those in your possession; but, to change the subject, can 
 you inform me what have become of my old host and 
 hostess, the Copperases, of Copperas Bower? " 
 
 "Oh, sir, they are the same as ever, — nice genteel 
 people they are too. Master Adolphus has grown into 
 a fine young gentleman, very nearly as tall as you and 
 I are. His worthy father preserves his jovial vein,
 
 THE DISOWNED. 33 
 
 and is very merry whenever I call there. Indeed, it 
 was but last week that he made an admirable witti- 
 cism. ' Bob,' said he (Tom, — you remember Tom, or 
 De Warens, as Mrs. Copperas was pleased to call him, 
 — Tom is gone), — ' Bob, have you stopped the coach 1 ? ' 
 'Yes, sir,' said Bob. 'And what coach is it 1 ?' asked 
 Mr. Copperas. ' It be the Swallow, sir,' said the boy. 
 'The Swallow! oh, very well,' cried Mr. Copperas; 
 ' then, now, having swallowed in the roll, I will e'en 
 roll in the Swallow!' — Ha! ha! ha! sir, very face- 
 tious, was it not? " 
 
 "Very, indeed," said Clarence; "and so Mr. de 
 Warens has gone : how came that 1 " 
 
 " Why, sir, you see the boy was always of a gay turn, 
 and he took to frisking it, as he called it, of a night, 
 and so he was taken up for thrashing a watchman, and 
 appeared before Sir John, the magistrate, the next 
 morning." 
 
 "Caractacus before Caesar! " observed Linden; "and 
 what said Caesar 1 " 
 
 " Sir! " said Mr. Brown. 
 
 " I mean , what said Sir John ? " 
 
 " Oh! he asked him his name, and Tom, whose head 
 Mrs. Copperas (poor good woman!) had crammed with 
 pride enough for fifty foot-boys, replied ' De Warens,' 
 with all the air of a man of independence. ' De Warens ! ' 
 cried Sir John, amazed, ' we '11 have no De's here: take 
 him to Bridewell! ' — and so Mrs. Copperas, being with- 
 out a foot-boy, sent for me, and I supplied her with 
 Bob ! " 
 
 "Out of the late Lady Waddi love's wardrobe too?" 
 said Clarence. 
 
 "Ha, ha! that's well, very well, sir. No, not 
 exactly, but he was a son of her late ladyship's coach- 
 
 VOL. II. 3
 
 34 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 man. Z\Tr. Copperas has had two other servants of the 
 name of Bob before, but this is the biggest of all, so he 
 humorously calls him ' Triple Bob Major! ' You ob- 
 serve that road to the right, sir, — it leads to the man- 
 sion of an old customer of mine, General Cornelius 
 St. Leger ; many a good bargain have I sold to his sister. 
 Heaven rest her! — when she died, I lost a good friend, 
 though she was a little hot or so, to be sure. But she 
 had a relation, a young lady: such a lovely, noble-look- 
 ing creature, — it did one's heart, ay, and one's eyes 
 also, good to look at her; and she's gone too, — well, 
 well, one loses one's customers sadly; it makes me feel 
 old and comfortless to think of it. Now, yonder, as far 
 as you can see among those distant woods, lived another 
 friend of mine, to whom I oifered to make some very 
 valuable presents upon his marriage with the young lady 
 I spoke of just now, but, poor gentleman, he had not 
 time to accept them; he lost his property by a lawsuit, 
 a few months after he was married, and a very different 
 person now has Mordaunt Court." 
 
 " Mordaunt Court!" cried Clarence; "do you mean 
 to say that Mr. Mordaunt has lost that property ? " 
 
 " Why, sir, one Mr. Mordaunt has lost it, and another 
 has gained it; but the real Mr. Mordaunt has not an 
 acre in this county, or elsewhere, I fear, poor gentle- 
 man. He is universally regretted; for he was very good 
 and very generous, though they say he was also mighty 
 proud and reserved; but, for my part, I never perceived 
 it. If one is not proud one's self, Mr. Linden, one is 
 very little apt to be hurt by pride in other people." 
 
 " And where is Mr. Algernon Mordaunt 1 " asked 
 Clarence, as he recalled his interview with that person, 
 and the interest with which Algernon then inspired 
 him.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 35 
 
 " That, sir, is more than any of us can say. He has 
 disappeared altogether. Some declare that he has gone 
 abroad, others that he is living in Wales in the greatest 
 poverty. However, wherever he is, I am sure that he 
 cannot be rich; for the lawsuit quite ruined him, and 
 the young lady he married had not a farthing. " 
 
 " Poor Mordaunt," said Clarence, musingly. 
 
 " I think, sir, that the squire would not be best pleased 
 if he heard you pity him. I don't know why, but he 
 certainly looked, walked, and moved like one whom 
 you felt it very hard to pity. But I am thinking that 
 it is a great shame that the general should not do any- 
 thing for Mr. Mordaunt 's wife, for she was his own 
 flesh and blood ; and I am sure he had no cause to be 
 angry at her marrying a gentleman of such old family as 
 Mr. Mordaunt. I am a great stickler for birth, sir, — 
 I learned that from the late Lady W. ' Brown,' she 
 said, and I shall never forget her ladyship's air when 
 she did say it, — ' Brown, respect your superiors, and 
 never fall into the hands of the republicans and 
 atheists! ' " 
 
 "And why," said Clarence, who was much interested 
 in Mordaunt's fate, " did General St. Leger withhold 
 his consent 1 ? " 
 
 " That we don't exactly know, sir; but some say that 
 Mr. Mordaunt was very high and proud with the general , 
 and the general was to the full as fond of his purse as 
 Mr. Mordaunt could be of his pedigree, — and so, I 
 suppose, one pride clashed against the other, and made 
 a quarrel between them." 
 
 "Would not the general, then, relent after the 
 marriage 1 " 
 
 "Oh! no, sir, — for it was a runaway affair. Miss 
 Diana St. Leger, his sister, was as hot as ginger upon
 
 36 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 it, and fretted and worried the poor general — who wag 
 never of the mildest — about the match, till at last he 
 forbade tbe poor young lady's very name to be mentioned. 
 And when Miss Diana died about two years ago, he 
 suddenly introduced a tawny sort of cretur whom they 
 call a mulatto or creole, or some such thing, into the 
 house; and it seems that he has had several children by 
 her, whom he never durst own during Miss Diana's 
 life, but whom he now declares to be his heirs. "Well, 
 they rule him with a rod of iron, and suck him as 
 dry as an orange. They are a bad, griping set, all of 
 them; and, I am sure, I don't say so from any selfish 
 feeling, Mr. Linden, though they have forbid me the 
 house, and called me, to my very face, an old cheating 
 Jew. Think of that, sir! — I whom the late Lady 
 W. , in her exceeding friendship, used to call 'honest 
 Brown,' — I whom your worthy — " 
 
 " And who," uncourteously interrupted Clarence, 
 " has Mordaunt Court now 1 " 
 
 " Why, a distant relation of the last squire's, an 
 elderly gejtttleman who calls himself Mr. Vavasour 
 "Mordaunt. 1 am going there to-morrow morning, for 
 I still keep up a connection with the family. Indeed, 
 the old gentleman bought a lovely little ape of me, 
 which I did intend as a present to the late (as I may 
 call him) Mr. Mordaunt; so, though I will not say I 
 exactly like him, — he is a hard hand at a bargain, — yet 
 at least I will not deny him his due." 
 
 " What sort of person is he 1 What character does he 
 b( ar? " asked Clarence. 
 
 " T really find it hard to answer that question," said 
 the gossiping Mr. Brown. "In great tilings he is very 
 lavish and ostentatious, but in small things he is very 
 penurious and saving, and miser-like, — and all for one
 
 THE DISOWNED. 37 
 
 son, who is deformed and very sickly. He seems to 
 doat on that boy ; and now I have got two or three little 
 presents in these bags for Mr. Henry. Heaven forgive 
 me, but when I look at the poor creature, with his face 
 all drawn up, and his sour, ill-tempered voice, and his 
 limbs crippled, I almost think it would be better if he 
 were in his grave, and the rightful Mr. Mordaunt, who 
 would then be the next of kin, in his place." 
 
 " So then, there is only this unhappy cripple between 
 Mr. Mordaunt and the property 1 " said Clarence. 
 
 " Exactly so, sir. But will you let me ask where you 
 
 shall put up at W 1 I will wait upon you, if you 
 
 will give me leave, with some very curious and valuable 
 articles, highly desirable either for yourself, or for little 
 presents to your friends. " 
 
 " I thank you," said Clarence, " I shall make no stay 
 
 at W , but I shall be glad to see you in town next 
 
 week. Favor me, meanwhile, by accepting this trifle." 
 
 "Nay, nay, sir," said Mr. Brown, pocketing the 
 money ; " I really cannot accept this : anything in the 
 way of exchange, — a ring, or a seal, or — " 
 
 "No, no, not at present," said Clarence; "the night 
 is coming on, and I shall make the best of my way. 
 Good-by, Mr. Brown; " and Clarence trotted off; but he 
 had scarce got sixty yards before he heard the itinerant 
 merchant cry out, " Mr. Linden, Mr. Linden ! " and, 
 looking back, he beheld the honest Brown putting his 
 shaggy pony at full speed, in order to overtake him, so 
 he pulled up. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Brown, what do you want 1 ? " 
 
 " ^Yhy, you see, sir, you gave me no exact answer 
 about the plum-colored velvet inexpressibles," said Mr. 
 Brown.
 
 38 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 Are we contemned ! — The Double Marriage. 
 
 It was dusk when Clarence arrived at the very same 
 inn at which, more than five years ago, he had assumed 
 his present name. As he recalled the note addressed to 
 him, and the sum (his whole fortune) which it contained, 
 he could not help smiling at the change his lot had since 
 then undergone; but the smile soon withered when he 
 thought of the kind and paternal hand from which that 
 change had proceeded, and knew that his gratitude was 
 no longer availing, and that that hand, in pouring its 
 last favors upon him, had become cold. He was ushered 
 into ]S T o. Four, and left to his meditations till bed-time. 
 The next day he recommenced his journey. West- 
 borough Park was, though in another county, within a 
 short ride of W ; but as he approached it, the char- 
 acter of the scenery became essentially changed. Bare, 
 bold, and meagre, the features of the country bore some- 
 what of a Scottish character. On the right side of the 
 road was a precipitous and perilous descent, and some 
 workmen were placing posts along a path for foot- 
 passengers on that side nearest the carriage-road, prob- 
 alily with a view to preserve unwary coachmen or eques- 
 trians from the dangerous vicinity to the descent, which 
 a dark night might cause them to incur. As Clarence 
 looked idly on the workmen, and painfully on the 
 crumbling and fearful descent 1 have described, he little 
 thought that that spot, would, a few years after, become 
 the scene of a catastrophe affecting in the most powerful
 
 THE DISOWNED. 39 
 
 degree the interests of his future life. Our young trav- 
 eller put up his horse at a small inn, bearing the West- 
 borough arms, and situated at a short distance from the 
 park gates. Now that he was so near his mistress, — 
 now that less than an hour, nay, than the fourth part of 
 an hour, might place him before her, and decide his fate, 
 his heart, which had hitherto sustained him, grew faint, 
 and presented first fear, then anxiety, and at last, de- 
 spondency to his imagination and forebodings. 
 
 " At all events," said he, " I will see her alone before 
 I will confer with her artful and proud mother, or her 
 cipher of a father. I will then tell her all my history, 
 and open to her all my secrets: I will only conceal from 
 her my present fortunes, for even if rumor should have 
 informed her of them, it will be easy to give the report 
 no sanction ; I have a right to that trial. When she is 
 convinced that, at least, neither my birth nor character 
 can disgrace her, I shall see if her love can enable her 
 to overlook my supposed poverty, and to share my 
 uncertain lot. If so, there will be some triumph in 
 undeceiving her error and rewarding her generosity; 
 if not, I shall be saved from involving my happiness 
 with that of one who looks only to my worldly posses- 
 sions. I owe it to her, it is true, to show her that I 
 am no lowborn pretender; but I owe it also to myself to 
 ascertain if my own individual qualities are sufficient 
 to gain her hand. " 
 
 Fraught with these ideas, which were natural enough to 
 a man whose peculiar circumstances were well calculated 
 to make him feel rather soured and suspicious, and 
 whose pride had been severely wounded by the contempt 
 with which his letter had been treated, — Clarence 
 walked into the park, and, hovering around the house, 
 watched and waited that opportunity of addressing Lady
 
 40 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 Flora which he trusted her hahits of walking would 
 afford him; but hours rolled away, the evening set in, 
 and Lady Flora had not once quitted the house. 
 
 More disappointed and sick at heart than he liked to 
 confess, Clarence returned to his inn, took his solitary 
 meal, and, strolling once more into the park, watched 
 beneath the windows till midnight, endeavoring to guess' 
 which were the casements of her apartments, and feeling 
 his heart heat high at every light which flashed forth 
 and disappeared, and every form which flitted across 
 the windows of the great staircase. Little did Lady 
 Flora, as she sat in her room alone, and in tears mused 
 over Clarence's fancied worthlessness and infidelity, and 
 told her heart again and again that she loved no more, 
 — little did she know whose eye kept vigils without, or 
 whose feet brushed away the rank dews beneath her 
 windows, or whose thoughts, though not altogether 
 unmingled with reproach, were riveted with all the 
 ardor of a young and first love upon her. 
 
 It was unfortunate for Linden that he had no oppor- 
 tunity of personally pleading his suit; his altered form 
 and faded countenance would at least have insured a hear- 
 ing, and an interest for his honest though somewhat 
 haughty sincerity; but though that day and the next 
 and the next were passed in the most anxious and un- 
 remitting vigilance, Clarence only once caught a glimpse 
 of Lady Flora, and then she was one amidst a large party; 
 and Clarence, fearful of a premature and untimely dis- 
 covery, was forced to retire into the thicknesses of the 
 park, and lose the solitary reward of his watches almost 
 as soon as he had won it. 
 
 Wearied and racked by his suspense, and despairing 
 of obtaining any favorable opportunity for an interview, 
 without such a request, Clarence at last resolved to write
 
 THE DISOWNED. 41 
 
 to Lady Flora, entreating her assent to a meeting, in which 
 he pledged himself to clear up all that had hitherto 
 seemed doubtful in his conduct or mysterious in his 
 character. Though respectful, urgent, and bearing the 
 impress of truth and feeling, the tone of the letter was 
 certainly that of a man who conceived he had a right to 
 a little resentment for the past, and a little confidence for 
 the future. It was what might well be written by one 
 who imagined his affection had once been returned, but 
 would as certainly have been deemed very presumptuous 
 by a lady who thought that the affection itself was a 
 liberty. 
 
 Having penned this epistle, the next care was how to 
 convey it. After much deliberation, it was at last com- 
 mitted to the care of a little girl, the daughter of the 
 lodge-keeper, whom Lady Flora thrice a week personally 
 instructed in the mysteries of spelling, reacting, and 
 calligraphy. With many injunctions to deliver the letter 
 only to the hands of the beautiful teacher, Clarence 
 trusted his despatches to the little scholar, and with a 
 trembling frame and wistful eye, watched Susan take her 
 road, with her green satchel and her shining cheeks, to 
 the great house. 
 
 One hour, two hours, three hours, passed, and the 
 messenger had not returned. Restless and impatient, 
 Clarence walked back to his inn, and had not been there 
 many minutes before a servant, in the Westborough 
 livery, appeared at the door of the humble hostelry, and 
 left the following letter for his perusal and gratifi- 
 cation : — 
 
 Sir, — The letter intended for my daughter has just been 
 given to me by Lady Westborough. I know not what gave 
 rise to the language, or the very extraordinary request for a 
 clandestine meeting, which you have thought proper to addresa
 
 42 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 to Lady Flora Ardenne ; but you will allow me to observe, 
 that if you intend to confer upon my daughter tbe honor of a 
 matrimonial proposal, she fully concurs with me and her 
 mother in the negative, which I feel necessitated to put upon 
 your obliging offer. 
 
 I need not add that all correspondence with my daughter 
 must close here. I have the honor to be, sir, your very obe- 
 dient servant, 
 
 Wesxborough. 
 Westborough Park. 
 
 To Clarence Linden, Esq. 
 
 Had Clarence's blood been turned to fire, his veins 
 could not have swelled and burned with a fiercer heat 
 than they did, as he read the above letter, — a master- 
 piece, perhaps, in the line of what may be termed the 
 " d — d civil " of epistolary favors. 
 
 " Insufferable arrogance ! " he muttered within his 
 teeth; "I will live to repay it. Perfidious, unfeeling 
 woman, — what an escape I have had of her! Now, 
 now, I am on the world and alone, thank Heaven. I 
 will accept Aspeden's offer, and leave this country ; 
 when I return, it shall not be as a humble suitor to 
 Lady Flora Ardenne. Pish! how tbe name sickens me; 
 but come, I have a father, — at least a nominal one. 
 He is old and weak, and may die before I return. I 
 will see him once more; and then, hey for Italy ! Oh ! 
 I am so happy, — so happy at my freedom and escape. 
 What, ho ! — waiter ! — my horse instantly ! "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 43 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 Liter. — What has thy father done ? 
 
 Beat. — W T hat have I done ! 
 
 Am I not innocent 1 
 
 The Cenci. 
 
 The twilight was darkening slowly over a room of noble 
 dimensions and costly fashion. Although it was the 
 height of summer, a low fire burned in the grate; and 
 stretching his hands over the feeble flame, an old man, of 
 about sixty, sat in an arm-chair, curiously carved with 
 armorial bearings. The dim yet fitful flame cast its 
 upward light upon a countenance, stern, haughty, and 
 repellent, where the passions of youth and manhood had 
 dug themselves graves in many an iron line and deep 
 furrow ; the forehead, though high was narrow and com- 
 pressed; the brows sullenly overhung the eyes, and 
 the nose, which was singularly prominent and decided, 
 age had sharpened, and brought out, as it were, till it 
 gave a stubborn and very forbidding expression to the 
 more sunken features over which it rose with exaggerated 
 dignity. Two bottles of wine, a few dried preserves, 
 and a water-glass, richly chased, and ornamented with 
 gold, showed that the inmate of the apartment bad passed 
 the hour of the principal repast; and his loneliness at the 
 time usually social, seemed to indicate that few olive- 
 branches were accustomed to overshadow his table. 
 
 The windows of the dining-room reached to the 
 ground, and without, the closing light just enabled one 
 to see a thick copse of wood, which, at a very brief in-
 
 44 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 terval of turf, darkened immediately opposite the house. 
 While the old man was thus bending over the tire and 
 conning his evening contemplations, a figure stole from 
 the copse I have mentioned, and approaching the win- 
 dow, looked pryingly into the apartment; then with a 
 noiseless hand it opened the spring of the casement , 
 which was framed on a peculiar and old-fashioned con- 
 struction that required a practised and familiar touch, 
 entered the apartment, and crept on silent and unper- 
 ceived by the inhabitant of the room, till it paused and 
 stood motionless, with folded arms, scarce three steps 
 behind the high back of the old man's chair. 
 
 In a few minutes the latter moved from his position 
 and slowly rose ; the abruptness with which he turned, 
 brought the dark figure of the intruder full and suddenly 
 before him: he started back, and cried in an alarmed 
 tone, " Who is there 1 " 
 
 The stranger made no reply. 
 
 The old man, in a voice in which anger and pride 
 mingled with fear, repeated the question. The figure 
 advanced, dropped the cloak in which it was wrapped, 
 and presenting the features of Clarence Linden, said, 
 in a low but clear tone, — 
 " Your son.' : 
 
 The old man dropped his hold of the bell-rope, which 
 he had just before seized, and leaned as if for support 
 against the oak wainscot ; Clarence approached. 
 
 "Yes!" said he, mournfully, "your unfortunate, 
 your offending, but your guiltless son. More than five 
 years I have been banished from your house ; I have been 
 thrown, while yet a boy, without friends, without guid- 
 ance, without name, upon the wide world, and to the 
 mercy of chance. I come now to you as a man, claiming 
 no assistance and uttering no reproach, but to tell you
 
 THE DISOWNED. 45 
 
 that him whom an earthly father rejected, God has 
 preserved; that without one unworthy or debasing act, 
 I have won for myself the friends who support, and the 
 Avealth which dignifies life, since it renders it indepen- 
 dent. Through all the disadvantages I have struggled 
 against, I have preserved unimpaired my honor, and 
 unsullied my conscience; you have disowned, but you 
 might have claimed me without shame. Father, these 
 hands are clean! " 
 
 A strong and evident emotion shook the old man's 
 frame. He raised himself to his full height, which was 
 still tall and commanding, and in a voice, the natural 
 harshness of which was rendered yet more repellent by 
 passion, replied, " Boy ! your presumption is insufferable. 
 What to me is your wretched fate 1 Go, go, go to your 
 miserable mother ; find her out, — claim kindred there; 
 live together, toil together, rot together; but come not 
 to me ! — disgrace to my house, ask not admittance to my 
 affections ; the law may give you my name, but sooner 
 would I be torn piecemeal than own your right to it. 
 If you want money, name the sum, take it; cut up my 
 fortune to shreds, seize my property, revel on it, — but 
 come not here. This house is sacred; pollute it not! 
 I disown you ; I discard you; I — ay, I detest — I loathe 
 you!" 
 
 And with these words, which came forth as if heaved 
 from the inmost heart of the speaker, who shook with 
 the fury he endeavored to stifle, he fell back into his 
 chair, and fixed his eyes, which glared fearfully through 
 the increasing darkness, upon Linden, who stood high, 
 erect, and sorrowfully before him. 
 
 "Alas, my lord!" said Clarence, with mournful 
 bitterness, " have not the years which have seared your 
 form and whitened your locks brought some meekness
 
 46 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 to your rancor, some mercy to your injustice, for one 
 whose only crime against you seems to have been his 
 birth. But I said I came not to reproach, — nor do I. 
 Many a hitter hour, many a pang of shame and mortifi- 
 cation and misery, which have made scars in my heart 
 that will never wear away, my wrongs have cost me, — 
 but let them pass. Let them not swell your future and 
 last account whenever it he required. I am about to 
 leave this country, with a heavy and foreboding heart; 
 we may never meet again on earth. I have no longer any 
 wish, any chance of resuming the name you have de- 
 prived me of. I shall never thrust myself on your rela- 
 tionship, or cross your view. Lavish your wealth upon 
 him whom you have placed so immeasurably above me 
 in your affections. But Ihave not deserved your curse, 
 father; give me your blessing, and let me depart in 
 peace." 
 
 " Peace ! and what peace have I had, — what respite 
 from gnawing shame, the foulness and leprosy of humili- 
 ation and reproach, since — since — But this is not 
 your fault, you say: no, no, — it is another's; and you 
 are only the mark of my stigma, my disgrace, not its 
 perpetrator. Ha! a nice distinction, truly. My bless- 
 ing, you say ! Come, kneel; kneel, boy, and have it! " 
 
 Clarence approached, and stood bending and bare- 
 headed before his father, but he knelt not. 
 
 " Why do you not kneel? " cried the old man, vehe- 
 mently. 
 
 " It is the attitude of the injurer, not of the injured ! " 
 said Clarence, firmly. 
 
 " Injured ! — insolent reprobate, — is it not I who am 
 injured 1 Do you not read it in my brow, — here, here ? " 
 and the old man struck his clenched hand violently 
 against his temples. "Was I not injured?" he con-
 
 THE DISOWNED. 47 
 
 tinued, sinking his voice into a key unnaturally low; 
 " did I not trust implicitly ; did I not give up my heart 
 without suspicion ; was I not duped deliciously ; was I 
 not kind enough, blind enough, fool enough; and was I 
 not betrayed, — damnably, filthily betrayed? But that 
 was no injury. "Was not my old age turned, a sapless 
 tree, a poisoned spring; were not my days made a curse 
 to me, and my nights a torture; was I not, am I not, 
 a mock and a by-word, and a miserable, impotent, 
 unavenged old man? Injured! But this is no injury! 
 Boy, boy, what are your wrongs to mine ? " 
 
 "Father ! " cried Clarence, deprecatingly, * I am not 
 the cause of your wrongs; is it just that the innocent 
 should suffer for the guilty ? " 
 
 " Speak not in that voice ! " cried the old man — 
 " that voice ! — fie, fie on it ! Hence ! away ! — away, 
 boy! — why tarry you? My son, and have that voice? 
 Pooh, you are not my son. Ha, ha ! — my son! " 
 
 "What am I, then?" said Clarence, soothingly; for 
 he was shocked and grieved, rather than irritated, by a 
 Wrath which partook so strongly of insanity. 
 
 "I will tell you," cried the father, — " I will tell you 
 what you are : you are my curse ! " 
 
 " Farewell," said Clarence, much agitated, and retiring 
 to the window by which he had entered ; " may your 
 heart never smite you for your cruelty ! Farewell ! — may 
 the blessing you have withheld from me be with you ! " 
 
 " Stop ! — stay ! " cried the father ; for his fury was 
 checked for one moment, and his nature, fierce as it 
 was, relented; but Clarence was already gone, and the 
 miserable old man was left alone to darkness and soli- 
 tude and the passions which can make a hell of the 
 human heart !
 
 48 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 Seel qua; praeelara, et prospera tanti, 
 
 Ut rebus l&'tis par sit meusura malorum. 1 
 
 Juvenal. 
 
 We are now transported to a father and a son of a very- 
 different stamp. 
 
 It was about the hour of one, p.m., when the door of 
 Mr. Vavasour Mordaunt's study was thrown open, and 
 the servant announced Mr. Brown. 
 
 " Your servant, sir, — your servant, Mr. Henry," said 
 the itinerant, bowing low to the two gentlemen thus 
 addressed. The former, Mr. Vavasour Mordaunt, might 
 be about the same age as Linden's father. A shrewd, 
 sensible, ambitious man of the world, he had made his 
 way from the state of a younger brother, with no fortune 
 and very little interest, to considerable wealth, besides 
 the property he had acquired by law, and to a degree 
 of consideration for general influence and personal abil- 
 ity, which, considering he had no official or parliamen- 
 tary rank, very few of his equals enjoyed. Persevering, 
 steady, crafty, and possessing to an eminent degree that 
 happy art of " canting" which opens the readiest way to 
 character and consequence, the rise and reputation of Mr. 
 Vavasour Mordaunt appeared less to be wondered at than 
 envied; yet, even envy was only for those who could 
 not look beyond the surface of things. He was at heart 
 an anxious and unhappy man. The evil we do in the 
 
 1 But what excellence or prosperity so great that there should 
 be an equal measure of evils for our joys.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 49 
 
 world is often paid back in the bosom of home. Mr. 
 Vavasour Mordaunt was, like Crauford, what might be 
 termed a mistaken utilitarian : he had lived utterly and 
 invariably for self; but instead of uniting self-interest 
 with the interest of others, he considered them as per- 
 fectly incompatible ends. But character was among the 
 greatest of all objects to him; so that, though he had 
 rarely deviated into what might fairly be termed a 
 virtue, he had never transgressed what might rigidly be 
 called a propriety. He had not the aptitude, the wit, 
 the moral audacity of Crauford; he could not have in- 
 dulged in one offence with impunity, by a mingled 
 courage and hypocrisy in veiling others: he was the 
 slave of the forms which Crauford subjugated to himself. 
 He was only so far resembling Crauford, as one man of 
 the world resembles another in selfishness and dissimu- 
 lation: he could be dishonest, not villanous, much less 
 a villain upon system. He was a canter, Crauford a 
 hypocrite: his uttered opinions were, like Crauford's, 
 differing from his conduct; but he believed the truth of 
 the former even while sinning in the latter ; he canted 
 so sincerely, that the tears came in his eyes when he 
 spoke. Never was there a man more exemplary in 
 words: people who departed from him went away im- 
 pressed with the idea of an excess of honor, — a plethora 
 of conscience. " It was almost a pity," said they, " that 
 Mr. Vavasour was so romantic;" and thereupon they 
 named him as executor to their wills and guardian to 
 their sons. None but he could, in carrying the law- 
 suit against Mordaunt, have lost nothing in reputation 
 by success. But there was something so specious, so 
 ostensibly fair in his manner and words, while he was 
 ruining Mordaunt, that it was impossible not to suppose 
 he was actuated by the purest motives, the most holy 
 
 VOL. II. — 4
 
 50 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 desire for justice, — not for himself, he said, for he was 
 old, and already rich enough, but for his son! From 
 that son came the punishment of all his offences, — the 
 black drop at the bottom of a bowl, .seemingly so spark- 
 ling. To him, as the father grew old, and desirous of 
 quiet, Vavasour had transferred all his selfishness, as if 
 to a securer and more durable firm. The child, when 
 young, had been singularly handsome and intelligent; 
 and Vavasour, as he toiled and toiled at his ingenious 
 and graceful cheateries, pleased himself with anticipating 
 the importance and advantages the heir to his labors 
 would enjoy. For that son he certainly had persevered 
 more arduously than otherwise he might have done in the 
 lawsuit, of the justice of which he better satisfied the 
 world than his own breast; for that son he rejoiced as 
 he looked around the stately halls and noble domain 
 from which the rightful possessor had been driven ; for 
 that son he extended economy into penuriousness, and 
 hope into anxiety; and, too old to expect much more 
 from the world himself, for that son he anticipated, with 
 a wearing and feverish fancy, whatever wealth could pur- 
 chase, beauty win, or intellect command. 
 
 But as if, like the Castle of Otranto, there was some- 
 thing in Mordaunt Court which contained a penalty and 
 a doom for the usurper : no sooner had Vavasour possessed 
 himself of his kinsman's estate, than the prosperity of 
 his life dried and withered away, like Jonah's gourd, in 
 a single night. His son, at the age of thirteen, fell 
 from a scaffold, on which the workmen Avere making 
 some extensive alterations in the old house, and became 
 a cripple and a valetudinarian for life. But .still Vava- 
 sour, always of a sanguine temperament, cherished a hope 
 that surgical assistance might restore him: from place to 
 place, from professor to professor, from quack to quack,
 
 THE DISOWNED. 51 
 
 he carried the unhappy boy, and as each remedy failed, 
 he was only the more impatient to devise a new one. 
 But as it was the mind as well as person of his son in 
 which the father had stored up his ambition, so, in 
 despite of this fearful accident, and the wretched health 
 by which it was followed, Vavasour never suffered his 
 son to rest from the tasks and tuitions and lectures of 
 the various masters by whom he was surrounded. The 
 poor boy, it is true, deprived of physical exertion, and 
 naturally of a serious disposition, required very little 
 urging to second his father's wishes for his mental im- 
 provement; and as the tutors were all of the orthodox 
 university calibre, who imagine that there is no knowl- 
 edge (but vanity) in any other works than those in which 
 their own education has consisted, so Henry Vavasour 
 became at once the victor and victim of Bentleys and 
 Scaligers, word-weighers and metre-scanners, till, utterly 
 ignorant of everything which could have softened his 
 temper, dignified his misfortunes, and reconciled him to 
 his lot, he was sinking fast into the grave, soured by 
 incessant pain into moroseness, envy, and bitterness; 
 exhausted by an unwholesome and useless application to 
 unprofitable studies; an excellent scholar (as it is 
 termed), with the worst regulated and worst informed 
 mind of almost any of his contemporaries equal to him- 
 self in the advantages of ability, original goodness of 
 disposition, and the costly and profuse expenditure of 
 education. 
 
 But the vain father, as he heard, on all sides, of his 
 son's talents, saw nothing sinister in their direction ; 
 and though the poor boy grew daily more contracted in 
 mind and broken in frame, Vavasour yet hugged more 
 and more closely to his breast the hope of ultimate cure 
 for the latter, and future glory for the former. So he
 
 T>2 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 went on heaping money, and extending acres, and plant- 
 ing, and improving, and building, and he ping, and an- 
 ticipating, for one at whose very feet the grave was 
 already dug ! 
 
 But we left Mr. Brown in the study, making his how 
 and professions of service to Mr. Vavasour Mordaunt and 
 his son. 
 
 " Good-day, honest Brown," said the former, a middle- 
 sized and rather stout man, with a well-powdered head, 
 and a sharp, shrewd, and very sallow countenance; " good- 
 day, — have yon brought any of the foreign liqueurs you 
 spoke of, for Mr. Henry 1 " 
 
 "Yes, sir; I have some curiously fine eau oVor, and 
 liqueur cles ties besides, the marasquino and cuvacoa. 
 The late Lady Waddilove honored my taste in these 
 matters with her especial approbation." 
 
 " My dear boy," said Vavasour, turning to his son, 
 who lay extended on the couch, reading, not the Pro- 
 metheus (that most noble drama ever created), but the 
 notes upon it, — "my dear boy, as you are fond of 
 liqueurs, I desired Brown to get some peculiarly fine; 
 perhaps — " 
 
 " Pish ! " said the son, fretfully interrupting him, " do, 
 I beseech you, take your hand off my shoulder. See 
 now, you have made me lose my place. I really do 
 wish you would leave me alone for one moment in the 
 day." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Henry," said the father, looking 
 reverently on the Greek characters which his son pre- 
 ferred to the newspaper: " It is very vexatious, I own; 
 but do taste these liqueurs. Dr. Lukewarm said you 
 might have everything you liked — " 
 
 " But quiet! " muttered the cripple. 
 
 " I assure you, sir," said the wandering merchant,
 
 THE DISOWNED. 53 
 
 " that they are excellent; allow me, Mr. Vavasour Mor- 
 daunt, to ring for a corkscrew. I really do think, sir, 
 that Mr. Henry looks much better, — I declare he has 
 quite a color. " 
 
 " No, indeed ! " said Vavasour, eagerly. " Well, it 
 seems to me, too, that he is getting better. I intend 
 
 him to try Mr. E 's patent collar in a day or two; 
 
 but that will in some measure prevent his reading. A 
 great pity; for I am very anxious that he should lose no 
 time in his studies just at present. He goes to Cam- 
 bridge in October." 
 
 " Indeed, sir. Well, he will set the town in a blaze, 
 I guess, sir ! Everybody says what a fine scholar Mr. 
 Henry is, — even in the servants' hall ! " 
 
 "Ay, ay," said Vavasour, gratified even by this 
 praise ; " he is clever enough, Brown ; and, what is more " 
 (and here Vavasour's look grew sanctified), " he is good 
 enough. His principles do equal honor to his head 
 and heart. He would be no son of mine if he were not 
 as much the gentleman as the scholar. " 
 
 The youth lifted his heavy and distorted face from 
 his book, and a sneer raised his lip for a moment; but a 
 sudden spasm of pain seizing him, the expression 
 changed, and Vavasour, whose eyes were fixed upon 
 him, hastened to his assistance. 
 
 "Throw open the window, Brown; ring the bell, 
 call — " 
 
 " Pooh, father," cried the boy, with a sharp, angry 
 voice, " I am not going to die yet, nor faint either; but 
 it is all your fault. If you will have those odious, vul- 
 gar people here for your own, pleasure, at least suffer me, 
 another day, to retire." 
 
 " My son, nry son ! " said the grieved father, in re- 
 proachful anger, " it was my anxiety to give you some
 
 54 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 trifling enjoyment that brought Brown here, — you must 
 be sensible of that ! " 
 
 " You tease me to death," grumbled the peevish 
 unfortunate. 
 
 "Well, sir," said Mr. Brown, "shall I leave the 
 bottles here, or do you please that I should give them 
 to the butler? I see that I am displeasing and trouble- 
 some to Mr. Henry; but as my worthy friend and 
 patroness, the late Lady — " 
 
 " Go, go, honest Brown ! " said Vavasour (who desired 
 every man's good word), — " go, and give the liqueurs to 
 Preston. Mr. Henry is extremely sorry that he is too 
 unwell to see you now ; and I — I have the heart of a 
 father for his sufferings. " 
 
 Mr. Brown withdrew. " ' Odious and vulgar,' " said 
 he to himself, in a little fury, — for Mr. Brown pecu- 
 liarly valued himself on his gentility, — " ' odious and 
 vulgar ! ' To think of his little lordship uttering such 
 shameful words ! However, I will go into the steward's 
 room, and abuse him there. But, I suppose, I shall get 
 no dinner in this house, — no, not so much as a crust of 
 bread; for while the old gentleman is launching out into 
 such prodigious expenses on a great scale, — making 
 heathenish temples, and spoiling the fine old house with 
 his new picture gallery and nonsense, — he is so close 
 in small matters, that 1 warrant not a candle-end escapes 
 him: griping and pinching, and squeezing with one 
 hand, and scattering money as if it were dirt with the 
 other, — and all for that cross, ugly, deformed, little 
 whipper-snapper of a son. ' Odious and vulgar,' in- 
 deed! What shocking language! Mr. Algernon Mor- 
 daunt would never have made use of such words, I 
 know. And, bless me, now I think of it, I wonder 
 where that poor gentleman is, — the young heir here is
 
 THE DISOWNED. 55 
 
 not long for this world, I can see; and who knows but 
 what Mr. Algernon may be in great distress ; and I am 
 sure, as far as four hundred pounds, or even a thousand, 
 go, 1 would not mind lending it him, only upon the 
 post-orbits of Squire Vavasour and his hopeful. I like 
 doing a kind thing; and Mr. Algernon was always very 
 good to me ; and I am sure I don't care about the se- 
 curity , though I think it will be as sure as sixpence, — for 
 the old gentleman must be past sixty, and the young 
 one is the worse life of the two. And when he 's gone, 
 — what relation so near as Mr. Algernon 1 We should 
 help one another, — it is but one's duty; and if he is in 
 great distress he would not mind a handsome premium. 
 Well, nobody can say Morris Brown is not as charitable 
 as the best Christian breathing; and as the late Lady 
 Waddilove very justly observed, ' Brown, believe me, a 
 prudent risk is the surest gain! ' I will lose no time in 
 finding the late squire out." 
 
 Muttering over these reflections, Mr. Brown took his 
 way to the steward's room.
 
 56 the Disowxm 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 Clar. — How, two letters 9 — The Lover's Progress. 
 
 LETTER FROM CLARENCE LINDEN, ESQ., TO THE DUKE OV 
 
 HAVERFIELD. 
 
 Hotel , Calais. 
 
 My dear Duke, — After your kind letter, you will forgive 
 me for not having called upon you before I left England, — 
 for you have led me to hope that I may dispense with cere- 
 mony towards you ; and, in sad and sober earnest, I was in 
 no mood to visit even you during the few days I was in Lon- 
 don previous to my departure. Some French philosopher 
 has said that " the best compliment we can pay our friends, 
 when in sickness or misfortune, is to avoid them." I will not 
 say how far I disagree with this sentiment ; but I know that 
 a French philosopher will be an unanswerable authority with 
 you, and so I will take shelter even under the battery of an 
 enemy. 
 
 I am waiting here for some days, in expectation of Lord 
 Aspeden's arrival. Sick as I was of England, and all that has 
 lately occurred to me there, I was glad to have an opportunity 
 of leaving it sooner than my chief could do; and I amuse my- 
 self very indifferently in this dull town, with reading all the 
 morning, plays all the evening, and dreams of my happier 
 friends all the night. 
 
 And so you are sorry that I did not destroy Lord Borodaile ? 
 My dear duke, you would have been much more sorry if I had ! 
 What could you then have done for a living Pasquin for your 
 stray lampoons and vagrant sarcasms ? Had an unfortunate 
 bullet carried away 
 
 " That peer of England, — pillar ot the state,"
 
 THE DISOWNED. 57 
 
 as you term him, — pray, on whom could " Duke Humphrey 
 unfold his griefs " ? Ah, DuKe, better as it is, believe me ; 
 and, whenever you are at a loss for a subject for wit, you will 
 find cause to bless my forbearance, and congratulate yourself 
 upon the existence of its object. 
 
 Dare I hope that, amidst all the gayeties which court you, 
 you will find time to write to me '\ If so, you shall have in 
 return the earliest intelligence of every new soprano, and the 
 most elaborate criticisms on every budding figurante of our 
 court. 
 
 Have you met Trollolop lately, — and in what new pursuit 
 are his intellectual energies engaged ? There, you see, I have 
 fairly entrapped your Grace into a question which common 
 courtesy will oblige you to answer. — Adieu, ever, my dear 
 duke, most truly yours, etc. 
 
 LETTER FROM THE DUKE OF HAVERFIELD TO CLARENCE 
 
 LINDEN, ESQ. 
 
 A thousand thanks, mon cher, for your letter, though it was 
 certainly less amusing and animated than I could have wished 
 it, for your sake as well as my own ; yet it could not have 
 been more welcomely received had it been as witty as your 
 conversation itself. I heard that you had accepted the place 
 of secretary to Lord Aspeden, and that you had passed through 
 London on your way to the Continent, looking (the amiable 
 Callythorpe, " who never flatters," is my authority) more like 
 a ghost than yourself. So you may be sure, my dear Linden, 
 that I was very anxious to be convinced, under your own hand, 
 of your carnal existence. 
 
 Take care of yourself, my good fellow, and don't imagine, 
 as I am apt to do, that youth is like my hunter, Fearnought, 
 and will carry you over everything. In return for your philo- 
 sophical maxim, I will give you another: " In age we should 
 remember that we have been young ; and in youth, that we are 
 to be old." Ehem ! — am I not profound as a moralist ? I 
 think a few such sentences would become my long face well; 
 and, to say truth, I am tired of being witty, — every one
 
 58 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 thinks he can be that. — so I will borrow Trollolop's philoso- 
 phy, take snuff, wear a wig out of curl, and grow wise instead 
 of merry. 
 
 Apropos of Trollolop, let me not forget that you honor him 
 with your inquiries. I saw him three days since, and lie 
 asked me it I had been impressed lately with the idea vulgarly 
 called Clarence Linden ; and he then proceeded to inform me 
 that he had heard the atoms which composed your frame were 
 about to be resolved into a new form. While I was knitting 
 my brows very wisely at this intelligence, he passed on to 
 apprise me that 1 had neither length, breadth, nor extension, 
 nor anything but mind. Flattered by so delicate a compli- 
 ment to my understanding, I yielded my assent ; and he then 
 shitted his ground, and told me that there was no such thing as 
 mind, — that we were but modifications of matter, — and that, 
 in a word, I was all body. I took advantage of this doctrine, 
 and forthwith removed my modification of matter from his. 
 
 Findlater has just lost his younger brother in a duel. You 
 have no idea how shocking it was. Sir Christopher one day 
 
 heard his brother, who had just entered the dragoons, 
 
 ridiculed for his want of spirit, by Major Elton, who professed 
 to be the youth's best friend ; the honest heart of our worthy 
 baronet was shocked beyond measure at this perfidy, and the 
 next time his brother mentioned Elton's name with praise, 
 out came the story. You may guess the rest : young Find- 
 later called out Elton, who shot him through the lungs ! " I 
 did it for the best," cried Sir Christopher. 
 
 La pauvre petite Meronville ! What an Ariadne! Just as 
 I was thinking to play the Bacchus to your Theseus, up steps 
 an old gentleman from Yorkshire, who hears it is fashionable 
 to marry bonas rnbas, proposes honorable matrimony, and de- 
 prives me and the world of La Meronville! The wedding 
 took place on Monday last, and the happy pair set out to their 
 seat in the North. Verily, we shall have quite a new race in 
 the next generation, — I expect all the babes will skip into 
 the world with a pas de zephyr, singing in sweet trebles, — 
 
 " Little dancing loves we are ! 
 — Who the deuce is our papa ? "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 59 
 
 I think you will be surprised to hear that Lord Borodaile is 
 beginning to thaw, — I saw him smile the other day ! Cer- 
 tainly we are not so near the North Pole as we were ! He is 
 going, and so am I, in the course of the autumn, to your old 
 friends, the Westboroughs. Report says that he is un peu 
 epris de la belle Flore ; but then, report is such a liar ! — for 
 my own part, I always contradict her. 
 
 I eagerly embrace your offer of correspondence, and assure 
 you that there are few people by whose friendship I conceive 
 myself so much honored as by yours. You will believe this; 
 for you know that, like Callythorpe, I never flatter. Farewell 
 for the present. — Sincerely yours, 
 
 Haverfield.
 
 60 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LYI. 
 
 Q. Eliz. — Shall I he tempted of the devil thus'' 
 A'. Rich. — Ay, if the devil tempt thee to do good. 
 Q. Eliz. — Shall I forget myself to he myself 1 
 
 Shakespeabe. 
 
 It wanted one hour to midnight, as Cranford walked 
 slowl}' to the lonely and humble street where he had 
 appointed his meeting with Glendower. It was a stormy 
 and fearful night. The day had been uncommonly sul- 
 try, and as it died away, thick masses of cloud came 
 laboring along the air, which lay heavy and breathless, 
 as if under a spell, — as if in those dense and haggard 
 vapors the rider of the storm sat, like an incubus, upon 
 the atmosphere beneath, and paralyzed the motion and 
 wholesomeness of the sleeping winds. And about the 
 hour of twilight, or rather when twilight should have 
 been, instead of its quiet star, from one obscure corner 
 of the heavens flashed a solitary gleam of lightning, 
 lingered a moment, — 
 
 "And ere a man had power to say, Behold! 
 The jaws of darkness did devour it up." 
 
 But then, as if awakened from a torpor by a signal 
 universally acknowledged, from the courts and quarters 
 of heaven came, blaze after blaze and peal upon peal, 
 the light and voices of the elements when they walk 
 abroad. The rain fell not; all was dry and arid: the 
 mood of nature seemed not gentle enough for tears; and 
 the lightning, livid and forked, flashed from the sullen 
 clouds with a deadly fierceness made trebly perilous by
 
 THE DISOWNED. 61 
 
 the panting drought and stagnation of the air. The 
 streets were empty and silent, as if the huge city had 
 been doomed and delivered to the wrath of the tempest, — 
 and ever and anon the lightnings paused upon the house- 
 tops, shook and quivered as if meditating their stroke, 
 and then, baffled , as it were, by some superior and guardian 
 agency, vanished into their gloomy tents, and made their 
 next descent from some opposite corner of the skies. 
 
 It was a remarkable instance of the force with which 
 a cherished object occupies the thoughts, and of the all- 
 sufficiency of the human mind to itself, the slowness and 
 unconsciousness of danger with which Crauford, a man 
 luxurious as well as naturally timid, moved amidst the 
 angry fires of heaven, and brooded, undisturbed and 
 sullenly serene, over the project at his heart. 
 
 " A rare night for our meeting," thought he; " I sup- 
 pose he will not fail me. Xow let me con over my 
 task. I must not tell him all yet. Such babes must 
 be led into error before they can walk, — just a little 
 inkling will suffice, a glimpse into the arcana of my 
 scheme. Well, it is indeed fortunate that I met him; 
 for verily I am surrounded with danger, and a very little 
 delav in the assistance I am forced to seek, might exalt 
 
 v J O 
 
 me to a higher elevation than the peerage." 
 
 Such was the meditation of this man as with a slow, 
 shuffling walk, characteristic of his mind, he proceeded 
 to the appointed spot. 
 
 A cessation of unusual length in the series of the 
 lightnings, and the consequent darkness, against which 
 the dull and scanty lamps vainly struggled, prevented 
 Crauford and another figure, approaching from the op- 
 posite quarter, seeing each other till they almost touched. 
 Crauford stopped abruptly. 
 "Is it you?" said he.
 
 G2 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 " Tt is a man who has outlived fortune!" answered 
 Glendower, in the exaggerated and metaphorical lan- 
 guage which the thoughts of men who imagine warmly, 
 and are excited powerfully, so often assume. 
 
 " Then," rejoined Crauford, " you are the more suited 
 for my purpose. A little urging of necessity behind is 
 a marvellous whetter of the appetite to danger before. 
 He! he!" And as he said this, his low, chuckling 
 laugh jarringly enough contrasted with the character of 
 the night and his companion. 
 
 Glendower replied not: a pause ensued; and the 
 lightning, which, spreading on a sudden from east to 
 Avest, hung over the city a burning and ghastly canopy, 
 showed the face of each to the other, working, and 
 almost haggard, as it was, with the conception of dark 
 thoughts, and rendered wan and unearthly by the spec- 
 tral light in which it was beheld. " It is an awful 
 night!" said Glendower. 
 
 " True," answered Crauford, — "a very awful night; 
 but we are all safe under the care of Providence. 
 Jesus! what a flash! Think you it is a favorable op- 
 portunity for our conversation?" 
 
 " Why not? " said Glendower; " what have the thun- 
 ders and wrath of Heaven to do with us 1 " 
 
 "H-e-m! h-e-m! God sees all things," rejoined 
 Crauford, " and avenges himself on the guilty by his 
 storms ! " 
 
 " Ay ; but those are the storms of the heart ! I tell 
 you that even the innocent may have that within, to 
 which the loudest tempests without are peace! But 
 guilt, you say, — what have we to do with guilt 1 ? " 
 
 Crauford hesitated, and avoiding any reply to this 
 question, drew Glendower's arm within his own, and 
 in a low, half-whispered tone, said, —
 
 THE DISOWNED. bo 
 
 " Glendower, survey mankind; look with a passion- 
 less and unprejudiced eye upon the scene which moves 
 around us : what do you see anywhere but the same 
 reacted and eternal law of nature, — all, all preying upon 
 each other? Or if there be a solitary individual who 
 refrains, he is as a man without a common badge, with- 
 out a marriage garment, and the rest trample him under 
 foot! Glendower, you are such a man! Now hearken, 
 I will deceive you not; I honor you too much to beguile 
 you, even to your own good. I own to you, fairly and 
 at once, that in the scheme I shall unfold to you, there 
 may be something repugnant to the factitious and theo- 
 retical principles of education, — ■ something hostile to 
 the prejudices, though not to the reasonings of the mind; 
 but — " 
 
 "Hold!" said Glendower, abruptly, pausing and fix- 
 ing his bold and searching eye upon the tempter, — ■ 
 " hold ! — there will be no need of argument or refine- 
 ment in this case; tell me at once your scheme, and at 
 once I will accept or reject it." 
 
 " Gently ," answered Crauford : " to all deeds of con- 
 tract there is a preamble. Listen to me yet farther; 
 when I have ceased I will listen to you. It is in 
 vain that you place man in cities; it is in vain that 
 you fetter him Avith laws; it is in vain that you pour 
 into his mind the light of an imperfect morality, of 
 a glimmering wisdom, of an ineffectual religion: in 
 all places he is the same, — the same savage and 
 crafty being who makes the passions which rule him- 
 self the tools of his conquest over others! There is 
 in all creation but one evident law, — self-preservation! 
 Split it as you like into hairbreadths and atoms, it 
 is still fundamentally and essentially unaltered. Glen- 
 dower, that self-preservation is our bond now. Of
 
 64 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 myself T do not at present speak, — T refer only to 
 you: self-preservation commands you to place implicit 
 confidence in me; it impels you to abjure indigence 
 by accepting the proposal I am about to make to 
 
 you. " 
 
 " You, as yet, speak enigmas," said Glendower; " but 
 they are sufficiently clear to tell me their sense is not 
 such as I have heard you utter." 
 
 "You are right. Truth is not always safe, — safe 
 either to others, or to ourselves! But I dare open to 
 you now my real heart: look in it, — I dare to say that 
 you will behold charity, benevolence, piety to God, love 
 and friendship at this moment to yourself; but I own, 
 also, that you will behold there a determination ■ — 
 which, to me, seems courage — not to be the only idle 
 being in the world, where all are busy; or, worse still, 
 to be the only one engaged in a perilous and uncertain 
 game, and yet shunning to employ all the arts of which 
 he is master. I will own to you that, long since, had 
 I been foolishly inert, I should have been, at this mo- 
 ment, more penniless and destitute than yourself. 1 
 live happy, respected, wealthy! I enjoy in their widest 
 range the blessings of life. 1 dispense those blessings 
 to others. Look round the world, — whose name stands 
 fairer than mine; whose hand relieves more of human 
 distresses; whose tongue preaches purer doctrines? 
 None, Glendower, none. I offer to you means not 
 dissimilar to those I have chosen, — fortunes not un- 
 equal to those I possess. Nothing but the most un- 
 justifiable fastidiousness will make you hesitate to accept 
 my offer." 
 
 " You cannot expect that T have met you this night 
 with a resolution to be unjustifiably fastidious," said 
 Glendower, with a hollow and cold smile.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 65 
 
 Crauford did not immediately answer, for he was con- 
 sidering whether it was yet the time for disclosing the 
 important secret. While he was deliberating, the sullen 
 clouds began to break from their suspense. A double 
 darkness gathered around, and a few large drops fell on 
 the ground in token of a more general discharge about to 
 follow from the floodgates of heaven. The two men 
 moved onward, and took shelter under an old arch. 
 Crauford first broke silence. " Hist! " said he — " hist! 
 — do you hear anything ? " 
 
 " Yes ! I heard the winds and the rain, and the shak- 
 ing houses, and the plashing pavements, and the reeking 
 house-tops, — nothing more." 
 
 Looking long and anxiously around to certify himself 
 that none was indeed the witness of their conference, 
 Crauford approached close to Glendower, and laid his 
 hand heavily upon his arm. At that moment a vivid 
 and lengthened flash of lightning shot through the ruined 
 arch, and gave to Crauford's countenance a lustre which 
 Glendower almost started to behold. The face, usually 
 so smooth, calm, bright in complexion, and almost in- 
 expressive from its extreme composure, now agitated by 
 the excitement of the moment, and tinged by the ghastly 
 light of the skies, became literally fearful. The cold, 
 blue eye glared out from its socket ; the lips blanched, 
 and parting in act to speak, showed the white, glisten- 
 ing teeth; and the corners of the mouth, drawn down 
 in a half sneer, gave to the cheeks, rendered green and 
 livid by the lightning, a lean and hollow appearance, 
 contrary to their natural shape. 
 
 "It is," said Crauford, in a whispered but distinct 
 tone , " a perilous secret that I am about to disclose to 
 you. I indeed have no concern in it, but my lords the 
 judges have, and you will not therefore be surprised if 
 
 VOL. II. — 5
 
 66 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 I forestall the ceremonies of their court, and require an 
 oath." 
 
 Then, his manner and voice suddenly changing into 
 an earnest and deep solemnity, as excitement gave him 
 an eloquence more impressive, because unnatural to his 
 ordinary moments, he continued: " By those lightnings 
 and commotions above; by the heavens in which they 
 revel in their terrible sports; by the earth, whose towns 
 they crumble, and herbs they blight, and creatures they 
 blast into cinders at their will; by Him whom, what- 
 ever be the name He bears, all men in the living world 
 worship and tremble before; by whatever is sacred in 
 this great and mysterious universe, and at the peril of 
 whatever can wither, and destroy, and curse, — swear to 
 preserve inviolable and forever the secret I shall whis- 
 per to your ear! " 
 
 The profound darkness which now, in the pause of the 
 lightning, wrapped the scene, hid from Crauford all 
 sight of the effect he had produced, and even the very 
 outline of Glendower's figure; but the gloom made 
 more distinct the voice which thrilled through it upon 
 Crauford 's ear. 
 
 "Promise me that there is not dishonor, nor crime, 
 which is dishonor, in this confidence, and I swear." 
 
 Crauford ground his teeth. He was about to reply 
 impetuously, but he checked himself. "I am not go- 
 ing," thought he, "to communicate my own share of 
 this plot, but merely to state that a plot does exist, and 
 then to point out in what manner he can profit by it, — 
 so far, therefore, there is no guilt in his concealment, 
 and, consequently, no excuse for him to break his 
 vow. " 
 
 Eapidly running over this self-argument, he said 
 aloud, " I promise ! "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 67 
 
 "And," rejoined Glendower, "I swear! " 
 
 At the close of this sentence, another flash of light- 
 ning again made darkness visible, and Glendower, be- 
 holding the countenance of his companion, again recoiled; 
 for its mingled haggardness and triumph seemed to his 
 excited imagination the very expression of a fiend. 
 "Now," said Crauford, relapsing into his usual careless 
 tone, somewhat enlivened by his sneer, — "now, then, 
 you must not interrupt me in my disclosure by those 
 starts and exclamations which break from your phi- 
 losophy like sparks from flint. Hear me throughout. " 
 
 And bending down till his mouth reached Glen- 
 dower's ear, he commenced his recital. Artfully hiding 
 his own agency, the masterspring of the gigantic ma- 
 chinery of fraud, which, too mighty for a single hand, 
 required an assistant; throwing into obscurity the sin, 
 while, knowing the undaunted courage and desperate 
 fortunes of the man, he did not affect to conceal the 
 danger, expatiating upon the advantages, the immense 
 and almost inexhaustible resources of wealth which his 
 scheme suddenly opened upon one in the deepest abyss 
 of poverty, and slightly sketching, as if to excite vanity, 
 the ingenuity and genius by which the scheme origi- 
 nated, and could only be sustained, — Crawford's de- 
 tail of temptation, in its knowledge of human nature, 
 in its adaptation of act to principles, in its weblike 
 craft of self-concealment, and the speciousness of its 
 lure, was indeed a splendid masterpiece of villanous 
 invention. 
 
 But while Glendower listened, and his silence flat- 
 tered Crauford's belief of victory, not for one single 
 moment did a weak or yielding desire creep around his 
 heart. Subtly as the scheme was varnished, and scarce 
 a tithe of its comprehensive enormity unfolded, the
 
 6S THE DISOWNED. 
 
 strong and acute mind of one long accustomed to un- 
 ravel sophistry and gaze on the loveliness of truth, saw 
 al once that the scheme proposed was of the most un- 
 mingled treachery and baseness. Sick, chilled, with- 
 ering at heart, Glendower leaned against the damp Avail; 
 as every word which the tempter fondly imagined was 
 irresistibly confirming his purpose, tore away the last 
 prop to which, in the credulity of hope, the student had 
 clung, and mocked while it crushed the fondness of his 
 belief. 
 
 Crauford ceased, and stretched forth his hand to grasp 
 Glendower's. He felt it not. " You do not speak, my 
 friend," said he; "do you deliberate, or have you not 
 decided 1 ? " Still no answer came. Surprised, and half 
 alarmed, he turned round, and perceived by a momentary 
 flash of lightning that Glendower had risen, and was 
 moving away towards the mouth of the arch. 
 
 " Good Heavens! Glendower," cried Crauford, " where 
 are you going ? " 
 
 " Anywhere," cried Glendower, in a sudden paroxysm 
 of indignant passion, — "anywhere in this great globe 
 of suffering, so that the agonies of my human flesh and 
 heart are not polluted by the accents of crime! And 
 such crime! Why, I would rather go forth into the 
 highways, and win bread by the sharp knife and the 
 death struggle, than sink my soul in such mire and 
 filthiness of sin. Fraud, fraud, — treachery! Merciful 
 Father! what can be my state, when these are supposed 
 to tempt me ! " 
 
 Astonished and aghast, Crauford remained rooted to 
 the spot. 
 
 "Oh!" continued Glendower, and his noble nature 
 was wrung to the utmost, —"oh, MAN" — MAN! that 
 1 should have devoted my best and freshest years to the
 
 THE DISOWNED. 60 
 
 dream of serving thee! In my boyish enthusiasm, in 
 my brief day of pleasure and of power, in the intoxica- 
 tion of love, in the reverse of fortune, in the squalid and 
 obscure chambers of degradation and poverty, that one 
 hope animated, cheered, sustained me through all! 
 In temptation did this hand belie, or in sickness did 
 this brain forego, or in misery did this heart forget thy 
 great and advancing cause? In the wide world, is 
 there one being whom I have injured, even in thought, 
 — one being who, in the fellowship of want, should 
 not have drunk of my cup, or broken with me the last 
 morsel of my bread? — and now — now, is it come to 
 this ? " 
 
 And, hiding his face with his hands, he gave way to 
 a violence of feeling, before which the weaker nature of 
 Crauford stood trembling and abashed. It lasted not 
 long; he raised his head from its drooping posture, and 
 as he stood at the entrance of the arch, a prolonged flash 
 from the inconstant skies shone full upon his form. 
 Tall, erect, still, the gloomy and ruined walls gave his 
 colorless countenance and haughty stature in bold and 
 distinct relief; all trace of the past passion had van- 
 ished : perfectly calm and set, his features borrowed even 
 dignity from their marble paleness, and the marks of 
 suffering, which the last few months had writ in legible 
 characters on the cheek and brow. Seeking out, with 
 an eye to which the intolerable lightnings seemed to 
 have lent something of their fire, the cowering and 
 bended form of his companion, he said, — 
 
 " Go home, miserable derider of the virtue you cannot 
 understand; go to your luxurious and costly home; go 
 and repine that human nature is not measured by your 
 mangled and crippled laws: amidst men, yet more fallen 
 than I am, hope to select your victim; amidst prisons,
 
 70 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 and hovels, and roofless sheds; amidsl rags and destitu- 
 tion, and wretches made mad by hunger, — hope that you 
 may find a villain. I leave you to that hope, and — to 
 remembrance! " 
 
 As Grlendowex moved away, Crauford recovered him- 
 self. Rendered desperate by the vital necessity of pro- 
 curing some speedy aid in his designs, and not yet 
 perfectly persuaded of the fallacy of his former judg- 
 ment, he was resolved not to sutler Glendower thus easily 
 to depart. Smothering his feelings by an effort violent 
 even to his habitual hypocrisy, he sprang forward and 
 laid his hand upon Glendower's shoulder. 
 
 " Stay, stay," said lie, in a soothing and soft voice; 
 " you have wronged me greatly. I pardon your warmth, 
 — nay, I honor it; but hereafter you will repent your 
 judgment of me. At least, do justice to my intentions. 
 Was I an actor in the scheme proposed to you? — what 
 was it to me? Was I in the smallest degree to be bene- 
 fited by it? Could I have any other motive than affec- 
 tion for you? If I erred, it was from a different view 
 of the question; but is it not the duty of a friend to find 
 expedients for distress, and to leave to the distressed 
 person the right of accepting or rejecting them? But 
 let this drop forever; partake of my fortune, — be my 
 adapted brother. Here, I have hundreds about me at 
 this moment; take them all, and own at least that I 
 meant you well." 
 
 Feeling that Glendower, who at first had vainly 
 endeavored to shake off his hand, now turned towards 
 him, though at tin; moment it was too dark to see his 
 countenance, the wily speaker continued, " Yes, Glen- 
 dower, if by that name I must alone address you, take 
 all I have , — there is no one in this world dearer to me 
 than you are. I am a lonely and di.-appointed man,
 
 THE DISOWNED. 71 
 
 without children or ties. I sought out a friend who 
 might he my brother in life, and my heir in death. I 
 found you, — be that to me!" 
 
 "I am faint and weak," said Glendower, slowly, 
 " and I believe my senses cannot be clear ; but a minute 
 since, and you spoke at length, and with a terrible dis- 
 tinctness, words which it polluted my very ear to catch, 
 and now you speak as if you loved me. Will it please 
 you to solve the riddle ] " 
 
 "The truth is this," said Crauford: "I knew your 
 p r ide, — I feared you would not accept a permanent 
 pecuniary aid, even from friendship. I was driven, 
 therefore, to devise some plan of independence for you. 
 I could think of no plan but that which I proposed. 
 You speak of it as wicked: it may be so; but it seemed 
 not wicked to me. I may have formed a wrong — I own 
 it is a peculiar — system of morals; but it is, at least, 
 sincere. Judging of my proposal by that system, I saw 
 no sin in it. I saw, too, much less danger than, in the 
 honesty of my heart, I spoke of. In a similar distress, 
 I solemnly swear, I myself would have adopted a similar 
 relief. Xor is this all : the plan proposed would have 
 placed thousands in your power. Forgive me if I 
 thought your life, and the lives of those most dear to 
 you, of greater value than these sums to the persons 
 defrauded — ay, defrauded, if you will; forgive me if 
 I thought that with these thousands you would effect 
 far more good to the community than their legitimate 
 owners. Upon these grounds, and on some others, too 
 tedious now to state, I justified my proposal to my con- 
 science. Pardon me, I again beseech you: accept my 
 last proposal ; be my partner, my friend, my heir ; and 
 forget a scheme never proposed to you, if I had hoped 
 (what I hope now) that you would accept the alterna-
 
 72 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 tive, which it is my pride to offer, and which you are 
 not justified, even hy pride, to refuse." 
 
 "Great Source of all knowledge!" ejaculated Glen- 
 dower, scarce audibly, and to himself. " Supreme and 
 unfathomable God! — dost thou most loathe or pity thine 
 abased creatures, walking in their dim reason upon this 
 little earth, and sanctioning fraud, treachery, crime, 
 upon a principle borrowed from thy laws! Oh! when 
 — when will thy full light of wisdom travel down to us, 
 and guilt and sorrow, and this world's evil mysteries, 
 roll away like vapors before the blaze!" 
 
 "I do not hear you, my friend," said Crauford. 
 "Speak aloud; you will — I feel you will accept my 
 offer, and become my brother! " 
 
 "Away!" said Glendower. "I will not." 
 
 "He wanders, — his brain is touched!" muttered 
 Crauford, and then resumed aloud, " Glendower, we are 
 both unfit for talk at present, — both unstrung by our 
 late jar. You will meet me again to-morrow, perhaps. 
 I will accompany you now to your door." 
 
 " Not a step : our paths are different. " 
 
 "Well, well, if you will have it so, be it as you 
 please. I have offended; you have a right to punish 
 me, and play the churl to-night, — but your address? " 
 
 " Yonder," said Glendower, pointing to the heavens. 
 " Come to me a month hence, and you will find me 
 there ! " 
 
 "Nay, nay, my friend, your brain is heated; but you 
 leave me! Well, as I said, your will is mine, — at 
 least take some of these paltry notes in earnest of our 
 bargain; remember when next we meet you will share 
 all I have." 
 
 " You remind me," said Glendower, quietly, " that 
 we have old debts to settle. When last I saw you, you
 
 THE DISOWNED. (6 
 
 lent me a certain sum ; there it is, take it, count it, — 
 there is but one poor guinea gone. Fear not, — even to 
 the uttermost farthing you shall be repaid." 
 
 "Why, why, this is unkind, ungenerous. Stay, 
 s t a y — " hut, waving his hand impatiently, Glendower 
 darted away, and passing into another street, the dark- 
 ness effectually closed upon his steps. 
 
 "Tool, fool that I am," cried Crauford, stamping 
 vehemently on the ground, — " in what point did my 
 wit fail me, that I could not win one whom very hunger 
 had driven into my net 1 But I must yet find him, and 
 1 wiHj — the police shall be set to work; these half 
 confidences may ruin me. And how deceitful he has 
 proved, — to talk more diffidently than a whining harlot 
 upon virtue, and yet be so stubborn upon trial ! Dastard 
 that I am too, as well as fool, — I felt sunk into the 
 dust by his voice. But pooh, I must have him yet; 
 your worst villains make the most noise about the first 
 step. True, that I cannot storm, but I will undermine. 
 But, wretch that I am, I must win him, or another, 
 soon, or I perish on a gibbet. Out, base thought! "
 
 74 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LVII. 
 
 Formam quidem ipsam, Marce fill, et tanquam faciem honesti vi- 
 des : quae, si oculis cerneretur, mirabiles amores (ut ait Plato) 
 excitaret sapientia. 1 — Tull. 
 
 It was almost dawn when Glendower returned to his 
 home. Fearful of disturbing his wife, he stole with 
 mute steps to the damp and rugged chamber wbere the 
 last son of a princely line, and the legitimate owner of 
 lands and halls which ducal rank might have envied, 
 held his miserable asylum. The first faint streaks of 
 coming light broke through the shutterless and shattered 
 windows, and he saw that she reclined in a deep sleep 
 upon the chair beside their child's couch. She would 
 not go to bed herself till Glendower returned, and she 
 had sat up watching and praying, and listening for his 
 footsteps, till, in the utter exhaustion of debility and 
 sickness, sleep had fallen upon her. Glendower bent 
 over her. 
 
 " Sleep," said he, — " sleep on! The wicked do not 
 come to thee now. Thou art in a world that has no 
 fellowship with this, — a world from which even happi- 
 ness is not banished! Nor woe, nor pain, nor memory 
 of the past, nor despair of all before thee, make the 
 characters of thy present state ! Thou forestallest the 
 forgetfulness of the grave, and thy heart concentrates all 
 earth's comfort in one word, — 'oblivion.' Beautiful, 
 
 1 Son Marcus, you see the form and as it were the face of Vir- 
 tue, — that Wisdom, which, if it could be perceived by the eyes, 
 ■would (as Plato saith) kindle absolute aud marvellous affection.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 75 
 
 how beautiful thou art even yet! — that smile, that 
 momentary blush, — years have not conquered them. 
 They are as when, my young bride, thou didst lean 
 first upon my bosom, and dream that sorrow was no 
 more ! And I have brought thee unto this. These 
 green walls make thy bridal chamber, ■ — yon fragments 
 of bread thy bridal board. Well ! it is no matter ; thou 
 art on thy way to a land where all things, even a break- 
 ing heart, are at rest. I weep not; wherefore should I 
 weep ! Tears are not for the dead, but their survivors. 
 I would rather see thee drop inch by inch into the 
 grave, and smile as I beheld it, than save thee for an in- 
 heritance of sin. What is there in this little and sordid 
 life that we should strive to hold it 1 ? What in this 
 dreadful dream that we should fear to wake 1 " 
 
 And Glendower knelt beside his wife, and, despite 
 his words, tears flowed fast and gushingly down his 
 cheeks; and wearied as he was, he watched upon her 
 slumbers, till they fell from the eyes to which his pres- 
 ence was more joyous than the day. 
 
 It was a beautiful tiling, even in sorrow, to see that 
 couple whom want could not debase, nor misfortune, 
 which makes even generosity selfish, divorce! All that 
 fate had stripped from the poetry and graces of life, had 
 not shaken one leaf from the romance of their green 
 and unwithered affections ! They were the very type of 
 love in its holiest and most enduring shape : their 
 hearts had grown together, — their being had flowed 
 through caves and deserts, and reflected the storms of an 
 angry Heaven ; but its waters had indissolubly mingled 
 into one ! Young, gifted, noble, and devoted, they were 
 worthy victims of this blighting and bitter world! 
 Their garden was turned into a wilderness; but, like 
 our first parents, it was hand in hand that they took
 
 76 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 fcheir solitary way! Evil beset them, but they swerved 
 not; the rains and the winds IV11 upon their unsheltered 
 heads, but they were not bowed; and through the mazes 
 and briers of this weary life, their bleeding foots!* ps 
 strayed not, for they had a clew! The mind seemed, 
 as it were, to become visible and external as the frame 
 decayed, and to cover the body with something of its 
 own invulnerable power; so that whatever should have 
 attacked the mortal and frail part, fell upon that which, 
 i in perishable and divine, resisted and subdued it! 
 
 It was unfortunate for Glendower that he never again 
 met Wolfe: for neither fanaticism of political faith, 
 nor sternness of natural temper, subdued in the repub- 
 lican the real benevolence and generosity which redeemed 
 and elevated his character: nor could any impulse of 
 party -zeal have induced him, like Crauford, systemati- 
 cally to take advantage of poverty in order to tempt to 
 participation in his schemes. From a more evil com- 
 panion Glendower had not yet escaped: Crauford, by 
 some means or other, found out his abode, and lost no 
 time in availing himself of the discovery. In order 
 fully to comprehend his unwearied persecution of Glen- 
 dower, it must constantly be remembered that to this 
 persecution he was bound by a necessity which, urgent, 
 dark, and implicating life itself, rendered him callous 
 to every obstacle, and unsusceptible of all remorse. 
 With the exquisite tact which he possessed, he never 
 openly recurred to his former proposal of fraud; he 
 contented himself with endeavoring to persuade Glen- 
 dower to accept pecuniary assistance, but in vain. The 
 veil once torn from his character, no craft could restore. 
 Through all his pretences, and sevenfold hypocrisy, 
 Glendower penetrated at once into his real motives: he 
 was not to be duped by assurances of friendship which
 
 THE DISOWNED. 77 
 
 he knew the very dissimilarities between their natures 
 rendered impossible. He had seen at the first, despite 
 of all allegations to the contrary, that in the fraud Crau- 
 ford had proposed, that person could by no means be an 
 uninfluenced and cold adviser. In after conversations, 
 Crauford, driven, by the awful interest he had in suc- 
 cess, from his usual consummateness of duplicity, be- 
 trayed, in various important minutiae, how deeply he was 
 implicated in the crime for which lie had argued : and 
 not even the visible and progressive decay of his wife 
 and child could force the stern mind of Glendower into 
 accepting those wages of iniquity which he knew well 
 were only offered as an earnest or a snare. 
 
 There is a royalty in extreme suffering, when the 
 mind falls not with the fortunes, which no hardihood 
 of vice can violate unabashed. Often and often, 
 humbled and defeated, through all his dissimulation, 
 Avas Crauford driven from the presence of the man whom 
 it was his bitterest punishment to fear most when most 
 he affected to despise; and as often, recollecting his 
 powers, and fortifying himself in his experience of 
 human frailty when sufficiently tried, did he return to 
 his attempts. He waylaid the door and watched the 
 paths of his intended prey. He knew that the mind 
 which even best repels temptation first urged, hath 
 seldom power to resist the same suggestion, if daily, 
 dropping, unwearying, presenting itself in every form, 
 obtruded in every hour, losing its horror by custom, — 
 and finding in the rebellious bosom itself its smoothest 
 vizard and most alluring excuse. And it was, indeed, a 
 mighty and perilous trial to Glendower, when rushing 
 from the presence of his wife and child, when fainting 
 under accumulated evils, when almost delirious with 
 sickening and heated thought, — to hear at each prompt-
 
 78 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 ing of the wrung and excited nature, each heave of the 
 black fountain that in no mortal breast is utterly ex- 
 hausted, one smooth, soft, persuasive voice forever 
 whispering, " Relief ! " — relied, certain, utter, instanta- 
 neous! — the voice of one pledged never to relax an effort 
 or spare a pang, by a danger to himself, a danger of 
 shame and death, — the voice of one who never spoke 
 but in friendship and compassion, profound in craft, 
 and a very sage in the disguises with which language 
 invests deeds. 
 
 J Jut Virtue has resources buried in itself, which we 
 know not, till the invading hour calls them from their 
 retreats. Surrounded by hosts without, and when nature 
 itself, turned traitor, is its most deadly enemy within ; 
 it assumes a new and a superhuman power, which is 
 greater than nature itself. Whatever be its creed, 
 whatever be its sect, from whatever segment of the globe 
 its orisons arise, virtue is God's empire, and from His 
 throne of thrones He will defend it. Though cast into 
 the distant earth, and struggling on the dim arena of a 
 human heart, all things above are spectators of its con- 
 flict, or enlisted in its cause. The angels have their 
 charge over it, the banners of archangels are on its side; 
 and, from sphere to sphere, through the illimitable 
 ether, and round the impenetrable darkness at the feet of 
 God, its triumph is hymned by harps, which are strung 
 to the glories of the Creator! 
 
 One evening, when Crauford had joined Glendower in 
 his solitary wanderings, the dissembler renewed his 
 attacks. 
 
 " But why not," said he, " accept from my friendship 
 what to my benevolence you would deny 1 ? 1 couple with 
 my otters, my prayers rather, no conditions. How then 
 do you, can you, reconcile it to your conscience,
 
 THE DISOWNED. 79 
 
 to suffer your wife and child to perish hefore your 
 eyes 1 " 
 
 " Man — man," said Glendower, " tempt me no more, 
 — let them die! At present the worst is death, — what 
 you offer me is dishonor. " 
 
 " Heavens! — how uncharitable is this! Can you call 
 the mere act of accepting money from one who loves 
 you, dishonor? " 
 
 " It is in vain that you varnish your designs," said 
 Glendower, stopping and fixing his eyes upon him. 
 " Do you not think that cunning ever betrays itself ? 
 In a thousand words, — in a thousand looks, which have 
 escaped you, but not me, I know that, if there be one 
 being on this earth whom you hate, and would injure, 
 that being is myself. Nay, start not, — listen to me 
 patiently. I have sworn that it is the last opportunity 
 you shall have. I will not subject myself to further 
 temptation : I am now sane ; but there are things Avhich 
 may drive me mad, and in madness you might conquer. 
 You hate me : it is out of the nature of earthly things 
 that you should not. But even were it otherwise, do 
 you think that I could believe you would come from 
 your voluptuous home to these miserable retreats ; that, 
 among the lairs of beggary and theft, you would lie in 
 wait to allure me to forsake poverty, without a stronger 
 motive than love for one who affects it not for you 1 I 
 know you : I have read your heart, I have penetrated into 
 that stronger motive, — it is your own safety. In the 
 system of atrocity you proposed to me, you are the 
 principal. You have already bared to me enough of 
 the extent to which that system reaches, to convince 
 me that a single miscreant, however ingenious, cannot, 
 unassisted, support it with impunity. You want 
 help: I am he in whom you have dared to believe
 
 80 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 that you could find it. You are detected, — now be 
 undeceived! " 
 
 " Is it so f " said Crauford : and as he saw that it was 
 no longer possible to feign, the poison of his heart broke 
 forth in its full venom. The fiend rose from the reptile, 
 and stood exposed in its natural shape. Returning 
 Glendower's stern but lofty gaze with an eye to which 
 all evil passions lent their unholy fire, he repeated, " Is 
 it so ? — then you are more penetrating than I thought ; 
 but it is indifferent to me. It was for your sake, not 
 mine, most righteous man, that I wished you might 
 have a disguise to satisfy the modesty of your punctilios. 
 It is all one to Richard Crauford whether you go blind- 
 fold or with open eyes into his snare. Go you must 
 and shall. Ay, frowns will not awe me. You have 
 desired the truth; you shall have it. You are right, I 
 hate you, — hate you with a soul whose force of hatred 
 you cannot dream of. Your pride, your stubbornness, 
 your coldness of heart, which things that would stir the 
 blood of beggars cannot warm, your icy and passionless 
 virtue, I hate, — I hate all! You are right also, most 
 wise inquisitor, in supposing that in the scheme proposed 
 to you, I am the principal, — I am! You were to be the 
 tool, and shall. I have offered you mild inducements, 
 pleas to soothe the technicalities of your conscience: you 
 have rejected them, — be it so. Now choose between my 
 first oifer and the gibbet. Ay, the gibbet! That night 
 on which we made the appointment, which shall not yet 
 be in vain, — on that night yon stopped me in the street, 
 you demanded money, you robbed me; T will swear, — 
 I will prove it. Now then tremble, man of morality, 
 dupe of your own strength; you are in my power, — 
 tremble! Yet-in my safety is your escape, — T am gen- 
 erous. I repeat my original offer: wealth, as great as
 
 THE DISOWNED. 81 
 
 you will demand, or — the gibbet — the gibbet; do I 
 speak loud enough ? — do you hear 1 " 
 
 "Poor fool!" said Glendower, laughing scornfully, 
 and moving away. But when Crauford, partly in mock- 
 ery, partly in menace, placed his hand upon Glendower' s 
 shoulder, as if to stop him, the touch seemed to change 
 his mood from scorn to fury, — turning abruptly round, 
 he seized the villain's throat with a giant's strength, and 
 cried out, while his whole countenance worked beneath 
 the tempestuous wrath within : " What if I squeeze out 
 thy poisonous life from thee this moment! " — and then 
 once more bursting into a withering laughter, as he sur- 
 veyed the terror which he had excited, he added, "No, 
 no; thou art too vile! " — and, dashing the hypocrite 
 against the wall of a neighboring house, he strode away. 
 
 Recovering himself slowly, and trembling with rage 
 and fear, Crauford gazed round, expecting yet to find 
 he had sported too far with the passions he had sought 
 to control. When, however, he had fully satisfied 
 himself that Glendower was gone, all his wrathful and 
 angry feelings returned with redoubled force. But their 
 most biting torture was the consciousness of their im- 
 potence. For after the first paroxysm of rage had sub- 
 sided, he saw, too clearly, that his threat could not be 
 executed without incurring the most imminent danger of 
 discovery. High as his character stood, it was possible 
 that no charge against him might excite suspicion ; but 
 a word might cause inquiry, and inquiry would be ruin. 
 Forced, therefore, to stomach his failure, his indigna- 
 tion, his shame, his hatred, and his vengeance, his own 
 heart became a punishment almost adequate to his vices. 
 
 "But my foe will die," said he, clenching his fist so 
 firmly that the nails almost brought blood from the 
 palm ; " he will starve, famish ; and see them — his wife, 
 
 VOL. II. — 6
 
 82 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 his child — perish first! I shall have my triumph, 
 though I shall not witness it! But now, away to my 
 villa: there, at least, will be some one whom I can 
 mock, and beat, and trample, if I will! Would — won hi 
 — would that I were that very man, destitute as he is/ 
 J lis neck, at least, is safe: if he dies, it will not be 
 upon the gallows, nor among the hootings of the mob! 
 Oh, horror! horror! What are my villa, my wine, my 
 women, with that black thought, ever following me 
 like a shadow? Who — who, while an avalanche is 
 sailing over him, who would sit down to feast? " 
 
 Leaving this man to shun or be overtaken by fate, 
 we return to Glendower. It is needless to say that 
 Crauford visited him no more; and, indeed, shortly 
 afterwards Glendower again changed his home. But 
 every day and every hour brought new strength to the 
 disease which was creeping and burning through the 
 veins of the devoted wife; and Glendower, who saw on 
 earth nothing before them but a jail, from which as yet 
 they had been miraculously delivered, repined not as he 
 beheld her approach to a gentler and benigner home. 
 Often he sat, as she was bending over their child, and 
 gazed upon her cheek with an insane and fearful joy at 
 the characters which consumption had there engraved; 
 but when she turned towards him her fond eyes (those 
 deep wells of love, in which truth lay hid, and which 
 neither languor nor disease could exhaust), the un- 
 natural hardness of his heart melted away, and he would 
 rush from the house, to give vent to an agony against 
 which fortitude and manhood were in vain. 
 
 There was no hope for their distress. His wife had, 
 unknown to Glendower (for she dreaded his pride), 
 written several times to a relation who though distant 
 was still the nearest in blood which fate had spared her,
 
 THE DISOWNED. 83 
 
 but ineffectually ; the scions of a large and illegitimate 
 family, which surrounded him, utterly prevented the 
 success, and generally interrupted the application of any 
 claimant on his riches but themselves. Glendower, 
 whose temper had ever kept him aloof from all but the 
 commonest acquaintances, knew no human being to 
 apply to. Utterly unable to avail himself of the mine 
 which his knowledge and talents should have proved, 
 sick, and despondent at heart, and debarred by the lofti- 
 ness of honor, or rather principle that nothing could 
 quell, from any unlawful means of earning bread, which 
 to most minds would have been rendered excusable by 
 the urgency of nature, Glendower marked the days drag 
 on in dull and protracted despair, and envied every 
 corpse that he saw borne to the asylum in which all 
 earth's hopes seemed centred and con "fined.
 
 84 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 For ours was not like earthly love. 
 And must this parting lie our very last 1 
 No ! I shall love thee still when death itself is past. 
 
 Hushed were his Gertrude's lips ! hut still their bland 
 
 And beautiful expression seemed to melt 
 
 With love that could not die! anil still his hand 
 
 She presses to the heart, no more that felt. 
 
 Ah, heart ! where once each fond affection dwelt. 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 "I wonder," said Mr. Brown to himself, as he spiirred 
 his shaggy pony to a speed very unusual to the steady 
 habits of either party, — "I wonder where I shall find 
 him. I would not for the late Lady Waddilove's best 
 diamond cross have anybody forestall me in the news. 
 To think of my young master dying so soon after my 
 last visit, or rather my last visit but one, — and to think 
 of the old gentleman taking on so, and raving about his 
 injustice to the rightful possessor, and saying that he is 
 justly punished, and asking me so eagerly if 1 could dis- 
 cover the retreat of the late squire, and believing me 
 so implicitly when I undertook to do it, and giving me 
 this letter! " And here Mr. Brown wistfully examined 
 an epistle sealed with black wax, peeping into the cor- 
 ners, which irritated rather than satisfied his curiosity, 
 — " I wonder what the old gentleman says in it; I sup- 
 pose he will, of course, give up the estate and house. 
 Let me sec, — that long picture gallery, just built, will 
 at all events want furnishing. That would be a famous
 
 THE DISOWNED. 85 
 
 opportunity to get rid of the Indian jars and the sofas 
 and the great Turkey carpet. How lucky that I should 
 just have come in time to get the letter. But let me 
 consider how I shall find out 1 — an advertisement in 
 the paper? Ah! that 's the plan. ' Algernon Mordaunt, 
 Esq.: something greatly to his advantage, — apply to 
 Mr. Brown, etc' Ah! that will do well, very well. 
 The Turkey carpet won't be quite long enough. I 
 wish I had discovered Mr. Mordaunt' s address before, 
 and lent him some money during the young gentleman's 
 life; it would have seemed more generous. However, 
 I can offer it now, before I show the letter. Bless me, 
 it's getting dark. Come, Dobbin, ye-up! " Such 
 were the meditations of the faithful friend of the late 
 Lady YVaddilove, as he hastened to London, charged 
 with the task of discovering Mordaunt, and with the 
 delivery of the following epistle: — 
 
 You are now, sir, the heir to that property which, some 
 years ago, passed from your hands into mine. My son, for 
 whom alone wealth, or, I may say life, was valuable to me, is 
 no more. I only, an old, childless man, stand between you 
 and the estates of Mordaunt. Do not wait for my death to 
 enjoy them. I cannot live here, where everything reminds 
 me of my great and irreparable loss. I shall remove next 
 month into another home. Consider this, then, as once more 
 yours. The house, I believe, you will find not disimproved 
 by my alterations ; the mortgages on the estate have been 
 paid off ; the former rental you will perhaps allow my steward 
 to account to you for, and, after my death, the present one 
 will be yours. I am informed that you are a proud man, and 
 not likely to receive favors. Be it so, sir! — it is no favor you 
 will receive, but justice. There are circumstances connected 
 with my treaty with your father, which have of late vexed my 
 conscience, — and conscience, sir, must be satisfied at any loss. 
 But we shall meet, perhaps, and talk over the past ; at present
 
 86 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 I will not enlarge on it. If you have suffered by me, I am 
 sufficiently punished, and my only hope is to repair your 
 losses. — 1 am, etc., 
 
 H. Vavasour Mordaunt. 
 
 Such was the letter, so important to Mordaunt, with 
 which our worthy friend was charged. Bowed to the 
 dust as Vavasour was by the loss of his son, and open 
 to conscience as affliction had made him, he had lived 
 too long for effect, not to be susceptible to its influence, 
 even to the last. Amidst all his grief, and it was in- 
 tense, there were some whispers of self-exaltation, at the 
 thought of the eclat which his generosity and abdication 
 would excite; and, with true worldly morality, the 
 hoped-for plaudits of others gave a triumph, rather than 
 humiliation, to his reconcilement with himself. 
 
 To say truth, there were indeed circumstances con- 
 nected with his treaty with Mordaunt's father, calculated 
 to vex his conscience. He knew that he bad not only 
 taken great advantage of Mr. Mordaunt's distress, but 
 that, at his instigation, a paper which could forever have 
 prevented Mr. Mordaunt's sale of the property, had been 
 destroyed. These circumstances, during the life of his 
 son, he had endeavored to forget or to palliate. But 
 grief is rarely deaf to remorse; and at the death of 
 that idolized son, the voice at his heart grew imperious, 
 and he lost the power, in losing the motive, of reason- 
 ing it away. 
 
 Mr. Brown's advertisement was unanswered; and 
 with the zeal and patience of the Christian proselyte's 
 tribe and calling, the good man commenced, in person, 
 a most elaborate and painstaking research. For a long 
 time, his endeavors were so ineffectual, that Mr. Brown, 
 in despair, disposed of the two Indian jars for half their 
 value, and heaved a despondent sigh whenever he saw
 
 THE DISOWNED. 87 
 
 the great Turkey carpet rolled up in his warehouse with 
 as much obstinacy as if it never meant to unroll itself 
 again. 
 
 At last, however, by dint of indefatigable and minute 
 investigation, he ascertained that the object of his search 
 had resided in London, under a feigned name; from lodg- 
 ing to lodging, and corner to corner, he tracked him, till 
 at length he made himself master of Mordaunt's present 
 retreat. A joyful look did Mr. Brown cast at the great 
 Turkey carpet, as he passed by it, on his way to his 
 street-door, on the morning of his intended visit to Mor- 
 daunt. " It is a fine thing to have a good heart," said 
 he, in the true style of Sir Christopher Findlater, and he 
 again eyed the Turkey carpet. " I really feel quite 
 happy at the thought of the pleasure I shall give! " 
 
 After a walk through as many obscure and filthy 
 wynds and lanes and alleys and courts as ever were 
 threaded by some humble fugitive from justice, the 
 patient Morris came to a sort of court situated among 
 the miserable hovels in the vicinity of the Tower. He 
 paused, wonderingly, at a dwelling in which every win- 
 dow was broken, and where the tiles, torn from the roof, 
 lay scattered in forlorn confusion beside the door : where 
 the dingy bricks looked crumbling away from very age 
 and rottenness, and the fabric, which was of great an- 
 tiquity, seemed so rocking and infirm that the eye 
 looked upon its distorted and overhanging position with 
 a sensation of pain and dread ; where the very rats had 
 deserted their loathsome cells, from the insecurity of 
 their tenure, and the ragged mothers of the abject neigh- 
 borhood forbade their brawling children to wander under 
 the threatening walls, lest they should keep the promise 
 of their mouldering aspect, and, falling, bare to the 
 obstructed and sickly day the secrets of their prison-
 
 88 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 house. Girt with the foul and reeking lairs of that 
 erne destitution which necessity urges irresistibly 
 into guilt, and excluded by filthy alleys, and an eternal 
 atmosphere of smoke and rank vapor, from the blessed 
 sun and the pure air of heaven, the miserable mansion 
 seemed set apart for every disease to couch within : too 
 perilous even for the hunted criminal, — too dreary even 
 for the beggar to prefer it to the bare hedge, or the inhos- 
 pitable porch beneath whose mockery of shelter the frosts 
 of winter had so often numbed him into sleep. 
 
 Thrice did the heavy and silver-headed cane of Mr. 
 Brown resound upon the door, over which was a curious 
 carving of a lion dormant, and a date, of which only the 
 two numbers 15 were discernible. Roused by a note so 
 unusual, and an apparition so unwontedly smug as the 
 worthy Morris, a whole legion of dingy and smoke- 
 dried brats came trooping from the surrounding huts, 
 and with many an elvish cry and strange oath and 
 cabalistic word, which thrilled the respectable marrow of 
 Mr. Brown, they collected in a gaping and, to his alarmed 
 eye, a menacing group, as near to the house as their fears 
 and parents would permit them. 
 
 "It is very dangerous," thought Mr. Brown, looking 
 shiveringly up at the hanging and tottering roof, " and 
 very appalling," as he turned to the ragged crowd of 
 infant reprobates which began with every moment to 
 increase. At last he summoned courage, and inquired, 
 in a tone half soothing and half dignified, if they could 
 inform him how to obtain admittance, or how to arouse 
 the inhabitants. 
 
 An old crone, leaning out of an opposite window, 
 with matted hair hanging over a begrimed and shriv- 
 elled countenance, made answer. " No one," she said, 
 in her peculiar dialect, which the worthy man scarcely
 
 THE DISOWNED. 89 
 
 comprehended, " lived there, or had done so for years; " 
 but Brown knew better: and while he was asserting the 
 fact, a girl put her head out of another hovel, and said 
 that she had sometimes seen at the dusk of the evening, 
 a man leave the house, but whether any one else lived 
 in it, she could not tell. Again Mr. Brown sounded 
 an alarm, but no answer came forth, and in great fear 
 and trembling, he applied violent hands to the door. 
 It required but little force ; it gave way : he entered ; 
 and jealous of the entrance of the mob without, reclosed 
 and barred, as well as he was able, the shattered door. 
 The house was unnaturally large for the neighborhood, 
 and Brown was in doubt whether first to ascend a broken 
 and perilous staircase, or search the rooms below: he 
 decided on the latter; he found no one, and with a 
 misgiving heart, which nothing but the recollection of 
 the great Turkey carpet could have inspired, he ascended 
 the quaking steps. All was silent. But a door was 
 unclosed. He entered, and saw the object of his search 
 before him. 
 
 Over a pallet bent a form on which, though youth 
 seemed withered, and even pride broken, the unconquer- 
 able soul left somewhat of grace and of glory, that sus- 
 tained the beholder's remembrance of better days, — a 
 child in its first infancy knelt on the nearer side of the 
 bed, with clasped hands, and vacant eyes that turned 
 towards the intruder with a listless and lack-lustre gaze. 
 But Glendower, or rather Mordaunt, as he bent over the 
 pallet, spoke not, moved not; his eyes were riveted on 
 one object; his heart seemed turned into stone, and his 
 veins curdled into ice. Awed and chilled by the breath- 
 ing desolation of the spot, Brown approached and 
 spoke, he scarcely knew what. " You are," he concluded 
 his address, " the master of Mordaunt Court;" and he
 
 00 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 placed the letter in the hands of the person he thus 
 greeted. 
 
 " Awake, hear me! " cried Algernon to Isabel, as she 
 lay extended on the couch; and the messenger of glad 
 tidings, for the first time seeing her countenance, shud- 
 dered, and knew that he was in the chamber of death. 
 
 "Awake, my own, own love! Happy days are in 
 store for us yet: our misery is past; you will live, live 
 to bless me in riches, as you have done in want." 
 
 Isabel raised her eyes to his, and a smile, sweet, 
 comforting, and full of love, passed the lips which were 
 about to close forever. "Thank Heaven," she mur- 
 mured, " for your dear sake. It is pleasant to die now, 
 and thus ! " and she placed the hand that was clasped in 
 her relaxing and wan fingers, within the bosom which 
 had been, for anguished and hopeless years, his asylum 
 and refuge, and which now, when fortune changed, as 
 if it had only breathed in comfort to his afflictions, was 
 for the first time, and forever, to be cold, — cold even to 
 him! 
 
 " You will live, — you will live," cried Mordaunt, in 
 wild and incredulous despair, — " in mercy live! You, 
 who have been my angel of hope, do not, — God, 
 God ! do not desert me now ! " 
 
 But that faithful and loving heart was already deaf to 
 his voice, and the film grew darkening and rapidly over 
 ,the eye, which still, with undying fondness, sought 
 him out through the shade and agony of death. Sense 
 and consciousness were gone, and dim and confused 
 images whirled round her soul, struggling a little 
 moment before they sank into the depth and silence 
 where the past lies buried. But still mindful of him, 
 and grasping, as it were, at his remembrance, she 
 clasped, closer and closer, the icy hand which she held, to
 
 THE DISOWNED- 91 
 
 her breast. " Your hand is cold, dearest, — it is cold," 
 said she, faintly," but I will warm it here! " And so 
 her spirit passed away, and Mordaunt felt afterwards, in 
 a lone and surviving pilgrimage, that her last thought 
 had been kindness to him, and her last act had spoken 
 forgetfulness even of death, in the tenderness of love!
 
 92 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 Change and time take together their flight. — Golden Violet. 
 
 One evening in autumn, about three years after the 
 date of our last chapter, a stranger on horsehack, in deep 
 mourning, dismounted at the door of " the Golden 
 
 Fleece," in the memorahle town of W . He walked 
 
 into the tap-room and asked for a private, apartment and 
 accommodation for the night. The landlady, grown 
 considerably plumper than when we first made her ac- 
 quaintance, just lifted up her eyes to the stranger's face, 
 and summoning a short, stout man (formerly the waiter, 
 now the second helpmate of the comely hostess), desired 
 him, in a tone which partook somewhat more of the au- 
 thority indicative of their former relative situations than 
 of the obedience which should have characterized their 
 present, to "show the gentleman to the Griffin, No. 
 Four." 
 
 The stranger smiled as the sound greeted his ears, 
 and he followed not so much the host as the hostess's 
 spouse into the apartment thus designated. A young 
 lady, who some eight years ago little thought that she 
 should still be in a state of single blessedness, and who 
 always honored with an attentive eye the stray travellers 
 who, from their youth, loneliness, or that ineffable air 
 which usually designates the unmarried man, might he 
 in the same solitary state of life, turned to the landlady, 
 and said, — 
 
 " Mother, did you observe what a handsome gentleman 
 that was 1 "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 93 
 
 "ISTo," replied the landlady; "I only observed that 
 he brought no servant. " 
 
 " I wonder," said the daughter, " if he is in the army; 
 he has a military air! " 
 
 " I suppose he has dined," muttered the landlady to 
 herself, looking towards the larder. 
 
 " Have you seen Squire Mordaunt within a short 
 period of time 1 ?" asked, somewhat abruptly, a little, 
 thick-set man, who was enjoying his pipe and negus in 
 a sociable way at the window -seat. The characteristics 
 of this personage were a spruce wig, a bottle nose, an 
 elevated eyebrow, a snuff-colored skin and coat, and an 
 air of that consequential self-respect which distinguishes 
 the philosopher who agrees with the French sage, and 
 sees " no reason in the world why a man should not 
 esteem himself." 
 
 "No, indeed, Mr. Bossolton," returned the landlady; 
 " but I suppose that, as he is now in the Parliament 
 House, he will live less retired. It is a pity that the 
 inside of that noble old hall of his should not be more 
 seen, — and after all the old gentleman's improvements, 
 too! They say that the estate now, since the mortgages 
 were paid oil', is above ten thousand pounds a year, 
 clear!" 
 
 " And if I am not induced into an error," rejoined Mr. 
 Bossolton, refilling his pipe, "old Vavasour left a great 
 sum of ready money besides, which must have been in 
 aid, and an assistance and an advantage, mark me, 
 Mistress Merrylack, to the owner of Mordaunt Hall, 
 that has escaped the calculation of your faculty, and the 
 — and the — faculty of your calculation ! " 
 
 "You mistake, Mr. Boss," as, in the friendliness of 
 diminutives, Mrs. Merrylack sometimes styled the gran- 
 diloquent practitioner, — "you mistake; the old gentle-
 
 94 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 man left all his ready money in two bequests: the one 
 
 to the College of , in the university of Cambridge, 
 
 and the other to a hospital in London. I remember 
 the very words of the will; they ran thus, Mr. Boss: 
 ' And whereas my Beloved son, had he lived, would 
 
 have been a member of the College of , in the 
 
 university of Cambridge, which he would have adorned 
 by his genius, learning, youthful virtue, and the various 
 qualities which did equal honor to his head and heart, 
 and would have rendered him alike distinguished as the 
 scholar and the Christian, — I do devise and bequeath 
 the sum of thirty-seven thousand pounds sterling, now in 
 the English funds,' etc., etc.; and then follows the 
 manner in which he will have his charity vested and 
 bestowed, and all about the prize which shall be forever 
 designated and termed ' The Vavasour Prize,' and what 
 shall be the words of the Latin speech which shall be 
 spoken when the said prize shall be delivered, and a 
 great deal more to that effect. So, then, he passes to the 
 other legacy, of exactly the same sum, to the hospital 
 
 usually called and styled , in the city of London, 
 
 and says, ' And whereas we are assured by the Holy 
 Scriptures, which, in these days of blasphemy and sedi- 
 tion, it becomes every true Briton and member of the 
 Established Church to support, that " charity doth cover 
 a multitude of sins," — so I do give and devise,' etc., 
 etc., 'to be forever termed in the deeds,' etc., etc., 
 'of the said hospital, "The Vavasour Charity;" and 
 always provided that, on the anniversary of the day of 
 my death, a sermon shall be preached in the chapel 
 attached to the said hospital, by a clergyman of the 
 Established Church, on any text appropriate to the day 
 and deed so commemorated.' But the conclusion is 
 most beautiful, Mr. Bossolton: ' And now having
 
 THE DISOWNED. 95 
 
 discharged my duties, to the best of my humble ability, 
 to my God, my king, and my country, and dying in the 
 full belief of the Protestant Church, as by law estab- 
 lished, I do set my hand and seal,' etc., etc." 
 
 " A very pleasing and charitable and devout and 
 virtuous testament or will, Mistress Merry lack," said 
 Mr. Bossolton; "and in a time when anarchy with 
 gigantic strides does devastate and devour and harm 
 the good old customs of our ancestors and forefathers, 
 and tramples with its poisonous breath the Magna 
 Charta, and the glorious Revolution, it is beautiful, ay, 
 and sweet, — mark you, Mrs. Merry lack, to behold a 
 gentleman of the aristocratic classes, or grades, support- 
 ing the institutions of his country with such remarkable 
 energy of sentiments, and with — and with — Mistress 
 Merrylack — with sentiments of such remarkable 
 energy." 
 
 "Pray," said the daughter, adjusting her ringlets by 
 a little glass which hung over the tap, " how long has 
 Mr. Mordaunt's lady been dead? " 
 
 "Oh! she died just before the squire came to the 
 property," quoth the mother. " Poor thing, — she was 
 so pretty. I am sure I cried for a whole hour when I 
 heard it! T think it was three years last month when it 
 happened. Old Mr. Vavasour died about two months 
 afterwards. " 
 
 " The aillicted husband," said Mr. Bossolton, who was 
 the victim of a most fiery Mrs. Boss at home, " went 
 into foreign lands or parts, or, as it is vulgarly termed, 
 the Continent, immediately after an event or occurrence 
 so fatal to the cup of his prosperity and the sunshine 
 of his enjoyment, — did he not, Mrs. Merrylack? " 
 
 " He did. And you know, Mr. Boss, he only returned 
 about six months ago. "
 
 96 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 "And of what borough, or burgh, or town, or city, 
 is he the member and representative?" asked Mr. 
 Jeremiah Bossolton, putting another lump of sugar into 
 his negus. "I have heard, it is true, but my memory 
 is short; and in the multitude and multifariousness of 
 my professional engagements, 1 am often led into a for- 
 getfulness of matters less important in their variety, and 
 less — less various in their importance." 
 
 "Why," answered Mrs. Merrylaek, "somehow or 
 other, I quite forget too; but it is some distant borough. 
 The gentleman wanted him to stand for the county, but 
 he would not hear of it; perhaps he did not like the 
 publicity of the thing, for he is mighty reserved." 
 
 "Proud, haughty, arrogant, and assumptious! " said 
 Mr. Bossolton, with a puff of unusual length. 
 
 "Nay, nay," said the daughter (young people are 
 always the first to defend), " I 'm sure he 's not proud, 
 — he does a mort of good, and has the sweetest smile 
 possible! I wonder if he '11 marry again! He is very 
 young yet, not above two or three and thirty." (The 
 kind damsel would not have thought two or three and 
 thirty very young some years ago; but we grow won- 
 derfully indulgent to the age of other people as we grow 
 older ourselves!) 
 
 "And what an eye he has!" said the landlady. 
 "Well, for my part — but, bless me. Here John, 
 John, John,— waiter — husband, I mean: here 's a car- 
 riage and four at the door. Lizzy, dear, is my cap 
 right?" 
 
 And mother, daughter, and husband, all flocked, 
 charged with simper, courtesy, and bow, to receive 
 their expected guests. With a disappointment which 
 we who keep not inns can but very imperfectly con- 
 ceive, the trio beheld a single personage — a valet —
 
 THE DISOWNED. 97 
 
 descend from the box, open the carriage-door and take 
 out — a desk! Of all things human, male or female, 
 the said carriage was utterly empty. 
 
 The valet bustled up to the landlady: " My master's 
 here, ma'am, I think, — rode on before! " 
 
 " And who is your master! " asked Mrs. Merry lack, 
 
 — a thrill of alarm, and the thought of No. Four, coming 
 across her at the same time. 
 
 " Who! " said the valet, rubbing his hands, — " who ? 
 
 — why, Clarence Talbot Linden, Esq., of Scarsdale 
 Park, county of York, late Secretary of Legation at the 
 
 court of , now M. P. , and one of his Majesty's 
 
 Under Secretaries of State." 
 
 "Mercy upon us!" cried the astounded landlady, 
 "and No. Four, only think of it! Run, John, — John 
 run; light a fire (the night's cold, I think) in the 
 Elephant, Number Sixteen; beg the gentleman's par- 
 don, — say it was occupied till now; ask what he'll 
 have for dinner, — fish, flesh, fowl, steaks, joints, chops, 
 tarts, — or, if it 's too late (but it 's quite early yet, — 
 you may put back the day an hour or so), ask what he '11 
 have for supper! Run, John, run; what 's the oaf stay- 
 ing for, — run, I tell you! Pray, sir, walk in," to the 
 valet, our old friend Mr. Harrison, — " you'll be hungry 
 after your journey, I think; no ceremony, I beg." 
 
 " He 's not so handsome as his master," said Miss 
 Elizabeth, glancing at Harrison discontentedly, — " but 
 he does not look like a married man, somehow. I '11 
 just step upstairs and change my cap; it would be but 
 civil if the gentleman's gentleman sups with us." 
 
 Meanwhile Clarence, having been left alone in the 
 quiet enjoyment of No. Four, had examined the little 
 apartment with an interest not altogether unmingled 
 with painful reflections. There are few persons, how- 
 
 VOL. II. — 7
 
 98 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 ever fortunate, who can look back to eight years of their 
 life, and not feel somewhat of disappointment in the 
 retrospect; few persons whose fortunes the world envy, 
 to whom the token of past time, suddenly obtruded on 
 their remembrance, does not awaken hopes destroyed, 
 and wishes deceived, which that world has never known. 
 We tell our triumphs to the crowd, but our own hearts 
 are the sole confidants of our sorrows. "Twice," said 
 Clarence to himself, — " twice before have I been in 
 this humble room: the first was when, at the age of 
 eighteen, I was just launched into the world, — a vessel 
 which had for its only hope the motto of the chivalrous 
 Sydney,— 
 
 'Aut viam inveniam, aut faciam.' * 
 
 yet, humble and nameless as I was, how well I can recall 
 the exaggerated ambition, nay, the certainty of success, 
 as well as its desire, which then burned within me. I 
 smile now at the overweening vanity of those hopes, — ■ 
 some, indeed, realized, but how many nipped and with- 
 ered forever, — seeds, of which a few fell upon rich 
 ground, and prospered, but of which how far the greater 
 number were scattered, some upon the wayside, and were 
 devoured by immediate cares, some on stony places, and 
 when the sun of manhood was up, they were scorched, 
 and because they had no root, withered away, and some 
 among thorns, and the thorns sprang up and choked 
 them. I am now rich, honored, high in the favor of 
 courts, and not altogether unknown or unesteemed arbitrio 
 papillaris aurm : and yet I almost think I was happier 
 when, in that flush of youth and inexperience, T looked 
 forth into the wide world, and imagined that from every 
 corner would spring up a triumph for my vanity, or an 
 
 1 I will either find my way, or — make it.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 99 
 
 object for my affections. The next time I stood in this 
 little spot, I was no longer the dependent of a precarious 
 charity, or the idle adventurer who had no stepping- 
 stone but his ambition. I was then just declared the 
 heir of wealth, which I could not rationally have hoped 
 for five years before, and which was in itself sufficient 
 to satisfy the aspirings of ordinary men. But I was 
 corroded with anxieties for the object of my love, and 
 regret for the friend whom I had lost: perhaps the 
 eagerness of my heart for the one rendered me, for the 
 moment, too little mindful of the other; but, in after 
 years, memory took ample atonement for that temporary 
 suspension of her duties. How often have I recalled, 
 in this world of cold ties and false hearts, that true and 
 generous friend, from whose lessons my mind took im- 
 provement, and from whose warnings, example; who 
 was to me, living, a father, and from whose generosity, 
 whatever worldly advantages I have enjoyed, or distinc- 
 tions I have gained, are derived! Then, I was going 
 with a torn, yet credulous heart, to pour forth my secret 
 and my passion to her, and within one little week 
 thence, how shipwrecked of all hope, object, and future 
 happiness, I was! Perhaps, at that time, I did not 
 sufficiently consider the excusable cautions of the world: 
 I should not have taken such umbrage at her father's 
 letter, — I should have revealed to him my birth and 
 accession of fortune, nor bartered the truth of certain 
 happiness for the trials and manoeuvres of romance. 
 But it is too late to repent now. By this time my 
 image must be wholly obliterated from her heart: she 
 has seen me in the crowd, and passed me coldly by, — 
 her cheek is pale, but not for me; and in a little, little 
 while she will be another's, and lost to me forever! 
 Yet have I never forgotten her through change or time,
 
 100 THK DISOWNED. 
 
 — tlie hard and harsh projects of ambition, the labors of 
 business, or the engrossing schemes of political intrigue. 
 Never! — but this is a vain and foolish subject of reflec- 
 tion now." 
 
 And not the less reflecting upon it for that sage and 
 veracious recollection, Clarence turned from the window, 
 against which he had been leaning, and drawing one of 
 the four chairs to the solitary table, he sat down, moody 
 and disconsolate, and leaning his face upon his hands, 
 pursued the confused, yet not disconnected, thread of his 
 meditations. 
 
 The door abruptly opened, and Mr. Merrylack 
 appeared. 
 
 "Dear me, sir!" cried he, "a thousand pities you 
 should have been put here, sir! Pray step upstairs, sir; 
 the front drawing-room is just vacant, sir; what will 
 you please to have for dinner, sir 1 " etc. , etc. , according 
 to the instructions of his wife. To Mr. Merry lack's 
 great dismay, Clarence, however, resolutely refused all 
 attempts at locomotion, and contenting himself with 
 intrusting the dinner to the discretion of the landlady, 
 desired to be left alone till it was prepared. 
 
 Now, when Mr. John Merrylack returned to the tap- 
 room, and communicated the stubborn adherence to 
 No. Four manifested by its occupier, our good hostess 
 felt exceedingly discomposed. "You are so stupid, 
 John," said she, " I '11 go and expostulate like with 
 him;" and she was rising for that purpose, when Har- 
 rison, who was taking particularly good care of himself, 
 drew her back: "T know my master's temper better 
 than you do, ma'am;" said he; " and when he is in the 
 humor to be stubborn, the very devil himself could not 
 get him out of it. I daresay he wants to be left to him- 
 self: he is very fond of being alone now and then; state
 
 THE DISOWNED. 101 
 
 affairs, you know," added the valet, mysteriously touch- 
 ing his forehead, " and even I dare not disturb him for 
 the world; so make yourself easy, and I '11 go to him 
 when he has dined, and /supped. There is time enough 
 for No. Four, when we have taken care of number one. 
 Miss, your health ! " 
 
 The landlady, reluctantly overruled in her design, 
 reseated herself. 
 
 "Mr. Clarence Linden, M. P., did you say, sir?" 
 said the learned Jeremiah; "surely, I have had that 
 name or appellation in my books, but I cannot, at this 
 instant of time, recall to my recollection the exact date 
 and circumstance of my professional services to the gen- 
 tleman so designated, styled, or, I may say, termed." 
 
 "Can't say, I am sure, sir," said Harrison; "lived 
 with my master many years ; never had the pleasure of 
 seeing you before, nor of travelling this road, — a very 
 hilly road it is, sir. Miss, this negus is as bright as 
 your eyes, and as warm as my admiration." 
 
 "Oh, sir!" 
 
 "Pray," said Mr. Merrylack, who, like most of his 
 tribe, was a bit of a politician ; "is it the Mr. Linden 
 who made that long speech in the House the other 
 day ? " 
 
 "Precisely, sir. He is a very eloquent gentleman, 
 indeed: pity he speaks so little, — never made but that 
 one long speech since he has been in the House, and a 
 capital one it was too. You saw how the prime min- 
 ister complimented him upon it. ' A speech,' said 
 his lordship, 'which had united the graces of youth- 
 ful genius with the sound calculations of matured 
 experience! ' " 
 
 " Did the prime minister really so speak 1 " said 
 Jeremiah; "what a beautiful and noble and sensible
 
 102 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 compliment! I will examine my books when I go 
 home, — ' the graces of youthful genius with the sound 
 calculations of matured experience!' " 
 
 " If he is in the Parliament House," quoth the land- 
 lady, " I suppose he will know our Mr. Mordaunt, when 
 the squire takes his seat, next — what do you call it — 
 sessions ? " 
 
 "Know Mr. Mordaunt!" said the valet. "It is to 
 see him that we have come down here. We intended to 
 have gone there to-night, but master thought it too late, 
 and I saw he Avas in a melancholy humor : we therefore 
 resolved to come here; and so master took one of the 
 horses from the groom, whom we have left behind with 
 the other, and came on alone. I take it, he must have 
 been in this town before, for he described the inn so 
 well. Capital cheese this; as mild — as mild as your 
 sweet smile, miss! " 
 
 "Oh, sir!" 
 
 " Pray, Mistress Merrylack," said Mr. Jeremiah Bos- 
 solton, depositing his pipe on the table, and awakening 
 from a profound reverie in which, for the last five min- 
 utes, his senses had been buried, — "pray, Mistress 
 Merrylack, do you not call to your mind, or your 
 reminiscence, or your — your recollection, a young gen- 
 tleman, equally comely in his aspect and bland iloquent 
 (ahem!) in his address, who had the misfortune to have 
 his arm severely contused and afflicted by a violent kick 
 from Mr. Mordaunt's horse even in the yard in which 
 your stables are situated, and who remained for two or 
 three days in your house, or tavern, or hotel? I do 
 remember that you were grievously perplexed because of 
 his name, the initials of which only he gave, or in- 
 trusted, or communicated to you, until you did exam — " 
 
 " I remember," interrupted Miss Elizabeth, — " I re-
 
 THE DISOWNED. 103 
 
 member well: a very beautiful young gentleman who 
 bad a letter directed to be left here, addressed to him by 
 the letters C. L., and who was afterwards kicked, and 
 who admired your cap, mother, and whose name was 
 Clarence Linden. You remember it well enough, 
 mother, surely ? " 
 
 " I think I do, Lizzy," said the landlady, slowly; for 
 her memory, not so much occupied as her daughter's by 
 beautiful young gentlemen struggled slowly amidst dim 
 ideas of the various travellers and visitors with whom 
 her house had been honored, before she came at last, to 
 the reminiscence of Clarence Linden, — "I think I do; 
 and Squire Mordaunt was very attentive to him, — and 
 he broke one of the panes of glass in No. Eight, and 
 gave me half a guinea to pay for it. I do remember, 
 perfectly, Lizzy. So that is the Mr. Linden now here! 
 — only think ! " 
 
 " I should not have known him, certainly," said Miss 
 Elizabeth ; " he is grown so much taller, and his hair 
 looks quite dark now, and his face is much thinner than 
 it was; but he 's very handsome still, — is he not, sir? " 
 turning to the valet. 
 
 "Ah! ah! well enough," paid Mr. Harrison, stretch- 
 ing out his right leg, and falling away a little to the 
 left, in the manner adopted by the renowned Gil Bias 
 in his address to the fair Laura, — "well enough; but 
 he 's a little too tall and thin, i" think." 
 
 Mr. Harrison's faults in shape were certainly not 
 those of being too tall and thin. 
 
 "Perhaps so!" said Miss Elizabeth, who scented the 
 vanity by a kindred instinct, and had her own reasons 
 for pampering it, — "perhaps so!" 
 
 " But he is a great favorite with the ladies all the 
 same; however, he only loves one lady. Ah, but I
 
 104 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 must not say who, though I know. However, she is so 
 handsome; such eyes, they would go through yon like 
 a skewer, but not like yours, youiB, miss, which, I vow 
 and protest, are as bright as a service of plate." 
 
 "Oh, sir!" 
 
 And amidst these graceful compliments the time 
 slipped away, till Clarence's dinner, and his valet's 
 supper, being fairly over, Mr. Harrison presented him- 
 self to his master, a perfectly different being in attend- 
 ance to what he was in companionship, — flippancy, 
 impertinence, forwardness, all merged in the steady, 
 sober, serious demeanor which characterizes the respect- 
 ful and well-bred domestic. 
 
 Clarence's orders were soon given. They were lim- 
 ited to the appurtenances of writing; and as soon as 
 Harrison reappeared with his master's writing-desk, he 
 was dismissed for the night. 
 
 Very slowly did Clarence settle himself to his task, 
 and attempt to escape the ennui of his solitude, or the 
 restlessness of thought feeding upon itself, by inditing 
 the following epistle : — 
 
 TO THE DUKE OF HAVERFIELD. 
 
 I was very unfortunate, my dear duke, to miss seeing you, 
 when I called in Arlington Street, the evening before last; for 
 I had a great deal to say to you, — something upon public and 
 a little upon private affairs. I will reserve the latter, since I 
 only am the person concerned, for a future opportunity. With 
 respect to the former, . . . 
 
 And now, having finished the political part of my letter, 
 let me congratulate you most sincerely upon your approaching 
 marriage with Miss Trevanion. I do not know her myself; 
 but I remember that she was the bosom friend of Lady Flora 
 Ardcnne, whom I have often heard speak of her in the highest 
 and most affectionate terms, so that I imagine her brother
 
 THE DISOWNED. 105 
 
 could not better atoue to you for dishonestly carrying off the 
 fair Julia some three years ago, than by giving you his sister 
 in honorable and orthodox exchange, — the gold armor for the 
 brazen. 
 
 As for my lot, though I ought not, at this moment, to dim 
 yours by dwelling upon it, you know how long, how con- 
 stantly, how ardently I have loved Lady Flora Ardenne, — 
 how, for her sake, I have refused opportunities of alliance 
 which might have gratified, to the utmost, that worldliness of 
 heart which so many who saw me only in the crowd have been 
 pleased to impute to me. You know that neither pleasure, 
 nor change, nor the insult I received from her parents, nor the 
 sudden indifference which I so little deserved from herself, 
 has been able to obliterate her image. You will therefore 
 sympathize with me, when 1 inform you that there is no longer 
 any doubt of her marriage with Borodaile (or rather Lord 
 Ulswater, since his father's death), as soon as the sixth month 
 of his mourning expires ; to this period only two months 
 remain. 
 
 Heavens ! when one thinks over the past, how incredulous 
 one could become to the future; when I recall all the tokens 
 of love I received from that woman, I cannot persuade myself 
 that they are now all forgotten, or rather, all lavished upon 
 another. 
 
 But I do not blame her, — may she be happier with him 
 than she could have been with me ! — and that hope shall 
 whisper peace to regrets which I have been foolish to indulge 
 so long, and it is, perhaps, well for me that they are about to 
 be rendered forever unavailing. 
 
 I am staying at an inn, without books, companions, or any- 
 thing to beguile time and thought, but this pen, ink, and 
 paper. You will see, therefore, a reason and an excuse for my 
 scribbling on to you, till my two sheets are filled, and the 
 hour of ten (one can't well go to bed earlier) arrived. 
 
 You remember having often heard me speak of a very ex- 
 traordinary man whom I met in Italy, and with whom I 
 became intimate. He returned to England some months ago ; 
 and, on hearing it, my desire of renewing our acquaintance
 
 106 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 was so great that I wrote to invite myself to his house. He 
 gave me what is termed a very obliging answer, and left the 
 choice of time to myself. You see now, most noble Festus, 
 the reason of my journey hitherwards. 
 
 His house, a tine old mansion, is situated about five or six 
 miles from this town ; and as I arrived here late in the even- 
 ing, and knew that his habits were reserved and peculiar, I 
 thought it better to take " mine ease in my inn " for this night, 
 and defer my visit to Mordaunt Court till to-morrow morning. 
 In truth, 1 was not averse to renewing an old acquaintance, — 
 not, as you in your malice would suspect, with my hostess, but 
 with her house. Some years ago, when 1 was eighteen, I first 
 made a slight acquaintance with Mordaunt at this very inn, 
 and now, at twenty-six, I am glad to have one evening to my- 
 self on the same spot, and retrace here all that has since hap- 
 pened to me. 
 
 Now, do not be alarmed ; I am not going to inflict upon you 
 the unquiet retrospect with which I have just been vexing 
 myself: no, I will rather speak to you of my acquaintance and 
 host to be. I have said that I first met Mordaunt some years 
 since at this inn: an accident, for which his horse was to 
 blame, brought us acquainted, — I spent a day at his house, 
 and was much interested in his conversation; since then, we 
 did not meet till about two years and a half ago, when we were 
 in Italy together. During the intermediate interval Mordaunt 
 had married ; lost his property by a lawsuit ; disappeared from 
 the world (whither none knew) for some years ; recovered 
 the estate he had lost by the death of his kinsman's heir, and 
 shortly afterwards by that of the kinsman himself, — and had 
 become a widower, with one only child, a beautiful little girl 
 of about four years old. He lived in perfect seclusion, avoided 
 all intercourse with society, and seemed so perfectly uncon- 
 scious of having ever seen me before, whenever in our rides 
 or walks we met, that I could not venture to intrude myself 
 on a reserve so rigid and unbroken as that which characterized 
 his habits and life. 
 
 The gloom and loneliness, however, in which Mordaunt's 
 days were spent, were far from partaking of that selfishness so
 
 THE DISOWNED. 107 
 
 common, almost so necessarily common, to recluses. Wherever 
 he had gone in his travels through Italy, he had left light and 
 rejoicing behind him. In his residence at , while un- 
 known to the great and gay, he was familiar with the outcast 
 and the destitute. The prison, the hospital, the sordid cabins 
 of want, the abodes (so frequent in Italy, that emporium of 
 artists and poets) where genius struggled against poverty and 
 its own improvidence, — all these were the spots to which his 
 visits were paid, and in which " the very stones prated of his 
 whereabout." It was a strange and striking contrast to com- 
 pare the sickly enthusiasm of those who flocked to Italy, to 
 lavish their sentiments on statues, and their wealth on the 
 modern impositions palmed upon their taste as the master- 
 pieces of ancient art, — it was a noble contrast, I say, to com- 
 pare that ludicrous and idle enthusiasm with the quiet and 
 wholesome energy of mind and heart which led Mordaunt, not 
 to pour forth worship and homage to the unconscious monu- 
 ments of the dead, but to console, to relieve, and to sustain the 
 woes, the wants, the feebleness of the living. 
 
 Yet, while he was thus employed in reducing the miseries 
 and enlarging the happiness of others, the most settled melan- 
 choly seemed to mark himself "as her own." Clad in the 
 deepest mourning, a stern and unbroken gloom sat forever 
 upon his countenance. I have observed, that if in his walks 
 or rides any one, especially of the better classes, appeared to 
 approach, he would strike into a new path. He could not 
 bear even the scrutiny of a glance or the fellowship of a mo- 
 ment ; and his mien, high and haughty, seemed not only to 
 repel others, but to contradict the meekness and charity which 
 his own actions so invariably and unequivocally displayed. 
 It must, indeed, have been a powerful exertion of principle 
 over feeling, which induced him voluntarily to seek the abodes 
 and intercourse of the rude beings he blessed and relieved. 
 
 We met at two or three places to which my weak and im- 
 perfect charity had led me, especially at the house of a sickly 
 and distressed artist ; for in former life I had intimately known 
 one of that profession, and I have since attempted to transfer 
 to his brethren that debt of kindness which an early death
 
 108 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 forbade me to discharge to himself. It was thus that I first 
 became acquainted with Mordaunt's occupations and pursuits; 
 for what ennobled his benevolence was the remarkable obscu- 
 rity in which it was veiled. It was in disguise and in secret 
 that his generosity flowed ; and so studiously did he conceal 
 his name, and hide even his features, during his brief visits to 
 "the house of mourning," that only one, like myself, a close 
 and minute investigator of whatever has once become an object 
 of interest, could have traced his hand in the various works of 
 happiness it had aided or created. 
 
 One day, among some old ruins, I met him with his young 
 daughter. By great good fortune I preserved the latter, who 
 had wandered away from her father, from a fall of loose stones 
 which would inevitably have crushed her. I was myself 
 much hurt by my effort, having received upon my shoulder a 
 fragment of the falling stones ; and thus our old acquaintance 
 was renewed, and gradually ripened into intimacy ; not, I 
 must own, without great patience and constant endeavor on 
 my part, for his gloom and lonely habits rendered him utterly 
 impracticable of access to any (as Lord Aspeden would say) 
 but a diplomatist. I saw a great deal of him during the six 
 months I remained in Italy, and — but you know already how 
 warmly I admire his extraordinary powers, and venerate his 
 character. Lord Aspeden's recall to England separated us. 
 
 A general election ensued. I was returned for . I en- 
 tered eagerly into domestic politics, — your friendship, Lord 
 Aspeden's kindness, my own wealth and industry, made my 
 success almost unprecedentedly rapid. Engaged, heart and 
 hand, in those minute yet engrossing labors for which the aspi- 
 rant in parliamentary and state intrigue must unhappily forego 
 the more enlarged, though abstruser speculations of general 
 philosophy, and of that morality which may be termed uni- 
 versal politics, I have necessarily been employed in very differ- 
 ent pursuits from those to which Mordaunt's contemplations 
 are devoted, yet have I often recalled his maxims, with admi- 
 ration at their depth, and obtained applause for opinions which 
 were only imperfectly filtered from the pure springs of hi3 
 own.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 109 
 
 It is about six months since he has returned to England, 
 and he has very lately obtained a seat in Parliament, so that 
 we may trust soon to see his talents displayed upon a more 
 public and enlarged theatre than they hitherto have been; 
 and, though I fear his politics will be opposed to ours, I anti- 
 cipate his public debut with that interest which genius, even 
 when adverse to one's self, always inspires. Yet I confess that 
 I am desirous to see and converse with him once more in the 
 familiarity and kindness of private intercourse. The rage of 
 party, the narrowness of sectarian zeal, soon exclude from our 
 friendship all those who differ from our opinions ; and it is 
 like sailors holding commune for the last time with each other, 
 before their several vessels are divided by the perilous and un- 
 certain sea, to confer in peace and retirement for a little while 
 with those who are about to be launched with us on that same 
 unquiet ocean, where any momentary caprice of the winds may 
 disjoin us forever, and where our very union is only a sym- 
 pathy in toil, and a fellowship in danger. 
 
 Adieu, my dear duke, it is fortunate for me that our public 
 opinions are so closely allied, and that I may so reasonably 
 calculate in private upon the happiness and honor of subscrib- 
 ing myself your affectionate friend, 
 
 C. L. 
 
 Such was the letter to which we shall leave the 
 explanation of much that has taken place within the 
 last three years of our tale, and which, in its tone, will 
 serve to show the kindness and generosity of heart and 
 feeling that mingled (rather increased than abated by 
 the time which brought wisdom) with the hardy activity 
 and resolute ambition that characterized the mind of our 
 "Disowned. " We now consign him to such repose as 
 the best bedroom in the Golden Fleece can afford, and 
 conclude the chapter.
 
 110 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright, 
 
 In the davs of delusion, by fancy combined 
 With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, 
 Abandon my soul like a dream of the night, 
 
 And leave but a desert behind, — 
 
 Be hushed, my dark spirit, for Wisdom condemns 
 
 When the faint and the feeble deplore ; 
 Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems 
 
 A thousand wild waves on the shore ! 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 " Shall I order the carriage round, sir? " said Harrison: 
 " it is past one." 
 
 " Yes, — yet stay : the day is fine, — I -will ride. Let 
 the carriage come on in the evening; see that my horse 
 is saddled, — you looked to his mash last night? " 
 
 "I did, sir. He seems wonderfully fresh; would 
 you please to have me stay here with the carriage, sir, 
 till the groom comes on with the other horse ? " 
 
 "Ay; do, — I don't know yet how far strange ser- 
 vants may be welcome where I am going. " 
 
 " Now, that 's lucky ! " said Harrison to himself, as 
 he shut the door: " I shall have a good five hours' 
 opportunity of making my court here. Miss Elizabeth 
 is really a very pretty girl, and might not be a bad 
 match. I don't see any brothers; who knows but she 
 may succeed to the inn, — hem! A servant may be 
 ambitious as well as his master, I suppose?" 
 
 So meditating, Harrison sauntered to the stables, 
 saw (for he was an admirable servant, and could at a
 
 THE DISOWNED. Ill 
 
 pinch dress a horse as well as its master) that Clarence's 
 beautiful steed received the utmost nicety of grooming 
 which the hostler could bestow, led it himself to the 
 door, held the stirrup for his master, with the mingled 
 humility and grace of his profession, and then strutted 
 away — " pride on his brow and glory in his eye " — to 
 be the cynosure and oracle of the tap-room. 
 
 Meanwhile, Linden rode slowly onwards. As he 
 passed that turn of the town by which he had for the 
 first time entered it, the recollection of the eccentric and 
 would-be gypsy flashed upon him. " I wonder," thought 
 he, " where that singular man is now, — whether he still 
 preserves his itinerant and woodland tastes — 
 
 ' Si flumina sylvasque inglorius amet ; ' l 
 
 or whether, as his family increased in age or number, 
 he has turned from his wanderings, and at length found 
 out ' the peaceful hermitage. ' How glowingly the whole 
 scene of that night comes across me: the wild tents, 
 their wilder habitants, the mingled bluntness, poetry, 
 honest good-nature, and spirit of enterprise which con- 
 stituted the chief's nature; the jovial meal and mirth 
 round the wood fire and beneath the quiet stars, and 
 the eagerness and zest with which I then mingled in the 
 merriment. Alas ! — how ill the fastidiousness and re- 
 finement of after-days repays us for the elastic, buoyant, 
 ready zeal, with which our first youth enters into what- 
 ever is joyous, without pausing to ask if its cause and 
 nature be congenial to our habits or kindred to our 
 tastes. After all, there really tvas something philo- 
 sophical in the romance of the jovial gypsy, childish as 
 it seemed ; and I should like much to know if the philo- 
 sophy has got the better of the romance, or the ro- 
 
 1 If, unknown to fame, he love the streams and the woods.
 
 112 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 mance, growing into habit, become commonplace, and 
 lost both its philosophy and its enthusiasm. Well, 
 after I leave Mordaunt, I will try and find out my 
 old friend." 
 
 With this resolution Clarence's thoughts took a new 
 channel, and he soon entered upon Mordaunt's domain. 
 As he rode through the park, where brake and tree were 
 glowing in the yellow tints which autumn, like ambi- 
 tion, gilds ere it withers, he paused for a moment to 
 recall the scene as he last beheld it. It was then spring, 
 — spring in its first and flushest glory, — when not a 
 blade of grass but sent a perfume to the air, the 
 happy air, — 
 
 " Making sweet music while the young leaves danced ; " 
 
 when every cluster of the brown fern, that now lay dull 
 and motionless around him, and amidst which the mel- 
 ancholy deer stood afar off, gazing upon the intruder, 
 was vocal with the blithe melodies of the infant year: 
 the sharp, yet sweet voices of birds, and (heard at in- 
 tervals) the chirp of the merry grasshopper, or the hum 
 of the awakened bee. He sighed as he now looked 
 around and recalled the change , both of time and season ; 
 and with that fondness of heart which causes man to 
 knit his own little life to the varieties of time, the 
 signs of Heaven, or the revolutions of nature, he recog- 
 nized something kindred in the change of scene to the 
 change of thought and feeling which years had wrought 
 in the beholder. 
 
 Awaking from his reverie, he hastened his horse's 
 pace, and was soon within sight of the house. Vava- 
 sour, during the few years he had possessed the place, 
 had conducted and carried through improvements and 
 additions to the old mansion upon a scale equally costly
 
 THE DISOWNED. 113 
 
 and judicious. The heavy and motley magnificence of 
 the architecture in which the house had been built re- 
 mained unaltered; but a wing on either side, though 
 exactly corresponding in style with the intermediate 
 building, gave, by the long colonnade which ran across 
 the one, and the stately windows which adorned the 
 other, an air not only of grander extent but more cheer- 
 ful lightness to the massy and antiquated pile. It was 
 assuredly, in the point of view by which Clarence now 
 approached it, a structure which possessed few superiors 
 in point of size and effect, and harmonized so well with 
 the noble extent of the park, the ancient woods, and the 
 venerable avenues, that a very slight effort of imagina- 
 tion might have poured from the massive portals the 
 pageantries of old days, and the gay galliard of chivalric 
 romance with which the scene was in such accordance, 
 and which in a former age it had so often witnessed. 
 
 Ah, little could any one who looked upon that gor- 
 geous pile, and the broad lands which, beyond the 
 boundaries of the park, swelled on the hills of the dis- 
 tant landscape, studded at frequent intervals with the 
 spires and villages which adorned the wide baronies of 
 Mordaunt, — little could he who thus gazed around have 
 imagined that the owner of all he surveyed had passed 
 the glory and verdure of his manhood in the bitterest 
 struggles with gnawing want and rebellious pride and 
 urgent passion, without friend or aid but his own 
 haughty and supporting virtue, sentenced to bear yet 
 in his wasted and barren heart the sign of the storm 
 he had resisted, and the scathed token of the lightning 
 he had braved. None but Crauford, who had his own 
 reasons for taciturnity, and the itinerant broker, easily 
 bribed into silence, had ever known of the extreme pov- 
 erty from which Mordaunt had passed to his rightful 
 
 VOL. II. — 8
 
 114 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 possessions. It was whispered, indeed, that he had heen 
 reduced to narrow and straitened circumstances; hut the 
 whisper had been only the breath of rumor, and the 
 imagined poverty far short of the reality: for the pride 
 of Mordaunt (the great, almost the sole failing in his 
 character) could not endure that all he had borne and 
 baffled should be bared to the vulgar eye; and, by a rare 
 anomaly of mind, indifferent as he was to renown, he 
 was morbidly susceptible of shame. 
 
 "When Clarence rang at the ivy -covered porch, and 
 made inquiry for Mordaunt, he was informed that the 
 latter was in the park, by the river, where most of his 
 hours during the daytime were spent. 
 
 " Shall I send to acquaint him that you are come, 
 sir 1 " said the servant. 
 
 " No," answered Clarence; " I will leave my horse to 
 one of the grooms, and stroll down to the river in search 
 of your master. " 
 
 Suiting the action to the word, he dismounted, con- 
 signed his steed to the groom, and following the direc- 
 tion indicated to him, bent his way to the " river." 
 
 As he descended the hill, the brook (for it did not 
 deserve, though it received, a higher name) opened en- 
 chantingly upon his view. Amidst the fragrant reed 
 and the wild-flower, still sweet, though fading, and 
 tufts of tedded grass, all of which, when crushed be- 
 neath the foot, sent a mingled tribute to its sparkling 
 waves, the wild stream took its gladsome course, — now 
 contracted by gloomy firs, which, bending over the 
 water, cast somewhat of their own sadness upon its sur- 
 face ; now glancing forth from the shade, as it " broke 
 into dimples, and laughed in the sun;" now washing 
 the gnarled and spreading roots of some lonely ash, 
 which, hanging over it still and droopingly, seemed,
 
 THE DISOWNED. 115 
 
 the hermit of the scene, to moralize on its noisy and 
 various wanderings; now winding round the hill, and 
 losing itself at last amidst thick copses, where day did 
 never more than wink and glimmer, and where, at night, 
 its waters, brawling through their stony channel, seemed 
 like a spirit's wail, and harmonized well with the scream 
 of the gray owl, wheeling from her dim retreat, or the 
 moaning and rare sound of some solitary deer. 
 
 As Clarence's eye roved admiringly over the scene 
 before him, it dwelt at last upon a small building situ- 
 ated on the wildest part of the opposite bank; it was 
 entirely overgrown with ivy, and the outline only re- 
 mained to show the Gothic antiquity of the architecture. 
 It was a single square tower, built none knew when or 
 wherefore, and consequently the spot of many vagrant 
 guesses and wild legends among the surrounding gos- 
 sips. On approaching yet nearer, he perceived, alone 
 and seated on a little mound beside the tower, the 
 object of his search. 
 
 Mordaunt was gazing with vacant yet earnest eye 
 upon the waters beneath; and so intent was either his 
 mood or look, that he was unaware of Clarence's ap- 
 proach. Tears, fast and large, were rolling from those 
 haughty eyes which men who shrank from their indif- 
 ferent glance little deemed were capable of such weak 
 and feminine emotion. Far, far through the aching 
 void of time, were the thoughts of the reft and solitary 
 mourner; they were dwelling in all the vivid and keen 
 intensity of grief which dies not, upon the day when, 
 about that hour and on that spot, he sat, with Isabel's 
 young cheek upon his bosom, and listened to a voice 
 now only heard in dreams. He recalled the moment 
 when the fatal letter, charged with change and poverty, 
 was given to him, and the pang which had rent his heart
 
 116 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 as he looked around upon a scene over which spring had 
 just then breathed, and which he was about to leave to 
 a fresh summer and a new lord; and then that deep, 
 fond, half-fearful gaze with which Isabel had met his 
 eye, and the feeling, proud even in its melancholy, with 
 which he had drawn towards his breast all that earth 
 had left to him, and thanked God in his heart of hearts 
 that she was spared. 
 
 " And I am once more master," thought he, " not 
 only of all I then held, but all which my wealthier 
 forefathers possessed. But she who was the sharer of 
 my sorrows and want, — oh, where is she? Rather, ah! 
 rather a hundredfold that her hand was still clasped in 
 mine, and her spirit supporting me through poverty and 
 trial, and her soft voice murmuring the comfort that 
 steals away care, than to be thus heaped with wealth 
 and honor, and alone, — alone, where never more can 
 come love, or hope, or the yearnings of affection, or the 
 sweet fulness of a heart that seems fathomless in its 
 tenderness, yet overflows! Had my lot, when she left 
 me, been still the steepings of bitterness, the stings of 
 peimry, the moody silence of hope, the damp and chill 
 of sunless and aidless years, which rust the very iron of 
 the soul away, — had my lot been thus, as it had been, 
 I could have borne her death, I could have looked upon 
 her grave, and wept not: nay, I could have comforted 
 my own struggles with the memory of her escape; but 
 thus, at the very moment of prosperity, to leave the 
 altered and promising earth, ' to house with darkness 
 and with death,' — no little gleam of sunshine, no brief 
 recompense for the agonizing past, no momentary respite 
 between tears and the tomb. Oh, Heaven! what — ■ 
 what avail is a wealth which comes too late, when she, 
 who could alone have made wealth bliss is dust; and
 
 THE DISOWNED. 117 
 
 the light that should have gilded many and happy days, 
 flings only a ghastly glare upon the tomb 1 " 
 
 Starting from these reflections, Mordaunt half uncon- 
 sciously rose, and dashing the tears from his eyes, was 
 about to plunge into the neighboring thicket, when, 
 looking up, he beheld Clarence, now within a few paces 
 of him. He started, and seemed for one moment irreso- 
 lute whether to meet or shun his advance, but, probably 
 deeming it too late for the latter, he banished, by one 
 of those violent efforts with which men of proud and 
 strong minds vanquish emotion, all outward sign of the 
 past agony, and hastening towards his guest, greeted 
 him with a welcome which, though from ordinary hosts 
 it might have seemed cold, appeared to Clarence, who 
 knew his temper, more cordial than he had ventured to 
 anticipate.
 
 118 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LXI. 
 
 My father urged me sair, 
 
 But my mither did na speak, 
 Though she looked into my face 
 
 Till my heart was like to break. 
 
 Auld Robin Gray. 
 
 " It is rather singular," said Lady Westborough to her 
 daughter, as they sat alone one afternoon in the music- 
 room at Westborough Park, — " it is rather singular that 
 Lord Ulswater should not have come yet. He said lie 
 should certainly be here before three o'clock." 
 
 " You know, mamma, that he has some military 
 
 duties to detain him at W ," answered Lady Flora, 
 
 bending over a drawing, in which she appeared to be 
 earnestly engaged. 
 
 " True, my dear, and it was very kind in Lord 
 
 to quarter the troop he commands in his native county ; 
 
 and very fortunate that W , being his headquarters, 
 
 should also be so near us. But I cannot conceive that 
 any duty can be sufficiently strong to detain him from 
 you," added Lady Westborough, who had been accus- 
 tomed all her life to a devotion unparalleled in this age. 
 " You seem very indulgent, Flora." 
 
 "Alas! — she should rather say very indifferent," 
 thought Lady Flora; but she did not give her thought 
 utterance, — she only looked up at her mother for a 
 moment, and smiled faintly. 
 
 Whether there was something in that smile, or in the 
 pale cheek of her daughter, that touched her, we know
 
 THE DISOWNED. 119 
 
 not, but Lady "Westborough was touched ; she threw 
 her arms round Lady Flora's neck, kissed her fondly, 
 and said, " You do not seem well to-day, my love, — are 
 you?" 
 
 " Oh! very, very well," answered Lady Mora, return- 
 ing her mother's caress, and hiding her eyes, to which 
 the tears had started. 
 
 " My child," said Lady Westborough," you know that 
 both myself and your father are very desirous to see 
 you married to Lord Ulswater: of high and ancient 
 birth, of great wealth, young, unexceptionable in person 
 and character, and warmly attached to you, — it would 
 be impossible even for the sanguine heart of a parent to 
 ask for you a more eligible match. But if the thought 
 really does make you wretched, — and yet, how can 
 it?" 
 
 " I have consented," said Flora, gently: " all I ask is, 
 do not speak to me more of the — the event than you can 
 avoid. " 
 
 Lady Westborough pressed her hand, sighed, and 
 replied not. 
 
 The door opened, and the marquess, who had within 
 the last year become a cripple Avith the great man's 
 malady, dira podagra , was wheeled in on his easy-chair: 
 close behind him followed Lord Ulswater. 
 
 "I have brought you," said the marquess, who piqued 
 himself on a vein of dry humor, — "I have brought you, 
 young lady, a consolation for my ill humors. Few 
 gouty old fathers make themselves as welcome as I do, 
 — eh, Ulswater! " 
 
 " Dare I apply to myself Lord West-borough's compli- 
 ment?" said the young nobleman, advancing towards 
 Lady Flora; and drawing his seat near her, he entered 
 into that whispered conversation so significant of court-
 
 120 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 ship. But there was little in Lady "Flora's manner by 
 which an experienced eye would have detected the bride- 
 elect: no sudden blush, no downcast yet sidelong look, 
 no trembling of the hand, no indistinct confusion of the 
 voice, struggling with unanalyzed emotions. No, — all 
 was calm, cold, listless: her check changed not tint nor 
 hue; and her words, clear and collected, seemed to con- 
 tradict whatever the low murmurs of her betrothed 
 might well be supposed to insinuate. But, even in his 
 behavior, there was something which, had Lady West- 
 borough been less contented than she was with the exter- 
 nals and surface of manner, would have alarmed her for 
 her daughter. A cloud, sullen and gloomy, sat upon 
 his brow, and his lip alternately quivered with some- 
 thing like scorn, or was compressed with a kind of stifled 
 passion. Even in the exultation that sparkled in his 
 eye, when he alluded to their approaching marriage, 
 there was an expression that almost might have been 
 termed fierce, and certainly was as little like the true 
 orthodox ardor of "gentle swain," as Lady Flora's sad 
 and half-unconscious coldness resembled the diffident 
 passion of the " blushing maiden." 
 
 " You have considerably passed the time in which we 
 expected you, my lord," said Lady Westborough, who, 
 as a beauty herself, was a little jealous of the deference 
 due to the beauty of her daughter. 
 
 " It is true," said Lord Ulswater, glancing towards 
 the opposite glass, and smoothing his right eyebrow 
 with his forefinger, — " it is true, but I could not help it. 
 I had a great deal of business to do with my troop, — I 
 have put them into a new manoeuvre. Do you know, 
 my lord" (turning to the marquess), "I think it very 
 
 likely the soldiers may have some work on the of 
 
 this month."
 
 THE DISOWNED. 121 
 
 "Where and wherefore?" asked Lord "VYestborough , 
 whom a sudden twinge forced into the laconic. 
 
 " At W . Some idle fellows hold a meeting there 
 
 on that day ; and if I may judge by bills and advertise- 
 ments, chalkings on the Avails, and, more than all, pop- 
 ular rumor, I have no doubt but what riot and sedition 
 are intended, — the magistrates are terribly frightened. 
 I hope we shall have some cutting and hewing, — I 
 have no patience with the rebellious dogs. " 
 
 " For shame, — for shame ! " cried Lady Westborough, 
 who, though a worldly, was by no means an unfeeling 
 woman ; " the poor people are misguided, — they mean 
 no harm." 
 
 Lord Ulswater smiled scornfully. " I never dispute 
 upon politics, but at the head of my men," said he, and 
 turned the conversation. 
 
 Shortly afterwards Lady Flora, complaining of indis- 
 position, rose, left the apartment, and retired to her own 
 room. There she sat, motionless and white as death, for 
 more than an hour. A day or two afterwards, Miss 
 Trevanion received the following letter from her: — 
 
 Most heartily, most truly do I congratulate you, my dear- 
 est Eleanor, upon your approaching marriage. You may 
 reasonably hope for all that happiness can afford ; and though 
 you do affect (for I do not think that you fed) a fear lest you 
 should not be able to fix a character, volatile and light, like 
 your lover's, yet, when I recollect his warmth of heart and 
 high sense, and your beauty, gentleness, charms of conversa- 
 tion, and purely disinterested love for one whose great worldly 
 advantages might so easily bias or adulterate affection, I own 
 that I have no dread for your future fate, no feeling that can 
 at all darken the brightness of anticipation. Thank you, 
 dearest, for the delicate kindness with which you allude to ray 
 destiny, — me, indeed, you cannot congratulate as I can you. 
 But do not grieve for me, my own generous Eleanor : if not
 
 122 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 happy, I shall, I trust, be at least contented. My poor father 
 implored me with tears in his eyes, — my mother pressed my 
 hand, but .spoke not; and I — I whose affections were with- 
 ered, and hopes strewn, should I not have been hard-hearted 
 indeed if they had not wrung from me a consent ? And, oh ! 
 should I not be utterly lost, if in that consent which blessed 
 them, I did not find something of peace and consolation 1 
 
 Yes, dearest, in two months, only two months, I shall be 
 Lord Ulswater's wife ; and, when we meet, you shall look, 
 narrowly at me, and see if he or you have any right to com- 
 plain of me. 
 
 Have you seen Mr. Linden lately 1 Yet, do not answer the 
 question ; I ought not to cherish still that fatal, clinging inter- 
 est for one who has so utterly forgotten me. But I do rejoice 
 in his prosperity : and when I hear his praises and watch his 
 career, I feel proud that I should once have loved him ! Oh, 
 how could he be so false, so cruel, in the A r ery midst of his 
 professions of undying, unswerving faith to me, at the very 
 moment when I was ill, miserable, wasting my very heart for 
 anxiety on his account, — and such a woman too ! And had 
 he loved me, even though his letter was returned, would not 
 his conscience have told him he deserved it, and would he not 
 have sought me out in person, and endeavored to win from my 
 folly his forgiveness ? But without attempting to see me, or 
 speak to me, or soothe a displeasure so natural, to leave the 
 country in silence, almost in disdain ; and when we met 
 again, to greet me with coldness and hauteur, and never betray 
 by word, sigh, or look, that he had ever been to me more than 
 the merest stranger I Fool, fool that I am, to waste another 
 thought upon him ; but I will not, and ought not to do so. 
 In two months I shall not even have the privilege of 
 remembrance. 
 
 I wish, Eleanor, — for I assure you that I have tried and 
 tried, — that I could find anything to like and esteem (since 
 love is out of the question) in this man who seems so great, 
 and, to me, so unaccountable a favorite with my parents. His 
 countenance and voice are so harsh and stern ; his manner at 
 once so self-complacent and gloomy ; his sentiments so narrow
 
 THE DISOWNED. 123 
 
 even in their notions of honor; his very courage so savage, and 
 his pride so constant and offensive, — that I in vain endeavor to 
 persuade myself of his virtues, and recur, at least, to the un- 
 wearying affection for me which he professes. It is true that 
 he has been three times refused ; that I have told him I can- 
 not love him ; that I have even owned former love to another : 
 he still continues his suit, and by dint of long hope has at 
 length succeeded. But at times I could almost think that he 
 married me from very hate, rather than love, there is such an 
 artificial smoothness in his stern voice, such a latent meaning 
 in his eye; and when he thinks I have not noticed him, I have, 
 on suddenly turning towards him, perceived so dark and lower- 
 ing an expression upon his countenance that my heart has died 
 within me for very fear. 
 
 Had my mother been the least less kind, my father the least 
 less urgent, I think, nay, I know, I could not have gained such 
 a victory over myself as I have done in consenting to the day. 
 But enough of this. I did not think I should have run on so 
 long and so foolishly; but we, dearest, have been children and 
 girls and women together : we have loved each other with such 
 fondness and unreserve, that opening my heart to you seems 
 only another phrase for thinking aloud. 
 
 However, in two months I shall have no right even to 
 
 thoughts, — perhaps I may not even love you. Till then, 
 
 dearest Eleanor, I am, as ever, your affectionate and faithful 
 
 friend, 
 
 F. A. 
 
 Had Lord "Westborough, indeed, been " less urgent," 
 or her mother " less kind," nothing could have wrung 
 from Lady Flora her consent to a marriage so ungenial 
 and ill-omened. 
 
 Thrice had Lord Ulswater (then Lord Borodaile) 
 been refused, before finally accepted; and those who 
 judge only from the ordinary effects of pride, would be 
 astonished that he should have still persevered. But 
 his pride was that deep-rooted feeling which, so far
 
 124 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 from being repelled by a single blow, fights stubbornly 
 and doggedly onward till the battle is over and its 
 object gained. From the moment he had resolved to 
 address Lady Flora Ardenne, he had also resolved to 
 win her. For three years, despite of a refusal, first 
 gently, then more peremptorily urged, he fixed himself 
 in her train. He gave out that he was her affianced. 
 In all parties, in all places, he forced himself near her, 
 unheeding alike of her frowns or indifference; and his 
 rank, his hauteur, his fierceness of mien, and acknowl- 
 edged courage, kept aloof all the less arrogant and hardy 
 pretenders to Lady Flora's favor. For this, indeed, she 
 rather thanked than blamed him; and it was the only 
 thing which in the least reconciled her modesty to his 
 advances, or her pride to his presumption. 
 
 He had been prudent as well as bold. The father he 
 had served, and the mother he had won. Lord West- 
 borough, addicted a little to politics, a good deal to 
 show, and devotedly to gaming, was often greatly and 
 seriously embarrassed. Lord Ulswater, even during the 
 life of his father (who was lavishly generous to him), 
 was provided with the means of relieving his intended 
 father-in-law's necessities; and caring little for money 
 in comparison to a desired object, he was willing enough, 
 we do not say to bribe, but to influence Lord West- 
 borough's consent. These matters of arrangement were 
 by no means concealed from the marchioness, who, 
 herself ostentatious and profuse, was in no small degree 
 benefited by them ; and though they did not solely 
 procure, yet they certainly contributed to conciliate her 
 favor. 
 
 Few people are designedly and systematically wicked: 
 even the worst find good motives for bad deeds; and are 
 as intent upon discovering glosses for conduct, to deceive
 
 THE DISOWNED. 125 
 
 themselves, as to delude others. What wonder, then, 
 that poor Lady Westborough, never too rigidly addicted 
 to self-examination, and viewing all things through a 
 very worldly medium, saw only, in the alternate art and 
 urgency employed against her daughter's real happiness, 
 the various praiseworthy motives of permanently disen- 
 tangling Lady Flora from an unworthy attachment, of 
 procuring for her an establishment proportioned to her 
 rank, and a husband whose attachment, already shown 
 b} T such singular perseverance, was so likely to afford her 
 everything which, in Lady Westborough 's eyes, con- 
 stituted felicity. 
 
 All our friends, perhaps, desire our happiness; hut 
 then it must invariably be in their own way. What a 
 pity that they do not employ the same zeal in making us 
 happy in ours !
 
 126 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIL 
 
 If thou criest after Knowledge, and liftest up thy voice for under- 
 standing , 
 
 If thou seekest her as silver, and searchest for her as for hid 
 treasures ; 
 
 Then shalt thou understand the fear of the Lord, and find the 
 knowledge of God. 
 
 Proverbs, ii. 3, 4, 5. 
 
 While Clarence was thus misjudged by one whose 
 affections and conduct he, in turn, naturally misinter- 
 preted; while Lady Flora was alternately struggling 
 against and submitting to the fate which Lady West- 
 borough saw approach with gladness, the father with 
 indifference, and the bridegroom with a pride that par- 
 took less of rapture than revenge, — our unfortunate lover 
 was endeavoring to glean, from Mordaunt's conversation 
 and example, somewhat of that philosophy so rare except 
 in the theories of the civilized and the occasional prac- 
 tice of the barbarian, which, though it cannot give us a 
 charm against misfortune, bestows at least upon us the 
 energy to support it. 
 
 We have said already, that when the first impression 
 produced by -Mordaunt's apparent pride and coldness wore 
 away, it required little penetration to discover the benev- 
 olence and warmth of his mind. But none ignorant of 
 his original disposition, or the misfortunes of his life, 
 could ever have pierced the depth of his self-sacrificing 
 nature, or measured the height of his lofty and devoted 
 virtue. Many men may perhaps be found who will 
 give up to duty a cherished wish, or even a darling vice,
 
 THE DISOWNED. 127 
 
 but few will ever renounce to it their rooted tastes, or 
 the indulgence of those habits which have almost become, 
 by long use, their happiness itself. Naturally melan- 
 choly and thoughtful, feeding the sensibilities of his 
 heart upon fiction, and though addicted to the cultiva- 
 tion of reason rather than fancy, having perhaps more 
 of the deeper and acuter characteristics of the poet than 
 those calm and half-callous properties of nature, sup- 
 posed to belong to the metaphysician and the calculating 
 moralist, Mordaunt was above all men fondly addicted to 
 solitude, and inclined to contemplations less useful than 
 profound. The untimely death of Isabel, whom he had 
 loved with that love which is the vent of hoarded and 
 passionate musings, long nourished upon romance, and 
 lavishing the wealth of a soul that overflows with se- 
 creted tenderness, upon the first object that can bring 
 reality to fiction, — that event had not only darkened 
 melancholy into gloom, but had made loneliness still 
 more dear to his habits by all the ties of memory, and 
 all the consecrations of regret. The companionless 
 wanderings, the midnight closet, the thoughts which, as 
 Hume said of his own, could not exist in the world, but 
 were all busy with life in seclusion, — these were ren- 
 dered sweeter than ever to a mind for which the ordinary 
 objects of the world were now utterly loveless; and the 
 musings of solitude had become, as it were, a rightful 
 homage and offering to the dead. We may form, then, 
 some idea of the extent to which, in Mordaunt's charac- 
 ter, principle predominated over inclination, and regard 
 for others over the love of self, when we see him tearing 
 his spirit from its beloved retreats and abstracted con- 
 templations, and devoting it to duties from which its 
 fastidious and refined characteristics were particularly 
 calculated to revolt. When we have considered hi3
 
 123 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 attachment to the hermitage, we can appreciate tho 
 virtue which made him among the mosi active citizens 
 in the great world ; when we have considered the natural 
 .selfishness of grief, the pride of philosophy, the indolence 
 of meditation, the eloquence of wealth, which says, 
 "Rest and toil not," and the temptation within, which 
 says, "Obey the voice;" — when we have considered 
 these, we can perhaps do justice to the man who, some- 
 times on foot and in the coarsest attire, travelled from 
 inn to inn, and from hut to hut; who made human 
 misery the object of his search, and human happiness of 
 his desire, who, breaking aside an aversion to rude con- 
 tact, almost feminine in its extreme, voluntarily sought 
 the meanest companions, and subjected himself to the 
 coarsest intrusions; for whom the wail of affliction, or 
 the moan of hunger, was as a summons which allowed 
 neither hesitation nor appeal ; who seemed possessed of 
 a ubiquity for the purposes of good, almost resembling 
 that attributed to the wanderer in the magnificent fable 
 of " Melmoth," for the temptations to evil; who, by a 
 zeal and labor that brought to habit and inclination a 
 thousand martyrdoms, made his life a very hour-glass, 
 in which each sand was a good deed or a virtuous design. 
 Many plunge into public affairs, to which they have had 
 a previous distaste, from the desire of losing the memory 
 of a private affliction; but so far from wishing to heal 
 the wounds of remembrance by the anodynes which 
 society can afford, it was only in retirement that Mor- 
 daunt found the flowers from which balm could be dis- 
 tilled. Many arc through vanity magnanimous, and 
 benevolent from the selfishness of fame ; but so far from 
 seeking applause, where he bestowed favor, Mordaunt 
 had sedulously shrouded himself in darkness and dis- 
 guise. And, by that increasing propensity to quiet, so
 
 THE DISOWNED. 129 
 
 often found among those addicted to lofty or abstruse 
 contemplation, he had conquered the ambition of youth 
 with the philosophy of a manhood that had forestalled 
 the affections of age. Many, in short, have become 
 great or good to the community by individual motives 
 easily resolved into common and earthly elements of de- 
 sire; but tbey who inquire diligently into human nature 
 have not often the exalted happiness to record a char- 
 acter like JMordaunt's, actuated purely by a systematic 
 principle of love, which covered mankind, as heaven 
 does earth, with an atmosphere of light extending to the 
 remotest corners, and penetrating the darkest recesses. 
 
 It was one of those violent and gusty evenings which 
 give to an English autumn something rude, rather than 
 gentle in its characteristics, that Mordaunt and Clarence 
 sat together, 
 
 "And sowed the hours with various seeds of talk." 
 
 The young Isabel, the only living relic of the departed 
 one, sat by her father's side upon the floor; and though 
 their discourse was far beyond the comprehension of her 
 years, yet did she seem to listen with a quiet and ab- 
 sorbed attention. In truth, child as she was, she so 
 loved, and almost worshipped her father, that the very 
 tones of his voice had in them a charm which could 
 always vibrate, as it were, to her heart, and hush her 
 into silence; and that melancholy and deep, though 
 somewhat low voice, when it swelled or trembled with 
 thought, — which in Mordaunt was feeling, — made her 
 sad, she knew not why; and when she heard it, she 
 would creep to his side, and put her little hand on his, 
 and look up at him with eyes in whose tender and 
 glistening blue the spirit of her mother seemed to float. 
 She was serious and thoughtful and loving beyond the 
 
 VOL. II. — 9
 
 130 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 usual capacities of childhood; perhaps her solitary 
 condition, and habits of constant intercourse with one so 
 grave as Mordaunt, and who always, when not absent on 
 his excursions of charity, loved her to be with him, 
 had given to her mind a precocity of feeling, and tinc- 
 tured the simplicity of infancy with what ought to have 
 been the colors of after years. She was not inclined 
 to the sports of her age, — she loved, rather, and above 
 all else, to sit by Mordaunt's side, and silently pore over 
 some book, or feminine ta.sk, and to steal her eyes every 
 now and then away from her employment, in order to 
 watch his motions, or provide for whatever her vigilant 
 kindness of heart imagined he desired. And often, 
 when he saw her fairy and lithe form hovering about 
 him, and attending on his wants, or her beautiful coun- 
 tenance glow with pleasure, when she fancied she sup- 
 plied them, he almost believed that Isabel yet lived, 
 though in another form, and that a love, so intense 
 and holy as hers had been, might transmigrate, but could 
 not perish. 
 
 The young Isabel had displayed a passion for music so 
 early that it almost seemed innate; and as, from the 
 mild and wise education she received, her ardor had 
 never been repelled on the one hand or overstrained 
 on the other, so, though she had but just passed her 
 seventh year, she had attained to a singular proficiency 
 in the art, — an art that suited well with her lovely face 
 and fond feelings and innocent heart; and it was almost 
 heavenly, in the literal acceptation of the word, to hear 
 her sweet though childish voice swell along the still, 
 pure airs of summer, and her angelic countenance all 
 rapt and brilliant with the enthusiasm which her own 
 melodies created. 
 
 Never had she borne the bitter breath of unkindness,
 
 THE DISOWNED. 131 
 
 nor writhed beneath that customary injustice which 
 punishes in others the sins of our own temper, and the 
 varied fretf ulness of caprice ; and so she had none of the 
 fears and meannesses and acted untruths which so 
 usually pollute and debase the innocence of childhood. 
 But the promise of her ingenuous brow (over which 
 the silken hair flowed, parted into two streams of gold), 
 and of the fearless but tender eyes, and of the quiet 
 smile which sat forever upon the rosy mouth, like Joy 
 watching Love, was kept in its fullest extent by the 
 mind, from which all thoughts, pure, kind, and guile- 
 less, flowed, like waters from a well which a spirit has 
 made holy for its own dwelling. 
 
 On this evening, we have said that she sat by her 
 father's side and listened — though she only in part drank 
 in its sense — to his conversation with his guest. 
 
 The room was of great extent, and surrounded with 
 books, over which, at close intervals, the busts of the 
 departed great and the immortal wise looked down. 
 There was the sublime beauty of Plato, the harsher 
 and more earthly countenance of Tully, the only Roman 
 (except Lucretius) who might have been a Greek. 
 There the mute marble gave the broad front of Bacon 
 (itself a world), and there the features of Locke showed 
 how the mind wears away the links of flesh with the file 
 of thought. And over other departments of those works 
 which remind us that man is made little lower than the 
 angels, the stern face of the Florentine who sang of 
 hell, contrasted with the quiet grandeur enthroned on 
 the fair brow of the English poet, — " blind, but bold," 
 — and there the glorious but genial countenance of him 
 who has found in all humanity a friend, conspicuous 
 among sages and minstrels, claimed brotherhood with 
 all.
 
 132 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 The fire burned clear ami high, casting a rich twilight 
 (for there was qo other light in the room) over that 
 Gothic chamber, and shining cheerily upon the varying 
 countenance of Clarence, and the more contemplative 
 features of his host. In the latter might you see that 
 care and thought had been harsh, but not unhallowed 
 companions. In the lines which crossed his expanse of 
 brow, time seemed to have buried many hopes; but his 
 mien and air, if loftier, were gentler than in younger 
 days; and though they had gained somewhat in dignity, 
 had lost greatly in reserve. 
 
 There was in the old chamber, with its fretted roof 
 and ancient "garniture," the various books which sur- 
 rounded it, walls that the learned built to survive them- 
 selves, and in the marble likenesses of those for whom 
 thought had won eternity, joined to the hour, the breath- 
 ing quiet, and the hearth -light, by whose solitary rays 
 we love best in the eves of autumn to discourse on 
 graver or subtler themes, — there was in all this a spell 
 which seemed particularly to invite and to harmonize 
 with that tone of conversation, some portions of which 
 we are now about to relate. 
 
 "How loudly," said Clarence, " that last gust swept 
 by; you remember that beautiful couplet in Tibullus, — • 
 
 ' Quara juvat immites ventos audire cubantem, 
 Et dominam tenero detinuisse sinu.' " 1 
 
 "Ay," answered Mordaunt, with a scarcely audible 
 sigh; "that is the feeling of the lover at the ' immites 
 ventos? but we sages of the lamp make our mistress 
 Wisdom, and when the winds rage without, it is to her 
 that we cling. Sec how from the same object different 
 
 1 Swoot on our couch to hear the winds above, 
 And cling with closer heart to her we love.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 133 
 
 conclusions are drawn ! — the most common externals of 
 nature, the wind and the wave, the stars and the heavens, 
 the very earth on which we tread, never excite in differ- 
 ent bosoms the same ideas ; and it is from our own hearts 
 and not from an outward source, that we draw the hues 
 which color the web of our existence." 
 
 "It is true," answered Clarence. "You remember 
 that in two specks of the moon the enamoured maiden 
 perceived two unfortunate lovers, while the ambitious 
 curate conjectured that they were the spires of a cathe- 
 dral 1 But it is not only to our feelings, but also to 
 our reasonings, that we give the colors which they wear. 
 The moral, for instance, which to one man seems atro- 
 cious, to another is divine. On the tendency of the same 
 work what three people will agree ? And how shall the 
 most sanguine moralist hope to benefit mankind when 
 he finds that, by the multitude, his wisest endeavors to 
 instruct are often considered but as instruments to 
 pervert ? " 
 
 " I believe," answered Mordaunt, " that it is from our 
 ignorance that our contentions flow; we debate with 
 strife and with wrath, with bickering and with hatred, 
 but of the thing debated upon we remain in the pro- 
 foundest darkness. Like the laborers of Babel, while 
 we endeavor in vain to express our meaning to each 
 other, the fabric by which, for a common end, we would 
 have ascended to heaven from the ills of earth remains 
 forever unadvanced and incomplete. Let us hope that 
 knowledge is the universal language which shall reunite 
 us. As in their sublime allegory the ancients signified 
 that only through virtue we arrive at honor, so let us 
 believe that only through knowledge can we arrive at 
 virtue ! " 
 
 " And yet," said Clarence, " that seems a melancholy
 
 134 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 truth for the mass of the people, who have no time for 
 the researches of wi Join." 
 
 " IS r ot so much so as at first we might imagine," an- 
 swered Mordaunt: "the few smooth all paths for the 
 many. The precepts of knowledge it is difficult to ex- 
 tricate from error, but, once discovered, they gradually 
 pass into maxims; and thus what the sage's life was con- 
 sumed in acquiring, become the acquisition of a moment 
 to posterity. Knowledge is like the atmosphere, — in 
 order to dispel the vapor and dislodge the frost, our 
 ancestors felled the forest, drained the marsh, and cul- 
 tivated the Avaste; and we now breathe, without an 
 effort, in the purified air and the chastened climate, 
 the result of the labor of generations and the progress 
 of ages! As to-day, the common mechanic may equal 
 in science, however inferior in genius, the friar 1 whom 
 his contemporaries feared as a magician, so the opinions 
 winch now startle as well as astonish may be received 
 hereafter as acknowledged axioms, and pass into ordi- 
 nary practice. We cannot even tell how far the san- 
 guine 2 theories of certain philosophers deceive them 
 when they anticipate for future ages a knowdedge which 
 shall bring perfection to the mind, baflle the diseases of 
 the body, and even protract to a date now utterly un- 
 known the final destination of life: for Wisdom is a 
 palace of which only the vestibule has been entered; 
 nor can we guess what treasures are hid in those cham- 
 bers, of which the experience of the past can afford us 
 neither analogy nor clew." 
 
 1 Roger Bacon. 
 
 - See Condorcel on the Progress of the Human Mind: written 
 some years after the supposed date of this conversation, but in 
 which there is a slight, but eloquent and affecting view of the 
 philosophy to which Mordaunt refers.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 135 
 
 " It was, then," said Clarence, who wished to draw 
 his companion into speaking of himself, — "it was, 
 then, from your addiction to studies not ordinarily- 
 made the subject of acquisition that you date (pardon 
 me) your generosity, your devotedness, your feeling for 
 others, and your indifference to self?" 
 
 "You natter me," said Mordaunt, modestly (and we 
 may he permitted to crave attention to his reply, since 
 it unfolds the secret springs of a character so singularly 
 good and pure) , — " you natter me ; hut I will answer 
 you, as if you had put the question without the compli- 
 ment; nor, perhaps, will it be wholly uninstructive , as 
 it will certainly be new, to sketch, without recurrence 
 to events, or what I may call exterior facts, a brief and 
 progressive History of One Human Mind. 
 
 " Our first era of life is under the influence of the 
 primitive feelings: we are pleased, and we laugh; hurt, 
 and Ave -weep; we vent our little passions the moment 
 they are excited; and so much of novelty have we to 
 perceive, that we have little leisure to reflect. By-and- 
 by, fear teaches us to restrain our feelings: when dis- 
 pleased, we seek to revenge the displeasure, and are 
 punished; we find the excess of our joy, our sorrow, our 
 anger, alike considered criminal, and chidden into re- 
 straint. From harshness we become acquainted with 
 deceit: the promise made is not fulfilled, the threat not 
 executed, the fear falsely excited, and the hope wilfully 
 disappointed, — we are surrounded by systematized de- 
 lusion, and we imbibe the contagion. 
 
 " From being forced into concealing the thoughts 
 which we do conceive, we begin to affect those which 
 we do not : so early do we learn the two main tasks of 
 life, to suppress and to feign, that our memory will not 
 carry us beyond that period of artifice to a state of
 
 136 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 nature when the twin principles of veracity and belief 
 were so strong as to lead the philosophers of a modern 
 school into the error of terming them innate. 1 
 
 " It was with a mind restless and confused, — feelings 
 which were alternately chilled and counterfeited (the 
 necessary results of my first tuition), — that I was 
 driven to mix with others of my age. They did not 
 like me, nor do I blame them. Les manleres que Von 
 neglige comme cle petltes choses, sont souvent ce qui fait 
 que les hommes deddent de vous en blen ou en mal. 2 
 Manner is acquired so imperceptibly that we have given 
 its origin to nature, as we do the origin of all else for 
 which our ignorance can find no other source. Mine 
 was unprepossessing: I was disliked, and I returned the 
 feeling; I sought not, and I was shunned. Then I 
 thought that all were unjust to me, and I grew bitter 
 and sullen and morose: I cased myself in the stubborn- 
 ness of pride; I pored over the books which spoke of 
 the worthlessness of man, and I indulged the discontent 
 of myself by brooding over the frailties of my kind. 
 
 " My passions were strong, they told me to suppress 
 them. The precept was old, and seemed wise, — I at- 
 tempted to enforce it. I had already begun, in earlier 
 infancy, the lesson; I had now only to renew it. For- 
 tunately I was diverted from this task, or my mind, in 
 conquering its passions, would have conquered its powers. 
 I learned in after lessons that the passions are not to be 
 suppressed, — they are to be directed, and when di- 
 rected, rather to be strengthened than subdued. 
 
 " Observe how a word may influence a life : a man 
 whose opinion I esteemed, made of me the casual and 
 
 1 Reid on the Human Mind. 
 
 2 Those manners which one neglects as trifling, are often the 
 cause of the opinion, good or bad, formed of you by men.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 137 
 
 trite remark, that ' my nature was one of which it was 
 impossible to augur evil or good; it might be extreme 
 in either.' This observation roused me into thought: 
 could I indeed be all that was good or evil ; had I the 
 choice, and could I hesitate which to choose 1 But what 
 was good and what was evil? That seemed the most 
 difficult inquiry. 
 
 " I asked and received no satisfactory reply : in the 
 words of Erasmus, Totius negotii caput acfontem igno- 
 rant, devinant, ac dilirant omnes ; x so I resolved my- 
 self to inquire and to decide. I subjected to my scrutiny 
 the moralist and the philosopher : I saw that on all sides 
 they disputed, but I saw that they greiv virtuous in the 
 dispute; they uttered much that was absurd about the 
 origin of good, but much more that was exalted in its 
 p#aise; and 1 never rose from any work which treated 
 ably upon morals, whatever were its peculiar opinions, 
 but I felt my breast enlightened and my mind ennobled 
 by my studies. The professor of one sect commanded 
 me to avoid the dogmatist of another, as the propagator 
 of moral poison; and the dogmatist retaliated on the 
 professor: but I avoided neither; I read both, and turned 
 all ' into honey and fine gold.' No inquiry into wis- 
 dom, however superficial, is undeserving attention. The 
 vagaries of the idlest fancy will often chance, as it were, 
 upon the most useful discoveries of truth, and serve as a 
 guide to after and to slower disciples of wisdom; even 
 as the peckings of birds in an unknown country indicate 
 to the adventurous seamen the best and the safest fruits. 
 
 " From the works of men I looked into their lives, 
 and I found that there was a vast difference (though I 
 am not aware that it has before been remarked) between 
 
 1 All ignore, guess, and rave about the head and fountain of the 
 whole question at issue.
 
 138 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 those who cultivated a talent, and those who cultivated 
 the mind: I found that the mere men of genius were 
 often erring or criminal in their lives, hut that vice or 
 crime in the disciples of philosophy was strikingly un- 
 frequent and rare. The extremest culture of reason had 
 not, it is true, been yet carried far enough to preserve 
 the laborer from follies of opinion; but a moderate cul- 
 ture had been sufficient to deter him from the vices of 
 life. And only to the sons of Wisdom, as of old to 
 the sages of the East, seemed given the unerring star, 
 which, through the travail of Earth and the clouds of 
 Heaven, led them at the last to their God! 
 
 " When I gleaned this fact from biography, I paused, 
 and said, ' Then must there be something excellent in 
 wisdom, if it can, even in its most imperfect disciples, 
 be thus beneficial to morality.' Pursuing this senti- 
 ment, I redoubled my researches, and behold the object 
 of my quest was won! I had before sought a satisfactory 
 answer to the question, ' What is virtue 1 ' from men of 
 a thousand tenets, and my heart had rejected all I had 
 received. ' Virtue,' said some, and my soul bowed 
 reverently to the dictate, — 'virtue is religion.' I 
 heard and humbled myself before the Divine Book. 
 Let me trust that I did not humble myself in vain! 
 But the dictate satisfied less than it awed; for, either 
 it limited virtue to the mere belief, or, by extending it 
 to the practice of religion, it extended also inquiry to 
 the method in which the practice should be applied. 
 But with the first interpretation of the dictate who could 
 rest contented ? — for while in the perfect enforcement 
 of the tenets of our faith all virtue may be found, so 
 in the passive, and the mere belief in its divinity, we 
 find only an engine as applicable to evil as to good. The 
 torch which should illumine the altar has also lighted
 
 THE DISOWNED. 139 
 
 the stake, and the zeal of the persecutor has been no less 
 sincere than the heroism of the martyr. Rejecting, 
 therefore, this interpretation, I accepted the other: I 
 felt in my heart, and I rejoiced as I felt it, that in the 
 practice of religion the body of all virtue could be found. 
 But in that conviction had I at once an answer to my 
 inquiries 1 Could the mere desire of good be sufficient 
 to attain it, — and was the attempt at virtue synony- 
 mous with success ? On the contrary, have not those 
 most desirous of obeying the precepts of God often 
 sinned the most against their spirit, and has not zeal 
 been frequently the most ardent when crime was the 
 most rife 1 1 But what if neither sincerity nor zeal was 
 sufficient to constitute goodness ; what if in the breasts 
 of the best intentioned, crime had been fostered, the 
 more dangerously, because the more disguised, — what 
 ensued? That the religion which they professed, they 
 believed, they adored, they had also misunderstood ; 
 and that the precepts to be drawn from the Holy Book, 
 they had darkened by their ignorance, or perverted by 
 their passions! Here, then, at once, my enigma was 
 solved; here, then, at once, I was led to the goal of my 
 inquiry! Ignorance and the perversion of passion are 
 but the same thing, though under different names, for 
 
 1 There can be no doubt that they who exterminated the Albi- 
 genses, established the Inquisition, lighted the fires at Smithfield, 
 Mere actuated not by a desire to do evil, but (monstrous as it may 
 seem) to do good, — not to counteract, but to enforce what they 
 believed the wishes of the Almighty: so that a good intention, 
 without the enlightenment to direct it to a fitting object, mav be 
 as pernicious to human happiness as one the most fiendish. We 
 are told of a whole people who used to murder their guests, not 
 from ferocity or interest, but from the pure and praiseworthy 
 motive of ohtaimnrj the rjond qualities which they believed, by the 
 murder of the deceased, devolved upon them.
 
 140 THE DISOWN F.I). 
 
 only by our ignorance are onr passions perverted. There- 
 fore, what followed? — that if by ignorance the greatest 
 
 of God's gifts had been turned to evil, knowledge ah ae 
 was the light by which even the pages of religion should 
 be read. It followed that the Providence that knew 
 that the nature it had created should be constantly in 
 exercise, and that only through labor comes improve- 
 ment, had wisely ordained that we should toil even for 
 the blessing of its holiest and clearest laws. It had 
 given us, in religion, as in this magnificent world, 
 treasures and harvests which might be called forth in 
 incalculable abundance; but had decreed that through 
 our exertions only should they be called forth: a palace 
 more gorgeous than the palaces of enchantment was 
 before us, but its chambers were a labyrinth which 
 required a clew. 
 
 " What was that clew? "Was it to be sought for in 
 the corners of earth, or was it not beneficently centred 
 in ourselves ? Was it not the exercise of a power easy 
 for us to use, if we would dare to do so? Was it not 
 the. simple exertion of the discernment granted to us 
 for all else? W r as it not the exercise of our reason? 
 'Reason!' cried the zealot: 'pernicious and hateful 
 instrument, it is fraught with peril to yourself and to 
 others; do not think for a moment of employing an 
 engine so fallacious and so dangerous.' But I listened 
 not to the zealot; could the steady and bright torch 
 which, even where the Star of Bethlehem had withheld 
 its diviner light, had guided some patient and unwearied 
 steps to the very throne of virtue, become but a deceit- 
 ful meteor to him who kindled it for the aid of religion, 
 and in an eternal cause? Could it be perilous to task 
 our reason, even to the utmost, in the investigation of 
 the true utility and hidden wisdom of the works of
 
 THE DISOWNED. 141 
 
 God, when God himself had ordained that only through 
 some exertion of our reason should we know either from 
 nature or revelation that He himself existed 1 ? 'But,' 
 cried the zealot again, — ' hut mere mortal wisdom teaches 
 men presumption, and presumption doubt.' ' Pardon 
 me,' I answered, ' it is not wisdom, hut ignorance, 
 which teaches men presumption; genius may he some- 
 times arrogant, but nothing is so diffident as knowledge.'' 
 'But,' resumed the zealot, ' those accustomed to subtle 
 inquiries may dwell only on the minutiae of faith, — 
 inexplicable, because useless to explain and argue from 
 those minutiae against the grand and universal truth.' 
 Pardon me again : it is the petty not the enlarged mind 
 which prefers casuistry to conviction ; it is the confined 
 and short sight of ignorance which, unable to compre- 
 hend the great bearings of truth, pries only into its 
 narrow and obscure corners, occupying itself in scruti- 
 nizing the atoms of a part, Avhile the eagle eye of wisdom 
 contemplates, in its widest scale, the luminous majesty 
 of the whole. Survey our faults, our errors, our vices, 
 — fearful and fertile field ; trace them to their causes : 
 all those causes resolve themselves into one, — igno- 
 rance! For as we have already seen that from this 
 source flow the abuses of religion, so also from this 
 source flow the abuses of all other blessings, — of talents, 
 of riches, of power; for Ave abuse things, either because 
 we know not their real use, or because, with an equal 
 blindness, we imagine the abuse more adapted to our 
 happiness. But as ignorance, then, is the sole spring 
 of evil, so, as the antidote to ignorance is knowledge, 
 it necessarily follows that, wore we consummate in 
 knowledge, we should be perfect in good. He there- 
 fore who retards the progress of intellect countenances 
 crime, — nay, to a state is the greatest of criminals;
 
 ]42 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 while he who circulates that mental light more precious 
 than tlic visual, is the holiest improver, and the surest 
 benefactor of his race! Nor let us helieve, with the 
 dupes of a shallow policy, that there exists upon the 
 earth one prejudice that can he called salutary, or one 
 error beneficial to perpetuate As the petty fish which 
 is fabled to possess the property of arresting the progress 
 of the largest vessel to which it clings, even so may a 
 single prejudice, unnoticed or despised, more than the 
 adverse blast or the dead calm, delay the hark of knowl- 
 edge in the vast seas of time. 
 
 " It is true that the sanguineness of philanthropists 
 may have carried them too far; it is true (for the ex- 
 periment has not yet been made) that God may have 
 denied to us in this state the consummation of knowledge 
 and the consequent perfection in good; but because, we 
 cannot be perfect, are we to resolve we will be evil 1 
 One step in knowledge is one step from sin: one step 
 from sin is one step nearer to Heaven. Oh! never let 
 us be deluded by those who, for political motives, would 
 adulterate the divinity of religious truths: never let us 
 helieve that our Father in heaven rewards most the one 
 talent unemployed, or that prejudice and indolence and 
 fully find the most favor in His sight! The very 
 heathen has bequeathed to us a nobler estimate of His 
 nature; and the same sentence which so sublimely de- 
 clares ' truth is the body of God,' declares also, 
 'and light is His shadow.' 1 
 
 " Persuaded, then, that knowledge contained the key 
 to virtue, it was to knowledge that I applied. The first 
 grand lesson which if taught me was the solution of a 
 phrase most hackneyed, least understood, — namely, 
 * common sense.' - It is in the Portico of the Greek 
 
 1 Plato. '- \Hoivovor)fxo(Tvvri, — Sensus communis.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 143 
 
 sage that that phrase has received its legitimate explana- 
 tion ; it is there we are taught that ' common sense ' 
 signifies ' the sense of the common interest.' Yes! it is 
 the most beautiful truth in morals that we have no such 
 thing as a distinct or divided interest from our race. In 
 their welfare is ours; and by choosing the broadest 
 paths to effect their happiness, we choose the surest and 
 the shortest to our own. As I read and pondered over 
 these truths, I was sensible that a great change was 
 working a fresh world out of the former materials of my 
 mind. My passions, which before I had checked into 
 uselessness, or exerted to destruction, now started forth 
 in a nobler shape, and prepared for a new direction: 
 instead of urging me to individual aggrandizement, they 
 panted for universal good, and coveted the reward of 
 ambition only for the triumphs of benevolence. 
 
 " This is one stage of virtue, — I cannot resist the 
 belief that there is a higher : it is when we begin to love 
 virtue, not for its objects, but itself. For there are in 
 knowledge these two excellences : first, that it offers to 
 every man, the most selfish and the most exalted, his 
 peculiar inducement to good. It says to the former, 
 ' Serve mankind, and you serve yourself; ' to the latter, 
 ' In choosing the best means to secure your own happi- 
 ness, you will have the sublime inducement of promoting 
 the happiness of mankind. ' 
 
 " The second excellence of knowledge is that even 
 the selfish man, when he has once begun to love vir- 
 tue from little motives, loses the motives as he in- 
 creases the love ; and at last worships the deity, where 
 before he only coveted the gold upon its altar. And 
 thus I learned to love virtue solely for its own beauty. 
 I said with one who, among much dross, has many 
 particles of ore, ' If it be not estimable in itself, I can
 
 144 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 see nothing estimable in following it for the sake of a 
 bargain. ' 1 
 
 " I looked round the world, and saw often virtue in 
 rags, and vice in purple: the former conduces to happi- 
 ness, it is true, but the happiness lies within, uid not 
 in externals. I contemned the deceitful folly with 
 which writers have termed it poetical justice to make 
 the good ultimately prosperous in wealth, honor, fortu- 
 nate love, or successful desires. Nothing false, even in 
 poetry, can be just; and that pretended moral is, of all, 
 the falsest. Virtue is not more exempt than vice from 
 the ills of fate, but it contains within itself always an 
 energy to resist them, and sometimes an anodyne to 
 soothe, — to repay your quotation from Tibullus: 
 
 ' Crura sonant ferro, — sed canit inter opus ! ' 2 
 
 " When in the depths of my soul I set up that 
 divinity of this nether earth which Brutus never really 
 understood, if, because unsuccessful in its efforts, he 
 doubted its existence, 1 said in the proud prayer with 
 which I worshipped it, ' Poverty may humble my lot, 
 but it shall not debase thee; temptation may shake my 
 nature, but not the rock on which thy temple is based; 
 misfortune may wither all the hopes that have blos- 
 somed around thine altar, but I will sacrifice dead leaves 
 when the flowers are no more. Though all that I have 
 loved perish, — all that T have coveted fade away, 1 may 
 murmur at fate; but I will have no voice but that of 
 homage for thee! Nor, while thou smilest upon my 
 way, would I exchange with the loftiest and happiest of 
 thy foes! More bitter than aught of what I then dreamed 
 have been my trials, but I have fulfilled my vow ! ' 
 
 1 Lord Shaftesbury 
 
 2 The chaius clank ou its limbs, but it sings amidst its tasks.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 145 
 
 " I believe that alone to be a true description of virtue, 
 which makes it all-sufficient to itself, — that alone a just 
 portraiture of its excellence, which does not lessen its 
 internal power by exaggerating its outward advantages, 
 nor degrade its nobility by dwelling only on its rewards. 
 The grandest moral of ancient lore has ever seemed to 
 me that which the picture of Prometheus affords: in 
 whom neither the shaking earth, nor the rending heaven, 
 nor the rock without, nor the vulture within, could cause 
 regret for past benevolence, or terror for future evil, or 
 envy, even amidst tortures for the dishonorable prosperity 
 of his insulter ! 1 Who, that has glowed over this exalted 
 picture, will tell us that we must make virtue prosper- 
 ous in order to allure to it, or clothe, vice with misery 
 in order to revolt us from its image! Oh! who, on the 
 contrary, would not learn to adore virtue, from the bit- 
 terest sufferings of such a votary, a hundredfold more 
 than he would learn to love vice from the gaudiest 
 triumphs of its most fortunate disciples 1 " 
 
 Something there was in Mordaunt's voice and air, 
 and the impassioned glow of his countenance, that, 
 long after he had ceased, thrilled in Clarence's heart, 
 "like the remembered tone of a mute lyre." And, 
 when a subsequent event led him at rash moments to 
 doubt whether virtue was indeed the chief good, Linden 
 recalled the words of that night, and the enthusiasm 
 with which they were uttered, repented that in his 
 doubt he had wronged the truth, and felt that there 
 is a power in the deep heart of man to which even 
 destiny is submitted! 
 
 1 Mercury. — See the " Prometheus " of iEschylus. 
 
 VOL. II. — 10
 
 146 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIII. 
 
 Will you hear the letter 1 
 
 This is the motley minded gentleman that I have before met in the 
 
 forest. 
 
 As You Like It. 
 
 A morning or two after the conversation with which 
 our last chapter concluded, Clarence received the 
 following letter from the Duke of Haverfield: — 
 
 Your letter, my dear Linden, would have heen answered 
 before, but for an occurrence which is generally supposed to 
 engross the whole attention of the persons concerned in it. 
 Let me see : ay, three, yes, I have been exactly three days mar- 
 ried! Upon my honor, there is much less in the event than 
 one would imagine ; and the next time it happens, I will not 
 put myself to such amazing trouble and inconvenience about 
 it. But one buys wisdom only by experience. Now, however, 
 that I have communicated to you the fact, I expect you, in the 
 first place, to excuse my negligence for not writing before ; for 
 (as I know you are fond of the literce humanio/es, I will give 
 the sentiment the dignity of a quotation) — 
 
 " Un ve'ritable amant ne connait point d'amis ; " 1 
 
 and though I have been three days married, I am still a lover! 
 In the second place, I expect you to be very grateful that, all 
 things considered, I write to you so soon ; it would indeed not 
 be an ordinary inducement that could make me " put pen to 
 paper " (is not that the true vulgar, commercial, academical, 
 metaphorical, epistolary style '.) so shortly after the i'atal 
 ceremony. So, had 1 nothing to say but in reply to your com- 
 ments on state affairs (hang them!!. — or in applause of 
 your Italian friend, of whom 1 say, as Charles IT. said of the 
 
 1 A true lover recognizes no friends. — Corneille.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 147 
 
 honest yeoman, "I can admire virtue, though I can't imitate 
 it !" I think it highly probable that your letter might still 
 remain in a certain box of tortoiseshell and gold (formerly be- 
 longing to the great Richelieu, and now in my possession), in 
 which I at this instant descry, " with many a glance of woe 
 and boding dire," sundry epistles, in manifold handwritings, all 
 classed under the one fearful denomination, — " unanswered." 
 
 No, my good Linden, my heart is inditing of a better matter 
 than this. Listen to me, and then stay at your host's, or order 
 your swiftest steed, as seems most meet to you. 
 
 You said rightly that Miss Trevanion, now her Grace of 
 Haverfield, was the intimate friend of Lady Flora Ardenne. I 
 have often talked to her — namely, Eleanor, not Lady Flora — 
 about you, and was renewing the conversation yesterday, when 
 your letter, accidentally lying before me, reminded me of you. 
 Sundry little secrets passed, in due conjugal course, from her 
 possession into mine. I find that you have been believed, by 
 Lady Flora, to have played the perfidious with La Meronville, 
 ■ — that she never knew of your application to her father, and 
 his reply ; that, on the contrary, she accused you of indiffer- 
 ence in going abroad without attempting to obtain an interview, 
 or excuse your supposed infidelity; that her heart is utterly 
 averse to a union with that odious Lord Boro — bah — I mean 
 Lord Ulswater ; and that — prepare, Linden — she still cher- 
 ishes your memory, even through time, change, and fancied 
 desertion, with a tenderness which — which — deuce take it, 
 I never could write sentiment — but you understand me, so I 
 will not conclude the phrase. " Nothing in oratory," said my 
 
 cousin D , who was, entre nous, more honest than eloquent, 
 
 "like a break," — "down ! you should have added," said I. 
 
 I now, my dear Linden, leave you to your fate. For my 
 part, though I own Lord Ulswater is a lord whom ladies in 
 love with the etceteras of married pomp might well desire, yet 
 I do think it would be no difficult matter for j r ou to eclipse 
 him ! I cannot, it is true, advise you to run away with Lady 
 Flora. Gentlemen don't run away with the daughters of gen- 
 tlemen; but. without running away, you may win your be- 
 trothed and Lord ULv.vater's intended. A distinguished mem-
 
 148 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 ber of the House of Commons, owner of Searsdale, and 
 representative of the most ancient branch of the Talbots, — 
 
 mon Dieu ! you might marry a queen dowager, and decline 
 settlements I 
 
 And so, committing thee to the guidance of that winged 
 god who, if three days afford any experience, has made thy 
 friend forsake pleasure only to find happiness, I bid thee, 
 most gentle Linden, farewell. 
 
 Haverfield. 
 
 Upon reading this letter, Clarence felt as a man sud- 
 denly transformed. From an exterior of calm and 
 apathy, at the bottom of which lay one bitter and cor- 
 roding recollection, he passed at once into a state of 
 emotion, wild, agitated, and confused; yet, amidst all, 
 was foremost a burning and intense hope, which for 
 long years he had not permitted himself to form. 
 
 He descended into the breakfast-parlor. Mordaunt, 
 whose hours of appearing, though not of rising, were 
 much later than Clarence's, was not yet down; and our 
 lover had full leisure to form his plans before his host 
 made his entree. 
 
 "Will you ride to-day?" said Mordaunt : "there are 
 some old ruins in the neighborhood, well worth the 
 trouble of a visit." 
 
 "I grieve to say," answered Clarence, "that I must 
 take my leave of you. I have received intelligence this 
 morning which may greatly influence my future life, 
 and by which I am obliged to make an excursion to 
 another part of the country, nearly a day's journey, on 
 horseback. " 
 
 Mordaunt looked at his guest, and conjectured by his 
 heightened color, and an embarrassment which lie in vain 
 endeavored to conceal, that the journey might have some 
 cause for its suddenness and despatch which the young
 
 THE DISOWNED. 149 
 
 senator had his peculiar reasons for concealing. Alger- 
 non contented himself, therefore, with expressing his 
 regret at Linden's abrupt departure, without incurring 
 the indiscreet hospitality of pressing a longer sojourn 
 beneath his roof. 
 
 Immediately after breakfast, Clarence's horse was 
 brought to the door, and Harrison received orders to 
 wait with the carriage at W until his master re- 
 turned. Not a little surprised, we trow, was the worthy 
 valet at his master's sudden attachment to equestrian 
 excursions. Mordaunt accompanied his visitor through 
 the park, and took leave of him with a warmth which 
 sensibly touched Clarence, in spite of the absence and 
 excitement of his thoughts; indeed, the unaffected and 
 simple character of Linden, joined to his acute, bold, 
 and cultivated mind, had taken strong hold of Mor- 
 daunt's interest and esteem. 
 
 It was a mild autumnal morning, but thick clouds in 
 the rear prognosticated rain; and the stillness of the 
 wind, the low flight of the swallows, and the lowing of 
 the cattle slowly gathering towards the nearest shelter 
 within their appointed boundaries, confirmed the inau- 
 spicious omen. Clarence had passed the town of W , 
 
 and was entering into a road singularly hilly, when he 
 "was aware," as the quaint old writers of former days 
 expressed themselves, of a tall stranger, mounted on a 
 neat, well-trimmed galloway, who had for the last two 
 minutes been advancing towards a closely parallel line 
 with Clarence, and had, by sundry glances and hems, 
 denoted a desire of commencing acquaintance and con- 
 versation with his fellow-traveller. 
 
 At last he summoned courage, and said, with a respect- 
 ful though somewhat free air, " That is a very fine horse 
 of yours, sir, — I have seldom seen so fast a walker : if
 
 150 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 all his other paces are equally good, lie must be quite a 
 treasure." 
 
 All men have their vanities. Clarence's was as much 
 in his horse's excellences as his own; and gratified 
 even with the compliment of a stranger, he replied to it 
 by joining in the praise, though with a modest and 
 measured forbearance, which the stranger, if gifted 
 with penetration, could easily have discerned was more 
 affected than sincere. 
 
 "And yet, sir," resumed Clarence's new companion, 
 " my little palfrey might perhaps keep pace with your 
 steed; look: I lay the rein on his neck, — and, you see, 
 he rivals; by Heaven, he outwalks yours." 
 
 Not a little piqued and incensed, Linden also relaxed 
 his rein, and urged his horse to a quicker step; but the 
 lesser competitor not only sustained, but increased his 
 superiority ; and it was only by breaking into a trot that 
 Linden's impatient and spirited steed could overtake 
 him. Hitherto Clarence had not honored his new com- 
 panion with more than a rapid and slight glance ; but 
 rivalry even in trifles begets respect, and our defeated 
 hero now examined him with a more curious eye. 
 
 The stranger was between forty and fifty, — an age 
 in which, generally, very little of the boy has survived 
 the advance of manhood; yet there was a hearty and 
 frank exhilaration in the manner and look of the person 
 we describe which is rarely found beyond the first stage 
 of youth. His features were comely and clearly cut, 
 and his air and appearance indicative of a man who 
 might equally have belonged to the middle or the 
 upper orders. But Clarence's memory, as well as at- 
 tention, was employed in his survey of the stranger; and 
 he recognized, in a countenance on which time had 
 passed very lightly, an old and ofttimes recalled ac-
 
 THE DISOWNED. 151 
 
 quaintance. However, he did not immediately make 
 himself known. " I will first see," thought he , " whether 
 he can rememher his young guest in the bronzed stran- 
 ger, after eight years' absence. 
 
 "Well," said Clarence, as he approached the owner 
 of the palfrey, who was laughing with childish glee at 
 his conquest, — " well, you have won, sir; but the tor- 
 toise might beat the hare in walking, and I content my- 
 self with thinking that at a trot or a gallop the result 
 of a race would have been very different. " 
 
 " I am not so sure of that, sir," said the sturdy stran- 
 ger, patting the arched neck of his little favorite : " if 
 you would like to try either I should have no objection 
 to venture a trifling wager on the event. " 
 
 "You are very good," said Clarence, with a smile, in 
 which urbanity was a little mingled with contemptuous 
 incredulity; "but I am not now at leisure to win your 
 money. I have a long day's journey before me, and 
 must not tire a faithful servant; yet I do candidly con- 
 fess that I think " (and Clarence's recollection of the 
 person he addressed made him introduce the quotation) 
 
 " that my horse 
 
 ' Excels a common one 
 In shape, in courage, color, pace, and bone.' " 
 
 11 Eh, sir! " cried our stranger, as his eyes sparkled at 
 the verses : " I would own that your horse were worth 
 all the horses in the kingdom, if you brought Will 
 Shakespeare to prove it. And I am also willing to 
 confess that your steed does fairly merit the splendid 
 praise which follows the lines you have quoted, — 
 
 'Round-hoofed, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long, 
 Broad breast, full eyes, small head, and nostril wide, 
 High crest, short eai's, straight legs, and passing strong, 
 Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide.' "
 
 152 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 " Come," said Clarence, " your memory has atoned for 
 your horse's victory, and I quite forgive your conquest 
 in return for your compliment ; but suffer me to ask how 
 long you have commenced cavalier. The Arah's tent is, 
 if 1 err not, more a badge of your profession than the 
 Arab's steed." 
 
 King Cole (for the stranger was no less a person) 
 looked at his companion in surprise. " So you know 
 me, then, sir! "Well, it is a hard thing for a man to turn 
 honest, when people have so much readier a recollection 
 of his sins than his reform." 
 
 "Reform!" quoth Clarence; "am I then to under- 
 stand that your majesty has abdicated your dominions 
 under the greenwood tree 1 n 
 
 " You are," said Cole, eying his acquaintance in- 
 quisitively, — " you are. 
 
 I fear no more the heat of the sun, 
 Nor the furious winter's rages ; 
 I my worldly task have done, 
 Home am gone and ta'en my wages." 
 
 "I congratulate you," said Clarence; "but only in 
 part, — for I have often envied your past state, and do 
 not know enough of your present to say whether I should 
 equally envy that." 
 
 "Why," answered Cole, " after all, we commit a great 
 error in imagining that it is the living wood or the dead 
 Avail which makes happiness. ' My mind to me a king- 
 dom is,' — and it is that which you must envy, if } r ou 
 honor anything belonging to me with that feeling." 
 
 " The precept is both good and old," answered Clar- 
 ence ; " yet I think it was not a very favorite maxim of 
 yours some years ago. I remember a time when you 
 thought no happiness could exist out of ' dingle and
 
 THE DISOWNED. 15 
 
 o 
 
 bosky dell. ' If not very intrusive on your secrets, may 
 I know how long you have changed your sentiments and 
 manner of life 1 The reason of the change I dare not 
 presume to ask. " 
 
 " Certainly," said the quondam gypsy, musingly, — • 
 " certainly I have seen your face before, and even the 
 tone of your voice strikes me as not wholly unfamiliar; 
 yet I cannot, for the life of me, guess whom I have the 
 honor of addressing. However, sir, I have no hesita- 
 tion in answering your questions. It was just five years 
 ago last summer, when I left the tents of Kedar. I 
 now reside about a mile hence. It is but a hundred 
 yards off the highroad, and if you would not object to 
 step aside and suffer a rasher, or aught else, to be ' the 
 shoeing-horn to draw on a cup of ale,' as our plain 
 forefathers were wont wittily to say, why, I shall be 
 very happy to show you my habitation. You will have 
 a double welcome, from the circumstance of my having 
 been absent from home for the last three days. " 
 
 Clarence, mindful of his journey, was about to decline 
 the invitation, when a few heavy drops falling, began 
 to fulfil the cloudy promise of the morning. " Trust," 
 said Cole, " one who has been for years a watcher of the 
 signs and menaces of the weather, — we shall have a 
 violent shower immediately. You have now no choice 
 but to accompany me home." 
 
 " Well," said Clarence, yielding with a good grace, 
 " I am glad of so good an excuse for intruding on your 
 
 hospitality. 
 
 ' 0, sky ! 
 Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, 
 And make me travel forth without my cloak ! ' " 
 
 " Bravo ! " cried the ex-chief, too delighted to find a 
 comrade so well acquainted with Shakespeare's sonnets
 
 154 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 to heed the little injustice Clarence had done the sky, 
 in accusing it of a treachery its black clouds had by no 
 means deserved. " Bravo, sir; and now, my palfrey 
 against your steed: trot, — eh, or gallop ? " 
 
 " Trot, if it must be so," said Clarence, superciliously : 
 " but I am a few paces before you." 
 
 " So much the better," cried the jovial chief. " Little 
 John's mettle will be the more up: on with you, sir; 
 he who breaks into a canter loses, — on ! 
 
 And Clarence slightly touching his beautiful steed, 
 the race was begun. At first his horse, which was a 
 remarkable stepper, as the modern Messrs. Anderson and 
 Dyson would say, greatly gained the advantage. " To 
 the right," cried the ci-devant gypsy, as Linden had 
 nearly passed a narrow lane which led to the domain of 
 the ex-king. The turn gave " Little John " an oppor- 
 tunity which he seized to advantage; and to Clarence's 
 indignant surprise, he beheld Cole now close behind — 
 now beside — and now — now — before ! In the heat of 
 the moment he put spurs rather too sharply to his horse, 
 and the spirited animal immediately passed his competi- 
 tor — but — in a canter! 
 
 "Victoria," cried Cole, keeping back his own steed, 
 — " Victoria : confess it ! " 
 
 " Pshaw," said Clarence, petulantly. 
 
 " Nay, sir, never mind it," quoth the retired sover- 
 eign; " perhaps it was but a venial transgression of your 
 horse, — and on other ground I should not have beaten 
 you. " 
 
 It is very easy to be generous when one is quite sure 
 one is the victor. Clarence felt tins, and muttering out 
 sometbing about the sharp .ingle in the road, turned 
 abruptly from all further comment on the subject, by 
 saying, " We are now, I suppose, entering your territory.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 155 
 
 Does not this white gate lead to your new (at least new 
 to me) abode 1 ? " 
 
 "It does," replied Cole, opening the said gate, and 
 pausing as if to suffer his guest and rival to look round 
 and admire. 
 
 The house, in full view, was of red brick, small and 
 square, faced with stone copings, and adorned in the 
 centre with a gable roof, on which was a ball of glitter- 
 ing metal. A flight of stone steps led to the porch, 
 which was of fair size and stately, considering the pro- 
 portions of the mansion, — over the door was a stone 
 shield of arms, surmounted by a stag's head; and above 
 this heraldic ornament was a window of great breadth, 
 compared to the other conveniences of a similar nature. 
 On either side of the house ran a slight iron fence, the 
 protection of sundry plots of gay flowers and garden 
 shrubs, while two peacocks were seen slowly stalking 
 towards the enclosure to seek a shelter from the increas- 
 ing shower. At the back of the building, thick trees 
 and a rising hill gave a meet defence from the winds of 
 winter; and in front a sloping and small lawn afforded 
 pasture for a few sheep and two pet deer. Toward the 
 end of this lawn were two large fishponds, shaded by 
 rows of feathered trees. On the margin of each of these, 
 as if emblematic of ancient customs, was a common 
 tent; and in the intermediate space was a rustic pleasure- 
 house, fenced from the encroaching cattle, and half hid 
 by surrounding laurel and the parasite ivy. 
 
 Altogether, there was a quiet and old-fashioned com- 
 fort, and even luxury, about the place, which suited well 
 with the eccentric character of the abdicated chief ; and 
 Clarence, as he gazed around, really felt that he might, 
 perhaps, deem the last state of the owner not worse than 
 the first.
 
 156 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 Unmindful of the rain, which now "began to pour fast 
 and full, Cole suffered " Little John's " rein to fall over 
 his neck, and the spoiled favorite to pluck the smooth 
 grass beneath, while he pointed out to Clarence the 
 various beauties of his seat. 
 
 "There, sir," said he; "by those ponds in which, I 
 assure you, old Isaac might have fished with delight, 
 I pass many a summer's day. I was always a lover 
 of the angle, and the farthest pool is the most beau- 
 tiful bathing-place imaginable: as glorious Geoffrey 
 Chaucer says, — 
 
 ' The gravel 's gold ; the water pure as glass 
 The bankes round the well environing; 
 And softe as velvet the younge grass 
 That thereupon lustily come springing.' 
 
 " And in that arbor, Lucy — that is, my wife — sits in 
 the summer evenings with her father and our children; 
 and then — ah ! see our pets come to welcome me ," — • 
 pointing to the deer, who had advanced within a few 
 yards of him, but, intimidated by the stranger, would not 
 venture within reach : " Lucy loved choosing her favor- 
 ites among animals which had formerly been wild, and, 
 faith, I loved it too. But you observe the house, sir, — 
 it was built in the reign of Queen Anne; it belonged to 
 my mother's family, but my father sold it, and his son 
 five years ago rebought it. Those arms belong to my 
 maternal ancestry. Look — look at the peacocks creeping 
 along: poor pride theirs that can't stand the shower! 
 But, egad, that reminds me of the rain. Come, sir, let 
 us make for our shelter." And resuming their progress, 
 a minute more brought them to the old-fashioned porch. 
 Cole's ring summoned a man, not decked in " livery 
 gay," but, " clad in serving frock," who took the horses
 
 THE DISOWNED. 157 
 
 with a nod, half familiar, half respectful, at his master's 
 injunctions of attention and hospitality to the stranger's 
 heast; and then our old acquaintance, striking through 
 a small low hall, ushered Clarence into the chief sitting- 
 room of the mansion.
 
 158 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIV. 
 
 We are not poor ; although we have 
 No roofs of cedar, nor our brave 
 
 Baiae, nor keep 
 Account of such a flock of sheep, 
 
 Nor bullocks fed 
 To lard the shambles ; barbies bred 
 To kiss our hands ; nor do we wish 
 For Pollio's lampries in our dish. 
 
 If we can meet and so confer 
 Both by a shining salt-cellar, 
 
 And have our roof, 
 Although not arched, yet weather-proof: 
 
 And ceiling free 
 From that cheap candle-bawderv ; 
 We '11 eat our bean with that full mirth 
 As we were lords of all the earth. 
 
 Herrick, from Horace. 
 
 On entering the room, Clarence recognized Lucy, whom 
 eight years had converted into a sleek and portly matron 
 of about thirty -two, without stealing from her counte- 
 nance its original expression of mingled modesty and 
 good-nature. She hastened to meet her husband with 
 an eager and joyous air of welcome seldom seen on 
 matrimonial faces after so many years of wedlock. 
 
 A fine, stout boy, of about eleven years old, left a 
 cross-bow, which, on his father's entrance, he had ap- 
 peared earnestly employed in mending, to share with 
 his mother the salutations of the Returned. An old 
 man sat in an arm-chair by the fire, gazing on the three 
 with an affectionate and gladdening eye, and playfully
 
 THE DISOWNED. 159 
 
 detaining a child of about four years old, who was 
 struggling to escape to dear " papa ! " 
 
 The room was of oak wainscot, and the furniture 
 plain, solid, and strong, and cast in the fashion still 
 frequently found in those country-houses which have 
 remained unaltered by innovation since the days of 
 George II. 
 
 Three rough-coated dogs, of a breed that would have 
 puzzled a connoisseur, gave themselves the rousing shake, 
 and deserting the luxurious hearth, came in various 
 welcome to their master. One rubbed himself against 
 Cole's sturdy legs, murmuring soft rejoicings: he was 
 the grandsire of the canine race, and his wick of life 
 burned low in the socket. Another sprang up almost to 
 the face of his master, and yelled his very heart out with 
 joy : that was the son, exulting in the vigor of matured 
 doghood ! — and the third scrambled and tumbled over 
 the others, uttering his paeans in a shrill treble, and 
 chiding most snappishly at his two progenitors for in- 
 terfering with his pretensions to notice: that was the 
 infant dog, the little reveller in puppy childishness! 
 Clarence stood by the door, with his fine countenance 
 smiling benevolently at the happiness he beheld, and 
 congratulating himself that, for one moment, the group 
 had forgotten that he was a stranger. 
 
 As soon as our gypsy friend had kissed his wife, 
 shaken hands with his eldest hope, shaken his head at 
 his youngest, smiled his salutation at the father-in-law, 
 and patted into silence the canine claimants of his favor, 
 he turned to Clarence, and saying, half bashfully, half 
 good-humoredly, " See what a troublesome thing it is to 
 return home, even after three days' absence. Lucy, 
 dearest, welcome a new friend! " he placed a chair by the 
 fireside for his guest, and motioned him to be seated.
 
 1G0 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 The chief expression of Clarence's open and hold 
 countenance was centred in the eyes and forehead; and 
 as he now doffed his hat, which had hitherto concealed 
 that expression, Lucy and her husband recognized him 
 simultaneously. 
 
 " I am sure, sir," cried the former, "that I am glad 
 to see you once more ! " 
 
 "Ah! my young guest under the gypsy -awning! " 
 exclaimed the latter, shaking him heartily by the hand: 
 " where were my eyes that they did not recognize you 
 before 1 " 
 
 "Eight years," answered Clarence, "have worked 
 more change with me and my friend here " (pointing 
 to the boy, whom he had left last so mere a child) " than 
 they have with you and his blooming mother. The 
 wonder is, not that you did not remember me before, 
 but that you remember me now! " 
 
 " You are altered, sir, certainly," said the frank chief. 
 " Your face is thinner, and far graver ; and the smooth 
 cheeks of the boy (for, craving your pardon, you were 
 little more then) are somewhat darkened by the bronzed 
 complexion with which time honors the man." 
 
 And the good Cole sighed, as he contrasted Linden's 
 ardent countenance and elastic figure, when he had last 
 beheld him, with the serious and thoughtful face of the 
 person now before him; yet did he inly own that years, 
 if they had in some things deteriorated from, had in 
 others improved the effect of Clarence's appearance : they 
 had brought decision to his mien and command to his 
 brow, and had enlarged, to an ampler measure of dig- 
 nity and power, the proportions of his form. Some- 
 thing too there was in his look, like that of a man who 
 has stemmed fate, and won success; and the omen of 
 future triumph, which our fortune-telling chief had
 
 THE DISOWNED. 1G1 
 
 drawn from his features, when first beheld, seemed 
 already, in no small degree, to have been fulfilled. 
 
 Having seen her guest stationed in the seat of honor 
 opposite her father, Lucy withdrew for a few moments, 
 and when she reappeared, was followed by a neat-handed 
 sort of Phillis for a country -maiden, bearing such kind 
 of " savory messes " as the house might be supposed to 
 afford. 
 
 " At all events, mine host," said Clarence, " you did 
 not desert the flesh-pots of Egypt when you forsook its 
 tents. " 
 
 " Nay," quoth the worthy Cole, seating himself at the 
 table ; " either under the roof or the awning, we may 
 say, in the words of the old epilogue, 1 
 
 ' We can but bring you meat and set you stools, 
 And to our best cheer say, You all are welcome.' 
 
 We are plain people still ; but if you can stay till 
 dinner, you shall have a bottle of such wine as our 
 fathers' honest soids would have rejoiced in." 
 
 " I am truly sorry that I cannot tarry with you, after 
 so fair a promise," replied Clarence; "but before night 
 I must be many miles hence." 
 
 Lucy came forward timidly. " Do you remember this 
 ring, sir 1 " said she (presenting one) ; " you dropped it 
 in my boy's frock, when we saw you last." 
 
 " I did so," answered Clarence. " I trust that he will 
 not now disdain a stranger's offering, — may it be as 
 ominous of good-luck to him as my night in your caravan 
 has proved to me." 
 
 " I am heartily glad to hear that you have prospered," 
 said Cole, — " now, let us fall to." 
 
 1 To the play of " All Fools," by Chapman. 
 
 VOL. II. — 11
 
 162 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LXV. 
 
 Out of these convertites 
 There is much matter to be heard and learned. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 "If you are bent upon leaving us so soon," said the 
 honest Cole, as Clarence, refusing all further solicita- 
 tion to stay, seized the opportunity which the cessation 
 of the rain afforded him, and rose to depart, — " if you 
 are bent upon leaving us so soon, I will accompany you 
 back again into the main road, as in duty bound." 
 
 "What! immediately on your return?" said Clar- 
 ence: "no, no, — not a step. What would my fair 
 hostess say to me if I suffered it t " 
 
 " Rather what would she say to me if I neglected such 
 a courtesy 1 ? Why, sir, when I meet one who knows 
 Shakespeare's sonnets, to say nothing of the lights of the 
 lesser stars, as well as you, only once in eight years, do 
 you not think I would make the most of him? Be- 
 sides, it is but a quarter of a mile to the road, and I 
 love walking after a shower." 
 
 "I am afraid, Mrs. Cole," said Clarence, "that I 
 must be selfish enough to accept the offer. " And Mrs. 
 Cole, blushing and smiling her assent and adieu, Clar- 
 ence shook hands with the whole party, grandfather and 
 child included, and took his departure. 
 
 As Cole was now a pedestrian, Linden threw the rein 
 over his arm, and walked on foot by his host's side. 
 
 " So," said he, smiling, " I must not inquire into the 
 reasons of your retirement 1 "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 163 
 
 " On the contrary," replied Cole, " I have walked with 
 you the more gladly from my desire of telling them to 
 you; for we all love to seem consistent even in our 
 chimeras. About six years ago, I confess that I began 
 to wax a little weary of my wandering life; my child, 
 in growing up, required playmates : shall I own that I 
 did not like him to find them among the children of my 
 own comrades? The old scamps were good enough for 
 me, but the young ones were a little too bad for my son. 
 Between you and me only be it said, my juvenile hope 
 was already a little corrupted. The dog Mini — you 
 remember Mini, sir — secretly taught him to filch as 
 well as if he had been a bantling of his own; and, 
 faith, our smaller goods and chattels, especially of an 
 edible nature, began to disappear with a rapidity and 
 secrecy that our itinerant palace could very ill sustain. 
 Among us (that is, gypsies) there is a law by which no 
 member of the gang may steal from another; but my 
 little heavsn-instructed youth would by no means abide 
 by that distinction; and so boldly designed and well 
 executed were his rogueries, that my paternal anxiety 
 saw nothing before him but Botany Bay on the one 
 hand , and Newgate Courtyard on the other. " 
 
 " A sad prospect for the heir-apparent ! " quoth Clarence. 
 
 "It was so!" answered Cole, "and it made me de- 
 liberate. Then, as one gets older, one's romance oozes 
 out a little in rheums and catarrhs. I began to perceive 
 that, though I had been bred, I had not been educated 
 as a gypsy ; and what was worse, Lucy, though she 
 never complained, felt that the walls of our palace 
 were not exempt from the damps of winter, nor our 
 royal state from the Caliban curses of 
 
 ' Cramps and 
 Side-stitches that do pen our breath up.'
 
 104 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 She fell ill; and during her illness T had sundry bright 
 
 visions of warm looms and coal liivs, a friend, with 
 whom I could converse upon Chancer, and a tutor for 
 my son who would teach him other arts than those of 
 picking pockets ami pilfering larders. Nevertheless, I 
 was a little ashamed of my own thoughts; and 1 do not 
 know whether they would have been yet put into prac- 
 tice, hut for a trifling circumstance which converted 
 doubt and longing into certainty. 
 
 " Our crank cutnns had for some time looked upon 
 me with suspicion and coldness: my superior privileges 
 and comforts they had at first forgiven, on account of 
 my birth and my generosity to them ; but by degrees 
 they lost respect for the one and gratitude for the other; 
 and as I had in a great measure ceased from participating 
 in their adventures, or, during Lucy's illness, which 
 lasted several months, joining in their festivities, they 
 at length considered me as a drone in a hive, by no 
 means compensating by my services as an ally for my 
 admittance into their horde as a stranger. You will 
 easily conceive, when this once became the state of their 
 feelings towards me, with how ill a temper they brooked 
 the lordship of my stately caravan, and my assumption 
 of superior command. Above all, the women, who were 
 very much incensed at Lucy's constant seclusion from 
 their orgies, fanned the increasing discontent; and at 
 last I verily believe that no eyesore could have hern 
 more grievous to the Egyptians than m}' wooden habi- 
 tation and the smoke of its single chimney. 
 
 " From ill-will the rascals proceeded to ill acts: and 
 one dark night, when we were encamped on the very 
 same ground as that which we occupied when we re- 
 ceived yon, three of them, Mini at their head, attacked 
 me in mine own habitation. I verily believe, if they
 
 THE DISOWNED. 165 
 
 had mastered me, they would have robbed and murdered 
 us all, — except perhaps my son, whom they thought I 
 ill-used by depriving him of Mini's instructive society. 
 Howbeit, I was still stirring when they invaded me, 
 and by the help of the poker and a tolerably strong arm, 
 I repelled the assailants; but that very night I passed 
 from the land of Egypt, and made with all possible 
 expedition to the nearest town, which was, as you may 
 remember, W . 
 
 " Here, the very next day, I learned that the house I 
 now inhabit was to be sold. It had (as I before said) 
 belonged to my mother's family, and my father had sold 
 it a little before his death. It was the home from which 
 I had been stolen, and to which I had been returned: 
 often in my starlit wanderings had I flown to it in 
 thought ; and now it seemed as if Providence itself, in 
 offering to my age the asylum I had above all others 
 coveted for it, was interested in my retirement from the 
 empire of an ungrateful people, and my atonement, in 
 rest for my past sins in migration. 
 
 " Well, sir, in short, I became the purchaser of the 
 place you have just seen, and I now think that, after 
 all, there is more happiness in reality than romance: 
 like the laverock, here will I build my nest, — 
 
 ' Here give my weary spirit rest, 
 And raise my low-pitched thoughts above 
 Earth, or what poor mortals love.' " 
 
 u And your son," said Clarence, — " has he reformed ? " 
 " Oh, yes," answered Cole. " For my part, I believe 
 the mind is less evil than people say it is; its great 
 characteristic is imitation, and it will imitate the good 
 as well as the bad, if we will set the example. I thank 
 Heaven, sir, that my boy now might go from Dan to 
 Beersheba, and not filch a groat by the way."
 
 1G6 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 " What do you intend him for ? " said Clarence. 
 
 " Why, he loves adventure, and, faith, I can't break 
 him of that, for I love it too; so I think I shall get 
 him a commission in the army, in order to give him a 
 fitting and legitimate sphere wherein to indulge his 
 propensities." 
 
 " You could not do better," said Clarence. " But 
 your fine sister, what says she to your amendment 1 ?" 
 
 " Oh! she wrote me a long letter of congratulation 
 upon it; and every other summer she is graciously 
 pleased to pay me a visit of three months long; at 
 which time I observe that poor Lucy is unusually 
 smart and uncomfortable. We sit in the best room, 
 and turn out the dogs; my father-in-law smokes his 
 pipe in the arbor instead of the drawing-room; and I 
 receive sundry hints, all in vain, on the propriety of 
 dressing for dinner. In return for these attentions on 
 our part, my sister invariably brings my boy a present 
 of a pair of white gloves, and my wife a French ribbon 
 of the newest pattern; in the evening, instead of my 
 reading Shakespeare, she tells us anecdotes of high life; 
 and when she goes away , she gives us, in return for our 
 hospitality, a very general and very gingerly invitation to 
 her house. Lucy sometimes talks to me about accepting 
 it; but I turn a deaf ear to all such overtures, and so we 
 continue much better friends than we should be if we 
 saw more of each other." 
 
 " And how long has your father-in-law been with 
 you 1 " 
 
 " Ever since we have been here. He gave up his 
 farm, and cultivates mine for me; for I know nothing 
 of those agricultural matters. I made his coming a 
 little surprise, in order to please Lucy: you should 
 have witnessed their meeting."
 
 THE DISOWNED. 167 
 
 " I think I have now learned all particulars," said 
 Clarence ; " it only remains for me to congratulate you ; 
 but are you, in truth, never tired of the monotony and 
 sameness of domestic life 1 " 
 
 " Yes! — and then I do, as I have just done, — saddle 
 Little John, and go on an excursion of three or four 
 days, or even weeks, just as the whim seizes me; for I 
 never return till I am driven back by the yearning for 
 home, and the feeling that, after all one's wanderings, 
 there is no place like it. Whether in private life or 
 public, sir, in parting with a little of one's liberty one 
 gets a great deal of comfort in exchange." 
 
 "I thank you truly for your frankness," said Clar- 
 ence ; " it has solved many doubts with respect to you 
 that have often occurred to me. And now we are in 
 the main road, and I must bid you farewell; we part, 
 but our paths lead to the same object, — you return to 
 happiness, and I seek it." 
 
 " May you find it, and I not lose it, sir," said the 
 wanderer reclaimed; and shaking hands, the pair 
 parted.
 
 1G8 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LXVL 
 
 Quicquid agit Rufus, nihil est, nisi Nsevia Rufo, 
 Si gaudet, si net, si tacet, hanc loquitur ; 
 Coenat, propinat, poscit, negat, annuit, una est 
 Nasvia ; si non sit Naevia, mutus erit. 
 Scriberet hesterna patri cum luce salutem 
 Naevia lux, inquit, Naevia nunien, ave. 1 
 
 Mart. 
 
 "The last time," said Clarence to himself, "that I 
 travelled this road, on exactly the same errand that I 
 travel now, I do remember that I was honored by the 
 company of one in all respects the opposite to mine 
 honest host; for, whereas in the latter there is a luxu- 
 riant and wild eccentricity, an open and blunt sim- 
 plicity, and a shrewd sense, which looks not after pence, 
 but peace; so, in the mind of the friend of the late Lady 
 Waddilove, there was a flat and hedged-in primness and 
 narrowness of thought, — an enclosure of bargains and 
 profits of all species: mustard-pots, rings, monkeys, 
 chains, jars, and plum-colored velvet inexpressibles, his 
 ideas, with the true alchemy of trade, turned them all 
 into gold; yet was he also as shrewd and acute as he 
 with whose character he contrasts, — equally with him 
 
 1 " Whatever Rufus does is nothing, except Nsevia be at his 
 elbow. Be he joyful or sorrowful, be he even silent, he is still 
 harping upon her. He eats, he drinks, he asks, he denies, he as- 
 sents. Naevia is his sole theme : no Nievia, and he 's dumb. Yes- 
 terday at daybreak lie would fain write a letter of salutation to his 
 father : ' Hail Nievia, light of my eyes/ quoth he ; ' hail Naevia, my 
 divine one.' "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 169 
 
 seeking comfort and gladness , and an asylum for his old 
 age. Strange that all tempers should have a common 
 object, and never a common road to it. But, since I 
 have begun the contrast, let me hope that it may be 
 extended in its omen unto me ; let me hope that, as my 
 encountering with the mercantile Brown brought me ill- 
 luck in my enterprise, thereby signifying the crosses 
 and vexations of those who labor in the cheateries and 
 overreachings which constitute the vocation of the world, 
 so my meeting with the philosophical Cole, who has, 
 both in vagrancy and rest, found cause to boast of hap- 
 piness, authorities from his studies to favor his inclina- 
 tion to each, and reason to despise what he, with Sir 
 Kenelm Digby, would wisely call 
 
 'The fading blossoms of the earth,' — 
 
 so my meeting with him may prove a token of good 
 speed to mine errand, and thereby denote prosperity to 
 one who seeks not riches, nor honor, nor the conquest 
 of knaves, nor the good word of fools, but happy love, 
 and the bourn of its quiet home." 
 
 Thus, half meditating, half moralizing, and drawing, 
 like a true lover, an omen of fear or hope from occur- 
 rences in which plain reason could have perceived 
 neither type nor token, Clarence continued, and con- 
 cluded, his day's journey. He put up at the same 
 little inn he had visited three years ago, and watched 
 his opportunity of seeing Lady Flora alone. More for- 
 tunate in that respect than he had been before, such 
 opportunity the very next day presented to him.
 
 170 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LXVII. 
 
 Duke. — Sir Valentine ! 
 
 Thur. — Yonder is Silvia, and Silvia's mine. 
 
 Val. — Thurio, give back. 
 
 The Two Gentlemen of Verona. 
 
 "I think, mamma," said Lady Flora to her mother, 
 " that, as the morning is so beautiful, I will go into the 
 pavilion to finish my drawing." 
 
 " But Lord Ulswater will be here in an hour, or per- 
 haps less, — may I tell him where you are, and suffer 
 him to join you? " 
 
 "If you will accompany him," answered Lady Flora, 
 coldly, as she took up her portefeuille, and withdrew. 
 
 Now the pavilion was a small summer-house of stone, 
 situated in the most retired part of the grounds belong- 
 ing to Westborough Park. It was a favorite retreat 
 with Lady Flora, even in the winter months, for warm 
 carpeting, a sheltered site, and a fireplace, constructed 
 more for comfort than economy, made it scarcely less 
 adapted to that season than to the more genial suns of 
 summer. 
 
 The morning was so bright and mild that Lady Flora 
 left open the door as she entered; she seated herself 
 at the table, and unmindful of her pretended employ- 
 ment, suffered the portefeuille to remain unopened. 
 Leaning her cheek upon her hand, she gazed vacantly on 
 the ground, and scarcely felt the tears which gathered 
 slowly to her eyes, but, falling not, remained within 
 the fair lids, chill and motionless, as if the thought
 
 THE DISOWNED. 171 
 
 which drew them there was born of a sorrow less agitated 
 than fixed and silent. 
 
 The shadow of a man darkened the threshold, and 
 there paused. 
 
 Slowly did Flora raise her eyes, and the next moment 
 Clarence Linden was by her side, and at her feet. 
 
 " Flora," said he, in a tone trembling with its own 
 emotions, — " Flora, have years indeed separated us 
 forever, — or dare I hope that we have misconstrued each 
 other's hearts, and that at this moment they yearn to be 
 united with more than the fondness and fidelity of old? 
 Speak to me, Flora, one word." 
 
 But she had sunk on the chair overpowered, surprised, 
 and almost insensible ; and it was not for some moments 
 that she could utter words rather wrung from, than dic- 
 tated by, her thoughts. 
 
 " Cruel and insulting, — for what have you come ? — ■ 
 is it at such a time that you taunt me with the remem- 
 brance of my past folly, or your — your — " She paused 
 for a moment, confused and hesitating, but presently re- 
 covering herself, rose, and added, in a calmer tone, 
 " Surely you have no excuse for this intrusion, — you will 
 suffer me to leave you. " 
 
 "jSTo!" exclaimed Clarence, violently agitated, — 
 " no! Have you not wronged me, stung me, wounded me 
 to the core by your injustice! — and will you not hear 
 now how differently I have deserved from you! On a 
 bed of fever and pain I thought only of you; I rose 
 from it animated by the hope of winning you! Though, 
 during the danger of my wound, and my consequent 
 illness, your parents alone, of all my intimate acquaint- 
 ances, neglected to honor with an inquiry the man whom 
 you professed to consecrate with your regard, yet scarcely 
 could my hand trace a single sentence before I wrote to
 
 172 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 you requesting an interview, in order to disclose my 
 birth, and claim your plighted faith! That letter was 
 returned to me unanswered, unopened. My friend and 
 benefactor, whose fortune I now inherit, promised to 
 call upon your father, and advocate my cause. Death 
 anticipated his kindness. As soon as my sorrow for his 
 loss permitted me, I came to this very spot. For three 
 days I hovered about your house, seeking the meeting 
 that you would fain deny me now. 1 could not any 
 longer bear the torturing suspense I endured. I wrote 
 to you , — your father answered the letter. Here — here, 
 I have it still: read! — note well the cool, the damning 
 insult of each line! I see that you knew not of this: 
 I rejoice at it! Can you wonder that, on receiving it, I 
 subjected myself no more to such affronts? I hastened 
 abroad. On my return I met you. Where ? In 
 crowds; in the glitter of midnight assemblies; in the 
 whirl of what the vain call pleasure! I observed your 
 countenance, your manner; was there in either a single 
 token of endearing or regretful remembrance 1 None ! 
 I strove to harden my heart; I entered into politics, 
 business, intrigue, — I hoped, I longed, I burned to 
 forget you, but in vain! 
 
 " At last I heard that rumor, though it had long pre- 
 ceded, had not belied the truth, and that you were to be 
 married, — married to Lord Ulswater! I will not say 
 what I suite red, or how idly I summoned pride to resist 
 affection! But I would not have come now to molest 
 you, Flora, — to trouble your nuptial rejoicings with one 
 thought of me, if, forgive me, I had not suddenly 
 dreamed that I had cause to hope you had mistaken, 
 not rejected, my heart; that — you turn away, Flora! 
 — you blush! — ■ you weep! Oh, tell me, by one word, 
 one look, that I was not deceived! "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 173 
 
 " No, no, Clarence," said Flora, struggling with her 
 tears; " it is too late, too late, now! Why, why did I 
 not know this before? I have promised, I am pledged! 
 
 — in less than two months I shall be tbe wife of 
 another! " 
 
 "Never," cried Clarence, — "never! You promised 
 on a false belief ; they will not bind you to such a 
 promise. Who is he that claims you 1 I am his equal 
 in birth, in the world's name, — and oh, by what worlds 
 his superior in love! I will advance my claim to you 
 in his very teeth, — nay, I will not stir from these do- 
 mains till you, your father, and my rival have repaired 
 my wrongs." 
 
 " Be it so, sir! " cried a voice behind, and Clarence 
 turned and beheld Lord Ulswater. His dark counte- 
 nance was flushed with rage which he in vain endeavored 
 to conceal ; and the smile of scorn that he strove to 
 summon to his lip made a ghastly and unnatural contrast 
 with the lowering of his brow and the fire of his eyes, 
 
 — "be it so, sir," he said, slowly advancing, and con- 
 fronting Clarence. " You will dispute my claims to the 
 hand Lady Flora Ardenne has long promised to one 
 who, however unworthy of the gift, knows at least 
 how to defend it. It is well ; let us finish the dispute 
 elsewhere. It is not the first time we shall have met, 
 if not as rivals, as foes." 
 
 Clarence turned from him without reply ; for he saw 
 Lady Westborough had just entered the pavilion, and 
 stood mute and transfixed at the door with surprise, 
 fear, and anger depicted upon her regal and beautiful 
 countenance. 
 
 " It is to you, madam," said Clarence, approaching 
 towards her, "that I venture to appeal. Your daughter 
 and I, four long years ago, exchanged our vows; you
 
 174 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 flattered me with the hope that those vows were not dis- 
 pleasing to you; since then, a misunderstanding, deadly 
 t<i my happiness and to hers, divided us. I come now 
 to explain it. My birth may have seemed ohscure ; I 
 come to clear it : my conduct doubtful ; I come to vindi- 
 cate it. I find Lord Ulswater my rival. 1 am willing 
 to compare my pretensions to his. I acknowledge that 
 he has titles which I have not, that he has wealth, to 
 which mine is but competence, — but titles and wealth, 
 as the means of happiness, are to be referred to your 
 daughter, to none else. You have only, in an alliance 
 with me, to consider my character and nry lineage : the 
 latter flows from blood as pure as that which warms 
 the veins of my rival ; the former stands already upon 
 an eminence to which Lord Ulswater, in his loftiest 
 visions, could never aspire. For the rest, madam, I ad- 
 jure you solemnly, as you value your peace of mind, 
 your daughter's happiness, your freedom from the agonies 
 of future remorse and unavailing regret, — I adjure you 
 not to divorce those whom God, who speaks in the deep 
 heart and the plighted vow, has already joined. This 
 is a question in which your daughter's permanent woe or 
 lasting happiness, from this present hour to the last 
 sand of life, is concerned. It is to her that I refer it, 
 — let her be the judge." 
 
 And Clarence moved from Lady Westborough, who, 
 agitated, confused, awed by the speil of a power and 
 a nature of which she had not dreamed, stood pale and 
 speechless, vainly endeavoring to reply: he moved from 
 her towards Lady Flora, who leaned, sobbing and con- 
 vulsed with contending emotions, against the wall: but 
 Lord Ulswater, whose fiery blood was boiling with 
 passion, placed himself between Clarence and the un- 
 fortunate object of the contention.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 175 
 
 8 Touch her not, approach her not! " he said, with 
 a fierce and menacing tone. " Till you have proved 
 your pretensions superior to mine, unknown, presuming, 
 and probably base-born, as you are, you will only 
 pass over my body to your claims." 
 
 Clarence stood still for one moment, evidently striv- 
 ing to master the wrath which literally swelled his form 
 beyond its ordinary proportions ; and Lady Westborough, 
 recovering herself in the brief pause, passed between the 
 two, and, taking her daughter's arm, led her from the 
 pavilion. 
 
 " Stay, madam, for one instant! " cried Clarence; and 
 he caught hold of her robe. 
 
 Lady Westborough stood quite erect and still, and, 
 drawing her stately figure to its full height, said with 
 that quiet dignity by which a woman so often stills the 
 angrier passions of men , " I lay the prayer and command 
 of a mother upon you, Lord Ulswater, and on you, sir, 
 whatever be your real rank and name, not to make mine 
 and my daughter's presence the scene of a contest which 
 dishonors both. Still further, if Lady Flora's hand and 
 my approval be an object of desire to either, I make 
 it a peremptory condition, with both of you, that a 
 dispute already degrading to her name pass not from 
 word to act. For you, Mr. Linden, if so I may call 
 you, I promise that my daughter shall be left free and 
 unbiassed to give that reply to your singular conduct 
 which I doubt not her own dignity and sense will 
 suggest! " 
 
 "By Heaven!" exclaimed Lord Ulswater, utterly 
 beside himself with rage, which, suppressed at the begin- 
 ning of Lady Westborough 's speech, had been kindled 
 into double fury by its conclusion, " you will not suffer 
 Lady Flora, no, nor any one but her affianced bride-
 
 176 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 groom, her only legitimate defender, to answer this arro- 
 gant intruder! You cannot think that her hand, the 
 hand of my future wife, shall trace line or word to one 
 who has so insulted her with his addresses, and me 
 with his rivalry." 
 
 "Man!" cried Clarence, abruptly, and seizing Lord 
 Ulswater fiercely by the arm, " there are some causes 
 which will draw fire from ice ; beware — beware how you 
 incense me to pollute my soul with the blood of a — " 
 
 " What! " exclaimed Lord Ulswater. 
 
 Clarence bent down and whispered one word in his 
 ear. 
 
 Had that word been the spell with which the sorcerers 
 of old disarmed the fiend, it could not have wrought a 
 greater change upon Lord Ulswater's mien and face. 
 He staggered back several paces; the glow of his swarthy 
 cheek faded into a death-like paleness ; the word which 
 passion had conjured to his tongue died there in silence; 
 and he stood with eyes dilated and fixed on Clarence's 
 face, on which their gaze seemed to force some unwill- 
 ing certainty. 
 
 But Linden did not wait for him to recover his self- 
 possession; he hurried after Lady Westborough, who, 
 with her daughter, was hastening home. 
 
 " Pardon me, Lady Westborough," he said (as he ap- 
 proached) , with a tone and air of deep respect, " pardon 
 me , — but will you sutler me to hope that Lady Flora 
 and yourself will, in a moment of greater calmness, con- 
 sider over all I have said 1 — and — that she — that you, 
 Lady "Flora," added he, changing the object of his 
 address, "will vouchsafe one line of unprejudiced, un- 
 biassed reply, to a love which, however misrepresented 
 and calumniated, has in it, I dare say, nothing that can 
 disgrace her to whom, with an enduring constancy, ami
 
 THE DISOWNED. 177 
 
 undimmed though unhoping ardor, it has heen invio- 
 lably dedicated 1 " 
 
 Lady Flora, though she spoke not, lifted her eyes to 
 his, and in that glance was a magic which made his 
 heart burn with a sudden and flashing joy that atoned 
 for the darkness of years. 
 
 " I assure you, sir," said Lady Westborough, touched, 
 in spite of heiself, with the sincerity and respect of 
 Clarence's bearing, — " that Lady Flora will reply to 
 any letter of explanation or proposal: for myself, I will 
 not even see her answer. Where shall it be sent to 
 
 you 1 " 
 
 " I have taken my lodgings at the inn by your park 
 gates. I shall remain there till — till — " 
 
 Clarence paused, for his heart was full; and leaving 
 the sentence to be concluded as his listeners pleased, he 
 drew himself aside from their path, and suffered them 
 to proceed. 
 
 As he was feeding his eyes with the last glimpse of 
 their forms, ere a turn in the ground snatched them 
 from his view, he heard a rapid step behind, and Lord 
 Ulswater, approaching, laid his hand upon Linden's 
 shoulder, and said calmly, — 
 
 " Are you furnished with proof to support the word 
 you uttered 1 " 
 
 " I am! " replied Clarence, haughtily. 
 
 " And will you favor me with it 1 " 
 
 " At your leisure, my lord," rejoined Clarence. 
 
 " Enough ! Name your time, and I will attend you. " 
 
 " On Tuesday : I require till then to produce my 
 witnesses. " 
 
 " So be it, — yet stay; on Tuesday I have military 
 
 business at W , some miles hence: the next day 
 
 let it be, — the place of meeting where you please." 
 
 VOL. II. — 12
 
 178 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 "Here, then, my lord," answered Clarence; "you 
 have insulted me grossly before Lady Westborough and 
 your affianced bride, and before them my vindication and 
 answer should be given." 
 
 "You are right," said Lord Ulswatcr: "be it here, 
 at the hour of twelve." Clarence bowed his assent, and 
 withdrew. 
 
 Lord Ulswater remained on the spot, with downcast 
 eyes, and a brow on which thought had succeeded 
 passion. 
 
 " If true," said he, aloud, though unconsciously, — " if 
 this be true, why then I owe him reparation, and he 
 shall have it at my hands. I owe it to him on my ac- 
 count, and that of one now no more. Till we meet, I 
 will not again see Lady Flora; after that meeting, per- 
 haps I may resign her forever. " 
 
 And with these words the young nobleman, who, 
 despite of many evil and overbearing qualities, had, as 
 we have said, his redeeming virtues, in which a capri- 
 cious and unsteady generosity was one, walked slowly to 
 the house, wrote a brief note to Lady Westborough, the 
 purport of which the next chapter will disclose, and 
 then summoning his horse, flung himself on its back, 
 and rode hastily away.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 179 
 
 CHAPTER LXVIII. 
 
 We will examine if those accidents, 
 
 Which common fame call injuries, happen to him 
 
 Deservedly or no. 
 
 The New Inn. 
 
 FROM LORD ULSWATER TO LADY WESTBOROUGH. 
 
 Forgive me, clearest Lady Westborough, for my violence, 
 — you know and will allow for the infirmities of my temper. 
 I have to make you and Lady Flora one request, which I trust 
 you will not refuse me. 
 
 Do not see, or receive any communication from Mr. Linden 
 till Wednesday ; and on that day, at the hour of twelve, suf- 
 fer me to meet him at your house. I will then either prove 
 him to be the basest of impostors, or, if I fail in this, and Lady 
 Flora honors my rival with one sentiment of preference, I 
 will, without a murmur, submit to her decree and my rejec- 
 tion. Dare I trust that this petition will be accorded to one 
 who is, with great regard and esteem. Etc., etc., etc. 
 
 " This is fortunate, ,; said Lady Westborough, gently, 
 to her daughter, who, leaning her head on her mother's 
 bosom, suffered hopes, the sweeter for their long sleep, 
 to divide, if not wholly to possess her heart. " We shall 
 have now time well and carefully to reflect over what 
 will be best for your future happiness. We owe this 
 delay to one to whom you have been affianced. Let us, 
 therefore, now merely write to Mr. Linden, to inform 
 him of Lord Ulswater's request, and to say that if he 
 will meet his lordship at the time appointed, we, that 
 is, Z shall be happy to see him."
 
 180 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 Lady "Flora sighed, but she saw the reasonableness of 
 her mother's proposal, and pressing Lady Westborough's 
 hand, murmured her assent. 
 
 " At all events," thought Lady Westborough, as she 
 wrote to Clarence, " the affair can but terminate to ad- 
 vantage. If Lord Ulswater proves Mr. Linden's un- 
 worthiness, the suit of the latter is, of course, at rest 
 forever: if not, and Mr. Linden be indeed all that he 
 asserts, my daughter's choice cannot be an election of 
 reproach; Lord Ulswater promises peaceably to with- 
 draw his pretensions; and though Mr. Linden may not 
 possess his rank or fortune, he is certainly one with 
 whom, if of ancient blood, any family would be proud 
 of an alliance." 
 
 Blending with these reflections a considerable share of 
 curiosity and interest in a secret which partook so 
 strongly of romance, Lady Westborough despatched her 
 note to Clarence. The answer returned was brief, re- 
 spectful, and not only acquiescent in, but grateful for the 
 proposal. 
 
 With this arrangement both Lady Westborough and 
 Lady Flora were compelled, though with very different 
 feelings, to be satisfied; and an agreement was estab- 
 lished between them to the effect that, if Linden's name 
 passed unblemished through the appointed ordeal, Lady 
 Flora was to be left to, and favored in her own election •- 
 while, on the contrary, if Lord Ulswater succeeded in 
 the proof he had spoken of, his former footing in the 
 family was to be fully re-established, and our unfortu- 
 nate adventurer forever discarded. 
 
 To this Lady Flora readily consented; for with a san- 
 guine and certain trust in her lover's truth and honor, 
 which was tenfold more strong for her late suspicions, 
 she would not allow herself a doubt as to the result; and
 
 THE DISOWNED. 181 
 
 with an impatience, mingled with a rapturous exhilara- 
 tion of spirit, which brought back to her the freshness 
 and radiancy of her youngest years, she counted the 
 hours and moments to the destined day. 
 
 While such was the state of affairs at Westborough 
 Park Clarence was again on horseback, and on another 
 excursion. By the noon of the day following that which 
 had seen his eventful meeting with Lady Flora, he 
 found himself approaching the extreme boundaries of the 
 county in which Mordaunt Court, and the memorable 
 
 town of W , were situated. The characteristics of 
 
 the country were now materially changed from those 
 which gave to the vicinity of Algernon's domains its 
 wild and uncultivated aspect. 
 
 As Clarence slowly descended a hill of considerable 
 steepness and length, a prospect of singular and luxu- 
 rious beauty opened to his view. The noblest of Eng- 
 land's rivers was seen through " turfs and shades and 
 flowers," pursuing " its silver-winding way." On the 
 opposite banks lay, embosomed in the golden glades of 
 autumn, the busy and populous town that from the 
 height seemed still and lifeless as an enchanted city, 
 over which the mid-day sun hung like a guardian spirit. 
 Behind, in sweeping diversity, stretched wood and dale, 
 and fields despoiled of their rich harvest, yet still pre- 
 senting a yellow surface to the eye, and ever and anon 
 some bright patch of green, demanding the gaze as if hy 
 a lingering spell from the past spring; while, here and 
 there, spire and hamlet studded the landscape, or some 
 lowly cot lay, backed by the rising ground or the silent 
 woods, white and solitary, and sending up its faint trib- 
 ute of smoke in spires to the altars of Heaven. The 
 river was more pregnant of life than its banks: barge 
 and boat were gliding gayly down the wave, and the
 
 182 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 glad oar of the frequent and slender vessels consecrated 
 to pleasure was seen dimpling the water, made by dis- 
 tance smoother than glass. 
 
 On the right side of Clarence's road, as he descended 
 the hill, lay wide plantations of fir and oak, divided 
 from the road by a park paling, the uneven sides of 
 which were covered with brown moss, and which, at rare 
 openings in the young wood, gave glimpses of a park, 
 seemingly extending over a great space, the theatre 
 of many a stately copse and oaken grove which might 
 have served the Druids with fane and temple meet for 
 the savage sublimity of their worship. 
 
 Upon these unfrequent views, Clarence checked his 
 horse, and gazed, with emotions sweet yet bitter, over 
 the pales, along the green expanse which they contained. 
 And once, when through the trees he caught a slight 
 glimpse of the white walls of the mansion they adorned, 
 all the years of his childhood seemed to rise on his 
 heart, thrilling to its farthest depths with a mighty and 
 sorrowful, yet sweet, melody, and — 
 
 " Singing of boyhood back, — the voices of his home." 
 
 Home! yes, amidst those groves had the April of his 
 life lavished its mingled smiles and tears! There was 
 the spot hallowed by his earliest joys, and the seen.' 
 of sorrow still more sacred than joys! and now, afte • 
 many years, the exiled boy came back, a prosperous 
 and thoughtful man, to take but one brief glance of 
 that home which to him had been less hospitable than 
 a stranger's dwelling, and to find a witness, among 
 those who remembered him, of his very birth and 
 identity ! 
 
 He wound the ascent at last, and entering a small 
 town at the foot of the hill, which was exactly facing
 
 THE DISOWNED. 183 
 
 the larger one on the opposite shore of the river, put up 
 his horse at one of the inns, and then, with a beating 
 heart, remounted the hill, and entering the park by one 
 of its lodges, found himself once more in the haunts 
 of his childhood.
 
 184 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIX. 
 
 Oh, the steward, the steward — I might have guessed as much. 
 
 J'alts of the Crusaders. 
 
 Tjie evening was already beginning to close, and Clar- 
 ence was yet wandering in the park, and retracing, with 
 his heart's eye, each knoll and tree and tuft, once so 
 familiar to his wanderings. 
 
 At the time we shall again bring him personally 
 before the reader, he was leaning against an iron fence 
 that, running along the left wing of the house, separated 
 the pleasure-grounds from the park, and gazing, with 
 folded arms and wistful eyes, upon the scene on which 
 the dusk of twilight was gradually gathering. 
 
 The house was built originally in the reign of 
 Charles II. ; it had since received alteration and addi- 
 tions, and now presented to the eye a vast pile of 
 Grecian, or rather Italian architecture, heterogeneously 
 blended with the massive window, the stiff coping, and 
 the heavy roof which the age immediately following the 
 Revolution introduced. The extent of the building, 
 and the grandeur of the circling demesnes, were suffi- 
 cient to render the mansion imposing in effect; while, 
 perhaps, the style of the architecture was calculated to 
 conjoin a stately comfort with magnificence, and to atone 
 in solidity for any deficiency in grace. At a little dis- 
 tance from the house, and placed on a much more com- 
 manding site, were some ancient and ivy-grown ruins, 
 now scanty indeed, and fast mouldering into decay, but 
 sufficient to show the antiquarian the remains of what
 
 THE DISOWNED. 185 
 
 once had been a hold of no ordinary size and power. 
 These were the wrecks of the old mansion, which was 
 recorded by tradition to have been reduced to this state 
 by accidental fire, during the banishment of its loyal 
 owner in the time of the Protectorate. Upon his return 
 the present house was erected. 
 
 As Clarence was thus stationed, he perceived an 
 elderly man approach towards him. " This is fortu- 
 nate," said he to himself, — " the very person I have 
 been watching for. Well, years have passed lightly 
 over old Wardour: still the same precise garb, the 
 same sturdy and slow step, the same upright form." 
 
 The person thus designated now drew near enough for 
 parlance; and, in a tone a little authoritative, though 
 very respectful, inquired if Clarence had any business 
 to transact with him. 
 
 " I beg pardon," said Clarence, slouching his hat over 
 his face, " for lingering so near the house at this hour: 
 but I have seen it many years ago, and indeed been a 
 guest within its walls; and it is rather my interest for 
 an old friend, than my curiosity to examine a new one, 
 which you are to blame for my trespass. " 
 
 " Oh, sir," answeied Mr. Wardour, a short and rather 
 stout man, of about sixty -four, attired in a chocolate 
 coat, gray breeches, and silk stockings of the same dye, 
 which, by the waning light, took a sombrer and sadder 
 hue, — "oh, sir, pray make no apology. I am only 
 sorry the hour is so late that I cannot offer to show 
 you the interior of the house: perhaps, if you are stay- 
 ing in the neighborhood, you would like to see it to- 
 morrow. You were here, I take it, sir, in my old lord's 
 time 1 " 
 
 " I was! — upon a visit to his second son, — we had 
 been boys together."
 
 186 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 "What! Master Clinton?" cried the old man, 
 with extreme animation; and then suddenly changing 
 his voice, added, in a subdued and saddened tone, 
 " Ah ! poor young gentleman, I wonder where he is 
 now 1 " 
 
 " Why, — is he not in this country ? " asked Clarence. 
 
 " Yes — no: that is, I can't exactly say where he is, 
 — I wish I could. Poor Master Clinton, — I loved 
 him as my own son." 
 
 "You surprise me," said Clarence. "Is there any- 
 thing in the fate of Clinton L' Estrange that calls forth 
 your pity ! If so, you would gratify a much better feel- 
 ing than curiosity if you would inform me of it. The 
 fact is, that I came here to seek him ; for I have been 
 absent from the country many years, and on my return, 
 my first inquiry was for my old friend and schoolfellow. 
 iSTone knew anything of him in London, and I imagined, 
 therefore , that he might have settled down into a country 
 gentleman. I was fully prepared to find him marshall- 
 ing the fox-hounds or beating the preserves; and you 
 may consequently imagine my mortification on learning 
 at my inn that he had not been residing here for many 
 years : further I know not ! " 
 
 "Ay — ay, sir," said the old steward, who had lis- 
 tened very attentively to Clarence's detail, "had you 
 pressed one of the village gossips a little closer, you 
 would doubtless have learned more! But 'tis a story I 
 don't much love telling, although formerly I could have 
 talked of Master Clinton by the hour together, to any 
 one who would have had the patience to listen to me." 
 
 " You have really created in me a very painful desire 
 to learn more," said Clarence; "and if I am not in- 
 truding on any family secrets, you would oblige me 
 greatly by whatever information you may think proper
 
 THE DISOWNED. 187 
 
 to afford to an early and attached friend of the person 
 in question." 
 
 " Well, sir, well," replied Mr. Ward our, who, with- 
 out imputation on his discretion, loved talking as well 
 as any other old gentleman of sixty-four, " if you will 
 condescend to step up to my house, I shall feel happy 
 and proud to converse with a friend of my dear young 
 master's; and you are heartily welcome to the informa- 
 tion I can give you." 
 
 " I thank you sincerely," said Clarence; " but suffer 
 me to propose, as an amendment to your offer, that you 
 accompany me for an hour or two to my inn. " 
 
 "Nay, sir," answered the old gentleman, in a piqued 
 tone, " I trust you will not disdain to honor me with 
 your company. Thank Heaven, I can afford to he 
 hospitable now and then." 
 
 Clarence, who seemed to have his own reasons for the 
 amendment he had proposed, still struggled against this 
 offer, but was at last, from fear of offending the honest 
 steward, obliged to accede. 
 
 Striking across a path which led through a corner of 
 the plantation to a space of ground containing a small 
 garden, quaintly trimmed in the Dutch taste, and a 
 brick house of moderate dimensions, half overgrown with 
 ivy and jasmine, Clarence and his invitor paused at 
 the door of the said mansion, and the latter welcomed 
 his guest to his abode. 
 
 " Pardon me," said Clarence, as a damsel in waiting 
 opened the door, " but a very severe attack of rheuma- 
 tism obliges me to keep on my hat; you will, I hope, 
 indulge me in my rudeness." 
 
 " To be sure, — to be sure, sir. I myself suffer terri- 
 bly from rheumatism in the winter: though you look 
 young, sir, very young to have an old man's complaint.
 
 183 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 Ah, the people of my day were more careful of them- 
 selves, and that is the reason we are such stout fellows 
 in our age." 
 
 And the worthy steward looked complacently down 
 at legs which very substantially filled their comely 
 investments. 
 
 " True, sir," said Clarence, laying his hand upon that 
 of the steward, who was just about to open the door of 
 an apartment; " but suffer me at least to request you not 
 to introduce me to any of the ladies of your family. I 
 could not, were my very life at stake, think of affronting 
 them by not doffing my hat. I have the keenest sense 
 of what is due to the sex, and I must seriously entreat 
 you, for the sake of my health during the whole of the 
 coming winter, to suffer our conversation not to take 
 place in their presence." 
 
 " Sir, — I honor your politeness," said the prim little 
 steward: "I myself, like every true Briton, reverence 
 the ladies; we will, therefore, retire to my study. 
 Mary, girl," turning to the attendant, "see that Ave 
 have a nice chop for supper, in half an hour; and tell 
 your mistress that I have a gentleman of quality with 
 me upon particular business, and must not be disturbed." 
 
 With these injunctions the steward led the way to 
 the farther end of the house, and having ushered his 
 guest into a small parlor, adorned with sundry law- 
 books, a great map of the estate, a print of the late 
 owner of it, a rusty gun slung over the fireplace, two 
 stuffed pheasants, and a little mahogany buffet, — hav- 
 ing, we say, led Clarence to this sanctuary of retiring 
 stewardship, he placed a seat for him and said, — 
 
 " Between you and me, sir, be it respectfully said, I 
 am not sorry that our little confabulation should pass 
 alone. Ladies are very delightful, — very delightful,
 
 THE DISOWNED. 1S9 
 
 certainly; but they won't let one tell a story one's own 
 way: they are fidgety, you know, sir, fidgety, — nothing 
 more; 'tis a trifle, but it is unpleasant; besides, my 
 wife was Master Clinton's foster-mother, and she can't 
 hear a word about him without running on into a long 
 rigmarole of what he did as a baby, and so forth. I 
 like people to be chatty, sir, but not garrulous; I can't 
 bear garrulity, — at least in a female. But suppose, sir, 
 we defer our story till after supper 1 A glass of wine or 
 warm punch makes talk glide more easily ; besides, sir, 
 I want something to comfort me when I talk about 
 Master Clinton. Poor gentleman, he was so comely, so 
 handsome ! " 
 
 " Did you think so? " said Clarence, turning towards 
 the fire. 
 
 "Think so ! " ejaculated the steward, almost angrily; 
 and forthwith he launched out into an encomium on the 
 perfections, personal, moral, and mental, of Master 
 Clinton, which lasted till the gentle Mary entered to 
 lay the cloth. This reminded the old steward of the 
 glass of wine which was so efficacious in making talk 
 glide easily; and going to the buffet before mentioned, 
 he drew forth two bottles, both of port. Having care- 
 fully and warily decanted both, he changed the subject 
 of his praise ; and, assuring Clarence that the wine he 
 was about to taste was at least as old as Master Clinton, 
 having been purchased in joyous celebration of the young 
 gentleman's birthday, he whiled away the minutes with 
 a glowing eulogy on its generous qualities, till Mary 
 entered with the supper, 
 
 Clarence, with an appetite sharpened, despite his 
 romance, by a long fast, did ample justice to the fare; 
 and the old steward, warming into familiarity with the
 
 190 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 virtues of the far-famed port, chatted and laughed in 
 a strain half simple and half shrewd. 
 
 The fire being stirred up to a free blaze, the hearth 
 swept, and all the tokens of supper, save and except the 
 kingly bottle and its subject glasses, being removed, the 
 steward and his guest drew closer to each other, and 
 the former began his story.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 191 
 
 CHAPTER LXX. 
 
 The actors are at hand, and by their show 
 You shall know all that you are like to know. 
 
 Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 " You know, probably, sir, tbat my late lord was twice 
 married: by his first wife he had three children, only 
 one of whom, the youngest, though now the present earl, 
 survived the first period of infancy. When Master 
 Francis, as we always called him, in spite of his acces- 
 sion to the title of viscount, was about six years old, 
 my lady died, and a year afterwards my lord married 
 again. His second wife was uncommonly handsome: 
 she was a Miss Talbot (a Catholic), daughter of Colonel 
 Talbot, and niece to the celebrated beau, Squire Talbot 
 of Scarsdale Park. Poor lady ! they say that she mar- 
 ried my lord through a momentary pique against a former 
 lover. However that may be, she was a fine, high- 
 spirited creature, — very violent in temper, to be sure, 
 but generous and kind when her passion was over: and 
 however haughty to her equals, charitable and compas- 
 sionate to the poor. 
 
 " She had but one son, Master Clinton. Never, sir, 
 shall I forget the rejoicings that were made at his birth ; 
 for my lord doted on his second wife and had disliked 
 his first, whom he had married for her fortune; and it 
 was therefore natural that he should prefer the child of 
 the present wife to Master Francis. Ah, it is sad to 
 think how love can change! Well, sir, my lord seemed 
 literally to be wrapped up in the infant: he nursed it,
 
 192 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 and fondled it, and hung over it, as if he had been its 
 mother rather than its father. My lady desired that it 
 
 might be christened by one of her family names, and my 
 lord consenting, it was called Clinton. (The wine is 
 with yon, sir! Do observe that it has not changed color 
 in the least, notwithstanding its age!) 
 
 " My lord was fond of a quiet, retired life ; indeed, lie 
 was a great scholar, and spent the chief part of his time 
 among his books. Dr. Latinas, the young gentleman's 
 tutor \ said his lordship made Greek verses better than 
 Dr. Latinas could make English ones, so you may judge 
 of his learning. But my lady went constantly to town, 
 and was among the gayest of the gay; nor did she often 
 come down here without bringing a whole troop of guests. 
 Lord help us, what goings-on there used to be at the 
 great house! — such dancing and music, and dining and 
 supping, and shooting-parties, fishing-parties, gypsy- 
 parties; y<»u would have thought all England was 
 merry-making there. 
 
 "But my lord, though he indulged my lady in all her 
 whims and extravagance, seldom took much share in 
 them himself. He was constantly occupied with his 
 library and children, nor did he ever suffer either Mas- 
 ter Francis or Master Clinton to mix with the guests. 
 He kept them very close at their studies; and when the 
 latter was six years old, I do assure you, vsir, he could 
 say his Propria qucB maribus better than I can. (You 
 don't drink, sir.) When Master Francis was sixteen, 
 and Master Clinton eight, the former was sent abroad 
 on his travels with a German tutor, and did not return 
 to England for many years afterwards ; meanwhile Master 
 Clinton grew up to the age of fourteen, increasing in 
 comeliness and goodness. He was very fond of his 
 studies, much more so than Master Francis had been,
 
 THE- DISOWNED. 193 
 
 and was astonishingly forward for his years. So my 
 lord loved him better and better, and would scarcely 
 ever suffer him to be out of his sight. 
 
 " When Master Clinton was about the age I men- 
 tioned, — namely, fourteen, — a gentleman of the name 
 of Sir Clinton Manners became a constant visitor at the 
 house. Eeport said that he was always about my lady 
 in London, at Eanelagh, and the ball-rooms and routs, 
 and all the fine places, — and certainly he was scarcely 
 ever from her side in the pleasure-parties at the park. 
 But my lady said that he was a cousin of hers, and an 
 old playmate in childhood, and so he was, — and, un- 
 happily for her, something more too. My lord, how- 
 ever, shut up in his library, did not pay any attention 
 to my lady's intimacy with Sir Clinton; on the con- 
 trary, as he was a cousin and friend of hers, his lord- 
 ship seemed always happy to see him, and was the only 
 person in the neighborhood who had no suspicion of 
 what was going on. 
 
 " Oh, sir, it is a melancholy story, and I can scarcely 
 persuade myself to tell it. (It is really delicious wine 
 this, — six-and-twenty years old last birthday, to say 
 nothing of its age before I bought it, — ah!) Well, 
 sir, the blow came at last like a thunder-clap: my lady, 
 finding disguise was in vain, went off with Sir Clinton. 
 Letters were discovered which showed that they had 
 corresponded for years, that he was her lover before 
 marriage, that she, in a momentary passion with him, 
 had accepted my lord's offer, that she had always re- 
 pented her precipitation, and that she had called her son 
 after his name, — all this and much more, sir, did my 
 lord learn, as it were, at a single blow. 
 
 " He obtained a divorce, and Sir Clinton and my lady 
 went abroad. But from that time my lord was never 
 
 VOL. II. — 13
 
 194 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 the same man. Always proud and gloomy, he now be- 
 came intolerably violent and morose. He shut himself 
 up, saw no company of any description, rarely left the 
 house, and never the park, — and from being one of the 
 gayest places in the country, sir, the mansion became 
 as dreary and deserted as if it had been haunted. (It is 
 for you to begin the second bottle, sir.) 
 
 " But the most extraordinary change in my lord was 
 in his conduct to Master Clinton: from doating upon 
 him, to a degree that would have spoiled any temper less 
 sweet than my poor young master's, he took the most 
 violent aversion to him. From the circumstance of his 
 name, and the long intimacy existing between my lady 
 and her lover, his lordship would not believe that Mas- 
 ter Clinton was his own child ; and indeed I must confess 
 there seemed good ground for his suspicions. Besides 
 this, Master Clinton took very much after his mother. 
 He had her eyes, hair, and beautiful features, so that 
 my lord could never see him without being reminded of 
 his disgrace: therefore, whenever the poor young gen- 
 tleman came into his presence, he would drive him out, 
 with oaths and threats which rung through the whole 
 house. He could not even bear that he should have 
 any attendance or respect from the servants, for he con- 
 sidered him quite as an alien like, and worse than a 
 stranger; and his lordship's only delight seemed to con- 
 sist in putting upon him every possible indignity and 
 affront. But Master Clinton was a high-spirited young 
 gentleman, and after having in vain endeavored to soothe 
 my lord by compliance and respect, he at last utterly 
 avoided his lordship's presence. 
 
 " He gave up his studies in a great measure, and wan- 
 dered about the park and woods all day, and sometimes 
 even half the night; his mother's conduct and his father's
 
 THE DISOWNED. 105 
 
 unkindness seemed to prey upon his health and mind, 
 and at last he grew almost as much altered as my lord. 
 From being one of the merriest boys possible, full of 
 life and spirits, he became thoughtful and downcast, his 
 step lost its lightness, and his eye all the fire which used 
 once quite to warm one's heart when one looked at it: 
 in short, sir, the sins of the mother were visited as much 
 upon the child as the husband. (Xot the least tawny, 
 sir, you see, though it is so old!) 
 
 " My lord at first seemed to be glad that he now never 
 saw his son ; but, by degrees, I think, he missed the 
 pleasure of venting his spleen upon him; and so he 
 ordered my young master not to stir out without his 
 leave, and confined him closer than ever to his studies. 
 Well, sir (if it were not for this port I could not get out 
 another sentence!), there used then to be sad scenes 
 between them: my lord was a terribly passionate man, 
 and said things sharper than a two-edged sword, as the 
 Psalms express it ; and though Master Clinton was one 
 of the mildest and best-tempered boys imaginable, yet 
 he could not at all times curb his spirit; and, to my 
 mind, when a man is perpetually declaring he is not 
 your father, one may now and then be forgiven in for- 
 getting that you are to behave as his son. 
 
 " Things went on in this way sadly enough for about 
 three years and a half, when Master Clinton was nearly 
 eighteen. One evening, after my lord had been un- 
 usually stormy, Master Clinton's spirit warmed, I sup- 
 pose, and from word to word the dispute increased, till 
 my lord, in a furious rage, ordered in the servants, and 
 told them to horsewhip his son. Imagine, sir, what a 
 disgrace to that noble house ! But there was not one of 
 them who would not rather have cut off his richt hand 
 than laid a finger upon Master Clinton, so greatly was
 
 106 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 he beloved; and at last my lord summoned his own 
 gentleman, a German, six feet high, entirely devoted to 
 his lordship, and commanded him, upon pain of instant 
 dismissal, to make use in his presence of a horsewhip 
 winch he put into his hand. 
 
 "The German did not dare refuse, so he approached 
 .Master Clinton. The servants were still in the room, 
 and perhaps they would have been bold enough to rescue 
 Master Clintcn, had there been any need of their assist- 
 ance; but he was a tall youth, as bold as a hero, and 
 when the German approached, he caught him by the 
 throat, threw him down, and very nearly strangled him; 
 he then, while my lord was speechless with rage, left 
 the room, and did not return all night. (What a body 
 it has, sir, — ah!) 
 
 " The next morning I was in a little room adjoining 
 my lord's study, looking over some papers and maps. 
 His lordship did not know of my presence, but was 
 sitting alone at breakfast, when Master Clinton sud- 
 denly entered the study ; the door leading to my room 
 was ajar, and I heard all the conversation that ensued. 
 
 " My lord asked him very angrily how he had dared 
 absent himself all night; but Master Clinton, making 
 no reply to this question, said, in a very calm, loud 
 voice, which I think I hear now, ' My lord, after the 
 insult you have offered to me, it is perhaps unnecessary 
 to observe that nothing could induce me to remain under 
 your roof. I come, therefore, to take my last leave of 
 you.' 
 
 "He paused, and my lord (probably, like me, being 
 taken by surprise) making no reply, he continued. 
 1 You have often told me, my lord, that I am not your 
 son; if this be possible, so much the more must you 
 rejoice at the idea of ridding your presence of an in-
 
 THE DISOWNED. 197 
 
 trader.' 'And how, sir, do you expect to live, except 
 upon my bounty ? ' exclaimed my lord. * You remem- 
 ber,' answered my young master, ' that a humble de- 
 pendent of my mother's family, who had been our 
 governess in childhood, left me, at her death, the earn- 
 ings of her life. I believe they amount to nearly a 
 thousand pounds, — I look to your lordship's honor, 
 either for the principal or the yearly interest, as may 
 please you best : farther I ask not from you. ' ' And do 
 you think, sir,' cried my lord, almost screaming with 
 passion, ' that upon that beggarly pittance you shall go 
 forth to dishonor, more than it is yet dishonored, the 
 name of my ancient house? Do you think, sir, that 
 that name to which you have no pretension, though the 
 law iniquitously grants it you, shall be sullied either 
 with trade or robbery ? — for to one or the other you must 
 necessarily be driven.' 'I foresaw your speech, my 
 lord, and am prepared with an answer. Far be it from 
 me to thrust myself into any family, the head of which 
 thinks proper to reject me, — far be it from me to honor 
 my humble fortunes with a name which I am as willing 
 as yourself to disown: I purpose, therefore, to adopt a 
 new one; and, whatever may be my future fate, that 
 name will screen me both from your remembrance and the 
 world's knowledge. Are you satisfied now, my lord? ' 
 
 " His lordship did not answer for some minutes: at 
 last he said sneeringly, ' Go, boy, go! I am delighted 
 to hear you have decided so well. Leave word with my 
 steward where you wish your clothes to be sent to you : 
 Heaven forbid I should rob you either of your wardrobe 
 or your princely fortune. Wardour will transmit to you 
 the latter, even to the last penny, by the same convey- 
 ance as that which is honored by the former. And now 
 good morning, sir; yet stay and mark my words, —
 
 l'JS THE DISOWNED. 
 
 never dare to re-enter my house, or to expect an iota 
 more of fortune or favor from me. And hark you, sir, 
 — if you dare violate your word, if you dare, during my 
 life at least, assume a name which you were horn to 
 sully, my cur.se, my deepest, heartiest, eternal curse, bo 
 upon your head in this world and the next!' 'Fear 
 not, my lord: my word is pledged,' said the young gen- 
 tleman ; and the next moment I heard his parting step 
 in the hall. 
 
 "Sir, my heart was full (your glass is empty!), and 
 my head spun round as if I were on a precipice; hut I 
 was determined my young master should not go till I 
 had caught another glimpse of his dear face, so I gently 
 left the room I was in, and, hastening out of the house 
 by a private entrance, met Master Clinton in the park, 
 not very far from the spot where I saw you, sir, just 
 now. To my surprise, there was no sign of grief or 
 agitation upon his countenance: I had never seen him 
 look so proud, or, for years, so happy. 
 
 " ' Wardour,' said he, in a gay tone, when he saw me, 
 'I was going to your house: my father has at last 
 resolved that I should, like my brother, commence my 
 travels, and I wish to leave with you the address of the 
 place to which my clothes, etc., will be sent.' 
 
 "I could not contain any longer when I heard this, 
 sir; I burst into tears, confessed that I had accidentally 
 heard his conversation with my lord, and besought him 
 not to depart so hastily, and with so small a fortune; 
 but he shook his head, and would not hear me. 'Be- 
 lieve me, my good Wardour,' said he, ' that since my 
 unhappy mother's flight, I have never felt so elated or 
 so happy as I do now: one should go through what I 
 have done to learn the rapture of independence.' He 
 then told me to have his luggage sent to him, under his
 
 THE DISOWNED. 199 
 
 initials of C. L. , at the Golden Fleece, the principal 
 
 inn in the town of W , which, you know, sir, is at 
 
 the other end of the county, on the road to London; and 
 then, kindly shaking me by the hand, he broke away 
 from me ; but he turned back before he had got three 
 paces, and said (and then, for the first time, the pride 
 of his countenance fell, and the tears stood in his eyes), 
 ' Wardour, do not divulge what you have heard ; put as 
 good a face upon my departure as you can, and let the 
 blame, if any, fall upon me, not upon your lord: after 
 all, he is to be pitied, not blamed, and I can never 
 forget that he once loved me. ' He did not wait for my 
 answer, perhaps he did not like to show me how much 
 he was affected, but hurried down the park, and I soon 
 lost sight of him. My lord that very morning sent for 
 me, demanded what address his son had left, and gave 
 me a letter, enclosing, I suppose, a bill for my poor 
 young master's fortune, ordering it to be sent with the 
 clothes immediately. 
 
 " Sir, I have never seen or heard aught of the dear 
 gentleman since; you must forgive me, I cannot help 
 tears, sir (the wine is with you)." 
 
 "But the mother, the mother!" said Clarence, 
 earnestly; "what became of her? She died abroad, 
 two years since , did she not 1 " 
 
 " She did, sir," answered the honest steward, refilling 
 his glass. " They say that she lived very unhappily 
 with Sir Clinton, who did not marry her; till all of 
 a sudden she disappeared, none knew whither." 
 
 Clarence redoubled his attention. 
 
 "At last," resumed the steward, "two years ago, a 
 letter came from her to my lord ; she was a nun in some 
 convent (in Italy, I think) , to which she had, at the 
 time of her disappearance, secretly retired. The letter
 
 200 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 was written on her death -bed, and so affectingly, I sup- 
 pose, that even my stern lord was in tears for several 
 days after he received it. But the principal passage in 
 it was relative to her son: it assured my lord (for so 
 with his own lips ho told me just before he died, some 
 mouths ago) that Master Clinton was in truth his son, 
 and that it was not till she had been tempted many 
 years after her marriage that she had fallen; she im- 
 plored my lord to believe this ' on the word of one for 
 whom earth and earth's objects were no more,' — those 
 were her words. 
 
 " Six months ago, when my lord lay on the bed from 
 which he never rose, he called me to him, and said, 
 ' Wardour, you have always been the faithful servant of 
 our house, and warmly attached to my second son : tell 
 my poor boy, if ever you see liim, that I did at last open 
 my eyes to my error, and acknowledge him as my child; 
 tell him that I have desired his brother ' (who was then, 
 sir, kneeling by my lord's side) , ' as he values my bless- 
 ing, to seek him out and repair the wrong I have done 
 him; and add, that my best comfort in death was the 
 hope of his forgiveness. ' " 
 
 "Did he — did he say that?" exclaimed Clarence, 
 who had been violently agitated during the latter part 
 of this recital, and now sprung from his seat. " My 
 father, my father! would that I had borne with thee 
 more — mine — mine was the fault, — from thee should 
 have come the forgiveness ! " 
 
 The old steward sat silent and aghast. At that in- 
 stant his wife entered with a message of chiding at the 
 lateness of the hour upon her lip, hut she started back 
 when she saw Clarence's profile, as he stood leaning 
 against the wall: " Good heavens! " cried she, " is it, is 
 it — yes, it is my young master, my own foster-son ! "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 201 
 
 Rightly had Clarence conjectured when he had 
 shunned her presence. Years had, indeed, wrought a 
 change in his figure and face: acquaintance, servant, 
 friend, relation, — the remembrance of his features had 
 passed from all ; but she who had nursed him as an 
 infant on her lap, and fed him from her breast, — she 
 who had joined the devotion of clanship to the fondness 
 of a mother, knew him at a glance. 
 
 " Yes," cried he, as he threw himself into her with- 
 ered and aged arms, " it is I, the child you reared, come, 
 after many years, to find too late, when a father is no 
 more, that he had a right to a father's home."
 
 202 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXI. 
 
 Let us go in, 
 And charge us there upon interrogatories. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 " But did not any one recognize you in your change 
 of name ? " said the old foster-mother, looking fondly 
 upon Clarence, as he sat the next morning hy her side. 
 " How could any one forget so winsome a face who had 
 once seen it % " 
 
 "You don't remember," said Clarence (as we will yet 
 continue to call our hero), smiling, " that your husband 
 had forgotten it. " 
 
 " Ay, sir," cried the piqued steward, " but that was be- 
 cause you wore your hat slouched over your eyes ; if you 
 had taken off that, I should have known you directly." 
 
 "However that may be," said Clarence, unwilling to 
 dwell longer on an occurrence which he saw hurt the 
 feelings of the kind Mr. Wardour, " it is very easy to 
 explain how I preserved my incognito. You recollect 
 that my father never suffered me to mix with my 
 mother's guests: so that I had no chance of their remem- 
 bering me, especially, as, during the last three years and 
 a half, no stranger had ever entered our walls. Add to 
 this, that I was in the very time of life in which a few 
 years work the greatest change, and on going to London, 
 I was thrown entirely among people who could never 
 have seen me before. Fortunately for me, I became 
 acquainted with my mother's uncle, — circumstances 
 subsequently led me to disclose my birth to him, upon 
 a promise that he would never call me by any other
 
 THE DISOWNED. 203 
 
 name than that which I had assumed. He, who was 
 the best, the kindest, the most generous of human 
 beings, took a liking to me. He insisted not only upon 
 his relationship to me, as my grand-uncle, but upon the 
 justice of repairing to me the wrongs his unhappy niece 
 had caused me. The delicacy of his kindness, the ties 
 of blood, and an accident which had enabled me to be of 
 some service to him, all prevented my resisting the 
 weight of obligation with which he afterwards oppressed 
 me. He procured me an appointment abroad : I remained 
 there four years. When I returned, I entered, it is 
 true, into very general society: but four years had, as 
 you may perceive, altered me greatly; and even had 
 there previously existed any chance of my being recog- 
 nized, that alteration would probably have been sufficient 
 to insure my secret. " 
 
 But your brother, my present lord, — did you never 
 meet him, sir 1 ? " 
 
 " Often, my good mother; but you remember that I 
 was little more than six years old when he left England, 
 and when he next saw me I was about two-and-twenty : 
 it would have been next to a miracle, or at least, would 
 have required the eyes of love like yours, to have re- 
 called me to memory after such an absence. 
 
 " Well, — to return to my story, — I succeeded, partly 
 as his nearest relation, but principally from an affection 
 dearer than blood, to the fortune of my grand-uncle, 
 Mr. Talbot. Fate prospered with me: I rose in the 
 world's esteem and honor, and soon became prouder of 
 my borrowed appellation than of all the titles of my 
 lordly line. Circumstances occurring within the last 
 week, which it will be needless to relate, but which 
 may have the greatest influence over my future life, 
 made it necessary to do what I had once resolved I would
 
 204 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 never do, — prove my identity and origin. Accordingly, 
 I came here to seek you." 
 
 " But why did not my honored young master disclose 
 himself last night? " asked the steward. 
 
 "I might say," answered Clarence, "hecause I an- 
 ticipated great pleasure in a surprise; hut I had another 
 reason, — it was this: I had heard of my poor father's 
 death, and I was painfully anxious to learn if, at the 
 last, he had testified any relenting towards me, — and 
 yet more so to ascertain the manner of my unfortunate 
 mother's fate. Both abroad and in England I had 
 sought tidings of her everywhere, hut in vain; in men- 
 tioning my mother's retiring into a convent, you have 
 explained the reason why my efforts were so fruitless. 
 With these two ohjects in view, I thought myself more 
 likely to learn the whole truth as a stranger than in my 
 proper person ; for in the latter case I deemed it prohahle 
 that your delicacy and kindness might tempt you to 
 conceal whatever was calculated to wound my feelings, 
 and to exaggerate anything that might tend to flatter or 
 to soothe them. Thank Heaven, I now learn that I 
 have a right to the name my hoyhood hore, that my 
 birth is not branded with the foulest of private crimes, 
 and that in death my father's heart yearned to his too 
 hasty but repentant son. Enough of this, — I have now 
 only to request you, my friend, to accompany me before 
 daybreak on Wednesday morning, to a place several miles 
 hence. Your presence there will be necessary to sub- 
 stantiate the proof for which I came hither. " 
 
 "With all my heart, sir," cried the honest steward ; 
 "and after Wednesday you will, I trust, resume your 
 rightful name 1 " 
 
 " Certainly," replied Clarence; " since I am no longer 
 ' the Disowned. ' "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 205 
 
 Leaving Clarence now for a brief while to renew his 
 acquaintance with the scenes of his childhood, and to 
 offer the tribute of his filial tears to the ashes of a father 
 whose injustice had been but " the stinging of a heart the 
 world had stung/ 5 we return to some old acquaintances 
 in the various conduct of our drama.
 
 206 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXII. 
 
 i 
 Upon his couch the veiled Mokanna lay. — The Veiled Prophet. 
 
 The autumn sun broke through an apartment in a villa 
 in the neighborhood of London, furnished with the most 
 prodigal, yet not tasteless attention to luxury and show, 
 within which, beside a table, strewed with newspapers, 
 letters, and accounts, lay Richard Crauford, extended 
 carelessly upon a sofa, which might almost have con- 
 tented the Sybarite who quarrelled with a rose-leaf. At 
 his elbow was a bottle half-emptied, and a wine-glass 
 just filled. An expression of triumph and enjoyment 
 was visible upon his handsome but usually inexpressive 
 countenance. 
 
 " Well," said he, taking up a newspaper, " let us read 
 this paragraph again. What a beautiful sensation it is 
 to see one's name in print! — ' We understand that 
 
 Richard Crauford, Esq., M.P. for , is to be raised 
 
 to the dignity of the peerage. There does not, perhaps, 
 exist in the country a gentleman more universally he- 
 loved and esteemed' (mark that, Dicky Crauford). 
 ' The invariable generosity with which his immense 
 wealth has been employed, his high professional honor, 
 the undeviating and consistent integrity of his political 
 career ' (ay, to be sure, it is only your honest fools 
 who are inconsistent : no man can deviate who has one 
 linn principle, self-interest), — ' his manly and energetic 
 attention to the welfare of religion ' (he, he, he!), ' con- 
 joined to a fortune almost incalculable, rendered this
 
 THE DISOWNED. 207 
 
 condescension of our gracious sovereign no less judicious 
 than deserved! "We hear that the title proposed for the 
 new peer is that of Viscount Innisdale, -which, we "be- 
 lieve, was formerly in the noble family of which Mr. 
 Crauford is a distant branch.' 
 
 " He ! he ! he ! Bravo ! bravo ! Viscount Innisdale ! 
 — noble family — distant branch — the devil I am! 
 What an ignoramus my father was, not to know that! 
 Why, rest his soul, he never knew who his grandfather 
 was ; but the world shall not be equally ignorant of that 
 important point. Let me see, who shall be Viscount 
 Innisdale's great-grandfather? Well, well, whoever he 
 is, here 's long life to his great-grandson ! ' Incalculable 
 fortune! ' Ay, ay; I hope at all events, it will never be 
 calculated. But now for my letters. Bah, — this wine 
 is a thought too acid for the cellars of Viscount Innis- 
 dale! What! another from Mother H ! Dark 
 
 eyes, small mouth, sings like an angel, eighteen! Pish! 
 I am too old for such follies now; 'tis not pretty for 
 Viscount Innisdale. Humph ! — Lisbon : seven hundred 
 pounds five shillings and seven pence, — half-penny, is 
 it, or farthing? I must note that down. Loan for 
 King of Prussia. Well, must negotiate that to-morrow. 
 Ah, Hockit the wine-merchant — pipe of claret in the 
 docks — vintage of 17 — . Bravo ! all goes smooth for 
 Viscount Innisdale! Pish! from my damnable wife! 
 What a pill for my lordship! What says she? 
 
 Dawlish, Devonshire. 
 You have not, my dearest Richard, answered my letters 
 for months. I do not, however, presume to complain of your 
 silence : I know well that you have a great deal to occupy 
 your time, both in husiness and pleasure. But one little line, 
 dear Richard, — one little line, surely, that is not too much 
 now and then. I am most truly sorry to trouble you again
 
 208 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 about money; and you must know that T strive to be as saving 
 as possible [Pish I — curse the woman; sent her twenty 
 pounds three months ago !] ; but I really am so distressed, and 
 the people here are so pressing ; and at all events, I cannot 
 bear the thought of your wife being disgraced. Pray, forgive 
 me, Richard, and believe how painful it is in me to say so 
 much. I know you will answer this ! and, oh, do, do tell me 
 how you are. 
 
 Ever your affectionate wife, 
 
 Caroline Crauford. 
 
 " Was there ever poor man so plagued ? Where 's 
 my note-book? Mem. — Send Car. to-morrow £20, to 
 last her the rest of the year. Mem. — Send Mother 
 
 H £100. Mem. — Pay Hockit's bill, £830. Bless 
 
 me, what shall I do with Viscountess Innisdale? Now, 
 if I were not married, I would be son-in-law to a duke. 
 Mem. — Go down to Dawlish, and see if she won't die 
 soon. Healthy situation, I fear: devilish unlucky, — 
 must be changed. Mem. — Swamps in Essex. Who 's 
 that?" 
 
 A knock at the door disturbed Mr. Crauford in his 
 meditations. He started up, hurried the bottle and 
 glass under the sofa, where the descending drapery com- 
 pletely hid them ; and taking up a newspaper, said in a 
 gentle tone, "Come in." A small, thin man, bowing 
 at every step, entered. 
 
 " Ah, Bradley, is it you, my good fellow 1 " said Crau- 
 ford: "glad to see you, — a fine morning; but what 
 brings you from town so early 1 " 
 
 " Why , sir," answered Mr. Bradley, very obsequiously, 
 " something unpleasant has — " 
 
 "Merciful Heaven!" cried Crauford, blanched into 
 the whiteness of death, and starting up from the sofa 
 with a violence which frightened the timid Mr. Bradley
 
 THE DISOWNED. 209 
 
 to the other end of the room, — " the counting-house, 
 the hooks, — all safe ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, yes, at present, but — " 
 
 " But what, man 1 " 
 
 " Why, honored sir," resumed Mr. Bradley, bowing 
 to the ground, "your partner, Mr. Jessopp, has been 
 very inquisitive about the accounts. He says Mr. Da 
 Costa, the Spanish merchant, has been insinuating very 
 unpleasant hints, and that he must have a conversation 
 with you at your earliest convenience; and when, sir, I 
 ventured to remonstrate about the unreasonableness of 
 attending to what Mr. Da Costa said, Mr. Jessopp was 
 quite abusive, and declared that there seemed some very 
 mysterious communication between you (begging your 
 pardon, sir) and me, and that he did not know what 
 business I, who had no share in the firm, had to inter- 
 fere." 
 
 "But," said Crauford, "you were civil to him, did 
 not reply hotly, — eh, my good Bradley 1 " 
 
 "Lord forbid, sir, — Lord forbid, that I should not 
 know my place better, or that I should give an unbe- 
 coming word to the partner of my honored benefactor. 
 But, sir, if I dare venture to say so, I think Mr. Jes- 
 sopp is a little jealous or so of you ; he seemed quite in 
 a passion at a paragraph in the paper about my honored 
 master's becoming a lord." 
 
 "Bight, honest Bradley, right: he is jealous, — we 
 must soothe him. Go, my good fellow, — go to him with 
 my compliments, and say that I will be with him by 
 one. Never fear, this business will be easily settled." 
 
 And bowing himself out of the room, Bradley with- 
 drew. 
 
 Left alone, a dark cloud gathered over the brow of Mr. 
 Crauford. 
 
 VOL. II. — 14
 
 210 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 "lam on a precipice, " thought he; " hut if my owr* 
 brain does not turn giddy with the prospect, all yet may 
 be safe. Cruel necessity, that obliged me to admit an- 
 other into the business, that foiled ma of Mordaunt, and 
 drove me upon this fawning rascal! so, so, — I almost 
 think there is a Providence, now that Mordaunt has 
 grown rich; but then his wife died, — ay, ay, — God 
 saved him, but the devil killed her. 1 He, he, he! 
 But, seriously — seriously, there is danger in the very 
 air I breathe! I must away to that envious Jessopp 
 instantly; but first let me finish the bottle." 
 
 1 Dieu a puni ce fripon, le diable a noye les autres. — Voltaire : 
 Candide.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 211 
 
 CHAPTER LXXIII. 
 
 A strange harmonious inclination 
 Of all degrees to reformation. 
 
 Hudibras. 
 
 About seven miles from W , on the main road 
 
 from , there was, in 17 — , a solitary public house, 
 
 which, by the by, is now a magnificent hotel. Like 
 many of its brethren, in the more courtly vicinity of 
 the metropolis, this amcenum hospitium peregri/ue gent is 
 then had its peculiar renown for certain dainties of the 
 palate; and various in degree and character were the 
 numerous parties from the neighboring towns and farms, 
 which, upon every legitimate holiday were wont to as- 
 semble at the mansion of mine host of the " Jolly 
 Angler," in order to feast upon eel -pie, and grow merry 
 over the true Herefordshire cider. 
 
 But upon that especial day on which we are about to 
 introduce our reader into the narrow confines of its com- 
 mon parlor, the said hostelry was crowded with persons 
 of a very different description from the peaceable idlers 
 who were ordinarily wont to empty mine host's larder, 
 and forget the price of corn over the divine inspirations 
 of pomarial nectar. Instead of the indolent satisfied air 
 of the saturnalian merrymaker, the vagrant angler, or the 
 gentleman farmer, with his comely dame who " walked 
 in silk attire, and siller had to spare;" instead of the 
 quiet yet glad countenances of such hunters of pleasure 
 and eaters of eel -pie, or the more obstreperous joy of 
 urchins let loose from school to taste some brief and
 
 212 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 perennial recreation, and mine host's delicacies at the 
 same time; — instead of these, the little parlor presented 
 a various and perturbed group, upon whose features 
 neither eel-pie nor Herefordshire cider had wrought the 
 relaxation of a holiday, or the serenity of a momentary 
 content. 
 
 The day to which we now refer was the one immedi- 
 ately preceding that appointed for the far-famed meeting 
 
 at W ; and many of the patriots, false or real, who 
 
 journeyed from a distance to attend that rendezvous, had 
 halted at our host's of the "Jolly Angler:" both as 
 being within a convenient space from the appointed spot, 
 and as a tabernacle where promiscuous intrusion, and 
 (haply) immoderate charges, were less likely to occur 
 than at the bustling and somewhat extortionary hotels 
 and inns of the town of W . 
 
 The times in which this meeting was held were those 
 of great popular excitement and discontent; and the 
 purport of the meeting proposed was to petition Parlia- 
 ment against the continuance of the American war, and 
 the kina against the continuance of his ministers. 
 
 Placards, of an unusually inflammatory and impru- 
 dent nature, had given great alarm to the more sober anil 
 
 well-disposed persons in the neighborhood of W ; 
 
 and so much fear was felt or assumed upon the occasion, 
 that a new detachment of Lord Ulswater's regiment had 
 been especially ordered into the town ; and it was gen- 
 erally rumored that the legal authorities would interfere, 
 even by force, for the dispersion of the meeting in ques- 
 tion. These circumstances had given the measure a de- 
 gree of general and anxious interest which it would not 
 otherwise have excited; and while everybody talked of 
 the danger of attending the assembly, everybody re- 
 solved to thrust himself into it.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 213 
 
 It was about the goodly hour of noon, and the persons 
 assembled were six in number, all members of the most 
 violent party, and generally considered by friend and foe 
 as embracers of republican tenets. One of these, a little, 
 oily, corpulent personage, would have appeared far too 
 sleek and well-fed for a disturber of things existing, had 
 not a freckled, pimpled, and fiery face, a knit brow, and 
 a small, black eye of intolerable fierceness, belied the 
 steady and contented appearance of his frame and girth. 
 This gentleman, by name Christopher Culpepper, spoke 
 in a quick, muffled, shuffling sort of tone, like the pace 
 of a Welsh pony, some wh at lame, perfectly broken- 
 winded, but an exemplary ambler for all that. 
 
 Next to him sat, with hands clasped over his knees, a 
 thin, small man, with a countenance prematurely wrin- 
 kled, and an air of great dejection. Poor Castleton! his 
 had been, indeed, the bitter lot of a man, honest but 
 weak, who attaches himself, heart and soul, to a public 
 cause which, in his life at least, is hopeless. Three 
 other men were sitting by the open window, disputing, 
 with the most vehement gestures, upon the character of 
 Wilkes; and at the other window, alone, silent, and 
 absorbed, sat a man whose appearance and features were 
 singularly calculated to arrest and to concentrate atten- 
 tion. His raven hair, grizzled with the first advance of 
 age, still preserved its strong wiry curl and luxuriant 
 thickness. His brows, large, bushy, and indicative of 
 great determination, met over eyes which, at that 
 moment, were fixed upon vacancy with a look of thought 
 and calmness very unusual to their ordinary restless and 
 rapid glances. His mouth, that great seat of character, 
 was firmly and obstinately shut; and though, at the 
 first observation, its downward curve and iron severity 
 wore the appearance of unmitigated harshness, disdain,
 
 214 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 and resolve, yet a more attentive deducer of signs from 
 features would not have been able to detect in its expres- 
 sion anything resembling selfishness or sensuality, and 
 in that absence would have found sufficient to redeem 
 the more repellent indications of mind which it 
 betrayed. 
 
 Presently the door was opened, and the landlord, 
 making some apology to both parties for having no other 
 apartment unoccupied, introduced a personage whose 
 dress and air, as well as a kind of saddle-bag which he 
 would not intrust to any other bearer than himself, ap- 
 peared to denote him as one rather addicted to mercantile 
 than political speculations. Certainly he did not seem 
 much at home among the patriotic reformers, who, hav- 
 ing glared upon him for a single moment, renewed, with- 
 out remark, their several attitudes or occupations. 
 
 The stranger, after a brief pause, approached the 
 solitary reformer whom we last described, and making 
 a salutation, half timorous and half familiar, thus ac- 
 costed him : — 
 
 " Your servant, Mr. Wolfe, your servant. I think 
 I had the pleasure of hearing you a long time ago at the 
 Westminster election: very eloquent you were, sir, 
 very! " 
 
 Wolfe looked up for an instant at the face of the 
 speaker, and, not recognizing it, turned abruptly away, 
 threw open the window, and, leaning out, appeared de- 
 sirous of escaping from all further intrusion on the part 
 of the stranger ; but that gentleman was by no means of 
 a nature easily abashed. 
 
 " Fine day, sir, for the time of year, — very fine day, 
 indeed. October is a charming month, as my lamented 
 friend and customer, the late La(by Waddilove, was 
 accustomed to say. Talking of that, sir, as the winter
 
 THE DISOWNED. 215 
 
 is now approaching, do you not think it -would be pru- 
 dent, Mr. Wolfe, to provide yourself with an umbrella? 
 I have an admirable one which I might dispose of: it is 
 from the effects of the late Lady Waddilove. ' Brown,' 
 said her ladyship, a short time before her death, — 
 1 Brown, you are a good creature: but you ask too much 
 for the Dresden vase. We have known each other a 
 long time, — you must take fourteen pounds ten shillings, 
 and you may have that umbrella in the corner, into the 
 bargain.' Mr. Wolfe, the bargain was completed, and 
 the umbrella became mine, — it may now be yours." 
 
 And so saying, Mr. Brown, depositing his saddle-bag 
 on the ground, proceeded to unfold an umbrella of 
 singular antiquity and form, — a very long stick, tipped 
 with ivory, being surmounted with about a quarter of a 
 yard of sea-green silk, somewhat discolored by time and 
 wear. 
 
 " It is a beautiful article, sir," said Mr. Brown, ad- 
 miringly surveying it, — " is it not 1 " 
 
 "Pshaw!" said Wolfe, impatiently; "what have I 
 to do with your goods and chattels ? — go and palm the 
 cheatings and impositions of your pitiful trade upon 
 some easier gull." 
 
 "Cheatings and impositions, Mr. Wolfe! " cried the 
 slandered Brown, perfectly aghast: "I would have you 
 to know, sir, that I have served the first families in the 
 country, ay, and in this county too, and never had such 
 words applied to me before. Sir, there was the late 
 Lady Waddilove, and the respected Mrs. Minden, 
 and her nephew the ambassador, and the Duchess of 
 Pugadale, and Mr. Mordaunt of Mordaunt Court, poor 
 gentleman, — though he is poor no more," and Mr. 
 Brown proceeded to enumerate the long list of his 
 customers.
 
 216 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 "N"ow, we have stated that Wolfe, though he had never 
 known the rank of Mordaunt, was acquainted with his 
 real name; and as the sound caught his ear, lie mut- 
 tered, " .Mordaunt, Mordaunt, — ay, but not my former 
 acquaintance, — not him who was called Glendower. 
 No, no, — the man cannot mean him." 
 
 " Yes, sir, but I do mean him," cried Brown, in a 
 rage. " I do mean that Mr. Glendower, who afterwards 
 took another name, but whose real appellation is Mr. 
 Algernon Mordaunt of Mordaunt Court, in this county, 
 sir. " 
 
 "What description of man is he?" said Wolfe; 
 " rather tall, slender, with an air and mien like a king's, 
 I was going to say, — but better than a king's, — like a 
 free man's? " 
 
 " Ay, ay, — the same," answered Mr. Brown, sullenly; 
 "but why should I tell you, — ' cheating and imposi- 
 tion,' indeed! — I am sure my word can be of no avail to 
 you, — and 1 sha'n't stay here any longer to be insulted, 
 Mr. Wolfe, which I am sure, talking of freemen, no 
 freeman ought to submit to; but as the late Lady Wad- 
 dilove once very wisely said to me, VBrown, never 
 have anything to do with those republicans, they are 
 the worst tyrants of all.* Good morning, Mr. Wolfe; 
 gentlemen, your servant, — 'cheating and imposition, 1 
 indeed ! " — and Mr. Brown banged the door as he 
 departed. 
 
 ''Wolfe," said Mr. Christopher Culpepper, " who is 
 that man 1 " 
 
 " I know not," answered the republican, laconically, 
 and gazing on the ground, apparently in thought. 
 
 " He has the air of a slave," quoth the free Culpepper, 
 " ami slaves cannot bear the company of freemen; there- 
 fore he did right to go — whe-w ! Had we a proper
 
 THE DISOWNED. 217 
 
 and thorough and efficient reform, human nature would 
 not be thus debased by trades and callings and barters 
 and exchange, for all professions are injurious to the 
 character and dignity of man, — whe-w! — but, as I 
 shall prove upon the hustings to-morrow, it is in vain 
 to hope for any amendment in the wretched state of things 
 until the people of these realms are fully, freely, and 
 fairly represented, — whe-w! Gentlemen, it is past 
 two, and we have not ordered dinner, — whe-w!" 
 (JV. B. — This ejaculation denotes the kind of snuffle 
 which lent peculiar energy to the dicta of Mr. 
 Culpepper. ) 
 
 " Eing the bell, then, and summon the landlord," 
 said, very pertinently, one of the three disputants upon 
 the character of Wilkes. 
 
 The landlord appeared; dinner was ordered. 
 
 "Pray," said Wolfe, "has that man, Mr. Brown I 
 think he called himself, left the inn 1 " 
 
 " He has, sir, for he was mightily offended at some- 
 thing which — " 
 
 "And," interrupted Wolfe, " how far hence does Mr. 
 Mordaunt live? " 
 
 "About five miles on the other side of W ," an- 
 swered mine host. 
 
 Wolfe rose, seized his hat, and was about to depart. 
 
 "Stay, stay," cried Citizen Christopher Culpepper; 
 "you will not leave us till after dinner? " 
 
 " I shall dine at W ," answered Wolfe, quitting 
 
 the room. 
 
 " Then our reckoning will be heavier," said Culpepper. 
 "It is not handsome in Wolfe to leave us, — whe-w! 
 Really I think that our brother in the great cause has of 
 late relaxed in his attentions and zeal to the goddess of 
 our devotions, — whe-w! "
 
 218 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 " It is human nature! " cried one of the three dispu- 
 tants upon the character of Wilkes, 
 
 " It is not human nature! " cried the second disputant, 
 folding his arms doggedly, in preparation for a dis- 
 cussion. 
 
 " Contemptihle human nature!" exclaimed the third 
 disputant, soliloquizing with a supercilious expression 
 of hateful disdain. 
 
 "Poor human nature! " murmured Castleton, looking 
 upward with a sigh; and though we have not given to 
 that gentleman other words than these, we think they 
 are almost sufficient to let our readers into his character.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 219 
 
 CHAPTER LXXIV. 
 
 Silvis, ubi passim 
 Palantes error certo de tramite pellit, 
 Ille sinistrorsum hie dextrorsum abit ; unus utrique 
 Error, sed variis illudit partibus. 1 
 
 HORAT. 
 
 As Wolfe strode away from the inn, he muttered to 
 himself, — 
 
 " Can it be that Mordaunt has suddenly grown rich 1 
 If so, I rejoice at it. True, that he was not for our 
 cause, but he had the spirit and the heart which be- 
 longed to it. Had he not been bred among the preju- 
 dices of birth, or had he lived in stormier times, he 
 might have been the foremost champion of freedom. 
 As it is, I rather lament than condemn. Yet I would 
 fain see him once more. Perhaps prosperity may have 
 altered his philosophy. But can he, indeed, be the 
 same Mordaunt of whom that trading itinerant spoke ? 
 Can he have risen to the pernicious eminence of a landed 
 aristocrat? Well, it is worth the journey; for if he 
 have power in the neighborhood, I am certain that he 
 will exert it for our protection ; and at the worst, I shall 
 escape from the idle words of my compatriots. Oh! if 
 it were possible that the advocates could debase the 
 glory of the cause, how long since should I have flinched 
 from the hardship and the service to which my life is 
 
 1 Wandering in those woods where error evermore forces life's 
 stragglers from the beaten path : this one deflects to the left, — his 
 fellow chooses the exact contrary. The fault is all the same in 
 each, but it excuses itself by a thousand different reasons.
 
 220 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 devoted! Self-interest, — envy, that snarls at all above 
 it, without even the beast's courage to bite; folly, that 
 knows not the substance of freedom, but loves the glit- 
 ter of its name; fear, that falters; crime, that seeks in 
 licentiousness an excuse; disappointment, only craving 
 occasion to rail ; hatred, sourness, boasting of zeal, but 
 only venting the blackness of rancor and evil passion, — ■ 
 all these make our adherents, and give our foes the 
 handle and the privilege to scorn and to despise. But 
 man chooses the object, and fate only furnishes the tools. 
 Happy for our posterity that when the object is onco 
 gained, the frailty of the tools will be no more! " 
 
 Thus soliloquizing, the republican walked rapidly 
 onwards, till a turn of the road brought before his ey( 
 the form of Mr. Brown, seated upon a little rough pony, 
 and " whistling as he went, for want of thought." 
 
 Wolfe quickened his pace, and soon overtook him. 
 
 " You must forgive me, my good man," said he, sooth' 
 ingly ; " T meant not to impeach your honesty or your 
 calling. Perhaps I was hasty and peevish; and, in sad 
 earnest, I have much to tease and distract me. " 
 
 " Well, sir, well," answered Mr. Brown, greatly mob 
 lifted : "lam sure no Christian can be more forgiving, 
 than I am ; and since you are sorry for what you wero 
 pleased to say, let us think no more about it. Bui) 
 touching the umbrella, Mr. Wolfe, — have you a mind 
 for that interesting and useful relic of the late Lady 
 Waddilove 1 " 
 
 " Not at present, I thank you," said Wolfe, mildly: 
 " I care little for the inclemencies of the heavens, and 
 you may find many to whom your proffered defence from 
 them may be more acceptable. But tell me if the 
 Mr. Mordaunt you mentioned was ever residing in town, 
 and in very indiiferent circumstances'? "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 221 
 
 " Probably be was," said the cautious Brown, who, as 
 we before said, had been bribed into silence, and who 
 now grievously repented tbat passion bad betrayed him 
 into the imprudence of candor; "but I really do not 
 busy myself about other people's affairs. ' Brown, ' said 
 the late Lady Waddilove to me, — 'Brown, you are a 
 good creature, and never talk of what does not concern 
 you.' Those, Mr. Wolfe, were her ladyship's own 
 words ! " 
 
 "As you please," said the reformer, who did not want 
 shrewdness, and saw that his point was already suffi- 
 ciently gained, — " as you please. And now, to change 
 the subject, I suppose we shall have your attendance at 
 the meeting at W , to-morrow ? " 
 
 "Ay," replied the worthy Brown; "I thought it 
 likely I should meet many of my old customers in the 
 town on such a busy occasion; so I went a little out of 
 my way home to London, in order to spend a night or 
 two there. Indeed, I have some valuable articles for 
 Mr. Glumford, the magistrate, who will be in attend- 
 ance to-morrow." 
 
 "They say," observed Wolfe, "that the magistrates, 
 against all law, right, and custom, will dare to interfere 
 with and resist the meeting. Think you report says 
 true ? " 
 
 "Nay," returned Brown, prudently; "I cannot ex- 
 actly pretend to decide the question: all I know is 
 that Squire Glumford said to me, at his own house, 
 five days ago, as he was drawing on his boots, ' Brown,' 
 said he, — 'Brown, mark my words, we shall do for 
 those rebellious dogs ! ' " 
 
 " Did he say so 1 " muttered W T olfe between his teeth. 
 " Oh, for the old times, or those yet to come, when our 
 answer would have been, or shall be — the sword! "
 
 222 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 " And you know," pursued Mr. Brown, "that Lord 
 Ulswater and his regiment are in the town, and have 
 even made great preparations against the meeting a 
 week ago." 
 
 "I have heard this," said Wolfe; "but I cannot 
 think that any body of armed men dare interrupt or 
 attack a convocation of peaceable subjects, met solely to 
 petition Parliament against famine for themselves and 
 slavery for their children." 
 
 "Famine!" quoth Mr. Brown. "Indeed it is very 
 true, — very ! — times are dreadfully bad. I can scarcely 
 get my own living, — Parliament certainly ought to do 
 something; but you must forgive me, Mr. Wolfe, it 
 may be dangerous to talk with you on these matters: 
 
 and now I think of it, the sooner I get to W the 
 
 better, — good morning. A shower 's coming on, — you 
 won't have the umbrella, then 1 " 
 
 " They dare not," said Wolfe to himself, " no, no, — 
 they dare not attack us; they dare not; " and clenching 
 his fist, he pursued, with a quicker step and a more 
 erect mien, his solitary way. 
 
 When he was about the distance of three miles from 
 
 W , he was overtaken by a middle-aged man, of a 
 
 frank air and respectable appearance. " Good-day, sir," 
 said he; " we seem to be journeying the same way, — 
 will it be against your wishes to join company ? " 
 
 Wolfe assented, and the stranger resumed: — 
 
 " I suppose, sir, you intend to be present at the meet- 
 ing at W to-morrow. There will be an immense 
 
 concourse, and the entrance of a new detachment of sol- 
 diers, and the various reports of the likelihood of their 
 interference with the assembly, make it an object of 
 some interest and anxiety to look forward to." 
 
 "True — true," said Wolfe, slowly, eying his new
 
 THE DISOWNED. 223 
 
 acquaintance with a deliberate and scrutinizing atten- 
 tion. "It will, indeed, be interesting to see how far 
 an evil and hardy government will venture to encroach 
 upon the rights of the people, which it ruins while it 
 pretends to rule. " 
 
 " Of a truth, " rejoined the other, " I rejoice that I 
 am no politician. I believe my spirit is as free as any 
 cooped in the narrow dungeon of earth's clay can well 
 be ; yet I confess that it has drawn none of its liberty 
 from book, pamphlet, speech, or newspaper, of modern 
 times. " 
 
 " So much the worse for you, sir," said Wolfe, sourly: 
 " the man who has health and education can find no 
 excuse for supineness or indifference to that form of 
 legislation by which his country decays or prospers." 
 
 "Why," said the other, gayly, " I willingly confess 
 myself less of a patriot than a philosopher; and as long 
 as I am harmless, I strive very little to be useful, in a 
 public capacity ; in a private one, as a father, a husband, 
 and a neighbor, I trust I am not utterly without my 
 value." 
 
 " Pish ! " cried Wolfe ; " let no man who forgets his 
 public duties, prate of his private merits. I tell you, 
 man, that he who can advance by a single hair's-breadth, 
 the happiness or the freedom of mankind, has done more 
 to save his own soul than if he had paced every step of 
 the narrow circle of his domestic life with the regularity 
 of clock-work." 
 
 "You may be right," quoth the stranger, carelessly; 
 " but I look on things in the mass, and perhaps see only 
 the superficies, while you, I perceive already, are a 
 lover of the abstract. For my part, Harry Fielding's 
 two definitions seem to me excellent. ' Patriot, — a 
 candidate for a place ! ' 4 Politics, — the art of getting
 
 22-4 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 such a place! ' Perhaps, sir, as you seem a man of edu- 
 cation, you remember the words of our great novelist." 
 
 "No!" answered Wolfe, a little contemptuously; "I 
 cannot say that I burden my memory with the delete- 
 rious witticisms and shallow remarks of writers of fancy. 
 It has been a mighty and spreading evil to the world, 
 that the vain fictions of the poets, or the exaggerations 
 of novelists, have been hitherto so welcomed and ex- 
 tolled. Better had it been for us if the destruction of 
 the lettered wealth at Alexandria had included all the 
 lighter works which have floated, from their very levity, 
 down the stream of time, an example and a corruption to 
 the degraded geniuses of later days. " 
 
 The eyes of the stranger sparkled. " Why, you out- 
 goth the Goth!" exclaimed he, sharply. "But you 
 surely preach against what you have not studied. Con- 
 fess that you are but slightly acquainted with Shake- 
 speare and Spenser and noble Dan Chaucer. Ay, if 
 you knew them as well as I do, you would, like me, 
 give 
 
 ' To hem faith and full credence, 
 And in your heart have hem in reverence.' " 
 
 " Pish ! " again muttered Wolfe, and then rejoined, 
 aloud, " It grieves me to see time so wasted, and judg- 
 ment so perverted, as yours appear to have been; but it 
 fills me with pity and surprise, as well as grief, to find 
 that, so far from shame at the effeminacy of your studies, 
 you appear to glory and exult in them." 
 
 " May the Lord help me, and lighten thee," said Cole, 
 for it was he. " You are at least not a novelty in human 
 wisdom, whatever you may be in character; for you are 
 far from the only one proud of being ignorant, and pity- 
 ing those who are not so."
 
 THE DISOWNED. 225 
 
 Wolfe darted one of his looks of fire at the speaker, 
 who, nothing abashed, met the glance with an eye, if 
 not as fiery, at least as bold. 
 
 " I see," said the republican, " tbat we shall not agree 
 upon the topics you have started. If you still intrude 
 your society upon me, you will at least choose some 
 other subject of conversation." 
 
 "Pardon me," said Cole, whose very studies, while 
 tbey had excited in their self-defence his momentary 
 warmth, made him habitually courteous and urbane, — 
 " pardon me for my hastiness of expression. I own my- 
 self in fault." And, with this apology, our ex-king slid 
 into the new topics which the scenery and the weather 
 afforded him. 
 
 Wolfe, bent upon the object of his present mission, 
 made some inquiries respecting Mordaunt; and though 
 Cole only shared the uncertain information of the coun- 
 try gossips as to the past history of that person, yet the 
 little he did know was sufficient to confirm the repub- 
 lican in his belief of Algernon's identity : while the 
 ex-gypsy's account of his rank and reputation in the 
 country made Wolfe doubly anxious to secure, if pos- 
 sible, his good offices and interference on behalf of the 
 meeting. But the conversation was not always restricted 
 to neutral and indifferent ground, but ever and anon 
 wandered into various allusions or opinions, from the 
 one, certain to beget retort or controversy in the other. 
 
 Had we time, and our reader patience, it would have 
 been a rare and a fine contrast to have noted more at 
 large the differences of thought and opinion between the 
 companions ; each in his several way so ardent for lib- 
 erty, and so impatient of the control and customs of 
 society; each so enthusiastic for the same object, j r et so 
 coldly contemptuous to the enthusiasm of the other. 
 
 VOL. II. — 15
 
 226 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 The one guided only by his poetical and erratic tastes, 
 the other solely by dreams, seeming to the world no less 
 baseless, yet, to his own mind, bearing the name of 
 stern judgment and inflexible truth. Both men of 
 active and adventurous spirits, to whom forms were 
 fetters, and ceremonies odious; yet, deriving from that 
 mutual similarity only pity for mutual perversion, they 
 were memorable instances of the great differences con- 
 geniality itself will occasion, and of the never-ending 
 varieties which minds, rather under the influence of 
 imagination than judgment, will create.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 227 
 
 CHAPTER LXXV. 
 
 Gratis anhelans, multa agendo, nihil agens. 1 
 
 PH.EDRU8. 
 
 Upon entering the town, the streets displayed all the 
 hustle and excitement which the approaching meeting 
 was eminently calculated to create in a place ordinarily 
 quiescent and undisturbed; groups of men were scat- 
 tered in different parts, conversing with great eagerness ; 
 while here and there, some Demosthenes of the town, 
 impatient of the coming strife, was haranguing his little 
 knot of admiring friends, and preparing his oratorical 
 organs by petty skirmishing for the grand battle of the 
 morrow. Now and then the eye roved upon the gaunt 
 forms of Lord Ulswater's troopers, as they strolled idly 
 along the streets, in pairs, perfectly uninterested by the 
 great event which set all the more peaceable inmates of 
 the town in a ferment, and returning, with a slighting 
 and supercilious glance, the angry looks and muttered 
 anathemas which, ever and anon, the hardier spirits of 
 the petitioning party liberally bestowed upon them. 
 
 As Wolfe and his comrade entered the main street, 
 the former was accosted by some one of his compatriots, 
 who, seizing him by the arm, was about to apprise the 
 neighboring idlers, by a sudden exclamation, of the wel- 
 come entrance of the eloquent and noted republican. 
 But Wolfe perceived, and thwarted his design. 
 
 " Hush ! " said he, in a low voice ; " I am only now 
 on my way to an old friend, who seems a man of in- 
 
 1 Panting and laboring in vain ; doing much, — effecting nothing.
 
 228 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 fluence in those parts, and may be of avail to us on the 
 morrow ; keep silence, therefore, with regard to my 
 coming till I return. I would not have my errand 
 interrupted." 
 
 "As you will," said the hrother-spirit : "hut whom 
 have you here, —a fellow-laborer? " and the reformer 
 pointed to Cole, who, with an expression of shrewd 
 humor, blended with a sort oi philosophical compassion, 
 stood at a little distance waiting for Wolfe, and eying 
 the motley groups assembled before him. 
 
 " No, " answered Wolfe ; " he is some vain and idle 
 sower of unprofitable flowers: a thing who loves poetry, 
 and, for aught I know, writes it, but that reminds me 
 that I must rid myself of his company, yet stay, — do 
 you know this neighborhood sufficiently to serve me as 
 a guide 1 " 
 
 " Ay, " quoth the other ; " I was born within three 
 miles of the town." 
 
 "Indeed! " rejoined Wolfe; "then, perhaps, you can 
 tell me if there is any way of reaching a place called 
 Mordaunt Court, without passing through the more 
 public and crowded thoroughfares." 
 
 " To be sure, " rejoined the brother-spirit; "you have 
 only to turn to the right up yon hill, and you will in an 
 
 instant be out of the purlieus and precincts of W , 
 
 and on your shortest road to Mordaunt Court; but surely 
 it is not to its owner that you are bound? " 
 
 " And why not? " said Wolfe. 
 
 "Because," replied the other, "he is the wealthiest, 
 the highest, and, as report says, the haughtiest aristocrat 
 of these parts." 
 
 " So much the better, then," said Wolfe, " can he aid 
 us in obtaining a quiet hearing to-morrow, undisturbed 
 by those liveried varlets of hire, who are termed, in
 
 THE DISOWNED. 229 
 
 sooth, Britain's defence! Much better, when we think 
 of all they cost us to pamper and to clothe, should they 
 be termed Britain's ruin; but, farewell for the present; 
 we shall meet to-night ; your lodgings — " 
 
 " Yonder, " said the other, pointing to a small inn 
 opposite; and Wolfe, nodding his adieu, returned to 
 Cole, whose vivacious and restless nature had already 
 made him impatient of his companion's delay. 
 
 " I must take my leave of you now, " said Wolfe, 
 " which I do with a hearty exhortation that you will 
 change your studies, fit only for effeminate and enslaved 
 minds. " 
 
 " And I return the exhortation, " answered Cole. 
 " Your studies seem to me tenfold more crippling than 
 mine : mine take all this earth's restraint from me, and 
 yours seem only to remind you that all earth is restraint ; 
 mine show me whatever worlds the fondest fancy could 
 desire; yours only the follies and chains of this. In 
 short, while 'my mind to me a kingdom is,' yours seems 
 to consider the whole universe itself nothing but a great 
 meeting for the purpose of abusing ministers and de- 
 manding reform ! " 
 
 Not too well pleased by this answer, and at the same 
 time indisposed to the delay of further reply, Wolfe 
 contented himself with an iron sneer of disdain, and 
 turning on his heel, strode rapidly away in the direction 
 his friend had indicated. 
 
 Meanwhile Cole followed him with his eye, till he 
 was out of sight, and then muttered to himself : " Never 
 was there a fitter addition to old Barclay's ' Ship of 
 Fools ' ! I should not wonder if this man's patriotism 
 leads him from despising the legislature into breaking the 
 law; and, faith, the surest way to the gallows is less 
 through vice than discontent; yet, I would fain hope
 
 230 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 better tilings for him, — for, methinks, he is neither a 
 common declaimer, nor an ordinary man. " 
 
 With these words the honest Cole turned away, and 
 strolling towards the Golden Fleece, soon found him- 
 self in the hospitable mansion of Mistress and Mister 
 Merrylack. 
 
 While the ex-king was taking his ease at his inn, 
 Wolfe proceeded to Mordaunt Court. The result of the 
 meeting that there ensued was a determination on the 
 part of Algernon to repair immediately to W .
 
 THE DISOWNED. 231 
 
 CHAPTER LXXVT. 
 
 The commons here in Kent are up in arms. 
 
 Second Part of Henry VI, 
 
 When Mordaunt arrived at W , he found that the 
 
 provincial deities (who were all assemhled at dinner with 
 the principal inhabitants of the town), in whose hands 
 the fate of the meeting was placed, were in great doubt 
 and grievous consternation. He came hi time, first to 
 balance the votes, and ultimately to decide them. His 
 mind, prudent and acute, when turned to worldly affairs, 
 saw in a glance the harmless, though noisy nature of 
 the meeting ; and he felt that the worst course the gov- 
 ernment or the county could pursue would be to raise 
 into importance, by violence, what otherwise would meet 
 with ridicule from most, and indifference from the rest. 
 
 His large estates, his ancient name, his high reputa- 
 tion for talent, joined to that manner, half eloquent and 
 half commanding, which rarely fails of effect when de- 
 liberation only requires a straw on either side to become 
 decision, — all these rendered his interference of imme- 
 diate avail; and it was settled that the meeting should, 
 as similar assemblies had done before, proceed and con- 
 clude undisturbed by the higher powers, so long as no 
 positive act of sedition to the government or danger to 
 the town was committed. 
 
 Scarcely was this arrangement agreed upon, before 
 Lord Ulswater, who had hitherto been absent, entered 
 the room in which the magisterial conclave was as- 
 sembled. Mr. Glumford (whom our readers will possibly
 
 232 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 remember as the suitor to Isabel St. Leger, and who had 
 at first opposed, and then reluctantly subscribed to Mor- 
 daunt's interference) bustled up to him. 
 
 " So, so, my lord, " said be, " since I had the honor of 
 seeing your lordship, quite a new sort of trump has been 
 turned up. " 
 
 " I do not comprehend your metaphorical elegancies of 
 speech, Mr. Glumford, " said Lord Ulswater. 
 
 Mr. Glumford explained. Lord Ulswater's cheek 
 grew scarlet. " So Mr. Mordaunt has effected this wise 
 alteration," said he. 
 
 " Nobody else, my lord, nobody else ; and I am sure, 
 though your lordship's estates are at the other end of the 
 county, yet they are much larger than his; and since 
 your lordship has a troop at your command, and that 
 sort of thing, I would not, if I were your lordship, surfer 
 any such opposition to your wishes. " 
 
 Without making a reply to this harangue, Lord Uls- 
 water stalked haughtily up to Mordaunt, who was lean- 
 ing against the wainscot, and conversing with those 
 around him. 
 
 " I cannot but conceive, Mr. Mordaunt, " said he, with 
 a formal bow, " that I have been misinformed in the 
 intelligence I have just received." 
 
 " Lord Ulswater will, perhaps, inform me to what 
 intelligence he alludes." 
 
 " That Mr. Mordaunt, the representative of one of the 
 noblest families in England, has given the encouragement 
 and influence of his name and rank to the designs of a 
 seditious and turbulent mol i. " 
 
 Mordaunt smiled slightly, as he replied, " Your lord- 
 ship rightly believes that you are misinformed. It is 
 precisely because I would not have the mob you speak of 
 seditious or turbulent, that I have made it my request
 
 THE DISOWNED. 233 
 
 that the meeting of to-morrow should be suffered to pass 
 off undisturbed. " 
 
 " Then, sir, " cried Lord Ulswater, striking the table 
 with a violence which caused three reverend potentates 
 of the province to start back in dismay, " I cannot but 
 consider such interference on your part to the last degree 
 impolitic and uncalled for; these, sir, are times of great 
 danger to the state, and in which it is indispensably 
 requisite to support and strengthen the authority of the 
 law." 
 
 " I waive, at present, " answered Mordaunt, " all reply 
 to language neither courteous nor appropriate. I doubt 
 not but that the magistrates will decide as is most in 
 accordance with the spirit of that law, which in this, and 
 in all times, should be supported. " 
 
 " Sir, " said Lord Ulswater, losing his temper more and 
 more, as he observed that the bystanders, whom he had 
 been accustomed to awe, all visibly inclined to the opin- 
 ion of Mordaunt, — " sir, if your name has been instrumen- 
 tal in producing so unfortunate a determination on the 
 part of the magistrates, I shall hold you responsible to 
 the government for those results which ordinary prudence 
 may calculate upon." 
 
 " When Lord Ulswater, " said Mordaunt, sternly, 
 " has learned what is due, not only to the courtesies of 
 society, but to those legitimate authorities of his country, 
 who (he ventures to suppose) are to be influenced con- 
 trary to their sense of duty by any individual, then he 
 may, perhaps, find leisure to make himself better ac- 
 quainted with the nature of those laws which he now so 
 vehemently upholds. " 
 
 " Mr. Mordaunt, you will consider yourself answer- 
 able to me for those words, " said Lord Ulswater , with a 
 tone of voice unnaturally calm ; and the angry flush of
 
 234 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 his countenance gave place to a livid paleness. Then, 
 turning on his heel, he left the room. 
 
 As he repaired homeward, he saw one of his soldiers 
 engaged in a loud and angry contest with a man in the 
 plain garh of a peaceful citizen ; a third person, standing 
 hy, appeared ineffectually endeavoring to pacify the dis- 
 putants. A rigid disciplinarian, Lord Ulswater allowed 
 not even party feeling, roused as it was, to conquer pro- 
 fessional habits. He called off the soldier, and the man 
 with whom the latter had been engaged immediately 
 came up to Lord Ulswater with a step as haughty as his 
 own. The third person, who had attempted the peace- 
 maker, followed him. 
 
 " I presume, sir, " said he, " that you are an officer of 
 this man's regiment. " 
 
 " I am the commanding officer, sir, " said Lord Uls- 
 water, very little relishing the air and tone of the per- 
 son who addressed him. 
 
 " Then, " answered the man (who was, indeed, no 
 
 other than Wolfe, who, having returned to W with 
 
 Mordaunt, had already succeeded in embroiling himself 
 in a dispute), — " then, sir, I look to you for his punish- 
 ment and my redress; " and Wolfe proceeded, in his 
 own exaggerated language, to detail a very reasonable 
 cause of complaint. The fact was, that Wolfe, meeting 
 one of his compatriots, and conversing with him some- 
 what loudly, had uttered some words which attracted 
 the spleen of the soldier who was reeling home, very 
 comfortably intoxicated; and the soldier had, most 
 assuredly, indulged in a copious abuse of the d — d 
 rebel who could not walk the streets without chatter- 
 ing sedition. 
 
 Wolfe's friend confirmed the statement. 
 
 The trooper attempted to justify himself; but Lord
 
 THE DISOWNED. 235 
 
 Ulswater saw his intoxication in an instant, and secretly- 
 vexed that the complaint was not on the other side, 
 ordered the soldier to his quarters, with a "brief hut sure 
 threat of punishment on the morrow. Not willing, how- 
 ever, to part with the " d — d rebel " on terms so flatter- 
 ing to the latter, Lord Ulswater, turning to Wolfe, with 
 a severe and angry air, said, — 
 
 " As for you, fellow, I believe the whole fault was 
 on your side; and if you dare again give vent to your 
 disaffected ravings, I shall have you sent to prison, to 
 tame your rank hlood upon bread and water. Begone, 
 and think yourself fortunate to escape now ! " 
 
 The fierce spirit of Wolfe was in arms on the instant; 
 and his reply, in subjecting him to Lord TJlswater's 
 threat, might at least have prevented his enlightening 
 the public on the morrow, had not his friend, a peaceable, 
 prudent man, seized him by the arm, and whispered, 
 " What are you about 1 Consider for what you are here, 
 — another word may rob the assembly of your presence. 
 A man bent on a public cause must not, on the eve of its 
 trial, enlist in a private quarrel. " 
 
 " True, my friend, true, " said Wolfe, swallowing his 
 rage, and eying Lord TJlswater's retreating figure with 
 a menacing look ; " but the time may yet come when I 
 shall have license to retaliate on the upstart." 
 
 " So be it, " quoth the other, — " he is our bitterest 
 enemy. You know, perhaps, that he is Lord Ulswater, 
 
 of the regiment ? It has been at his instigation 
 
 that the magistrates proposed to disturb the meeting. 
 He has been known publicly to say that all who at- 
 tended the assembly ought to be given up to the swords 
 of his troopers." 
 
 " The butchering dastard! — to dream even of attack- 
 ing unarmed men ; but enough of him, — I must tarry
 
 236 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 yet in the street to hear what success our intercessor 
 has obtained." And as Wolfe passed the house in 
 which the magisterial conclave sat, Mordaunt came out 
 and accosted him. 
 
 " You have sworn to me that your purpose is peace- 
 able, " said Mordaunt. 
 
 " Unquestionably," answered Wolfe. 
 
 " And you will pledge yourself that no disturbance, 
 that can either be effected, or counteracted by yourself 
 and friends, shall take place 1 " 
 
 "I will." 
 
 " Enough ! " answered Mordaunt, " Remember, that 
 if you commit the least act that can be thought dan- 
 gerous, I may not be able to preserve you from the 
 military. As it is, your meeting will be unopposed. " 
 
 Contrary to Lord Ulswater's prediction, the meeting 
 went off as quietly as an elderly maiden's tea-party. 
 The speakers, even Wolfe, not only took especial pains 
 to recommend order and peace, but avoided, for the 
 most part, all inflammatory enlargement upon the griev- 
 ances of which they complained. And the sage fore- 
 boders of evil, who had locked up their silver spoons, 
 and shaken their heads very wisely for the last week, 
 had the agreeable mortification of observing rather an 
 appearance of good humor upon the countenances of 
 the multitude, than that ferocious determination against 
 the lives and limbs of the well-affected which they had 
 so sorrowfully anticipated. 
 
 As Mordaunt (who had been present during the 
 whole time of the meeting) mounted his horse, and 
 quitted the ground, Lord Ulswater, having just left 
 his quarters, where he had been all day in expectation 
 of some violent act of the orators or the mob demand- 
 ing his military services, caught sight of him, with a
 
 THE DISOWNED. 237 
 
 sudden recollection of his own passionate threat. There 
 had been nothing in Mordaunt's words which would, 
 in our times, have justified a challenge; but in that 
 day, duels were fought upon the slightest provocation. 
 Lord Ulswater therefore rode up at once to a gentle- 
 man with whom he had some intimate acquaintance, 
 and, briefly stating that he had been insulted both as 
 an officer and gentleman by Mr. Mordaunt, requested 
 his friend to call upon that gentleman, and demand 
 satisfaction. 
 
 " To-morrow, " said Lord Ulswater, " I have the mis- 
 fortune to be unavoidably engaged. The next day you 
 can appoint place and time of meeting. " 
 
 " I must first see the gentleman to whom Mr. Mor- 
 daunt may refer me, " said the friend, prudently ; " and 
 perhaps your honor may be satisfied without any hostile 
 meeting at all. " 
 
 "I think not, " said Lord Ulswater, carelessly, as he 
 rode away ; " for Mr. Mordaunt is a gentleman, and 
 gentlemen never apologize." 
 
 Wolfe was standing unobserved near Lord Ulswater 
 while the latter thus instructed his proposed second. 
 "Man of blood, " muttered the republican, "with homi- 
 cide thy code of honor, and massacre thine interpreta- 
 tion of law, by violence wouldst thou rule, and by 
 violence mayst thou perish ! "
 
 238 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXVIL 
 
 Jam te premet nox, fabulaeque Manes 
 Et donius exilis Hutuuia. 1 
 
 IIOR. 
 
 The morning was dull and heavy as Lord Ulswater 
 mounted his horse, and, unattended, took his way towards 
 Westborough Park. His manner was unusually thought- 
 ful and absent ; perhaps two affairs upon his hands, 
 either of which seemed likely to end in bloodshed, were 
 .sufficient to bring reflection even to the mind of a cav- 
 alry officer. 
 
 He had scarcely got out of the town before he was 
 overtaken by our worthy friend Mr. Glumford. As he 
 had been a firm ally of Lord Ulswater in the contest 
 respecting the meeting, so, when he joined and saluted 
 that nobleman, Lord Ulswater, mindful of past services, 
 returned his greeting with an air rather of condescension 
 than hauteur. To say truth, his lordship was never 
 very fond of utter loneliness, and the respectful bearing 
 of Glumford, joined to that mutual congeniality which 
 sympathy in political views always occasions, made him 
 more pleased with the society than shocked with the in- 
 trusion of the squire: so that when Glumford said, "If 
 your lordship's way lies along this road for the next five 
 or six miles, perhaps you will allow me the honor of 
 accompanying you, " Lord Ulswater graciously signified 
 his consent to the proposal, and carelessly mentioning 
 
 1 This very hour Death shall overcome thee, and the fabled 
 Manes and the shadowy Plutonian realms receive thee.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 239 
 
 that he was going to Westborough Park, slid into that 
 conversation with his new companion which the meeting 
 and its actors afforded. 
 
 Turn we for an instant to Clarence. At the appointed 
 hour he had arrived at Westborough Park, and bidding 
 his companion, the trusty Wardour, remain within the 
 chaise which had conveyed them, he was ushered, with 
 a trembling heart, but a mien erect and self-composed, 
 into Lady Westborough's presence: the marchioness 
 was alone. 
 
 " I am sensible, sir, said she, with a little embarrass- 
 ment, " that it is not exactly becoming to my station and 
 circumstances to suffer a meeting of the present nature 
 between Lord Ulswater and yourself to be held within 
 this house ; but I could not resist the request of Lord 
 Ulswater, conscious from his character that it could con- 
 tain nothing detrimental to the — to the consideration 
 and delicacy due to Lady Flora Ardenne." 
 
 Clarence bowed. " So far as I am concerned, " said 
 he, " I feel confident that Lady Westborough will not 
 repent of her condescension." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " It is singular, " said Lady Westborough, looking to 
 the clock upon an opposite table, " that Lord Ulswater 
 is not yet arrived." 
 
 " It is, " said Clarence, scarcely conscious of his words, 
 and wondering whether Lady Flora would deign to 
 appear. 
 
 Another pause. Lady Westborough felt the awkward- 
 ness of her situation. 
 
 Clarence made an effort to recover himself. 
 
 " 1 do not see, " said he, " the necessity of delaying the 
 explanation I have to offer to your ladyship till my Lord 
 Ulswater deems it suitable to appear. Allow me at
 
 240 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 once to enter upon a history, told in few words, and 
 easily proved." 
 
 " Stay, " said Lady Westborough, struggling Avith her 
 curiosity ; " it is due to one who lias stood in so peculiar 
 a situation in our family to wait yet a little longer for 
 his coming. We will therefore, till the hour is com- 
 pleted, postpone the object of our meeting." 
 
 Clarence again bowed and was silent. Another and a 
 longer pause ensued; it was broken by the sound of the 
 clock striking, — the hour was completed. 
 
 " Now, " — began Clarence, when he was interrupted 
 by a sudden and violent commotion in the hall. Above 
 all was heard a loud and piercing cry, in which Clarence 
 recognized the voice of the old steward. He rose ab- 
 ruptly, and stood motionless and aghast; his eyes met 
 those of Lady Westborough, who, pale and agitated, lost 
 for the moment all her habitual self-command. The 
 sound increased: Clarence rushed from the room into 
 the hall; the open door of the apartment revealed to 
 Lady Westborough, as to him, a sight which allowed 
 her no further time for hesitation. She hurried after 
 Clarence into the hall, gave one look, uttered one shriek 
 of horror, and fainted.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 241 
 
 CHAPTER LXXVIII. 
 
 Iden. — But thou wilt brave me in these saucy terms. 
 Cade, — Brave thee ! ay, by the best blood that ever was 
 broached, and beard thee too. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 " You see, my lord, " said Mr. Glumford to Lord Uls- 
 water, as they rode slowly on, " that as long as those 
 rebellious scoundrels are indulged in their spoutings and 
 meetings, and that sort of thing, that — that there will 
 be no bearing them. " 
 
 "Very judiciously remarked, sir," replied Lord Uls- 
 water. " I wish all gentlemen of birth and considera- 
 tion viewed the question in the same calm, dispassionate, 
 and profound light that you do. Would to Heaven it 
 were left to me to clear the country of those mutinous 
 and dangerous rascals, — I would make speedy and sure 
 work of it. " 
 
 " I am certain you would, my lord, — I am certain you 
 would. It is a thousand pities that pompous fellow 
 Mordaunt interfered yesterday with his moderation and 
 policy and all that sort of thing: so foolish, you know, 
 my lord, — mere theory and romance and that sort of 
 thing; we should have had it all our own way, if he 
 had not." 
 
 Lord Ulswater played with his riding-whip, but did 
 not reply. Mr. Glumford continued : — 
 
 " Pray, my lord, did your lordship see what an ugly, 
 ill-dressed set of dogs those meeting ers were, — that 
 Wolfe, above all 1 Oh, he 's a horrid-looking fellow ! 
 
 VOL. II. — 16
 
 242 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 By the by, he left the town this very morning; I saw 
 him take leave of his friends in the street just before I 
 set out. He is going to some other meeting, — on foot 
 too. Only think of the folly of talking about the 
 policy and prudence and humanity, and that sort of 
 thing, of sparing such a pitiful poor fellow as that: 
 can't afford a chaise, or a stage-coach even, my lord, — 
 positively can't." 
 
 " You see the matter exactly in its true light, Mr. 
 Glumford, " said his lordship, patting his fine horse, 
 which was somewhat impatient of the slow pace of its 
 companion. 
 
 " A very beautiful animal of your lordship's, " said 
 Mr. Glumford, spurring his own horse , — a heavy, dull 
 quadruped, with an obstinate ill-set tail, a low shoulder, 
 and a Roman nose. " I am very partial to horses my- 
 self, and love a fine horse as well as anybody." 
 
 Lord Ulswater cast a glance at his companion's steed, 
 and seeing nothing in its qualities to justify this assertion 
 of attachment to fine horses, was silent; Lord Ulswater 
 never flattered even his mistress, much less Mr. 
 Glumford. 
 
 " I will tell you, my lord, " continued Mr. Glumford, 
 " what a bargain this horse was ; " and the squire pro- 
 ceeded, much to Lord Ulswater's discontent, to detail the 
 history of his craft in making the said bargain. 
 
 The riders were now entering a part of the road, a 
 little more than two miles from Westborough Parle, in 
 which the features of the neighboring country took a 
 bolder and ruder aspect than they had hitherto worn. 
 On one side of the road the view opened upon a descent 
 of considerable depth, and the dull sun looked drearily 
 over a valley in which large fallow fields, a distant and 
 solitary spire, and a few stinted and withering trees
 
 THE DISOWNED. 243 
 
 formed the chief characteristics. On the other side of 
 the road a narrow footpath was separated from the high- 
 way by occasional posts ; and on this path Lord Ulswater 
 (how the minute and daily occurrences of life show the 
 grand pervading principles of character!) was, at the 
 time we refer to, riding, in preference to the established 
 thoroughfare for equestrian and aurigal travellers. The 
 side of this path farthest from the road was bordered by 
 a steep declivity of stony and gravelly earth, which 
 almost deserved the dignified appellation of a precipice ; 
 and it was with no small exertion of dexterous horseman- 
 ship that Lord Ulswater kept his spirited and suscepti- 
 ble steed upon the narrow and somewhat perilous path, 
 in spite of its frequent starts at the rugged descent 
 below. 
 
 " I think, my lord, if I may venture to say so, " said 
 Mr. Glumford, having just finished the narration of his 
 bargain, " that it would be better for you to take the 
 highroad just at present ; for the descent from the foot- 
 path is steep and abrupt, and deuced crumbling, so that 
 if your lordship's horse shied or took a wrong step, it 
 might be attended with unpleasant consequences, — a 
 fall, or that sort of thing. " 
 
 " You are very good, sir, " said Lord Ulswater, who, 
 like most proud people, conceived advice an insult ; " but 
 I imagine myself capable of guiding my horse, at least 
 upon a road so excellent as this." 
 
 " Certainly, my lord, certainly ; I beg your pardon : 
 but — bless me, who is that tall fellow in black, talking 
 to himself yonder, my lord? The turn of the road 
 hides him from you just at present; but I see him well. 
 Ha, ha! what gestures he uses! I daresay he is one of 
 the petitioners, and — yes, my lord, by Jupiter, it is 
 Wolfe himself! You had better (excuse me, my lord)
 
 244 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 come down from the footpath : it is not wide enough for 
 two people, — and Wolfe, I daresay, a d — d rascal, 
 would not get out of the way for the devil himself! 
 He 's a nasty, black, tierce-looking fellow ; I would not 
 for something meet him in a dark night, or that sort of 
 thing!-" 
 
 " I do not exactly understand, Mr. Glumf ord, " re- 
 turned Lord Ulswater, with a supercilious glance at 
 that gentleman, " what peculiarities of temper you are 
 pleased to impute to me, or from what you deduce the 
 supposition that I shall move out of my way for a 
 person like Mr. Woolt, or Wolfe, or whatever be his 
 name." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, my lord, I am sure, " answered 
 Glumf ord : " of course your lordship knows best ; and if 
 the rogue is impertinent, why, I 'm a magistrate, and will 
 commit him; though to be sure," continued our righteous 
 Daniel, in a lower key, " he has a right to walk upon 
 the footpath without being ridden over, or that sort of 
 thing." 
 
 The equestrians were now very near Wolfe, who, 
 turning hastily round, perceived, and immediately recog- 
 nized Lord Ulswater. " Ah, ha, " muttered he to him- 
 self, " here comes the insolent thirster for blood , grudging 
 us, seemingly, even the meagre comfort of the path 
 which his horse's hoofs are breaking up, — yet, thank 
 Heaven," added the republican, looking with a stern 
 satisfaction at the narrowness of the footing, " he cannot 
 very well pass me, and the free lion does not move out 
 of his way for such pampered kine as those to which this 
 creature belongs. " 
 
 Actuated by this thought, Wolfe almost insensibly 
 moved entirely into the middle of the path, so that what 
 with the posts on one side, and the abrupt and unde-
 
 THE DISOWNED. 245 
 
 fended precipice, if we may so call it, on the other, it 
 was quite impossible for any horseman to pass the repub- 
 lican, unless over his body. 
 
 Lord Ulswater marked the motion, and did not want 
 penetration to perceive the cause. Glad of an opportu- 
 nity to wreak some portion of his irritation against a 
 member of a body so oifensive to his mind, and which 
 had the day before obtained a sort of triumph over his 
 exertions against them, and rendered obstinate in his in- 
 tention by the pique he had felt at Glumford's caution, 
 Lord Ulswater, tightening his rein, and humming, with 
 apparent indifference, a popular tune, continued his 
 progress till he was within a foot of the republican. 
 Then, checking his horse for a moment, he called, in a 
 tone of quiet arrogance, to Wolfe to withdraw himself on 
 one side till he had passed. 
 
 The fierce blood of the republican, which the least 
 breath of oppression sufficed to kindle, and which yet 
 boiled with the remembrance of Lord Ulswater's threat 
 to him two nights before, was on lire at this command. 
 He stopped short, and, turning half round, stood erect in 
 the strength and power of his singularly toll and not 
 ungraceful form. " Poor and proud fool, " said he, with 
 a voice of the most biting scorn, and fixing an eye 
 eloquent of ire and menaced danger upon the calmly con- 
 temptuous countenance of the patrician, — " poor and 
 proud fool, do you think that your privileges have 
 already reached so pleasant a pitch that you may ride 
 over men like dust? Off, fool! the basest peasant in 
 England, degraded as he is, would resist, while he ridi- 
 culed your arrogance. " 
 
 Without deigning any reply, Lord Ulswater spurred 
 his horse; the spirited animal bounded forward, almost
 
 246 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 on the very person of the ohstructer of the path; with 
 uncommon agility Wolfe drew aside from the danger, 
 seized, with a powerful grasp, the bridle, and abruptly 
 arresting the horse, backed it fearfully towards the de- 
 scent. Enraged beyond all presence of mind, the fated 
 nobleman, raising his whip, struck violently at the re- 
 publican. The latter, as he felt the blow, uttered a 
 single shout of such ferocity that it curdled the timorous 
 blood of Glumford, and with a giant and iron hand he 
 backed the horse several paces down the precipice. The 
 treacherous earth crumbled beneath the weight, and 
 Lord Ulswater, spurring his steed violently at the same 
 instant that Wolfe so sharply and strongly curbed it, the 
 affrighted animal reared violently, forced the rein from 
 Wolfe, stood erect for a moment of horror to the specta- 
 tor, and then, as its footing and balance alike failed it, 
 fell backward, and rolled over and over its unfortunate 
 and helpless rider. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! " cried Glumford, who had sat 
 quietly upon his dozing horse, watching the result of 
 the dispute, — " what have you done 1 You have killed 
 his lordship, — positively killed him, and his horse too, 
 I daresay. You shall be hanged for this, sir, as sure as 
 I am a magistrate and that sort of thing." 
 
 Unheeding this denunciation, Wolfe had made to the 
 spot where rider and horse lay blent together at the foot 
 of the descent, and assisting the latter to rise, bent down 
 to examine the real effect of his violence. " Methinks, " 
 said he, as he looked upon the hueless, but still defying, 
 features of the horseman, — " methinks I have seen that 
 face years before, — but where? — perhaps my dreams 
 have foretold me this." 
 
 Lord Ulswater was utterly senseless; and as Wolfe
 
 THE DISOWNED. 247 
 
 raised him, he saw that the right side of the head was 
 covered with blood, and that one arm seemed crushed 
 and broken. Meanwhile a carriage had appeared, was 
 hailed by Glumford, stopped; and, on being informed 
 of the circumstance, and the rank of the sufferer, the 
 traveller, a single gentleman, descended, assisted to raise 
 the unhappy nobleman, placed him in the carriage, and 
 obeying Glumford's instructions, proceeded slowly to 
 Westborough Park. 
 
 " But the ruffian, the rebel, the murderer ! " said Mr. 
 Glumford, both querulously and inquiringly, looking 
 towards Wolfe, who, without having attempted to assist 
 his victim, stood aloof, with arms folded, and an expres- 
 sion of sated ferocity upon his speaking features. 
 
 " Oh, as to him, " quoth the traveller, stepping into 
 his carriage, in order to support the mangled man, — 
 " you, sir, and my valet, can bring him along with you, 
 or take him to the next town, or do, in short, with him 
 just as you please, only be sure he does not escape, — • 
 drive on, post-boy, very gently." And poor Mr. Glum- 
 ford found the muscular form of the stern Wolfe con- 
 signed to the sole care of himself and a very diminutive 
 man in pea-green silk stockings, who, however excel- 
 lently well he might perform the office of valet, was 
 certainly by no means calculated in physical powers for 
 the detention of a criminal. 
 
 Wolfe saved the pair a world of trouble and anxiety. 
 
 " Sir, " said he, gravely turning to Glumford, " you 
 beheld the affray, and, whatever its consequences, will 
 do me the common justice of witnessing as to the fact of 
 the first aggressor: it will, however, be satisfactory to 
 both of us to seize the earliest opportunity of putting the 
 matter upon a legal footing, and I shall, therefore, re-
 
 248 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 turn to W , to which town you will doubtless ac- 
 company me." 
 
 " With all my heart! " cried Mr. Glumford, feeling as 
 if a mountain of responsibility were taken from his 
 breast; "and I -wish to Heaven you may be transported 
 instead of hanged. "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 249 
 
 CHAPTEE LXXIX. 
 
 But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, 
 And dull the film along his dim eye grew. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 The light broke partially through the half-closed shut- 
 ters of the room in which lay Lord Ulswater, — who, 
 awakened to sense and pain by the motion of the car- 
 riage, had now relapsed into insensibility. By the side 
 of the sofa on which he was laid, knelt Clarence, bath- 
 ing one hand with tears violent and fast; on the op- 
 posite side leaned over, with bald front, and an expression 
 of mingled fear and sorrow upon his intent countenance, 
 the old steward; while, at a little distance, Lord West- 
 borough, who had been wheeled into the room, sat 
 mute in his chair, aghast with bewilderment and horror, 
 and counting every moment to the arrival of the surgeon, 
 who had been sent for. The stranger to whom the car- 
 riage belonged stood by the window, detailing, in a low 
 voice, to the chaplain of the house, what particulars of 
 the occurrence he was acquainted with ; while the young- 
 est scion of the family, a boy of about ten years, and 
 who, in the general confusion, had thrust himself un- 
 noticed into the room, stood close to the pair, with open 
 mouth and thirsting ears, and a face on which childish 
 interest at a fearful tale was strongly blent with the more 
 absorbed feeling of terror at the truth. 
 
 Slowly Lord Ulswater opened his eyes, — they rested 
 upon Clarence. 
 
 "My brother — my brother!" cried Clarence, in a 
 voice of powerful anguish ; " is it thus — thus that you
 
 250 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 have come hither to — " He stopped in the gushing 
 fulness of his heart. Extricating from Clarence the 
 only hand he was aide to use, Lord Ulswater raised it 
 to his brow, as if in the eii'ort to clear remembrance ; 
 and then, turning to Wardour, seemed to ask the truth 
 of Clarence's claim, — at least so tbe old man interpreted 
 the meaning of his eye, and the faint and scarce intel- 
 ligible words which broke from his lips. 
 
 " It is, it is, my honored lord, " cried he, struggling 
 with his emotion, — " it is your brother, your lost 
 brother, Clinton L'Estrange. " And as he said these 
 words, Clarence felt the damp chill hand of his brother 
 press his own, and knew by that pressure and the smile 
 — kind, though brief from exceeding pain — with which 
 the ill-fated nobleman looked upon him, that the claim 
 long unknown was at last acknowledged, and the ties 
 long broken united, though in death. 
 
 The surgeon arrived; the room was cleared of all 
 but Clarence, — the first examination was sufficient. 
 Unaware of Clarence's close relationship to the sufferer, 
 the surgeon took him aside : " A very painful opera- 
 tion, " said he, " might be performed, but it would only 
 torture in vain the last moments of the patient; no 
 human skill can save, or even protract his life. " 
 
 The doomed man, who, though in great pain, was 
 still sensible, stirred. His brother flew towards him. 
 " Flora, " he murmured, " let me see her, I implore. " 
 
 Curbing, as much as he was able, his emotion, and 
 conquering his reluctance to leave the sufferer even for 
 a moment, Clarence flew in search of Lady Flora. He 
 found her : in rapid and hasty words he signified the wish 
 of the dying man, and hurried her, confused, trembling, 
 and scarce conscious of the melancholy scene she was 
 about to witness, to the side of her affianced bridegroom.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 251 
 
 I have been by the deathbeds of many men, and I 
 have noted that shortly before death, as the frame 
 grows weaker and weaker, the fiercer passions yield to 
 those feelings better harmonizing with the awfulness 
 of the hour. Thoughts soft and tender, which seemed 
 little to belong to the character in the health and vigor 
 of former years, obtain then an empire, — brief, indeed, 
 but utter for the time they last; and this is the more 
 impressive, because (as in the present instance I shall 
 have occasion to portray) in the moments which succeed 
 and make the very latest of life, the ruling passion, 
 suppressed for an interval by such gentler feelings, 
 sometimes again returns to take its final triumph over 
 that frail clay which, through existence, it has swayed, 
 agitated, and moulded like wax unto its will. 
 
 When Lord Ulswater saw Flora approach and bend 
 weepingly over him, a momentary softness stole over 
 his face. Taking her hand, he extended it towards Clar- 
 ence ; and, turning to the latter, faltered out, " Let 
 this — my — brother — atone — for — " apparently un- 
 able to finish the sentence, he then relaxed his hold 
 and sunk upon the pillow: and so still, so apparently 
 breathless, did he remain for several minutes, that they 
 thought the latest agony was over. 
 
 As, yielding to this impression, Clarence was about 
 to withdraw the scarce conscious Flora from the cham- 
 ber, words, less tremulous and indistinct than aught 
 which he had yet uttered, broke from Lord Ulswater's 
 lips. Clarence hastened to him, and, bending over 
 his countenance, saw that, even through the rapid 
 changes and shades of death, it darkened with the 
 peculiar characteristics of the unreleased soul within : 
 the brow was knit into more than its wonted sternness 
 and pride; and in the eye, which glared upon the oppo-
 
 252 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 site wall, the light of the waning life broke into a mo- 
 mentary blaze, — that flash, so rapid and evanescent, 
 before the air drinks in the last spark of the being it 
 has animated, and night — the starless and eternal — falls 
 over the extinguished lamp ! The hand of the right arm 
 (which was that unshattered by the fall) was clenched 
 and raised; but, when the words which came upon 
 Clarence's ear had ceased, it fell heavily by his side, 
 like a clod of that clay which it had then become. 
 In those words, it seemed as if, in the confused deli- 
 rium of passing existence, the brave soldier mingled 
 some dim and bewildered recollection of former battles 
 with that of his last most fatal, though most ignoble 
 
 strife. 
 
 " Down, down with them, " he muttered between his 
 teeth, though in a tone startlingly deep and audihle, — 
 " down with them. No quarter to the infidels, — strike 
 for England and Effingham. Ha ! — who strives for 
 flight there ! — kill him : no mercy, I say, — none ! — 
 there — there, I have despatched him, — ha! ha! What, 
 still alive 1 — off, slave, off ! Oh, slain — slain in a 
 ditch, by a base-born hind ; oh — bitter — bitter — 
 bitter!" And with these words, of which the last, 
 from their piercing anguish and keen despair, made a 
 dread contrast with the fire and defiance of the first, th j 
 jaw fell, the flashing and fierce eye glazed and es+» and 
 all of the haughty and bold patrician which the earth 
 retained was — dust !
 
 THE DISOWNED. 253 
 
 CHAPTER LXXX. 
 
 H n'est jamais permis de dete'riorer une ame humaine pour l'avan- 
 tage des autres, ni de faire un scelerat pour le service des hon- 
 netes gens. 1 — Rousseau. 
 
 As the reader approaches the termination of this narra- 
 tive, and looks hack upon the many scenes he has passed, 
 perhaps, in the mimic representation of human life, he 
 may find no unfaithful resemblance to the true. 
 
 As, amongst the crowd of characters jostled against 
 each other in their course, some drop off at the first, the 
 second, or the third stage, and leave a few only continu- 
 ing to the last, while Fate chooses her agents and survi- 
 vors among those whom the bystander, perchance, least 
 noticed as the objects of her selection, — and they who, 
 haply, seemed to him at first among the most conspicuous 
 as characters, sink, some abruptly, some gradually 
 into actors of the least importance in events ; as the 
 reader notes the same passion, in different strata, pro- 
 ducing the most opposite qualities, and gathers from that 
 notice some estimate of the vast perplexity in the code 
 of morals, deemed by the shallow so plain a science, 
 when he finds that a similar and single feeling will pro- 
 duce both the virtue we love and the vice we detest, the 
 magnanimity we admire and the meanness we despise; 
 as the feeble hands of the author force into contrast 
 ignorance and wisdom, the affectation of philosophy and 
 its true essence, coarseness and refinement, the lowest 
 
 1 It is not permitted us to degrade one single soul for the sake 
 of conferring advantage on others, nor to make a rogue for the 
 good of the honest.
 
 254 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 vulgarity of sentiment with an exaltation of feeling 
 approaching to morbidity, the reality of virtue with the 
 counterfeit, the glory of the divinity with the hideous- 
 ness of the idol, sorrow and eager joy, marriage and 
 death, tears, and their young successors, smiles; as all, 
 blent together, these varieties of life form a single yet 
 many-colored web, leaving us to doubt whether, in for- 
 tune, the bright hue or the dark, in character, the base 
 material or the rich, predominate, — the workman of the 
 web could almost reconcile himself to his glaring and 
 great deficiency in art, by the fond persuasion that he 
 has, at least in his choice of tint and texture, caught 
 something of the likeness of nature: but he knows, to 
 the abasement of his vanity, that these enumerated par- 
 ticulars of resemblance to life are common to all, even 
 to the most unskilful of his brethren ; and it is not the 
 mere act of copying a true original, but the rare circum- 
 stance of force and accuracy in the copy, which can alone 
 constitute a just pretension to merit, or flatter the artist 
 with the hope of a moderate success. 
 
 The news of Lord Ulswater's untimely death soon 
 spread around the neighborhood, and was conveyed to 
 Mordaunt by the very gentleman whom that nobleman had 
 cbarged with his hostile message. Algernon repaired 
 at once to W , to gather from Wolfe some less ex- 
 aggerated account of the affray than that which the many 
 tongues of rumor had brought to him. 
 
 It was no difficult matter to see the precise share of 
 blame to be attached to Wolfe; and notwithstanding 
 the biassed account of Glumford, and the strong spirit of 
 party then existing in the country, no rational man could, 
 for a moment, term the event of a sudden fray a premed- 
 itated murder, or the violence of the aggrieved the black 
 offence of a wilful criminal. Wolfe, therefore, soon 
 obtained a release from the confinement to which he had
 
 THE DISOWNED. 255 
 
 been first committed ; and with a temper still more ex- 
 asperated by the evident disposition of his auditors to 
 have treated him, had it been possible, with the utmost 
 rigor, he returned to companions well calculated, by 
 their converse and bent of mind, to inflame the fester 
 of his moral constitution. 
 
 It happens, generally, that men very vehement in 
 any particular opinion choose their friends, not for a 
 general similarity of character, but in proportion to their 
 mutual congeniality of sentiment upon that particular 
 opinion ; it happens, also, that those most audibly vio- 
 lent, if we may so speak, upon any opinion, moral or 
 political, are rarely the wisest or the purest of their 
 party. Those with whom Wolfe was intimate, were men 
 who shared none of the nobler characteristics of the re- 
 publican; still less did they participate, or even compre- 
 hend the enlightened and benevolent views for which 
 the wise and great men of that sect — a sect to which all 
 philanthropy is, perhaps too fondly, inclined to lean — 
 have been so conspicuously eminent. On the contrary, 
 Wolfe's comrades, without education, and consequently 
 without principle, had been driven to disaffection by 
 desperate fortunes and ruined reputations acting upon 
 minds polluted by the ignorance, and hardened among 
 the dross of the populace. But the worst can, by con- 
 stant intercourse, corrupt the best; and the barriers of 
 good and evil, often confused in Wolfe's mind by the 
 blindness of his passions, seemed, as his intercourse with 
 these lawless and ruffian associates thickened, to be at 
 last utterly broken down and swept away. 
 
 Unhappily, too, — soon after Wolfe's return to Lon- 
 don, — the popular irritation showed itself in mobs, per- 
 haps rather to be termed disorderly than seditious : the 
 ministers, however, thought otherwise; the military 
 were summoned, and much injury, resulting, it is to be
 
 256 Till". DISOWNED. 
 
 hoped, from accident, not design, ensued t<» many of the 
 persons assembled. Some were severely wounded by 
 the swords of the soldiers, others maimed and trampled 
 upon by the horses, which shared the agitation or irri- 
 tability of their riders; and a few, among whom were 
 two women and three children, lost their lives. Wolfe 
 had been one of the crowd; and the scene, melancholy as 
 it really was, and appearing to his temper unredeemed 
 and inexcusable on the part of the soldiers, left on his 
 mind a deep and burning impression of revenge. Jus- 
 tice (as they termed it) was demanded by strong bodies 
 of the people upon the soldiers; but the administration 
 deeming it politic rather to awe than to conciliate, so far 
 from censuring the military, approved their exertions. 
 
 From that time Wolfe appears to have resolved upon 
 the execution of a design which he had long imperfectly 
 and confusedly meditated. 
 
 This was no less a crime (and to him did conscien- 
 tiously seem no less a virtue) than to seize a favorable 
 opportunity for assassinating the most prominent member 
 of the administration, and the one who, above all the 
 rest, was the most odious to the disaffected. It must lie 
 urged, in extenuation of the atrocity of this design, that 
 a man perpetually brooding over one scheme, which to 
 him has become the very sustenance of existence, and 
 which scheme, perpetually frustrated, grows desperate, 
 by disappointment, acquires a heat of morbid and oblique 
 enthusiasm which may not be unreasonably termed 
 insanity; and that, at the very time Wolfe reconciled it 
 to his conscience to commit the murder of his fellow- 
 creature, he would have moved out of his path for a 
 worm. Assassination, indeed, seemed to him justice; 
 and a felon's execution the glory of martyrdom. And 
 yet, O Fanatic, thou didst anathematize the duellist as 
 the man of blood, — what is the assassin 1
 
 THE DISOWNED, 257 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXI. 
 
 And thou that, silent at my knee, 
 
 Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark, earnest eyes, 
 Filled with the love of childhood, which I see 
 
 Pure through its depths, — a thing without disguise ; 
 Thou that hast breathed in slumber on my breast, 
 When I have checked its throbs to give thee rest, 
 
 Mine own, whose young thoughts fresh before me rise, 
 Is it not much that I may guide thy prayer, 
 And circle thy young soul with free and healthful air % 
 
 He MANS. 
 
 The events we have recorded, from the time of Clar- 
 ence's visit to Mordaunt to the death of Lord Ulswater, 
 took place within little more than a week. We have 
 now to pass in silence over several weeks , and as it was 
 the commencement of autumn when we introduced Clar- 
 ence and Mordaunt to our reader, so it is the first open- 
 ing of winter in which we will resume the thread of our 
 narration. 
 
 Mordaunt had removed to London; and although he 
 had not yet taken any share in public business, he was 
 only watching the opportunity to commence a career, the 
 brilliancy of which those who knew aught of his mind 
 began already to foretell. But he mixed little, if at all, 
 with the gayer occupants of the world's prominent places. 
 Absorbed alternately in his studies and his labors of 
 good, the halls of pleasure were seldom visited by his 
 presence; and tbey who, in the crowd, knew nothing of 
 him but his name and the lofty bearing of his mien, re- 
 coiled from the coldness of his exterior, and, while they 
 marvelled at his retirement and reserve, saw in both but 
 
 . vol u—17
 
 258 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 the moroseness of the student, and the gloom of the 
 misanthropist. 
 
 l>ut the nobleness of his person, the antiquity of his 
 birth, his wealth, his unblemished character, and the 
 interest thrown over his name by the reputation of tal- 
 ent and the unpenetrated mystery of his life, — all pow- 
 erfully spoke in his favor to those of the gentler sex, who 
 judge us not only from what we are to others, but from 
 what they imagine we can be to them. From such allure- 
 ments, however, as from all else, the mourner turned 
 only the more deeply to cherish the memory of the dead; 
 and it was a touching and holy sight to mark the mingled 
 excess of melancholy and fondness with which he 
 watched over that treasure in whose young beauty and 
 guileless heart his departed Isabel had yet left the resem- 
 blance of her features and her love. There seemed be- 
 tween them to exist even a dearer and closer tie than 
 that of daughter and sire; for in both, the objects which 
 usually divided the affections of the man or the child 
 had but a feeble charm: Isabel's mind had expanded 
 beyond her years, and Algernon's had outgrown his 
 time; so that neither the sports natural to her age, nor 
 the ambition ordinary to his, were sufficient to wean or 
 to distract the unity of their love. When, after absence, 
 his well-known step trod lightly in the hall, her ear, 
 which had listened and longed and thirsted for the sound, 
 taught her fairy feet to be the first to welcome his re- 
 turn ; and, when the slightest breath of sickness men- 
 aced her slender frame, it was his hand that smoothed 
 her pillow, and his smile that cheered away her pain; 
 and when she sank into sleep, she knew that a father's 
 heart watched over her through the long but untiring 
 night, — that a father's eye would be the first which, on 
 waking, she would meet.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 259 
 
 " Oh! beautiful, and rare as beautiful," was that affec- 
 tion: in the parent no earthlier or harder sternness in 
 authority, nor weakness in doating, nor caprice in love; 
 in the child, no fear-debasing reverence, yet no famil- 
 iarity diminishing respect. But Love, whose pride is 
 in serving, seemed to make at once soft and hallowed 
 the offices mutually rendered, — and nature, never coun- 
 teracted in her dictates, wrought, without a visible 
 effort, the proper channels into which those offices 
 should flow ; and that charity which not only covers 
 sins, but lifts the veil from virtues whose beauty might 
 otherwise have lain concealed, linked them closer and 
 closer, and threw over that link the sanctity of itself. 
 For it was Algernon's sweetest pleasure to make her 
 young hands the ministers of good to others, and to 
 drink, at such times, from the rich glow of her angel 
 countenance the purified selfishness of his reward. And 
 when after the divine joy of blessing, which, perhaps, 
 the youngest taste yet more vividly than their sires, she 
 threw her arms around his neck, and thanked him with 
 glad tears for the luxury he had bestowed upon her, 
 how could they, in that gushing overflow of heart, help 
 loving each other the more, or feeling that in that love 
 there was something which justified the excess? 
 
 Nor have we drawn with too exaggerating a pencil, 
 nor, though Isabel's mind was older than her years, 
 extended that prematureness to her heart. For, where 
 we set the example of benevolence, and see that the 
 example is in nought corrupted, the milk of human 
 kindness will flow not the least readily from the youngest 
 breast, and out of the mouths of babes will come the 
 wisdom of charity and love ! 
 
 Ever since Mordaunt's arrival in town, he had sought 
 out Wolfe's abode, for the purpose of ministering to the
 
 200 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 poverty under which he rightly conjectured that the re- 
 publican labored. But the habitation of one, needy, 
 ■ 1 istressed, seldom living long in one place, and far less 
 notorious of late than he had formerly been, was not easy 
 to discover; nor was it till after long and vain search 
 that he ascertained the retreat of his singular acquaint- 
 ance. The day in which he effected this object we shall 
 have hereafter occasion to specify. Meanwhile we return 
 to Mr. Crauford.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 261 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXII. 
 
 Plot on thy little hour, and, skein on skein, 
 "Weave the vain mesh, in which thy subtle soul 
 Broods on its venom ! Lo ! behind, before, 
 Around thee, like an armament of cloud, 
 
 The black Fate labors onward ! 
 
 Anon. 
 
 The dusk of a winter's evening gathered over a room in 
 Crauford's house in town, only relieved from the closing 
 darkness by an expiring and sullen fire, beside which 
 Mr. Bradley sat, with his feet upon the fender, appar- 
 ently striving to coax some warmth into the icy palms of 
 his spread hands. Crauford himself was walking up 
 and down the room with a changeful step, and ever and 
 anon glancing his bright, shrewd eye at the partner of 
 his fraud, who, seemingly unconscious of the observation 
 he underwent, appeared to occupy his attention solely 
 with the difficulty of warming his meagre and withered 
 frame. 
 
 "Aren't you very cold there, sir?" said Bradley, 
 after a long pause, and pushing himself farther into the 
 verge of the dying embers, — " may I not ring for some 
 more coals 1 " 
 
 "Hell and the — I beg your pardon, ray good 
 Bradley, but you vex me beyond patience: how can you 
 think of such trifles when our very lives are in so im- 
 minent a danger 1 " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, my honored benefactor; they 
 are indeed in danger! "
 
 2G2 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 "Bradley, we have but one hope, — fidelity to each 
 other. If we persist in the same story, not a tittle can 
 he brought home to us, — not a tittle, my good Bradley; 
 and though our characters may be a little touched, why, 
 what is a character'? Shall we eat less, drink less, enjoy 
 less, when we have lost it? Not a whit. No, my 
 friend, we will go abroad : leave it to me to save from the 
 wreck of our fortunes enough to live upon like princes." 
 
 " If not like peers, my honored benefactor." 
 
 " 'Sdeath ! — yes, yes, very good — he ! he ! he ! if not 
 peers. Well, all happiness is in the senses, and Richard 
 Crauford has as many senses as Viscount Innisdale ; but 
 had we been able to protract inquiry another week, 
 Bradley, why, I would have been my Lord, and you 
 Sir John." 
 
 "You bear your losses like a hero, sir," said Mr. 
 Bradley. 
 
 " To be sure ; there is no loss, man, but life, — none ; 
 let us preserve that, — and it will be our own fault if we 
 don't, — and the devil take all the rest. But bless me, 
 it grows late, and, at all events, we are safe for some 
 hours; the inquiry won't take place till twelve to- 
 morrow, — why should we not feast till twelve to-night ? 
 Ring, my good fellow, dinner must be nearly ready." 
 
 "Why, honored sir," said Bradley, "I want to go 
 home to see my wife, and arrange my house. Who 
 knows but I may sleep in Newgate to-morrow 1 " 
 
 Crauford, who had been still walking to and fro, 
 stopped abruptly at this speech, and his eye, even 
 through the gloom, shot out a livid and fierce light, 
 before which the timid and humble glance of Mr. Brad- 
 ley quailed in an instant. 
 
 "Go home! — no, my friend, no, I can't part with 
 you to-night, no, not for an instant. I have many
 
 THE DISOWNED. 263 
 
 lessons to give you. How are we to learn our parts for 
 to-morrow, if we don't rehearse them beforehand 1 Do 
 you not know that a single blunder may turn what I 
 hope will he a farce into a tragedy 1 Go home! — pooh, 
 pooh, — why, man, I have not seen my wife, nor put my 
 house to rights, and if you do but listen to me, I tell 
 you again and again that not a hair of our heads can be 
 touched. " 
 
 "You know best, honored sir; I bow to your de- 
 cision." 
 
 "Bravo, honest Brad! and now for dinner. I have 
 the most glorious champagne that ever danced in foam 
 to your lip. No counsellor like the bottle, believe 
 me! " 
 
 And the servant entering to announce dinner, Crau- 
 ford took Bradley's arm, and leaning affectionately upon 
 it, passed through an obsequious and liveried row of 
 domestics to a room blazing Avith light and plate. A 
 noble fire was the first thing which revived Bradley's 
 spirit, and as he spread his hands over it before he sat 
 down to the table, he surveyed, with a gleam of glad- 
 ness upon his thin cheeks, two vases of glittering metal 
 formerly the boast of a king, in which were immersed 
 the sparkling genii of the grape. 
 
 Crauford, always a gourmand, ate with unusual appe- 
 tite, and pressed the wine upon Bradley with an eager 
 hospitality which soon somewhat clouded the senses 
 of the worthy man. The dinner was removed, the ser- 
 vants retired, and the friends were left alone. 
 
 " A pleasant trip to France! " cried Crauford, filling a 
 bumper. " That 's the land for hearts like ours. I tell 
 you what, little Brad, we will leave our wives behind 
 us, and take, with a new country and new names, a new 
 lease of life. What will it signify to men making love
 
 264 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 at Paris what fools say of them in London? Another 
 bumper, honest Brad, — a bumper to the girls! What 
 say you to that, oh ? " 
 
 " Lord, sir, you are so facetious, — so witty! It must 
 be owned that a black eye is a great temptation, — Lira- 
 lira, la-la! " And Mr. Bradley's own eyes rolled 
 joyously. 
 
 " Bravo, Brad! — a song, a song! but treason to King 
 Burgundy ! Your glass is — " 
 
 " Empty, honored sir, I know it! — Lira-lira la ! — but 
 it is easily rilled! We who have all our lives been 
 pouring from one vessel into another, know how to keep 
 it up to the last! 
 
 'Courage, then, cries the knight, we may yet be forgiven, 
 Or at worst buy the bishop's reversion in heaven ; 
 Our frequent escapes in this world show how true 't is, 
 That gold is the only Elixir Salutis. 
 
 Derry down, derry down. 
 
 1 All yon, who to swindling conveniently creep, 
 Ne'er piddle, — by thousands the treasury sweep ; 
 Your safety depends on the weight of the sum, 
 For no rope was yet made that could tie up a plum. 
 
 Derry down, etc' " * 
 
 "Bravissimo, little Brad! — you are quite a wit. 
 See what it is to have one's faculties called out. Come, 
 a toast to old England, the land in which no man ever 
 wants a farthing who has wit to steal it, — ' old England 
 forever! ' — your rogue is your only true patriot! " — and 
 Crauford poured the remainder of the bottle, nearly 
 three parts full, into a beaker, which he pushed to 
 Bradley. That convivial gentleman emptied it at a 
 draught, and faltering out, "Honest Sir John! — room 
 
 1 From a ballad called, " The Knight and the Prelate."
 
 THE DISOWNED. 2G5 
 
 for my Lady Bradley's carriage," dropped down on the 
 floor insensible. 
 
 Crauford rose instantly, satisfied himself that the in- 
 toxication was genuine, and giving the lifeless body a 
 kick of contemptuous disgust, left the room, muttering, 
 " The dull ass, did he think it was on his back that I 
 was going to ride off ! He! he! he! But stay, let me 
 feel my pulse. Too fast by twenty strokes! One 's 
 never sure of the mind, if one does not regulate the body 
 to a hair! Drank too much, — must take a powder be- 
 fore I start. " 
 
 Mounting by a back staircase to his bedroom, Crauford 
 unlocked a chest, took out a bundle of clerical clothes, a 
 large shovel-hat, and a huge wig. Hastily, but not 
 carelessly induing himself in these articles of disguise, 
 he then proceeded to stain his fair cheeks with a prepa- 
 ration which soon gave them a swarthy hue. Putting 
 his own clothes in the chest, which he carefully locked 
 (placing the key in his pocket) , he next took from a 
 desk on his dressing-table a purse; opening this, he 
 extracted a diamond of great size and immense value, 
 which, years before, in preparation of the event that 
 had now taken place, he had purchased. 
 
 His usual sneer curled his lip as he gazed at it. 
 "Now," said he, " is it not strange that this little stone 
 should supply the mighty wants of that grasping thing, 
 man! Who talks of religion, country, wife, children? 
 This petty mineral can purchase them all! Oh, what 
 a bright joy speaks out in your white cheek, my beauty! 
 What are all human charms to yours? Why, by your 
 spell, most magical of talismans, my years may walk, 
 gloating and revelling, through a lane of beauties till 
 they fall into the grave ! Pish ! — that grave is an ugly 
 thought, — a very, very ugly thought! But come, my
 
 2G6 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 sun of hope, I must eclipse you for a while! Type of 
 myself, — while you hide, I hide also; and when I once 
 more let you forth to the day, then shine out Richard 
 Crauford — shine out!" So saying, he sewed the 
 diamond carefully in the folds of his shirt, and, rear- 
 ranging his dress, took the cooling powder, which he 
 weighed out to a grain with a scrupulous and untrem- 
 bling hand, descended the back stairs, opened the door, 
 and found himself in the open street. 
 
 The clock struck ten as he entered a hackney-coach 
 and drove to another part of London. " What, so late! " 
 thought he : " I must be at Dover in twelve hours, — the 
 vessel sails then. Humph! — some danger yet! What 
 a pity that I could not trust that fool. He! he! he! — ■ 
 what will he think to-morrow, when he wakes and finds 
 that only one is destined to swing! " 
 
 The hackney-coach stopped, according to his direction, 
 at an inn in the City. Here Crauford asked if a note 
 had been left for Dr. Stapylton. One (written by him- 
 self) was given to him. " Merciful Heaven ! " cried 
 the false doctor, as he read it, " my daughter is on a bed 
 of death! " 
 
 The landlord's look wore anxiety, — the doctor 
 seemed for a moment paralyzed by silent woe. He re- 
 covered, shook his head piteously, and ordered a post- 
 chaise and four on to Canterbury without delay. 
 
 " It is an ill wind that blows nobody good! " thought 
 the landlord, as he issued the order into the yard. 
 
 The chaise was soon out, the doctor entered, off went 
 the postboys, and Richard Crauford, feeling his diamond, 
 turned his thoughts to safety and to France. 
 
 A little, unknown man, who had been sitting at the 
 bar for the last two hours, sipping brandy-and-water, 
 and who, from his extreme taciturnity and quiet, had
 
 THE DISOWNED. 2G7 
 
 been scarcely observed, now rose. " Landlord," said he, 
 " do you know who that gentleman is ? " 
 
 "Why," quoth Boniface, "the letter to him was di- 
 rected, ' For the Rev. Dr. Stapylton, — will be called 
 for.'" 
 
 "Ah! " said the little man, yawning, — "I shall have 
 a long night's work of it. Have you another chaise and 
 four in the yard ? " 
 
 " To be sure, sir, to be sure ! " cried the landlord in 
 astonishment. 
 
 "Out with it, then! Another glass of brandy -and- 
 water: a little stronger, — no sugar! " 
 
 The landlord stared, the barmaid stared, even the 
 head- waiter, a very stately person, stared too. 
 
 " Hark ye," said the little man, sipping his brandy- 
 and-water, " I am a deuced good-natured fellow, so I '11 
 make you a great man to-night; for nothing makes a 
 man so great as being let into a great secret. Did you 
 ever hear of the rich Mr. Crauford 1 " 
 
 " Certainly; who has not? " 
 
 " Did you ever see him ? " 
 
 " No; I can't say I ever did." 
 
 " You lie, landlord, — you saw him to-night." 
 
 " Sir! " cried the landlord, bristling up. 
 
 The little man pulled out a brace of pistols, and very 
 quietly began priming them out of a small powder-flask. 
 
 The landlord started back, the head-waiter cried 
 " rape," and the barmaid " murder." 
 
 " Who the devil are you, sir? " cried the landlord. 
 
 " Mr. Tickletrout, the celebrated officer, — thief-taker, 
 as they call it. Have a care, ma'am, the pistols are 
 loaded. I see the chaise is out, — there 's the reckoning, 
 landlord." 
 
 " Lord! I 'm sure I don't want any reckoning, — ■
 
 208 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 too great an honor for my poor house to he favored with 
 your company; hut" (following the little man to the 
 door) " whom did you please to say you were going to 
 catch? " 
 
 "Mr. Crauford, alias Dr. Stapylton." 
 
 "Lord! Lord! — to think of it, — how shocking! 
 What has he done ? " 
 
 " Swindled, I helieve." 
 
 "My eyes! And why, sir, did not you catch him 
 when he was in the bar 1 " 
 
 "Because then I should not have got paid for my 
 journey to Dover. Shut the door, hoy; first stage on to 
 Canterbury." 
 
 And, drawing a woollen nightcap over his ears, Mr. 
 Tickletrout resigned himself to his nocturnal excursion. 
 
 On the very day on which the patent for his peerage 
 was to have been made out ; on the very day on which 
 he had afterwards calculated on reaching Paris, — on 
 that very day was Mr. Eichard Crauford lodged in 
 Newgate, fully committed for a trial of life and death.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 269 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXIII. 
 
 There, if, gentle love ! I read aright 
 The utterance that sealed thy sacred bond : 
 'T was listening to those accents of delight 
 She hid upon his breast those eyes, — beyond 
 Expression's power to paint, — all languishingly fond. 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 "And you will positively leave us for London," said 
 Lady Flora, tenderly, "and to-morrow too!" This 
 was said to one who, under the name of Clarence Lin- 
 den, has played the principal part in our drama, and 
 who now, hy the death of his brother, succeeding to the 
 honors of his house, we present to our reader as Clinton 
 L' Estrange, Earl of Ulswater. 
 
 They were alone in the memorable pavilion ; and 
 though it was winter, the sun shone cheerily into the 
 apartment ; and through the door, which was left partly 
 open, the evergreens, contrasting with the leafless boughs 
 of the oak and beech, could be just descried, furnishing 
 the lover with some meet simile of love, and deceiving 
 the eyes of those willing to be deceived with a resem- 
 blance to the departed summer. The unusual mildness 
 of the day seemed to operate genially upon the birds, — 
 those children of light and song; and they grouped 
 blithely beneath the window and round the door, where 
 the hand of the kind young spirit of the place had so 
 often ministered to their wants. Every now and then, 
 too, you might hear the shrill glad note of the blackbird 
 keeping measure to his swift and low flight, and some- 
 times a vagrant hare from the neighboring preserves
 
 270 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 sauntered fearlessly by the half-shut door, secure, from 
 long experience, of an asylum in the vicinity of one who 
 had drawn from the breast of nature a tenderness and 
 love for all its offspring. 
 
 Her lover sat at Flora's feet; and, looking upward, 
 seemed to seek out the fond and melting eyes which, too 
 conscious of their secret, turned bashfully from his gaze. 
 He had drawn her arm over his shoulder; and clasping 
 that small and snowy hand, which, long coveted with a 
 miser's desire, was at length won, he pressed upon it a 
 thousand kisses, — sweeter beguilers of time than even 
 words. All had been long explained, — the space be- 
 tween their hearts annihilated; doubt, anxiety, miscon- 
 struction, those clouds of love, had passed away, and 
 left not a wreck to obscure its heaven. 
 
 "And you will leave us to-morrow, — must it be 
 to-morrow 1 " 
 
 "Ah! Flora, it must: but see, I have your lock of 
 hair — your beautiful, dark hair, to kiss, when I am 
 away from you; and I shall have your letters, dearest, 
 — a letter every day; and oh! more than all, 1 shall 
 have the hope, the certainty, that when we meet again, 
 you will be mine forever." 
 
 " And I, too, must, by seeing it in your handwriting, 
 learn to reconcile myself to your new name. Ah! I 
 wish you had been still Clarence, — only Clarence. 
 Wealth, rank, power, — what are all these but rivals to 
 poor Flora?" 
 
 Lady Flora sighed, and the next moment blushed ; 
 and, what with the sigh and the blush, Clarence's lip 
 wandered from the hand to the cheek, and thence to a 
 mouth on which the west wind seemed to have left the 
 sweets of a thousand summers.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 271 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXIV. 
 
 A Houndsditch man, one of the devil's near kinsmen, — a broker. 
 
 Every Man in his Humor. 
 
 We have here discovered the most dangerous piece of lechery that 
 ever was known in the commonwealth. 
 
 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 It was an evening of mingled rain and wind, the hour 
 about nine, when Mr. Morris Brown, under the shelter 
 of that admirable umbrella of sea-green silk to which 
 we have before had the honor to summon the attention 
 of our readers, was, after a day of business, plodding 
 homeward his weary way. The obscure streets through 
 which his course was bent were at no time very thickly 
 thronged, and, at the present hour, the inclemency of 
 the night rendered them utterly deserted. It is true 
 that now and then a solitary female, holding up, with 
 one hand, garments already piteously bedraggled, and 
 with the other thrusting her umbrella in the very teeth 
 of the hostile winds, might be seen crossing the inter- 
 sected streets, and vanishing amid the subterranean 
 recesses of some kitchen area, or tramping onward amidst 
 the mazes of the metropolitan labyrinth, till, like the 
 cuckoo, " heard," but no longer " seen," the echo of her 
 retreating pattens made a dying music to the reluctant 
 ear; or indeed, at intervals of unfrequent occurrence, a 
 hackney vehicle jolted, rumbling, bumping over the 
 uneven stones, as if groaning forth its gratitude to the 
 elements for which it was indebted for its fare. Some- 
 times also a chivalrous gallant of the feline species ven-
 
 272 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 tured its delicate paws upon the streaming pavement, 
 and shook, with a small hut dismal cry, the rain-drops 
 from the pyramidal roofs of its tender ears. 
 
 But, save these occasional infringements on its em- 
 pire, solitude, dark, comfortless, and unrelieved, fell 
 around the creaking footsteps of Mr. Morris Brown. 
 "I wish," soliloquized the worthy hroker, "that I had 
 heen able advantageously to dispose of this cursed um- 
 brella of the late Lady Waddilove; it is very little 
 calculated for any but a single lady of slender shape, 
 and though it certainly keeps the rain off my hat, it only 
 sends it with a double dripping upon my shoulders. 
 Pish! deuce take the umbrella, I shall catch my death 
 of cold ! " 
 
 These complaints of an affliction that was assuredly 
 sufficient to irritate the naturally sweet temper of Mr. 
 Brown, only ceased, as that industrious personage paused 
 at the corner of the street, for the purpose of selecting 
 the dryest part through which to effect the miserable act 
 of crossing to the opposite side. Occupied in stretching 
 his neck over the kennel, in order to take the fullest 
 survey of its topography which the scanty and agitated 
 lamps would allow, the unhappy wanderer, lowering his 
 umbrella, suffered a cross and violent gust of wind to 
 rush, as if on purpose, against the interior. The 
 rapidity with which this was done, and the sudden 
 impetus, which gave to the inflated silk the force of a 
 balloon, happening to occur exactly at the moment Mr. 
 Brown was stooping with such wistful anxiety over the, 
 pavement, that gentleman, to his inexpressible dismay, 
 was absolutely lifted, as it were, from his present foot- 
 ing, and immersed in a running rivulet of liquid mire, 
 which flowed immediately below the pavement. Nor 
 was this all ; for the wind, finding itself somewhat im-
 
 THE DISOV/NED. 273 
 
 prisoned in the narrow receptacle it had thus abruptly 
 entered, made so strenuous an exertion to extricate it- 
 self, that it turned Lady Waddilove's memorable relic 
 utterly inside out; so that when Mr. Brown, aghast at 
 the calamity of his immersion, lifted his eyes to heaven, 
 with a devotion that had in it more of expostulation than 
 submission, he beheld, by the melancholy lamps, the 
 apparition of his umbrella, the exact opposite to its 
 legitimate conformation, and seeming, with its lengthy 
 stick and inverted summit, the actual aftid absolute 
 resemblance of a gigantic wine-glass. 
 
 " Now," said Mr. Brown, with that ironical bitterness 
 so common to intense despair, — "now, that's what I 
 call pleasant." 
 
 As if the elements were guided and set on by all the 
 departed souls of those whom Mr. Brown had at any 
 time over-reached in his profession, scarcely had the 
 afflicted broker uttered this brief sentence before a dis- 
 charge of rain, tenfold more heavy than any which had 
 yet fallen, tumbled down in literal torrents upon the 
 defenceless head of the itinerant. 
 
 " This won't do," said Mr. Brown, plucking up cour- 
 age, and splashing out of the little rivulet, once more 
 into terra firma, — " this won't do: I must find a shel- 
 ter somewhere. Dear, dear, how the wet runs down 
 me. I am for all the world like the famous dripping 
 well in Derbyshire. What a beast of an umbrella! — 
 I'll never buy one again of an old lady, — hang me if 
 I do." 
 
 As the miserable Morris uttered these sentences, which 
 gushed out, one by one, in a broken stream of complaint, 
 he looked round and round — before, behind, beside — 
 for some temporary protection or retreat. In vain, — 
 the uncertainty of the light only allowed him to discover 
 
 VOL. II. — 18
 
 274 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 houses in which no portico extended its friendly shelter, 
 and where even the doors seemed divested of the narrow 
 ledge wherewith they are, in more civilized quarters, 
 ordinarily crowned. 
 
 " I shall certainly have the rheumatism all this win- 
 ter," said Mr. Brown, hurrying onward as fast as he was 
 able. Just then, glancing desperately down a narrow 
 lane, which crossed his path, he perceived the scaffold- 
 ing of a house in which repair or alteration had been at 
 work. A ray of hope flashed across him; he redoubled 
 his speed, and entering the welcome haven, found him- 
 self entirely protected from the storm. The extent of 
 scaffolding was, indeed, rather considerable ; and though 
 the extreme narrowness of the lane, and the increasing 
 gloom of the night, left Mr. Brown in almost total dark- 
 ness, so that he could not perceive the exact peculiari- 
 ties of his situation, yet he was perfectly satisfied with 
 the shelter he had obtained; and after shaking the rain 
 from his hat, squeezing his coat sleeves and lappets, 
 satisfying himself that it was only about the shoulders 
 that he was thoroughly wetted, and thrusting two pocket- 
 handkerchiefs between his shirt and his skin, as pre- 
 ventives to the dreaded rheumatism, Mr. Brown leaned 
 luxuriously back against the wall in the farthest corner 
 of his retreat, and busied himself with endeavoring to 
 restore his insulted umbrella to its original utility of 
 shape. 
 
 Our wanderer had been about three minutes in this 
 situation, when he heard the voices of two men who 
 were hastening along the lane. 
 
 "But do stop," said one; and these were the first 
 words distinctly audible to the ear of Mr. Brown, — " do 
 stop: the rain can't last much longer, and Ave have a 
 long way yet to go."
 
 THE DISOWNED. 275 
 
 "No, no," said the other, in a voice more imperious 
 than the first, which was evidently plebeian, and some- 
 what foreign in its tone, — "no, we have no time. 
 What signify the inclemencies of weather to men feed- 
 ing upon an inward and burning thought, and made, by 
 the workings of the mind, almost callous to the con- 
 tingencies of the frame 1 " 
 
 " Nay, my very good friend," said the first speaker 
 with positive, though not disrespectful, earnestness, 
 " that may be all very fine for you, who have a consti- 
 tution like a horse ; but I am quite a — what call you 
 it — an invalid, eh! and have a devilish cough ever 
 since I have been in this d — d country, — beg your 
 pardon, no offence to it, — so E shall just step under 
 cover of this scaffolding for a few minutes, and if you 
 like the rain so much, my very good friend, why there 
 is plenty of room in the lane to (ugh — ugh — ugh) — 
 to enjoy it." 
 
 As the speaker ended, the dim light, just faintly 
 glimmering at the entrance of the friendly shelter, was 
 obscured by his shadow, and, presently afterwards, his 
 companion joining him said, — 
 
 "Well, if it must be so; but how can you be fit to 
 brave all the perils of our scheme, when you shrink, 
 like a palsied crone, from the sprinkling of a few 
 water-drops 1 " 
 
 " A few water-fZ>'0/?.s, my very good friend," answered 
 the other; "a few — what call you them, ay — water- 
 falls rather (ugh — ugh) ; but let me tell you, my 
 brother citizen, that a man may not like to get his skin 
 wet with water, and would yet thrust his arm up to the 
 very elbow in blood (ugh — ugh)." 
 
 "The devil!" mentally ejaculated Mr. Brown, who 
 at the word " scheme," had advanced one step from his
 
 276 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 retreat, but who now, at the last words of the intruder, 
 
 drew back as gently as a snail into his shell; and 
 although his person was far too much enveloped in 
 
 shade to run the least chance of detection, yet the hon- 
 est broker began to feel a little tremor vibrate along the 
 chords of his thrilling frame, and a new anathema against 
 the fatal umbrella rise to his lips. 
 
 " Ah! " quoth the second, " I trust that it may be so; 
 but to return to our project, — are you quite sure that 
 these two identical ministers are in the regular habit of 
 walking homeward from that Parliament which their 
 despotism has so degraded 1 " 
 
 " Sure, — ay, that I am; Davidson swears to it! " 
 
 " And you are also sure of their persons, so that, even 
 in the dusk, you can recognize them? — for you know I 
 have never seen them." 
 
 "Sure as fivepence! " returned the first speaker, to 
 whose mind the lives of the persons referred to were of 
 considerable less value than the sum elegantly specilied 
 in his metaphorical reply. 
 
 " Then," said the other, with a deep, stern determina- 
 tion of tone, — "then shall this hand, by which one 
 of the proudest of our oppressors has already fallen, 
 be made a still worthier instrument of the wrath of 
 Heaven ! " 
 
 " You are a d — d pretty shot, I believe," quoth the 
 first speaker, as indifferently as if he were praising the 
 address of a Norfolk squire. 
 
 " Never yet did my eye misguide me, or my aim 
 swerve a hair's-breadth from its target! I thought 
 once, when I learned the art as a boy, that in battle, 
 rather than in the execution of a single criminal, that 
 skill would avail me." 
 
 " Well, we shall have a glorious opportunity to-
 
 THE DISOWNED. 277 
 
 morrow night! " answered the first speaker; "that is, if 
 it does not rain so infernally as it does this night: hut 
 we shall have a watch of many hours, I daresay." 
 
 "That matters hut little," replied the other conspira- 
 tor; "nor even if, night after night, the same vigil 
 is renewed and haffled, so that it bring its reward at 
 last." 
 
 " Right," quoth the first; " I long to be at it! — ugh! 
 ugh ! — what a confounded cough I have : it will be my 
 death soon, I'm thinking." 
 
 " If so," said the other, with a solemnity which 
 seemed ludicrously horrible, from the strange contrast 
 of the words and object, — " die at least with the sanctity 
 of a brave and noble deed upon your conscience and your 
 name ! " 
 
 " Ugh! ugh! — I am but a man of color, but I am a 
 patriot for all that, my good friend! See, the violence 
 of the rain has ceased; we will proceed : " and with these 
 words the worthy pair left the place to darkness and Mr. 
 Brown. 
 
 " Lord! " said the latter, stepping forth, and throw- 
 ing, as it were, in that exclamation, a whole weight of 
 suffocating emotion from his chest, — " what bloody 
 miscreants! Murder his Majesty's ministers! — ' shoot 
 them like pigeons ! ' — ' d — d pretty shot ! ' indeed. 
 O Lord! what would the late Lady Waddilove, who 
 always hated even the Whigs so cordially, say, if she 
 Avere alive ! But how providential that I should have 
 been here ; who knows but I may save the lives of the 
 whole administration, and get a pension, or a little place 
 in the post-office ! I '11 go to the prime minister directly, 
 — this very minute! Pish! i'n't you right now, you 
 cursed thing?" upbraiding the umbrella, which, half- 
 right and half-wrong, seemed endued with an instinc-
 
 278 . THE DISOWNED. 
 
 tive obstinacy for the sole purpose of tormenting its 
 owner. 
 
 However, losing this petty affliction in the greatness 
 of his present determination, Mr. Brown issued out of 
 his lair, and hastened to put his benevolent and loyal 
 intentions into effect.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 279 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXV. 
 
 When laurelled ruffians die, the Heaven and Earth, 
 And the deep Air give warning. Shall the good 
 Perish and not a sign 1 
 
 Anon. 
 
 It was the evening after the event recorded in our last 
 chapter; all was hushed and dark in the room where 
 Mordaunt sat alone, the low and falling embers burned 
 dull in the grate, and through the unclosed windows 
 the high stars rode pale and wan in their career. The 
 room, situated at the back of the house, looked over a 
 small garden, where the sickly and hoar shrubs, over- ' 
 shadowed by a few wintry poplars and grim firs, sad- 
 dened in the dense atmosphere of fog and smoke which 
 broods over our island city. An air of gloom hung 
 comfortless and chilling over the whole scene externally 
 and within. The room itself was large and old, and its 
 far extremities, mantled as they were with dusk and 
 shadow, impressed upon the mind that involuntary and 
 vague sensation, not altogether unmixed with awe, which 
 the eye, resting upon a view that it can but dimly and 
 confusedly define, so frequently communicates to the 
 heart. There Avas a strange oppression at Mordaunt' s 
 breast, with which he in vain endeavored to contend. 
 Ever and anon an icy but passing chill, like the shivers 
 of a fever, shot through his veins, and a wild and un- 
 earthly and objectless awe stirred through his hair, and 
 his eyes filled with a glassy and cold dew, and sought, 
 as by a self -impulse, the shadowy and impenetrated
 
 2 SO THE DISOWNED. 
 
 places around, which momently grew darker and darker. 
 Little addicted by his peculiar habits to an over-in- 
 dulgence of the imagination, and .still less accustomed 
 to those absolute conquests of the physical frame over 
 the mental, which seem the usual sources of that feeling 
 we call presentiment, Mordaunt rose, and walking to 
 and fro along the room, endeavored by the exercise to 
 restore to his veins their wonted and healthful circula- 
 tion. It was past the hour in which his da ugh' r retired 
 to rest; but he was often accustomed to steal up to her 
 chamber, and watch her in her young slumbers; and he 
 felt this night a more than usual desire to perform that 
 office of love: so he left the room and ascended the 
 stairs. It was a large old house that he tenanted The 
 staircase was broad, and lighted from above by a glass 
 dome; and as he slowly ascended, and the stars gleamed 
 down still and ghastly upon his steps, he fancied — but 
 he knew not why — that there was an omen in their 
 gleam. He entered the young Isabel's chamber: there 
 was a light burning within; he stole to her bed, and, 
 putting aside the curtain, felt, as he looked upon her 
 peaceful and pure beauty, a cheering warmth gather 
 round his heart. How lovely is the sleep of childhood! 
 What worlds of sweet, yet not utterly sweet associations, 
 does it not mingle with the envy of our gaze! "What 
 thoughts and hopes and cares and forebodings does it 
 not excite! There lie in that yet ungrieved and un- 
 sullied heart what unnumbered sources of emotion ! what 
 deep fountains of passion and woe! Alas! whatever 
 be its earlier triumphs, the victim must fall at last! As 
 the hart which the jackals pursue, the moment its race 
 is begun, the human prey is foredoomed for destruction, 
 not by the single sorrow, but the thousand cares: it 
 may baffle one race of pursuers, but a new succeeds; as
 
 THE DISOWNED. 281 
 
 fast as some drop off exhausted, others spring up to re- 
 new and to perpetuate the chase, and the fated though 
 flying victim never escapes, hut in death. There was a 
 faint smile upon his daughter's lip, as Mordaunt bent 
 down to kiss it; the dark lash rested on the snowy lid, 
 — ah, that tears had no well beneath its surface ! — and 
 her breath stole from her rich lips with so regular and 
 calm a motion that, like the " forest leaves," it " seemed 
 stirred with prayer ! " 1 One arm lay over the coverlid, 
 the other pillowed her head, in the unrivalled grace 
 of infancy. 
 
 Mordaunt stooped once more, for his heart filled as he 
 gazed upon his child, to kiss her cheek again, and to 
 mingle a blessing with the kiss. "When he rose, upon 
 that fair, smooth face there was one bright and glisten- 
 ing drop; and Isabel stirred in sleep, and, as if suddenly 
 vexed by some painful dream, she sighed deeply as slip 
 stirred. It was the last time that the cheek of the 
 young and predestined orphan was ever pressed by a 
 father's kiss, or moistened by a father's tear! He left 
 the room silently ; no sooner had he left it, than , as if 
 "without the precincts of some charmed and preserving 
 circle, the chill and presentiment at his heart returned. 
 There is a feeling which perhaps all have in a momen- 
 tary hypochondria felt at times ; it is a strong and shud- 
 dering impression which Coleridge has embodied in his 
 own dark and supernatural verse, that something not 
 of earth is behind us, — that if we turned our gaze back- 
 ward we should behold that which would make the 
 heart as a bolt of ice, and the eye shrivel and parch 
 within its socket. And so intense is the fancy that, 
 vjhen we turn, and all is void, from that very void we 
 
 1 And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with prayer. — 
 Byron.
 
 282 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 could shape a spectre, as fearful as the image our terror 
 had foredrawn! Somewhat such feeling had Mordaunt 
 now, as his steps sounded hollow and echoless on the 
 stairs, and the stars filled the air around him with their 
 shadowy and solemn presence. Breaking hy a violent 
 effort from a spell of which he felt that a frame some- 
 what overtasked of late was the real enchanter, he turned 
 once more into the room which he had left to visit 
 Isabel. He had pledged his personal attendance at an 
 important motion in the House of Commons for that 
 night, and some political papers were left upon his 
 table which he had promised to give to one of the mem- 
 bers of his party. He entered the room, purposing to 
 stay only a minute: an hour passed before he left it; 
 and his servant afterwards observed that, on giving him 
 some orders as he passed through the hall to the car- 
 riage, his cheek was as white as marble, and that his 
 step, usually so haughty and firm, reeled and trembled, 
 like a fainting man's dark and inexplicable fate! 
 Weaver of wild contrasts, demon of this hoary and 
 old world, that movest through it, as a spirit moveth 
 over the waters, filling the depths of things with a 
 solemn mystery and an everlasting change ! thou sweep- 
 est over our graves, and joy is born from the ashes : thou 
 sweepest over joy, and lo, it is a grave! Engine and 
 tool of the Almighty, whose years cannot fade, thou 
 changest the earth as a garment, and as a vesture it is 
 changed; thou makest it one vast sepulchre and womb 
 united, swallowing and creating life, and reproducing, 
 over and over, from age to age, from the birth of creation 
 to the creation's doom, the same dust and atoms which 
 were our fathers, and which are the sole heir-looms that 
 through countless generations they bequeath and perpet- 
 uate to their sons.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 283 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXVI. 
 
 Methinks, before the issue of our fate, 
 
 A spirit moves within us, and impels 
 
 The passion of a prophet to our lips. 
 
 Anon. 
 
 O vitoe philosophia dux, virtutis indagatrix ! — Cic. 1 
 
 Upon leaving the House of Commons, Mordaunt was 
 accosted by Lord Ulswater, who had just taken his seat 
 in the Upper House. Whatever abstraction or whatever 
 weakness Mordaunt might have manifested before he 
 had left his home, he had now entirely conquered both; 
 and it was with his usual collected address that he re- 
 plied to Lord Ulswater's salutations, and congratulated 
 him on his change of name and accession of honors. 
 
 It was a night of uncommon calm and beauty; and 
 although the moon was not visible, the frosty and clear 
 sky, " clad in the lustre of its thoiisand stars," 2 seemed 
 scarcely to mourn either the hallowing light, or the 
 breathing poesy of her presence ; and when Lord Uls- 
 water proposed that Mordaunt should dismiss his car- 
 riage, and that they should walk home, Algernon con- 
 sented not unwillingly to the proposal. He felt, indeed, 
 an unwonted relief in companionship; and the still air 
 and the deep heavens seemed to woo him from more 
 unwelcome thoughts, as with a softening and a sister's 
 love. 
 
 1 Philosophy, conductress of life, — searcher after virtue ! 
 
 2 Marlow
 
 284 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 " Let us, before we return home," said Lord Ulswater, 
 "stroll for a few moments towards the bridge; I love 
 looking at the river on a night like this." 
 
 Whoever inquires into human circumstances will he 
 struck to find how invariably a latent current of fatality 
 appears to pervade them. It is the turn of the atom in 
 the scale which makes our safety or our peril, our glory 
 or our shame; raises us to the throne, or sinks us to 
 the grave. A secret voice at Mordaunt's heart prompted 
 him to dissent from this proposal, trifling as it seemed, 
 and welcome as it was to his present and peculiar mood ; 
 he resisted the voice; the moment passed away, and the 
 last seal was set upon his doom, — they moved onward 
 towards the bridge. At first, both were silent, for Lord 
 Ulswater used the ordinary privilege of a lover, and was 
 absent and absorbed, and his companion was never the 
 first to break a taciturnity natural to his habits. At 
 last Lord Ulswater said, " I rejoice that you are now in 
 the sphere of action most likely to display your talents, 
 — you have not spoken yet, I think; indeed, there 
 has been no fitting opportunity, but you will soon, I 
 trust." 
 
 " I know not," said Mordaunt, with a melancholy 
 smile, " whether you judge rightly in thinking the 
 sphere of political exertion one the most calculated 
 for me ; but I feel at my heart a foreboding that my 
 planet is not fated to shine in any earthly sphere. Sor- 
 row and misfortune have dimmed it in its birth, and 
 now it is waning towards its decline." 
 
 " Its decline! " repeated his companion, — " no, rather 
 its meridian. You are in the vigor of your years, the 
 noon of your prosperity, the height of your intellect and 
 knowledge ; you require only an effort to add to these 
 blessings the most lasting of all, — fame ! "
 
 THE DISOWNED. 285 
 
 "Well," said Mordaunt, and a momentary light 
 flashed over his countenance, " the effort will be made. 
 I do not pretend not to have felt ambition. No man 
 should make it his boast, for it often gives to our frail 
 and earth-bound virtue both its weapon and its wings : 
 but when the soil is exhausted, its produce fails; and 
 when we have forced our hearts to too great an abun- 
 dance, whether it be of flowers that perish, or of grain 
 that endures, the seeds of after hope bring forth but a 
 languid and scanty harvest. My earliest idol was am- 
 bition; but then came others, — love and knowledge, 
 and afterwards the desire to bless. That desire you may 
 term ambition; but we will suppose them separate pas- 
 sions: for by the latter T would signify the thirst for 
 glory, either in evil or in good; and the former teaches 
 us, though by little and little, to gain its object, no less 
 in secrecy than for applause; and wisdom, which opens 
 to us a world, vast, but hidden from the crowd, estab- 
 lishes also over that world an arbiter of its own, so that 
 its disciples grow proud, and communing with their own 
 hearts, care for no louder judgment than the still voice 
 within. It is thus that indifference, not to the welfare, 
 but to the report of others, grows over vis; and often, 
 while we are the most ardent in their cause, we are the 
 least anxious for their esteem. " 
 
 " And yet," said Lord Ulswater, " I have thought the 
 passion for esteem is the best guarantee for deserving it." 
 
 " Nor without justice, — other passions may supply its 
 place, and produce the same effects; but the love of true 
 glory is the most legitimate agent of extensive good, and 
 vou do right to worship and enshrine it. For me it is 
 dead: it survived — ay, the truth shall out! — poverty, 
 want, disappointment, baffled aspirations, — all, all, but 
 the deadness, the lethargy of regret. AVhen no one was
 
 2SG THE DISOWNED. 
 
 left upon this altered earth to animate its efforts, to 
 smile upon its success, then the last spark quivered and 
 died ; and — and — but forgive me : on this subject I am 
 not often wont to wander. I would say that ambition 
 is for me no more, — not so are its effects; but the hope 
 of serving that race whom I have loved as brothers, but 
 who have never known me; who, by the exterior " (and 
 here something bitter mingled with his voice), "pass 
 sentence on the heart; in whose eyes I am only the cold, 
 the wayward, the haughty, the morose, — the hope of 
 serving them is to me, now, a far stronger passion than 
 ambition was heretofore ; and whatever for that end the 
 love of fame would have dictated, the love of mankind 
 will teach me still more ardently to perform." 
 
 They were now upon the bridge. Pausing, they 
 leaned over, and looked along the scene before them. 
 Dark and hushed, the river flowed sullenly on, save 
 where the reflected stars made a tremulous and broken 
 beam on the black surface of the water, or the lights of 
 the vast city which lay in shadow on its banks scat- 
 tered, at capricious intervals, a pale but unpiercing wan- 
 ness, rather than lustre, along the tide; or save where 
 the stillness was occasionally broken by the faint oar of 
 the boatman, or the call of his rude voice, mellowed 
 almost into music by distance and the element. 
 
 But behind them as they leaned, the feet of passen- 
 gers, on the great thoroughfare, passed not oft, — but 
 quick; and that sound, the commonest of earth's, made 
 rarer and rarer by the advancing night, contrasted, rather 
 than destroyed the quiet of the heaven and the solemnity 
 of the silent stars. 
 
 " It is an old, but a just comparison," said Mordaunt's 
 companion, "which has likened life to a river such as 
 we now survey, gliding alternately in light or in dark-
 
 THE DISOWNED. 2S7 
 
 ness, in sunshine or in storm, to that great ocean in 
 which all waters meet." 
 
 " If," said Algernon, with his usual thoughtful and 
 pensive smile, " we may be allowed to vary that simile, 
 I would, separating the universal and eternal course of 
 destiny from the fleeting generations of human life, com- 
 pare the river before us to that course, and not it, but 
 the city scattered on its banks, to the varieties and muta- 
 bility of life. There (in the latter), crowded together in 
 the great chaos of social union, we herd in the night of 
 ages, flinging the little lustre of our dim lights over the 
 sullen tide which rolls beside us, — seeing the tremulous 
 ray glitter on the surface, only to show us how profound 
 is the gloom which it cannot break, and the depths 
 which it is too faint to pierce. There Crime stalks, and 
 Woe hushes her moan, and Poverty couches, and Wealth 
 riots, — and Death, in all and each, is at his silent 
 work. But the stream of fate, unconscious of our changes 
 and decay, glides on to its engulfing bourn ; and while 
 it mirrors the faintest smile or the lightest frown of 
 Heaven, beholds, without a change upon its surface, the 
 generations of earth perish, and be renewed, along its 
 banks! " 
 
 There was a pause : and, by an involuntary and natural 
 impulse, they turned from the waves beneath, to the 
 heaven, which, in its breathing contrast, spread all elo- 
 quently, yet hushed above. They looked upon the liv- 
 ing and intense stars, and felt palpably at their hearts 
 that spell — wild, but mute — which nothing on or of 
 earth can inspire ; that pining of the imprisoned soul, 
 that longing after the immortality on high, which is, 
 perhaps, no imaginary type of the immortality ourselves 
 are heirs to. 
 
 "It is on such nights as these," said Mordaunt, who
 
 288 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 first broke the silence, but with a low and soft voice, 
 " that we are tempted to believe that in Plato's divine 
 fancy there is as divine a truth , — that ' our souls are in- 
 deed of the same essence as the stars,' and that the mys- 
 terious yearning, the impatient wish which swells and 
 soars within us to mingle with their glory, is but the 
 instinctive and natural longing to reunite the divided 
 portion of an immortal spirit, stored in these cells of 
 clay, with the original lustre of the heavenly and burn- 
 ing whole ! " 
 
 " And hence then," said his companion, pursuing 
 the idea, " might we also believe in that wondrous and 
 wild influence which the stars have been fabled to exer- 
 cise over our fate ; hence might we shape a visionary 
 clew to their imagined power over our birth, our desti- 
 nies, and our death." 
 
 " Perhaps," rejoined Mordaunt, — and Lord Ulswater 
 has since said that his countenance, as he spoke, wore an 
 awful and strange aspect which lived long and long 
 afterwards in the memory of his companion, — " perhaps 
 they are tokens and signs between the soul and the 
 things of Heaven which do not wholly shame the doctrine 
 of him 1 from whose bright wells Plato drew (while he 
 colored with his own gorgeous errors) the waters of his 
 sublime lore." As Mordaunt thus spoke, his voice 
 changed : he paused abruptly, and pointing to a distant 
 quarter of the heavens, said, — 
 
 "Look yonder; do you see, in the far horizon, one 
 large and solitary star, that, at this very moment, seems 
 to wax pale and paler as my hand points to it ? " 
 
 "I see it, — it shrinks and soars while we gaze into 
 the farther depths of heaven, as if it were seeking to rise 
 to some higher orbit." 
 
 1 Socrates, who taught the belief in omens.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 289 
 
 "And do you see," rejoined Mordaunt, "yon fleecy, 
 but dusk cloud, which sweeps slowly along the sky 
 towards it ? What shape does that cloud wear to your 
 eyes 1 " 
 
 " It seems to me," answered Lord Uls water, " to assume 
 the exact semblance of a funeral procession , — the human 
 shape appears to me as distinctly moulded in the thin 
 vapors as in ourselves; nor would it perhaps ask too 
 great indulgence from our fancy, to image amongst the 
 darker forms in the centre of the cloud one bearing the 
 very appearance of a bier, — the plume and the capari- 
 son and the steeds and the mourners! Still, as I look, 
 the likeness seems to me to increase! " 
 
 "Strange," said Mordaunt, musingly, "how strange 
 is this thing which we call the mind! Strange that 
 the dreams and superstitions of childhood should cling 
 to it with so inseparable and fond a strength! I remem- 
 ber, years since, that I was affected even as I am now, to 
 a degree which wiser men might shrink to confess, upon 
 gazing on a cloud exactly similar to that which at this 
 instant we behold. But see, — that cloud has passed 
 over the star; and now, as it rolls away, look, the star 
 itself has vanished into the heavens! " 
 
 " But I fear," answered Lord Ulswater, with a slight 
 smile, " that we can deduce no omen either from the 
 cloud or the star: would, indeed, that nature were more 
 visibly knit with our individual existence ! Would that 
 in the heavens there were a book, and in the waves a 
 voice, and on the earth a token of the mysteries and 
 enigmas of our fate ! " 
 
 " And yet," said Mordaunt, slowly, as his mind grad- 
 ually rose from its dream-like oppression to its wonted 
 and healthful tone, — "yet, in truth, we want neither 
 sign nor omen from other worlds to teach us all that it 
 
 VOL. II. — 19
 
 290 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 is the end of existence to fulfil in this; and that seems 
 to me a far less exalted wisdom which enahles us to solve 
 the riddles, than that which elevates us above the 
 chances of the future. " 
 
 " But can we he placed above those chances, — can we 
 become independent of that fate to which the ancients 
 taught that even their deities were submitted ? " 
 
 "Let us not so wrong the ancients," answered Mor- 
 daunt; " their poets taught it, not their philosophers. 
 Would not virtue be a dream, a mockery indeed, if it 
 were, like the herb of the field, a thing of blight and 
 change, of withering and renewal, a minion of the sun- 
 beam and the cloud? Shall calamity deject it? Shall 
 prosperity pollute 1 Then, let it not be the object of our 
 aspiration, but the byword of our contempt. No: let 
 us rather believe, with the great of old, that when it is 
 based on wisdom, it is throned above change and chance, 
 throned above the things of a petty and sordid world, 
 throned above the Olympus of the heathen, throned 
 above the stars which fade, and the moon which waneth 
 in her course! Shall we believe less of the divinity of 
 virtue than an Athenian sage? Shall we, to whose eyes 
 have been revealed without a cloud the blaze and the 
 glory of Heaven, make virtue a slave to those chains of 
 earth which the Pagan subjected to her feet? But if by 
 her we can trample on the ills of life, are we not, a 
 hundredfold more, by her, the vanquishers of death? 
 All creation lies before us; shall we cling to a grain of 
 dust? All immortality is our heritage; shall we gasp 
 and sicken for a moment's breath? What if we perish 
 within an hour ; what if already the black cloud lowers 
 over us; what if from our hopes and projects, and the 
 fresh-woven ties which we have knit around our life, we 
 are abruptly torn? Shall we be the creatures or the
 
 THE DISOWNED. 291 
 
 conquerors of fate ? Shall we be the exiled from a home, 
 or the escaped from a dungeon 1 Are we not as birds 
 which look into the great air only through a barred cage ? 
 Shall we shrink and mourn when the cage is shattered, 
 and all space spreads around us, — our element and our 
 empire? No; it was not for this that, in an elder day, 
 virtue and valor received but a common name ! The 
 soul, into which that spirit has breathed its glory, is not 
 only above fate, — it profits by her assaults ! Attempt 
 to weaken it, and you nerve it with a new strength ; to 
 wound it, and you render it more invulnerable ; to de- 
 stroy it, and you make it immortal! This, indeed, is 
 the sovereign whose realm every calamity increases, — 
 the hero whose triumph every invasion augments ! — 
 standing on the last sands of life, and encircled by the 
 advancing waters of darkness and eternity, it becomes, 
 in its expiring effort, doubly the victor and the king! " 
 
 Impressed, by the fervor of his companion, with a 
 sympathy almost approaching to awe, Lord Ulswater 
 pressed Mordaunt's hand, but offered no reply; and 
 both, excited by the high theme of their conversation, 
 and the thoughts which it produced, moved in silence 
 from their post, and walked slowly homeward.
 
 292 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXYII. 
 
 Is it possible ? 
 Is 't so ? I can no longer what I irouhl : 
 No longer draw back at my liking ! I 
 Must do the deed because I thought of it. 
 
 What is thy enterprise — thy aim, thy object ? 
 Hast honestly confessed it to thyself 1 
 
 bloody, frightful deed ! 
 
 Was that my purpose when we parted ? 
 
 O God of Justice ! 
 
 Coleridge's Wallenstein. 
 
 We need scarcely say that one of the persons overheard 
 by Mr. Brown was Wolfe, and the peculiar tone of 
 oratorical exaggeration, characteristic of the man, has 
 already informed the reader with which of the two he 
 is identified. 
 
 On the evening after the conversation, — the evening 
 fixed for the desperate design on which he had set the 
 last hazard of his life, — the republican, parting from the 
 companions with whom he had passed the day, returned 
 home to compose the fever of his excited thoughts, and 
 have a hrief hour of solitary meditation, previous to the 
 committal of that act winch he knew must be his imme- 
 diate passport to the jail and the gibbet. On entering 
 his squalid and miserable home, the woman of the house, 
 a blear-eyed and filthy hag, who was holding to her with- 
 ered breast an infant, which, even in sucking the stream 
 that nourished its tainted existence, betrayed upon its
 
 THE DISOWNED. 293 
 
 haggard countenance the polluted nature of the mother's 
 milk, from which it drew at once the support of life and 
 the seeds of death, — this woman , meeting him in the 
 narrow passage, arrested his steps, to acquaint him that 
 a gentleman had that day called upon him, and left a 
 letter in his room, with strict charge of care and speed 
 in its delivery. The visitor had not, however, commu- 
 nicated his name, though the curiosity excited by his 
 mien and dress had prompted the crone particularly to 
 demand it. 
 
 Little affected by this incident, which to the hostess 
 seemed no unimportant event, Wolfe pushed the woman 
 aside, with an impatient gesture, and, scarcely conscious 
 of the abuse which followed this motion, hastened up 
 the sordid stairs to his apartment. He sat himself 
 down upon the foot of his bed, and, covering his face 
 with his hands, surrendered his mind to the tide of con- 
 tending emotions which rushed upon it. 
 
 What was he about to commit ? Murder ! — murder 
 in its coldest and most premeditated guise ! " No ! " cried 
 he aloud, starting from the bed, and dashing his clenched 
 hand violently against his brow, — " no, no, no ! it is 
 not murder, it is justice ! Did not they, the hirelings of 
 oppression, ride over their crushed and shrieking country- 
 men, with drawn blades and murderous hands 1 Was I 
 not among them at the hour? Did I not with these 
 eyes see the sword uplifted, and the smiter strike 1 
 Were not my ears filled with the groans of their victims 
 and the savage yells of the trampling dastards ! — yells 
 which rang in triumph over women and babes and wea- 
 ponless men ? And shall there be no vengeance 1 Yes, 
 it shall fall , not upon the tools, but the master, — not 
 upon the slaves, but the despot! Yet," said he, sud- 
 denly pausing, as his voice sank into a whisper, " assassi-
 
 294 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 nation ! — in another hour, perhaps, a deed irrevocable : a 
 seal set upon two souls, — the victim's and the judge's! 
 Fetters and the felon's cord before me ! — the shouting 
 mob, the stigma! — no, no, it will not be the stigma; 
 the gratitude, rather, of future times, when motives will 
 be appreciated and party hushed! Have I not wrestled 
 with wrong from my birth? — have I not rejected all 
 offers from the men of an impious power 1 — have I made 
 a moment's truce with the poor man's foe 1 — have I not 
 thrice purchased free principles with an imprisoned 
 frame 1 — have I not bartered my substance, and my 
 hopes, and the pleasures of this world for my unmoving, 
 unswerving faith in the great cause 1 — am I not about to 
 crown all by one blow, — one lightning blow, destroying 
 at once myself and a criminal too mighty for the law ? 
 And shall not history do justice to this devotedness, this 
 absence from all self, hereafter, — and admire, even if it 
 condemn 1 " 
 
 Buoying himself with these reflections, and exciting the 
 jaded current of his designs once more into an unnatural 
 impetus, the unhappy man ceased, and paced with rapid 
 steps the narrow limits of his chamber; his eye fell upon 
 something bright, which glittered amidst the darkening 
 shadows of the evening. At that sight his heart stood 
 still for a moment; it was the weapon of intended death; 
 he took it up, and as he surveyed the sliming barrel, and 
 felt the lock, a more settled sternness gathered at once 
 over his fierce features and stubborn heart. The pistol 
 had been bought and prepared for the purpose with the 
 utmost nicety, not only for use but show ; nor is it unfre- 
 cpaent to find in such instances of premeditated ferocity 
 in design, a fearful kind of coxcombry lavished upon the 
 means. 
 
 Striking a light, "Wolfe reseated himself deliberately,
 
 THE DISOWNED. 295 
 
 and began, with the utmost care, to load the pistol. 
 That scene would not have been an unworthy sketch for 
 those painters who possess the power of giving to the 
 low a force almost approaching to grandeur, and of aug- 
 menting the terrible by a mixture of the ludicrous : the 
 sordid chamber, the damp walls, the high window, in 
 which a handful of discolored paper supplied the absence 
 of many a pane ; the single table of rough oak, the rush- 
 bottomed and broken chair, the hearth unconscious of a 
 tire, over which a mean bust of Milton held its tutelary 
 sway, while the dull rushlight streamed dimly upon the 
 swarthy and strong countenance of Wolfe intent upon 
 his work, — a countenance in which the deliberate calm- 
 ness that had succeeded the late struggle of feeling had 
 in it a mingled power of energy and haggardness of lan- 
 guor (the one of the desperate design, the other of the 
 exhausted body), while in the knit brow and the iron 
 lines, and even in the settled ferocity of expression, there 
 was yet something above the stamp of the vulgar ruffian, — 
 something eloquent of the motive no less than the deed, 
 and significant of that not ignoble perversity of mind 
 which diminished the guilt yet increased the dreadness 
 of the meditated crime, by mocking it with the name of 
 virtue. 
 
 As he had finished his task, and, hiding the pistol in 
 his person, waited for the hour in which his accomplice 
 was to summon him to the fatal deed, he perceived, close 
 by him on the table, the letter which the woman had 
 spoken of, and which, till then, he had, in the excite- 
 ment of his mind, utterly forgotten. He opened it 
 mechanically, an enclosure fell to the ground. He 
 picked it up, it was a bank-note of considerable amount. 
 The lines in the letter were few, anonymous, and writ- 
 ten in a hand evidently disguised. They were calculated
 
 296 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 peculiarly to touch the republican, and reconcile him to 
 the gift. In them the writer professed to be actuated 
 by no other feeling than admiration for the unbending 
 
 integrity which had characterized Wolfe's life, and the 
 desire that sincerity in any principles, however they 
 might diner from, his own, should not be rewarded only 
 with indigence and ruin. 
 
 It is impossible to tell how far, in "Wolfe's mind, his 
 own desperate fortunes might insensibly have mingled 
 with the motives which led him to his present design : 
 certain it is, that wherever the future is hopeless, the 
 mind is easily converted from the rugged to the criminal ; 
 and equally certain it is that we are apt to justify to our- 
 selves many offences in a cause where we have made 
 great sacrifices; and, perhaps, if this unexpected assist- 
 ance had come to Wolfe a short time before, it might, 
 by softening his heart, and reconciling him in some meas- 
 ure to fortune, have rendered him less susceptible to the 
 fierce voice of political hatred and the instigation of his 
 associates. Nor can we, who are removed from the 
 temptations of the poor, — temptations to which ours are 
 as breezes which woo to storms which " tumble towers, " 
 — nor can we tell how far the acerbity of want and the 
 absence of wholesome sleep and the contempt of the 
 rich and the rankling memory of better fortunes, or 
 even the mere fierceness which absolute hunger produces 
 in the humors and veins of all that hold nature's life, — 
 nor can we tell how far these madden the temper, which 
 is but a minion of the body, and plead in irresistible 
 excuse for the crimes which our wondering virtue, 
 haughty because unsolicited, stamps with its loftiest 
 reprobation ! 
 
 The cloud fell from Wolfe's brow, and his eye gazed, 
 musingly and rapt, upon vacancy. Steps were heard
 
 THE DISOWNED. 297 
 
 ascending, — the voice of a distant clock tolled with a 
 distinctness which seemed like strokes palpable as well 
 as audible to the senses ; and as the door opened, and his 
 accomplice entered, Wolfe muttered, " Too late, too 
 late! " — and first crushing the note in his hands, then 
 tore it into atoms, with a vehemence which astonished 
 his companion, who, however, knew not its value. 
 
 " Come, " said he, stamping his foot violently upon 
 the floor, as if to conquer by passion all internal relents 
 ing, — " come , my friend, not another moment is to be 
 lost; let us hasten to our holy deed! " 
 
 " I trust, " said Wolfe's companion, when they were 
 in the open street, " that we shall not have our trouble 
 in vain ; it is a brave night for it ! Davidson wanted us 
 to throw grenades into the ministers' carriages, as the 
 best plan; and, faith, we can try that if all else fails! " 
 
 Wolfe remained silent, — indeed he scarcely heard his 
 companion ; for a sullen indifference to all things around 
 him had wrapped his spirit, — that singular feeling, or 
 rather absence from feeling, common to all men, when 
 bound on some exciting action upon which their mmds 
 are already and wholly bent: which renders them utterly 
 without thought, when the superficial would imagine 
 they were the most full of it, and leads them to the 
 threshold of that event which had before engrossed all 
 their most waking and fervid contemplation with a blind 
 and mechanical unconsciousness resembling the influence 
 of a dream. 
 
 They arrived at the place they had selected for their 
 station, — sometimes walking to and fro, in order to 
 escape observation, sometimes hiding behind the pillars 
 of a neighboring house, they awaited the coming of their 
 victims. The time passed on, — the streets grew more 
 and more empty; and at last only the visitation of the
 
 298 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 watchman, or the occasional steps of some homeward 
 wanderer, disturbed the solitude of their station. 
 
 At last, just after midnight, two men were seen ap- 
 proaching towards them, linked arm in arm, and walking 
 very slowly. 
 
 "Hist, hist!" whispered Wolfe's comrade; "there 
 they are at last, — is your pistol cocked ? " 
 
 "Ay," answered Wolfe, "and yours: man, collect 
 yourself, — your hand shakes. " 
 
 " It is with the cold then, " said the ruffian, using un- 
 consciously a celebrated reply. " Let us withdraw be- 
 hind the pillar. " 
 
 They did so, — the figures approached them ; the 
 night, though star-lit, was not sufficiently clear to give 
 the assassins more than the outline of their shapes and 
 the characters of their height and air. 
 
 " Which, " said Wolfe, in a whisper, — for, as he had 
 said, he had never seen either of his intended victims, — 
 " which is my prey ? " 
 
 " Oh, the nearest to you, " said the other, with trem- 
 bling accents ; " you know his d — d proud walk and 
 erect head, — that is the way he answers the people's 
 petitions, I '11 be sworn. The taller and farther one, 
 who stoops more in his gait, is mine." 
 
 The strangers were now at hand. 
 
 " You know you are to fire first, Wolfe, " whispered 
 the nearer ruffian, whose heart had long failed him, and 
 who was already meditating escape. 
 
 " But are you sure, — quite sure of the identity of our 
 prey 1 " said Wolfe, grasping his pistol. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said the other; and, indeed, the air of 
 the nearest person approaching them bore, in the dis- 
 tance, a strong resemblance to that of the minister it 
 was supposed to designate. His companion, who ap-
 
 THE DISOWNED. 299 
 
 peared much younger, and of a mien equally patrician, 
 but far less proud, seemed listening to the supposed 
 minister with the most earnest attention. Apparently 
 occupied with their conversation, when about twenty 
 yards from the assassins, they stood still for a few 
 moments. 
 
 " Stop, Wolfe, stop, " said the republican's accomplice, 
 whose Indian complexion, by fear and the wan light of 
 the lamps and skies, faded into a jaundiced and yellow 
 hue, while the bony whiteness of his teeth made a grim 
 contrast with the glare of his small, black, sparkling 
 eyes. " Stop, Wolfe, — hold your hand. I see now 
 that I was mistaken; the farther one is a stranger to 
 me, and the nearer one is much thinner than the 
 minister : pocket your pistol, — quick, quick, — and let 
 us withdraw." 
 
 Wolfe dropped his hand, as if dissuaded from his 
 design; but, as he looked upon the trembling frame 
 and chattering teeth of his terrified accomplice, a sud- 
 den and not unnatural idea darted across his mind that 
 he was wilfully deceived by the fears of his companion; 
 and that the strangers, who had now resumed their 
 way, were indeed what his accomplice had first re- 
 ported them to be. Filled with this impression, and 
 acting upon the momentary spur which it gave, the 
 infatuated and fated man pushed aside his comrade, 
 with a muttered oath at his cowardice and treachery, 
 and, taking a sure and steady, though quick aim at the 
 person, who was now just within the certain destructior 
 of his hand, he fired the pistol. The stranger reeled, 
 and fell into the arms of his companion. 
 
 " Hurrah ! " cried the murderer, leaping from his hid- 
 ing-place, and walking with rapid strides towards hi* 
 victim, — " hurrah ! for liberty and England ! "
 
 300 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 Scarce had he uttered those prostituted names, hefore 
 the triumph of misguided zeal faded suddenly and for- 
 ever from his brow and soul. 
 
 The wounded man leaned back in the supporting arms 
 of his chilled and horror-stricken friend; who, kneeling 
 on one knee to support him, fixed his eager eyes upon 
 the pale and changing countenance of his burden, un- 
 conscious of the presence of the assassin. 
 
 " Speak, Mordaunt, speak ! how is it with you 1 " he 
 said. 
 
 Recalled from his torpor by the voice, Mordaunt 
 opened his eyes, and muttering, " My child, my child, " 
 sunk back again; and Lord Ulswater (for it was he) 
 felt, by his increased weight, that death was hastening 
 rapidly on its victim. 
 
 " Oh ! " said he, bitterly, and recalling their last con- 
 versation, — " oh ! where, where, — when this man, the 
 wise, the kind, the innocent, almost the perfect, falls 
 thus in the very prime of existence, by a sudden blow 
 from an obscure hand: unblessed in life, inglorious in 
 death, — oh ! where, where is this boasted triumph of 
 virtue, or where is its reward 1 " 
 
 True to his idol at the last, as these words fell upon 
 his dizzy and receding senses, Mordaunt raised himself 
 by a sudden though momentary exertion; and, fixing 
 his eyes full upon Lord Ulswater, his moving lips (for 
 his voice was already gone) seemed to shape out the 
 answer, " It is here ! " 
 
 With this last effort, and with an expression upon 
 his aspect which seemed at once to soften and to hal- 
 low the haughty and calm character which in life it 
 was wont to bear, Algernon Mordaunt fell once more 
 back into the arms of his companion, and immediately 
 expired.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 301 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXVIII. 
 
 Come, Death, these are thy victims, and the axe 
 Waits those who claimed the chariot. — Thus we count 
 Our treasures in the dark, and when the light 
 Breaks on the cheated eye, we find the coin 
 Was skulls. 
 
 Yet the while 
 
 Fate links strange contrasts, and the scaffold's gloom 
 
 Is neighbored by the altar. 
 
 Anon. 
 
 When Crauford's guilt and imprisonment became known ; 
 when inquiry developed, day after day, some new maze 
 in the mighty and intricate machinery of his sublime 
 dishonesty ; when houses of the most reputed wealth and 
 profuse splendor, whose affairs Crawford had transacted, 
 were discovered to have been for years utterly under- 
 mined and beggared, and only supported by the ex- 
 traordinary genius of the individual by whose extraordi- 
 nary guilt, now no longer concealed, they were suddenly 
 and irretrievably destroyed; when it was ascertained 
 that, for nearly the fifth part of a century, a system of 
 villany had been carried on throughout Europe, in a 
 thousand different relations, without a single breath of 
 su-picion, and yet which a single breath of suspicion 
 could at once have arrested and exposed; when it was 
 proved that a man whose luxury had exceeded the pomp 
 of princes, and whose wealth was supposed more in- 
 exhaustible than the enchanted purse of Fortunatus, had 
 for eighteen years been a penniless pensioner upon the 
 prosperity of others; when the long scroll of this almost
 
 302 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 incredible fraud was slowly, piece by piece, unrolled 
 before the terrified curiosity of the public, — an invad- 
 ing army at the Temple gates could scarcely have ex- 
 cited such universal consternation and dismay. 
 
 The mob, always the first to execute justice, in their 
 own inimitable way, took vengeance upon Crawford, by 
 burning the house no longer his, and the houses of the 
 partners, who were the worst and most innocent sufferers 
 for his crime. No epithet of horror and hatred was too 
 severe for the offender; and serious apprehension for the 
 safety of Newgate, his present habitation, was generally 
 expressed. The more saintly members of that sect to 
 which the hypocrite had ostensibly belonged, held up 
 their hands, and declared that the fall of the Pharisee 
 was a judgment of Providence. Nor did they think it 
 worth while to make, for a moment, the trifling inquiry, 
 how far the judgment of Providence was also implicated 
 in the destruction of the numerous and innocent families 
 he had ruined! 
 
 But, whether from that admiration for genius, com- 
 mon to the vulgar, which forgets all crime in the clever- 
 ness of committing it, or from that sagacious disposition 
 peculiar to the English, which makes a hero of any 
 person eminently wicked, no sooner did Crauford's trial 
 come on, than the tide of popular feeling experienced 
 a sudden revulsion. It became, in an instant, the 
 fashion to admire and to pity a gentleman so talented 
 and so unfortunate. Likenesses of Mr. Crauford ap- 
 peared in every print-shop in town, — the papers dis- 
 covered that he was the very fac-simile of the great King 
 of Prussia. The laureate made an ode upon him, which 
 was set to music; and the public learned, with tears of 
 compassionate regret at so romantic a circumstance, that 
 pigeon-pies were sent daily to his jirison, made by the
 
 THE DISOWNED. 303 
 
 delicate hands of one of his former mistresses. Some 
 sensation, also, was excited by the circumstance of his 
 poor Avife (who soon afterwards died of a hroken heart) 
 coming to him in prison, and being with difficulty torn 
 away; but then, conjugal affection is so very common- 
 place, — and there was something so engrossingly pa- 
 thetic in the anecdote of the pigeon-pies! 
 
 It must be confessed that Crauford displayed singular 
 address and ability upon his trial; and, fighting every 
 inch of ground, even to the last, when so strong a pha- 
 lanx of circumstances appeared against him that no hope 
 of a favorable verdict could for a moment have supported 
 him, he concluded the trial with a speech delivered by 
 himself, — so impressive, so powerful, so dignified, yet 
 so impassioned, that the whole audience, hot as they 
 were, dissolved into tears. 
 
 Sentence was passed, — death! But such was the 
 infatuation of the people, that every one expected that 
 a pardon, for crime more complicated and extensive 
 than half the Newgate Calendar could equal, would of 
 course be obtained. Persons of the highest rank inter- 
 ested themselves in his behalf; and up to the night 
 before his execution, expectations, almost amounting to 
 certainty, were entertained by the criminal, his friends, 
 and the public. On that night was conveyed to Crau- 
 ford the positive and peremptory assurance that there 
 was no hope. Let us now enter his cell, and be the 
 sole witnesses of his solitude. 
 
 Crauford was, as we have seen, a man in some respects 
 of great moral courage, of extraordinary daring in the 
 formation of schemes, of unwavering resolution in sup- 
 porting them, and of a temper which rather rejoiced in, 
 than shunned the braving of a distant danger for the 
 sake of an adequate reward. But this courage was sup-
 
 304 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 ported and fed solely by the self-persuasion of consum- 
 mate genius, and his profound confidence both in his 
 good fortune and the inexhaustibility of his resources. 
 Physically, he was a coward! immediate peril to be con- 
 fronted by the person, not the mind, had ever appalled 
 him like a child. He had never dared to back a spirited 
 horse. He had been known to remain for clays in an 
 obscure ale-house in the country, to which a shower had 
 accidentally driven him, because it had been idly re- 
 ported that a wild beast had escaped from a caravan, and 
 been seen in the vicinity of the inn. No dog had ever 
 been alloAved in his household, lest it might go mad. 
 In a word, Crauford was one to whom life and sensual 
 enjoyments were everything, — the supreme blessings, 
 the only blessings. 
 
 As long as he had the hope, and it was a sanguine 
 hope, of saving life, nothing had disturbed his mind 
 from its serenity. His gayety had never forsaken him; 
 and his cheerfulness and fortitude had been the theme 
 of every one admitted to his presence. But when this 
 hope was abruptly and finally closed; when death, im- 
 mediate and unavoidable death, — the extinction of ex- 
 istence, the cessation of sense, — stood bare and hideous 
 before him, his genius seemed at once to abandon him 
 to his fate, and the inherent weakness of his nature to 
 gush over every prop and barrier of his art. 
 
 "No hope!" muttered he, in a voice of the keenest 
 anguish, — "no hope; merciful God, — none, none! 
 What, I — I, who have shamed kings in luxury, — I 
 to die on the gibbet, among the reeking, gaping, swin- 
 ish crowd with whom — God, that I were one of 
 them even; that I were the most loathsome beggar 
 that ever crept forth to taint the air with sores; that 
 I were a toad immured in a stone, sweltering in the
 
 THE DISOWNED. 305 
 
 atmosphere of its own venom; a snail crawling on these 
 very walls, and tracking his painful path in slime! — 
 anything, anything, but death! And such death: the 
 gallows, the scaffold, the halter, the fingers of the 
 hangman paddling round the neck where the softest 
 caresses have clung and sated. To die — die — die ! 
 What! I, whose pulse now heats so strongly, whose 
 blood keeps so warm and vigorous a motion ! — in the 
 very prime of enjoyment and manhood; all life's mil- 
 lion paths of pleasure before me, — to die, to swing to 
 the winds, to hang, — ay , ay , to hang ! — to be cut down, 
 distorted and hideous ; to be thrust into the earth with 
 worms ; to rot, or — or — or hell ! is there a hell 1 — 
 better that even than annihilation! 
 
 "Fool, fool! — damnable fool that I was" (and in 
 his sudden rage he clenched his own flesh till the nails 
 met in it) ; " had I but got to France one day sooner ! 
 Why don't you save me, save me, — you whom I have 
 banqueted, and feasted, and lent money to! — one word 
 from you might have saved me, — I will not die! I 
 don't deserve it! — I am innocent! — I tell you Not 
 guilty, my lord, — not guilty! Have you no heart, 
 no consciences? — murder, murder, murder!" and the 
 wretched man sank upon the ground, and tried with 
 his hands to grasp the stone floor, as if to cling to it 
 from some imaginary violence. 
 
 Turn we from him to the cell in which another crimi- 
 nal awaits also the awful coming of his latest morrow. 
 
 Pale, motionless, silent, — with his face bending 
 over his bosom, and hands clasped tightly upon his 
 knees, Wolfe sat in his dungeon, and collected his spirit 
 against the approaching consummation of his turbulent 
 and stormy fate, — his bitterest punishment had been 
 already past; mysterious chance, or rather the Power 
 vol ii. — 20
 
 306 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 above chance, had denied to him the haughty triumph 
 of self-applause. No sophistry, now, could compare his 
 doom to that of Sidney, or his deed to the act of the 
 avenging Brutus. 
 
 Murder — causeless, objectless, universally execrated 
 — rested, and would rest (till oblivion wrapped it) upon 
 his name. It had appeared, too, upon his trial, that he 
 had, in the information he had received, been the mere 
 tool of a spy in the minister's pay; and that, for weeks 
 before his intended deed, his design had been known, 
 and his conspiracy only not bared to the public eye 
 because political craft awaited a riper opportunity for 
 the disclosure. He had not then merely been the blind 
 dupe of his own passions, but, more humbling still, an 
 instrument in the hands of the very men whom his 
 hatred was sworn to destroy. Not a wreck, — not a 
 straw, of the vain glory for which he had forfeited life 
 and risked his soul, could he hug to a sinking heart, and 
 say, " This is my support." 
 
 The remorse of gratitude embittered his cup still 
 farther. On Mordaunt's person had been discovered 
 a memorandum of the money anonymously enclosed to 
 Wolfe on the day of the murder; and it was couched in 
 words of esteem which melted the fierce heart of the 
 republican into the only tears he had shed since child- 
 hood. From that time, a sullen, silent spirit fell upon 
 him. He spoke to none, heeded none; he made no 
 defence in trial, no crmplaint of severity, no appeal from 
 judgment. The iron had entered into his soul, — but it 
 supported, while it tortured. Even now, as we gaze 
 upon his inflexible and dark countenance, no transitory 
 emotion, no natural spasm of sudden fear for the catas- 
 trophe of the morrow, no intense and working passions, 
 struggling into calm, no sign of internal hurricanes.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 307 
 
 rising, as it were, from the hidden depths, agitate the 
 surface, or betray the secrets of the unfathomable world 
 within. The mute lip, the rigid brow, the downcast 
 eye, a heavy and dread stillness brooding over every 
 feature, — these are all we behold! 
 
 Is it that thought sleeps, locked in the torpor of a 
 senseless and rayless dream, or that an evil incubus 
 weighs upon it, crushing its risings, but deadening not 
 its pangs? Does Memory fly to the green fields and 
 happy home of his childhood, or the lonely studies of 
 his daring and restless youth, or his earliest homage to 
 that Spirit of Freedom which shone bright and still 
 and pure, upon the solitary chamber of him who sang of 
 heaven, 1 or (dwelling on its last and most fearful ob- 
 ject) rolls it only through one tumultuous and convul- 
 sive channel, — despair? Whatever be within the silent 
 and deep heart, — pride, or courage, or callousness, or 
 that stubborn firmness, which, once principle has grown 
 habit, cover all as with a pall ; and the stung nerves 
 and the hard endurance of the human flesh sustain what 
 the immortal mind perhaps quails beneath, in its dark 
 retreat, but once dreamed that it would exult to bear. 
 
 The fatal hour had come, and through the long dim 
 passages of the prison four criminals were led forth to 
 execution. The first was Crauford's associate, Bradley. 
 This man prayed fervently; and, though he was trem- 
 bling and pale, his mien and aspect bore something of 
 the calmness of resignation. 
 
 It has been said that there is no friendship among the 
 wicked. I have examined this maxim closely, and be- 
 lieve it, like most popular proverbs, false. In wicked- 
 ness there is peril , — and mutual terror is the strongest 
 of ties. At all events, the wicked can, not unoften, 
 
 1 Milton.
 
 308 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 excite an attachment in their followers denied to virtue, 
 Habitually courteous, caressing, and familiar, Craufnrd 
 had, despite his own suspicions of Bradley, really touched 
 the heart of one whom weakness and want, not nature, 
 had gained to vice; and it was not till Crauford's guilt 
 was by other witnesses undeniably proved that Bradley 
 could be tempted to make any confession tending to 
 implicate him. 
 
 He now crept close to his former partner, and fre- 
 quently clasped his hand, and besought him to take 
 courage, and to pray. But Crauford's eye was glassy 
 and dim, and his veins seemed filled with water, — so 
 numbed and cold and white was his cheek. Fear in 
 him had passed its paroxysms, and was now insensi- 
 bility ; it was only when they urged him to pray that 
 a sort of benighted consciousness strayed over his coun- 
 tenance, and his ashen lips muttered something which 
 none heard. 
 
 After him came the Creole who had been Wolfe's 
 accomplice. On the night of the murder he had taken 
 advantage of the general loneliness, and the confusion 
 of the few present, and fled. He was found, however, 
 fast asleep, in a garret, before morning, by the officers 
 of justice, and on trial he had confessed all. This man 
 was in a rapid consumption. The delay of another 
 week would have given to nature the termination of his 
 life. He, like Bradley, seemed earnest and absorbed in 
 prayer. 
 
 Last came Wolfe, his tall, gaunt frame worn, by 
 confinement and internal conflict, into a gigantic skele- 
 ton ; his countenance, too, had undergone a withering 
 change : his grizzled hair seemed now to have acquired 
 only the one hoary hue of age ; and though you might 
 trace in his air and eye the sternness, you could no
 
 THE DISOWNED. 309 
 
 longer detect the fire, of former days. Calm as on the 
 preceding night, no emotion broke over his dark but 
 not defying features. He rejected, though not irrever- 
 ently, all aid from the benevolent priest, and seemed 
 to seek in the pride of his own heart a substitute for the 
 resignation of religion. 
 
 "Miserable man!" at last said the good clergyman, 
 in whom zeal overcame kindness, " have you at this 
 awful hour no prayer upon your lips 1 " 
 
 A living light shot then for a moment over Wolfe's 
 eye and brow. " I have ! " said he ; and raising his 
 clasped hands to heaven, he continued in the memorable 
 words of Sidney, " ' Lord, defend Thy own cause, and 
 defend those who defend it! Stir up such as are faint, 
 direct those that are willing; confirm those that waver, 
 give wisdom and integrity to all : order all things so as 
 may most redound to Thine own glory ! ' 
 
 " I had once hoped," added Wolfe, sinking in his 
 tone, — "I had once hoped that I might with justice 
 have continued that holy prayer ; x but — " he ceased 
 abruptly; the glow passed from his countenance, his lie 
 quivered, and the tears stood in his eyes; and that was 
 the only weakness he betrayed, and those were his lasl 
 words. 
 
 Crauford continued, even while the rope was pul 
 round him, mute and unconscious of everything. Ii 
 was said that his pulse (that of an uncommonly strong 
 and healthy man on the previous day) had become so 
 
 1 Grant that I may die glorifying Thee for all Thy mercies 
 and that at the last Thou hast permitted me to be singled out as 
 a witness of Thy truth, and even by the confession of my opposers 
 for that old cause in which I was from my youth engaged, and 
 for which Thou hast often and wonderfully declared Thyself.— 
 Algernon Sidney.
 
 310 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 low and faint that, an hour before his execution, it 
 could not be felt. He and the Creole were the only ones 
 who struggled; Wolfe died, seemingly, without a pang. 
 
 From these feverish and fearful scenes the mind turns 
 with a feeling of grateful relief to contemplate the hap- 
 piness of one whose candid and high nature, and warm 
 aii'ections, Fortune, long befriending, had at length 
 blessed. 
 
 It was on an evening in the earliest flush of returning 
 spring that Lord Ulswater, with his beautiful bride, 
 entered his magnificent domains. It had been his wish 
 and order, in consequence of his brother's untimely 
 death, that no public rejoicings should be made on his 
 marriage ; but the good old steward could not persuade 
 himself entirely to enforce obedience to the first order of 
 his new master; and as the carriage drove into the park- 
 gates, crowds on crowds were assembled to welcome and 
 to gaze. 
 
 No sooner had they caught a glimpse of their young 
 lord, whose affability and handsome person had endeared 
 him to all who remembered his early days, and of the 
 half-blushing, half-smiling countenance beside him, than 
 their enthusiasm could be no longer restrained. The 
 whole scene rang with shouts of joy ; and, through an 
 air filled with blessings, and amidst an avenue of happy 
 faces, the bridal pair arrived at their home. 
 
 "Ah! Clarence (for so I must still call you)," said 
 Flora, her beautiful eyes streaming with delicious tears, 
 "let us never leave these kind hearts; let us live 
 amongst them, and strive to repay and deserve the 
 blessings which they shower upon us! Is not benevo- 
 lence, dearest, better than ambition?" 
 
 " Can it not rather, my own Flora, be ambition 
 itself?"
 
 THE DISOWNED. 311 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 So rest you, merry gentlemen. — Monsieur Thomas. 
 
 The author has now only to take his leave of the less 
 important characters whom he has assemhled together; 
 and then, all due courtesy to his numerous guests heing 
 performed, to retire himself to repose. 
 
 First, then, for Mr. Morris Brown: In the second 
 year of Lord Ulswater's marriage, the worthy broker 
 paid Mrs. Minden's nephew a visit, in which he per- 
 suaded that gentleman to accept, " as presents, " two 
 admirable fire-screens, the property of the late Lady 
 Waddilove: the same may be now seen in the house- 
 keeper's room, at Borodaile Park, by any person willing 
 to satisfy his curiosity and — the housekeeper. Of all 
 further particulars respecting Mr. Morris Brown, history 
 is silent. 
 
 In the obituary for 1792 we find the following para- 
 graph : " Died at his house in Putney, aged seventy-three, 
 Sir Nicholas Copperas, Knt., a gentleman well known 
 on the Exchange for his facetious humor. Several of 
 his bons-mots are still recorded in the Common Council. 
 When residing, many years ago, in the suburbs of Lon- 
 don, this worthy gentleman was accustomed to go from 
 his own house to the Exchange in a coach called • the 
 Swallow,' that passed his door just at breakfast-time; 
 upon which occasion he was wont wittily to observe to 
 his accomplished spouse, ' And now, Mrs. Copperas, 
 having swallowed in the roll, I will e'en roll in the
 
 312 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 Swallow ! ' His whole property is left to Adolphus 
 Copperas, Esq., Banker." 
 
 And in the next year we discover, — 
 
 " Died, on Wednesday last, at her jointure-house, 
 Putney, in her sixty-eighth year, the amiable and ele- 
 gant Lady Copperas, relict of the late Sir Nicholas, 
 Knt." 
 
 Mr. Trollolop, having exhausted the whole world of 
 metaphysics, died, like Descartes, " in believing he had 
 left nothing unexplained." 
 
 Mr. Callythorpe entered the House of Commons at 
 the time of the French Revolution. He distinguished 
 himself by many votes in favor of Mr. Pitt, and one 
 speech which ran thus : " Sir, I believe my right honor- 
 able friend, who spoke last (Mr. Pitt), designs to ruin 
 the country ; but I will support him through all. Honor- 
 able Gentlemen may laugh, — but I 'm a true Briton, 
 and will not serve my friend the less because I scorn 
 to natter him." 
 
 Sir Christopher Findlater lost his life by an accident 
 arising from the upset of bis carriage, — his good heart not 
 having suffered him to part with a drunken coachman. 
 
 Mr. Glumford turned miser in his old age, and died 
 of want, and an extravagant son. 
 
 Our honest Cole and his wife were always amongst the 
 most welcome visitors at Lord Ulswater's. In bis ex- 
 treme old age, the ex-king took a journey to Scotland, 
 to see the author of " The Lay of the Last Minstrel. " 
 Nor should we do justice to the chief's critical discern- 
 ment if we neglected to record that, from the earliest 
 dawn of that great luminary of our age, he predicted its 
 meridian splendor. The eldest son of the gypsy-monarch 
 inherited his father's spirit, and is yet alive, a general, 
 and G.CB.
 
 THE DISOWNED. 313 
 
 Mr. Harrison married Miss Elizabeth, and succeeded 
 to the Golden Fleece. 
 
 The Duke of Haverfield and Lord Ulswater continued 
 their friendship through life ; and the letters of our dear 
 Flora to her correspondent, Eleanor, did not cease even 
 with that critical and perilous period to all maiden cor- 
 respondence, — marriage. If we may judge from the 
 subsequent letters which we have been permitted to see, 
 Eleanor never repented her brilliant nuptials, nor dis- 
 covered (as the Duchess of once said from experi- 
 ence) " that dukes are as intolerable for husbands as they 
 are delightful for matches. " 
 
 And Isabel Mordaunt 1 — Ah ! not in these pages shall 
 her history be told even in epitome. Perhaps for some 
 future narrative her romantic and eventful fate may be 
 reserved. Suffice it for the present that the childhood 
 of the young heiress passed in the house of Lord Uls- 
 water, whose proudest boast, through a triumphant and 
 prosperous life, was to have been her father's friend ; and 
 that as she grew up, she inherited her mother's beauty 
 and gentle heart, and seemed to bear in her deep eyes 
 and melancholy smile some remembrance of the scenes in 
 which her infancy had been passed. 
 
 But for him, the husband and the father, whose trials 
 through this wrong world I have portrayed, — for him 
 let there be neither murmurs at the blindness of fate, nor 
 sorrow at the darkness of his doom. Better that the 
 lofty and bright spirit should oass away before the petty 
 business of life had bowed it, or the sordid mists of this 
 low earth breathed a shadow on its lustre ! "Who would 
 have asked that spirit to have struggled on for years in 
 the intrigues, the hopes, the objects of meaner souls? 
 Who would have desired that the heavenward and impa- 
 tient beart should have grown inured to the chains and toil
 
 314 THE DISOWNED. 
 
 of this enslaved state, or hardened into the callousness of 
 age 1 Nor would we claim the vulgar pittance of com- 
 passion for a lot which is exalted above regret! Pity is 
 for our weaknesses, — to our weaknesses only be it given. 
 It is the aliment of love, it is the wages of ambition, it 
 is the rightful heritage of error! But why should pity 
 be entertained for the soul which never fell; for the 
 courage which never quailed; for the majesty never 
 humbled; for the wisdom which, from the rough 
 things of the common world, raised an empire above 
 earth and destiny 1 For the stormy life 1 — it was a tri- 
 umph ! — for the early death 1 — it was immortality ! 
 
 I have stood beside Mordaunt's tomb: his will had 
 directed that he should sleep not in the vaults of his 
 haughty line, — and his last dwelling is surrounded by a 
 green and pleasant spot. The trees shadow it like a 
 temple ; and a silver though fitful brook wails with a 
 constant yet not ungrateful dirge at the foot of the hill 
 on which the tomb is placed. I have stood there in 
 those ardent years when our wishes know no boundary, 
 and our ambition no curb ; yet even then I would have 
 changed my wildest vision of romance for that quiet 
 grave, and the dreams of the distant spirit whose relics 
 reposed beneath it. 
 
 THE END.
 
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