HARRIS COLLECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 American Poetry 
 
 THIS VOLUME IS THE GIFT OF 
 
 Samuel Coffin iBastman, iBsq, 
 
 OF THE CLASS OF 1857 
 
THE AMULET, 
 
i^ as^ w 
 l^ m> j^ 
 
 MT. 
 
 OTIS. BROADERS Sc Co. 
 
 liniI>(D€(DXIL"yKc 
 
THE 
 
 4' 
 
 AMULET. 
 
 CPIRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR'S PRESENT 
 
 MDCCCXLVI. 
 
 WrXII NINF. BF, AtJTIFUr, STKF.T, FXOR A VINGS. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 OTIS, BROADERS &. COMPANY 
 
 1846. 
 
AYll 
 A^7 
 
 BOSTON ; 
 PRr)V7Ep PV L. II. BRIDGHAM, 
 
 tf ATiR ;sXreev. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Lines addressed to a Bridesmaid 9 
 
 Departure and Return 11 
 
 Parting Words 27 
 
 An Adventure with an American 28 
 
 Faries' Dance by Moonlight 53 
 
 Recollections ......... 56 
 
 The Influence of Example ...... 57 
 
 The Stars 66 
 
 To an Absent Friend 68 
 
 Halloran the Pedler 70 
 
 Stanzas on Friendship 101 
 
 The Sunshine 103 
 
 The Politician of Podunk 105 
 
 Little Children 108 
 
 Nicholas Dunks, or Fried Mackerel for Dinner . 110 
 
 The Old Arm Chair 142 
 
 Forget Thee ? 144 
 
 Perpetual Adoration 145 
 
 Hope 146 
 
 Winter 147 
 
 The Welcome Back 148 
 
 Poor Will Newbery 149 
 
 Lines to Eleanor 180 
 
 Lines to a Young Lady on her Marriage . . • 181 
 
 ivu'l^Ol 
 
VI CONTEfJTS- 
 
 A Home in the Heart • . .183 
 
 Say, oh say, you love me 184 
 
 Lady Alda's Dream 185 
 
 A Storm 187 
 
 Retribution 189 
 
 The Musical Box -214 
 
 Come Home ! 216 
 
 Tlie Merry Heart 218 
 
 An Incident Versified 220 
 
 The Italian Exile 222 
 
 Stanzas 224 
 
 The Keepsake 225 
 
 The Old Mill 227 
 
 The Lansbys of Lansby Hall 228 
 
 Early Days 257 
 
 The Near Sighted Lover 259 
 
 The Honest Miller 269 
 
 The Weary Watcher 271 
 
 A Legend of Christmas JGve 273 
 
 My Father's House 281 
 
 Romance in Real Life 283 
 
 Jenny and the Watch 290 
 
 Stanzas for Evening 295 
 
LIST OP ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Subject. 
 
 " 1. The Bridesmaid. 
 ^ 2. Vignette and Title. 
 -f 3. The Fairies. 
 •^ 4. The Politician. 
 ^5. The Disguise. 
 s/ 6. The Bride. 
 
 V 7. The Old Mill. 
 "^ 8. The Nibble. 
 
 • 9. The Weary Watcher, 
 
 Engravers. 
 
 W. H. Mote. 
 
 J. F. E. Prudhomine. 
 
 O. Pelton. 
 
 O. PeJton. 
 
 ■T. F. E. Prudhomme. 
 
 ■f. Andrews. 
 
 R. Brandard. 
 
 O. Pelton. 
 
 W. H. Mote. 
 
 PaiiUew. 
 
 W. Boxall. 
 
 
 E. T. Paris. 
 
 
 E. T. Paris. 
 
 53 
 
 H. Liversege. 
 
 105 
 
 J. G. Chapman. 
 W. E. West. 
 
 144 
 181 
 
 C. Stanfield. 
 
 227 
 
 J. G. Chapman. 
 
 257 
 
 F. Stone. 
 
 271 
 
LINES ADDRESSED TO A BRIDESMAID. 
 
 BY HER GROOMSMAN. 
 
 Every wedding, says the proverb, 
 Makes another, soon or late ; 
 
 Never yet was any marriage 
 Entered in the book of Fate, 
 
 But the names were also written 
 Of the patient pair that wait. 
 
 Blessings then upon the morning 
 When ray friend, with fondest look, 
 
 By the solemn rites' permission. 
 To himself his mistress took. 
 
 And the Destinies recorded 
 Other two within their book. 
 
 While the priest fulfilled his ofiicc. 
 Still the ground the lovers eyed, 
 
 And the parents and the kinsmen 
 Aimed their glances at the bride, 
 
 But the groomsmen eyed the virgins 
 Who were waitingr at her side. 
 
10 LINES TO A BRIDESMAID. 
 
 Three there were that stood beside her, 
 One was dark, and one was fair, 
 
 But nor fair nor dark the other, 
 Save her Arab eyes and hair ; 
 
 Neither dark nor fair I call her, 
 Yet she was the fairest there. 
 
 While her groomsman — shall I own it ? 
 
 Yes, to thee, and only thee — 
 Gazed upon this dark-eyed maiden 
 
 Who was fairest of the three. 
 Thus he thought : " How blest the bridal 
 
 Where the bride were such as she ! " 
 
 Then I mused upon the adage, 
 Till my wisdom was perplexed, 
 
 And I wondered, as the churchman 
 Dwelt upon his holy text. 
 
 Which of all who heard his lesson 
 Should require the service next. 
 
 Whose will be the next occasion 
 
 For the flowers, the feast, the wine ? 
 
 Thine perchance, my dearest lady, 
 Or, who knows ? — it may be mine : 
 
 What if 'twere — forgive the fancy — 
 What if 'twere — both mine and thine ? 
 
 T. w. r. 
 
n 
 
 DEPARTURE AND RETURN. 
 
 A TALE OF FACTS. 
 
 When I entered the Churchyard it was in the morn- 
 ing — a morning one of the serenest and sweetest of the 
 season. Summer had robed the earth in luxuriant beau- 
 ty ; save a few fleecy cloudlets, far on the ethereal depths, 
 the whole bosom of the sky was blue and beautiful ; and 
 nature, with a silent rejoicing, seemed to bask in the 
 warmth of the genial sun. All around was tranquil, the 
 hum of busy life was hushed, and even inanimate nature 
 seemed to feel and own the presence of the Sabbath. 
 The murmur of the stream came on the ear like " a ten- 
 der lapsing song ; " and the lark that sprang from the 
 tufted grass at my feet, carolling fitfully as it fluttered 
 and soared, appeared in the ear of imagination to chas- 
 ten its wild lyric notes to something of a sad melody. 
 
 As I stood looking at the old church, there was mag- 
 ic in the remembrances connected with it. The whole 
 structure appeared less than it had done to the eye of 
 boyhood, and scarcely could I make myself believe that 
 it was the same ; but in proof of its identity, there was 
 B 2 
 
12 DEPARTURE AND RETURN. 
 
 the self-same bush, from which a school-fellow and my- 
 self had purloined a green-linnet's nest, still keeping its 
 contorted roots ftte?di.>y fastened in the crevices of the 
 mouldeiing stones on the abutment of the ivied tower. 
 \Vhih' c!i.^tiD;g'ai.y eyes iip.to the steeple, which still from 
 its narrow iron-barred lattices looked forth in grayness, 
 the jangling of the bell commenced, and its sonorous 
 ding-dong resounded through the air, like the voice of 
 a guardian spirit w^atching over the holiness of the old 
 temple. I sauntered a few footsteps from the walls, and 
 some urchins, dressed out " in their Sunday's best," all 
 neatly clean, were wandering amid the mossy tomb- 
 stones, picking king-cups and daisies. The oldest had 
 a child in her arms, seemingly a little sister, and was 
 spelling out the inscription on one side of a square pil- 
 lar. 
 
 So unperceived is the lapse of time, and so gradual 
 the change of circumstances, that it is only by contrast 
 we come to perceive the startling alterations which years 
 have produced. When last I had stood in that calm field 
 of graves, I was a youth, with hopes buoyant as a spring- 
 morning, and full of that animation and romantic de- 
 light which cares only to look on the sunny side of 
 things. Nature v/as then as a magnificent picture ; the 
 afi*ections of the heart a dream of love. When atten- 
 dant on memory we travel through the past, hov/ often 
 do we stumble on green spots and sunny knolls — on 
 scenes and on persons which endeared life, which awak- 
 en " thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears," and 
 pleasant remembrances of what hath been, never to l.'C 
 again, — too pleasant to be pondered on, except on a 
 
DEPARTURE AND RETURN. 13 
 
 bright holiday. As I leant my elbow on an old moss- 
 greened tombstone, I gazed on the country around — I 
 knew it all — it was the same, and unchanged ; but the 
 feelings with which I had once viewed it were withered 
 for ever ! 
 
 I was in my nineteenth year when I left home, and at 
 that age life has not lost its romantic interest, nor earth 
 its fairy hues. The serious occupations of lif^ad been 
 hardly commenced ; but trifles were allowed instead to 
 assume undue importance. Yet what events may spring 
 from veriest trifles — trifles seemingly unworthy remem- 
 brance, far less record. Nevertheless, such influenced 
 my fate — changed all my views — and gave the color 
 to my future destiny. 
 
 Reader — I was then in love. If you have never 
 been so, put aside this brief narrative, until that con- 
 summation happens to you, for it will appear unnatural 
 and over-strained. If you have been, or are, I throw 
 myself on your tender mercies. 
 
 Catherine Wylie, before she left home to spend a 
 few days with a relation a mile or two distant, had giv- 
 en me a promise to return on a particular evening — the 
 Friday evening — at a particular hour, and I was to be 
 in waiting as her escort. The days passed over, and the 
 evening came. 
 
 The clock had just struck six ; it was summer time, 
 the middle of a delicious June, and, shutting my book, 
 I was proceeding to the door, when lo ! it opened, and 
 in bounced my thoughtless friend, Frank Lumsden. 
 
 "I am just come over to spend an hour with you," he 
 said, tapping me on the shoulder; "or what say you to 
 
 B3 
 
14 DEPARTURE AND RETURX. 
 
 a Stroll on this fine evening ? They say a Danish ves- 
 sel has come into our little harbor to-day. Let us go 
 down, and have a look of it." 
 
 What could I do — what could I say ? Love is bash- 
 ful as it is secret ; and the tongue of a lover fails when 
 most required. It would have been rudeness to have 
 shaken him off; and had I plead out of doors engage- 
 ment, tCTrto one he would have proposed accompanying 
 me. Frank was a general acquaintance. 
 
 Out we went ; there was no help for it. I was angry 
 with myself and him. The evening passed over ; every 
 minute seemed an hour. I cursed the Danish vessel, 
 and all that it concerned. Frank stuck to me like an 
 evil conscience ; and not till an hour after all hopes of 
 seeing Miss Wylie had expired, did he leave me to my- 
 self, to chew the cud of my bitter thoughts. 
 
 The next noon I called in the expectation that some 
 chance might have been afforded me to plead my apol- 
 ogy, and to express at once my regret and disappoint- 
 ment. I only saw Mrs. Y/ylie ; Catherine was indis- 
 posed. For several successive days I made inquiries. 
 She was better, but had not left her room — she was now 
 nearly quite well — she was out at a short walk ; — Cath- 
 erine was invisible. What could this mean ? Offence, 
 if offence had been given by me, was involuntary. Faul- 
 ty or not, why condemn me without affording opportuni- 
 ty either of a hearing or an explanation ? 
 
 At that period, all the passions of youth burned hotly 
 in my heart, and all within was in a tumult. By fits I 
 was sorrowful and angry — jealous — doting — implaca- 
 ble — forgiving ; " every thing by turns, and nothing 
 
DEPARTURE A>'D RETURN. 15 
 
 long, " except in the ardor of an affection which I rail- 
 ed against, but could not cast from me. 
 
 Previous to this, I had been urged by my friends to 
 accept of a lucrative mercantile situation in Deraerara : 
 but this offer, although not positively refused, I had kept 
 in abeyance solely on account of my reluctance to leave 
 all in the vrorld that was then held dear by me. . In the 
 delirium of my thoughts I imagined that thiaftiar was 
 now removed ; and that not only had I a right to ^ where 
 I pleased, but that I was ready at a moment's warning to 
 do so. She shuns me ; she despises me ; — at all events 
 she condemns me unheard ; she wishes to get rid of me ; 
 her affections may have been alienated to another ; I 
 shall not distress her ; she shall soon be rid of my pres- 
 ence. 
 
 But perhaps I had procrastinated too long. Was the 
 situation still open ? I wrote on the instant to my friend 
 at Liverpool. By return, an answer came, summoning 
 me to be ready with all speed, as the vessel was ready 
 for sailing, and that he had secured my passage. In 
 two days I was off on my journey. Headstrong and 
 impetuous, I had not time — I gave myself not time — 
 to reflect on my conduct. The steps I had taken were 
 irretrievable. 
 
 Did Miss Wylie know my motions ? I had every 
 reason to believe that she did not ; and I even triumph- 
 ed in the supposition (may Heaven forgive me !) that 
 she would feel the cruelty of her conduct to me, and 
 suffer for it — oh, not suffer — that is too strong a word 
 — but be sorry for it when too late. 
 
 The morrow was my starting time. 1 was to leave 
 
 B4 
 
16 DEPARTURE AND RETURN. 
 
 my native land, and all I loved in the world, in search 
 of uncertain gains. My mind was dissatisfied and dark, 
 and I could have wished for death, were it for no other 
 reason than that my bones should rest in the same church- 
 yard with those of my family and forefathers. The love 
 of country may be much stronger in some bosoms than 
 in others ; but if the latent glow is at any time to be 
 called forth, it must be when a man is leaving it for a 
 dim and indefinite period — perhaps with little prospect 
 of return. 
 
 At morning the carriage, with trunks laced on top 
 and front, rattled to the door. We drove off; passed 
 through the well-known streets, like people who are 
 hurrying to a scene of gayety ; and before I had recov- 
 ered enough from my reverie to be altogether conscious 
 of what was passing, we were several miles from my 
 native place — from the home of Catherine Wylie. I 
 remember, even in the midst of my hardy bravery, be- 
 ing more than once overcome with the softness of hu- 
 manity, and starting up to the windows of the chaise, 
 to cast a last, and yet another last look backwards. The 
 young day was serene and beautiful ; the birds were 
 singing in the fields, and the wayside traveller whistling 
 in vacant joyfulness of heart. The town was still visi- 
 ble, as it lay on the side of a gentle hill. The blue 
 smoke from a hundred happy hearths was ascending up 
 through the quiet morning air, and the weathercock on 
 the town-house steeple glittered brightly in the sun- 
 shine. 
 
 Thirty years ! — what a chasm in human life — thir- 
 ty years passed over my head in a foreign land, as, chang- 
 
DEPARTURE A^D RETURN. 17 
 
 ed in form and mind, I set my foot on the native soil 
 to which I felt I had almost grown an alien. The high- 
 hearted passionate stripling had become transformed in- 
 to the sallow valetudinarian, the almost penniless youth 
 into the man of substance. On the morning after my 
 arrival, as I thought of my early years, I looked at my 
 face in the mirror, and could not help heaving a sigh 
 over the ravages of time. 
 
 Need I say that few, very few of my early friends re- 
 mained to bid me welcome back ? The sythe of time 
 had made dreadful havoc. The old had passed away 
 '* like a tale that is told ; " the mature, such as remain- 
 ed of them, were gray-headed, and bending under the 
 weight of years. Boys were transformed into the thought- 
 ful fathers of families, and jocund thoughtlessness had 
 given place to the furrowing lines of care. Around me 
 was a generation, which, mushroom-like, had sprung up 
 in my absence, and more than once I mistook the chil- 
 dren for their parents — pictured in my remembrance 
 as if they had been destined never to grow old. The 
 parents of Miss Wylie — the mistress of my heart in 
 its heyday — were long since dead ; and she gone, many, 
 many years ago, none knew whither. 
 
 I now almost repented me that I had returned home. 
 Much better had it been had I lingered* on and on, think- 
 ing that mnny old acquaintances might await me there, 
 if ever I determined to bend my way thitherwards — 
 much better had it been to have indulged in this pleasing 
 reverie of hope — to have died in it — than to have the 
 dreadful certainty exposed to me of all my deprivations 
 — the cureless misery of being left alone in the world. 
 
18 DEPARTURE AND RETURN. 
 
 From having passed my time in the bustle of com- 
 mercial speculations, the monotony of the country, un- 
 cheered by cordial sociality, was insupportable ; and I 
 thought that things would go better on if I placed my- 
 self, even though but as a spectator, amid the thorough- 
 fares of life. In such a hope I removed to Liverpool. 
 
 In a few days one of the clergymen called on me. 
 He was a frank, free and easy, good-natured sort of a 
 person, and we became rather intimate after a short ac- 
 quaintance. Being a bachelor, and unencumbered with 
 family matters, he not unfrequently did me the honor of 
 stepping in to share with me my sometimes solitary meal, 
 and to enliven it by his pleasant conversation. Nor was 
 the smack of my port disagreeable to his palate, if I 
 may credit his repeated confessional. 
 
 We had been for some time in the habit of taking a 
 forenoon saunter together, in the course of which he 
 took me to different places of public resort. I remem- 
 ber his one day saying to me, " If you have no objec- 
 tions we will now visit a scene not less gratifying, though 
 far less ostentatious, than any we have hitherto paid our 
 devoirs to. It is an orphan school, taught without fee 
 or reward, by an old widowed lady." 
 
 He led me to one of the oldest and most obscure 
 parts of the town, where the buildings seemed congre- 
 gated together in direct opposition to all regularity or 
 order — a confused and huddled mass, where squalor 
 and poverty showed but too many signs of their presid- 
 ing dominion. 
 
 Proceeding down one of those lanes, we came to a 
 low-browed doorway, and he entered without the ccr- 
 
DEPARTURE AM) RETURN. VJ 
 
 emony of tapping. There were three windows in the 
 apartment, but from the narrowness of the lanes on ei- 
 ther side, the light was so much obscured, that a degree 
 of indistinctness seemed permanently thrown over all 
 the objects within. In a few seconds, however, the vis- 
 ion adapted itself to the place, which insensibly bright- 
 ened up, and discovered to us some thirty or forty little 
 urchins, all poorly but cleanly habited, arranged on 
 wooden benches — the girls on the one side, and the 
 boys on the other. The govern ant had risen from her 
 chair on our entrance. 
 
 While my reverend friend v/as addressing her — this 
 recluse from the world, who had devoted her life to the 
 sole purpose of doing good — an indescribable emotion 
 awoke within me. The remembrance of I knew not 
 what flashed across my memory. She was a lady-look- 
 ing person, somewhere on the worst side of fifty, rather 
 tall and thin. We stopped for a little, while she ex- 
 plained to my friend some alterations and arrangements 
 she had been recently making in her teaching-room. 
 After which we heard two or three of her pupils con 
 over their lessons, and repeat a hymn, and making our 
 bows, wished her a good morning. 
 
 " What is that lady's name ?" I asked. " Does she 
 belong to this town ?" 
 
 " I believe not," was the reply. '' But she has been 
 for a long time here ; some fifteen or twenty years, I 
 dare say. I do not know much of her history ; but she 
 is the widow of a Captain Smith — a West India cap- 
 tain. Her own name, I believe, was Wylie, or some 
 such thing." 
 
20 DEPARTURE AND KETUR?f. 
 
 I could have sunk into the ground. "Wylie, did you 
 say?" 
 
 " Yes, Wylie, 1 am sure that is the name. Perhaps 
 you overheard her invitation for my dining at their 
 house to-morrow. They are most excellent people, and 
 I am on the most easy terms with them. As you seem 
 interested, do accompany me — and I will vouch for 
 your receiving a hearty and sincere welcome." 
 
 The drawing-room into which we were ushered was 
 large, and although smacking somewhat of the fashion 
 of years gone by, yet not without pretension to el- 
 egance. Mrs. Smith, our hostess, received us with 
 much cordiality, and introduced us to two or three fe- 
 male friends, who were to make up our party. 
 
 The window, near which my chair was placed, looked 
 into a very pretty flower-garden, and I was making seme 
 passing compliment on the manner in which it was laid 
 out, when the same indefinable sympathy between the 
 lady's voice and something relating to the past, again 
 obtruded itself I gazed at her more attentively, when 
 opportunity offered ; and, as she chanced to be seated 
 with respect to me so that her profile was exhibited, re- 
 volved a thousand circumstances in my mind, which, 
 however, like the windings of the Cretan labyrinth, led 
 to nothing, and left me in doubt. And yet her name 
 could be Wylie ! Strange coincidence. But she of 
 yore had fair hair, this had dark. To dream of their 
 identity were a thing impossible. 
 
 In a f^w minutes, the door openhig, a tall spare figure 
 entered, whom my reverend friend introduced to mc as 
 Mrs. Smith's cousin. 
 
DEPARTURE AND RETURN. 21 
 
 "Miss Catherine AVylie — my friend, Mr. 
 
 I shall not attempt to describe my emotions. The 
 whole truth stood in a tvv'inkling revealed before my 
 mind's eye. Thirty long years were annihilated — and 
 the day of my departure from my native country, " all 
 things pertaining to that day," — its hopes — its fears — 
 its regrets — its feelings, were in my mind ; and prom- 
 inent over all, the image of Catherine Wylie, the way- 
 ward, the young, the beautiful. I glanced across the 
 room — I looked on that picture and on this — there 
 could be no mistake — "alike, but oh how different I" 
 What a change ! could so much lie within the narrow 
 compass of human life? It were less had she been 
 dead — vanished for ever. Then would she have been 
 Catherine Wylie still, the peerless in the eye of imag- 
 ination ; but here gloomy reality put an extinguisher on 
 fancy. The spring's opening rose of beauty had ma- 
 tured onlv to wither like the commonest weeds around, 
 ■J ' 
 
 and to droop beneath the unsparing blasts of age's ap- 
 proaching winter. The vision of long years was dis- 
 enchanted. The romance of life had waned away into 
 the cold and frigid truth ; and my heart bled to behold 
 its long cherished idol moulded of the same perishable 
 elements as the daily groups around. She was plainly 
 dressed. Care and thought and the ravages of time 
 were visible on her countenance, that yet, in eclipse, 
 betrayed of what it had been, as the western sky retains 
 the illumined footprints of the departed sun. She was 
 looking wistfully into the fire, as she leaned her cheek 
 on her thin pale fingers, one of which was circled by a 
 mourning ring. 
 
22 DEPARTURE AND RETURN. 
 
 Dinner passed oi'er, but no symptoms of recognition 
 on her part were perceptible. I had contrived to i)lace 
 myself by her side; yet I dared scarcely trust myself 
 to enter into conversation with her. Her cousin — 
 our hostess, Mrs. Smith — I identified with a young 
 lady whom I had seen at her aunt's house in the days 
 of yore, and who was an especial friend of Catherine. 
 General topics were discussed — more especially those 
 of a serious and sedate nature — but I could take no 
 share in either eliciting or keeping up the flow of 
 thought. My heart was full of unutterable things ; and 
 often, in spite of every repressing effort, an unmanly 
 tear would gather itself in the corner of my eye. Hap- 
 pily all this was unperceived, and my absence of man- 
 ner excited no attention. Here were the long-sundered 
 fortuitously brought together, after seas had rolled be- 
 tween us for more than a quarter of a century ! — and 
 yet it seemed as if we had never met before. 
 
 Having on our walk home been informed by my rev- 
 erend friend that our hostess was regular in her fore- 
 noon attendance on the labors of love amid which we 
 had formerly found her engrossed, I thought I might 
 sinlessly, and without breach of friendship, make a vis- 
 it next forenoon. I did so — and found Catherine at 
 home. 
 
 She had not the least suspicion of me. I tried her 
 on various topics, and occasionally verged very near 
 the truth. But how could it be ? She was a girl when 
 last we parted. Through a long sequence of years, in 
 which she had seen all the world changing, she had 
 
DEl'ARTURE A>D RETURN. 23 
 
 heard nothing of me, and the chances were as one to 
 five hundred that I could yet be alive. 
 
 " You mentioned Darling-port, Miss Wylie," said I ; 
 '' are you acquainted with any of the families there?" 
 
 ^' Oh yes," she answered — " or rather, I should say, 
 I once was. Indeed it is twenty years since last I had 
 foot on its streets. Our bury ing-pl ace, however, is 
 there, and I must pay it yet another visit, when I am 
 unconscious of all." 
 
 " May it be long till then, Miss Wylie ! It is still a 
 longer period since I took up my abode there; — but I 
 lately paid it a visit. Do you know if any of the family 
 of the G 's are still alive?" 
 
 She turned pale. 
 
 ** I scarcely think so. G , did you say ? I knew 
 
 them well, long, long ago. The two daughters mar- 
 ried, afld settled with their families in London. James, 
 the youngest son, went to India, when a mere boy. My 
 inquiries have thrown no light upon his destiny since. 
 Richard went out to a mercantile house at Demerara. 
 But that is thirty-two years ago." 
 
 ''Indeed," said I, almost trembling, as I took a small 
 gold locket from my waistcoat pocket. '' Did you ever 
 see that before?" 
 
 " Merciful heavens ! is it possible?" she exclaimed. 
 " How came that into your possession "and — and who 
 
 are you ? Does Richard still live ; or, dying, did 
 
 he transmit that remembrancer through you, to be giv- 
 en to her who once owned it?" 
 
 " Nay, Catherine," I answered ; "■ look at me. Am 
 
24 DEPARTURE AND RETURN. 
 
 I indeed changed so much that you — even you do not 
 
 recognise me 
 
 ?" 
 
 She started back, half in agitation and half in alarm, 
 gazing at me for a second or two in breathless silence, 
 then, sinking into a chair, extended to me her hand, 
 which (I trust pardonably) I pressed to my lips. The 
 hour was a melancholy one — but it w^as an hour of the 
 heart, and worth many years living for. In it the mys- 
 tery of life was unriddled, and the paltry nucleus on 
 which its whole machinery may revolve fully disclosed 
 to view. 
 
 '^I remember well," she said, "the evening you al- 
 lude to; but you blame me without cause, when you 
 say that I dismissed you, without deigning an expla- 
 nation. I had been urged by the family whom I was 
 visiting to extend my stay for a few days longer ; but 
 no — I held in mind your promise to meet me, and all 
 their entreaties were in vain. Let me add, that I had 
 been that very day told that you were about to be mar- 
 ried to another. This I could scarcely lend an ear to ; 
 yet it would be prudery in me at this distance of time 
 to deny the effect on my excited feelings. 
 
 '' When I descended from the carriage at the ap- 
 pointed spot, for I would not allow it to proceed with 
 me nearer home, I gazed anxiously along the road. No 
 one was there ; and, as twilight was already deepening, 
 I made what speed I could homewards. I confess it 
 was now only that what I had heard began to make a 
 serious impression on my mind, and from what had 
 happened I felt vexed and agitated. Come what might, 
 in this peevishness of spirit I determined on denying 
 
DEPARTURE AND RETURN. 25 
 
 myself to you for a few days, to evidence my displeas- 
 ure, as well as my doubt. That by this determination 
 I was sorely punishing myself I do not deny ; but the 
 resolve was strengthened from my learning, the same 
 night, that you had twice passed my window, leaning 
 on^the arm of Frank Lumsden, the brother of your re- 
 puted bride. 
 
 '« What could I think — young and inexperienced — 
 and in a case that precluded me from daring to ask ad- 
 vice, or acquire information? I kept my apartment, 
 feigning illness — ah ! not feigning it. The sickness 
 of the heart was mine ; more intolerable in the endur- 
 ance than aught of corporeal suffering. Doubt was 
 with me night and day. It clouded my day dreams — 
 it haunted my nightly pillow. A pocket copy of Milton, 
 which you had the week before presented me with, was 
 my only companion — but I could not peruse it. My 
 sorrows were too entirely selfish to allow my thoughts 
 being alienated from my inward feelings. But, in the 
 calm of after years, I have often read it since — there 
 it is," she added, reaching a carefully-preserved volume 
 from the mantel-piece. " But my doubts and my hope 
 deferred at length ended in despair. The first thing I 
 heard was, that you had embarked for a foreign country, 
 and I vowed a separation, so far as Christian duties per- 
 mitted, from the things and thoughts of this world. 
 No one has possessed the place which you — and now I 
 speak of you as a being of the past — once possessed 
 in my affections, and I have striven to keep my vow un- 
 broken before ITeavcn." 
 
 These passages from the story of human life need 
 
26 DEPARTURE AND RETURN. 
 
 no comment. He who knows not to control his pas- 
 sions, and bear with the frailties of those around, in- 
 stead of freeing himself from difficulties and annoyan- 
 ces, will only plunge himself more inextricably into 
 the slough. Behold what '' trifles light as air " had an 
 overpowering sway in our destinies, as if they had been 
 ** confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ." But re- 
 grets are now vain. Five minutes of explanation would 
 to both have altered the hues of destiny, and saved thirty 
 long years of melancholy separation. 
 
 We lived in calm friendship for two years after this 
 meeting, when my poor Catherine was suddenly called 
 to pay the debt of nature ; and mine was the sorrowful 
 privilege of laying her head in the grave. I often visit 
 the spot, and con over the name engraved on her simple 
 tomb. Nor can the time be far distant when my ashes 
 shall be laid beside hers, and our spirits meet again in 
 another world to part no more. 
 
27 
 
 PARTING WORDS. 
 
 May morning light fall o'er thee, 
 
 When I am far away } 
 Let Hope's sweet words restore thee 
 
 All we have dreamed to-day. 
 
 I would not have thee keep me 
 
 In mind by tears alone ; 
 I would not have thee weep me, 
 
 Love mine, — when I am gone. 
 
 No; — as the brook is flowing. 
 With sunshine at its side, 
 
 While fair wild flowers are growing, 
 Leant lovely o'er the tide ; 
 
 So linked with many a treasure 
 Of nature and of spring, 
 
 With all that gives thee pleasure, 
 My heart to thine shall cling. 
 
 The rose shall be enchanted 
 To breathe of love to tliee ; 
 
 All fair things shall be haunted 
 Witli vows of faith from me. 
 
 The west wind siiall secure thee- 
 My tidings from the main; 
 
 But, most of all, assure thee 
 How soon we meet again. 
 
28 
 
 AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 
 
 BY AN ENGLISHMAN. 
 
 I HAD been disappointed in love. As sings an old 
 rhyme, which I remember to have met with : 
 
 " My heart was sad : 
 For the maid was married whom I should have had." 
 
 When I say that it was not my first love, nor my first 
 disappointment in an affair of the heart, I would not 
 that the reader should infer either that I was fickle in 
 my attachments, or that I made love to more than one 
 damsel at a time. On the contrary, I was the most 
 constant and devoted of swains. What captain Dal- 
 getty was in war, I was in love : that is to say, true to 
 my colors for the time being ; but it was not my fault 
 if the object of my adoration married another ; and he 
 must have odd notions of propriety who could expect 
 me to love her afterwards. 
 
 But, although it was not my first love, I see not why 
 I was less to bo pitied on, that account : since, in love, 
 as in the gout, every fresh attack may be more severe 
 
AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 29 
 
 than the last ; and thus it was in my case. The man 
 who hangs, drowns, or shoots himself, under such cir- 
 cumstances, is precluded from another chance in the 
 lottery of matrimony ; and, therefore, I did neither. 
 " There are," says Winifred Jenkins, or some other 
 classical authority, " as good fish in the sea as ever 
 came out of it." 
 
 However, I had no special temptation to remain in a 
 circle where I was continually exposed to the mortifica- 
 tion of meeting the " happy pair," as all newly married 
 persons are styled, and doubtless are, until their first 
 quarrel ; so I resolved to visit the Continent. It is true, 
 I might have attained my object without stirring from 
 my own country. Like my friend S., I might have 
 buried myself in the heart of the Glamorganshire moun- 
 tains, and the smoke of forty furnaces; or I might have 
 been equally invisible in the eternal drizzle of the De- 
 vonshire hills ; but I had a fancy for drinking hock, a 
 favorite wine with me, " in its native purity," and there- 
 fore embarked for the Rhine. 
 
 Having no notion of travelling a rAnglatsc, that is, 
 as if the object were to get over the greatest quantity of 
 ground in the shortest possible space of time, I went up 
 the river, and down the river, and ascended it again ; 
 sojourning a day at one spot, and two days at another, 
 and saw all the lions from every point at which they 
 could be viewed. 
 
 I had been tarrying a short time at Schaffhausen, 
 when I encountered an old friend, who, like myself, had 
 gone thither to see the falls of the Rhine ; but who, on 
 the second day after our meeting, received a summons 
 
30 AN ADVENTURK WITH AN AMERICAN. 
 
 to join his man of business at Paris. He had with him 
 a light caleche, and a pair of English bays, which, be- 
 ing compelled to pursue his journey with all despatch, 
 he could not take with him, and therefore committed to 
 my care ; I undertaking to bring them home with me 
 to England, He likewise left v/ith me his postilion, 
 who, a German by birth, was acquainted also with the 
 English language ; and whom, independently of his pro- 
 fessional services, and perfect knowledge of the locali- 
 ties, I found useful as an interpreter, my own Teutonic 
 lore being rather theoretical than practical. 
 
 A friend of mine being resident at Stuttgard, I re- 
 solved on paying him a visit, which, proceeding by easy 
 stages, with occasional halts of a day, for the purpose of 
 resting my horses, I could well accomplish with the 
 travelling equipage placed at my disposal. 
 
 It was on the afternoon of a remarkably fine day, to- 
 wards the end of the autumn, that, in the prosecution 
 of this plan, I was travelling through the Schwartzwald, 
 or Black Forest. The roads were heavier than I ex- 
 pected to find them, and, accustomed as I had been to 
 the admirable highways of England, I began to find the 
 ourney tedious. It wanted but two hours of sunset, 
 and there were yet some miles between me and the soli- 
 tary inn in the forest, at which I proposed to halt. 
 
 Being naturally anxious to reach my quarters before 
 night-fall, I put my head out of the window, for the 
 purpose of urging on my postilion the expediency of 
 quickening his pace, when my attention was attracted 
 by the sight of a travelling-carriage, nearly overturned, 
 by the road-side. It had, apparently, been drawn by 
 
AN ADVENTURE WITH AN A3IERICAN. 31 
 
 two horses, one only of which was visible, and that, dis- 
 engaged from the vehicle, was grazing on a little patch 
 of greensward beneath the trees. 
 
 The only human being on the spot was a young man, 
 probably not more than four or five-and-twenty. He 
 Avas somewhat above the middle height ; athletically, yet 
 not inelegantly formed. His hair was light, and slight- 
 ly curled ; his complexion remarkably fair, but ruddy ; 
 and his face, although too round to be deemed strictly 
 handsome, had a pleasing and good-humored expres- 
 sion ; and, combined with his laughing light-blue eyes, 
 formed a striking contrast to those Werter-visages with 
 which romantic young ladies are wont to fall in love, as 
 prompt paymasters draw their bills, at sight. He was 
 attired in a blue frock-coat and foraging cap, and had 
 altogether the look and air of a gentleman. 
 
 When I first descried him, he was, with a flint in his 
 hand, endeavoring to coax a reluctant spark, from the 
 tyer of one of the wheels, into a piece of German tin- 
 der, for the purpose, I presumed, of lighting his cigar. 
 On my addressing him, he desisted from his occupation. 
 I had formerly, at the house of a merchant in London, 
 been thrown into the society of some American gentle- 
 men, and I thought I could detect, in the first sentence 
 of his reply to my expressions of condolence in his mis- 
 fortune, that he was an American, which, it afterwards 
 appeared, he really was. 
 
 In answer to my inquiry as to the cause of the acci- 
 dent, he pointed to one of the fore-wheels, which was 
 lying a few yards in the rear of the carriage. 
 
 " But where," I inquired, " is your postilion ? " 
 
32 AN ADVENTURE AVITH AN AMERICAN. 
 
 " He has proceeded on the other horse to an inn 
 which, he informs me, is a few miles further, in quest 
 of assistance," was the answer. 
 
 " Do you expect liim back soon ? " I asked. 
 
 '' His return," replied he, " depends, I imagine, upon 
 the quality of the landlord's wine, and the charms of his 
 daughter, if he have any ; for the knave, I find, was 
 born on the frontier, and with the true Teutonic taste 
 for the wine flask, has all a Frenchman's devotedness to 
 the fair sex. The fellow has been gone long enough to 
 have been back an hour since." 
 
 " I marvel," said I, " that you did not mount the eth- 
 er horse, and follow him." 
 
 "I made the experiment," was the reply, '' but it 
 did not answer." 
 
 "Indeed!"! exclaimed; "would not the beast let 
 you get on his back? " 
 
 " O, yes ! " said he ; " but he had an objection to my 
 remaining there ; for, no sooner did I venture to sug- 
 gest to him the propriety of quitting the greensward for 
 the road, than the brute flung his heels up in the air, 
 and threw me over his ears, with as little ceremony as if 
 I had been a sack of sawdust ! " 
 
 " But what do you propose to do ? " I asked. 
 
 "Do? "he echoed; "what can 1 do, but pass the 
 night in the forest, here, with the chance of being de- 
 voured ! — whether by the wolves, or the wild boars, the 
 morning will probably determine." 
 
 "Nay," said I, "there is surely an alternative." 
 
 " And what may that be?" he inquired. 
 
 " T'lie vacant scat in my carriage : — you could not 
 
AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 33 
 
 suppose," I continued, '' that I, or any other man, could 
 leave you in this plight." 
 
 "I know not," was the rejoinder, "what the jjien of 
 your country are wont to do in such a case, but your 
 women have marvellously little sympathy for a traveller 
 in my condition. The only carriage that has passed the 
 spot, since the accident, contained one of the sex, who, 
 with a chevaux-de-frise of beard and moustache, which 
 would have defied the most determined assault upon 
 her lips, popped her head out of the window, and in- 
 quired minutely into the particulars of my misfortune; 
 but as she could not offer me a seat in her vehicle with- 
 out incommoding her maid or her marmozet, she left 
 me, with many expressions of condolence, and the con- 
 solatory assurance that the wolves invariably devour 
 the horse, before they attack the traveller." 
 
 As time was precious with us, I leaped from the car- 
 riage, and assisted the American in the transfer of his 
 luorgage from his vehicle to my own : when, with a few, 
 but earnest acknowledgments, he took a seat beside me^ 
 and we pursued our journey. His name, I perceived by 
 the brass plate on his portmanteau, was Woodley. 
 
 My fellow traveller was frank and communicative, 
 and, by the time we arrived at the inn, I gathered from 
 his conversation that he had been brought up to the 
 profession of physic, which, however, finding himself, 
 at the age of one-and-twenty, the inheritor of an ample 
 fortune, he had abandoned, and was, at that time, in the 
 course of a tour tlirough Europe. 
 
 The inn at which we u-erc destined to sojourn, was 
 an old and dilapidated building, which, although of con- 
 
34 AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 
 
 siderable size, contained but two rooms, independently 
 of sleeping apartments, into which a guest could be in- 
 troduced ; namely, the kitchen, and a parlor on the op- 
 posite side of the entrance-hall. The parlor being al- 
 ready occupied by an English gentleman and lady, we 
 were asked into the kitchen, where the first object which 
 encountered the gaze of my new acquaintance, was his 
 Gallo-teutonic postilion, with a glass in one hand, and 
 the rosy fingers of the " maid of the inn " in the 
 other. 
 
 The manifestation of the American's justly excited 
 choler would, in all probability, not have been restricted 
 to words, had not the offender vanished, with his inam- 
 orata, leaving to us their places by the side of the blaz- 
 ing fire, which, with such homely, yet substantial, and, 
 to us, acceptable refreshment, as the house afforded, 
 had soon the effect of restoring my companion's wonted 
 good humor. 
 
 Our repast was seasoned by a flask of Rhenish, which 
 our host pronounced to be of the vintage of 1789. 
 Whatever might have been its age, the wine was passa- 
 ble, and, under its influence, the American and myself, 
 being left alone in the apartment, grew mutually com- 
 municative, and discussed " things in general," with as 
 little reserve as if we had been friends of some years' 
 standing. Among other topics, the respective merits 
 of a monarchical and republican form of government 
 became the subject of conversation ; each of us, of 
 course, advocating the system under which he lived, 
 and, it may be added, had prospered. Insensibly the 
 del)ate assumed that warmth which is, unfortunately, 
 
AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 35 
 
 too characteristic of political discussions, and it not uufre- 
 quently required an effort, on both sides, to restrain the 
 discussion within the boundary of good breeding and 
 courtesy. 
 
 In the meantime, we had called for another bottle, 
 from which we each filled a glass, when, in reply to 
 what I deemed a reflection on my country, I hazarded 
 a remark which was probably more creditable to my 
 patriotism than my judgment. My glass, at the mo- 
 ment, was applied to my lips, and the American's was 
 within an inch of his, when he hastily replaced it on the 
 table, and dashed mine upon the floor. 
 
 " What mean you, sir ? " inquired I, starting up, un- 
 der the influence of mingled feelings of wrath and sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " Simply," replied he, in a tone of calmness ap- 
 proaching to seriousness, and contrasting greatly with 
 his former animated strain, " that there is that in the 
 wine which belongs not to the vintage of 1789, so much 
 lauded by our host. In other words, it is drugged, and 
 that so potently, that one glass of the liquor before you 
 would despatch us upon a journey which we have little 
 contemplated, and for which, — God help us ! — we are, 
 perhaps, as little prepared." 
 
 " My dear sir," I exclaimed, " forgive the rash ex- 
 pressions which escaped my lips ! " 
 
 " Nay," said he, " the occasion appeared to warrant 
 them; but it was no time for ceremony." 
 
 " But," returned I, "■ arc you well advised of what 
 you assert ? " 
 
 " Sure of it," ho replied ; *' I cannot be mistaken as 
 
36 AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 
 
 to the poison : I know it too well, and could detect a 
 drop of it in a hogshead." 
 
 *' But what," I asked, " can be the object of thus 
 drugging the wine?" 
 
 "Plunder," was the answer; " and the means mur- 
 der. These German road-side inns have an indifferent 
 reputation. I like not the looks of that same landlord 
 of ours, and I have more than doubts of the good faith 
 of my postilion ; I begin to suspect that the breaking 
 down of the carriage was less the result of accident, 
 than of design, on his part, to leave me at the mercy, 
 not of the wolves and wild boars, but of a gang of rob- 
 bers, with whom gentry of my driver's complexion have 
 not unfrequently been found in league. However, we 
 will summon him to our presence, on some pretext con- 
 nected with my journey to-morrow, and, by a little dex- 
 terous cross-questioning, may elicit something to con- 
 firm or remove our suspicions. In the meantime, what- 
 ever be our apprehensions, it will not be wise to betray 
 them ; so, I pray you, gather up the fragments of your 
 glass, and cast them into the ashes : — you may replace 
 it, from the side-board, yonder, while I summon my 
 varlet." 
 
 Our call, however, for the postilion of tlie broken ve- 
 hicle, was fruitless. He had, we were informed by the 
 damsel already alluded to, quitted the inn, in quest, it 
 was alleged, of the post-horse, which Woodley had left 
 grazing by the carriage. Our worst fears were now 
 confirmed, inasmuch as there could be little doubt that 
 the knave had absconded, for the purpose of putting his 
 
AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 37 
 
 accomplices on the right scent for the quarry which 
 they would have missed in the forest. 
 
 We remained, for a few seconds, gazing at each oth- 
 er in perplexed silence, Vv^hich I was the first to break, 
 by exclaiming : " Our position is any thing but an 
 agreeable one ; what is to be done ? " 
 
 '' Nothing," was my companion's reply, '' but stand by 
 each other ; for, if I mistake not, we shall have fearful 
 odds against us." 
 
 " Shall I send for my servant? " I inquired ; meaning 
 the functionary whom my friend had left with the car- 
 riage, and who officiated for me in the treble capacity 
 of valet, postilion, and interpreter. 
 
 " By no manner of means," was the rejoinder of 
 Woodley, who exhibited a forethought and presence 
 of mind, rarely witnessed on such trying occasions. 
 " Much," he added, " as we are in need of his presence 
 to reduce the odds, which, I fear, are opposed to us, we 
 cannot, after your strict injunctions that he should not 
 be disturbed until the morning, send for him, without 
 awakening suspicions which may precipitate the catas- 
 trophe we seek to avert." 
 
 The fact is, that the poor fellow, naturally of a drow- 
 sy habit, had been so overcome by the fatigue of his 
 journey, and the subsequent attention to his cattle, that 
 I had dismissed him to his chamber, which was in a re- 
 mote part of the rambling old building, as soon as he 
 had despatched his meal. 
 
 " Nevertheless," resumed Woodley, " we may as 
 well open a communication with the English gentleman 
 in the opposite apartment; for, although, to judge of 
 
38 AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 
 
 the glimpse I caught of Jiiin when the door opened just 
 now, he will help us little if it come to hard knocks, it 
 is but fair to apprize him of the danger to which, I 
 doubt not, he is exposed in common with ourselves." 
 
 I assumed the office of ambassador, and, on being 
 admitted to tha room, I found myself in the presence of 
 a portly gentleman upon whose head some three-score 
 winters had cast their snows, and whose full and rather 
 rubicund countenance gave evidence of " a contented 
 mind," and somewhat of the " continual feast," which 
 forms the other section of the proverb. In fact, "John 
 Bull " was written upon his face in a good round hand, 
 which was not to be mistaken. 
 
 At the opposite end of the little table on which the 
 dinner was spread, was a young lady, apparently about 
 nineteen, in whose features a " general resemblance," 
 as it is called, to her companion was softened down into 
 an expression of surpassing loveliness, and left no doubt 
 that the twain before me were father and daughter. 
 
 I believe there are few persons who care to be inter- 
 rupted at their dinner, unless it be by an old friend to 
 give them an excuse for drinking an extra glass after- 
 wards ; and thus it was, that, although of an easy tem- 
 per, the venerable gentleman's philosophy was scarcely 
 proof against my intrusion at that particular juncture. 
 
 However, Alderman C * * * the worshipful and en- 
 lightened magistrate of the ward of cand/cwicl', — for 
 such was the august individual in whose presence I 
 stood, — received ine with an encouraging nod, and 
 obligingly pointed to a chair at his right hand. 
 
 The reader will readily believe that 1 wasted few 
 
AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 39 
 
 words in the way of preface, but, plunging at once " in 
 medias res," informed him of our discovery in the mat- 
 ter of the wine, 
 
 '•'Obliged to you all the same, sir," said the worthy 
 senior ; " but I never touch a drop of their wishy-washy 
 wines, and my daughter never drinks wine at all. This 
 is my tipple," he continued, lifting a glass of brandy 
 and water to his lips, and adding, " Your health, sir." 
 
 A small travelling spirit case, which stood open on 
 the table, showed that he did not trust to the cellar of 
 a German inn even for a supply of his favorite bever- 
 age; but, for the "good of the house," as he expressed 
 himself, he had ordered a bottle of wine, which, al- 
 though the cork had been drawn, remained untouched 
 on the table. 
 
 When, however, I communicated to him my sus- 
 picions that the adulteration of our Hochheimer was 
 the result, not of accident, but of a design on our lives 
 and purses, the alderman dropped his knife and fork, 
 and in a tone rather of vexation than alarm, exclaimed, 
 " Well, this comes of foreign travel ! Catch me beyond 
 the limits of old England again, and they may plunder 
 me and cut my throat into the bargain ! I should have 
 been forty miles further on my road by this time," he 
 continued, " but for the unlucky chance of my driver 
 falling sick, and I much doubt if he will be well enoijgh 
 to proceed with us to-morrow morning ; but that will 
 not be of much consequence if we are to be assassin- 
 ated to-night. However," he added, " they shall not 
 have it all their own way." 
 
 With the love of good living, and bluntness of John 
 
40 AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 
 
 Bull, the alderman possessed no small portion of John 
 Bull's courage ; and starting up, he hurried across the 
 room to his portmanteau, and drawing thence a pair of 
 holster pistols, which he assured me were " Tower 
 proof," and had formed part of his equipment when a 
 private in that distinguished corps, the City Light Horse, 
 he said, ''My limbs, young gentleman, — thanks to old 
 age and the gout, — are not quite so nimble as yours, 
 but I can yet pull a trigger, and if there is virtue in 
 gunpowder, the rogues, if they will have our gold, shall 
 have an ounce of lead with it." 
 
 After a brief consultation, it was agreed that I and 
 my transatlantic companion should shift our quarters 
 from the kitchen to the apartment occupied by the cit- 
 izen and his daughter, in order that we might concen- 
 trate our forces. On returning to Mr. Woodley to com- 
 municate the result of my embassy, I found that, in or- 
 der that our suspicions of treachery might not be be- 
 trayed, he had emptied the bottle upon the ashes so as 
 to make it appear that we had drunk the wine. 
 
 Previously to our joining the alderman, we took our 
 pistols from our portmanteaus, and, having bestowed 
 them in our pockets, summoned the attendant, and or- 
 dered a fresh bottle and glasses into the next room ; al- 
 leging my countryman's invitation as the cause of our 
 removal. 
 
 We had scarcely effected this coalition with the al- 
 derman, and closed the door of the apartment, when we 
 heard the tramp of many feet advancing from the sta- 
 bles through the court-yard of the inn, and, shortly af- 
 terwards, in the passage which divided us from the 
 
AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 41 
 
 kitchen we had just quitted. Having waited until the 
 noise thus occasioned had subsided, I applied my eye to 
 the key-hole, and saw, through the open doorway on 
 the opposite side of the passage, a group of rough look- 
 ing men gathered round the kitchen fire, apparently in 
 earnest conversation, while among them, not a little to 
 my uneasiness, tending as it did to strengthen my fears, 
 I could plainly distinguish the postilion of the Amer- 
 ican's carriage. 
 
 Unwilling to augment the alarm of our fair compan- 
 ion by communicating the result of my examination, I 
 turned a significant glance on Woodley, who, without 
 making any remark, rose and reconnoitred the enemy 
 as I had done, and then resumed his seat. The alder- 
 man and his daughter, however, had observed our move- 
 ments, and, I suppose, gleaned, from the expression of 
 our faces, that the aspect of affairs was not improving. 
 A few minutes of entire silence succeeded, and anxious 
 as I naturally enough felt on my own account, I could 
 not help stealing a glance at the countenances of my 
 companions, in order to ascertain the effect produced 
 upon them by the more than doubtful circunjstances in 
 which we were placed. 
 
 The alderman betrayed no emotion, except, by the 
 restlessness of his eye, which wandered from the door 
 to his daughter, and showed that the father was busy at 
 his heart ; while the compressed lips and varying color 
 of the lovely girl at once indicated her apprehensions, 
 and her endeavors to conceal them from her anxious 
 parent. 
 
 I next scrutinized the American ; but his look blenched 
 
42 AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 
 
 not ; nay, even the perilous position in which he stood, 
 could not quite quell the vivacious expression of his 
 laughing blue eye. His face was a study for an artist; 
 calm, not from contempt of danger, but from the habit- 
 ual fortitude and self-possession which mark a brave 
 man, who, having made up his mind to the worst, is re- 
 solved to sell his life as dearly as he can. 
 
 In the mean time, the conversation in the kitchen, 
 though audible, was carried on in so low a tone, that it 
 was impossible for us to gather its import without throw- 
 ing open the door of our apartment, which jt did not 
 seem expedient to do. Few words passed among our- 
 selves, for although V/oodley and I essayed, by starting 
 indifferent subjects of conversation, to turn the thoughts 
 of our companions from the unpleasant channel into 
 which our precarious circumstances had forced them, 
 our endeavors were utterly abortive. 
 
 The American, observing the alderman and his daugh- 
 ter conversing in a lov/ whisper, availed himself of the 
 opportunity to examine the locks of his pistols, unper- 
 ceived by them ; an example which, of course, I did 
 not fail to follow. An inspection of the citizen's weap- 
 ons, was not, however, so easily to be accomplished 
 without increasing the alarm of his daughter ; but Wood- 
 ley, whose tact was equal to his self-possession, after 
 making a [e\v turns across the room, took up the pistols 
 of the veteran light-horseman, with a careless air, as if 
 for the purpose of examining their fashion. Turning 
 his back upon their owner and his fair girl, he threw 
 open the pans, and, with a smile, exhibited them to me 
 without a grain of priming, it having entirely escaped. 
 
AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 43 
 
 Having dexterously remedied the defect, unperceived 
 by our companions, he quietly replaced them by the al- 
 derman's side. 
 
 He had scarcely performed this manoeuvre when a 
 loud crash of thunder, the distant muttering of which 
 had, during the previous half hour, announced a storm, 
 burst over the roof of the inn, with a vibration which 
 shook every article of furniture in the apartment we oc- 
 cupied, and produced a corresponding effect upon the 
 nerves of the young lady. Peal succeeded peal, and 
 the rain began to descend in torrents, and with a vio- 
 lence as if every drop were a bullet. 
 
 We needed not this addition to the horrors of the 
 evening to increase our discomforts. At last a terrific 
 clap of thunder was followed by a crash which indicat- 
 ed that one of the monarchs of the forest had fallen a 
 victim to the electric fluid. This appeared to be the 
 cliffljax of tlig^ storm, which gradually decreased ; the 
 thunder became less audible, and, at length, died away ; 
 the rain ceased, and Silence, "Darkness' solemn sis- 
 ter," resumed her reign. 
 
 Wc were not left long without a new subject for our 
 speculation. The sound of a horse at full speed was 
 heard upon the road, and, in a few seconds, the clatter- 
 ing of hoofs upon the paved court-yard announced a 
 fresh arrival. The front door of the inn was then 
 opened, and steps, as of a heavily booted horseman in 
 the passage, were audible, The new comer passed into 
 ihe kitchen, and we shortly afterwards heard a voice, 
 differing from any which had previously emanated from 
 that quarter, addressing in a tone of authority, the par- 
 
44 AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 
 
 ty which had previously taken possession of that apart- 
 ment. 
 
 It should be remarked that, although both the Amer- 
 ican and myself possessed a sufficient knowledge of 
 German to enable us to read works in that language, 
 our very imperfect acquaintance with the pronunciation 
 rendered it extremely difficult for us to understand the 
 natives, as well as to make ourselves intelligible to them. 
 The inconvenience, as far as I was concerned, had, lat- 
 terly, been mainly obviated by the kindness of my friend, 
 who had left me an interpreter in his servant. Our fair 
 companion was even less familiar with the language 
 than ourselves; and, to use the worthy alderman's own 
 words, it was all Greek to him. 
 
 The conclave in the kitchen appeared to have waited 
 only for the arrival of the horseman to proceed to ac- 
 tion, and we were not long left in doubt, as to whether 
 the discussion had reference to ourselves, for the foot- 
 steps of the whole body — as we conceived — were 
 heard advancing towards our apartment ; at the door of 
 which they halted, when the voice of the lately arrived 
 guest, iu a hurried and impatient tone, demanded ad- 
 mittance. 
 
 In anticipation of an assault, we had taken the pre- 
 caution to fasten the door, as well as we could, with 
 the single bolt on the inside : and had also disposed all 
 the movable furniture of the room so as to form a 
 breast-work, behind which we could, at greater advan- 
 tage, hre upon our opponents, in the very probable event 
 of their forcing the door. 
 
 To the summons we returned a peremptory refusal, 
 
AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 45 
 
 and inquired what they meant by disturbing us. An 
 animated conversation, or rather consultation, then took 
 place among our assailants, during which the American, 
 addressing the alderman and myself, said : 
 
 " My friends, if they burst the door, as no doubt they 
 will, be not in too great haste to lire. We must not, if 
 it be possible to avoid it, waste a shot. Let us, there- 
 fore, be cool, and let each mark his man ; and, with our 
 three brace of pistols, we may make six of our enemies 
 bite the dust before they can close with us." 
 
 The words had scarcely passed his lips when the de- 
 mand for admittance was reiterated with more energy, 
 and was, of course, met by a repeated refusal. 
 
 From the rejoinder of the spokesman without, all that 
 we could understand was, " You are trilling Vvith your 
 lives ! Open the door, 'or you are all dead men ! " 
 
 " You will enter at your peril ! " responded the 
 American. 
 
 " Fools ! madmen ! " we collected from the reply, 
 ''you know not what you do. Here, Wilhelm, — Ru- 
 dolph, — Schwartz !" — and, the next moment, we dis- 
 covered that preparations were making for forcing the 
 door. 
 
 A few heavy blows were struck upon the panels, which, 
 however, not being of modern manufacture, resisted the 
 assault. A lever was next resorted to, apparently with a 
 view of breaking the bolt, or forcing it from the socket; 
 but the iron and the door-post were obstinate, and our 
 assailants were again foiled. 
 
 During these operations I stole a glance at my com- 
 panions. The maiden whom, for better protection, we 
 c 
 
4G AN ADVENTURE V/ITII AN AMERICAN. 
 
 had placed bcliind the most substantial piece of furni- 
 ture in the room, had sunk upon her knees, with her 
 hands clasped, and her eyes upraised in prayer to Him, 
 whom she had early been taught to believe was '^ a very 
 present help in time of trouble. " 
 
 The alderman, though much agitated, exhibited no 
 lack of courage; but it was the courage of a tio-ress 
 roused in defence of her young. 
 
 The American was wonderfully cool and self-possess- 
 ed. Having accidentally dropped one of his pistols he 
 re-examined the lock, and replaced the percussion cap 
 with as much apparent indifference as he v.'ould have 
 wound up his watch. His anxiety for the safety of the 
 young lady was second in intensity only to her father's. 
 Woodley's glance was ever reverting to her, and, observ- 
 ing that she was not sufficiently covered by the piece of 
 furniture behind which she had taken refuge, he took 
 up such a position, that a shot, fired in that direction 
 must have taken effect upon himself before it could 
 reach the object of his solicitude. His generous con- 
 sideration was not lost upon either the father or the 
 daughter. I could perceive that they thanked him Vv-ith 
 their eyes. 
 
 For my^ own part, vvhether I betrayed any particular 
 emotion on the occasion I cannot say ; but this I know, 
 that I heartily wished myself out of the scrape. 
 
 The crow-bar, — for such was the implement of which 
 our besiegers, in the last attempt, availed themselves, — 
 was then inserted between tlie door and the door-post, 
 wliere they were united by the hinges, which, being 
 rusted and crazy, finally gave way. The door fell in- 
 
A>' ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 47 
 
 wards with a loud crash, and discovered a group of 
 rough-looking persons, headed by our landlord, and a 
 tall swarthy man, booted to the thighs, whom the tone 
 of his voice identified with the horseman that had last 
 arrived at tlie inn. 
 
 Each of them was formidably armed ; the booted he- 
 ro presented at us a phial — apparently of physic ; while 
 the landlord supported him with a jug of hot v/ater ! ! ! 
 
 Not being exactly prepared to combat with enemies 
 armed after such a fashion, Woodley and myself, each 
 having a cocked pistol in our hands, reserved our fire. 
 The military ardor of the alderman was not however so 
 easily repressed ; for, no sooner v/as the door forced, 
 than he discharged his pistol at the round target-like 
 visage of the landlord, and, I regret to say, with fatal 
 effect upon one of his followers, — an unlucky cur who 
 had attended his master to the assault. 
 
 Boniface, regardless of the fate of his faithful dog, 
 fell instantly upon his knees before us, spilling, in the 
 action, half a pint of scalding vrater over the shins of 
 the man of physic, who, thereupon, executed a caper 
 worthy of Oscar Byrne. 
 
 All that we could gather from the nearly unintelligi- 
 ble jargon which he poured forth, were supplications 
 for mercy and forgiveness. Luckily, at this juncture, 
 we were joined by my interpreter, who had been roused 
 by the uproar and report of the pistol, and had hurried, 
 half dressed, to the scene of action. 
 
 Tlien followed an explanation by which the mysteri- 
 ous events of the evening were cleared up to the satis- 
 faction of all parties. The landlord, it nppearcd, not 
 
48 AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 
 
 being particularly rich in the article of bottles, was in 
 the habit of drawing from the cask such wine as was 
 called for by his guests ; and, in the case of our second 
 supply of the *' Vintage of 1789, " had used a bottle 
 which had contained a mixture for poisoning vermin, 
 and had not been quiet cleansed from its deleterious 
 contents. On discovering the fatal error which he had 
 committed, he sent off instantly for the nearest ^scula- 
 pius ; fearing however, in the mean time, to acquaint 
 his guests with a disaster for which he had no remedy at 
 hand. 
 
 The postilion of Woodley's carriage had, as he alleg- 
 ed, gone into the forest, in search of his horse by moon- 
 light ; but on his way met some peasants, who had found 
 the animal, and were conducting it to the inn ; and 
 whom, in acknowledgment of their good offices in the 
 recovery of his steed, he had treated to some liquor in 
 the kitchen, where they were subsequently detained by 
 the violence of the storm. The clatter of hoofs, which 
 had added to our alarm, proceeded from the horse of 
 the man of medicine, who came, in all haste, to apply 
 an antidote to the poison which we vrere supposed to 
 have imbibed. 
 
 The landlord, who had laid his account with little 
 short of being hanged for poisoning his guests, was over- 
 joyed on hearing that we had so providentially discover- 
 ed the presence cf the poison in the wine, before tast- 
 ing it ; nor had the doctor reason to regret his being 
 called out, at that unseasonable hour, inasmuch as he 
 received from each of us an acknowledgment of his 
 
AN ADVE^'TURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 49 
 
 zeal in hastening to ofier that aid of which we were 
 happily not in need. 
 
 Ridiculous as was the termination of the affair, we 
 were none of us in a tone of mind to laugh at it. Two 
 of our party had escaped a horrible and untimely death ; 
 v.'hile the alderman had, by the interposition of the 
 same Providence, been saved from shedding the blood 
 of an innocent man. Every other feeling was merged 
 in thankfulness for our deliverance, and, with mutual 
 congratulations, we separated for our respective cham- 
 bers. 
 
 A night of tempest was succeeded by a glorious 
 morning. The sun shone brightly upon the leaves of 
 the forest, yet dripping with the recent rain. The 
 birds were singing merrily, and they vrere not alone 
 in their gladness; for, when we assembled in the little 
 room which had been the scene of so much alarm, 
 there could scarcely have been found four more cheer- 
 ful countenances than those exhibited by the alderman, 
 his daughter, the American, and myself. 
 
 On my repeating my acknowledgments to Mr. Wood- 
 ley for his prompt interference in saving me from the 
 deadly potion, he replied, " Nay — we are quits; if 1 
 prevented your swallowing poison, I am equally in- 
 debted to you for saving me from the wolves and the 
 wild boars, and from exposure to a tempest scarcely 
 less to have been dreaded than either." 
 
 "And for my part," said the alderman, '* if I escape 
 poison, assassination, and drowning, and return to Old 
 England, I shall be glad to thank you, young gentlemen i 
 ill Finsbury S(juare, for your gallant behavior." 
 c " 
 
50 AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 
 
 *' Nay," rejoined the American, " you are pleaded to 
 take our valor upon trust; and yet the affair was not 
 altoo-ether a bloodless one." 
 
 *' Witness the unlucky cur," returned the ether ; 
 " however, it is well that it was no vv'orse." 
 
 It appearing from an examination of the crazy vehicle 
 which had broken down with Mr. Woodley, that the 
 necessary repairs would occupy seme time, he dis- 
 charged it, and, as my route was different from, that of 
 the alderman and the American, the old gentleman of- 
 fered him a seat in his carriage, which was, of course, 
 thankfully accepted. We parted with many expressions 
 of regard, and of our desire to m.eet again, and I pur- 
 sued my way to Stuttgard. 
 
 If the interest taken by my readers in the young 
 republican be equal to what he excited in me, they vrill 
 perhaps expect some further account of him. His fate, 
 I regret to say, was a melancholy one, for he had not 
 proceeded many stages with his new acquaintances, 
 when he was shot through the heart by a brace of 
 balls — eye-balls I should have said — from under, the 
 silken lashes of the alderman's fair daughter. 
 
 It was nearly a year after this adventure, and some 
 months after my return from my continental tour, that I 
 found on my table the card of Mr. Woodley, who had 
 called during my temporary absence on a visit to a 
 friend a short distance from town. On returning his 
 call, I found him established in an exellent house in one 
 of the squares. After some conversation on our res- 
 pective adventures since we parted, he suddenly inter- 
 rnpted me by exclaiming, " By the way, I must intro- 
 
AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 51 
 
 duce you to a mutual friend who happens to be vv ith me 
 at this time." He quitted the room and, in a few min- 
 utes, returned with our fair companion of the Schwartz- 
 wald, whom he introduced to me as Mrs. Woodley. 
 
 He was justly proud of his wife, as was the worthy 
 alderman of his son-in-law^ 
 
 For myself, the bitterness of the disappointm.ent 
 which had driven me to seek " consolation in travel," 
 was considerably mitigated by the fact that the gentle 
 Julia Vv^ho jilted me — she who was wont to be all 
 smiles and sweetness — had turned out a Tartar — in 
 other words, a domestic legislator — a very Draco. 
 She finally drove her husband to that splendid refuge 
 for the henpecked, a seat in the House of Commons, 
 which gave him an excuse for dining at Bellamy's and 
 staying out till tv/elve o'clock, five nights in the week 
 during session. He dared not have the toothache with- 
 out asking his wife's permission. 
 
 I have little to add. My friend Woodley had taken 
 a cottage at Box Hill, and asked me to spend a month 
 with them. The town was empty, and the club heavier 
 than Magog's; so I gladly accepted the invitation. 
 
 Mrs. Woodley had a cousin, pretty, accomplished, 
 good-humored, inid who did not waltz. Fanny and I 
 walked together, talked together, and sang together ; 
 but still I should have escaped the fatal noose — a word 
 v/hicli is applied literally to hanging, and figuratively to 
 marrying — bctli go by destiny. Many a man has been 
 driven to hang himself by a dull day — I was driven to 
 matrimony by the same cause. Fanny and I were shut 
 up in the lil)rary for three hours — it rained cats and 
 
52 AN ADVENTURE WITH AN AMERICAN. 
 
 dogs — the day was dull, and our conversation grew 
 duller; — ^\e had exhausted every topic, and for the 
 pure dearth of a new subject, I proposed matrimony, 
 and was accepted. We were, as tlie world says, made 
 for each other ; she was just emancipated from the thral- 
 dom of the gravest of guardians, the Lord Chancellor, 
 and I was yet on the sunny side of thirty. Let the 
 Times tell the rest; *' A set of chambers in the Albany 
 to be let," and — "Married at St. George's Hanover 
 Square," &c. One word more : I have been married 
 three whole vreeks, and, not having repented my bar- 
 gain, may justly be termed a happy man. 
 
53 
 
 FAIRIES' DANCE BY MOONLIGHT. 
 
 FIRST FAIRY. 
 
 My home and haunt are in every leaf, 
 Whose life is a summer day, bright and brief, 
 I live in the depths of the tulip's bower, 
 I wear a wreath of the cistus flower, 
 I drink the dew of the blue harebell, 
 I know the breath of the violet well, — 
 The white and the azure violet : 
 But I know not which is the sweetest yet, — 
 I have kiss'd the cheek of the rose, 
 I have watch'd the lily unclose, 
 My silver mine is the almond tree. 
 Who will come dwell with flower and me ? 
 
 CHORUS OF FAIRIES. 
 
 Dance we our round, 't is a summer night. 
 And our steps arc led by the glowworm's light 
 
 SECOND FAIRY. 
 
 My dwelling is on the serpentine 
 
 Of the rainbow's colored line : 
 
 See how its rose and amber clings 
 
 To the many hues of my radiant wings ; 
 
 Mine is the step that bids the earth 
 
 Give to the iris flower its birth. 
 
54 fairies' dance by moonlight. 
 
 And mine the golden cup to hide, 
 Where the last faint hue of the rainbow died. 
 Search the depths of an Indian mine, 
 Where are the colors to match with mine ? 
 
 Dance we round, for the gale is bringing 
 Songs the summer rose is singing. 
 
 THIRD FAIRY. 
 
 I float on the breath of a minstrel's lute. 
 
 Or the wandering sounds of a distant flute, 
 
 Linger I over the tones that swell 
 
 From the pink- veined chords of an ocean-shell 
 
 I love the skylark's morning hymn. 
 
 Or the nightingale heard at the twilight dim, 
 
 The echo, the fountain's melody, — 
 
 These, O ! these are the spells for me ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Hail to the summer night of June ; 
 See ! yonder has risen our lady moon. 
 
 FOURTH SPIRIT. 
 
 My palace is in the coral cave 
 
 Set with spars by tiie ocean wave ; 
 
 Would ye have gems, then seek them there, - 
 
 There found I the pearls that bind my hair. 
 
 I and the wind together can roam 
 
 Over the green waves and their while foam : 
 
 See, I have got this silver shell, 
 
 Mark how my breath will its smallness swell, 
 
fairies' dance by moonlight. 55 
 
 For the Nautilus is ruy boat 
 In which I over the waters float : 
 The moon is shining over the sea, 
 Who is there will come sail with me ? 
 
 CHORUS OF FAIRIES. 
 
 Our noontide sleep is on leaf and flower, 
 Our revels are held in a moonlit hour : 
 What is there sweet, what is there fair, 
 And we are not the dwellers there ? 
 Dance we round, for the morning light 
 Will put us and our glowworm lamps to flight ! 
 
5(5 
 
 RECOLLECTIO^^S. 
 
 VK pleasant thoughts, that memory brings, in moments free 
 
 from care, 
 Of a fairy-like and laughing girl, with roses in her hair; 
 Her smile was like the starlight of summer's softest skies, 
 And worlds of joyousness there shone from out her witching 
 
 eyes. 
 
 Her looks were looks of melody, her voice was like the swell 
 Of sudden music, gentle notes, that of deep gladness tell; 
 She came like spring, with pleasant sounds of sweetness and 
 
 of mirth, 
 And her thoughts were those wild, flowery thoughts, that 
 
 linger not on earth. 
 
 A quiet goodness beamed amid the beauty of her face. 
 And all she said and did was with its own instinctive grace ; 
 She seemed as if she thought the world a good'and pleasant one, 
 And her light spirit saw no ill in aught beneath the sun. 
 
 I've dreamed of just such creatures, but tliey never met my 
 
 view 
 Mid the sober, dull reality, in their earthly form and hue. 
 And her smile came gently over me, like spring's first scented 
 
 airs. 
 And made me tliink life was not all a wilderness of cares. 
 
 I know not of her destiny, or where her smile now strays. 
 But the thought of her comes o'er me, with my own lost sunny 
 
 days. 
 With moonlight hours, and far-off friends, and many pleasant 
 
 things 
 That have gone the way of all the earth, on Time's resistless 
 
 winops. 
 
5/ 
 
 THE INFLUENCE OF EXAMPLE. 
 
 WE LIVE MORE BY EXAMPLE THAN REASON." 
 
 Every one who has attentively marked the formation 
 of character, will at once acknowledge, that man has 
 been justly called an imitative creature. Direct instruc- 
 tion carries less, and example much more weight, than 
 is usually imagined. This is best evinced by observing 
 that plastic period of life, when both the mind and the 
 manners are most yielding and susceptible. '' We are 
 all," says Mr. Locke, '' especially in youth, a kind of 
 chameleons, that take a tincture from the objects around 
 us." The words of Seneca have gained the currency of 
 an approved general maxim : — " Longum iter est per 
 proicepta, breve et efficax per exerapla." Your way by 
 precepts is tedious, by examples short and sure. Were 
 our design to point out the influence which bad compa- 
 ny has in vitiating and ensnaring youth, the difficulty 
 would not be so much in finding facts, as in selecting 
 and classifying them. We should be bewildered in the 
 mass of materials, and demonstration itself might wear 
 an air of triteness. 
 
 How many, besides Julius Caesar and Charles XII. of 
 Sweden, have been roused by the story of the Macedo- 
 nian Madman, to aspire after heroic fame ! They can, 
 
 D 
 
58 THE INFLUENCE OF EXAMPLE. 
 
 unmoved, contemplate the earth deluged with torrents 
 of blood and misery, so they may but win and wear the 
 wreaths of conquest. Nor does it rarely happen, that 
 one fierce, daring spirit inflames a multitude, though in 
 prosecuting their wild career, they are chiefly distin- 
 guished by petty exploits of mischief and extravagance. 
 Promptitude and energy, when joined with eccentricity, 
 often act with the power of enchantment on the impas- 
 sioned minds of the young. Schiller's play, called the 
 Robbers, was forbidden the stage in one town, because 
 it was discovered that certain juvenile frequenters of the 
 theatre, had been instigated by it to bind themselves in 
 a secret confederacy to go out into the woods, and live 
 the life of freebooters. Thus we see, that not merely 
 real characters, but fictitious also, which vividly repre- 
 sent them, possess and exert, in no small degree, this 
 powerful species of fascination. 
 
 But there are many who have none of the elements of 
 ambition and enterprise in their nature, and of course 
 can never be spurred to daring deeds. True ; yet, have 
 they not other propensities, which expose them to peril 
 in an opposite quarter ? Are they not liable to be drawn 
 into the low haunts of gross sensuality? Gay and 
 sprightly triflers first hang out the lure of pleasure on 
 the borders of forbidden ground. Dissipation and luxu- 
 ry, deadly and odious as they are, and from their nature 
 necessarily must be, can assume a fair and tempting ex- 
 terior, and call the unwary with the softness and melody 
 of a Siren's voice. But it is commonly example which 
 has the greatest force of attraction. Let one crafty de- 
 cov lead^'the wav, and a train of dupes easily follow to 
 
THE INFLUENCE OF EXAMPLE. 59 
 
 their own ruin. " He," says the eloquent Bishop Tay- 
 lor, " that means to be temperate, and avoid the crime 
 and dishonor of being a drunkard, must not love to par- 
 take of the songs, or bear a part in the foolish scenes of 
 laughter, which distract wisdom, and fright her from the 
 company," 
 
 There is a vagueness, a coldness, a bleak and wintry 
 sterility, in the best abstract principles. We always 
 prefer a pattern to a precept; for should both be equally 
 understood, which is seldom the case, they are never 
 both equally felt. '' Verbal teaching," says Dr. George 
 Campbell, " when in its highest perfection, comes as far 
 short of good example, even for conveying just ideas of 
 duty, as a verbal description of a man's person to those 
 who never saw him, would fall short of a masterly por- 
 trait or statue of him ; or as the most elegant account 
 that could be given in words, of the figure, the situation, 
 and the fortifications of a town, would fall short of an 
 accurate map or model of it. And again, if, in order to 
 avoid some imminent danger, or to attain some valuable 
 end, I must climb a steep and craggy mountain, to ap- 
 pearance inaccessible, or must pursue my way through 
 some lone and dreary desert ; do but show me the print 
 of a human foot, or rather point out others who appear 
 to have successfully engaged in the same arduous enter- 
 prise, and I shall sooner be prevailed on to attempt it 
 than by ten thousand arguments." 
 
 Adverting again to the years of childhood, the good 
 example of parents has unquestionably the most power- 
 ful and benign influence; and the very endearment and 
 tenderness intimately connected with the relation, are 
 
60 THE INFLUENCE OF EXAMPLE. 
 
 sufficient to account for it. In the subsequent stages of 
 human life, even the recollection of those early impres- 
 sions thrills the heart with feelings of pleasure, love, 
 and veneration; and, wakening anew, invest all the ob- 
 jects, scenes, and sentiments of that interestiug period, 
 with an exquisite and happy charm. " How often," 
 saith Bishop Hall, ''have I blessed the memory of those 
 passages of experimental divinity, which I have heard 
 from the mouth of my mother ! What day did she pass 
 without being much engaged in private devotion ? Nev- 
 er have any lips read to me such feeling lectures of 
 piety, and her life and death were saint-like." Here, 
 indeed, we find the inculcation of principle, and the ex- 
 hibition of correspondent practice, conjointly touching 
 and affecting the opening faculties of the mind ; but it 
 is easy to see, in the very tenure and cast of the lan- 
 guage employed, how much the efficacy of the former 
 depended on the influence of the latter. Augustine, 
 Hooker, Flavel, Cecil, and many others, have left testi- 
 monies in many respects similar to that which has just 
 been recited. These memorials should render Chris- 
 tian parents anxious to present religion to their children 
 in a lovely and engaging form. Where it is not so pre- 
 sented, the creed and the commandments are taught in 
 vain. I recollect reading of a son, who once said to his 
 father : " I have done evil, but I have learned of you." 
 
 Next in importance after parents, must be placed the 
 character and spirit of those guardians and tutors, to 
 whom the education of youth is entrusted. And when 
 such as have this high and arduous duty to perform, pos- 
 sess qualities calculated to create and rivet attachment, 
 
THE INFLUENCE OF EXAMPLE. 61 
 
 what happy effects may be anticipated ! The most ap- 
 propriate instance \vhich occurs to my mind, for illus- 
 trating this point, is drawn from the life of the amiable 
 and devout Fenelon. The Duke of Burgundy, when 
 placed under his care, was proud, perverse, irritable, 
 obstinate, and violent. He possessed a good capacity, 
 and discovered a promptitude in acquiring all kinds of 
 knowledge ; but the fierceness and turbulence of his 
 passions made him a terror to all around him. The 
 lessons and the life of Fenelon in a short time effected an 
 extraordinary change in him. His talents v/ere culti- 
 vated and improved, his tempers were softened and sub- 
 dued, and he became not less agreeable as a gentleman, 
 than accomplished as a prince. That much was in tliis 
 case owing to the wisdom, dignity, candor, and mildness 
 of his excellent tutor, has been readily admitted by all. 
 Fenelon seems to have had a singular power of concili- 
 ating esteem and affection, by exhibiting virtue and piety 
 arrayed in their most winning and attractive charms. 
 Even Lord Peterborough^ the skeptical wit, when he 
 lodged with this prelate, was so interested in his con- 
 versation, that on his departure he exclaimed, " If I stay 
 here any longer, I shall become a Christian in spite of 
 myself" But while those who are rising up in life are 
 confessedly much influenced by parents, guardians, and 
 tutors, their characters, for the most part, arc still more 
 modified by the companions of their own rank and nge. 
 Ductile and pliant, they easily receive impressions; ar- 
 dent and unsuspecting, they are more ready to pursue a 
 track opened for them, than to strike out one for them- 
 selves. Our present concern is not to enter into any 
 D * 
 
6*2 THE INFLUENCE OF EXAMPLE. 
 
 philosophical discussion of the cause of this, but merely 
 to state the fact ; nor does it appear of any consequence, 
 though some rare exceptions could be produced, while 
 the general principle is established. 
 
 From what has been above advanced, we may fairly 
 infer, that it is a matter of the highest moment for all, 
 but particularly the young, to choose those associates 
 whose good character and good conduct have been both 
 well known and well tried. Doubt and uncertainty en 
 this head, ought instantly to check and repress intima- 
 cies, though they should not form an absolute bar to all 
 intercourse. Let not this inference from the reasoning 
 of the preceding pages, be branded with the charge of 
 monastic rigor, or attributed to a system cf discipline 
 too elevated and refined to be ever practicable. If the 
 value of good example be once admitted, it is a fair con- 
 clusion that we should be incessantly careful in tlie se- 
 lection of our acquaintance and friends. To say or in- 
 sinuate the contrary, is to allow in the gross what is de- 
 nied in the detail, — to build up with one hand, and pull 
 down with tlie other. 
 
 But grant that friends are to be chosen with due cau- 
 tion and care, — what then ? Wliy, it will fairly follcv/, 
 that mere personal attractions and showy accomplish- 
 ments, wit and spirit, humor and vivacity, where a sense 
 of delicacy and propriety is v/anting, can set up very 
 slender and inadequate claims to our regard ; — that wo 
 are not to trust ourselves with persons whose prominent 
 qualities please and fascinate only to ruin and destroy; 
 — and that it is dangerous long to admire what v»g can- 
 not, on moral grounds, really approve. 
 
THE INFLUE>:CE OF EXAMPLE. G3 
 
 But metliinks the sprightly votary of pleasure, as yet 
 unentangled in its toils, briskly replies, What then can 
 we do, unless we had some wonder-working instrument, 
 like the spear of Ithuriel, to detect evil at a touch, and 
 make every fiend under a fair disguise, start up in his 
 own likeness in a moment ? Such an instrument can- 
 not be found : but a little good sense and consideration, 
 mixed with patience, will serve the purpose, if not so 
 speedily, quite as well. The warnings which age and 
 experience impart, are, at any rate, worthy to be weigh- 
 ed. It is a fact, that young people are apt to be charm- 
 ed with those qualities which lie en the surface, which 
 glitter to the eye, or captivate the fancy, without taking 
 time or measures to form any just estimate of those at- 
 tributes which alone give sterlino; worth to the character. 
 With more generosity than wisdom, they give an easy 
 credit to what is plausible; and though assured that 
 counterfeits abound, are usually too impatient and san- 
 guine to apply a test by which they might scon be de- 
 tected and exposed. If the hints which have been giv- 
 en on this subject arc accurate, the choice of fit associ- 
 ates is of incalculable importance to young persons of 
 both sexes. Their principles, their tastes, their tempers, 
 their habits, and pursuits, are all considerably afiectcd 
 and modified by the company they keep. 
 
 The force of good example exerts an influence over 
 us in books as well as in society, though not perhaps in 
 an equal degree. TJie position, were it necessary, might 
 easily be sustained by facts ; but i'cw, it may be presum- 
 ed, will require any formal proof in a matter so evident. 
 Taking the point for granted, there is therefore the same 
 
64 THE INFLUENCE OF EXAMPLE. 
 
 reason for the exercise of a discriminative judgment, and 
 a virtuous delicacy, in fixing the preference we give to 
 books, as to friends. He who actually shuns the com- 
 pany of debauchees and blasphemers, yet can relish or 
 even endure lewdness and blasphemy in the form of a 
 novel or a narrative, has no real love to moral purity. 
 Virtue, with him, is a thing of ceremony and show, of 
 interest and expediency. Some writer has said, "His- 
 tory is philosophy, teaching by example." The asser- 
 tion would be more correct as applied to biography than 
 to history ; for the latter is too general to answer the 
 purpose, at least, with equal effect. Biography, wisely 
 chosen, supplies a kind of reading, peculiarly interest- 
 ing and advantageous. It furnishes the best specimens 
 of excellence in every kind, the choicest products of 
 knowledge and wisdom, virtue and piety, from every 
 soil. Biography affords to young people the means of 
 forming a circle of acquaintance, in every respect un- 
 exceptionable. They can converse with these freely, 
 dismiss or recall them at pleasure, without giving of- 
 fence ; receive their counsel and imbibe their spirit, 
 without engendering suspicion, or incurring the charge 
 of servility. 
 
 " How many pictures of the bravest men," says Cice- 
 ro, " have the Greek and Roman writers left us, not 
 only to contemplate, but likewise to imitate ! These 
 illustrious models I always set before me, and have form- 
 ed my conduct by contemplating^ their virtues." But 
 in this age, and Christian country, we have brigiUer 
 patterns of every thing truly great and good, than the 
 
THE INFLUENCE OF EXAMPLE. C5 
 
 philosopher, whose language we have here repeated, had 
 to boast. 
 
 On the other hand, a good man may be instrumental 
 in diffusing the fruits of righteousness, much further than 
 his most sanguine thoughts had anticipated. Has he 
 genius and intellectual energy ? How powerfully he 
 pleads the cause of truth ! While the productions of Vol- 
 taire or Hume are scattering poison, his efforts are suc- 
 cessfully excited to heal and purify. Has he wealth ? 
 How wide a surface does he make it to fertilize and 
 cheer! How much pressing misery does he remove — 
 how much positive good communicate ! Has he civil 
 authority ? The vicious are repressed, the virtuous en- 
 couraged. In a word, while he is intent on supporting 
 the sacred cause of freedom, or of maintaining and pro- 
 moting, amidst the clamor of prejudice and the rancor 
 of opposition, the claims of justice, of benevolence, and 
 of religion, — his energy, his firmness, his activity, 
 his prudence and perseverance, are kindling in many 
 other bosoms a similar spirit. His light so shines be- 
 fore men, that they see his good works, and glorify God 
 in the day of visitation. If such be the importance at- 
 tached to example, how ought we to watch and guard 
 our conduct ! Property may be lost and recovered ; but 
 the influence which character gives, if even weakened 
 and impaired, is seldom restored. What diligence, 
 temperance, and circumspection, are necessary in those 
 who draw many others in their train ! Their virtues and 
 graces are strong, in exact proportion as they are bright 
 and fair. To be eminently useful, they must be eminent- 
 ly exemplary. And can we witness a more interesting 
 
6Q THE INFLUENCE OF EXAMPLE. 
 
 or animating sight, than a good man finishing the course 
 of life and beneficence, in cahn peace and unclouded 
 joy ? Like a summer sun, he sinks below the horizon 
 and disappears : but the excellence of his character re- 
 mains, and sheds a mild and lovely radiance over the 
 whole surrounding scene. 
 
 THE STARS. 
 
 Oh ! 't is lovely to watch ye at twilight rise, 
 When the last gleam fades in the distant skies, 
 When the silver chime of the minster-bell, 
 And the warbling fount in the woodland dell. 
 And the viewless sounds in the upper air, 
 Proclaim the hour of prayer ! 
 
 Then ye shine in beauty above the sea, 
 Bright wanderers over the blue sky free ! 
 Catching the tone of each sighing breeze. 
 And the whispering sound of the forest-trees, 
 Or the far-off voice, through the quiet dim. 
 Of some hamlet's hymn ! 
 
 And the midnight too, all still and lone ! 
 Ye guard in beauty, from many a throne ! 
 In your silver silence throughout the hour, 
 Watching the rest of each folded flower. 
 Gladdening with visions each infant's sleep, 
 Through the niglit-honr dorp ' 
 
THE STARS. Q7 
 
 Yes, ye look over Nature's hushed repose, 
 By the forest still where the streamlet flows, 
 By the breezeless hush of many a plain. 
 And the pearly flow of the silver main, 
 Or sweetly far o'er some chapel-shrine 
 Of the olden time ! 
 
 Thus in shadeless glory ye onvv^ards roll. 
 Bright realms of beauty, from Pole to Pole ! 
 'Midst the vaulted space where your bright paths lie. 
 In the hidden depths of the midnight sky, 
 To some far-off land, — to some distant home, 
 'Neath the ocean's foam ! 
 
 But, hark ! the far voice of the waking sea, 
 And the dim dew rising o'er lawn and lea, 
 .And the first faint tinge of the early day, 
 Shining afar o'er the ocean-spray ! 
 Oh, ye that have been as a power and a spell. 
 
 Through the dim midnight ! — Farewell ! 
 
68 
 
 TO AN ABSENT FRIEND. 
 
 Thou art not gone ; thou could'st not go 
 
 True friends can never part : 
 Our prayer is one, our hope is one, 
 
 And we are one in heart ! 
 Nor place, nor time, can e'er divide 
 
 The souls wrhich friendship seals ; 
 But stiil the changing scenes of life 
 
 Their mutual love reveals. 
 
 Body from body may be placed 
 
 Remote as pole from pole ; 
 But can our fleshly frailties bind 
 
 The fellowship of soul ? 
 'T is when removed from grosser 
 
 My spirit claims her right ; 
 My friend is often least away 
 
 When absent from my sight. 
 
 His form and look, in memory's glass, 
 
 I still distinctly see : 
 His voice and words, in fancy's car. 
 
 Are whispering still to me. 
 The stars which meet liis pensive eye 
 
 Are present still to mine ; 
 The moonlights, which surround his path, 
 
 Around my footsteps shine. 
 
TO AN ABSENT FR.IEND. G'J 
 
 Beneath the same fair dome we dwell, 
 
 By the same Hand are fed ; 
 And, pilgrims in one narrow way. 
 
 Are by one Spirit led ! 
 To the Great presence of our God, 
 
 By hourly faith we come ; 
 And find in sweet communion there. 
 
 One everlastino- home ! 
 
 Our hope, our joy, our life, our soul. 
 
 In our ONE Saviour meet; 
 And what in earth or heaven shall break 
 
 A union so complete ? 
 O ! blest are they who seek in Him 
 
 A union to their friend ; 
 Their love shall grow througli life's decay, 
 
 And live when life shall end 
 
 And blest be He whose love bestows 
 
 A friendship so divine. 
 And makes, by oneness with Himself, 
 
 My friend for ever mine ! 
 
70 
 
 HALLORAN THE PEDLER. 
 
 AN IRISH STORY. 
 
 " It grieves me," said an eminent poet once to me, " it 
 grieves and humbles me to reflect how much our moral 
 nature is in the power of circumstances. Our best 
 faculties would remain unknown even to ourselves did 
 not the influences of external excitement call them forth 
 like animalcule, which lie torpid till wakened into life 
 by the transient sunbeam." 
 
 This is generally true. How many walk through the 
 beaten paths of every day life, who but for the novelist's 
 page v/ould never weep or wonder ; and who would 
 know nothing of the passions but as they are represent- 
 ed in some tragedy or stage piece ? not that they are 
 incapable of high resolve and energy ; but because the 
 finer qualities have never been called forth by imperious 
 circumstances ; for while the wheels of existence roll 
 smoothly along, the soul will continue to slumber in 
 her vehicle like a lazy traveller. But for the French 
 revolution, how many hundreds — thousrmds — whose 
 courage, fortitude and dcvotedness have sanctified their 
 names, would have frittered away a frivolous, useless, or 
 vicious life in the saloons of Paris ! We have heard of 
 
HALLORAN THE PEDLER. 71 
 
 death in its most revolting forms braved by delicate fe- 
 males, who would have screamed at the sight of the 
 most insignificant reptile or insect ; and men cheerfully 
 toiling at mechanic trades for bread who had lounged 
 away the best years of their lives at the toilettes of their 
 mistresses. We know not of what we are capable till 
 the trial comes; — till it comes, perhaps, in a form 
 which makes the strong man quail, and turns the gen- 
 tler woman into a heroine. 
 
 The power of outward circumstances suddenly to 
 awaken dormant faculties — the extraordinary influence 
 which the mere instinct of self-preservation can exert 
 over the mind, and the triumph of mind thus excited 
 over physical weakness, were never more truly exemp- 
 lified than in the story of Halloran the Pedler. 
 
 The real circumstances of this singular case, diiTering 
 essentially from the garbled and incorrect account 
 which appeared in the newspapers some years ago, came 
 to my knowledge in the following simple manner. My 
 cousin George C * * *, an Irish barrister of some stand- 
 ing, lately succeeded to his family estates by the death 
 of a near relative ; and no sooner did he find himself 
 in possession of independence than, abjuring the bar, 
 where, after twenty years of hard struggling, he was 
 just beginning to make a figure, he set off on a tour 
 through Italy and Greece, to forget the wrangling of 
 courts, the contumely of attorneys, and the impatience 
 of clients. He left in my hands a mass of papers, to 
 burn or not, as I might feel inclined : and truly the 
 contents of his desk were no bad illustration of the 
 character and pursuits of its owner. Here I found ab- 
 
72 HALLO RAN THE PEDLER. 
 
 stracts of cases, and on their backs copies of verses, 
 sketches of scenery, and numerous caricatures of 
 judges, jurymen, witnesses, and his brethren of the bar, 
 — a bundle of old briefs, and the beginnings of two 
 
 tragedies ; with a long list of Lord N 's best jokes 
 
 to serve his purposes as occasion might best offer. 
 Among these heterogeneous and confused articles were 
 a number of scraps carefully pinned together, containing 
 notes on a certain trial, the first in which he had been 
 retained as counsel for the crown. The intense interest 
 with which I perused these documents, suggested the 
 plan of throwing the whole into a connected form, and 
 here it is for the reader's benefit. 
 
 In the south part of the county of Kilkenny lived a 
 poor peasant named Michael, or, as it was elegantly 
 pronounced, Mickle Reilly. He was a laborer renting 
 a cabin and a little potatoe-ground ; and on the strength 
 of these possessions, a robust frame which feared no 
 fatigue, and a sanguine mind which dreaded no reverse, 
 Reilly paid his addresses to Cathleen Bray, a young 
 girl of his own parish, and they were married. Reilly 
 was able, skilful, and industrious; Cathleen was the 
 best spinner in the county ; and had constant sale for 
 her work at Kilkenny : they wanted nothing ; and for 
 the first year, as Cathleen said, " There wasn't upon the 
 blessed earth two happier souls than themselves, for 
 Mick was the best boy in the world, and hadn't a fault 
 to spahc of — barring he took the drop now and then ; 
 an' why wouldn't he? " But as it happened, poor 
 Reilly's love of " the drop " was the beginning of all 
 their misfortunes. In an evil hour he went to the Fair 
 
IIALLORAN THE PEDLER. 
 
 of Kilkenny to sell a dozen hanks of yarn of his wife's 
 spinning, and a fat pig, the produce of which was to 
 pay half a year's rent, and add to their little comforts. 
 Here he met with a jovial companion, who took him 
 into a booth, and treated him to sundry potations of 
 whiskey; and while in his company, his pocket was 
 picked of the money he had just received, and something 
 more ; in short, of all he possessed in the world. At 
 that luckless moment, while maddened by his loss and 
 heated with liquor, he fell into the company of a re- 
 cruiting Serjeant. The many-colored and gaily flutter- 
 ing cockade in the soldier's cap shone like a rainbow of 
 hope and promise before the drunken eyes of Mickle 
 Reilly, and ere morning he was enlisted into a regiment 
 under orders for embarkation, and instantly sent off to 
 Cork. 
 
 Distracted by the ruin he had brought upon himself, 
 and his wife (whom he loved a thousand times better 
 than himself) poor Reilly sent a friend to inform Cath- 
 leen of his mischance, and to assure her that on a cer- 
 tain day, in a week from that time, a letter would await 
 her at the Kilkenny post-office : the same friend was 
 commissioned to deliver her his silver watch, and a gui- 
 nea out of his bounty-money. Poor Cathleen turned 
 from the gold with horror, as the price of her husband's 
 blood, and vowed that nothing on earth should induce 
 her to touch it. She was not a good calculator of time 
 and distance, and therefore rather surprised that so long 
 a time must elapse before his letter arrived. On the ap- 
 pointed day she was too impatient to wait the arrival of 
 the carrier, but set ofi"to Kilkenny herself, a distance of 
 
74 HALLORAN THE PEDLER. 
 
 ten miles : there, at the post-office, she duly found the 
 promised letter: but it was not till she had it in her pos- 
 session that she remembered she could not read : she 
 had therefore to hasten back to consult her friend Nan- 
 cy, the schoolmaster's daughter, and the best scholar in 
 the village. Reilly's letter, on being deciphered with 
 some difficulty even by the learned Nancy, was found to 
 contain much of sorrow, much of repentance, and yet 
 more of affection ; he assured her that he was far better 
 off than he expected or deserved; that the embarkation 
 of the regiment to which he belonged was delayed for 
 three weeks, and entreated her, if she could forgive him, 
 to follow him to Cork without delay, that they might 
 " part in love and kindness, and then come what might, 
 he would demane himself like a man, and die asy," 
 which he assured her he could not do without embracing 
 her once more. 
 
 Cathleen listened to her husband's letter with clasped 
 hands and drawn breath, but quiet in her nature, she 
 gave no other signs of emotion than a few large tears 
 which trickled slowly down her cheeks. " And will I see 
 him again ?" she exclaimed, " poor fellow ! poor boy ! I 
 knew the heart of him was sore for me ! and who knows, 
 Nancy dear, but they '11 let me go out with him to the 
 foreign parts ? Oh ! sure they would n't be so hard- 
 hearted as to part man and wife that way ! " 
 
 After a hurried consultation with her neighbors, who 
 sympathised with her as only the poor sympathise with 
 the poor, a letter was indited by Nancy and sent by the 
 Kilkcnney carrier that night, to inform her husband 
 that she purposed setting of>' for Cork the next blessed 
 
HALLORAN THE PEDLER. 75 
 
 morning, being Tuesday, and as the distance was about 
 forty-eight miles, she reckoned on reaching that city by 
 Wednesday afternoon ; for as she had walked to Kilken- 
 ney and back (about twenty miles) that same day, with- 
 out feeling fatigued at all, " to signify^''^ Cathleen 
 thought there would be no doubt that she could walk to 
 Cork in less than two days. In this sanguine calcula- 
 tion she was however over-ruled by her more experienced 
 neighbors, and by their advice appointed Thursday as 
 the day on which her husband was to expect her, '' God 
 willing." 
 
 Cathleen spent the rest of the day in making prepa- 
 rations for her journey ; she set her cabin in order, and 
 made a small bundle of a few articles of clothing be- 
 longing to herself and her husband. The watch and 
 the guinea she wrapped up together and crammed into 
 the toe of an old shoe which she deposited in the said 
 bundle, and the next morning, at " sparrow chirp," she 
 arose, locked her cabin door, carefully hid the key in 
 the thatch, and with a light expecting heart commenced 
 her long journey. 
 
 It is worthy of remark that this poor woman who was 
 called upon to play the heroine in such a strange trage- 
 dy and under such appalling circumstances, had nothing 
 heroic in her exterior : nothing that in the slightest de- 
 gree indicated strength of nerve or superiority of intel- 
 lect. Cathleen was twenty-three years of age, of a low 
 stature, and in her form rather delicate than robust : — 
 she was of ordinary appearance ; her eyes mild and 
 dove-like, and her whole countenance, though not abso- 
 lutely deficient in intelligence, was more particularly ex- 
 
76 HALLORAN THE PEDLKR. 
 
 pressive of simplicity, good temper, and kindness of 
 heart. 
 
 It was summer, about the end of June : the days were 
 long, the weather fine, and some gentle showers render- 
 ed travelling easy and pleasant. Cathleen walked on 
 stoutly towards Cork, and by the evening she had ac- 
 complished, with occasional pauses of rest, nearly twen- 
 ty-one miles. She lodged at a little inn by the road 
 side, and the following day set forward again, but soon 
 felt stiff with the travel of two previous days : the sun 
 became hotter, the ways dustier ; and she could not 
 with all her endeavors get further than Kathery, eigh- 
 teen miles from Cork. The next day, unfortunately for 
 poor Cathleen, proved hotter and more fatiguing than 
 the preceding. The cross road lay over a wild country, 
 consisting of low bogs and bare hills. About noon she 
 turned aside to a rivulet bordered by a few trees, and, 
 sitting down in the shade, she bathed her swollen feet 
 in the stream, when, overcome by heat, weakness, and 
 excessive weariness, she put her little bundle under her 
 head for a pillow, and sunk into a deep sleep. 
 
 On waking she perceived with dismay that the sun 
 was declining ; and, on looking about, her fears were 
 increased by the discovery that her bundle was gone. 
 Her first thought was that the good people, (i. e. the 
 fairies) had been there and stolen it away , but on ex- 
 amining further she plainly perceived large foot-prints 
 in the soft bank and was convinced it was the work of 
 no unearthly marauder. Bitterly reproaching herself for 
 her carelessness, she again set forward ; and still hoping 
 to reach Cork that night, she toiled on and on with in- 
 
IIALLORAN THE TEDLER. 77 
 
 creasing difliculty and distress, till as the evening closed 
 her spirits failed, she became faint, foot-sore and hungry, 
 not having tasted any thing since the morning but a cold 
 potatoe and a draught of buttermilk. She then looked 
 round her in hopes of discovering some habitation, but 
 there was none in sight except a lofty castle on a distant 
 hill, which raising its proud turrets from amidst the plan- 
 tations which surrounded it, glimmered faintly through 
 the gathering gloom, and held out no temptation for the 
 poor wanderer to turn in there and rest. In h?r despair 
 she sat her down on a bank by the road side, and wept 
 as she thought of her husband. 
 
 Several horsemen rode by, and one carriage and four 
 attended by servants, who took no further notice of her 
 than by a passing look ; while they went on their way 
 like the priest and the Levite in the parable, poor Cath- 
 leen dropped her head despairingly on her bosom. A 
 faintness and torpor seemed to be stealing like a dark 
 cloud over her senses, when the fast approaching sound 
 of footsteps roused her attention, and turning, she saw 
 at her side a man whose figure, though singular, she rec- 
 ognized immediately : it was Halloran the Pedler. 
 
 Halloran had been known for thirty years past in all 
 the towns and villages between Water ford and Kerry. 
 He was very old, he himself did not know his own age ; 
 he only remembered that he was a " tall slip of a boy " 
 
 when he was one of the regiment of foot, and 
 
 fought in America in 1778. His dress was strange, it 
 consisted of a woollen cap, beneath which strayed a few 
 white hairs, this was surmounted by an old military 
 cocked hat, adorned with a few fragments of tarnished 
 
78 IIALLORAN THE PEDLER. 
 
 gold lace: a frieze great coat with the sleeves dangling 
 behind, was fastened at his throat, and served to protect 
 his box of wares which was slung at his back; and he 
 always carried a thick oak stick or Idppeen in his hand. 
 There was nothing of the infirmity of age in his appear- 
 ance : his cheek, though wrinkled and weather-beaten, 
 was still ruddy : his step still firm, his eyes still bright ; 
 his jovial disposition made him a welcome guest in every 
 cottage, and his jokes, though not equal to my Lord Nor. 
 bury's, were repeated and applauded through the whole 
 country. Hallorc.n w^as returning from the fair of Kil- 
 kenny, where apparently his commercial speculations had 
 been attended with success, as his back was considera. 
 bly diminished in size. Though he did not appear to 
 recollect Cathleen, he addressed her in Irish, and asked 
 her what she did there : she related in a {ew words her 
 miserable situation. 
 
 " In throth, then, my heart is sorry for ye, poor wo- 
 man," he replied compassionately ; " and what will ye 
 do?" 
 
 " An' what can I do?" replied Cathleen, disconso- 
 ately ; " and how will I even find the ford of Ahnmoe 
 and get across to Cork, when I do 'nt know where I am 
 this blessed moment ? " 
 
 *' Musha, then, its little ye '11 get there this night," 
 said the pcdler, shaking his head. 
 
 " Then I '11 lie down here and die," said Cathleen, 
 bursting into fresh tears. 
 
 " Die! ye would 'nt! " he exclaimed, approaching 
 nearer ; *' is it to me, Peter Ilalloran, ye spake that word ; 
 and am T the man that would lave a famale at this dark 
 
HALLORAN THE PEDLER. 79 
 
 hour by the way side, let alone one that has the face 
 of a friend, tliough I cannot remember me of your 
 name either, for the soul of me. But what matter for 
 that?" 
 
 " Sure I'm Katty Reilly, of Castle Conn." 
 
 *' Katty Reilly, sure enough ! and so no more talk of 
 dying; cheer up, and see, a mile further on, isn't there 
 Biddy Hogan's ? Was, I mane, if the house and all isn't 
 gone : and its there we '11 get a bite and a sup, and a bed, 
 too, please God. So lean upon my arm, ma vourneen, 
 its strong enough yet." 
 
 So saying, the old man with an air of gallantry, half 
 rustic, half military, assisted her in rising; and support- 
 ing her on one arm, with the other he flourished his kip- 
 peen over his head, and they trudged on together he sing- 
 ing Cruiskeen lawn at the top of his voice, "■ just," as 
 he said, " to put the heart into her." 
 
 After about half an hour's walking, they came to two 
 crossways, diverging from the high road : down one of 
 these the Pedler turned, and in a few minutes they came 
 in sight of a lonely house, situated at a little distance 
 from the way-side. Above the door was a long stick 
 projecting from the wall, at the end of which dangled a 
 truss of straw, signifying that within there was enter- 
 tainment (good or bad) for man and beast. By this 
 time it was nearly dark, and the pedler going up to the 
 door, lifted the latch, expecting it to yield to his hand ; 
 but it was fastened within : he then knocked and called, 
 but there was no answer. The building which was 
 many times larger than an ordinary cabin had once been 
 a manufactory, and afterwards a farm-house. One end 
 
80 HALLORAN THE PEDLER. 
 
 of it was deserted, and nearly in ruins ; the other end 
 bore signs of having been at least recently inhabited. 
 But such a dull hollow echo rung through the edifice at 
 every knock that it seemed the whole place was now 
 deserted. 
 
 Cathleen began to be alarmed, and crossed herself, 
 ejaculating, " O God preserve us ! " But the Pedlar, 
 who appeared well acquainted with the premises, led her 
 round to the back part of the house, where there were 
 some ruined out-buildings, and another low entrance. 
 Here raising his stout stick, he let fall such a heavy 
 thump on the door that it cracked again ; and a shrill 
 voice from the other side demanded who was there ? 
 After a satisfactory answer, the door was slowly and 
 cautiously opened, and the figure of a wrinkled, half 
 famished and half naked beldam appeared, shading a 
 rush light with one hand. Halloran, who was of a fiery 
 and hasty temper, began angrily: " Why, then, in the 
 name of the great devil himself, did n't you open to us ?" 
 But he stopped suddenly, as if struck with surprise at 
 the miserable object before him. 
 
 " Is it Biddy Hogan herself, I see !" he exclaimed, 
 snatching the candle from her hand, and throwing the 
 light full on her face. A moment's scrutiny seemed 
 enough, and too much ; for, giving it back hastily, he 
 supported Cathleen into the kitchen, the old woman 
 leading the way, and placed her on an old settle, the 
 first seat which presented itself. When she was suffi- 
 ciently recovered to look about her, Cathleen could not 
 help feeling some alarm at finding herself in so gloomy 
 and dreary a place. It had once been a large kitchen. 
 
HALLORAN THE PEDLER. 81 
 
 or hall : at one end was an ample chimney, such as are 
 yet to be seen in some old country houses. The rafters 
 were black with smoke or rottenness : the walls had 
 been wainscoated with oak, but the greatest part had 
 been torn down for firing. A table with three legs, a 
 large stool, a bench in the chimney propped up with turf 
 sods, and the seat Cathleen occupied, formed the only 
 furniture. Every thing spoke utter misery, filth, and 
 famine — the very "abomination of desolation." 
 
 " And what have ye in the house, Biddy, honey ?" 
 was the Pedler's first question, as the old woman set 
 down the light. 
 
 " Little enough, I 'm thinking." 
 
 " Little ! Its nothing then." 
 
 " No, not so much as a midge would eat have I in 
 the house this blessed night, and nobody to send down 
 to Balgowna." 
 
 " No need of that, as our good luck would have it," 
 said Halloran, and pulling a wallet from under his loose 
 coat, he drew from it a bone of cold meat, a piece of 
 bacon, a lump of bread, and some cold potatoes. The 
 old woman, roused by the sight of so much good cheer, 
 began to blov/ up the dying embers on the hearth ; put 
 down among them the few potatoes to warm, and 
 busied herself in making some little preparations to en- 
 tertain her guests. Meantime the old Pedler, casting 
 from time to time an anxious glance towards Cathleen, 
 and now and then an encouraging word, sat down on the 
 low stool, resting his arms on his knees. 
 
 " Times arc sadly changed with ye, Biddy Hogan," 
 said he at lencrth, after a lonji silence. 
 
&*i HAI.LOPvAN THE PEDLKR. 
 
 "Troth, ye may say so;" she replied with a sort of 
 groan. " Bitter bad luck have we had in this world, 
 any how," 
 
 " And where's the man of the house? And where's 
 the lad, Barny?" 
 
 *' Where are they, is it? Where should they be? 
 may be gone down to Ahnamoe." 
 
 " But what's come of Barny ? The boy was a stout 
 workman, and a good son, though a devil-may-care fel- 
 low, too. I remember teaching him the soldiers' ex- 
 ercise with this very blessed stick nov/ in my hand ; and 
 by the same token, him doubling his fist at me when he 
 was n't bigger than the turf-kish yonder ; ay, and as 
 long as Barney Hogan could turn a sod of turf on my 
 lord's land, I thought his father and mother would nev- 
 er have wanted the bit and sup while the life was in 
 him." 
 
 At the mention of her son, the old woman looked up 
 a moment, but immediately hung her head again. 
 
 *' Barny does n't v/ork for my lord now," said she. 
 
 "And what for then?" 
 
 The old woman seemed reluctant to answer — she 
 hesitated. 
 
 '' Ye did n't hear, then, how he got into trouble with 
 my lord ; and how — myself doesn't know the rights of 
 it — but Barny had always a bit of wild blood about 
 him; and since that day he's taken to bad ways, and 
 the ould man's ruled by him quite entirely ; and the 
 one's glum and fierce like — and t'other's bothered; 
 and, oh ! bitter's the time I have twixt 'em both !" 
 
 While the old v/oman was ut(erinp- the'='e broken 
 
HALLORAN THE TEDLER. 83 
 
 complaints, she placed the eatables en the table; nid 
 Cathleen, who was yet more faint from hunger than sub- 
 dued by fatigue, was first helped by the good-natured 
 Pedler to the best of what was there : but, just as she 
 was about to taste the food set before her, she chanced 
 to see the eyes of the old \loman fixed upon the morsel 
 in her hand with such an envious and famished look, 
 that from a sudden impulse of benevolent feeling, she 
 instantly held it out to her. The woman started, drew 
 back her extended hand, and gazed at her wildly. 
 
 '* What is it then ails ye? " said Cathleen, looking at 
 her with wonder; then to herself, " hunger's turned the 
 wits of her, poor soul! Take it — take it, mother," 
 added she aloud: "eat, good mother; sure there's 
 plenty for us all, and to spare," and she pressed it upon 
 her with all the kindness of her nature. The old wc- 
 man eagerly seized it. 
 
 " God reward ye," said she, grasping Cathleen's hand, 
 convulsively, and retiring to a corner, she devoured 
 the food with almost wolfish voracity. 
 
 While they were eating, the two Hogans, father and 
 son, came in. They had been setting snares for rabbits 
 and game on the neighboring hills; and evidently were 
 both startled and displeased to find the house occupied ; 
 which, since Barny liogan's disgrace with " my lord," 
 had been entirely shunned by the people round about. 
 The old man gave the pedler a sulky welcome. The 
 son, with a muttered curse, went and took his scat in 
 the chimney, where, turning his back, he set himself to 
 chop a billet of wood. The father was a lean stooping 
 figure, " bony, and gaunt, and grim : " he was either 
 
84 HALLORAN THE PEDLI.R- 
 
 deaf, or affected deafness. The son was a short, braw- 
 ny, thickset man, with features not naturally ugly, but 
 rendered worse than ugly by an expression of louring 
 ferocity disgustingly blended with a sort of stupid 
 drunken leer, the effect of habitual intoxication. 
 
 Halloran stared at them awhile with visible astonish- 
 ment and indignation, but pity and sorrow for a change 
 so lamentable, smothered the old man's wrath ; and as 
 the eatables were by this time demolished, he took from 
 his side pocket a tin flask of whiskey, calling to the 
 old woman to boil some water " screeching hot," that 
 he might make what he termed " a jug of stiff punch 
 — enough to make a cat spakcJ' He offered to share 
 it with his hosts, who did not decline drinking ; and 
 the noo-ffin went round to all but Cathleen, who, fever- 
 ish with travelling, and, besides, disliking spirits, W'Ould 
 not taste it. The old Pedler, reconciled to his old ac- 
 quaintances by this show of good fellowship, began to 
 grow merry under the influence of his whiskey-punch : 
 he boasted of his late success in trade, showed with 
 exultation his almost empty pack, and taking out the 
 only tw^o handkerchiefs left in it, threw one to Cathleen, 
 and the other to the old woman of the house ; then 
 slapping his pocket in which a quantity of loose money 
 was heard to jingle, he swore he would treat Cathleen 
 to a good breakfast next morning ; and threw a shilling 
 on the table, desiring the old woman would provide 
 " stirabout for a dozen," and have it ready by the first 
 light. 
 
 Cathleen listened to this rhodomontadc in some alarm 
 she fancied to detect certain suspicious glances between 
 
HALLORAN THE PEDLER. 85 
 
 the father and son, and began to feel an indescribable 
 dread of her company. She arose from the table, urg- 
 ing the Pedier good-humoredly to retire to rest, as they 
 intended to be up and away so early next morning : 
 then concealing her apprehensions under an affectation 
 of extreme fatigue and drowsiness, she desired to be 
 shown where she was to sleep. The eld woman lighted 
 a lanthorn, and led the way up some broken steps into 
 a sort of loft, where she showed her two beds standing 
 close together ; one of these she intimated was for the 
 Pedier, and the other for herself Now Cathleen had 
 been born and bred in an Irish cabin, where the inmates 
 are usually lodged after a very promiscuous fashion ; 
 our readers, therefore, will net wonder at the arrange- 
 ment. Cathleen, however, required that, if possible, 
 some kind of screen should be placed between the beds. 
 The old hag at first replied to this request with the most 
 disgusting impudence ; but Cathleen insisting, the beds 
 were moved asunder, leaving a space of about two feet 
 between them ; and after a long search a piece of old 
 frieze v/as dragged out from among some rubbish, and 
 hung up to the low rafters, so as to form a curtain or 
 partition half way across the room. Having completed 
 this arrangement, and wished her " a sweet sleep and a 
 sound, and lucky dreams," the old woman put the lant- 
 horn on the floor, for there was neither chair nor table, 
 and left her guest to repose. 
 
 Cathleen said her prayers, only partly undressed her- 
 self, and lifting up the worn out coverlet, lay down upon 
 the bed. In a quarter of an hour afterwards the Pedier 
 staggered into the room, and as he passed the foot of 
 
 F •* 
 
86 IIALLORAN THE PEDLER. 
 
 her bed, bid God bless her, in a low voice. He then 
 threw himself down on his bed, and in a few minutes, as 
 she judged by his hard and equal breathing, the old man 
 was in a deep sleep. 
 
 All was now still in the house, but Cathleen, could 
 not sleep. She was feverish and restless : her limbs 
 ached, her head throbbed and burned, undefinable fears 
 beset her fancy ; and whenever she tried to compose her- 
 self to slumber the faces of the two men she had left be- 
 low flitted and glared before her eyes. A sense of heat 
 and suffocation, accompanied by a parching thirst, came 
 over her, caused, perhaps, by the unusual closeness of 
 the room. This feeling of oppression increased till the 
 very walls and rafters seemed to approach nearer and 
 close upon her all around. Unable any longer to en- 
 dure this intolerable smothering sensation, she was just 
 about to rise and open the door or window, when she 
 heard the whispering of voices. She lay still and listen- 
 ed. The latch was raised cautiously, — the door open- 
 ed, and the two Hogans entered : they trod so softly 
 that, though she saw them move before her, she heard 
 no foot-fall. They approached the bed of Halloran, 
 and presently she heard a dull heavy blow, and then 
 sounds — appalling sickening sounds — as of subdued 
 struggles and smothered agony, which convinced her 
 that they were murdering the unfortunate Pedler. 
 
 Cathleen listened, almost congealed v.ith horror, but 
 she did not swoon : her turn, she thought, must come 
 next, though in the same instant she felt instinctively 
 that her only chance of preservation was to counterfieit 
 profound pleep. The murderf^r?;, havnitr done their 
 
HALLORAN THE TEDLER. 87 
 
 work on the poor Pedler, approached her bed, and threw 
 the gleam of their lanthorn full on her face ; she lay quite 
 still, breathing calmly and regularly. They brought the 
 light to her eye-lids, but they did not wink or move ; — 
 there was a pause, a terrible pause, and then a whisper- 
 ing ; — and presently Cathleen thought she could dis- 
 tinguish a third voice, as of expostulation, but all in so 
 very low a tone that though the voices were close to her 
 she could not hear a word that was uttered. After some 
 moments, which appeared an age of agonizing suspense, 
 the wretches withdrew, and Cathleen was left alone, and 
 in darkness. Then, indeed, she felt as one ready to 
 die : to use her own affecting language, " the heart 
 within me," said she, " melted away like water, but I 
 was resolute not to swoon, and I did not. I knew that 
 if I would preserve my life, I must keep the sense in 
 me, and I did.^^ 
 
 Now and then she fancied she heard the murdered 
 man move, and creep about in his bed, and this horri- 
 ble conceit almost maddened her with terror : but she 
 set herself to listen fixedly, and convinced her reason 
 that all was still — that all was over. 
 
 She then turned her thoughts to the possibility of 
 escape. The window first suggested itself: the faint 
 moon-light was just struggling through its dirty and cob- 
 webbed panes ; it was very small, and Cathleen reflect- 
 ed, that besides the difficulty, and, perhaps, impossibili- 
 ty of getting througli, it must be some height from the 
 ground : neither could she tell on which side of the 
 house it was situated, nor in what direction to turn, 
 suppnsmg she reached the ground ; and, above all, she 
 
88 HALLORAN THE TEDLER. 
 
 was aware that the slightest noise, must cause her in- 
 stant destruction. She thus resolved upon remaining 
 quiet. 
 
 It was most fortunate that Cathleen came to this de- 
 termination, for without the slightest previous sound the 
 door again opened, and in the faint light, to which her 
 eyes were now accustomed, she saw the head of the old 
 woman bent forward in a listening attitude : in a few 
 minutes the door closed, and then followed a whisper- 
 ing outside. She could not at first distinguish a word 
 until the woman's sharper tones broke out, though in 
 suppressed vehemence, with " If ye touch her life, Bar- 
 ny, a mother's curse go with ye ! enough's done." 
 
 " She'll live, then, to hang us all," said the miscreant 
 son. 
 
 " Sooner than that, I'd draw this knife across her 
 throat with my own hands ; and I'd do it again and 
 again, sooner than they should touch your life, Barny, 
 jewel : but no fear, the creature's asleep or dead alrea- 
 dy, with the fright of it." 
 
 The son then said something which Cathleen could 
 not hear ; the old v/oman replied. 
 
 *'Hisht ! I tell ye, no, — no; the ship's now in the 
 Cove of Cork that's to carry her over the salt seas far 
 enough out of the way : and have n't we all she has in 
 the world 1 and more, didn't she take the bit out of her 
 own mouth to put into mine ? " 
 
 The son again spoke inaudibly ; and then the voices 
 ceased, leaving Cathleen uncertain as to her fate. 
 
 Shortly after the door opened, and the father and son 
 again entered, and carried out the body of the wretch- 
 
HALLORAN THE PEPLER. 89 
 
 ed Pedler. They seemed to have the art of treading 
 without noise, for though Cathleen saw them move, she 
 could not hear a sound of a footstep. The old woman 
 was all this time standing by her bed, and every now 
 and then casting the light full upon her eyes ; but as 
 she remained quite still, and apparently in a deep calm 
 sleep, they left her undisturbed, and she neither saw nor 
 heard any more of them that night. 
 
 It ended at length — that long, long night of horror. 
 Cathleen lay quiet till she thought the morning suf- 
 ficiently advanced. She then rose, and went down into 
 the kitchen : the old woman was lifting a pot off the 
 fire, and nearly let it fall as Cathleen suddenly address- 
 ed her, and with an appearance of surprise and concern, 
 asked for her friend the Pedler, saying she had just look- 
 ed into his bed, supposing he was still asleep, and to her 
 great amazement had found it empty. The old woman 
 replied, that he had set out at early day -light for Mallow, 
 having only just remembered that his business called 
 him that way before he went to Cork. Cathleen affect- 
 ed great wonder and perplexity, and reminded the wo- 
 man that he had promised to pay for her breakfast. 
 
 " An' so he did, sure enough," she replied, " and paid 
 for it too ; and by the same token did 'nt I go down to 
 Balgowna myself for milk and the male before the sun 
 was over the tree tops ; and here it is for ye, ma col- 
 leen : " so saying, she placed a bowl of stirabout and 
 some milk before Cathleen, and then sat down on the 
 stool opposite to her, watching her intently. 
 
 Poor Cathleen ! she had but little inclination to eat, 
 and felt as if every bit would choke her : yet she con- 
 
90 HALLORAN THE PEDLER. 
 
 tinned to force down her breakfast, and apparently with 
 the utmost ease and appetite, even to the last morsel set 
 before her. While eating, she inquired about the hus- 
 band and son, and the old woman replied, that they had 
 started at the first burst of light to cut turf in a bog, 
 about five miles distant. 
 
 When Cathleen had finished her breakfast, she re- 
 turned the old woman many thanks for he rkind treat- 
 ment, and then desired to know the nearest way to Cork. 
 The woman Hogan informed her that the distance was 
 about seven miles, and though the usual road was by 
 the high way from which they had turned the proceed- 
 inff evening, there was a nmch shorter way across some 
 fields which she pointed out. Cathleen listened atten- 
 tively to her directions, and then bidding farewell with 
 many demonstrations of gratitude, she proceeded on her 
 fearful journey. The cool morning air, the cheerful 
 song of the early birds, the dewy freshness of the turf, 
 v/ere all unnoticed and unfelt : the sense of danger was 
 paramount, while her faculties were all alive and awake 
 to meet it, for a feverish and unnatural strength seemed 
 to animate her limbs. She stepped on, shortly debating 
 with herself whether to follow the directions given by 
 the old woman. The high road appeared the safest ; on 
 the other hand, she was aware that the slightest betrayal 
 of mistrust would perhaps be followed by her destruc- 
 tion ; and thus rendered brave even by the excess of 
 her fears, she determined to take the cross path. Just 
 as she had come to this resolution, she reached the gate 
 which she had been directed to pass through ; and with- 
 out the slightest apparent hesitation, she turned in, and 
 
HALLORAN THE PEDLER. 91 
 
 pursued the lonely way through the fields. Often did 
 she fancy she heard footsteps stealthily following her, 
 and never approached a hedge without expecting to see 
 the murderers start up from behind it ; yet she never 
 once turned her head, nor quickened nor slackened her 
 pace ; 
 
 Like one that on a lonesome road 
 
 Doth walk in fear and dread, 
 Because he knows a frightful fiend 
 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 She had proceeded in this manner about three quar- 
 ters of a mile, and approached a thick and dark grove 
 of undervv'ood, when she beheld seated upon the opposite 
 stile an old woman in a red cloak. The sight of a hu- 
 man being made her heart throb more quickly for a mo- 
 ment ; but on approaching nearer, with all her faculties 
 sharpened by the sense of danger, she perceived that it 
 was no old woman, but the younger Hogan, the mur- 
 derer of Halloran, who was thus disguised. His face 
 was partly concealed by a blue handkerchief tied round 
 his head and under his chin, but she knew him by the 
 peculiar and hideous expression of his eyes : yet with 
 amazing and almost incredible self-possession, she con- 
 tinued to advance without manifesting the least alarm, 
 or sign of recognition ; and walking uj) to the pretend- 
 ed old woman, said in a clear voice, "The blessing of 
 the morning on ye, good mother ! a fine day for travel- 
 lers like you and me ! " 
 
 " A fine day," he replied, cougliing and mumbling in 
 a feigned voice, " but ye see, hugh, ugh ! ye see I've 
 
h2 HALLO RAN THE TEDLER. 
 
 walked tliis moniin ' from the Cove of Cork, jewel, and 
 troth I 'm almost spent, and I 've a bad cowld, and a 
 cough on me, as 3 e may hear," and he coughed vehe- 
 mently. Cathleen made a motion to pass the stile, but 
 the disguised old woman stretching out a great bony 
 hand, seized her gown. Still Cathleen did not quail. 
 " Musha, then, have ye nothing to give a poor ould wo- 
 man," said the monster, in a whining, snuffling tone. 
 "Nothing have I in this wide world," said Cathleen, 
 quietly disengaging her gown, but without moving. 
 " Sure its only yesterday I was robbed of all I had but 
 the little clothes on my back, and if I had n't met with 
 charity from others I'd have starved by the way side by 
 this time." 
 
 " Och ! and is there no place hereby where they would 
 give a potatoe and a cup of cowld water to a poor old 
 woman ready to drop on her road 1 " 
 
 Cathleen instantly pointed forward to the house she 
 had just left, and recommended her to apply there. 
 " Sure they're good, honest people, though poor enough, 
 God help them," she continued, " and I wish ye mother, 
 no worse luck than myself had, and that's a good friend 
 to treat ye to a supper, aye, and a breakfast too ; there 
 it is, ye may just see the light smoke rising like a thread 
 over the hill, just foment ye ; and so God speed ye ! " 
 
 Cathleen turned to descend the stile as she spoke ex- 
 pecting to be again seized with a strong and murderous 
 grasp ; bat her enemy, secure in his disguise, and nev- 
 er doubting her perfect unconsciousness, suffered her to 
 pass unmolested. 
 
 Another half mile brought her to the top of a rising 
 
KALLORAN THE PEDLER. 93 
 
 ground, within sight of the high road; she could see 
 crowds of people on horseback and on foot, with cars 
 and carriages passing along in one direction ; for it was, 
 though Cathleen did not then know it, the first day of the 
 Cork Assizes. As she gazed, she wished for the wings 
 of a bird that she might in a moment flee over the 
 space which intervened between her and safety ; for 
 though she could clearly see the high road from the hill 
 on which she stood, a valley of broken ground at its 
 foot, and two wide fields still separated her from it ; but 
 with the same unfailing spirit, and the same steady pace, 
 she proceeded onwards : and now she had reached the 
 middle of the last field, and a thrill of new born hope 
 was beginning to flatter at her heart, when suddenly 
 two men burst through the fence at the farther side of 
 the field, and advanced towards her. One of these she 
 thought at the first glance resembled her husband, but 
 that it was her husband himself was an idea which nev- 
 er entered her mind. Her imagination wa?^ possessed 
 with the one supreme idea of danger and death by mur- 
 derous hands; she doubted not that these were the two 
 Hogans in some new disguise, and silently recommend- 
 inrr herself to God, she steeled her heart to meet this 
 fresh trial of her fortitude ; aware that however it 
 might end, it Jimst be the last. At this moment one of 
 the men throwing up his arms, ran forward, shouting 
 her name, in a voice — a dear and well known voice, 
 in Vfhich she could not be deceived : — it was her hus- 
 band ! 
 
 The poor woman, who had hitherto supported her 
 spirits and her self-possession, stood as if rooted to the 
 
 G 
 
94 HALLORAIV THE PEDLER. 
 
 gi\ound, weak, motionless, and gasping for breath. A 
 cold dew burst from every pore; her ears tingled, her 
 heart fluttered as though it would burst from her bosom. 
 When she attempted to call out, and raise her hand in 
 token of recognition, the sounds died away, rattling in 
 her throat; her arm dropped powerless at her side; and 
 when her husband came up, and slie made a last effort 
 to spring towards him, she sank down at his feet in 
 strong convulsions. 
 
 Ileilly, much shocked at what he supposed the effect 
 of sudden surprise, knelt down and chafed his wife's 
 temples; his comrade ran to a neighboring spring for 
 water, which they sprinkled plentifully over her: v*'hen, 
 however, she returned to life, her intellects appeared to 
 have fled for ever, and she uttered such wild shrieks 
 and exclamationy, and talked so incoherently, that the 
 men became exceedingly terrified, and poor Reiily him- 
 self, almost as distracted as his wife. After vainly at- 
 tem.ping to soothe and recover her, they at length for- 
 cibly carried her down to the inn at Balgowna, a ham- 
 let about a mile farther on, v.-here she remained for. sev- 
 eral hours in a state of delirium, one fit succeeding 
 another with little intermission. 
 
 Towards evening she became more composed, and 
 was able to give some account of the horrible events of 
 the preceding night. It happened, opportunely, that a 
 gentleman of fortune in the neighborhood, and a mag- 
 istrate, was riding by late that evening on his return 
 from the Assizes at Cork, and stoi)ped at the inn to 
 refresh his liorse. Hearing that something unusual and 
 frigiuful had occurred, he alighted, and examined the 
 
HALLORAN THE PEDLER. 95 
 
 woman himself, in the presence of one or two persons. 
 Her tale appeared to him so strange and wild from the 
 manner in which she told it, and her account of her 
 own courage and sufferings so exceedingly incredible, 
 that he was at first inclined to disbelieve the whole, and 
 suspected the poor woman either of imposture or insan- 
 ity. He did not, however, think proper totally to neglect 
 her testimony, but immediately sent ofi' information of 
 the murder to Cork. Constables with a warrant were 
 despatched the same night to the house of the Hogans, 
 which they found empty, and the inmates already fled : 
 but after a long search, the body of the wretched Hal- 
 loran, and part of his property, were found concealed 
 in a stack of old chimneys among the ruins; and this 
 proof of guilt was decisive. The country was instantly 
 up ; the most active search after the murderers was 
 made by the police, assisted by all the neighboring pea- 
 santry ; and before twelve o'clock the following night, 
 the three Hogans, father, mother, and son, had been 
 apprehended in different places of concealment, and 
 placed in safe custody. Meantime the Coroner's in- 
 quest having sat on the body, brought in a verdict of 
 wilful murder. 
 
 As the Judges were then at Cork, the trial came on 
 immediately; and from its extraordinary circumstances, 
 excited the most intense and general interest. Among 
 the property of poor Halloran discovered in the house, 
 were a pair of shoes and a cap which Cathleen at once 
 identified as belonging to herself, and Reilly's silver 
 watch was found on the younger Plogan, When ques- 
 tioned how they came into his possession, he sullenly 
 
9b HALLORAN THE PEDLER. 
 
 refused to jmswer; His mother eagerly, and as if to 
 shield her son, confessed that she v/as the person who 
 had robbed Cathleen in the former part of the day, that 
 she had gone out on the Carrick road to beg, having 
 been left by her husband and son for two days without 
 the means of support; and finding Cathleen asleep, 
 she had taken away the bundle, supposing it to contain 
 food ; and did not recognise her as the same person she 
 had robbed, till Cathleen offered her part of her sup- 
 per. 
 
 The surgeon, who had been called to examine the 
 body of Halloran, deposed to the cause of his death ; — 
 that the old man had been first stunned by a heavy blow 
 on the temple, and then strangled. Other witnesses 
 deposed to the finding of the body : the previous char- 
 acter of the Hogans, and the circumstances attending 
 their apprehension ; but the principal witness was Cath- 
 leen. She appeared, leaning on her husband, her face 
 was ashy pale, and her limbs too weak for support ; yet 
 she, however, was perfectly collected, and gave her tes- 
 timony with that precision, simplicity, and modesty, 
 peculiar to her character. When she had occasion to 
 allude to her own feelings, it was with such natural and 
 heart-felt eloquence that the whole court was affected; 
 and when she described her rencontre at the stile there 
 was a general pressure and a breathless suspense ; and 
 then a loud murmur of astonishment and admiration 
 fully participated by even the bench of magistrates. 
 The evidence was clear and conclusive : and the jury, 
 without retiring, gave their verdict, guilty — Death. 
 When the miserable wretches were asked, in the 
 
HALLORAN THE PEDLER. 07 
 
 usual forms, if they had any thing to say why the awful 
 sentence should not be passed upon them, the old mfiu 
 replied by a look of idiotic vacancy, and was mute — 
 the younger Hogan answered sullenly, "nothing:" the 
 old woman, staring wildly on her son, tried to speak; 
 her lips moved, but without a sound — and she fell for- 
 ward on the bar in strong fits. 
 
 At this moment Cathleen rushed from the arms of 
 her husband, and throwing herself on her knees, with 
 clasped hands, and cheeks streaming with tears, begged 
 for mercy for the old woman. " Mercy, my lord judge ! " 
 she exclaimed. *' Gentlemen, your honors, have mer- 
 cy on her. She had mercy on me ! She only did their 
 bidding. As fjr the bundle and all in it, I give it to 
 her with all my soul, so it's no robbery. The grip of 
 hunger 's hard to bear ; and if she hadn't taken it then, 
 where would I have been now? Sure they would have 
 killed me for the sake of the watch, and I would have 
 been a corpse before your honors this moment. O 
 mercy ! mercy for her ! or never will I sleep asy on this 
 side of the grave !" 
 
 The judge, though much affected, was obliged to 
 have her forcibly carried from the court, and justice 
 took its awful course. Sentence of death was pro- 
 nounced on all the prisoners : but the woman was re- 
 prieved, and afterwards transported. The two men 
 were executed within forty-eight hours after their con- 
 viction, on the Gallows Green. They made no public 
 confession of their guilt, and met their fate with sullen 
 indifference. The awful ceremony was for a moment 
 interrupted by an incident which afterwards furnished 
 
9b halloran the tedler. 
 
 ample matter for wonder and speculation among the 
 superstitious populace. It was well known that the 
 younger Hogan had been long employed on the estate 
 of a nobleman in the neighborhood : but havincr been 
 concerned in the abduction of a young female, under 
 circumstances of peculiar atrocity, which for the want 
 of legal evidence could not be brought home to him, he 
 was dismissed ; and, finding himself an object of gen- 
 eral execration, he had since been skulking about the 
 country, associating Vvith housebreakers and other law- 
 less and abandoned characters. At the moment the 
 hangman was adjusting the rope round his neck, a shrill 
 voice screamed from the midst of the crov/d, " Barny 
 Hogan ! do ye mind Grace Power, and the last words 
 ever she spoke to ye ? " There was a general movement 
 and confusion ; no one could or would tell wiience the 
 voice proceeded. The wretched man was seen to 
 chanoje countenance for the first time, and raisinfr him- 
 self on tiptoe, gazed wildly round upon the multitude, 
 but he said nothing; and in a few minutes he was no 
 more. 
 
 The reader may wish to know what has become of 
 Cathleen, our heroine, in the true sense of the word. 
 Iler story, her sufterings, her extraordinary fortitude, 
 and pure simplicity of character made her an object of 
 general curiosity and interest : a subscription was raised 
 for her, which soon amounted to a liberal sum : they 
 were enabled to procure Reilly's discharge from the 
 army, and with a part of the money, Cathie: n, who, 
 among her other perfections, was exceedingly pious after 
 the fashion of her creed and country, founded yearly 
 
HALLORAN THE PEDLER. 99 
 
 masses for the soul of the poor Pedler ; and vowed her- 
 self to make a pilgrimage of thanksgiving to St. Gob- 
 nate's well. Mr. L. the magistrate who had first exam- 
 ined her in the little inn at Balgowna, made her a mu- 
 niiicent present ; and anxious, perhaps, to offer yet fur- 
 ther amends for his former doubts of her veracity, he in- 
 vited Reilly, on very advantageous terms, to settle on 
 his estate, w^here he rented a neat cabin, and a handsome 
 plot of potatoe ground. There Reilly and his Cathleen 
 were living ten years ago, with an increasing family, and 
 in the enjoyment of much humble happiness ; and there, 
 for aught I know to the contrary, they may be living at 
 this day. 
 
100 
 
 STANZAS ON FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Though the fair field of life be o'ershadovv'd with sorrows, 
 And the groans of calamity burst on our ears ; 
 Still the heart has its joys, whilst from friendship it borrows. 
 A balm for its pangs, a relief for its tears. 
 
 In the balance of destiny, anguish and pleasure 
 Are equally poised; but where friendship prevails 
 This equality ceases, and joy, without measure. 
 Gives new sway to the beam, and thus varies the scales. 
 
 I have known what there is in that ardent sensation 
 Which glows in the heart, when esteem is its source ; 
 I have known that regard, friendship's sweetest creation. 
 Which lightens time's load, and gives speed to his course. 
 
 I have known that there are w^ho a feeling can cherish, 
 For those who have drained the full chalice of wo ; 
 I have known that there are who for others can nourish 
 That sympathy few ever deign to bestov.^ 
 
 And though friendship is said to have only her dwelling 
 With the saints in their bliss, mid the light of the skies, 
 She has cheered this dull earth — oh, what pride in the telling 
 She has challcng'd this heart, she has gladden'd these eyes. 
 
ON FRIENDSHIP. lOi 
 
 I have known her, as if some bright angel had sent her, 
 Like a pure bliss from lieaA'^en, clinging fast to the soul ; 
 And only that grave, where each mortal must enter, 
 Shall hide her pure light, or her fervors control. 
 
 Without her the virtues, all pale and affrighted, 
 Would fly to a kindlier sojourn for rest; 
 Without her religion, abandon'd, benighted, 
 Could impart not her cheer to the desolate breast. 
 
 All those social attachments which hither unite us. 
 But for her would be void, and this world would be then 
 A wild scene of things to confound and affright us. 
 And wolves v/ould be less — far less savage than men. 
 
 But friendship enlivens the prospect before us, 
 
 For at her magic touch its asperities cease ; 
 
 And the tempests of life as their thunders burst o'er us, 
 
 Are hushed by her voice, and subside into peace. 
 
 How oft does she kindle the torch of devotion, 
 And lift our affections from earth to the skies ; 
 When memory awakens the tender emotion 
 For friends who are gone to the scene of their joys. 
 
 Nay, tell me not, you whom no fervors enkindle, 
 That our days bring no cheer as before us they fly ; 
 Whilst life's varied web is unwound from its spindle, 
 How the labor is lightened when friendship is by. 
 
 Shall they round whose heart all that's selfish and sordid — 
 Like ivy long clasped round the storm-beaten rock — 
 Clings, its .sympathies stifling, — shall they be regarded 
 Who delight at the miseries of others to mock .'' 
 
J02 OV FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 With such she can never have fellowsliip — never 
 Shall her pure appeals with their sympathies blend- 
 From those she is sundered, and sundered for ever, 
 Who to self's only idol devotedly bend. 
 
 i 
 
 Tis not for the cold, for the selfish, unfeeling, 
 
 That friendship prepares the pure joys that she ovv'ns ; 
 
 To the sensitive only her blessings revealing — A 
 
 She has sweets for her bees, but no honey for drones. 
 
103 
 
 THE SUNSHINE. 
 
 I LOVE the sunshine every where, 
 In wood, and field and glen ; 
 
 I love it in the busy haunts 
 Of town-imprisoned men. 
 
 I love it when it streameth in 
 
 The humble cottage door, 
 And casts the checkered casement sliade 
 
 Upon the red-brick floor. 
 
 I love it where the children lie 
 Deep in the clovery grass, 
 
 To v.'atch among the tvv^ining roots 
 The gold-green beetles pass. 
 
 I love it on the breezy sea, 
 
 To glance on sail and oar. 
 While the great waves, like molten glass, 
 
 Come leaping to the shore. 
 
 I love It on the mountain-top<?. 
 Where lies the thawless snow. 
 
 And half a kingdom, bathed in light, 
 Lies stretching out below. 
 
104 
 
 THE SUNSHINE. 
 
 And when it shines in forest glades, 
 
 Hidden, and green, and cool, 
 Through mossy boughs and veined leaves, 
 
 How is it beautiful ! 
 
 How beautiful on little streams. 
 When sun and shade at play. 
 
 Make silvery meshes, while the brook 
 Goes singing on its way. 
 
 How beautiful, where dragon-flies 
 
 Are wondrous to behold. 
 With rainbow wings of gauzy pearl, 
 And bodies blue and gold. 
 
 Plow beautiful, on harvest slopes, 
 
 To see the sunshine lie ; 
 Or on the paler reaped fields, 
 
 Where yellow shocks stand high. 
 
 O yes ! I love the sunshine ! 
 
 Like kindness, or like mirth 
 Upon a human countenance. 
 
 Is sunshine on the earth. 
 
 Upon the earth, upon the sea, 
 And through the crystal air, 
 
 On piled-up cloud, the gracious sun 
 Is glorious every where ! 
 
wl 
 
^ 
 
2 
 
105 
 
 THE POLITICIAN OF PODUNK. 
 
 Solomon Waxtend was a shoemaker of Podunk, 
 a small village of New York, some forty years ago. He 
 was an Englishman by birth, and had come over the 
 water to mend the institutions, as well as the soles, of 
 the country. He v.^as a perfectly honest man, and of 
 natural good sense ; but, having taken pretty large doses 
 of new light from the v/orks of Tom Paine and the French 
 Revolutionists, he became like an inflated balloon, light- 
 headed, and soared aloft into the unknown regions of air. 
 Like many of his countrymen brought up under monar- 
 chical institutions, he was slow in understanding the 
 mysteries of our political system ; and, wanting the bal- 
 last of Yankee common sense, he nevertheless thought 
 himself specially qualified to instruct the people of Po- 
 dunk in every thing relating to civil liberty. 
 
 Accordingly he held forth, at first, over his lapstone, 
 then at the bar-room, and finally at a caucus. He had 
 some gifts, and more of the grace of assurance. He 
 set up for a great man, became a candidate for repre- 
 sentative, and was triumphantly elected a member of the 
 General Assembly of New York. With all the spirit 
 of a true reformer, he set forth for Albany, to discharge 
 the high functions of his official state. He went. He 
 rose to make a speech. His voice failed, his knees tot- 
 tered, he became silent ; he sat down. The whole af- 
 
106 THE POLITICIAN OF TODUNK. 
 
 fair was duly reported in the papers. It was read at the 
 alehouse in Podunk ! 
 
 Solomon Waxtend came back an altered man. He 
 went away round, ruddy, and self-sufficient ; he return- 
 ed lean, sullen, and subdued. He shut himself up for 
 a month, and nothing was heard in his house by the 
 neighbors, save the vigorous hammer upon the lapstone. 
 At length, one evening, he appeared at the village inn. 
 It was a sort of holiday eve, and many of his partisans 
 were there. They looked at Solomon, as if they saw a 
 ghost ; but he had that calmness of countenance which 
 betokens a n:iind made up. His late friends crowded 
 round him ; but Solomon, vv^aving his hand, bade them 
 sit down. Having done this, he spoke as follows. 
 
 "I trust I am duly sensible, my friends, of the honor 
 you intended me, in sending me to the Assembly. If I 
 have disgraced you, it has, at least, been a lesson to rae. 
 I find, that in order to understand your institutions, and 
 to cope with your Yankee people, it is necessary, like 
 them, to live long in the country, and to study its his- 
 tory, and become familiar with its political system. I 
 find that an Englishman, with his tory notions, his he- 
 reditary love of monarchy, his loyalty, woven in with 
 his first lessons of life, is like a ' fish cut of v.^ater ' in 
 one of your democratic assemblies. I have, therefore, 
 only one thing to say, and that will be told in the way 
 of a story. 
 
 " Some people, digging in a sandbank by the seaside, 
 in search of Kid's money, came to a chest, with the fol- 
 lowing inscription, — ' Take me ifj), and 1 will tell you 
 wore!' This gave them fresh courage, and rhey con- 
 
THE POLITICIAN OF PODUISK. 10/ 
 
 tinned their efforts. At length they dug up the chest, 
 and on the bottom, they found the following inscription, 
 — ' Lay vie down as I icas before.^ " 
 
 Having told this story, the cobler departed, leaving 
 his hearers to apply the obvious hint conveyed by the 
 legend. 
 
lf)8 
 
 LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 Sporting through the forest wide, 
 Playing by the water side ; 
 Wandering o'er the heathed fells, 
 Down within the woodland dells; 
 All among the mountains wild ; 
 Dwelleth many a little child ! 
 In the Baron's hall of pride : 
 By the poor man's dull fireside ; 
 Mid the mighty, mid the mean ; 
 Little children may be seen ! 
 Like the flowers that spring up fair, 
 Bright and countless every where ! 
 
 In the fair isles of the main ; 
 In the desert's lone domain ; 
 In the savage mountain glen ; 
 Among the tribes of swarthy men; 
 Wheresoe'er a foot hath gone ; 
 Wheresoe'er the sun hath shone 
 On a league of peopled ground ; 
 Little children may be found ! 
 
 Blessings on them ! They, in me, 
 Move a kindly sympathy ! 
 With their wishes, hopes, and fears, 
 With their laughter and their tears; 
 With their wonder so intense. 
 And their small experience! 
 
LITTLE CHILDREN. 109 
 
 Little children, not alone 
 In the wide earth are ye known ; 
 Mid its labors and its cares ; 
 Mid its sufferings and its snares, 
 Free from sorrow, free from strife, 
 In the world of love and life, 
 Where no sinful thing hath trod. 
 In the presence of our God ! 
 Spotless, blameless, glorified, 
 Little children, ye abide ! 
 
110 
 
 NICHOLAS DUNKS, OR FRIED MACKEREL 
 FOR DINNER. 
 
 " If I were to say what I should really like to have 
 for dinner," replied Nicholas, in answer to his wife's 
 question upon the subject, '^ it would be fried mackerel," 
 smacking his lips as he spoke. 
 
 "Then that's just what you won't have," said Mrs 
 Dunks, as sharp as a north-east wind. 
 
 '' Humph!" quoth Nicholas. 
 
 '' Ay ! and humph again ! " responded his better half 
 " I 've other fish to fry to-day, that I can tell you." 
 
 "Then why did you ask me?" said Nicholas. 
 
 '^ Because I was a fool. I might have known^ you 
 would be sure to give all the trouble you can on wash- 
 ing day." 
 
 " Humph! " quoth Nicholas again, as he took his hat 
 off the nail, brushed it with the cuff of his coat, and 
 ckpped it on his head, with the air of a man determin- 
 ed to have his own way. 
 
 " Where are you going now ? " said Mrs. Dunks. 
 
 "To get a fried mackerel for dinner," replied Nicho- 
 las, marching out of the room, erect of body and reso- 
 lute of soul. 
 
 Nicholas was right. A man is no man who cannot 
 have a fried mackerel when he has set his heart upon it 
 
NICHOLAS DUNKS 111 
 
 and more oapecially when he has money in his pocket to 
 pay for it. "Nicholas Dunks was a tailor, — a circum- 
 stance which makes the assertion of his prerogative in 
 the way we have seen the more remarkable ; except 
 that tailors are proverbial for their love of good living. 
 He was forty : his wife forty-two. He a peaceable man, 
 — she a cantankerous little body ; he sober and indus- 
 trious, — she generally inclined to tipple, and always in- 
 clined to be idle. He, first lord of the treasury, — she, 
 one of the tellers of the exechequer, if ever he went to 
 bed without first counting his money. They had been 
 married six weeks, — only six weeks, — no more, — but 
 (oh ! shame to wedded life !) this was, at least, the six- 
 teenth time Nicholas had found it necessary to put on 
 his hat and walk abroad in search of domestic bliss. 
 
 On the present occasion, however, he first went in 
 search of his mackerel, and then in search of the Blue 
 Posts, a house of call for his tribe, where he meditated 
 having it fried. Mrs. Dunks, as soon as the door closed, 
 flounced into the back kitchen, muttering unheard-of 
 vengeance when he came home, and began her dab 
 wash. Miserable woman ! she little dreamt of all the 
 disastrous consequences of refusing to fry his mackerel. 
 But we must not anticipate. 
 
 The tap-room clock had just struck two as Nicholas 
 sat down to one of the finest mackerel he had ever clap- 
 ped eyes on, and fried to perfection. By the side of it 
 stood a foaming tankard of porter, inviting his lips to 
 taste the refreshing draught. He yielded to the soft 
 persuasion, and saw the bottom of the pot before he put 
 it down aorain. 
 
112 NICHOLAS DUNKS. 
 
 " That's the way to spoil your fish, sir," said a rud- 
 dy-faced man with a merry twinkling eye, who was seat- 
 ed at an opposite table. 
 
 " I don't think so," replied Nicholas. " It will have 
 something to swim in. 
 
 ''Are you fond of mackerel ? " 
 
 '' Very ! " responded Nicholas, handling his knife and 
 fork, and preparing to cut the one before him into two 
 equal parts. 
 
 "Then take my advice, and begin at the tail; or, as 
 sure as my name's Jenkins, you'll wish you had." 
 
 Nicholas paused. It was very odd, he thought, what 
 could make Mr. Jenkins trouble himself about his mack- 
 erel ; and, for his part, he had never heard before of be- 
 ginning at the tail. However, as there might be some- 
 thing in it, he prepared to cut off the tail. 
 
 " Not that way ! " exclaimed Jenkins, starting up. 
 
 By this time the mackerel was getting cold, and 
 Nicholas hot. He looked at Mr. Jenkins as if he 
 would thank him to mind his own business, and let him 
 eat his mackerel as he liked. 
 
 "Not that way," repeated Jenkins; "don't cut the 
 tail off, but slide your knife under, and pass it up gently 
 to the head." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Nicholas, doing as he was directed, still 
 thinking there might be some reason for it. 
 
 " Now," continued Jenkins, seeing him about to be- 
 gin, " before you proceed further, let me give yon a sec- 
 ond piece of advice." 
 
 " What 's that ? " quoth Nicholas. 
 
 " Another time do n't let any body persuade you, that 
 
NICHOLAS DUNKS. 113 
 
 you don't know how to eat a mackerel. That's all. 
 Go on, sir, and I wish you a good appetite." 
 
 Nicholas laid down his knife and fork; and staring 
 fiercely at Mr. Jenkins, he exclaimed, " For half a far- 
 thing I 'd make you eat it, and begin with the head in- 
 stead of the tail, you trumpery fellow. Mind your own 
 business, will you ? " 
 
 " I am minding it," answered Mr. Jenkins, with pro- 
 voking coolness. 
 
 " No, you are not ; you are interfering with me ; and, 
 if you do n't take care, I '11 soon let you know that you 
 had better leave me alone." 
 
 " My business," said Jenkins, laughing as he spoke, 
 " is to amuse myself with the simpletons of this world, 
 by making them fall out with themselves. Pray, go on 
 with your dinner." 
 
 " No, I won't," answered Nicholas, " till I have given 
 you a bit of advice in return for that which you have 
 just given me." At these words he rose from his seat, 
 crossed the room towards w-here Jenkins was sitting, 
 and standing opposite to him, said, " My advice, Mr. 
 Jenkins, is this, that you make yourself scarce. Van- 
 ish, Mr. Jenkins, or I'll knock that jolter-head of yours 
 against the wall till it shall ache aaain." 
 
 "Try," said Jenkins, keeping his seat. 
 
 Nicholas turned up his culTs and drew nearer. Mr. 
 Jenkins laughed. 
 
 " Take that!" exclaimed Nicholas, aiming a desper- 
 ate blow at his face. Mr. Jenkins ducked his head, 
 Nicholas knocked the skin off his knuckles against the 
 wall. 
 
114 NICHOLAS DUNKS. 
 
 A scuffle ensued. Jenkins seized hold of Nicholas 
 by the collar. Nicholas twined his arms round Jenkins 
 to put him out of the room. They hauled and tugged 
 at each other for several minutes; at last they both roll- 
 ed upon the floor, upsetting the table on which was 
 placed Nicholas's dinner; and now mackerel, bread, 
 porter, melted butter, vinegar, mustard, plates and dish- 
 es, lay around them, " confusion worse confounded." 
 
 The landlord of the Blue Posts made his appear- 
 ance and separated the combatants. 
 
 "What does all this mean?" said he: "you have 
 been at your tricks again, I suppose," he continued, ad- 
 dressing Jenkins, who laughed immoderately as he sur- 
 veyed the wreck of eatables strev/n upon the sanded 
 floor. 
 
 "His tricks!" exclaimed Nicholas, examining his 
 wounded knuckles, and panting for breath. "I have 
 not done with him yet. My dinner is spoiled, and he 
 shall pay for it before he leaves the room." 
 
 " To be sure I will," answered Jenkins, still laugh- 
 ing, " and, more than that, you shall go home and dine 
 with me off something better than fried mackerel." 
 
 " Who are you?" inquired Nicholas doubtingly, his 
 ire evidently giving way under the double prospect of a 
 spoiled dinner paid for, and a good one promised. 
 
 " You shall know by nightcap time," answered Jen- 
 kins. 
 
 The landlord, meanwhile, had placed the table on its 
 legs again, gathered up the broken crockery, etc., and 
 was about to retire, when Jenkins told him to score the 
 
NICHOLAS DUNKS. 
 
 ]J5 
 
 damage to his account, and give him change for a five- 
 pound note. 
 
 " Here 's for your wounds," said Jenkins, counting 
 the change, and tossing a half-sovereign to Nicholas; — 
 " and here 's for your balked appetite ; " he continued, 
 tossing him another. 
 
 " You 're a queer un," observed Nicholas, looking at 
 the two half-sovereigns, and then at the donor with a lu- 
 dicrous mixture of surprise and joy, amazingly puzzled 
 to make out what it all meant. 
 
 " So everybody says," replied Jenkins, putting the 
 rest of the change into his pocket, and motioning 
 Nicholas to do the like by the two half-sovereigns that 
 lay before him. 
 
 "Oh, I've no objection of course!" said Nicholas, 
 and picked up the money as if he expected it would 
 burn his fingers, examining it also as though he thought 
 it must be counterfeit. " AVell, if this is n't a go, I 
 do n't know what is ! " he added, when he sav/ they were 
 gold ; and with a chuckle conveyed them into his waist- 
 coat pocket. 
 
 " And now, suppose we go?" rejoined Mr. Jenkins, 
 rising. 
 
 " With all my heart," responded Nicholas and he fol- 
 lowed him out of the room, ^vcnderiIlg what was to come 
 next. 
 
 They gained the street. Pursuing their v/alk in pro- 
 found silence till they reached the Strand, Mr. Jenkins 
 suddenly addressed Nicholas. "That's a monstrous 
 shabby hat of yours," said he. 
 
J 16 NICHOLAS DUNKS. 
 
 "It is," quoth Nicholas; "but it's my best and 
 worst." 
 
 *' Step into that shop, and fit yourself with a better," 
 replied Mr. Jenkins, pointing to a hatter's across the 
 road. " Here's money to pay for it, and I '11 wait here 
 till you return." He gave him, as he spoke, a five-pound 
 note. 
 
 " Sure — ly, he 's mad ! " said Nicholas, as he entered 
 the hatter's shop. 
 
 The purchase was soon made, and Nicholas rejoining 
 his companion, gave him the change, — c£3 15s. 
 
 " That will do," said he, surveying Nicholas, as he 
 put the change in his pocket without counting it. " Ay, 
 now you look a little better ; but I can't take you home 
 in those clothes, my friend ; I must rig you out in a nev/ 
 suit at one of the ready-made warehouses in Holywell 
 Street." 
 
 So saying, they made for Holywell Street, and, as they 
 went along, Mr. Jenkins put another note into his hand. 
 " That 's a ten," said he ; " you '11 get coat, waistcoat, 
 and trousers, with a pair of Wellington's, for about five 
 or six pounds ; and then we '11 to dinner." 
 
 Arrived at the corner, Mr. Jenkins told him to go in- 
 to the first shop he came to, equip himself, and return. 
 
 " This never can be earnest ! " exclaimed Nicholas, 
 once more alone ; *' but what the joke is, curse me if I 
 can fathom." 
 
 Nicholas had a conscience, though a tailor. He not 
 only selected a cheap suit, but gave Mr. Jenkins the 
 benefit of his professional knowledge, beating down the 
 price upon the plea of such bad workmanship as none 
 
MCHOI.AS DUNKS. 1 17 
 
 but a tailor could have discerned. When he returned 
 to where he liad left Mr. Jenkins, he was gone. 
 
 He stood for some moments looking about in every di- 
 rection, and was upon the point of quitting his post, to 
 return to the Blue Posts, in order that he might learn 
 who Mr. Jenkins was, and where he lived, when a rag- 
 ged, dirty boy came running towards hijn. 
 
 '' Do you want Mr. Jenkins ? " said he. 
 
 " Yes.'"' 
 
 *' He's v.-aiting for you at Temple Bar. He gived me 
 this (holding up a shilling) to come and tell you. He 
 said I should see a gentleman v^ith a bundle under his 
 arm, looking as if he had lost something." 
 
 " Lost something ! " repeated Nicholas, as he turned 
 in the direction of Temple Bar ! " Found something, 
 I think !" and then he laughed at the idea of being call- 
 ed a gentleman ! " tliough for the matter of that," he 
 added surveying himself as he spoke, " if fine feathers 
 make fine birds, I'm an outside gentleman at any rate." 
 
 Thus soliloquizing, he reached Temple Bar, where 
 he found Mr. Jenkins talking with a shabby-looking 
 man dressed in a drab greatcoat, long leather gaiters, 
 his hat slouched over his face, and a hucre cudorel in his 
 hand for a walking-stick. As Nicholas drew near, they 
 separated, but not before the stranger had fixed his eyes 
 upon Nicholas with such a strange, scrutinizing expres- 
 sion, that he shrunk involuntarily from their gaze. 
 
 " You were a long time suiting yourself," said Mr. 
 Jenkins, laying an empliasis upon the word '^ suiting," 
 as if he meant to make a pun. 
 
 "I was driving a hard bargain," replied Nicholas — 
 I 
 
118 MCHOLAS DUxNKS. 
 
 " as hard a one as if it had been my ov/n money, for I 
 hate to be imposed upon. I got the -vvliole for £S, 19s. 
 6d., after a long haggle about tiie odd sixpence." 
 
 "Upon my word," exclaimed Jenkins, receiving the 
 difference from Nicholas as he spoke, "you have done 
 both yourself and me justice, I must say. You'll do 
 now," he added, looking at him from head to foot, " ail 
 except your hands. You must get a pair of gloves." 
 
 They walked down Fleet Street, and the first hosier's 
 they came to, Mr. Jenkins, pulling out another five-pound 
 note, gave it to Nicholas, with directions to go in and 
 buy a pair. 
 
 "Hadn't you better give me silver?" said Nicholas. 
 " Perhaps they won't have change." 
 
 ** Perhaps you'll try," replied Mr. Jenkins, as he 
 walked on in the direction to Bridge Street. 
 
 " Well," exclaimed Nicholas as he left the shop, " if 
 this is to be the go, sure-Ii/ he'll buy me a shirt." 
 
 Nicholas was mistaken. Mr. Jenkins seemed novv^ to 
 be quite satisfied, and proceeding eastvv^ard till they 
 reached the neighborhood of White-chapel, he turned 
 into a narrow court, containing about a dozen houses. 
 Before the largest of these he stepped, and taking a key 
 from his pocket, opened the door. 
 
 " I hope dinner is ready," said he. 
 
 This was the first word he had spoken all the way 
 from Bridge Street. 
 
 "I hope so, too," replied Nicholas, gaily," for I'm 
 as hungry as a wolf" 
 
 They entered a dark passage, Mr. Jenkins closing 
 and lockinor the door after him. 
 
NICHOLAS DUNKS. 1 19 
 
 " This way," said he, ascending a flight of stairs 
 which Nicholas could only dimly descry, and up which 
 he stumbled more than once in following his guide. 
 
 Arrived on the first landing, Mr. Jenkins unlocked 
 the door of a rather spacious apartment, the furniture 
 of which was remarkable for its unostentatious charac- 
 ter, consisting chiefly of one large deal table, that occu- 
 pied the centre of the room, and four or five wooden 
 chairs. In the corner, near a fireplace that had no grate, 
 stood a massive piece of f;irniture, with numerous draw- 
 ers, on the top of which lay sundry curiously shaped im- 
 plements. 
 
 " I hope dinner is ready," repeated Mr. Jenkins, as 
 he walked up to the massive piece of furniture above 
 described ; and, unlocking one of the drawers, deposit- 
 ed in it something which he took from his pockets. 
 " By-the-by," lie continued, still emptying his pocket of 
 their contents, with his back towards Nicholas, "I nev- 
 er once thought to ask you your name." 
 
 " Nicholas Dunks." 
 
 " Nicholas Dunks, eh 1 A queer name that. And 
 of vv'hat trade of calling ? " 
 
 " A tailor." 
 
 " A tailor, eh ? And where do you live ? " 
 
 ''In Maiden Lane, Covent Garden." 
 
 "Married?" 
 
 '' Yes." 
 • " Any children?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 ** Married and no children ! Very strannre !" 
 
120 MLHOLAS DUMvS. 
 
 " Not at all ; there hasn't been time. I only went to 
 church last Sunday was six weeks." 
 
 "Nicholas Dunks — tailor — of Maiden Lane, Co- 
 vent Garden — married — no family — aged ? " 
 
 " Forty." 
 
 " Aged forty. That's your description, eh ?" turning 
 round, and surveying Nicholas as he spoke. 
 
 "You may add, if you like, and very hungry," said 
 Nicholas, forcing a laugh rather than laughing ; for he 
 began to feel queer at these interrogatories, and to ap- 
 pearances of things in general. 
 
 " Good," ejaculated Mr. Jenkins, joining in the laugh ; 
 "good — I hope dinner is ready." 
 
 '' That's the third time of asking," rejoined Nicholas, 
 "so it ought to be." 
 
 " A wag, too," exclaimed Mr. Jenkins. 
 
 There was a gentle tap at the door. " Come in,'' 
 said Jenkins. 
 
 The door opened, and a withered old woman, in tat- 
 tered garments, begrimed with dirt, appeared. Putting 
 her " choppy finger upon her skinny lips," by which, as 
 it seemed, her errand was conveyed, she waited silently 
 for orders. 
 
 " Very well," said Jenkins, " we'll come directly." 
 
 The ancient sybil withdrew, leering curiously at 
 Nicholas. 
 
 "Now, Dunks," he continued, " let us go to dinner. 
 I'm sure you iiiusi be hungry." 
 
 " That am T," quoth Nicholas, rising to follow his 
 host. 
 
 They decended to the ground floor, crossed a dark 
 
NICHOLAS DUNKS. 121 
 
 narrow passige, ascended another flight of stairs, and 
 entered a small, comfortable-looking room, from which 
 daylight was excluded, its absence being supplied by an 
 argand lamp suspended from the ceiling. Upon a table 
 in the middle of the room dinner was spread, consisting 
 of several dishes, whose savory odor would have whet- 
 ted a duller appetite than was Nicholas's at that moment. 
 
 " Take your seat, Dunks," said Mr. Jenkins, pointing 
 to a chair at the bottom of the table. " Remove the 
 covers, Richard," he continued, addressing a man-ser- 
 vant who stood behind him. 
 
 The dish opposite Nicholas being uncovered disclosed 
 a delicious fried mackerel. 
 
 " There, Dunks," said Mr. Jenkins, laughing, '' when 
 I promised you should dine off something better than a 
 fried mackerel, I did not mean you should go without 
 one." 
 
 *' Am I to begin at the tail ? " inquired Nicholas, wax- 
 ing jocose at the sight of his favorite dish. 
 
 '' As you like, /zf?v," replied Jenkins : " but, as long 
 as you live, you 'II never forget the fried mackerel at the 
 Blue Posts, I guess." 
 
 At that moment, Nicholas, raising his eyes, met those 
 of Richard, who was handing him some bread. He 
 started. Where had he seen that indescribable look be- 
 fore? A moment's reflection told him. It was at Tem- 
 ple Bar — the man with whom Jenkins was conversing. 
 But this could not be he : the dress — the figure — were 
 difterent: the expression of the eye alone was the same. 
 It was odd, he thought, that two men should possess such 
 a remarkable, such a peculiar, such a veri/ peculiar look, 
 I * 
 
122 MCHOLAS DUNKS. 
 
 and that he should have met witli tlieni both in one day. 
 The matter thus settled to his satisfaction, he ate his 
 mackerel : yet ever and anon stealing a glance at Rich- 
 ard, and never doing so v.ithout finding his eyes fixed 
 upon him. 
 
 Dinner over, the cloth was vvitlidvawn, and Jenkins 
 and Nicholas set to, ttte-a-tdc, over a bottle of port. 
 The wine was really good, but Nicholas thought it su- 
 perlatively so. They drank and laughed, and chatted, 
 and grew as cosy as if they had kncvrn each other for 
 years. Jenkins told droll stories, sang droll songs, and 
 pushed the bottle backwards and forwards like a liberal 
 host; so that, what with laughing, talking and drinking, 
 Nicholas began to see double, just as the door opened, 
 and a gentleman, fassionably drcL-sed, v.earing green 
 spectacles, entered the room. 
 
 "Ah! Franklin, is that you?" exclaimed Jenkins, 
 jumping up, and shaking him cordially by the hand — 
 " well, now, I consider this very kind indeed to give 
 me the pleasure of your company so soon after your 
 return to London. Sit down; v/e '11 have clean glass- 
 es and another bottle. I beg pardon — I forgot to in- 
 troduce my friend; Mr. Dunks — Mr. Franklin." 
 
 Nicholas rose from his chair with that balanced state- 
 liness which men are wont to assume when they feel a 
 difficulty in preserving their centre of gravity, and mak- 
 ing a profound bow, sat down again. Mr. Franklin re- 
 turned the salutation with less formality, but equal po- 
 liteness. 
 
 **Well, and how are the ladies, Mrs. Franklin, and 
 that pretty daughter of yours ? " inquired Jenkins, as he 
 
NICHOLAS DUNKS. Vl'S 
 
 filled his glass troiii h fresh bottle. "I hope you found 
 them quite well on your return." 
 
 "Quite," replied Mr. Franklin; "they will be here 
 presently to answer for themselves." 
 
 Ladies coming, thought Nicholas; and one of them 
 "that pretty daughter!" — what should he do? He 
 could get on pretty well with men ; but the idea of hav- 
 ing to converse with ladies daunted him. He wished he 
 could find an excuse to slip away, and go home to Mrs. 
 Dunks. The wine had made him uxorious, and clean 
 obliterated her refusal to fry a mackerel for his dinner. 
 If wives knew all, they would never quarrel with their 
 husbands for taking a littJc ivine. It makes them so 
 good-natured, and as pliable as an old glove. 
 
 While ruminating upon these matters, he happened 
 to look at iMr. Franklin. At the same moment, Mr. 
 Franklin happened to look at him over his green spec- 
 tacles; and Nicholas saw two eyes, which he had seen 
 twice before that day, — the first time at Temple Bar ; the 
 second, while they v^ere at dinner. He could not be 
 mistaken. The eyes were the same : but he could trace 
 no other resemblance. Mr. Franklin was as unlike 
 Richard, as Richard was unlike tlie shabby-looking 
 man in the drab coat, long leather gaiters, and slouched 
 Int. Why, he could not tell ; but there was something 
 about these mysterious eyes which made him feel queer. 
 " Beware! " was in every glance; a mingled expression 
 of cunning and ferocity, which seemed to say, " I am 
 setting a trjip, and eager to pounce upon the prey." 
 
 It M wonderful what some men will do under the gen- 
 erour- influence of the grape. Nicholas suddenly took 
 
124 NICHOLAS DUNKS. 
 
 it into his head that he should like to see Richard in the 
 room along with Mr. Franklin, in order to compare 
 their eyes ; so, stretching out his legs in a free-and-easy 
 manner, and admiring his new Wellington's, he said, — 
 *' Jenkins, I wish you would let your man-servant call a 
 coach for me. It 's getting late, I 'm afraid, and Mrs. 
 Dunks will be alarmed. 
 
 " Do you think so ?" replied Jenkins, " then I 'Jl ring 
 the bell ; but we must finish this bottle before we sepa- 
 rate." 
 
 Jenkins rang the bell ; and, filling his own glass to 
 the brim, called for bumpers, as he had a toast to give. 
 When Nicholas and Mr. Franklin were ready, Jenkins 
 proposed the health of Mrs. Dunks, — "a lady," said he, 
 " whom I have not the pleasure of knowing, but hope 
 to do so before long." 
 
 The toast having been '^ duly honored," as the gentle- 
 men of the press say, Nicholas rose to acknowledge it, 
 which he did in a few expressive words. 
 
 He sat down and turned his eyes towards to door to 
 watch for the entrance of Richard. 
 
 " I see you are anxious to be gone," said Jenkins; 
 "where can that fellov/ be?" and he rang the bell 
 again Vv'ith great violence. 
 
 Presently it was answered, not by Richard, but the 
 withered harridan who had announced dinner. 
 
 " I want Richard," said Jenkins ; " what's tiie reason 
 he docs not answer the bell ? " 
 
 The shrivelled hag said nothing, l)ut leered signifi- 
 cantly at her master. " Bid him fetch a couch for Mr. 
 
NICHOLAS DUNKS. 125 
 
 Dunks," he continued; "and — do you hear ? — send 
 up coffee directly." 
 
 " V/ell," thought Nicholas to himself, " if this a'n 't 
 going it strong, I don 't know what is : ' IMister Dunks' 
 
 — and 'fetch a coach for Mister Dunks;' and 'bring 
 up coffee ! ' Mrs. Dunks won 't believe a word of it, 1 
 know." 
 
 " Are you related to the Dunkses of Staffordshire?" 
 said Mr. Franklin, addressing Nicholas. 
 
 " I rather think I am," he replied ; " for my father 
 came out of Yorkshire and settled in London ; so did 
 my mother, and I knov/ she was a Cornish woman." 
 
 " The Dunkses of Staffordshire are a very ancient 
 fumily, I believe," observed Jenkins. 
 
 " Very," replied Mr. Franklin ; " they came in with 
 William the Conqueror," 
 
 " I've often heard my father talk of him," said Nich- 
 olas ; " but I don' t know whether they came to Lcndon 
 together." 
 
 By this time Nicholas scarcely knew any thing. The 
 wine had steeped his senses in forgetfulness, and he be- 
 gan to roll about in his chair as if his stomach was not 
 comfortable. Coffee was brought in. He took one 
 cup ; and a ^q\w minutes after fell fast asleep, while mut- 
 tering something about " Richard — a long while gone 
 
 — to coach — and what would Mrs. Dunks think ?" 
 And what f//r/Mrs. Dunks think when eleven o'clock 
 
 came, and twelve o'clock, and no Nicholas? What 
 would any wife think, whose husband had gone out as 
 Nicholas went out, and had stayed out as he was stay- 
 
126 NICHOLAS DUNKS. 
 
 ing out? Why, of nothing but what she would say to 
 him when he did come home. 
 
 The matrimonial philippic had been rehearsed over 
 and over again, from the exclamatory exordium — " So, 
 you've made your appearence at last !" — to the imper 
 ative peroration — " and now please come to bed," until 
 she had the whole of it so pat, that she grew every mo- 
 ment more and more impatient to be delivered of it. 
 
 Alas! that momeni never came! The night passed 
 away — the following day — the ensuing week — 
 months — years — and the disconsolate Mrs. Dunks 
 sought, in vain, tidings of her lost husband. Then it 
 was, that, in the anguish of her bereaved heart, she 
 would often exclaim — " Oh, that I had fried his mack- 
 erel for him !" 
 
 '' Isn't it very remarkable," she v/ould frequently say 
 to her friends, " what can have happened to my poor 
 dear Nicholas? A kinder husband never existed; and 
 he doated upon me, which makes me feel certain he 
 must have dropped down dead where nobody saw him, 
 or else he went to bathe in the Thames and was 
 drowned ; but I wish I knew the fact, because then " — 
 and then she would stop suddenly, and begin to talk of 
 the difficulty of an unprotected widov/ woman getting 
 through the world. 
 
 Fourteen years and upwards she had passed in this 
 state of cruel suspense, still living in the same house, 
 and "getting through the world " by hook or by crook, 
 so as always to have a tolerably comfortable home ; 
 when one day, during the mackerel season, she was 
 summoned to the street door by a loud knock, which to 
 
NICHOLAS DUiNKS. ]27 
 
 use her own words, " almost made her jump out of her 
 skhi." She opened it, and — 
 
 " Will you let me have a fried muckerel for dinner?" 
 quoth Nicholas ! 
 
 Mrs. Dunks screamed. She would have swooned too, 
 but she had not time to do that, and ran into the back 
 parlor to tell Mr. Sowerby to run out of the back door, 
 and make his escape over the back wash-house. 
 
 Mr. Sowerby was a journeyman glazier, who had 
 called that very morning to settle finally about his union 
 with Mrs. Dunks. 
 
 Mrs. Dunks, the moment she saw him safe on the 
 other side of the wash-house, went into strong hysterics, 
 and Nicholas sprinkled her face with cold water, while 
 tears of joy ran down his cheeks, to think how the dear 
 creature was overcome at seeing him. 
 
 Oh, woman I — but what's the use of moralizing? 
 Don't we all know what a woman is? And what are 
 we the better for our Icnowledge? Don't we believe 
 them just the same ? To be sure. Besides, is it not 
 clear that Providence intended it to be so? Where 
 would be the use of creating the beautiful deceivers, if 
 there were not in the world that simple-witted creature, 
 man, to be as quietly deceived the nincty-ninlh time as 
 he was the first. The heart of the latter, and the art 
 of the former, were as much meant for each other, as 
 the mouth and the stomach. W^e have often thought 
 that fate and free-will were very like man and woman. 
 In both cases we think we do as we like; whereas, in 
 both cases, we are impelled by causes, whose immedi- 
 ate influence over us we do not discern. 
 
r28 NICHOLAS DU.NKS. 
 
 Nicholas could hardly believe his senses when he saw 
 the state to which his afFectionate wife was reduced, by 
 the sudden shock his unexpected return had given to 
 her feelings; and he secretly vowed to repay such de- 
 voted love, by studying her happiness all the rest of his 
 life. 
 
 But now to clear up the mystery of his long absence. 
 
 We left him fast asleep in tlie company of Jenkins 
 and Franklin. Whether it was the wine alone, or 
 whether the coffee contained something else besides milk 
 and sugar, we will not take upon ourselves to say ; but 
 certain it is, he slept so soundly, that he was put to bed 
 without knowing any thing about it, and that he did not 
 awake next morning till he was pretty roughly handled 
 by a person standing at his bed-side. 
 
 " Come, friend," said he, rolling him to and fro, " I 
 am sorry to disturb you ; but my business Vv'on't wait." 
 
 " Wliat is your business, and vrho are you?" asked 
 Nicholas half asleep and half awake. 
 
 " My name's Sloman" — 
 
 "I don't know you," interrupted ?s^ichola?, turning 
 round on the other side, and settling himself for another 
 sleep. 
 
 " And I have a warrant for your apprehension " — 
 
 ** A what ! " exclaimed Nicholas, starting up. 
 
 " A warrant for your apprehension. " 
 
 "I warrant you have n't, "replied Nicholas, lying 
 down again with his back to the man, and pulling the 
 clothes over liis shoulders. 
 
 *' Is your name Nicholas Dunks?" 
 
 -Yes." 
 
NICHOLAS DUNKS. 129 
 
 " Are you a tailor ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 *' Do you live in Maiden Lane, Covent Garden ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Are you married 1 " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Have you any children ?" 
 
 " No. " 
 
 " Is your age forty-two ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then it's all right — so just turn out and come 
 along.*' 
 
 At each successive question Nicholas grew more and 
 more awake; and each successive "yes," was given in 
 a tone of increasing amazement. But by this time a 
 distinct recollection of the preceding day's adventures 
 began to dawn upon him, and he inquired for Mr. Jen- 
 kins, ]\Ir. Franklin, Richard, and even the old woman; 
 at which Mr. Sloman only laughed, and asked if he wcs 
 still dreaming, or whether he thought to " do liim." 
 
 Further explanations took place, and Nicholas found 
 that he was " done ; " for Mr. Sloman gave him to under- 
 stand he was a police-officer, that the warrant he held 
 was for his apprehension, as one of an extensive gang, 
 concerned in passing forged notes, and that several 
 tradesmen were ready to come forward v/ho had sold 
 him a hat, clothes, gloves, (fcc, for vrhich he paid with 
 those notes. Nicholas protested his innocence. Slo- 
 man said he had nothing to do with that, his business 
 being to make a capture of his person, and convey bim 
 before the magistrates. 
 
 K 
 
J30 NICHOLAS DUNKS. 
 
 *' What a villain, wliat an infernal villain, that Jen- 
 kins must be!" exclaimed Nicholas to himself, while 
 pulling on his new Wellingtons, " to sell an innocent 
 man's life in this way !" 
 
 "As to your innocence," remarked Mr. Sloman, 
 rummaging the pockets of Nicholas' clothes as he spoke, 
 and drawing from one of them a small red morocco case, 
 **I shouldn't w'onder if this was to furnish evidence of 
 it. Ay — I thought so," he continued, with a malicious 
 grin, opening the case, and taking out a roll of bank 
 notes — "here's a pretty lot of them — all fives and 
 tens, and finished off equal to the regular Threadneedle 
 Street flimsies. Where did your innocence get these, 
 eh? If you'll peach, and give us a hint how to find the 
 place where these came from, perhaps that mny save 
 you." 
 
 Nicholas clasped his hands together, and called heav- 
 en to witness that the pocket-book was not his, and that 
 he-could n't tell how it came into his possession. 
 
 As he uttered these words, he caught a full view cf 
 Mr. Sloman's face, and started with amazement. These 
 were the same eyes he had thrice seen before ! And 
 now that he surveyed the person to whom they belonged, 
 enveloped in a rough greatcoat, with a colored silk 
 handkerchief round his neck, he thought he could trace 
 a strong resemblance to the man at Temple Bar, though 
 not to cither Richard in his livery, or Mr. Franklin, 
 with his green spectacles and fashionable evening dress. 
 
 Nicholas was right. The man at Temple Bar, Rich- 
 ard, Mr. Franklin, and Mr. Sloman the thief-taker, were 
 all one and the simo person. In his Ip.st-mcntioned ca- 
 
NICHOLAS DUNKS. 131 
 
 pacity, (which constituted his regular calling,) he had 
 entered into a conspiracy with Jenkins, (whose real 
 name was Homerton, a notorious dealer in forged notes,) 
 to victimize Nicholas for a double purpose ; first, to en- 
 title himself to a portion of the reward which had been 
 offered for discovering the gang, or apprehending any 
 individual belonging to it; and secondly, to turn aside 
 from the real delinquents the inquiries that were on foot 
 in every direction. The meeting between Jenkins, 
 alias Homerton, and Nicholas, was purely accidental ; 
 nor did he, in the first instance, anticipate the use he 
 afterwards made of him. Being a bit of a humorist, 
 and fond of practical jokes, he intended nothing more 
 than to enjoy a laugh at his expense, when he recom- 
 mended him to begin his mackerel at the tail ; but the 
 very success of that clumsy piece of wit pointed him 
 out as a fit person upon w'hom to practice the diabolical 
 trick which was afterwards contrived. While this 
 scheme was only as yet half formed, he chanced to run 
 against Sloman, at the corner of Norfolk Street, who 
 told him of the hot inquiries that wefe being made by 
 the Bank, and how diflicult it would be to stave them 
 off much longer without making some disclosures, real 
 or pretended, that might amuse the lawyers, and put 
 them upon another scent. This intelligence determined 
 Jenkins to make use of Nicholas at all hazards, and 
 trust to his Old Bailey resources for carrying him 
 through. 
 
 His confidence in these resources was justified by the 
 event. In vain did poor Nicholas tell his story, with- 
 out any coloring, or shadow of coloring, relating all the 
 
182 NICHOLAS DUNKS. 
 
 circiiiiist'dnces precisely as they had occurred. It \yas 
 literally laughed out of court, where the hatter, the ho- 
 sier, and the Jew salesman from Holywell Street, ap- 
 peared to identify him as the person w^ho had passed the 
 forged notes. The solicitor for the prosecution tried 
 every means to persuade him to denounce his confed- 
 erates. His resolute and unvarying declaration, that he 
 had none, and that he himself had been duped, w^as re- 
 garded as an aggravation of his crime, and a proof that 
 under the seeming simplicity of his character was con- 
 cealed the hardened resolution of a practised oiTender : 
 facts v.'hich were prominently set down in the brief, and 
 most eloquently expounded by the counsel. Even the 
 judge could not restrain his indignation at the audacity 
 of the prisoner's defence, in his charge to the jury ; 
 and the jury were so satisfied they saw before them one 
 of the most hardened of the srancr, who was resolved to 
 know nothing, that the verdict of guilty was upon all 
 their lips long before the trial was brought to a conclu- 
 sion. 
 
 Nicholas was sentenced lo transportation for fourteen 
 years. 
 
 " If I deserve that,^' said he, " I deserve hanging." 
 
 " What's that the fellow is muttering? " inquired the 
 judge. 
 
 " He says he deserves hanging, my lord," replied the 
 turnkey, who was standing by his side in the dock. 
 
 ** I know it," answered his lordship, ** but I 've looked 
 at the statute under which he is indicted, and I can't 
 hang him." 
 
 This was said with so much concern, as if his lord- 
 
NICHOLAS DUA'KS. 133 
 
 ship veally regretted his inability to give the prisoner his 
 deserts according to his own estimate of them, that an 
 audible titter ran through the court. 
 
 " Well," exclaimed Nicholas, as soon as he was left 
 to his meditations, " so I am to cross the Jicrrir^g-^ond, 
 it seems, and if that isn't making a pretty kettle ofjish 
 of my fried mackerel I do n't know what is ! Oh I if I 
 had that rascal Jenkins here just now, or that evil-eyed 
 scoundrel v/ho, I suspect, has had more to do with it 
 
 even than Jenkins, wouldn't I " and he struck out 
 
 right and left, with his clenched fists, several times, to 
 shov/ what these worthies might have expected at his 
 hands had they been within reach of them. Then he 
 tiiought of dear Mrs. Dunks, and how she would won- 
 der what had become of him, and be puzzled to know 
 what to do ; but no tenderness mixed with his thoughts, 
 — for, tracing matters up to their original causes, he, 
 like most husbands, but in this instance with more jus- 
 tice than husbands commonly have, laid the whole bur- 
 den of his calamity upon his wife's shoulders. As thus : 
 "If I could have had a fried mackerel at home, I 
 shouldn't have gone to the Blue Posts; if I hadn't 
 crone to the Blue Posts, I should n't have met with Jen- 
 kins: and, if I hadn't met with Jenkins, I shouldn't 
 have been here." Aristotle himself could not have rea- 
 soned more logically ; and the result of his reasoning 
 was, that as Mrs. Dunks had been the cause of all, she 
 might get through her share of it in the best way she 
 could. lie was even malicious enough to find a balm 
 for his own troubles in what he considered the retribu- 
 tive troubles that awaited her. In due course of time 
 
 K * 
 
134 NICHOLAS DUMiS. 
 
 lie arrived at his destination, — not the first innocent 
 man whom our admirable criminal jurisprudence and 
 that bulwark of our liberties, trial by jury, have visited 
 with the punishment due to guilt, upon the clearest evi- 
 dence, and after the most patient investigation of facts. 
 Happy England ! where, if the wrong person happened 
 to be hanged, he has the satisfaction of knowing it is 
 by the laws' decree, and not by the arbitrary mandate of 
 a tyrant. To a true-born Englishman, Avhose venera- 
 tion for the law is at least equal to his love of law, this 
 reflection must be very consolatory. 
 
 Among those marvellous accidents which occasional- 
 ly befall us in our way to the grave, was one which hap- 
 pened to Nicholas while he sojourned at Botany Bay. 
 His good conduct, his inoitensive manners, and the na- 
 ture of his certified offence, which had nothing of deep 
 or desperate villany about it, soon obtained for him as 
 large a remission of the penalties attached to his sen- 
 tence as it was within the discretionary power of the 
 authorities to grant; and he was allowed, under certain 
 restrictions, to carry on his trade. This indulgence he 
 turned to such good account, that in a few years he had 
 amassed a considerable sum of money, kept several 
 journeymen, and was the very Schultze of Paramatta. 
 His celebrity was such that he imparted his own name 
 to a particular description of shooting-jacket, peculiarly 
 adapted to the climate and country, which to this dny, 
 we believe, is called a Dunks. 
 
 That shooting-jacket led to the marvellous accident 
 above mentioned. When it was in the height of its 
 pr^piilarity, and when everybody who could aftcrd it 
 
NICHOLAS I)U-\KS» j;35 
 
 wore a Dunks whether they went out shooting or not, 
 the name attracted the notice of an aged convict who 
 had been transported for life, and who had already passed 
 nearly forty years in the colony. He kept a sort of 
 public-house, and being of penurious habits on the one 
 hand, and of rapacious ones on the other, his tens gradu- 
 ally swelled to hundreds, and his hundreds to thousands, 
 till old Jc7n Bunker, as he w^as called, (though that Avas 
 not supposed to be his real name), passed for a second 
 llotlischild. 
 
 One day he came tottering into Nicholas' work-room 
 to order a Dunks for himself While Nicholas was 
 taking his measure, the old man eyed him with great 
 earnestness, but said nothing, and soon after left the 
 place, giving strict injunctions to Nicholas to bring the 
 shooting-jacket home himself, and to be sure not to send 
 it by any of his men. 
 
 Nicholas humored the old fellow, and when the jacket 
 Avas finished took it home; but instead of trying it on, 
 as he wished, to see Avhether it Avas a good fit, or Avanted 
 any alteration, Jem Bunker took it quietly from his hand, 
 laid it on a table, and bade him sit down. 
 
 " What made you call these jackets Dunkscs ? " said 
 he. 
 
 "/didn't christen them. I only made them; peo- 
 ple took it into their heads of their oAvn accord to call 
 them after me." 
 
 "Are 7/ou a Dunks 1 " 
 
 ** So my mother ahvays told me." 
 
 " It 's rather an uncommon name," remarked the old 
 man. 
 
13G >'ICHOLAS DUNK3. 
 
 " Ah ! " observed Nicholas with a sigh, remembenng 
 what Jenkins said when he heard it for the first time, 
 " you are not the only person who has told me that, as I 
 have good reason to know^" 
 
 " You 've mentioned your mother ; who was your 
 father?" 
 
 " I 'm not a wise son," replied Nicholas, laughing. 
 
 "Perhaps a prodigal one?" rejoined Jem Bunker. 
 
 " Not much of that neither, for I had nothing to be 
 prodigal with. My father died, as I have heard my 
 mother say, when I was in my cradle ; and who or what 
 he was, I never had the curiosity to inquire." 
 
 " Where did your mother live?" 
 
 " In London." 
 
 "What part?" 
 
 " A great many parts ; but the first that I remember 
 was Saffi-on Hill, where I went to school ; then she re- 
 moved to Shoe Lane ; after that to Barbican ; then to 
 Smithfield Bars : then to Gray's Inn Lane ; then to 
 Whitechapel ; then back to Barbican ; and then to 
 Green Arbor Court, Old Bailey, where she died, poor 
 soul, of a scarlet fever. Lord ! I remember all the 
 places as well as possible. Oh dear, I wish I was in 
 one of them now ! " 
 
 '* Was your mother tall ? " 
 
 " I fancy she was ; they used to call her the grena- 
 dier, at Whitechapel." 
 
 " Did she stammer in her speech ? " 
 
 " Yes, particularly when she got into cue of her 
 towering passions, which was pretty often." 
 
 " Whnt other children had she ? " 
 
NICHOLAS DUNKS. 137 
 
 "None — I am her only son and heir." 
 
 " And she called you " 
 
 " I was christened Nicholas, but she always called me 
 Nick, for short. 'Nick,' said she, the day she died, ' if 
 I don 't recover, bury me in St. Giles's churchyard, for 
 there's where I was married.' " 
 
 "Enough!" interrupted Jem Bunker, starting from 
 his chair, and tottering towards Nicholas, he threw him- 
 self into his arms, exclaiming " My sen ! my son ! " 
 
 " Not very likely," thought Nicholas to himself, as 
 the old man hugged him, and kept repeating the words 
 — " my son ! ray son !" But he said nothing. 
 
 " Lord ! what a blessed thing it is to see and touch 
 one's own flesh and blood, after so many years," con- 
 tinued Jem, looking Nicholas full in the face as he 
 spoke, and clasping his hands between his, with a fer- 
 vor and tenderness too true to nature to be mistaken. 
 "I am a transported felon," said he, "and doomed to 
 die in this strange land ; but thank God ! thank God ! I 
 am a father ! " and tears that gushed forth afresh, and 
 trickled down his aged cheeks, attested the sincerity of 
 his feelings. 
 
 " Thank God, sir," replied Nicholas, " as it seems to 
 make you so happy, I have no objection to be your son, 
 I having no other father to claim me, do you see ; but 
 as to the fact of my being so, I really think it's all gam- 
 mon." 
 
 " Hush, hush," interrupted the old man, wiping his 
 eyes and becoming more composed ; " vou don 't know 
 what you say. Death may come now as soon as it likes 
 
138 MCIIOLAS DU^'KS. 
 
 — I have nothing else to live for. But I wish your 
 mother had answered my letters." 
 
 " She could 'nt write, you know%" replied Nicholas. 
 *' You forgot that, father." 
 
 "Ah ! well, you may jest as much as you like," said 
 the old man ; " but if you are my son, you have a flesh 
 mark on the right arm, just above the elbow, shaped 
 like a pear." 
 
 " To be sure I have, to be sure I have ! " exclaimed 
 Nicholas, stripping off his coat, and rolling up his shirt 
 sleeve, and showing the mark with an amazed counten- 
 ance — " and my mother has often told me — " 
 
 " She has often told you," interrupted Jem Bunker, 
 " that her husband flung a ripe pear at her one day as 
 she sat asleep, the shock gf which terrified and awoke 
 her." 
 
 " To be sure she did," said Nicholas, who now in his 
 turn threw himself into the old man's arms, exclaiming, 
 '* my father ! — my father ! — only think of my finding 
 you here, and making that jacket for you ! " 
 
 The truth must be told. Jem Bunker, alias " Ned 
 Dunks," had been transported for horse-stealing. He 
 was sentenced to die ; but there were some circumstan- 
 ces in his case which, upon being represented in the 
 proper quarter, obtained a commutation of his punish- 
 ment ; and, instead of forfeiting his life, he was sent 
 out of the country for life. Often did his spirit yearn 
 towards his native land : often had he written to his 
 wife, entreating her to join him ; often had he thought 
 in sadness and sorrow upon the infant he saw sleeping 
 in its cradle, the evening he was torn from his fireside 
 
NICHOLAS DUNKS. 139 
 
 by the Bow Street officers, who called to " inquire if he 
 was at home ; " for, though a horse-stealer, he was the 
 owner of a heart that might have shamed many a proud 
 and titled keeper of horses, in its natural affections for 
 kith and kin. This was touchingly shown on the pres- 
 ent occasion ; for after the first violence of his feelings 
 had abated, he gazed upon his son in silence during a 
 few moments, and then heaving a deep sigh, said in a 
 tremulous voice — " Well, I have found you, my dear 
 Nicholas, when I little expected to do so, and now I 
 shall go down to my grave in peace, blessing God's holy 
 name for his great mercy — nay, my son, do not smile 
 as if you wondered to hear mc talk of God and his holy 
 name. I have lived long enough to know the awful 
 meaning, as well as the amazing comfort, of these words ; 
 to know that as the world fall^ ^w^yj si^d the space be- 
 tween us and the grave narrows to a mere span of life,- 
 v\e cannot, if we would, keep our thoughts from busy- 
 ing themselves with v*'hat is to happen there," raising 
 his withered hand towards heaven as he spoke. 
 
 Religious admonition, proceeding from aged lips, has 
 power to awe, for the moment at least, the wildest and 
 most unthinking spirit. Nicholas had never been so 
 spoken to before. He felt abashed and was silent. 
 
 " Yes my son," continued the old man, " I do receive 
 you as a blessing from the hand of God, sent to shed the 
 light of happiness upon my parting hours; but" — and 
 he paused — " but — hut you too arc a convict J^ 
 
 " I am," said Nicholas, his face reddening as he 
 spoke ; " but I thank God I 'm innocent as you are of 
 the crime laid to my charge." 
 
140 NICHOLAS DUNKS. 
 
 " We have a great many innocent convicts here," re- 
 plied his father significantly; " indeed it is a rare case 
 to find one who is not innocent," 
 
 *' I den 't know how that may be," answered Nicho- 
 las, "but as for myself, what I do know is, that the 
 iudofe oLicrht to have been handed who tried me, and the 
 jury too." 
 
 "Perhaps you'll tell me?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes," interrupted Nicholas, " I '11 tell you all 
 about it in a very few words." 
 
 He then proceeded to relate the adventures with which 
 the reader is already familiar. When he had concluded, 
 his father dropped upon his knees, and offered up a fer- 
 vent thanksgiving to God for having, as he expressed it, 
 " restored a son to him, upon whom he could look with- 
 out any other shame than that of being his father !" 
 
 About a year after the occurrence of these events, 
 Jem Bunker, alias " Ned Dunks," breathed his last in 
 his son's arms, having, before he died, conveyed to him 
 by will the whole of his property, amounting to several 
 thousand pounds. With this, as soon as the law per- 
 mitted, he returned to England; the first man, pgrhaps, 
 tiiat ever made his fortune by going out to dinner, be- 
 cause he could not have the dinner he wanted at heme. 
 But tlius dotii Providence over-rule our ways, and fish- 
 ion our hereafter happiness out of the very dross and 
 dregs of our present misery ! 
 
 It now only remains to be told th U Nicholas Dunks 
 lived to a good old age, at his villa near Edmonton, 
 which he insisted upon calling " MA<;KEnr,L Hocse ;'' 
 tint Mr?. Dunks died soon after his return, wliich probn- 
 
NICHOLAS DUKKS. \4[ 
 
 bly was the reason why he lived so long himself; that 
 he had the pleasure of seeing his friend Mr. Jenkins 
 hung at the Old Bailey, one fine morning in June, for 
 forgery; that he left his money, &:.c., to the Fishmon- 
 gers' Company, for the purpose of building alms-houses 
 for decayed fishmongers, with the condition annexed, 
 that they should have fried mackerel for dinner, every 
 Sunday, while they were in season ; and lastly, that, 
 strange to say, the immediate cause of his own death was 
 a mackerel bone that stuck in his throat, on the an- 
 niversary, which he always religiously kept, of the day 
 he went to the Blue Post to dine off a fried mackerel 
 himself. 
 
143 
 
 THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 
 
 I lovj: it, I love it; and who shall dare 
 
 To chide ine for loving that old arm-chair ? 
 
 I 've treasured it long as a sainted prize, 
 
 I 've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs 
 
 'T is bound by a thousand bands to m}"- heart ; 
 
 Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 
 
 Would ye learn the spell ? a mother sat there, 
 
 And a sacred thin^ is that old arm-chair. 
 
 In childhood's hour I lingered near 
 The hallowed seat v;ith listening ear ; 
 And gentle words that mother v.'ould give. 
 To fit me to die and teach me to live. 
 She told me shame would never betide, 
 With truth for my creed and God for my guide 
 She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, 
 As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 
 
 I sat and w^atchcd her many a day. 
 
 When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray ; 
 
 And I almost worshipped her v/hen she smiled 
 
 And turned from her Bible to bless her child. 
 
 Years rolled on, but the last one sped — 
 
 My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled ; 
 
 I learnt how much the heart can bear, 
 
 When I saw her die in that old arm-cha.ir. 
 
THE Ol-U ARM-CHAIR. 143 
 
 'T is past ! 't is past ! but I gaze on it now 
 
 With quivering breaili and throbbing brow : 
 
 'T was tlicre she nursed me, 't was there she died ; 
 
 And memory flows with lava tide. 
 
 Say it is folly, and deem me weak. 
 
 While the scalding drops start down my cheek ; 
 
 But I love it, 1 love it, and cannot tear 
 
 My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 
 
144 
 
 FORGET THEE? 
 
 Forget thee ? — If to dream by night, and muse on thee by day ; 
 
 If all the worship deep and wild a poet's heart can pay, 
 
 If prayers in absence, breathed for thee to heaven's protecting 
 
 power. 
 If winged thoughts that flit to thee — a thousand in an hour. 
 If busy Fancy blending thee with all my future lot. 
 If this thou call'st " forgetting," thou, indeed, shalt be forgot ! 
 
 Forget thee ? — Bid the forest birds forget their sweetest tune : 
 Forget thee ? — Bid the sea forget to swell beneath the moon ; 
 Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's refreshing dew ; 
 Thyself forget thine "own dear land," and its "mountains 
 
 wild and blue ; " 
 Forget each old familiar face, each long remember'd spot; 
 When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be forgot. 
 
 Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and fancy-free ; 
 For, God forbid ! thy gladsome heart should grow less glad for 
 
 me ; 
 Yet, while that heart is still unwon, oh, bid not mine to rove. 
 But let it muse its humble faith, and uncomplaining love ; 
 If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me not, 
 Forget me then ; — but ne'er believe that thou canst be forgot. 
 
45 
 
 PERPETUAL ADORATION 
 
 The turf shall be my fragrant shrine ; 
 My temple, Lord, that arch of thine ; 
 My censers breathe the mountain airs, 
 And silent thoughts my only prayers. 
 
 My choir shall be the moonlight waves, 
 When murmuring homeward to their caves 
 Or, when the stillness of the sea. 
 Even more than music, breathes of thee. 
 
 I '11 seek, by day, some glade unknown, 
 All light and silence, like thy throne ; 
 And the pale stars shall be, at night. 
 The only eyes that watch my rite. 
 
 Thy heaven, on which 't is bliss to look, 
 Shall be my pure and shining book. 
 Where I shall read, in words of flame, 
 The glories of thy wondrous name. 
 
 I '11 read thy anger in the rack. 
 
 That clouds awhile the day-beam's track 
 
 Thy mercy, in the azure hue 
 
 Of sunny bri,'xhtncss, brcakJlng through 
 
146 HOPE. 
 
 There's nothing bright, above, below, 
 From flowers that bloom, to stars that glow, 
 But in its light my soul can see 
 Some feature of thy Deity. 
 
 There 's nothing dark, below, above, 
 But in its gloom I trace thy love ; 
 And meekly wait that moment when 
 Thy touch shall turn all bright again. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 There is a star that cheers our way 
 
 Along this dreary world of wo. 
 That tips with light the waves of life. 
 
 However bitterly they flow. 
 
 'T is Hope ! 't is Hope ! that blessed star ! 
 
 Which peers through Misery's darkest cloud 
 And only sets where Death has brought 
 
 The pall, the tombstone, and the shroud. 
 
 But, ah ! to look upon the dead, 
 
 And know they ne'er can wake again ; 
 
 To lose the one we love the best; — 
 Oh God ! it scars the breast and brain. 
 
 Then, then, the human heart will groan, 
 And j)ine beneath the stroke of Fate; 
 
 'T will break, to find itself alone, 
 A thing all sad and desolate. 
 
147 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 Winter is coming ! who cares ? who cares ? 
 
 Not the wealthy and proud I trow ; 
 " Let it come," they cry, " what matters to us 
 
 How chilly the blast may blow ; 
 
 " We '11 feast and carouse in our lordly halls, 
 
 The goblet of wine we '11 drain ; 
 We '11 mock at the wind with shouts of mirth, 
 
 And music's echoing strain. 
 
 " Little care we for the biting frost, 
 While the fire gives forth its blaze ; 
 
 What to us is the dreary night. 
 
 While we dance in the waxlight's rays ? " 
 
 'T is thus the rich of the land will talk ; 
 
 But think ! oh, ye pompous great, 
 That the harrowing storm yc laugh at within 
 
 Falls bleak on the poor at your gate ! 
 
 They have blood in their veins, aye, pure as thine 
 But naught to quicken its flow ; — 
 
 They have limbs that feel the whistling gale. 
 And shrink from the driving snow. 
 
 Winter is coming — oh ! think, ye great, 
 ^ On the roofless, naked, and old ; 
 
 Deal with them kindly, as man with man. 
 And spare them a tithe of your gold ' 
 
148 
 
 THE WELCOME BACK. 
 
 Sweet is the hour that brings us home, 
 
 Where all will spring to meet us ; 
 Where hands are striving, as we come, 
 
 To be the first to greet us. 
 Wiien the world hath spent its frovrns and wrath 
 
 And care been sorely pressing : 
 'T is sweet to turn from our roving path, 
 
 And find a fireside blessing. 
 Oh, joyfully dear is the homeward track, 
 If we are but sure of a welcome back. 
 
 What do we reck on a dreary way. 
 
 Though lonely and benighted. 
 If we know there are lips to chide our stay. 
 
 And eyes that will beam love-lighted ? 
 What is the worth of your diamond ray, 
 
 To the glance that flashes pleasure ; 
 When the words that welcome back betray. 
 
 We form a heart's chief treasure ? 
 Oh, joyfully dear is our homeward track, 
 If we are but sure of a welcome back. 
 
149 
 
 POOR WILL NEWBERY. 
 
 These words have occasionally haunted my memory 
 for more than twenty years, and still vibrate on my ear 
 in the same mournful tone of grief, regret, and tender- 
 ness, as I last heard them uttered by one, through the 
 course of whose life the sentiment that gave indescriba- 
 ble pathos to the simple ejaculation, " Ah, poor Will 
 Newbery ! " had never been forgotten. 
 
 " Ah, poor Will Newbery ! " v/ho and what was he? 
 It "was a mystery to the younger part of our household. 
 In the neighborhood, in the whole extent of our ac- 
 quaintance, there were none who bore that name, nor 
 was it associated with any of our family traditions, al- 
 though they went back through several generations ; yet 
 his identity we could not doubt, and we associated some- 
 thing very romantic and dismal with the name of this 
 unknown and mysterious person. And now, methinks, 
 I cannot give due effect to my simple recital, without 
 introducing my readers to the circumstances which kept 
 the seal of secrecy so long unbroken. I liave alluded 
 to one in whose bosom this secret seemed mournfully 
 treasured. She was a gentlewoman far advanced in 
 years, my maternal aunt, Mrs. Lloyd. 
 
 J may, perhaps, hereafter, have occasion to mention 
 the circumstances that rendered her an inmate in our 
 house. It is suflicient to my present purpose to state, 
 
150 POOR >VILI. NEMliKRY. 
 
 that she was extremely beloved and respected by the 
 family with whom she dwelt, and especially interesting 
 to those between whose age and her own lay an affect- 
 ing sojourn of so many years; nor is it singular that 
 these travellers in an unknown world should be pecu- 
 liarly acceptable to the curiosity and inexperience of 
 childhood and youth : but that difference of age, which 
 did not preclude the most amiable and delightful sym- 
 pathies, would have prevented any approach to familiarity 
 on the subject in question ; and it was only when she 
 sat in a state of deep abstractedness, evidently imagin- 
 ing herself alone, or forgetful of those around her, that 
 we ever heard her thus ejaculate, " Ah, poor Will New- 
 bery ! " 
 
 I have at this instant before me the face and figure of 
 that fine old age, as she sat in that dim hour of evening 
 which, in the stillness of country life, is so conducive 
 to meditation and reflection. In the old-fashioned par- 
 lor, which was the common family room, we sat one or 
 more of us, abstracted and silent as herself, watching 
 the last fading colors in the distant horizon, when a 
 deep sigh would draw our attention, and our eyes in- 
 stantly turning on our venerable relative, we again be- 
 held the clasped hands, the supplicating uplifted coun- 
 tenance, and heard again the affecting apostrophe to the 
 never forgotten dead, " Ah ! poor Will Newbery ! " 
 There were four of us, and if we were all present, ac- 
 tuated by the same feeling, we stole out of the room so 
 quietly that not a step could be heard; and then, at that 
 romantic period of girlhood, in the pensive tAvilight, did 
 we walk in our garden or orchard, and alone, or togeth- 
 
POOR WII,I, NEWBERT. 151 
 
 er, meditate or converse in conjectures on the circum- 
 stances that could so have hallowed the memory of 
 "poor Will Newbery." 
 
 We had for a long time, each of us, entertained an 
 idea that he must have been the lover of her by whom 
 he was so tenderly remembered ; and at last we began 
 to communicate our thoughts on the subject to each 
 other; for whatever we thought, we talked very little of 
 love; and never, as I recollect, till the approaching 
 night threw its vail over our faces, did our lips dare to 
 utter, oh, how softly ! the few and cautious words that 
 gave expression to our sentiments. 
 
 The extreme reserve that was always observed by the 
 heads of our family on this subject, continued, no doubt, 
 to protract our shyness beyond the usual period when 
 confidential intercourse is generally estublished ; but an 
 event occurred which introduced it cautiously indeed, 
 but at oiice, into our family conversation ; this was the 
 marriage of a young lady, one of our very few relatives. 
 Bride favors vvcre of course sent to us. We received 
 them with blushes, and appeared in them at church on 
 the following Sunday with downcast looks. I. remem- 
 ber that for some days after this event, we frequently 
 found our mother's eyes fixed on us with an unusually 
 thoughtful expression. The eldest of us then was about 
 seventeen, a year older than the young bride. A short 
 time after, we were sitting together in cur garden bow- 
 er ; the evening closed in upon us slowly and impercep- 
 tibly ; our little pieces of work rested in our hands in 
 our lips ; Julia's bcrkVas closed ; ihc spirit of musing 
 stole over us, and we sat quite silent, until a deep sigh 
 
]52 rOOR WILL NEWBERY. 
 
 from my mother was followed by a few remarks which 
 had nothing particular in them, but which riveted our 
 attention from the manner in which they were spoken. 
 But it is not my purpose here to relate the whole of my 
 mother's discourse of that evening ; it is sufficient to 
 state, that while she held up to her daughters' example, 
 with inimitable simplicity, the conduct of a line of fe- 
 males distinguished for their virtue and piety, with a 
 voice that suddenly faltered, she acknowledged that there 
 was one whose youth had been marked by an error, so 
 serious in itself and pitiable in its consequences, that 
 all the succeeding years of her long life, regulated, as 
 they had been, by the strictest rules of morality and 
 I)iety, had not been able to obliterate it from her mem- 
 ory. " Ah, poor Will Nevvbcry," added my mother, 
 " is all I have ever heard from her ov/n lips on the sub- 
 ject." Oh ! that I could give my readers any portion of 
 that intense. curiosity with which we listened to the de- 
 velopement of this long pending mystery ! but vain as 
 this Vv'ish is, the incident is in itself so singular, that I 
 am induced to offer a slight sketch of the life and char- 
 acter of her whose otherwise simple history it so unfor- 
 tunately distinguished. 
 
 Mrs. Anne Johnson, my father's maternal aunt, was 
 the eldest daughter of a substantial yeoman at Up Ottery, 
 in Devonshire. He would perhaps, in these days, have 
 been called a gentleman farmer, for he rented consider- 
 ably, and was, beside, the owner of a small freehold ; 
 but the title was not then in existence, and he was a 
 plain, sensible man, who coveted not titles, or any thing 
 that belonged to them, if we except the youngest daught- 
 
POOR WILL NEWBERY. 153 
 
 ter of a neighboring baronet. As he was a very hand- 
 some man, he succeeded in gaining the young lady's fa- 
 vor, and she became his wife, but without the consent 
 of her father, who never bestowed any fortune on his 
 offendinor dauf^hter. Of this remote and somewhat un- 
 equal alliance I never heard any thing more, than that 
 the lady lived very happily with the husband of her 
 choice. 
 
 In the first years of her marriage she became the 
 mother of two daughters, — Anne, the subject of this 
 memoir, and Margaret, who was my grandmother. 
 When Anne was in her sixteenth year, her father receiv- 
 ed a proposal of marriage for her from a young man, 
 whose situation and character were such as to render the 
 prospect of her union with him very agreeable to both 
 her parents. To their daughter, however, Mr. New- 
 bery's proposal appeared in a very different light : happy 
 in herself and in her home, without one care for the 
 present or one anxiety for the future, a proposal so seri- 
 ous as that of marriage startled, disturbed, and intimi- 
 dated her, and she entreated that her parents would al- 
 low her to decline Mr. Newbery's addresses; but as she 
 continued to declare, in answer to every anxious inter- 
 rogatory, that her heart was perfectly free from any pre- 
 dilection in favor of another, they imagined that her in- 
 difference towards Mr. Newbery, and her reluctance to 
 marriage, might be conquered by the tenderness and de- 
 votedness of an affection which appeared to themselves 
 so amiable and generous, and they positively forbade her 
 declining his addresses. 
 
 Her parents had not so entirely forgotten their own 
 
 M 
 
154 rOOK WILL NEWBEIIY. 
 
 feelings as to have entertained a thought of forcing their 
 daughter's affections ; but where there was no affection, 
 where the heart was free, they thought it was quite rea- 
 sonable and proper that they should dispose of it them- 
 selves, to a handsome young man, whom Anne would be 
 sure to love as a husband, however cold and reserved she 
 might be to him as a lover. Assailed at once by paren- 
 tal authority, and parental kindness, Anne gave a reluc- 
 tant consent. The day for the union was fixed, and all 
 due preparation made for solemnizing the nuptials. The 
 day opened auspiciously, and, in the primitive and sim- 
 ple manners of that remote period, the v.diole wedding 
 party walked across the fields to the parish church at 
 Up Ottery. 
 
 How Anne went through the ceremony I never heard 
 related, but it is probable she betrayed no other emotion 
 than might properly be imputed to her youth and timidi- 
 ty. I have said that the whole wedding party attended 
 to witness the solemnization of the nuptials. It was a 
 large party ; and, upon leaving the church, the bride, 
 declining the arm of him who did not appear to pre- 
 sume upon a right so recently obtained, mixed v/ith 
 those young companions who had attended her upon the 
 occasion. 
 
 The wedding party was, by some chance, broken in- 
 to little groups, and when they all assembled in the great 
 hall of her father's house, the bride was not amongst 
 them. She had not been missed sooner, because one 
 group had imagined she had joined the other. " But 
 where was the bride now 1 She must have returned be- 
 fore them — was in her garden or in her chamber." 
 
POOR WILL NEWBERY, 155 
 
 The garden and chamber were searched — Anne was 
 not to be found. Inquiries were made of the servants 
 — they had not seen their young mistress. " She was 
 certainly not returned then." Her companions all de- 
 clared this was some little jest of Anne's — she was al- 
 ways so lively — she had certainly given them the slip 
 coming from church, in order to make them search for 
 her — they knew all her haunts; and they were all off 
 instantly, in high glee, for a game of hide and seek with 
 the pretty bride. In about an hour they. dropped in 
 again, with the inquiry, " Who has found Anne ? " 
 And the last scout had returned, and still Anne was not 
 found. 
 
 When the jest hrst began to wear a serious aspect — 
 when the breast of the bridegroom was stricken, and the 
 countenances of the parents fell, and the jests of the 
 assembled party turned into assurances that no harm 
 could have liappened to Anne, can only be imagined ; 
 but in a few hours the whole household were out in search 
 of her. As the evening advanced, increasing terror 
 spread from house to house, and, during the whole of 
 the night, all the inhabitants of the village were cut for 
 miles in quest of her. The old men, leaning upon their 
 sticks, and women, with children in their arms, were 
 standing at the yard gates of her father's house, to catch 
 the first tidings. The lights in the deserted house were 
 dismal to behold; where no one rested for a moment, 
 but where returning guests came only to find disappoint- 
 ment, and to hurry otT again with lessening hope and 
 increased alarm ; but it is impossible to describe the 
 consternation and dismay that pervaded every breast, 
 
156 POOR WILL NEWBERY. 
 
 and spoke in every look, when the morning broke upon 
 their unavailing search. As the day advanced, every 
 pond and well for miles round, was dragged, — messages 
 were sent in every direction ; yet, notwithstanding this 
 general and strict inquiry, no clue could be found to ac- 
 count for the mysterious absence of her, to whom all 
 now began to assign some terrible destiny. 
 
 It is probable that those bosoms which were the first 
 given up to fear, were the last in which some slight hope 
 of her return was totally extinguished ; but when day pass- 
 ed after day, and weeks and even months came into the 
 reckoning, when this appalling event was named, those 
 flittings of hope hovered only for an instant over the 
 darkest abysses of terror and dismay. Her parents and 
 sister had at least some companionship in their strange 
 and heart-appalling circumstances ; but the miserable 
 husband was alone in his grief; alone he wished to be 
 
 — he soon ceased to seek sympathy in kindred or friend 
 
 — he absented himself from his habitation for days and 
 weeks together ; no one would doubt that he went in 
 search of her whom he had thus mysteriously lost ; but 
 upon his return he soon ceased to make any communi- 
 cation whither he had been, and the looks with which 
 he was received anticipated his own inquiries. 
 
 Month after month passed away, but time, whose le- 
 nient influence soothes other griefs, only increased the 
 despair of the forlorn and bewildered man. By degrees 
 his health and strength failed him, but the blow had 
 come upon him in the vigor of youthful manhood, and 
 the struggle of grief with youth and strength was long 
 and doubtful, although deadly at last. When his strength 
 
POOR WILL NEWBERY. 157 
 
 became so exhausted that his feeble Hmbs could carry 
 \\\m no fiu'ther, he still continued to walk to the church 
 where Anne had become his bride. He always took the 
 same path, and was observed, in certain spots, in deep 
 abstractedness of mind ; but he.started if a leaf fell at his 
 feet, or at the rustling of the wind, or the flitting of a 
 shadow, and the earnest gaze of his sunken eye bespoke 
 a blended feeling of expectation and fear. It was a look 
 of intense desire to behold some object, but of doubt 
 and dread whether that object were of this or of another 
 world. He used to stand for whole hours at the church 
 porcli, on the very spot vv'here he h:id last parted from 
 Anne. The late villager, or the sojourner returning to 
 his home, sometimes passed within sight of him with 
 feelings of the deepest commiseration, but no one in- 
 truded upon a grief that seemed to admit not of comfort 
 or alleviation. Had the unhappy man stood by the grave 
 of his bride, consolation might have* lighted upon his 
 soul, as the soft dews f:dl from heaven : nay, had the 
 earth opened and buried her quick before his eyes, even 
 this calamity would not have been so dreadful as was 
 his. 
 
 At the end of two years, the friends who had attended 
 him in the triumph and exultation of his heart to the 
 nuptial shrine, bore the corpse of the unfortunate young 
 man to his long home of forgetfulness and rest; and 
 the concern and pity not only of friend and relative, but 
 of the whole neighborhood that had marked the decline 
 of his health and strength in that long and bitter strug- 
 
 o o o 
 
 gle, were now awakened afresh for her who had occasion- 
 ed it. What were the feelings of Anne's parents then. 
 
158 POOR WILL NEWBERY. 
 
 and what, when, a few days afterwards, they received a 
 letter from their long lost daughter, no pen can possibly 
 describe. And she, their daughter, was well, — in secu- 
 rity, and wanting only their forgiveness to be at peace ; 
 and he, the victim of her caprice, whom they had loved 
 almost as their own son, for whom they had felt, even in 
 the midst of their own anguish, unutterable pity, — he 
 was newly in his grave, and no art could restore his 
 broken heart, no tidings could reach his ear. 
 
 It will readily be imagined that though satisfaction was 
 mingled with the first feelings of surprise and indigna- 
 tion, sentiments of resentment and displeasure were 
 soon uppermost in their minds. 
 
 Anne's beauty and sprightly and amiable disposition 
 had rendered her a general favorite in the neighborhood, 
 and those who had loved her had never ceased to deplore 
 a fate so singular, mysterious, and fearful ; but no soon- 
 er had the tidings spread abroad, than every voice and 
 every hand were raised, accusing, reproaching, and up- 
 braiding her cruel conduct. 
 
 But in pursuing the narrative, it is best now to return 
 to the morning of that unfortunate and fatal marriage, 
 which had probably no sooner been completed than the 
 hitherto reluctant girl and now revolting bride determin- 
 ed on sudden and instant flight. Thus resolved, she 
 found little difficulty in withdrawing unobserved from 
 such a party as I have described, passing through small 
 enclosures with hedges, intersected with lanes and where 
 spots of coppice wood and orchard were interspersed. 
 The first point gained, that of withdrawing herself with- 
 out observation or suspicion, her knowledge of the 
 
POOR WILL NEWEERY. 159 
 
 country for some miles round enabled her to pass to a 
 considerable distance by a track the most uninhabited, 
 and by paths the most unfrequented. 
 
 It is not probable that in a resolution thus hastily 
 formed, she had conceived any plan for her future pro- 
 ceedings. To fly to a distance so remote as to screen 
 her from present research or inquiry was the first im- 
 pulse of her feelings, and she had left her native village 
 eight or nine miles behind before she dared to sit down 
 to rest and reflect. Bred up in the peace, comfort, se- 
 curity, and kindness of such a household as that in 
 which during the whole of her short inexperienced life 
 she had been a favorite and cherished inmate, what 
 must have been the feeling of a girl not quite sixteen at 
 such a juncture, and under such circumstances, in quit- 
 ting at once all she had loved, known, and trusted, to 
 enter upon a world to which she was a stranger, the ru- 
 mor of which had probably reached her peaceful retire- 
 ment in all that coloring, at once so inviting and fear- 
 ful to the youthful and ardent mind, but to one in her 
 situation, so young and so unfriended, truly appalling. 
 " Without one friend ! " thought poor Anne as she sat 
 at the foot of a tree which spread its grateful shade over 
 the weeping and exhausted girl — " Not one friend !" 
 The distressing reflection brought at length to her mem- 
 ory a young girl who had left their neighborhood about 
 a year before, and was now residing with an uncle in 
 London. She was an orphan, and had been Anne's 
 school-mate and favorite companion ; and she wiped 
 away her tears, as her heart was eased of more than half 
 its load of anxiety and fear, in the thought tliat her once 
 
IGO POOR WILL NEWBF.RV. 
 
 favorite playmate might befriend her in her sad exigency, 
 and assist her views. The difficulties and dangers of a 
 journey to London, even at that time, were very secon- 
 dary, in the apprehensions of one whose first resolve h?A 
 been so decided and desperate. It is probable that tlie 
 distance of London, the total absence of all communi- 
 cation with the retired little spot in which she lived, and, 
 (at the remote period of a century ago) the conviction 
 in Anne's mind that her friends would as soon think of 
 seeking her in a foreign country as there, might have 
 been another inducement to her finally determining on 
 such a plan. 
 
 Persevering in her resolution thus formed, without 
 any other refreshment than a draught of water from the 
 way-side stream, she had, before the close of the day, 
 proceeded to a distance of more than twenty miles : — 
 and this she had done without making one inquiry, and 
 carefully avoiding all recognition. She was now on the 
 old London road, and although exceedingly fatigued, 
 she continued to walk slowly on, doubtful whether she 
 should rest for the night in the first respectable dwelling 
 that w'ould afford her an asylum, or remain the few hours 
 of a short midsummer nisjht in the buildinop or shed at- 
 tached to some farm-house, where she might be equally 
 secure from observation or interruption ; and her ac- 
 quaintance with that sort of building, was, she knew, 
 sufl[icient to render her choice very tolerably secure. 
 Still, though faint and exhausted from want of food, she 
 continued to walk irresolutely on, until, sitting down on 
 a bank by the way-side to settle her bewildered mind, 
 she was roused from her reflections by the appearance of 
 a party '^f persons ou horsebnrk coming towards lier. 
 
POOR WILL NEWBERY. IGl 
 
 Rising as they approached, though not without difficul- 
 ty, being more exhausted than she had imagined herself, 
 she walked on a few paces ; but her air and manner be- 
 trayed not only extreme exhaustion, but also trepidation 
 and alarm. Two or three horsemen passed first, and 
 then some ladies riding on pillions behind their servants. 
 The appearance of such a young woman alone, at such 
 an hour and in such a situation, attracted their attention, 
 and the elder of the ladies, giving her the usual saluta- 
 tion of the hour, perceiving that she faltered in her re- 
 ply, ordered her servant to slacken his pace ; and upon 
 a nearer observation of her ingenuous countenance, she 
 inquired in a tone of great kindness, " May I ask whith- 
 er you are journeying alone, at this hour on the highway, 
 fair mistress?" The gentle and considerate manner in 
 which this inquiry was made, struck the full heart of the 
 poor fugitive, and her painfully suppressed feelings burst 
 forth at once. '' Oh ! pity me, — pity me, — save me !" 
 she exclaimed, with raised hands and streaming eyes. 
 The whole party now halted, and the poor girl, quite 
 overcome, staggered a few paces, and then sunk upon 
 the bank where she had before been resting. Two or 
 three of the party alighted, and amongst them the gen- 
 tleman who was at the head of it; he was the husband 
 of the lady, whose notice Anne had attracted, and was 
 travelling to London with his family and domestics. It 
 was some time before Anne was sufficiently recovered 
 to make any other reply to the questions that were put 
 to her, than by tears, sobs, and inaudible attempts at 
 speech. '' Press her not with questions, — give her time 
 to recover herself," said the lady who had first addressed 
 
162 POOR "WILL NEAVBERY. 
 
 her. In the first ebullition cf feeling, Anne would prob- 
 ably have disclosed her real situation ; but in the short 
 interval thus obtained her, she had sufficiently recovered 
 her presence of mind ; and collecting her scattered 
 thoughts, the poor girl gave to the little fiction which 
 she had that day invented, an air of the most perfect 
 truth and simplicity, by the emotions of genuine grief 
 with which it was delivered. She represented herself as 
 a destitute orphan, who, by strange and disastrous cir- 
 cumstances, had been rendered dependent on one, who, 
 taking advantage of her helpless situation, had formed 
 the most cruel designs against her, until at length she 
 had been obliged to quit abruptly and clandestinely, and 
 all unprepared as she then stood before them, the only 
 little spot in the wide world with which she was acquaint- 
 ed, the place of her birth, and, up to the period of these 
 afflicting events, the home of her affections; and as 
 Anne continued, through her short narrative, to pause 
 and to weep, the lady to v/hom she particularly address- 
 ed herself, manifesting the warmest interest in her story, 
 when she had finished, in a kind and most pitying tone, 
 asked where she was going, and v/hether she had formed 
 any plan for her future proceedings. To these ques- 
 tions Anne replied that her first thought was only to fly 
 from the danger w^hich awaited her ; but that she had, 
 after much perplexing reflection, determined, if it pleased 
 Heaven to defend her from the terrors and hazards of 
 such an undertaking, to proceed on to London, where 
 there now resided a friend of hers, one who vras an or- 
 phan like herself, and with whom she had grown up from 
 infancy, until about a year before, when her young friend 
 
l«00il WILL NEWBERY. ](J3 
 
 had been sent for by a relative of her deceased father, 
 who, being a man of some account in the city of Lon- 
 don, would perhaps be induced to take pity on her sad 
 circumstances, and recommend her to some situation. 
 
 " And who was this young person, from whose good 
 offices she expected such assistance ? " " She was a very 
 virtuous respected young woman, one Mrs. Betty Hope." 
 Poor Anne's countenance brightened as she pronounced 
 the name of the only friend whom she now dared to 
 claim. *'And Hope is the name, of thy pretty mate, 
 and is now thy only friend, poor wanderer ! " exclaimed 
 the lady ; " but cheer up, my child, T trust that the pres- 
 age is a gracious one ! " and then turning and speaking 
 a {q\w words apart with her husband, the lady offered to 
 take Anne to London, and she was immediately placed 
 on a horse, which was led by a servant, for the accommc- 
 dation of one of the young ladies, who chose occasion- 
 ally to change a pillion for a saddle. With the name of 
 the family who at once became the protectors of our in- 
 teresting relative, I never was acquainted, or I have for- 
 gotten it through a lapse of years ; but " Betty Hope " was 
 a name never to be forgotten in so singular an adven- 
 ture. 
 
 With this worthy and amiable family, Anne proceeded 
 towards the great city : but before they reached the end 
 of their journey the slow and lonely travellers met with 
 an adventure not very uncommon. They were attacked 
 and plundered by highwaymen, but pity even in such 
 breasts still prevailed for poor Anne; for when accosted 
 in her turn, she presented her purse, containing only 
 one solitary piece of gold, and declared with streaming 
 
1G4 rOOR WILL NEWBERY. 
 
 eyes it was all she possessed in the world, it was in- 
 stantly returned to her. 
 
 Precious little piece of gold ! that preserved from 
 pecuniary obligation the independent spirit of its sin- 
 gular possessor. 
 
 During her long, tedious, and, as it appears, some- 
 what dangerous journey, Anne's disposition and beha- 
 vior had so far gained the goodwill of her benevolent 
 protectress, that she would willingly have granted her 
 an asylum in her own house ; but while her spirit would 
 not brook obligation of this nature, she had also, re- 
 flecting on the strange step she had taken, and the per- 
 plexity of her situation, resolved upon such a plan as 
 should render her independent of the protection of 
 those friends, whose favor might have been forfeited by 
 the discovery of her real situation. 
 
 Anne's education had been extremely well attended 
 to ; and simple as it would now be considered, she was 
 so perfect a mistress of all that young females were then 
 generally taught, that her friends were brought to ap- 
 prove of her scheme of opening a school, which, with 
 their assistance and recommendation, offered a very fair 
 promise of success. 
 
 The sudden and total change in her situation pro- 
 duced at once great solidity of character and serious- 
 ness of demeanor ; and her undertaking was soon 
 crowned with success beyond her expectation. 
 
 It was not many months before she was fortunate 
 enough to discover the residence of Mrs. Betty Hops, 
 with whom she managed so well to obtain a private in- 
 terview, in which she disclosed all that had befallen her. 
 
POOR, WILL NEWBERY. 165 
 
 and engaged her confidence and secrecy. I have said 
 that two years had elapsed before Anne communicated 
 to her friends, in an epistle, a brief account of what I 
 have here detailed ; she pleaded, in palliation of her 
 most strange and apparently unfeeling proceeding, that 
 the engagement she had entered into on that fatal morn- 
 ing never appeared to her so dreadful, as when it was 
 indissolubly fixed, involving her, as it did, in circum- 
 stances too fearful for her to abide, and from which she 
 had suddenly determined to fly, at any hazard or dan- 
 ger ; and in concluding, she besought, in the humblest 
 manner, the forgiveness of her parents ; but she held a 
 higher tone towards him, who had, she declared, unad- 
 visedly pressed on a suit so disagreeable to her, and she 
 ended by avowing her fixed resolution never to acknowl- 
 edge those ties which had driven her from the home 
 where his misplaced addresses had found her a cher- 
 ished and happy child. 
 
 I have already stated the manner in which this letter 
 was received : and when at length it obtained an an- 
 swer, she was informed, in no softened terms, of the fa- 
 tal issue of her " rash and cruel proceeding ; " their for- 
 giveness they did not withhold, but this forgiveness was 
 coldly accorded ; and they added, that, as it had pleased 
 Providence to raise her up friends and to open to her 
 an honest way of living after her rash adventure, they 
 advised her not to return to her former home, unless 
 she was prepared to meet the displeasure and reproof 
 of all wlio had formerly thought but too well of her. 
 Thoy further added, that slie who had once credited 
 those who had bred her up, and had withal been consid- 
 
It6 rOOR WILL NEWBERY. 
 
 ered a comfort and a blessing to them, was now become 
 to them an occasion of shame and confusion of coun- 
 tenance ; that even her name, once so familiar and sweet 
 to hear, novv' sounded harsh and stern in their ears, as 
 when one speaks of a guilty and proscribed creature; 
 and when, they added, " we seek for consolation in the 
 sanctuary of the afliicted — when witli broken hearts we 
 kneel at the altar wliere you pronounced those sacred 
 vows which you so fearfully profaned, we pass by the 
 grave of that m.ost dear and worthy man whom you 
 have destroyed." 
 
 Anne never appealed from this interdiction ; she nev- 
 er returned to her native place, nor, as I think, ev^r be- 
 held tlie faces of her parents again. Thus, young and 
 affectionate as she was, cut off by her own act fiom pa- 
 rents and kindred and friends, in a situation so stern 
 and so forlorn, that her heart had relented in grief and 
 remorse, and entertained kinder and tenderer thoughts 
 of him whom she had forsaken, no one could doubt who 
 heard from her tremulous lips after such a lapse of time, 
 and when she was upwards of eighty years, that one 
 forlorn, affecting expression, " Ah poor Will Newbery ! " 
 
 And now perhaps my narrative ought shortly to close; 
 but I am f:iin to hope that those whom it has interested 
 might like to hear somthing more of the character and 
 circumstances cf the after life of one whose youth was 
 marked by so extraordinary an occurrence. 
 
 With the detail of many succeeding years I am to- 
 tally unacquainted, further than that she continued to 
 pursue very successfully the occupation she had first 
 chosen, until the death of her father. A few vears af- 
 
POOR WILL NEWEERY. 167 
 
 ter that period, she left London for the first time, on an 
 excursion into the country : she went into Somersetshire 
 on a visit to my grandmother — it was a wedding tour. 
 
 " And could she, after such an event, marry again? " 
 some fair reader may be ready to exclaim. Gentle read- 
 er, be not hasty : Anne continued the widow of the 
 man whose name she had never borne, for a period of 
 more than twenty years. She was upwards of forty 
 when she married a gentleman of the name of Lloyd. 
 
 After a short stay with my grandmother, she returned 
 to London, and never afterwards visited the country^ un- 
 til she finally departed from town, and cam^e to live with 
 my father in her seventy-ninth year. Her husband had 
 then been dead several years. The occasion of this 
 removal was no less disastrous than the loss of nearly 
 her whole property, which she had consigned to a per- 
 son v/ho had abused a confidence which had been im- 
 plicit and unlimited. I remember, as it were but yes- 
 terday, the coming of the letter by the evening post 
 that acquainted my father with the loss of the property 
 whicli he had always expected would have been be- 
 queathed to his children ; but his own disappointment 
 on the occasion w^as soon absorbed in more generous 
 feelings. I remember the reading of that letter; there 
 was something exceedingly fine in its perfect simplicity ; 
 it was at once pathetic, pious, and dignified ; it won ev- 
 ery heart in that innocent and artless circle. 
 
 INIy dear mother was the first to express her wishes 
 that my fiither would immediately write and invite her 
 to come and live v/ith us; my father wrote a few lines 
 by the returning post, and followed his letter the next 
 
168 POOR WILL NEWBERY. 
 
 (lay ; and in the course of the ensuing week he re- 
 turned, bringing with him, in his aged relative, a stran- 
 ger to his whole family ; but a dear and welcome stran- 
 ger she was. 
 
 Previously to this event, occasional letters, short and 
 far between, accompained with small presents to and 
 from town, had been all the communication that had 
 passed between the aunt and nephew — an only aunt 
 and an only nephew ; but oh ! how close did misfortune 
 on one hand, and benevolence on the other, draw this 
 neglected tie between these amiable relatives. 
 
 My grandmother, who, surviving her husband, had 
 resided with my father from the period of his marriage, 
 had died a short time before; and Mrs. Lloyd very 
 nearly resembled her, and as that dearly remembered 
 countenance seemed presented to us again, the tears 
 with which we embraced her, gave to our artless w^el- 
 comes an assurance of affection and feeling most sooth- 
 ing to her situation and circumstances. 
 
 How happy we were with her, how happy she was 
 with us, during the remainder of her days, will often 
 be a sweet reflection to the end of mine. From the 
 first day in which she became an inmate in our house, 
 her confidence in the affection, esteem, and kindness of 
 my father and mother was entire ; but it is probable her 
 sweetest sympathies were with their children ; we were 
 the constant companions of her " in-door comfort and 
 out-of-door gladness; " most interesting was it to behold 
 one who had been the child of nature, returning into 
 her bosom after a separation of more than sixty years. 
 Every dormant feeling was awakened, and every wel 
 
POOR WILL NZWBERY. 1G9 
 
 remembered pleasure enhanced by previous privation ; 
 and she met her favorite flowers again — the humble 
 flowers, which in her youth were reckoned rarest and 
 sweetest — with tears of delight, the pink, the stock, 
 the polyanthus, the wall-flower, and the homely rose- 
 mary; we made cur little beds of them, and cherished 
 them m.ore than ever for her sake ; we caught even 
 what might be called her prejudices, and gave no place 
 to their newly imported rivals, " Vvho cam.e," she said, 
 *' to flaunt in gaudy colors over their modest heads." 
 Nor did the garden, or orchard, or pretty home-field 
 bound her walks ; she was a rambler and wanderer 
 amongst us, by stream and hedge-row, through the tan- 
 gled copse, and over the open heath, and abroad in our 
 meadows, when rich in the perfume and beauty of the 
 sweet cov.-slip. 
 
 Days, vreeks, and seasons passed on, and when I look 
 back upon them I often wonder how they could seem so 
 long, when they were so happy — were they as long and 
 liappy to her ? I think they were ; for she seemed a 
 child amongst children — a girl amongst girls. With 
 the wisdom and experience of age was blended the 
 simplicity of youth ; and the ties of blood, from which 
 she had been so long estranged, gave a new tone to her 
 feelings, a fresh charm to her existence. Almost entire- 
 ly in her company, v/hile we thus continued to enliven 
 many of her hours, we acquired habits of silence and 
 reflection in tiiose intervals of quietude that were nec- 
 essary to age like hers ; yet it was a fine old age, with- 
 out sickness or infirmity, during the first years vS her 
 residence with us. TTcr memory v.'as the faculty ihr.t 
 
 N 
 
170 POOR WILL NEWBERY. 
 
 was first impaired ; and it gradually decayed, until by a 
 singular lapse, she entirely lost the whole of the period 
 which she had spent in London. She forgot her second 
 marriage, the man with whom she had united herself, 
 and with whom she had lived, contentedly at least, for 
 several years. All the various incidents that had oc- 
 curred to her, and the acquaintances she had formed 
 during her long sojourn, had passed from her mind like 
 a forgotten dream ; but the occurrences of her youth 
 seemed fresher then ever to her imagination ; and how- 
 ever confused and perplexed was the recollection, she 
 never forgot the strange and impressive events that mark- 
 ed that remote period of her life ; and the last faltering 
 tones that gave utterance to the name of him whose 
 heart her indifference had broken, were full of tender- 
 ness, pity, and regret. As her imagination continued 
 as lively as ever, her lapses of memory were sometimes 
 extremely amusing to our thoughtless age ; she had been 
 a great reader from her youth upwards ; books of ro- 
 mance and devotion had been the amusement of her 
 youth and the consolation of her advanced age ; and 
 with the history of her own country, at least, she was 
 tolerably acquainted. 
 
 As her sight began to fail, and at length, when after 
 shorter and shorter attempts, her spectacles were laid 
 down by her largest printed books with a sigh, she be- 
 gan to relate to us stories which she had read in her 
 youth, with a pretty modest introduction. — "Some," 
 she said, " simply for our amusement," others, she hop- 
 ed, " might tend to strengthen and improve cur memo- 
 ry ; and otliers," she observed more seriously " she 
 
POOR WILL NEAVEERY. 171 
 
 would relate for our edification." She would draw 
 from the sacred writers, from the books of martyrs, and 
 from works of many of the most approved theological 
 writers, the most aftecting examples of faith and piety, 
 with great precision and propriety of adaptation ; but 
 her memory continually betraying her on those subjects, 
 she would transfer some of the most affecting of the 
 scripture narratives to story-books which she had read 
 in her youth. " I remember such a one, my dears, and 
 truly a pretty story it was. There was a lady — dear 
 me ! I forget her name, and the place w^here the au- 
 thor had laid his scene ; yet it was a wonderfully in- 
 genious tale : well, I think I have it now — the lady's 
 name at least : she was a woman of high station, a 
 great woman in her day, and exceedingly pious withal 
 — my Lady Shunem — I think that was her title" : — 
 thus would she proceed, and was certainly eminently 
 diverting in her details. At another time she would 
 commence — " There lived, a great many years ago (I 
 think it might have been somewhere in Devonshire), a 
 gentleman of the name of Jacob. Now Mr. Jacob was 
 a family man," and then she went on with the history 
 of the Patriarch and his sons. She frequently modern- 
 ized these narratives in such a way as one would have 
 thought must have cost great pains and contrivance ; 
 and these undesigned alterations displayed a turn and 
 talent which, had it happened to have been called into 
 action, would have made her a pretty romance writer of 
 any period. The Scripture chronicles she blended with 
 ihc history of her own country — dear woman ! but she 
 could not see the smiles so round when she admonished 
 
172 POOR WILL NEWBERY. 
 
 US of the necessity of treasuring up in our memory some 
 of the most whimsical mistakes. To the crimes of 
 Mary were frequently added all the atrocities of Jeze- 
 bel ; and the next day, perhaps, she made Jezebel a re- 
 turn in full of all JMary's crimes ; and then concluded 
 all with remarking gravely, that all young women ought 
 to be thoroughly acquainted with the history of their 
 own country. And then she sung too, and how svv'cetly 
 did her voice blend with ours in our evening hymn, 
 when gathered round our large hall fire ; and sometimes, 
 if we asked, though she certainly required a little press- 
 ing, she would sing alone, and often did she commence 
 with " Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament," and after a few 
 melancholy notes, gliding into the doleful ditty of" Cru- 
 el Barbara Allen," on a sudden raise her voice to its 
 highest pitch in the lively air of " Kilkenny was a Fine 
 Town," and then v/ith breath a little exhausted by the 
 quickness of the measure, sink, in sv/eetly querulous 
 tones, into the sacred dirge, the pathetic and solemn 
 eighty-eighth Psalm. 
 
 I have never seen so fine, so happy, so engaging an 
 old age as hers; her bright figure — her firm step — 
 her cheerful countenance — the bland and chastened ex- 
 pression of her fine dark eyes — her measured move- 
 ments, stately without the smallest approach to formali- 
 ty, formed altogether a person and address that ex- 
 ceedingly became her rich and old-fashioned attire, her 
 brocades, her laces, her strait waist and stomacher, her 
 high cap with its lappets and ribbons intermixed. What 
 a picture ! when the Sabbath morning especially brought 
 her down for the day. IIov/ we gathered together 
 
POOR WILL NEWBERY. 173 
 
 rounti her, and praised her appearance and her looks ; 
 and how slie smiled upon us, and blessed us ! her smiles 
 and her looks are before me still, and her tones are in 
 my ear. 
 
 1 think she had nearly reached her eighty-sixth year 
 before her sight became materially impaired ; and when 
 in the course of a few years she totally lost it, she did 
 not appear to be sensible of the change ; at least during 
 the two remaining years of her life, no one of the fami- 
 ly ever heard her advert to the loss. When she first 
 perceived the decay in her vision, she had occasionally 
 evinced great distress of mind in her apprehensions of 
 her approaching blindness ; and we had dreaded the ef- 
 fect as a fatal shock to her cheerfulness. But it was 
 over, and she seemed not to be aware of her misfortune. 
 The little circle around her had been anxiously watch- 
 ing and assiduously attending her steps and her motions ; 
 and as the dimness gathered darker and darker, every 
 hand was ready to guide her, and to set every thing 
 right about her, in such a manner that she might not 
 discover their aid to be necessary. I remember one 
 evening, my father wishing to ascertain if her sight 
 were entirely gone, waved a candle two or three times 
 near her eyes without its exciting her attention ; we 
 were then perfectly convinced of the total extinction of 
 vision. We had all feared and expected that it was so, 
 but there was not a dry eye in the circle that surround- 
 ed her ; she smiled, however, and chatted as usual, 
 and was, I think, the most cheerful of the party that 
 evening. 
 
 When her sight became extinct, and the remains of 
 memory were only faint gleams or misleading guides, 
 
174 rOOR WILL NEWBERY. 
 
 her fancies and imaginings seemed to lose nothing of 
 their vividness or buo3^anc}' ; and over these fancies the 
 most inauspicious seasons or times had no effect. Even 
 our delightful Mitford herself might have borrowed a 
 scene from her description. Often has she startled me 
 from a musing dream by her side, where I was general- 
 ly stationary in that dear warm corner in the cold drea- 
 ry winter afternoons, by declaring that our valley lay all 
 before us in the promise and brightness of spring, or 
 the beauty and richness of summer ; and these fancies 
 generally ended in her expressing a wish for a walk, it 
 being, she would say, a sin to sit at home on such a 
 morning : then, her bonnet and cloak being brought, we 
 set out on our walk ; while the different rooms, one af- 
 ter the other, and the long passage that led down the 
 suite of apartments, and which was indeed sufficiently 
 cool, afforded to her imagination pasture and lane, and 
 breezy heath, wanting nothing to engage and refresh 
 the senses ; memory supplied to her the honej^-suckle 
 and wild-rose, wherever she had seen them grow. Her 
 favorite flowers still bloomed and breathed for her, for 
 she often praised their beauty with her accustomed sen- 
 sibility, and declared that every gale brought their sweet 
 perfume. The deception of her senses could not have 
 been so complete, but that she never gathered a flower. 
 A course of observation convinced us that it was one of 
 her little ruling maxims not to cut short their transient 
 lives; and, noting this pretty tenderness — is this, I 
 have often thought, she who broke the heart of " poor 
 Will Newbery ? " 
 
 I could, through the course of many pages, dwell up- 
 
POOR WILL NEWBERY. 175 
 
 on the simple and affecting incidents that crowd upon 
 my mind ; but I will venture only one, which formed 
 almost the closing scene in the simple but romantic dra- 
 ma of the life which I have sketched, and would not wil- 
 lingly leave till its close. 
 
 A serious and affecting charge devolved on her youth- 
 ful relatives, when at length, her boddy strength and all 
 the remaining faculties of her mind daily and rapidly 
 declining, she was entirely confined, first to her cham- 
 ber, then to her bed. For several weeks she had been 
 lying in a state of extreme helplessness, but apparently 
 v/ithout suffering, for she generally slumbered through 
 the day, and showed no other signs of recognising those 
 about her than by never failing to thank them with her 
 usual politeness for any attention she received : this was 
 all ; but the few and tremulous accents were sweet to 
 hear. We leaned over and repeated her words to each 
 other, as a fond mother repeats the half formed expres- 
 sions of her child. " And is it so," we exclaimed, " and 
 is her fine mind really reduced to that state of infantile 
 weakness ! and when v/c shall tell her tale, will it end 
 thus?" Not so — she left a more gratifying memorial 
 behind her. 
 
 I remember it was a fine afternoon in the late autumn, 
 when, tempted by the favorable weather, we all went in- 
 to the orchard to assist in gathering the hoard apples. 
 Our parents v/ere both from home, and \vc left our chiirgc 
 to the care of a faithful domestic who was much attach- 
 ed to her. Every hand was busily engaged — we gatiier- 
 cd our fruit — laughed, rallied each other, and boasted 
 of t!ic finest npplcs, as each emi)ticd her well-filled little 
 
76 rOOR V/ILL KEWBERY. 
 
 basket into the general stock. I feel at this moment 
 the panic that struck my mined with the reflection that 
 I had been absent more than an hour from the room 
 which my mother requested me not to leave many min- 
 utes together. Vague and startling apprehensions gave 
 wings to my feet, and quick as thought, I was through 
 the orchard, down the garden, and up the stairs. The 
 interval of a few minutes longer would probably have 
 subjected me to a life-long remorse. I found our aged 
 relative in a state which gave such a pang to my heart, 
 as, I hope, sufficiently atoned for my negligence ; she 
 had arisen and partly dressed herself, but had sunk in 
 a state of insensibility at the foot of her bed. From 
 her shrunken frame, cold and senseless, every spark of 
 life seemed to have fled : there was no time to reflect — 
 it was necessary to act, and on the instant I caught a 
 long warm cloak from the peg where it hung, raised the 
 dear insensible object of my terrors, and wrapping it 
 round her, took her, carried her in my arms down stairs, 
 and along the passage and large hall where we usually 
 sat, and placed her in her own easy-chair by the hearth; 
 and drawing a table that was near, I set it before her to 
 prevent her falling : I then ran to an outhouse, got a 
 faggot of light dry wood, which I placed on a few em- 
 bers still slumbering under the ashes ; and when the 
 flame burst brightly up the chimney-back, I had a cor- 
 dial in a little sauce-pan ready to warm. JMy eyes were 
 contmually turned on the object of my solicitude ; soon 
 I saw the grateful warmth bring a faint color to her 
 countenance, and relax her cold and i^tiflcncd lindis ; and 
 when, presenting the glass to her lips, she drank a little 
 
POOR WILL NEWBERY. 1// 
 
 of tlie cordial, not only without difTiculty, but with ap- 
 p:irent satisfaction, it seemed to me the first time, dur- 
 incr this short but tryinfr scene, that I dared to breathe. 
 But I could not speak. I kneeled down before her and 
 pressed her hand in mine, while tears of grief and joy 
 fell upon them. She soon addressed me by my name, 
 which she repeated, observing, " For I know that it is 
 Mary," and her utterance was clearer, and her voice 
 stronger than I had known it for several moLths past. 
 
 The words of one risen from the dead could scarcely 
 have impressed me more than her subsequent discourse, 
 from which I discovered that she had been perfectly 
 conscious of what had passed, from the moment I had 
 found her in a state of seeming insensibility. 
 
 "I had come," she said, ''to revive the trembling 
 flame of life, to give one more proof of my affection, 
 and to receive her last thanks and last blessing." She 
 adverted to my tender age (I was then about seventeen), 
 and to the delicacy of my frame, and she blessed Him 
 who had, she observed, so strengthened me, that my 
 steps tottered not under a burden so strange, and in 
 circumstances so trying. She proceeded in an affect- 
 i.ig strain of devotion, pouring out her heart to that God 
 whose forgiveness, mercy, and love had extended over 
 all the days of her life : who had brought her in age 
 and destitution to those dear and beloved relatives, for 
 whom she now besought grace and favor, and more es- 
 j)ccially every spiritual good. She named each indi- 
 vidually, beginning with her " dear nephew" (my fa- 
 llier), and in tliis most aflecting and solemn appeal she 
 discovered a perfect and \'wfA\ sense of the distinguish- 
 
1/b rOOR ^VILL NF.WCERY. 
 
 ing characteristics of these objects of her solicitude and 
 tenderness. Finally, she laid her hand upon my head, 
 and blessed her "beloved Mary," for whom, she said, 
 she besought not, with submission to the Divine will, 
 that her life should be prolonged to days so helpless as 
 hers ; but if so protracted and so enfeebled, that it 
 might also be as tenderly ministered unto, and so close 
 in the bosom of kindred kindness and peace. 
 
 She hud but just concluded this farewell benediction 
 when others of the family came in ; my father and 
 mother also returned home ; she spoke cheerfully to all ; 
 tea was prepared, and we were delighted at having her 
 partake of it with us again. But in the midst of cur 
 simple social meal, she sunk into her accustomed slum- 
 ber, and my father conveyed her in his arms to her bed, 
 from which she never rose again. A few days after, 
 sitting by her bed-side and perceiving her dissolution 
 was near at hand, my father addressed to her a i^ew 
 words, to Vvhich she endeavored to reply ; but in a voice 
 scarcely audible, and with some difficulty, she could 
 only articulate " my dear nephew." It was, hovrever, a 
 most dear and welcome recognition ; and in the extreme 
 yearning of the heart, at this painful moment, my father 
 put a few questions of solemn import and affectionate 
 solicitude, entreating her to press his hand, in token 
 that, in this awful extremity, her God was with her. 
 Tv/ice she repeated the desired and affecting token, and 
 then the spirit relumed to Gcd uho gave it. 
 
 On the morning of her interment, before the funerr.l 
 attendants had arrived, we stood once more rcvmd the 
 close ccflin that contained tlic remains of cur venerable 
 
rOOR AVIiL NEWBEllY. ]79 
 
 and beloved friend, and shed showers of tears over the 
 mournfull shell, which, from the approximation to the 
 dead, is more afflicting to the mourner, than even the 
 grave which hides poor mortality in the bosom of its 
 mother earth, covered with her softest robe besprinkled 
 with the little flowers which she loves best. I have bent 
 over the simple memorial of ninety-two years in the af- 
 fecting trust that in that world where there is neither 
 marrying nor giving in marriage, the fine and delicate 
 spirit was reunited to him who had loved, " not wisely, 
 but too well" — to the ill-fated in this world — to him 
 whom a broken heart had laid in an early grave — to 
 " poor Will Newbery ! " 
 
 m 
 
180 
 
 LINES TO ELEANOR. 
 
 Can I e'er cease to love thee — 
 
 Forget thee ? Ah ! no ; 
 Though nations divide us, 
 
 And seas 'twixt us flow ; 
 Thy beauty is graven 
 
 So deep in my heart, 
 I fancy thee near me. 
 
 Wherever thou art. 
 All nature seems fairer 
 ^ Whene'er thou art nigh ; 
 The sun shines more brightly, 
 
 More blue is the sky ; 
 When absent, thy form 
 
 In each object I see, 
 And every thing round me 
 
 Reminds me of thee ! 
 
;.: ••:. 
 
l&l 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY OJX HER MAB|IIAGE. 
 
 They tell me, gentle lady, that they deck thee for a bride, 
 That the wreath is woven for thy hair, the bridegroom by thy 
 
 side ; 
 And I think I hear thy father's sigh, thy mother's calmer tone, 
 As they give thee to another's arms — their beautiful — their 
 
 o w n . 
 
 I never saw a bridal but my eyelid hath been wet, 
 
 And it always seem'd to me as though a joyous crowd were met 
 
 To see the saddest sight of all, a gay and girlish thing 
 
 Lay aside her maiden gladness — for a name — and for a ring. 
 
 And other cares will claim tliy thoughts, and other hearts thy 
 
 love. 
 And gayer friends may be around, and bluer skies above ; 
 Yet thou, when I behold thee next, may'st wear upon thy brow. 
 Perchance, a mother's look of care, for tliat which decks it nov/. 
 
 And when I think how often I have seen thee, with thy mild 
 And lovely look, and step of air, and bearing like a child. 
 Oh! how mournfully, how mournfully, the thought comes o'er 
 
 my brain, 
 Wlien I think thou ne'er may'st be that free and girlish thing 
 
 again. 
 
 I would that as my heart dictates, just such might be my l:iy, 
 And my voice should be a voice of mirth, a music like the 
 
 May ; 
 But it may not be ! within my breast all frozen are the springs, 
 Tlie mnnnur dies upon tlie lip — the music on the string.-^. 
 
182 TO A lOU-VG LADY ON HER MARRIAGE. 
 
 But a voice is floating round me, and it tells me in my rest, 
 That sunshine shall illume thy path, that joy shall be thy guest, 
 That thy life shall be a summer's da}'^, whose evening shall go 
 
 down, 
 Like the evening in the eastern clime, that never knows a 
 
 frown. 
 
 When thy foot is at the altar, when the ring hath press'd thy 
 
 hand. 
 When those thou lov'st, and those that love thee, w^eeping 
 
 round thee stand, 
 Oh ! may the verse that friendship weaves, like a spirit of the 
 
 air. 
 Be o'er thee at that moment — for a blessing and a prayer ! 
 
183 
 
 A HOME IN THE HEART. 
 
 Oh, ask not a home in the mansions of pride, 
 
 Where marble shines out in the pillars and walls ; 
 Though the roof be of gold it is brilliantly cold, 
 
 And joy may not be found in its torch-lighted halls. 
 But seek for a bosom all honest and true, 
 
 Where love once awakened will never depart ; 
 Turn, turn to that breast like the dove to its nest, 
 
 And you '11 find there 's no home like a home in the heart. 
 
 Oh, link but one spirit that 's warmly sincere. 
 
 That will heighten your pleasure and solace your care 
 Find a soul you may trust as the kind and the just. 
 
 And be sure the wide world holds no treasure so rare. . 
 Then the frov;ns of misfoi'tune may shadow our lot, 
 
 The cheek-searing tear-drops of sorrow may start, 
 But a star never dim sheds a halo for him 
 
 Who can turn for repose to a home in the heart. 
 
184 
 
 SAY, OH, SAY, YOU LOVE ME. 
 
 By the gloom that shades my heart, 
 When, fair girl, from thee I part : 
 By the deep impassioned sigh. 
 Half suppressed when thou art nigh ; 
 By the heaving of my breast. 
 When thy hand by mine is pressed ;. 
 By these fervent signs betrayed, 
 Canst thou doubt my truth, sweet maid ? 
 Then sa.j^ oh ! say, you love me I 
 
 By the joy that thrills my frame. 
 To hear another praise thy name ; 
 By my mingled dread the while, 
 Lest that one should woo thy smile ; 
 By the flush that dyes my cheek, 
 Telling what I ne'er could speak ; 
 By these fervent signs betrayed, 
 Canst thou doubt my truth, sweet maid .' 
 Then say, oh I sa}', you love me ! 
 
 Heart and soul, more fond than mine, 
 Trust me never can be thine ; 
 Heart and soul, whose passion pure, 
 Long as life shall thus endure. 
 Take, oh ! take me, let me live 
 On the hope thy smiles can give ; 
 See me kneel before my throne ; 
 Take, oh ! take me, for thine own, 
 
 And say, oh ! sav, you love me ! 
 
185 
 
 LADY ALDA'S DREAM. 
 
 A SPANISH BALLAD. 
 
 In Paris sits the lady that shall be Sir Roland's bride, 
 
 Three hundred damsels with her, her bidding to abide ; 
 
 All clothed in the same fashion, both the mantle and the shcon, 
 
 All eating at one table, within her hall at noon : 
 
 All, save the Lady Alda, she is lady of them all, 
 
 She keeps her place upon the dais, and they serve her in her 
 
 hall ; 
 The thread of gold a hundred spin, the lawn a hundred weave, 
 And a hundred play sweet melody within Alda's bower at eve. 
 
 With the sound of their su^eet playing, the lady falla asleep. 
 And she dreams a doleful dream, and her damsels hear her 
 
 weep ; 
 There is sorrow in her slumber, and she waketh with a cry, 
 And she calleth for her damsels, and swiftly they come nigh. 
 ' Now, what is it. Lady Alda ' — (yo^ i^ay hear the words they 
 
 say) — 
 ' Bringeth sorrow to thy pillow, and chaseth sleep away ; ' 
 ' Oh, my maidens ! ' quoth the lady, ' my heart it is full sore ! 
 I have dreamt a dream of evil, and can slumber never more ! 
 
 ' For I was upon a mountain, in a bare and desert place. 
 And I saw a mighty eagle, and a falcon he did chase ; 
 And to me the falcon came, and I hid it in my breast; 
 But the mighty bird, pursuing, came and rent away my vest ; 
 
186 
 
 J.ADY ALDA S DKEA.M. 
 
 And he scattered all the feathers, and blood was on his beak, 
 And ever, as he tore and tore, I heard the falcon shriek. 
 Now read my vision, damsels, — now read my dream to me, 
 For my heart may well be heavy that doleful sight to see.' 
 
 Out spake the foremost damsel was in her chamber there — 
 (You may hear the words she says) — ' Oh ! my lady's dream 
 
 is fair : 
 The mountain is St. Denis' choir, and thou the falcon art ; 
 And the eagle strong that teareth the garment from thy heart. 
 And scattereth the feathers, he is the Paladin, 
 That, when again he comes from Spain, must sleep thy bower 
 
 within. 
 Then be blythe of cheer, my lady, for the dream thou must not 
 
 grieve. 
 It means but that thy bridegroom shall come to thee at eve.' 
 
 ' If thou hast read my vision, and read it cunningly,' 
 
 Thus said the lady Alda, ' thou shalt not lack thy fee.' — 
 
 But wo is me for Alda ! there was heard, at morning hour, 
 
 A voice of lamentation within that lady's bower ; 
 
 For there had come to Paris a messenger by night. 
 
 And his horse it w^as a- weary, and his visage it was white ; 
 
 And there 's weeping in the chamber, and there 's silence in 
 
 the hall, 
 For Sir Roland has been slaughtered in the chase of Roncesval. 
 
18; 
 
 A STORM. 
 
 There was a tempest brooding in the air, 
 
 Far in the west. Above, the skies were fair, 
 
 And the sun seem'd to go in glory down — 
 
 One small black cloud (one only), like a crown 
 
 Touched his descending disk, and rested there : 
 
 Slow then it came along, to the great wind 
 
 Rebellious, and, although it blew and blew, 
 
 Came on increasing, and across the blue 
 
 Spread its dark shape, and left the sun behind. 
 
 The dajdight sank, and the winds wail'd about 
 
 The barque wherein th.e luckless couple lay, 
 
 And from the distant cloud came scattering out 
 
 Rivers of fire : it seem'd as though the day 
 
 Had burst from out the billov.^s far aw^ay. 
 
 No pilot had thoj^ their small boat to steer 
 
 Aside from rocks ; no sea-v/orn mariner. 
 
 Who knew each creek and bay and shelt'ring steep, 
 
 And all the dangers of the turbulent deep. 
 
 They fled for life (for happiness is life), — 
 
 And met tlie tempest in his hour of strife 
 
 Abroad upon the v.-atcrs : they were driven 
 
 Against them by the angry w'inds of Heaven ; 
 
 Or thus it seem'd : the clouds, the air, the sea, 
 
 Rose from unnatural dead tranquillitj''. 
 
 And came to battle with their legions : hail 
 
 Shot shattering down, and thunders roar'd aloud. 
 
 And the wild lightning from his dripping shroud 
 
 Unbound his arrowy pinions blue and pale. 
 
 And darted through the Heavens. Below, the gale 
 
 Sang like a dirge, and the white billows lash'd 
 
 Tlie boat, and then like ravenous lions dash'd 
 
188 
 
 A STORM. 
 
 Against the deep wave-hidden rocks, and told 
 Of ghastlj' perils as they backward roll'd. 
 
 The lovers, driven along from hour to hour, 
 Were helpless, hopeless, — in the ocean's power. 
 The storm continued ; and no voice was heard, 
 Save that of some poor solitary bird, 
 That sought a shelter on the quivering mast ; 
 But soon, borne off by the tremendous blast, 
 Sank in the waters, screaming. The great sea 
 Bared, like a grave, its bosom silently, 
 Then fell and panted like an angry thing 
 With its own strength at vrar ; the vessel flew 
 Toward the land, and then the billows grew 
 Larger and v.'hite, and roared as triumphing, 
 Scattering afar and wide the heavy spray, 
 That shone like bright saov/ as it pass'd away. 
 At first, tlio dolphin and the porpoise dark 
 Came rolling by them, and the hungry shark 
 Follow'd the boat, patient and eager eyed. 
 And the grey curlew slanting dipp'd her side, 
 And the hoarse gull his wings vv^thin the foam ; 
 But some had sunk — the rest had harried ho2ue. 
 And nov.' pale Julia and her hi:sband (clasp'd 
 Each in the other's arms) sate viewing death ; 
 She, for his sake in fear, silently gasp'd. 
 And he to cheer her kept his steady breath, 
 Talking of hope, and smiled like morning. There 
 They sate together in their sv.'cet despair : 
 Sometimes upon his breast she laid her head, 
 And he upon her silent beauty fed. 
 Hushing her fears, and 'tween her and the storm 
 Drew his embroider'd cloak to keep her warm ; 
 She thank'd him with a lock upturn'd to hi.'^, 
 Tlie which he answer'd by a tender kit:s, 
 Press'd and prolong'd to pain ! her lip was cold, 
 And all her love and terror muiely t^ld. 
 — The vessel Ftruok. 
 
J89 
 
 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 THE MEASCRE METED OUT TO OTHERS, MEASURED TO US AGAIN.' 
 
 CHAPTI^R t. 
 
 Miss L\ndon closes one of her sportive poems with 
 the heartfelt exclamation — 
 
 " Thank Heaven that I never 
 Can be a child again." 
 
 The remark falls harshly from a woman's lip ; and 
 after all does not admit of general application. There 
 are those who were never children — with whom the 
 heart was never young. There are those who never 
 knew that brief but happy period when the spirit was a 
 stranger to guile, — and the heart beat high with gen- 
 erous impulses, — and the future was steeped in the 
 colors of hope, — and the past left behind it no sting 
 of bitterness, — and the brow was unwrinkled with 
 care, — and the soul unsullied by crime, — and the lips 
 poured forth, fondly and fervently, with unbounded and 
 unwavering conlidencc, the heart's purest and earliest 
 homage to Nature and to Truth. And he whose ca- 
 reer, on the second anniversary of his death, I am tempt- 
 ed to record, was a living ilhistraticm of the truth of 
 this assertion. 
 
 p 
 
190 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 Vincent Desborough's prospects and position in soci- 
 ety embraced all that an ambitious heart would seek. 
 He was heir to a large fortune — had powerful connec- 
 tions — talents of no common order — and indisputable 
 personal attractions. But every good, natural and ac- 
 quired, was marred by a fatal flaw in his disposition. 
 It was largely leavened with cruelty. It seemed born 
 with him. For it was developed in very early childhood, 
 and bade defiance to remonstrance and correction. In- 
 sects, dogs, horses, servants, all felt its virulence. And 
 yet on a first acquaintance, it appeared incredible that 
 that intelligent and animated countenance, those glad- 
 some and beaming eyes, could meditate aught but kind- 
 ness and good will to those around him. But as Lord 
 Byron said of Ali Pacha — one of the most cruel and 
 sanguinary of Eastern despots — that he was "by far 
 the mildest looking old gentleman he ever conversed 
 with ; " so it might be said of Vincent Desbcrough, that 
 never was a relentless and savage heart concealed un- 
 der a more winning and gentle exterior. 
 
 That parents are blind to the errors of their offspring 
 has passed into a proverb, and Vincent's were no ex- 
 ception to the rule. " He was a boy," they affirmed, 
 "of the highest promise." His ingenuity in causing 
 pain was " a mere childish foible which would vanish 
 with advancing years ; " and his delight at seeing others 
 suffer it, " an eccentricity which more extended ac- 
 quaintance with life would teach him to discard. AU 
 boys were cruel! ''^ And satisfied with the wisdom of 
 this conclusion, the Desboroucrhs intrusted their darl- 
 
RETRIBUTION. 191 
 
 ing to Doctor Scanaway, with the request that " he 
 might be treated with every possible indulgence." 
 
 ''No," said the learned linguist, loudly and sternly, 
 " not if he was heir-presumptive to the dukedom of 
 Devonshire ! Your son you have thought proper to 
 place with me. For that preference I thank you. But 
 if he remains with me he must rough it like the rest. 
 You have still the power of withdrawing him." 
 
 Papa and Mamma Desborough looked at each other 
 in evident consternation, and stammered out a disjoint- 
 ed disclaimer of any such intention. 
 
 "Very well! — Coppinger," said he, calling one of 
 the senior boys, ''take this lad away with you into the 
 school-room and put a Livy into his hands. My pupils 
 I aim at making men, not milksops — scholars, not sim- 
 pletons. To do this I must have your entire confidence. 
 If that be withheld, your son's luggage is still in the 
 hall, and I beg that he and it may be again restored to 
 your carriage." 
 
 " By no means," cried the Desboroughs in a breath ; 
 and silenced, if not satisfied, they made their adieus 
 and departed. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 In Doctor Scanaway's household Vincent met with a 
 congenial spirit in the person of a youth some years his 
 senior named Gervaise Rolleston. Gervaise was a young 
 adventurer. He was clever, active, and prepossessing ; 
 but he was poor and dependent. lie discovered that, 
 
192 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 at no very distant period, accumulated wealth must des- 
 cend to Vincent, and he fancied that, by submitting to 
 his humors and flattering his follies, he might secure to 
 himself a home in rough weather. The other had no 
 objection to possess a faithful follower. In truth a clev- 
 er coadjutor was often indispensable for the successful 
 execution of his mischievous projects. Mutual neces- 
 sity thus proved a stringent bond to both ; and between 
 them a league was struck up, offensive and defensive, 
 which — like other leagues on a broader scale which are 
 supported by wealth and wickedness — was formidable 
 to all who opposed its designs and movements. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Domiciled in the little village of Horbury, over which 
 the learned doctor ruled with undisputed sway, was " a 
 widow humble of spirit and sad of heart, for of all the 
 ties of life one son alone was spared her ; and she loved 
 him with a melancholy love, for he was the likeness of 
 the lost." Moreover, he was the last of his race, the 
 only surviving pledge of a union too happy to endure ; 
 and the widow, while she gazed on him vv'ith that air of 
 resigned sorrow peculiar to her countenance — an air 
 which had banished the smile, but not the sweetness, 
 from her lips — felt that in him were concentrated all 
 the ties which bound her to existence. 
 
 " Send Cyril to me," said the doctor to Mrs Dormer, 
 when he called to welcome her to the village. " No 
 
RETRIBUTION. ]93 
 
 thanks — I knew his father — respected him — loved 
 him. I like an old family — belong to one myself, 
 thoLiorh I have still to learn the benefit it has been to 
 
 me 
 
 I " 
 
 "I fear," replied the widow, timidly, for the recol- 
 lection of very limited resources smote painfully across 
 her, " at least I feel the requisite pecuniary consider- 
 ation " 
 
 " He shall pay when he's a fellow of his college — 
 shall never know it before ! You've nothing to do with 
 it — but THEN I shall exact it! We will dine in his 
 rooms at Trinity, and he shall lionize us over the build- 
 ing. I have long wished to see Dr. Wordsworth — 
 good man — sound scholar ! — but have been too busy 
 these last twenty years to manage it. It's a bargain, 
 then? You'll send him to-morrow?" 
 
 And the affectionate interest which the doctor took 
 in little Cyril, the pains he bestowed on his progress, 
 and the evident anxiety with which he watched and 
 aided the developement of his mind, were one among 
 the many fine traits of character which belonged to this 
 warmhearted but unpolished humorist. 
 
 To Dormer, for some undefinable reason, Desbo- 
 rough had conceived the most violent aversion. Nei- 
 ther the youth of the little orphan, nor his patient en- 
 durance of insult, nor the readiness with which he for- 
 gave, nor the blamelessness of his own disposition, 
 served to disarm the ferocity of his tormentor. Desbo- 
 rough, to use his own w ords, was " resolved to drive the 
 little pauper from their community, or tease his very 
 heart out." 
 
 p * 
 
194 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 His love for his mother, his fair and effeminate ap- 
 pearance, his slender figure, and diminutive stature, 
 were the objects of his tormentor's incessant attack. 
 *• Complain, Dormer — complain at home," was the ad- 
 vice given him by more than one of his class-fellows. 
 
 " It would only grieve my mother," he replied, in his 
 plaintive musical voice, "and she has had much, — 
 oh! so much — to distress her. I might, too, lose my 
 present advantages; and the good doctor is so very, very 
 lenient to me. Besides, surely, Desborough will be- 
 come kinder by and by, even if he does not grow weary 
 of ill-treating me." 
 
 And thus cheered by Hope, the little martyr strug- 
 gled on, and suffered in silence. 
 
 The 4th of September was the doctor's birthday, and 
 was invariably kept as a sort of Saturnalia by all under 
 his roof. The day — ahvays too short — was devoted 
 to cricket, and revelry, and manly sports ; and a mead- 
 ow at the back of the shrubbery, which, from its being 
 low and marshy, Vv'as drained by dykes of all dimen- 
 sions, was a favorite resort of those who were expert at 
 leaping with a pole. The whole party were in motion 
 at an early hour, and Cyril among the rest. Either 
 purposely or accidentally he was separated from the 
 others, and, on a sudden, he found himself alone with 
 Desborough and Rolleston. " Come, you little cow- 
 ard," said the former, " leap this dyke." 
 
 "■ I cannot, it is too broad : and, besides, it is very 
 deep." 
 
 " Cannot ? You mean will not. But you shall be 
 made. Leap it, sir, this inf?tant." 
 
RETRIBUTIOX. 195 
 
 "I cannot — Indeed I cannot. Do not force me to 
 try it ; it is deep, and 1 cannot swim." 
 
 '' Then learn now. Leap it, you little wretch ! Leap 
 it, I say, or I '11 throw you in. Seize him, Rolleston. 
 We '11 teach him obedience." 
 
 "Promise me, then, that you will help me out," said 
 the little fellow, entreatingly, and in accents that would 
 have moved most hearts : " promise me, do promise me, 
 for I feel sure I shall fail." 
 
 " We promise you," said the confederates, and they 
 exchanged glances. The helpless victim trembled — 
 turned pale. Perhaps the recollection of his doting and 
 v.'idowed parent came across him, and unnerved his lit- 
 tle heart. " Let me off, Desborough ; jjray let me off," 
 he murmured. 
 
 " No ! you little dastard, no ! Over ! or I throw you 
 in ! " 
 
 The fierce glance of Desborough's eye, and the men- 
 ace of his manner, determined him. He took a short 
 run, and then boldly sprang from the bank. His mis- 
 givings were well-founded. The pole snapped, and in 
 an instant he was in the middle of the stream. 
 
 "Help! help! Your promise, Desborough — your 
 promise ! " 
 
 With a mocking laugh, Desborough turned away. 
 " Help yourself, my fine fellow ! Scramble out : it's 
 not deep. A kitten would n't drown ! " And Rolles- 
 ton, in whom better feelings for the moment seemed to 
 struggle, and who appeared half inclined to return to 
 the bank and give his aid, he dragged forcibly away 
 The little fellow eyed their movements, and seemed to 
 
196 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 feel his fate was determined. He clasped his hands, 
 and uttered no farther cry for assistance. The words 
 " Mother ! mother ! " were heard to escape him ; and 
 once, and only once, did his long wavy golden hair 
 come up above the surface for the moment. But though 
 no human ear heeded the death-cry of that innocent 
 child, and no human heart responded to it, the Great 
 Spirit had his observant eye fixed on the little victim, 
 and quickly terminated his experience of care and sor- 
 row, by a summons to that world where the heavy la- 
 den hear no more the voice of the oppressor, and the 
 pure in heart behold their God ! 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The grief of the mother was frightful to witness. 
 Her softness and sweetness of character, the patience 
 with which she had endured sorrow and reverses, the 
 cheerfulness with which she had submitted to the priva- 
 tions attendant on very limited resources, had given 
 place to unwonted vehemence and sternness. She cursed 
 the destroyers of her child in the bitterness of her soul. 
 " God will avenge me ! His frown will darken their 
 path to their dying hour. As the blood of Abel cried 
 up from the ground against the first murderer, so the 
 blood of my Cyril calls fcr vengeance on those who sac- 
 rificed him. I shall see it, — I shall see it. The mea- 
 sure meted out by them to others, shall be measured unto 
 them as^ahi." It was in vain that kind-hearted nei^h- 
 
RETRIBUTION. 107 
 
 bois suggested to her topics of consolation. She 
 mourned as one tliat would not be comforted. " The 
 only child of his mother, and she a widow 1 '' was her 
 invariable reply. " No ! For me there is nought but 
 quenchless regrets and ceaseless weeping ! " Among 
 those who tendered their friendly offices was the warm- 
 hearted doctor. Indifferent to his approach and in ap- 
 pearance lost to every thing else around her, she was 
 sitting among Cyril's books — inspecting his little draw- 
 ings — arranging his playthings — and apparently care- 
 fully collecting together every object, however trivial, 
 with which his loved memory could be associated. 
 
 To the doctor's kind though tremulous inquiries she 
 had but one reply — " Alone — alone in the tcorld." 
 
 His offer of a home in his own house was declined 
 with the remark — " My summer is so nearly over it 
 matters not where the leaves fall." 
 
 And when he pressed her under any circumstances to 
 entertain the offer made through him — by a wealthy 
 kinsman of her husband — of a shelter under his roof 
 for any period, however protracted — "Too late! too 
 late!" was her answer — ''^ Amhition is cold icith the 
 ashes of those we love ! " 
 
 But the feelings of the mourner had been painfully 
 exasperated by the result of a previous inquiry. An 
 inquest was indispensable; and rumor — we may say 
 facts — spoke so loudly against Desborough, that his 
 parents hurried to Horbury, prepared at any pecuniary 
 sacrifice to extricate him from the obloquy which threat- 
 ened him. Money judiciously bestowed will effect im- 
 possibilities ; and the foreman of the jury — a bustling, 
 
198 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 clamorous, spouting democrat — who was always el- 
 oquent on the wrongs of his fellow-men, and kept the 
 while a most watchful eye to his own interests — be- 
 came on a sudden " thoroughly satisfied that Mr. Vin- 
 cent Desborough had been cruelly calumniated," and 
 that the whole affair was " a matter of accident alto- 
 gether." 
 
 A verdict to that effect was accordingly returned ! 
 
 The unhappy mother heard the report of these pro- 
 ceedings, and it seemed to scorch her very soul. 
 
 " The covetous, craving, earth-worm I " she cried. 
 " He thinks he has this day clenched a most successful 
 bargain ! But no ! from this hour the face of God is 
 against him ! Can it be otherwise ? He that jiistijieth 
 the wicked, and condcmneth the just, are they not both 
 equal abomination in the sight of God 1 For years the 
 wickedness of this hour will be present before the 
 Great, Just Spirit, and will draw down a curse on 
 his every project. I am as confident of it as if I saw 
 the whole course of this man's after life spread out be- 
 fore me. Henceforth God fights against him!'^ 
 
 It was a curious coincidence, the solution of which 
 is left to better casuists than myself, that from the hour 
 in which he was bribed to smother inquiry, and throw a 
 shield over crime, misfortune and reverses in unbroken 
 succession assailed him. His property melted away 
 from his grasp with unexampled rapidity. And when, a 
 few years afterwards, the kinsman, already alluded to, 
 left poor Dormer's mother a small annuity, it so chanced 
 as she quitted the vestry with the requisite certificates 
 of birth and marriage in her hands, she encountered 
 
RETRIBUTION. 199 
 
 this very juror in the custody of the parish officers, who 
 were bringing him before the proper authorities to swear 
 hiin to his settlement, and then obtain an order to pass 
 him forthwith to the parish workhouse. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A few years after tlie melancholy scene at Horbury, 
 Desborough was admitted at Cambridge. He was the 
 sporting man of a non-reading college. Around him 
 were gathered all the coaching, betting, driving, racing 
 characters of the University — the *' Varmint 7ncn," as 
 they called themselves — " The DeviVs Oivn,'^ as others 
 named them. It was a melancholy sojourn for Desbo- 
 rough. The strictness of academical rule put down 
 every attempt at a cockpit, a badger hunt, or a bull bait. 
 It was a painfully momentous life ; and to enliven it he 
 got up a rat-hunt. Appertaining to him was a little 
 knowing dog, with a sharp quick eye, and a short curled 
 up tail, who Avas discovered to have an invaluable an- 
 tipathy to rats, and an iHiparalleled facility in despatch- 
 ing them. What discovery could be more opportune ! 
 Rat-hunts wiled away many a lagging hour ; and the 
 squeaks, and shrieks, and shouts, which on these occa- 
 sions issued from Desborough's rooms, were pronounced 
 by the senior tutor " quite irregular ; " and by the 
 master to be '' by no means in keeping with the gravity 
 cf college discipline.'' To the joy of all the staid and 
 
200 RETRIBUTIO.V. 
 
 sober members of the society these sounds at length 
 were hushed, for Desborough quitted the University. 
 
 *' What a happy riddance ! " said, on the morning of 
 liis departure, a junior fellow who had had the misfor- 
 tune to domicile on the same staircase. *' His rooms 
 had invariably such an unsavory smell that it was quite 
 disagreeable to pass them ! " 
 
 ** And would you believe it," cried another, who 
 used to excruciate the ears of those above and below 
 him by the most rasping inflictions on a tuneless fiddle ; 
 " would you believe it, after the noise and uproar with 
 which his rooms were familiar, that whenever I began 
 one of those sweetly soothing airs of Bellini, his gyp 
 used to come to me with his master's compliments, and 
 he was sorry to disturb me, but really the noise in my 
 rooms — fancy — the noise ! was so great that he was 
 unable to read while it lasted ! " 
 
 " He was so little accomplished — played the worst 
 rubber of any man I ever knew," observed the dean, 
 with great gravity. 
 
 '' He carved so badly! " said the bursar. *' He has 
 often deprived me of my appetite by the manner in 
 which he helped me ! " 
 
 *' And was so cruel ! " added the president, who was 
 cursed with a tabby mania. " Poor Fatima could nev- 
 er take her walk across the quadrangle without being 
 worried by one or the other of his vile terriers." 
 
 ** The deliverance is great," cried the musical man, 
 *' and Heaven be praised for it ! " 
 
 " Amen ! " said the ether two ; " but good Heavens ! 
 we have missed the dinner hell ! " 
 
RETRIBUTION. 201 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Ill a fair and fertile valley, where the nightingales are 
 to be heard earlier and later in the year than in any 
 other part of England — where the first bursting of the 
 buds is seen in the spring — where no rigor of the sea- 
 sons can ever be felt — where every thing seems formed 
 for precluding the very thought of wickedness, lived a 
 loved and venerated clergyman with his only daughter. 
 
 He belonged to a most distinguished family, and had 
 surrendered brilliant prospects to embrace the profes- 
 sion of his choice. And right nobly had he adorned 
 it ! And she — the companion of his late and early 
 hours — his confidante — guide — almoner — consoler, 
 — was a young, fair, and innocent being, whose heart 
 was a stranger to duplicity, and her tongue to guile. 
 
 His guide and consoler was she in the truest sense of 
 the term. He was blind. While comforting in his dy- 
 ing moments an old and valued parishioner, Mr. Som- 
 erset had caught the infection ; and the fever settling 
 in his eyes had deprived him of vision. 
 
 " I will be your curate," said the affectionate girl, 
 v/hen the old man, under the pressure of this calamity, 
 talked of retiring altogether from duty. The prayers, 
 and psalms and lessons you have long known by heart ; 
 and your addresses, as you call them, we all prefer to 
 your written sermons. Pray — pray — accept of me as 
 your curate, and make a trial of my services in guid- 
 
202 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 ing and prompting you, ere you surrender your beloved 
 charge to a stranger." 
 
 " It would break my heart to do so," said the old 
 man faintly. 
 
 The experiment was made, and succeeded, and it 
 was delightful to see that fair-haired, bright-eyed girl 
 steadying her father's tottering steps — prompting him 
 in the service when his memory failed — guiding him 
 to and from the sanctuary, and watching over him with 
 the truest and tenderest affection — an affection which 
 no wealth could purchase, and no remuneration repay, 
 for it sp'rung from heartfelt and devoted attachment. 
 
 Satiated with pleasure and shattered in constitution, 
 a stranger came to seek health in this sheltered spot. 
 It was Desborough. Neither the youth, nor the beauty, 
 nor the innocence of Edith availed her against the 
 snares and sophistry of this unprincipled man. She 
 fell — but under circumstances of the most unparalleled 
 duplicity. She fell — tlie victim of the most tremend- 
 ous perfidy and the dupe of the most carefully veiled 
 villany. She fell — and was deserted! "Importune 
 me no more as to marriage," was the closing remark of 
 Vincent's last letter — ''your own conduct has ren- 
 dered that impossible." That declaration was her death- 
 blow. She read it, and never looked up again. The 
 springs of life seemed frozen within her; and w^ithout 
 any apparent disease she faded gradually away. 
 
 " I am justly punished," was the remark of her heart- 
 broken father when the dreadful secret was disclosed to 
 him. " My idol is withdrawn from me ! Ministering 
 
RETRIBUTrON. 203 
 
 at HIS altar, nought should have been dear to me but 
 HIM ! But lead me to her, I can yet bless her." 
 
 The parting interview between that parent and child 
 will never be forgotten by those who witnessed it. The 
 aged minister wept and prayed — and prayed and wept, 
 — over his parting child, with an earnestness and agony, 
 that " bowed the hearts of all who heard him like the 
 heart of one man." 
 
 "Is there hope for me, father?" said the dying girl. 
 "Can I — can I be forgiven ? Will not — oh ! will not 
 our separation be eternal? " 
 
 " Though sin abounded," was the almost inarticulate 
 reply, " grace did much more abound. The blood of 
 Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin." 
 
 " We shall not be long parted," was his remark when 
 those Avho watched around the dying bed told him he 
 had no longer a daughter. " The summons has arrived ; 
 and the last tie which bound me to earth is broken." 
 
 Acting upon this conviction, he commenced and com- 
 pleted the arrangements for the disposition of his little 
 property with an earnestness and alacrity they could 
 well understand who had witnessed his blameless ca- 
 reer. 
 
 The evening previous to that appointed for the funer- 
 al of his daughter, he said to those who had the man- 
 agement of it — " Grant the last, the closing request of 
 your old pastor. Postpone the funeral for a few hours. 
 I ask no more. A short delay — and one service and 
 one grave will suffice for both." 
 
 His words were prophetic. The morrow's sun he 
 
204 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 never saw ; and on the following Sunday, amid the tears 
 of a bereaved people, father and daughter were calmly 
 deposited in one common grave. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 In the interim how had the world sped with Gervaise 
 Rolleston ? Bravely ! He had become a thriving and 
 a prosperous gentleman. There are two modes, says 
 an old writer, of obtaining distinction. The eagle 
 soars, tlie serpent climbs. The latter mode was the one 
 adopted by Rolleston. He was an adroit flatterer ; pos- 
 sessed the happy art of making those ^vhom he ad- 
 dressed pleased w ith themselves ; had a thorough knowl- 
 edge of tact, and always said the right thing in the 
 right place. All his acquaintance called him " a very 
 rising young man." And for "a very rising young man" 
 he held a most convenient creed. For to forget all ben- 
 efits, and conceal the remembrance of all injuries, are 
 maxims by which adventurers lose their honor but 
 make their fortunes. In a happy hour he contrived to 
 secure the acquaintance of Lord Meriden. His Lord- 
 ship was an amiable, but moody, valetudinarian who 
 had no resources in himself and was entirely dependent 
 on the good offices of others. Rolleston was the very 
 man for him. He was a fair punster — told a good sto- 
 ry — sung a capital song — played well at chess and 
 billiards, and most unaccountably was always beaten at 
 both — could read aloud by the hour together — and 
 
RETRIBUTION. 205 
 
 never took offence. To all these accomplishments, nat- 
 ural and acquired, he added one most valuable qualifi- 
 cation, which was in constant exercise — the most pro- 
 found respect for Lord Meriden. And how true is it 
 that " we love those who admire us more than those 
 whom we admire ? " 
 
 Rolleston's advice, presence, and conversation be- 
 came to Lord Meriden indispensable. And when or- 
 dered abroad, by those who foresaw that he would die 
 under their hands if he remained at home, the sick no- 
 bleman's first care was that Rolleston should accompa- 
 ny him. He did so ; and played his part so successfully, 
 that in " remembrance of his disinterested attentions," 
 Lord Meriden bequeathed to him the whole of his per- 
 sonal property. His carriages, horses, plate, yacht, all 
 were willed by the generous nobleman to his pliant 
 fivorite. In the vessel which had thus become his 
 own, Rolleston embarked for England. It was a proud 
 moment for his aspiring spirit. He was returning to 
 those shores an independent and opulent man, which he 
 had quitted fifteen months before a penny] ess adventurer. 
 His family, apprized of his good fortune, hurried down 
 to Ryde to receive him on his arrival. They vied with 
 each other in the length and ardor of their consrratula- 
 tions. By the way, what extraordinary and overpower- 
 ing affection is invariably evinced by all the members of 
 a family towards that branch of it which unexpectedly 
 attains wealth or distinction ! The " Fairy Queen " was 
 telegraphed — was signalled — hove in sight — passed 
 gallantly on — and all the Rollestons, great and small, 
 
 Q - 
 
206 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 pressed down to the pier to welcome this " dear, good, 
 worthy, accomplished, and excellent young man." 
 
 At the very instant of nearing the pier, in the bustle 
 and confusion of the moment, Rolleston was sent over- 
 board. Some said that he was overbalanced by a sud- 
 den lurch of the vessel — others, that he was struck by 
 the jib-boom. One staid and respectable spectator pos- 
 itively affirmed that he had observed a sailor, to whose 
 wife, it seemed, Rolleston had, some months before, of- 
 fered insult, rush violently against him, with the evident 
 intention of injuring him ; and this account, strange 
 as it appeared, gained considerable credence. The fact, 
 however, was indisputable. He struggled bravely for a 
 few moments with the eddy that sweeps around the pier 
 — then struck out boldly for the shore, waved his hand 
 in recognition of his agonized family, who were almost 
 within speaking distance, and in a moment sunk to rise 
 no more. 
 
 For many days his anguished mother lingered at Ryde, 
 in the hope of rescuing the body from the deep ; and 
 large was the. reward promised to those who should suc- 
 ceed in bringing her the perishing remains. So many 
 days had elapsed in fruitless search, that hope was fad- 
 ing into despair, when one morning a lady in deep mourn- 
 ing inquired for Mrs. Rolleston. On being admitted 
 to her presence, — 
 
 "I am the bearer," said she, ''of welcome intelli- 
 gence : I have this morning discovered on the beach, at 
 some distance, the body of your son, Gervaise Rolles- 
 ton." 
 
 " How know you that it is he ? " 
 
RETRIBUTION'. ^07 
 
 " I cannot be mistaken ! " 
 
 " Are his features, then, familiar to you 1 " 
 
 " Familiar ! I am the mother of Cyril Dormer ! " 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 It is painful to observe how soon the dead are forgot- 
 ten. The tide of fashion, or business, or pleasure, rolls 
 on, — rapidly obliterates the memory of the departed, 
 — and sweeps away with it the attention of the mourner 
 to the ruling folly of the hour. 
 
 " There poesy and love came not, 
 It is a world of stone ; 
 The grave is bought — is closed — forgot, 
 And then life hurries on." 
 
 Engrossed in the all-important duty of securing the 
 property which had been bequeathed to their son, and 
 which, as he had left no will, there was some probabili- 
 ty of their losing, the Rollestons had completely for- 
 gotten him by whose subservience it had been acquired. 
 At length it occurred to them that some monument was 
 due ; or, at all events, that a headstone should be raised 
 over him who slept beneath the yew tree in Brading 
 churchyard ; and directions were given accordingly. 
 Their intentions had been anticipated. A head-stone 
 had been erected — when or by whom no one could or 
 cared to divulge. But there it was. It bore the sim- 
 ple inscription of the name of the departed — the day 
 
208 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 of birth and the day of death ; with this remarkable 
 addition, in large and striking letters : — '' with the 
 
 SAME MEASURE THAT YE METE WITHAL, IT SHALL BE 
 MEASURED TO YOU AGAIN." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Some years after the circumstances detailed in the 
 last chapter, a gentleman, in military undress, was des- 
 cried riding slowly into the village of Beechbury. The 
 size and architecture of the village church had appar- 
 ently arrested his attention, and he drew bridle sudden- 
 ly, to make inquiries of a peasant, who was returning 
 from his daily toil. 
 
 " Ay ! it's a fine church, though I can 't say I trou- 
 bles it very much myself," was the reply. " There's a 
 mort of fine munnimcnts in it beside. All Lord Somer- 
 set's folks be buried there : and 'twas but last Martin- 
 mas that they brought here old parson Somerset and his 
 daughter all the way from a churchyard t' other side 
 Dartmoor, because ye see they belong to 'cm : and these 
 great folks choose to be altogether. It 's a grand vault 
 they have ! But here 's Moulder, the sexton, coming 
 anent us, and he'll tell as much and more than ye may 
 care to hear." 
 
 The name of Somerset seemed to jar harshly on the 
 stranger's car ; and dismounting hastily, he demanded 
 of the sexton, " whether he could show him the interior 
 of the church at that hour?" 
 
RETRIBUTION. 209 
 
 "Certainly," was the reply. — "Turn to the right, 
 and I will overtake you with the keys before you reach 
 the west door." 
 
 The church \yas one of considerable magnitude and 
 surpassing beauty. It was built in the form of a cross, 
 and had formerly been the chapel of a wealthy monastic 
 order, suppressed at the period of the Reformation. Near 
 the altar was a shrine, once the resort of pilgrims from 
 every clime, from its enclosing a fragment of the true 
 cross. You approached it by an isle which was literal- 
 ly a floor of tombstones, inlaid in brass with the forms 
 of the departed. Mitres, and crosiers, and spears, and 
 helmets were all mingled together — emblems of con- 
 quests, and honors, and dignities, which had long since 
 passed away. The setting sun cast his mellow radiance 
 through the richly painted western window, and tipped 
 with living lustre many of the monuments of the line of 
 Somerset. Some of the figures were of the size of life, 
 and finely sculptured. And as the restless and agitated 
 stranger gazed on them, they seemed to reply to his 
 questioning glance, and slowly murmur, — *' All on 
 earth is but for a period ; joy and grief, triumph and 
 desolation, succeed each other like cloud and sunshine ! 
 Care and sorrow, change and vicissitude, we have prov- 
 ed like thee. Fight the good fight of faith as we. 
 Brave the combat, speed the race, and stem the storm 
 of life ; and in God's own good time thou, like us, shalt 
 rest.'' 
 
 " I wish," said the stranger, when he had traversed 
 the church, " to descend into the Somerset vault. It 's 
 
210 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 a sickly, foolish fancy of mine ; but I choose to gratify 
 it. Which is the door ? " 
 
 " Nay, that 's no part of our bargain," said the sexton, 
 doggedly ; '' you go not there." 
 
 " I am not accustomed to refusals, when I state my 
 wishes," said the soldier, fiercely and haughtily. '' Lead 
 the way, old man." 
 
 "Not for the Indies! It's as much as my place is 
 worth. Our present rector is one of the most particu- 
 lar parsons that ever peered from a pulpit. He talks 
 about the sanctity of the dead in a way that makes one 
 stare. Besides, it is the burial place of all his family." 
 
 " The very reason for which I wish to see it.' 
 
 " Not with my will," said Moulder, firmly. '' Be- 
 sides, there 's nothing to see, — nothing but lead cofiins, 
 on my life ! " 
 
 " Here," cried the stranger. And he placed a piece 
 of gold on the sexton's trembling palm. 
 
 " I dare not, sir ; indeed, I dare not," said the latter, 
 entreatingly, as if he felt the temptation was more than 
 he could resist. 
 
 " Another," said his companion, and a second piece 
 of the same potent metal glittered in the old man's 
 grasp. 
 
 '' Well," said Moulder, drawing a long and heavy 
 sigh, " if you must you must ! I would rather you 
 would n't, — I 'm sure no good will come of it, — but if 
 
 you insist upon it, sir, — if you insist upon it," and 
 
 slowly and reluctantly he unclosed the ponderous door 
 which opened into the vault. 
 
 The burial-place of the Somersets was large and im- 
 
 I 
 
RETRIBUTION. 211 
 
 posing. It was evidently of antique construction and 
 very considerable extent. Escutcheons, shields, hatch- 
 ments, and helmets, were ranged around the walls, all 
 referring to those who were calmly sleeping within its 
 gloomy recesses, while coffins, pile upon pile, occupied 
 the centre. One single window or spiracle of fifteen 
 inches in diameter passed upwards, through the thick 
 masonry, to the external air beyond, and one of those 
 short massive pillars which we sometimes see in the 
 crypts of very ancient churches, stood in the centre and 
 supported the roof 
 
 " Well, sir, you are about satisfied, I take it," said 
 the sexton, coaxingly to his companion, after the latter 
 had taken a long, minute, and silent survey of the 
 scene around him. 
 
 '' No ! no ! " 
 
 '' Why, how long would you wish to remahi here ? " 
 
 " At least an hour." 
 
 " An hour ! I can't stay, sir, really I can't, all that 
 time ! And to leave the church, and, what 's worse, 
 the vault open, — it 's a thing not to be thought of I I 
 cannot, — and, what 's more, I will not." 
 
 " Dotard ! then lock me in, I say ! Do what you 
 v/ill. But leave me." 
 
 " Leave you ! Lock you in ! And here ! God 
 bless you, sir ! you can't be aware," 
 
 " Leave me ! — leave me ! " said the stranger impetu- 
 ously ; and he drew the door towards him as he spoke. 
 
 " What ! would you be locked up and left alone with 
 them dead Som V 
 
 " Go, — and release me in an hour." 
 
212 RETRIBUTIO.V. 
 
 Ill amazement at the stranger's mien, air of command, 
 courage, and choice, Moulder departed. " The Jcljy 
 Beggars" lay in his way tiome, and the door stood so 
 invitingly open, and the sounds of mirth and good-fel- 
 lov.'ship which thence issued were so attractive, that he 
 could not resist the temptation of washing away the 
 cares of the day in a cool pint, were it only to drink the 
 stranger's health. 
 
 This indulgence Prloulder repeated so frequently as at 
 length to lose all recollection of the stranger, of the 
 vault, and of his appointment, and it was only late on 
 the morning of the following day, when the wife asked 
 him " if he had come honestly by ivhat ivas in his pocket?'''' 
 that in agony he remembered his prisoner. 
 
 Trembling in every limb, and apprehending he knew 
 not what, he hurried to the church and unlccked the 
 vault. 
 
 The spectacle which there awaited him haunted the 
 old man to his dying day. The remains of the stranger 
 vv-ere before him, but so marred — so mutilated — so 
 disfigured — that no feature could be recognised even 
 by the nearest relative. 
 
 Rats in thousands and in myriads had assailed him, 
 and by his broken sword and the multitudes which lay 
 dead around him, it was plain his resistance had been 
 gallant and protracted. But it availed not. Little of 
 him remained, and that little was in a state which it was 
 painful for humanity to gaze upon. 
 
 Among the many who pressed forward to view the ap- 
 palling spectacle was an elderly female much beloved in 
 the village for her kindly, and gentle, and compassionate 
 
RETRIBLTIO-V. 213 
 
 heart, and to her the sexton handed a small memoran- 
 dum-book which had somehow or other escaped com- 
 plete destruction. 
 
 Upon the papers it contained the old lady looked long 
 and anxiously, and when she spoke, it was in accents of 
 unusual emotion. 
 
 " These," she said, " are the remains of Colonel Vin- 
 cent Desborough. May he meet with that mercy on 
 High which on earth he refused to others ! " The old la- 
 dy paused and wept, and the villagers did homage to her 
 grief by observing a respectful silence. They all knew 
 and loved her. '' This spectacle," she continued, " opens 
 up fountains of grief which I thought were long since 
 dry ; but chiefly and mainly decs it teach me that the 
 measure we mete out to others is measured unto us 
 ao-ain. " 
 
214 
 
 THE MUSICAL BOX. 
 
 My little friend, 't is a stormy day, 
 
 But we are left together; 
 1 to listen, and thou to play. 
 
 So we '11 not heed the weather ! 
 The clouds may rise, and the tempest come 
 
 The wind and the rain may beat — 
 With thee to gently play " Siceet Home ! " 
 
 I feel that home is sweet ! 
 
 The yellow leaf, from the shivering tree, 
 
 On Autumn's blast is flying ; 
 But a spirit of life, enshrined in thee, 
 
 While all abroad is dying. 
 Calls up the shadows of many a year. 
 
 With their joys that w^ere bright as brief; 
 And if, perchance, it may start a tear, 
 
 'T is not the tear of grief. 
 
 'T is a hallowed offering of the soul, 
 
 From her richest fountain gushing — 
 A warm, live drop, that has spurned control, 
 
 To the eye for freedom rushing — 
 As Music's angel, hovering near. 
 
 To touch thy tender key. 
 The numbers of a higher sphere 
 
 Is pouring forth from thee. 
 
THE MUSICAL BOX. 215 
 
 And while I feel his powerful hand 
 
 O'er the chords of Memory sweeping, 
 To waken, and bring from a spirit-land 
 
 The things that had else been sleeping, 
 It lifts my thoughts to a world to come, 
 
 Where the parted here shall meet, 
 Secure from the storms of life, at home. 
 
 And sing that home is sweet ! 
 
816 
 
 COME HOME. 
 
 Come home 1 — there is a sorrowing breath 
 
 la music since ye went, 
 And the early flower-scents wander by, 
 
 With mournful memories blent. 
 The tones in every household voice 
 
 Are grown more sad and deep, 
 And the sweet word — brother — wakes a wish 
 
 To turn aside and weep. 
 
 O ye Beloved ! come home, — the hour 
 
 Of many a greeting tone. 
 The time of hearth-light and of song, 
 
 Returns — and ye are gone ! 
 And darkly, heavily it falls 
 
 On the forsaken room. 
 Burdening the heart with tenderness, 
 
 That deepens 'midst the gloom. 
 
 Where finds it you^ ye wandering ones 
 
 With all your boyhood's glee 
 Untamed, beneath the desert's palm, 
 
 Or on the lone mid-sea ^ 
 By stormy hills of battles old ? 
 
 Or where dark rivers foam .-' 
 Oh ! life is dim where ye are not — 
 
 Back, ye beloved, come home ! 
 
 J 
 
COME HOME. 217 
 
 Come with the leaves and winds of spring, 
 
 And swift birds, o'er the main ! 
 Our love is grown too sorrowful — 
 
 Bring us its youth again ! 
 Bring the glad tones to music back ! 
 
 Still, still your home is fair, 
 The spirit of your sunny life 
 
 Alone is wanting there ! 
 
 R* 
 
 I 
 
218 
 
 THE MERRY HEART. 
 
 I WOULD not from the wise require 
 
 The lumber of their learned lore ; 
 
 Nor would I from the rich desire 
 
 A single counter of their store. 
 
 For I have ease, and I have health, 
 
 And I have spirits, light as air; 
 
 And more than wisdom, more than wealth, 
 
 A merry heart, that laughs at care. 
 
 At once, 't is true, two 'witching eyes 
 Surprised me in a luckless season. 
 Turned all my mirth to lonely sighs. 
 And quite subdued my better reason. 
 Yet 't was but love could make me grieve. 
 And love you know 's a reason fair. 
 And much improved, as I believe, 
 The merry heart, that laughed at care. 
 
 So now from idle wishes clear 
 I make the good I may not find ; 
 Adown the stream I gently steer. 
 And shift my sail with everj- wind. 
 And half by nature, half by reason, 
 Can still with pliant heart prepare. 
 The mind, attuned to every season, 
 The merry heart, that laughs at care. 
 
THE MERRY HEART. 219 
 
 Yet, wrap me in your sweetest dream, 
 Ye social feelings of the mind. 
 Give, sometimes give, your sunny gleam, 
 And let the rest good-humor find. 
 Yes, let me hail and welcome give 
 To every joy my lot may share. 
 And pleased and pleasing let mc live 
 With merry heart, that laughs at care. 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
230 
 
 AN INCIDENT VERSIFIED. 
 
 Far in the South there is a jutting ledge 
 
 Of rocks, scarce peering o'er the water's edge, 
 
 Wliere earliest come the fresh Atlantic gales, 
 
 That in their course have filled a thousand sails, 
 
 And brushed for leagues and leagues the Atlantic deep 
 
 Till now they make the nimble spirit leap 
 
 Beneath their lifeful and renewing breath, 
 
 And stir it like the ocean depths beneath. 
 
 Two that were strangers to that sunny land, 
 
 And to each other, met upon this strand ; 
 
 One seemed to keep so slight a hold of life. 
 
 That when he willed, without the spirit's strife, 
 
 He might let go — a flower upon a ledge 
 
 Of verdant meadow by a river's edge, 
 
 Which ever loosens with its treacherous flow 
 
 In gradual lapse the moistened soil below ; 
 
 While to the last in beauty and in bloom 
 
 That flower is scattering incense o'er its tomb, 
 
 And with the dews upon it, and the breath 
 
 Of the fresh n^orning round it, sinks to death. 
 
 They met ihe following daj'-, and many more 
 They paced together this low ridge of shore, 
 Till one fair eve, the other, with intent 
 To lure him out, unto his chamber went: 
 But straight retired again with noiseless pace. 
 For with a subtle gauze flnng o'er his face 
 
AN INCIDEiNT VERSIFIED. 221 
 
 Upon his bed he lay, serene and still 
 
 And quiet, even as one who takes his fill 
 
 Of a delight he does not fear to lose. 
 
 So blest he seemed, the other could not choose 
 
 To wake him, but went down the narrow stair ; 
 
 And when he met an aged attendant there, 
 
 She ceased her work to tell him — when he said. 
 
 Her patient then on happy slumber fed, 
 
 But that anon he would return once more, — 
 
 Her inmate had expired an hour before. 
 
 I know not by what chance he thus was thrown 
 On a far shore, untended and alone. 
 To live or die; for, as I after learned. 
 There were in England many hearts that yearned 
 To know his safety, and such tears were shed 
 For him as grace the living and the dead. 
 
22:3 
 
 THE ITALIAN EXILE. 
 
 When the minstrel is sorrowful, sad is the lay — 
 You may smile on his song, but his soul is away ; 
 For no theme can excite this cold fancy of mine, 
 So far from the land of the Olive and Vine. 
 
 There passion breathes out from the lyre and the lute, 
 And the voice of their melody never is mute ; 
 Love stamps on the forehead of Beauty its seal. 
 On cheeks that can burn and on hearts that can feel. 
 
 Years vanish — their trace on my brow you behold. 
 Arid my heart has to beauty grown careless and cold 
 Yet of all sweet impressions that linger there yet, 
 The daughters of Florence it last will forget. 
 
 Ye Pilgrims of Beauty, from barbarous lands, 
 Behold where the model of loveliness stands ; 
 Go, kneel by the marble, if marble it seem, 
 And Love, with its torch, will illumine your dream. 
 
 Lost thoughts of your youth will that statue renew ; 
 You will muse on the home of the faithful and true. 
 Where never can come disappointment or care, 
 And the beings arc pure as that image is fair. 
 
THE ITALIAN EXILE. 223 
 
 Italy ! Italy ! never again 
 
 May the minstrel revisit thy mountain and plain, 
 
 Yet a vision of bliss on his slumber there breaks, 
 
 But to dream of thy shores, though an exile, he wakes. 
 
 Thy present is beautiful ; great was thy past; 
 May the future restore thee to greatness at last ! 
 The home of my fathers ! the land of the sun ! 
 Honored though distant, and dear though undone. 
 
224 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 There is an evening twilight of the heart, 
 
 "When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest ; 
 
 And the eye views life's fairy scenes depart, 
 
 As fades the day-beam in the rosy west. 
 
 'T is with a nameless feeling of regret 
 
 We gaze upon them as they melt av/ay ; 
 
 And fondly would we bid them linger yet, 
 
 But hope is round us with her angel lay, 
 
 Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour ; 
 
 Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early pov/er. 
 
 In youth, the cheek was crimsoned witli her glow, 
 
 Her smile was loveliest then; — her matin song 
 
 Was Heaven's own music, and the note of wo 
 
 Was all unheard her Eden bowers among. 
 
 Life's little world of bliss was newly born : 
 
 We knew not — cared not — it was born to die — 
 
 Flushed with the breeze : wet with the dews of morn ; 
 
 With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky. 
 
 And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blue — 
 
 Like our own sorrows ihen, as fleeting and as few. 
 
 And manhood felt her sway too : On the eye 
 Half realized her early dreams burst bright; 
 Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh, 
 Its days of joy, ij^vigils of delight; 
 And though at times miglit lour the thunder storm, 
 And the red lightnings threaten — still the air 
 
STANZAS. 225 
 
 Was balmy with her breath ; and her loved form, 
 
 The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there. 
 
 'T is in life's noontide she is nearest seen ; 
 
 Pier wreath, the summer flower ; her robe, of summer green. 
 
 But, though less dazzling in her twilight dress. 
 
 There 's more of heaven's pure beam about her now ; 
 
 That angel smile of tranquil loveliness 
 
 Which the mind dreams of, glowing on her brow ; 
 
 That smile will mingle with the evening star 
 
 That points our destined tomb ; nor e'er depart 
 
 'Till the faint light of life is fled afar. 
 
 And hush'd the last deep beating of the heart. 
 
 The meteor bearer of our parting breath — 
 
 A moonbeam in the midnight storm of death. 
 
 THE KEEPSAKE. 
 
 The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil. 
 
 The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field, 
 
 Show summer gone, ere come. The fox-glove tall 
 
 Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust, 
 
 Or when it bends beneath th' up-springing lark, 
 
 Or mountain finch alighting. And the rose 
 
 (In vain the darling of successful love) 
 
 Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years, 
 
 The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. 
 
 Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk 
 
 By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side. 
 
 That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, 
 
 Hope's gentle gem, the ev.'eet Forget-me-not ! 
 
226 THE KEEPSAKE. 
 
 So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline 
 
 With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk 
 
 Has worked (the flowers which most she knew I loved,) 
 
 And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair. 
 
 In the cool morning tv/ilight, early waked 
 By her full bosom's joyous restlessness, 
 Softly she rose, and lightly stole along, 
 Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower. 
 Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, 
 Over their dim, fast-moving shadows hung, 
 Making a quiet image of disquiet 
 In the smooth, scarcely-moving river-pool. 
 There, in that bower where first she owned her love, 
 And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy 
 From off" her glowing cheek, she sate and stretched 
 The silk upon the frame, and worked her name 
 Between the moss-rose and forget-me-not — 
 Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair ! 
 That forced to wander till sweet spring return, 
 I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look. 
 Her voice, (that even in her mirthful mood 
 Has made me wish to steal away and weep,) 
 Nor yet th' entrancement of that maiden kiss 
 With which she promised, that when spring returned, 
 She would resign one half of tliat dear name, 
 And own thenceforth no other name but mine I 
 
9^. /^ • yS^ 
 
927 
 
 THE OLD MILL. 
 
 And is this the old mill stream that ten years ago 
 Was so fast in its current, so pure in its flow ; 
 Whose musical waters would" ripple and shine 
 With the glory and dash of a miniature Rhine ? 
 
 Can this be its bed ? 1 remember it well 
 
 When it sparkled like silver through meadow and dell ; 
 
 When the pet-lamb reposed on its emerald side, 
 
 And the minnow and perch darted swift through its tide. 
 
 And here was the miller's house, peaceful abode ! 
 
 Where the flower-twined porch drew all eyes from the road ; 
 
 Where roses and jasmine embowered a door 
 
 That never was closed to the wayworn or poor. 
 
 Where the miller, God bless him ! oft gave us " a dance," 
 And led off" the ball with his soul in his glance ; 
 Who, forgetting gray hairs, was as loud in his mirth 
 As the veriest youngsters that circled his hearth. 
 
 Blind Ralph was the only musician we had. 
 
 But his tunes — oh ! such tunes — would make any heart glad ; 
 
 " The Roast Beef of Old England," and " Green grow the 
 
 Rushes," 
 Woke our eyes' brightest beams and our cheeks' warmest 
 
 flushes. 
 
 No lustre resplendent its brilliancy shed. 
 
 But the wood fire blazed high, and the board was well spread ; 
 Our seats were undamasked, our partners were rough. 
 Yet, yet we were happy, and that was enough ! 
 
228 THE OLD MILL. 
 
 This is the old mill where we idled away 
 Our holjday hours on a clear summer day ; 
 Where Roger, the miller's boy, lolled on a sack, 
 And chorused his song to the merry click-clack. 
 
 But, lo ! what rude sacrilege here hath done ? 
 
 The streamlet no longer purls on in the sun ; 
 
 Its course has been turned, and the desolate edge 
 
 Is now mournfully covered with d1.ick-weed and sedge. 
 
 The Mill is in ruins. — No welcoming sound 
 
 In the mastiff's quick bark and the wheels dashing round 
 
 The house, too, is gone, and all 's in decay. 
 
 And the miller, long dead : all I loved passed away ! 
 
 This play-place of childhood was graved on my heart, 
 In rare paradise colors that now must depart ; 
 The old mill 's in decay, thfe fair vision is fled, — 
 And I weep o'er its wreck as I do for the dead. 
 
229 
 
 THE LANSBYS OE LANSBY HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A BLEAK January day had settled down into a night 
 of continued snow. Every now and then a wilder gust 
 of wind made the windows of the old manor-house rat- 
 tle, and the party assembled in the dining-room draw 
 closer to the fire. This consisted only of Mr. Merton, 
 the proprietor of Merton Manor — a quiet, sedate look- 
 ing gentleman of about fifty years of age — his wife and 
 daughter. The weather seemed to forbid the slightest 
 chance of a visiter, and after a silent and somewhat hur- 
 ried dinner, the squire drew a little round table to the 
 side of the chimney, and sipt his wine, with his eyes 
 intently fixed upon the burning masses of wood with 
 which the fire-place was filled. After an unsuccessful 
 attempt to discover a body to a splendid Turk, whose 
 head he saw frowning majestically from a fragment of a 
 pine log, he turned about in despair to his wife, and 
 said, " I really wish, my dear, my father had taught me 
 something or other to do in a snowy winter night. 
 Drinking by one's self is so desperately dull." 
 
 " Can't you take a book, Mr. Merton?" replied the 
 lady; "here is a most beautiful story, * The Woes of 
 Clementina ; ' it will make you delightfully melancholy 
 for a whole night." 
 
230 THE LANSEYS OF LANSBY HALL 
 
 " No great miracle if it does, especially in such a dis- 
 mal night as this. I have n't seen a soul for three days, 
 and if this snow continues for twelve hours, we shall all 
 be buried alive. What would 1 give now for some fellow 
 to drop in ! Bat who the deuce would move out in a 
 storm like this, that could possibly stay at home?" 
 
 Mr. Merton sighed as he concluded, and made a sec- 
 ond attempt to discover the body of the Turk. But he 
 was suddenly startled from this occupation by a noise 
 outside the window. 
 
 " Wheels, by all that's happy! " he exclaimed. " I 
 hear them coming down the avenue. There — they're 
 come past the bridge — now they're at the garden cor- 
 ner — they're stopt — they're at the gate. Yv'ho can it 
 be?" 
 
 " I told the butcher, as he returned from the market, 
 to bring me the third volume of The Orphan's Tears 
 from Ihe circulating library. I hope he has brought it 
 in his ffig." 
 
 " I hope no such thing. I wish the scoundrel may 
 drive into the mote if he has raised all my hopes for 
 nothing ; but no — it was a four wheeled carriage. 
 ^ Why do n't some of them go to the door ? " 
 
 A bustle was now heard in the hall — somebody cer- 
 tainly came in, — the words great-coat, portmanteau, 
 bed-room, were heard in the dining-room, — the door 
 was thrown open, and in walked Mr. Nathaniel Clack, 
 the very oldest friend Mr. Merton had in the world. 
 
 "Merton! my boy," exclaimed the visiter, as he 
 shook hands with the whole party, " how goes it, eh? 
 
THE LANSBYS OF LANSBY HALL. 231 
 
 Capital night this for a visit — bad weather always 
 makes a fellow so welcome." 
 
 " It does n't need bad weather, Nat, to make you wel- 
 come here." 
 
 "■ Or any where else faith, if the truth must be spoken. 
 No, no — hop here — chirp a little — skip there — gos- 
 sip a little — never stay long in the same place — talk, 
 dance, laugh — any thing by way of a laric — then off 
 like a shot the first glimpse I catch of the dismals." 
 
 " Ah, that 's the way to enjoy life ! You bachelors 
 can fly about just as it pleases you. Where do you come 
 from last ? " 
 
 " From Harry Grumps's. You can't think what a 
 queer old fellow he's grown. No more racket, no more 
 whim — dull as a Dutchman — and yet can't help pun- 
 ning even in his bluest fits, and with such a miserable 
 long face, that you are satisfied, if punning is a crime, 
 he is doing penance for it in the moment of conimission. 
 We had capital fun for two days." 
 
 " What ! even though Mr. Grumps was so melan- 
 choly ? " said Mrs. Merton. 
 
 "To be sure, — the very thing that kept us happy. 
 There is nothing half so amusing as a fellow continually 
 croaking, — wishing the weather would clear up, — 
 that somebody would come in, — that he had a liking 
 for books, — in short, regularly non-plussed for want of 
 something to do. I always make a point of ridiculing 
 such absurd hypochondriacs." 
 
 " Do you?" said Mr. Merton, poking off the TurV's 
 head ; " but you tired of it at last? " 
 
 " Why, yes, two days are quite enough ; so, as it was 
 
23'2 THE LANSBYS OF LANSBY HALL. 
 
 a miserably bleak, raw, and gusty morning, I ordered 
 my phaeton, and drove across the six-and-thirty miles, 
 to bestow a little of my tediousness on you. Have you 
 any news? " 
 
 " No, I do n't think any thing has happened since I 
 saw you last. I think I told you I changed my gray 
 horse for a black one." 
 
 "Yes, so have I my w^ig, — don't you see what a 
 magnificent Brutus I am, — in fact, gray hair is very un- 
 becoming, and is only fit, as the Psalmist says, to go 
 down with sorrow to the grave." 
 
 " Well, really, if you had n't told us it was a wig " 
 
 " My dear madam, don't go on. Do give us some- 
 thing original. I 've heard that a dozen times, and 
 never believed it a bit the more. What would be the 
 use of wearing a wig, if nobody knew it to be one 1 
 No, no, — this is a coat, that a boot, and this is a wig." 
 
 " Well, Nat, I'm happy to see you, wig or no wig, 
 and here 's your health." 
 
 " That 's not original, — do let us hear something 
 new. I would travel from Dan to Beersheba to hear 
 something out of the common way ; but all mankind 
 , seem set on the same key. Touch any note of the in- 
 strument, it gives out exactly the same tone." 
 
 " By the by, Nat, do you know that Lansby Hall has 
 at last got a purchaser ? " 
 
 "To be sure I do, — every body knows it, — eighty 
 thousand down, and forty more in three months." 
 
 " Who is it ? " interrupted Mrs. Merton ; " we do n't 
 even know his name." 
 
THE LA.NSEYS OF LANSBY IIALL. 233 
 
 " Oho, — do n't you 1 — why, 't is a man of the name 
 of Merivale. No one can tell where he comes from, — 
 immensely rich, — nobody can imagine how he got his 
 money. In short, he 's quite a mystery." 
 
 " Is he old or young '? " continued the lady. 
 
 '^Young ! quite a young fellow, — my own age, — fif- 
 ty or so." 
 
 ''Tall or short?" 
 
 " Oh, he 's not a long overgrown monster of six feet, 
 I can assure you. I heard, indeed, he was a very hand- 
 some, dignified-looking individual, — grave, striking, 
 distinguished. I should take him to be somewhere 
 about my own height." 
 
 The lady smiled. " Have you seen him ? " she said. 
 
 "No, not I; but we were all talking about him so 
 much at Grumps's, that I should be sure to know him if 
 we met on Mount Caucasus." 
 
 " And his manege ? his establishment ? " 
 
 " Grand ! magnificent ! carriages without number, — 
 horses enough for a battalion of the guards. When 
 shall we go over and call on him ? " 
 
 "Is he arrived already? It isn't above a fortnight 
 since he bought the estate." 
 
 "Fortnight! pooh, man, what are you thinking of ? 
 Do n't you know that he carries the lamp of Aladdin in 
 his pocket, and can fit up a palace in a twinkling ? Half 
 the upholsterers, painters, paperers, architects, carpen- 
 ters, and masons in London, were down for a week, and 
 for the last five days the proprietor has been living in a 
 fairy palace a hundred times richer and more gorgeous 
 than the pavilion of an Eastern king." 
 
234 THE LANSBYS OF LANSBY HALL. 
 
 " The devil he has ! and I all the time cooped up by 
 the snow ! I '11 go over to-morrow and ask him to din- 
 ner next week." 
 
 " But his wife, Mr. Clack, has he a wife or children ?" 
 
 " Faith, ma'am, I do n't know ; if he has any thing oi 
 the sort, he keeps it very close. I rather think he 's a 
 bachelor, — the roc's egg is still wanting." 
 
 " My dear Nat," said Mr. Merton, " we are very 
 plain people ; what in the world would Mr. Merivale do 
 with a roc's egg, if he had it ? " 
 
 '' Metaphorical, — I was only metaphorical. You 
 recollect, after the fairies had filled Aladdin's palace 
 with every luxury he could possibly desire, his enemy 
 the conjuror got him persuaded to ask for a roc's egg, 
 which would have turned every thing topsy turvy, and 
 led him the life of a dog ; the roc's egg is only an alle- 
 gory, and means, — a wife." 
 
 "And old Lansby, old Sir "Walter, what has become 
 of him ? " 
 
 " Ah, there, I think, he 's very foolish ; he has re- 
 moved to the Springfield farm, the only spot of ground 
 left him, and I believe he continues to be as stiff, and 
 vain, and heartless as ever." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Merton, " I like him the better for 
 it. It shows there is some good stuff in him to keep 
 up his pride in the fall of his fortunes. I never liked 
 him as lonpr as he was at the hall ; I think I '11 go and 
 
 o 'is 
 
 call on him now he's at the farm." 
 
 " I like that ; something original there. I'll go with 
 you. I should like to see Marius moralizing in a stack- 
 
THE LANSBYS OF LANSBY HALL. 235 
 
 yard, but I think 't would have been wiser to have placed 
 his Carthage a little farther off." 
 
 " Some more of your metaphors, Nat. Now, I think 
 he shows his wisdom in fixing his quarters under the 
 very nose of his successor. All men hate their succes- 
 sors." 
 
 " And you may depend upon it, Sir Walter will not 
 be deficient in hating " 
 
 " Surely, surely he won't hate Frank Merivale," said 
 Miss Mary Merton, who had been silently listening to 
 the conversation. 
 
 "And why not, my little sweetheart? and how do 
 you know any thing of Mr. Merivale ? and how do you 
 know that his name is Frank? Ha! there's some 
 mystery here." 
 
 Mr. Nathaniel, as he asked these questions, fixed his 
 looks upon the young lady with the most penetrating 
 expression he could muster, for it was one of his weak- 
 nesses, like Dr. Parr, to think that he had a wonderful 
 power of eye ; though, like the ocular organs of that 
 vast pedagogue, the glances of the ungenerous Nat were 
 at all times rather ludicrous than commanding. 
 
 Oh! I merely thought — that is — I think — his 
 name — didn't you tell us his name yourself, Mr. 
 Clack?" replied Miss Mary, stammering and blushing. 
 
 "His name, yes I certainly told you his name; but 
 not, that I recollect of, his Christian appellation — but 
 Frank is a very good name ; so, as I was saying, de- 
 pend upon it old Sir Walter will hate him with most 
 praiseworthy bitterness, whatever be the name he rejoi- 
 ces in. He certainly is the most revolting old vinegar- 
 
236 THE LANSBYS OF LANSBY HALL. 
 
 faced rascal I ever met. I can't bring myself to utter 
 a syllable beyond the commonplaces of society in pres- 
 ence of such a starched, stifF-rump'd, cold, authorita- 
 tive dictator." 
 
 " Well, that's very odd, fori always thought you re- 
 markably agreeable when Sir Walter dined with us," 
 said Mr. Merton, utterly unconscious of the severity of 
 this speech. 
 
 *' Sir Walter was certaiidy very stiff and formal," con- 
 tinued his lady, equally unobservant of Mr. Nathaniel's 
 chagrin ; " but I have always heard he was a very re- 
 spectable man." 
 
 " Exactly. Wlienever you hear of a respectable man, 
 write him down an individual to be studiously avoided. 
 Sir Walter is the very perfection of a respectable man, 
 spotless character, regular conduct, church twice every 
 Sunday. People, after all, are very good natured, and 
 give a man credit for being virtuous, merely because he 
 has never been convicted of a crime. Now, if a wild 
 young fellow like me, for instance'' 
 
 " Yes, Nat, the world is very censorious sometimes. 
 You recollect what a noise there v>^as when you broke 
 off with the Lancashire heiress? " 
 
 "Recollect it? to be sure I do. They said 1 was 
 wild, cruel, fickle, vain ; 'pon my honor I was nothing 
 of the kind. I certainly paid the girl a great deal of 
 attention, and we certainly appeared to be mutually at- 
 tached, but you know, my dear madam'' . 
 
 "Oh yes," replied Mrs. Merton, "I know all about 
 it. She was engaged all the time to her handsome 
 cousin, and tried to hide it by flirtins" with you. I think 
 
THE LANSBYS OF LA^'SBY HALL. 237 
 
 it was very improper beliavior, and that you were great- 
 ly to be pitied, for I remember ill-natured people laughed 
 at you very much." 
 
 The little man looked very much disconcerted by this 
 uncomplimentary version of the anecdote, which never- 
 theless was the true one, and took no notice of the la- 
 dy's observation. '' And who lives with old Lansby ? " 
 he went on, turning to Mr. Merton. 
 
 "Only his daughter, Miss Julia." 
 
 "Tall and straight as a poplar tree," replied Mr. 
 Nat — " the father in petticoats, with the same coldness, 
 stiffness, pride ; they must be quite happy in each oth- 
 er's society." 
 
 " They are ! " exclaimed Miss Mary, whose fair brow 
 had for some time been gathering with a frown; "it 
 can only be the weak and the frivolous who can accuse 
 Julia Lansby of coldness or pride. There never was a 
 nobler girl in the world ; so meek, so humble, so self- 
 denying, and at the same time so beautiful. Every new 
 misfortune that befals the family seems only to call forth 
 new powers to enable her to support it. 
 
 "Hem," replied Mr. Nathaniel, "we've got into 
 dangerous ground here. I assure you, my dear Miss 
 Mary, I meant no disrespect to your excellent and amia- 
 ble friend. She may be all you say, and a thousand 
 things more, only don't you allow yourself that in gen- 
 eral society she is a little stately or so ; a little haughty 
 as it were — and imperial ? For my own part, I prefer 
 livelier sorts of beauties — people Vvho are ready to 
 laugh, and occasionally descend from their stilts — Miss 
 Lansby's smile" 
 
 T 
 
233 THE LANSBYS OF LANSBY HALL. 
 
 "Is beautiful," interrupted Miss Mary. 
 
 "Maybe so — but 'pon honor, when she smiles in 
 answer to any observation I make to her, I can't help 
 thinking that there's a kind of a — sort of a — don't 
 you remark ? — a kind of pity as it were, or almost — 
 as I may say — contempt" 
 
 " Oh no," said Mrs. Merton ; " I dare say a great 
 many young ladies do that when you speak to them, but 
 I am sure Miss Lansby is too amiable to despise any 
 thing, or, at all events, too well bred to show it," 
 
 " Well, thank God ! here comes my mutton chop," 
 exclaimed Mr. Nathaniel, quite discomfited by the un- 
 intentional hits he received from the one-idea'd Mrs. 
 Merton ; " and after 1 have finished it, I will join you, 
 my old fellow, in a single pint of claret." 
 
 " We shall be happy to see you in the drawing room," 
 replied the lady, and followed by her daughter, she left 
 the gentlemen to themselves. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The old man was sitting in a high backed oaken 
 chair, his hands folded before him, and his eyelids close- 
 ly pressed together, but evidently not in sleep — the 
 motions of his lips and the fitful contraction of his brow 
 showed that the spirit was busy within. At a table be- 
 side him sat a young lady, with a shade of settled mel- 
 ancholy visible on her subdued, yet noble features. 
 She turned her ryes every now and then from the pa- 
 
THE LANSBYS OF LANSBY HALL. Q33 
 
 per on which she appeared to be sketching, with an ex- 
 pression of anxious affection, to the troubled counten- 
 ance of her companion. The room they sat in was 
 small, and very plainly furnished — the sky was fierce 
 and stormy, and occasionally the old casements rattled 
 loudly when a wilder burst of wind than usual sent a 
 dash of sleet and hail against the window pane. The 
 old man started from his recumbent position and sat 
 upright, with his eye fixed keenly and harshly on the 
 pale, placid face of his daughter. "Julia, Lansby," he 
 said, "act the hypocrite no more — speak to me no 
 more in such soothing and gentle tones, but tell me at 
 once boldly and sincerely, that — that you hate me" — 
 
 "Father!" — 
 
 "There ! how dare yon call me father, which ought 
 to be a name of reverence, of piety, of love, when you 
 well know that in your heart of hearts you detest me as 
 a selfish, cold, unpitying old man 1 " 
 
 " You wrong me, father ! Never, even in thought, 
 has my affection wandered away from you. I have no 
 hopes, no wishes, no regret, save as they are connected 
 with your happiness. For my own " — here she sighed, 
 and added, after a pause, " I am contented if I only 
 could see you pleased with me — I have no other object 
 now." 
 
 " And why not now ? Is it because we are poor you 
 can no longer be cheerful as you used to be — because 
 we no longer see ' company,' as they call it, and have 
 our ball-rooms filled with the grinning sons .ind daugh- 
 ters of vanity ? The loss truly is great. I wonder not 
 at your despair." 
 
240 THE LAXSBYS OF LA>SBY HALL. 
 
 *' Oh, father, do not torture me by speaking so un- 
 kindly, You know that the loss of fortune, that poverty 
 itself, could never move my regrets." 
 
 " But you have deeper matters for sorrow," replied 
 the father, with an ironical sneer. "Oh, doubtless, you 
 have many more griefs to weigh you down than ever fell 
 upon me ; fortune ruined — ftmiily broken — hearth left 
 desolate — deserted by my own children, and supplant- 
 ed in my own ancestral halls by a purse-proud, insult- 
 ing villain, who " — 
 
 "No, not a villain, dear fiither, not a villain " — 
 
 " Yes, madam, a villain ; I say a proud, presumptions, 
 insensible villain. "What! and is Francis Lansby still 
 master of that silly heart? T charged you long ago to 
 dismiss him from your thoughts. Julia Lansby, why 
 have yoa not obeyed me ? " 
 
 " I have obeyed you, father, in all things possible. I 
 have submitted without a murmur to your commands. 
 I have given you my promise never to speak to him, to 
 write to him, to hear of him or from him, without your 
 consent ; and till tiiis extraordinary occurrence, I knew 
 not whether he was in England, or whether he was alive 
 or dead. 
 
 " And he thinks by coming down hither, and over- 
 powering us with his wealth and splendor, to make us re- 
 gret having rejected the alliance of so mighty an indi- 
 vidual as Mr. Francis Lansby Merivalc. Oh, had my 
 son but lived, my noble, handsome Harry" — Sir Wal- 
 ter put his hands before his eyes on saying this, and 
 leaned back in his chair, as if overcome with the bit- 
 terness of his reflections. And Julia was in hopes that 
 
THE LANSBYS OE LANSBY HALL. '^U 
 
 the irritation of his temper, which had lately increased 
 to a most distressing extent, would be soothed by the 
 indulgence of his grief. But she was mistaken. Again, 
 with the same cold, sarcastic sneer, he turned towards 
 his daughter, and said, " Your meekness and resigna- 
 tion are truly amiable — your love to your father is so 
 sincere — your gratitude for all his goodness to you un- 
 bounded He has squandered away his fortune, and 
 
 sunk the haughty lady of Lansby Hall into the inmate 
 of no loftier a dwelling than this, — you must be grate- 
 ful to him for having saved you from the perils of wealth. 
 He has charged you — and now still more solemnly than 
 ever charges you, to banish from your remembrance, 
 or to remember only with scorn and loathing, the wretch 
 who has risen upon our ruins, who looks on us — gra- 
 cious heavens — perhaps with pity, — but no — villain 
 as he is, he dares not to insult us with his pity.'' 
 
 *' What — what has he done to deserve your anger? 
 He thinks of you, I will answer for him, only as the 
 friend and benefactor of his youth." She paused, and 
 then added, with a tone of touching and solemn dig- 
 nity — " Francis liansby tliinks of you as my father." 
 
 " And as such he anscs me, or the Lansby blood has 
 turned to milk within his veins. What has he done, 
 you ask me? What has he ?iot done to baulk and in- 
 jure me? Does he not live? Is he not ' a gay and 
 prosperous gentleman,' with hope, fiime, happiness all 
 before him, while the golden locks of my noble Harry 
 are gone down into the dust? Why is mi/ son taken 
 
 T * 
 
242 THE LANSBYS OF LANSBY HALL. 
 
 from me, while fortune showers all her blessings upon 
 theirs ? " 
 
 Julia looked in her father's face as he uttered these 
 words; but withdrew her eyes, as if horror-struck with 
 the fierce malignity of his looks and language. 
 
 *' You shudder," he continued : "but it is not mad- 
 ness that makes me speak thus. See, I am cool; nay, 
 I can smile — and why should I not? Is not the story 
 I am now about to tell you a pleasant one? Come 
 hither, child, and listen. — I was an only son ; but my 
 father was afraid I should be spoiled, as only sons usu- 
 ally are, and had my cousin to live with me and treated 
 us in all respects alike. Our boyhood passed without 
 any occurrence to call forth our characters, except that, 
 probably from knowing his dependent situation, his 
 manners were so soft and insinuating, that they formed 
 a striking contrast to the manliness and independence 
 of mine. At college, to which we went together, and 
 where by my father's orders our intimacy was contin- 
 ued, we were called Lansby the proud and Lansby the 
 gentle. I confess I felt myself flattered by the distinc- 
 tion. We returned home; we haled each other. At 
 -all events, I can answer for myself; for him, I scarcely 
 think he had manliness enough to hate any thing. I\Iy 
 mother now was growing old. She had a companion 
 to reside with her. She was young and beautiful — - 
 surpassingly beautiful. She w^as a relation of my mcth- 
 er's — high born and poor. Ere long I preceived that 
 my cousin Edgar u^as passionately in love with Helen. 
 What right had he, tlie soft, the delicate, the gentle, to 
 lift his eyes to 30 glorious an object as Hr Icn Trevor 
 
THE I^ANSEYS OF LANSEY HALL, 243 
 
 1 loved her ; and it added to the intensity of my passion 
 to think how the insolence of my rival would be pun- 
 ished when I should ask the hand of the object of his 
 passion. I did ask her hand : she refused it, and asked 
 for my intercession with my father to secure his appro- 
 bation of her marriage with my cousin. From that 
 hour I hated both. Was I not justified ? But T was 
 revenged. Edgar was going into orders. My father 
 had promised him the family living ; the incumbent was 
 inlirm and old. They married ; I gave away the bride. 
 They lived the first half year of their marriage in this 
 very house. Here, in this very room, they sat and 
 gazed on each other in the first happiness of their mu- 
 tual fondness. My father died ; and, shortly after, the 
 living became vacant. This Francis was then about 
 tu'o months old. I called upon them, and told them of 
 the incumbent's death. I described the beauty of the 
 parsonage, the quietness of the village ; and when I 
 saw the young mother stooping down, and in the glad- 
 ness of her heart covering the child of Edgar Lansby 
 v/ith her kisses, I told them I had bestowed the living 
 upon another. You start — it was the first minute of 
 enjoyment I had had for years. But they still were 
 happy. I gave them notice that I had put another ten- 
 ant into Springfield. They left it ; he procured a cur- 
 acy in some distant part of the country. I married ; 
 and, even in the first months of matrimony, thought 
 much more of their happiness than my own. My Har- 
 ry was born, and yet I felt no diminution of my hatred. 
 At your birth I resolved, if possible, to repay to the son 
 the no-ony that had been inflicted on me by the parents. 
 
244 THE LANSBYS OF LANSBY HALL. 
 
 I have succeeded. One after another they died ; they 
 were poor and miserable. I adopted their orphan son ; 
 I made him the companion of my children ; I watched 
 the love that grew up between you, — and when I per- 
 ceived that it was too firmly settled in his heart to be 
 eradicated, I turned him loose upon the world. I feast- 
 ed on the agony of his looks, for in them I recalled the 
 expression of his mother. And now what has it all 
 come to ? My boy is dead ; and this wretch, this slave, 
 whom my bounty fed, is adopted by his mother's uncle, 
 has purchased every mortgage upon my estate ; and save 
 for one consuming sorrow, one passion which I know 
 from experience turns all his other feelings into gall and 
 bitterness, he would be too happy for a mortal — suc- 
 cessful in ambition, in love, and, above all in revenge. 
 
 Is n't this a pleasant sketch, and Ha ! what has my 
 
 madness done? Wretch, wretch! I have killed my 
 child ! " 
 
 He bent over the fainting girl with his hands clasped 
 in agony, and his whole being underwent a change. 
 Cruel and malignant as he had truly painted himself, 
 his love for his children was the overpowering passion 
 .of his mind. Since the death of his son, this love all 
 concentrated in his daughter ; and, however strange or 
 unnatural it may appear, the value he set on her, the 
 pride he took in her talents and beauty, were the very 
 considerations which prevented him from bestowing 
 them on any one whom, justly or unjustly, he had load- 
 ed with his hatred. He knew that, by the bar he had 
 placed between them, her happiness was as much sacri- 
 ficed as that of her cousin — and had she been inditfer- 
 
THE LANSCYS OF LAXSBY HALL. S45 
 
 ent to him he would not have condemned her to so 
 much misery. Hitherto, indeed, the noble behavior 
 of his daughter had deceived him. Her uncomplain- 
 ing meekness, her gentleness, and her dutiful submis- 
 sion to his will, had hidden from him the depth of the 
 sufferings she endured. And, unknown perhaps to him- 
 self, there was another ingredient in the bitterness of 
 the hatred which he professed to entertain for Francis 
 Lansby. Since the astonishing change in their respect- 
 ive situations, her former lover had made no efforts to 
 discover that his affection for Julia was unchanged. 
 The thought of his being able to forget his daughter 
 was more galling to Sir Walter's disposition than even 
 his marrying her would have been. 
 
 " Waken, Julia ! rouse yourself, my child ; I spoke 
 too bitterly ; misfortune has made me mad. I hate him 
 not." Whilst he uttered these exclamations Julia slow- 
 ly recovered, and looked at her father with a faint smile 
 as if to thank him for his attempts to comfort her. 
 " But he has forgotten us," he continued; "he thinks 
 not of us — and why, since he has banished you from 
 his memory, do you continue to waste a thought on 
 him ? " 
 
 Ere Julia Lansby had time to reply, Mr. Nathaniel 
 Clack bustled into the room, followed more slowly by 
 his friend Mr. Merton, and exclaimed, " Ha ! some- 
 thing uncommon here. How do, Sir Walter ? Miss 
 Julia, how d'ye do? Any thing happened, Miss Julia? " 
 
 " Miss Julia Lansby is suffering from a slight indis- 
 position," replied Sir Walter, assuming even more than 
 his usual stiffness and hauteur. 
 
24G THE LANSBYS OF LANSBY HALI/. 
 
 " Change of air — nothing like change of air for re- 
 covering strength. I recollect an old rascal in my own 
 village, capital fortune once, never moved from home, 
 bad health, nervousness, pride, anger, and all that ; lost 
 his fortune, went to another house, moved about, bus- 
 tled immensely, 'gad you can't tell what a good-natured 
 sort of fellow the old curmudgeon became." Mr. Nat 
 went on relating this not very well-chosen anecdote, 
 disregarding for a time the eye of the proud old man, 
 as it was fixed upon him with the most withering expres- 
 sion of contempt. At last he perceived it, stammered 
 a little, sank his voice, and, after several attempts to 
 clear his throat, stood mute. In the mean time Mr. 
 Merton had been paying his compliments to Miss 
 Julia, and now addressed himself to Sir Walter. 
 
 " Well, Sir Walter, I hope, as we are nearer neigh- 
 bors than we used to be, we shall see more of each 
 other. My Mary has begged me to make a strong en- 
 treaty for a visit from Miss Julia." 
 
 " If Julia would have pleasure in leaving her father 
 at this time, she has my full consent. It would ill be- 
 come me to interfere with the enjoyments of the young 
 and careless." 
 
 - " Oh ! if you can't spare her, of course poor Mary 
 would never have preferred her request. She knows 
 Julia's admirable qualities as a daughter too well for 
 that." 
 
 " Does she? And does she indeed suppose that I am 
 so selfish as to immure her in a desolate place like this, 
 merely because I would not be alone? Julia, you shall 
 return with Mr. Merton." 
 
THE LANSBYS OF LANSEY HALL. 247 
 
 " You are lonely here, father — the days are dull and 
 dark. It would be better " 
 
 "I have said it. You shall visit Mary Merton ; I 
 shall probably have business to arrange with the new 
 proprietor of the Hail, and perhaps it may be better 
 managed in your absence. Will you return her to me 
 in a week ? " 
 
 "Certainly — and in the mean time I hope the soci- 
 ety of her old friends will be of use to her. It is use- 
 less, Sir Walter, to ask you to dine with me on Thurs- 
 day next ? I intend to invite Mr. Merivale." 
 
 "Merivale? and you ask me to meet Mr. Merivale, 
 to dine with him, talk with him, hear his voice? what" — 
 
 " Oh, if I had knov/n it would have been unpleasant, 
 my dear Sir Walter, believe me I should never liave 
 mentioned the subject." 
 
 " On Thursday did you say? Have you seen him? '' 
 
 " No. We are just on our way to the Hall to pay 
 him our respects." 
 
 "On Thursday? He will certainly accept your in- 
 vitation. Julia, you will meet him ; I wish you to meet 
 him." 
 
 " Aha, Miss Julia," interrupted Mr. Clack, who had 
 by, this time recovered a portion of his volubility. " He 
 is quite a young fellow, I understand. Many odd things 
 have happened in that sort of way. Should n't be sur- 
 
 j)rised if" but the unfortunate Nathaniel was ao-ain 
 
 afflicted with a total incapacity to conclude his sen- 
 tence. 
 
 Visibly, as clouds over the sky, flitted dark meanings 
 across Sir Walter's features ; but bv an elTort he seemed 
 
248 THE LANSBYS OF LAKSBY HALL. 
 
 to restrain himself, and went on. " You shall stay with 
 Mrs. Merton till after Thursday ; and if you will allow 
 me to alter my mind, I will also join your party." 
 
 *' We shall be delighted, I am sure. Can Miss Julia 
 accompany us now ? My close carriage is at the door, 
 and on our return from the Hall we can guard her over 
 the snow." 
 
 Sir Yv^ alter bowed at this offer ; seemed to swallow 
 some proud speech he was about to make ; and with a 
 look of ineffable disdain to the now quite chop-f;illen 
 Mr. Nat, said — ''Miss Lansby has still a carriage. 
 She shall go to Merton Manor whenever her prepara- 
 tions are completed, and on Tharsday I shall see my 
 child again." 
 
 There was no gainsaying any thing advanced in the 
 authoritative manner -which Sir Walter habitually as- 
 sumed ; so, in a ^ew minutes, the gentlemen were on 
 their way to the Hall — Mr. Nathaniel Clack muttering 
 all the time curses not loud but deep, and feeling a re- 
 lief on leaving what he called the old tyrant's presence, 
 pretty much akin to what v/e should consider the sensa- 
 tions of a monkey, Vv^hich by some miracle has made its 
 escape fi-om a tiger's den. 
 
 CHAPTER IK. 
 
 " This, then, decides my fate for happiness or mis- 
 ery," said Mr. Francis Lansby Merivale, as he rose from 
 his writing-desk, where many piles of paper were ly- 
 inrr ia most admired disorder. "The e:-tate is once 
 
THE LANSBYS OF LAiVSBY HALL. 249 
 
 more disencumbered, and the directions of my benefac- 
 tor complied with, in restoring the old hall to its rightful 
 owner. What then? my cause is still more hopeless 
 than before. Even if 1 prove to him that it is the will 
 of the person leaving me this fortune that the property 
 should be returned into his hands, I know his indomita- 
 ble pride so well, that the gift Vv'ill be viewed as an in- 
 sult ; and without Julia, what happiness is it to me to 
 revel in useless wealth? Oh ! for the glorious days back 
 again when I was still the dependant of Sir Walter — 
 still the companion of my Julia ! " The packet, which 
 he folded up and directed to Springfield Farm, seemed 
 a very voluminous one. The letter which accompanied 
 it contained these words : — 
 
 " The estrangement of the last two years has not ob- 
 literated from my heart the kindness of the protector of 
 my childhood. With my whole heart I thank you for 
 the home you afforded me when other home there w^as 
 none for me to fly to ; and frown not if at this hour, be- 
 fore I banish myself for ever from the scene of all the 
 memories of my youth, I guard myself against any 
 suspicion of a wish to conciliate your favor by the step I 
 now take. The Lansby blood flows as proudly in my 
 veins as in your own. You would spurn me as I know 
 I should deserve to be spurned, if you f\mcied I had 
 endeavored to purchase a reconciliation. Deeply as I 
 should value your friendship, and unchanged as arc my 
 sentiments on a subject to which I cannot trust myself to 
 allude, I cannot, even if your favor were accorded me, 
 accept of it without an explanation of your conduct, 
 I tell you, Sir Walter Lansby, that your conduct has 
 u 
 
250 THE LAKSBIS OF LANSBY HALL. 
 
 been cruel and unjust. In the pursuit of a selfish grati- 
 fication you have ruined the happiness of the person 
 who ought to be — nay, I will do you the justice to ad- 
 mit, who is — the dearest to you on earth. Do you de- 
 ny it 1 Look to the wan cheek and wasting form of her 
 who was once — but enough of this. The estate is now 
 your own. The will of Mr. Merivale is enclosed for 
 your perusal. Think not that I entertain a thought that 
 this change in our positions will produce any change on 
 your determination. If you can go on inflicting, I will 
 show you that I can continue to suffer. From this hour 
 you shall hear of me no more; but neither time nor 
 distance shall make me forget for a moment the being 
 to whom I consider myself united in the sight of heav- 
 en. Sir Walter Lansby, she is mine by vows indissolu- 
 ble save in the grave, by affections which grew with our 
 p-rowth and are unchano-eable while the hearts which 
 nourished them continue to beat. But if it will add to the 
 piquancy of your triumph, I will not conceal from you 
 that you have driven me, as well as that other one, to 
 despair; that you have made life to me a desert, as it 
 has long been a solitude to her. And now what remains 
 forme? Wealth which I cannot enjoy; youth Avhich 
 will waste away in misery ; and, bitterer perhaps than 
 all, a consciousness that these injuries are inflicted by 
 one whom I have ever loved — and whom I have never 
 offended." 
 
 The Thursday appointed for the party at last arrived. 
 With a degree of secrecy which entirely eclipsed the 
 "Wonder" of Mrs. Centlivre's comedy, the two young 
 ladies had given no hint of the identity of young Frank 
 
THE LANSBYS OF LANSBY HALL. 251 
 
 Lansby and the present proprietor of the hall. Mr. 
 Merton and his friend Mr. Clack had been refased ad- 
 mittance on the morning of their call, and no answer 
 had been returned to the note of invitation which Mr. 
 Merton had despatched on the succeeding day. 
 
 '' Devilish queer fellow this Mr. Merivale," said Mr. 
 Nat. " lie might have sent an answ^er to a civil note at 
 all events, if he would n't let us into his cursed gimcrack 
 of a house; in the snow too. Well, hope he'll come 
 after all — drop in on us — something new in that — 
 eh?" 
 
 " Well, I hope he will; but I suspect the meeting 
 will be a very odd one between him and Sir Walter." 
 
 " D d old tyrant," muttered Nat. 
 
 " It will be very queer to see the first salutation ex- 
 changed between the old possessor and the new one." 
 
 *' Said the old Jackdaw to the young Jackdaw," in- 
 terrupted Mr. Clacl-^ 
 
 " Come, Nat, out with your best stories. Have all 
 your smiles and similies ready, for here some of the par- 
 ty come." 
 
 Sir Walter came among the rest ; stately, solemn, 
 stiff as ever. He paid his respects to the assembled 
 guests, then looked anxiously round for his daughter, 
 led her up to one of the windows, gazed earnestly into 
 her face, and clasping her in his arms, imprinted a kiss 
 upon her brow. 
 
 " Egad ! old Iceberg's beginning to thaw," whispered 
 Mr. Nat into the ear of Mary Merton, for already he 
 had begun to lose the power of very audible conversa- 
 tion. 
 
252 THE LANSEYS OF LANSBY HALL. 
 
 '* I am sorry Sir Walter," said Mr. Merton, " we are 
 disappointed of Mr. Merivale. It would have given me 
 great pleasure, though I have not the honor of knowing 
 him myself, to have been the medium of an introduction 
 between such near neighbors." 
 
 *' Not know him, Mr. Merton ? Well, in that case I 
 believe I have the advantage of you. I know him inti- 
 mately." Julia looked inquiringly, but unobserved, into 
 her father's face when he said this but the features were 
 as rigid and inflexible as ever. 
 
 Mr. Merton also must have thought there was some- 
 thing forbidding in his countenance, for he changed the 
 conversation as quickly as possible 
 
 '' I hope you can spare Julia to us a few days longer," 
 said Mrs. Merton. 
 
 *' Your kindness to my Julia is very great. We are 
 not ungrateful for it. But she returns with me to-night." 
 
 " To-night ? Oh I hope not." 
 
 " There are circumstances that require her immedi- 
 ate return to Lansby — to Springfield Farm I mean — 
 I sometimes forget how changed we are." 
 
 *' Oh, not to-night, Sir Walter. Mr. Merton or Mr. 
 Clack will be so happy to drive her over to-morrow." 
 
 *' There are persons in this neighborhood, madam, 
 who make it desirable that Miss Julia Lansby should be 
 under a father's eye." 
 
 " The cursed old Bashaw," said Mr. Nat, but this 
 time to himself; " confound me, if he doesn't think his 
 daughter may take a fancy to we." Mr. Nat gave a look 
 to the mirror, and pulled forward his wig. 
 
 But Julia knew too well the meaning of her father's 
 
THE LANSBYS OF LANSBY HALL. 253 
 
 Speech, With a sigh she resigned herself to her fate, 
 and going to the dining-room, Mary Merton thought she 
 saw the dark eyes of her friend moistened with tears. 
 
 What could have been the meaning of her father's 
 conduct in first forbidding her to think of Francis Lans- 
 by, and then in sending her to Merton Manor, for the 
 express purpose, as it were, of throwing her in his way ? 
 And why had Francis Lansby not come to see his old 
 friends the Mertons, even if he had had no expectation 
 of finding her there ? These, and five hundred other 
 thoughts, but all coming to the same hopeless conclu- 
 sion, occupied her all the time of dinner. There seemed 
 to be a universal dulness spread over the party. Even 
 Mr. Clack had very little conversation, and that only in 
 a whisper. The liveliest person of the party was Sir 
 Walter Lansby himself As if in bravado of his fallen 
 fortunes, he was more cheerful than ever he had been 
 in his palmiest days. But his daughter, who was ac- 
 quainted with all the phases of his character, saw that 
 his liveliness was assumed, and she dreaded the reaction 
 which was sure to follow so unnatural an effort. 
 
 But once the name of Merivale was mentioned, some 
 person casually inquired if there were not a Devonshire 
 family of that name distantly connected with the 
 Lansbys. 
 
 " There may be, sir," replied Sir Walter ; '' and as a 
 person said of his connections, the more disfant they 
 are the better." 
 
 The rareness of an attempt at humor on the ])art of 
 Sir Walter Lansby compensated for the poorness of its 
 quality. There was a general laugh at the reply. 
 
254 THE LANSBYS OF LANSBY HALL. 
 
 " Now, confound me," said Mr. Nat to his neighbor, 
 " if there is any thing to laugh at in what old Chro- 
 nonhoton has said. A man who has any reputation for 
 wit may say five thousand better things every hour of 
 the day, but really ^vitticisms from some people are so 
 common that people take no notice of them. But only 
 let a dull, formal, pedantic old blockhead give utterance 
 to the very oldest Joe Miller, and the thing strikes peo- 
 ple as a sort of miracle. The man will die a wit on 
 the reputation of a miserable story badly told." 
 
 The gentleman to whom Mr. Nathaniel addressed 
 himself, was not endowed with any superfluity of met- 
 aphysical acumen and looked most wonderfully con- 
 tented with Mr. Nat's explanation. 
 
 " Do n't you think so? " continued Mr. Clack. 
 
 " Think what, my dear sir ? '' 
 
 " Why, that the novelty or unexpectedness is every 
 thing. You do n't expect to see pigs play on the fid- 
 dle?" 
 
 ''No — who the devil does ? " 
 
 " Nor porcupines to make watches ? " 
 
 ''No." 
 
 " But if you saw porcupines making watches, or pigs 
 playing on fiddles, you would think it very remarkable, 
 wouldn't you? "' 
 
 " To be sure I should.'' 
 
 "Ah!" said Nat, quite triumphant, "I was certain 
 you would agree with me in thinking Sir Yv^alter's re- 
 joinder a very poor one." 
 
 The gentleman looked at Nat, and wondered very 
 much, but said nothincr. 
 
THE LANSBYS OF LANSBY HALL. 255 
 
 At length the tedious night wore on, and, greatly to 
 the satisfaction of the host and hostess, not to mention 
 the now reanimated Mr. Clack, " they walked alone the 
 banquet hall deserted." Julia saw by her father's man- 
 ner that something very unusual had either happened or 
 was about to happen. Her friend Mary Merton shared 
 in her apprehensions, and has very often mentioned her 
 fears, after she had heard of the catastrophe of that night. 
 Old Sir Walter sat moodily silent beside his daughter. 
 She, deeply absorbed in her own thoughts, took no no- 
 tice of the pace they were going at, or even of the car- 
 riage in which they were conveyed. At length her eye 
 caught the trees of the short avenue that led from the 
 road to Springfield farm ; but still the carriage rolled on. 
 She now began to observe that the chariot was very dif- 
 ferent from the one in which she had made her visit to 
 Merton Manor ; and on looking round to her father, for 
 every thing was visible by the light of a clear frosty 
 moon, she saw that he was intently watching her coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 " You don't ask me, Julia, where we are going," he 
 said ; " you see we have passed the farm." 
 
 " I saw we had passed it." 
 
 " And have you no wish to know where we arc 
 going ? " 
 
 " Where ? " 
 
 " To the hall. Where should Sir Walter Lansby 
 take his daughter to but to Lansby Hall ? " 
 
 Julia half shrieked as he said this, and now knew 
 that her worst fears were realized. 
 
 " Oh, not there ! " she cried, " not there ! " 
 
25G THE LANSBYS OF LANSBY HALL. 
 
 "And why not? Give me your hand, my daughter: 
 are you not safe in the protection of your father? " 
 
 " But Frank, — but Mr. Merivale " — 
 
 *' I will speak to him in the house of my ancestors 
 as they would wish me to speak." 
 
 The lodge at the gate was fall of lights ; the gate 
 wide open, and they rapidly approached the front door 
 of the hall. Julia, in an agony of apprehension, not di- 
 minished by her astonishment, suffered her father to lead 
 her through the vestibule, up the great staircase, along 
 the corridor, and, opening the door of the library, they 
 saw standing ready to receive them, Mr. Francis Lansby 
 Merivale. 
 
 Julia leant trembling on her father's arm — Frank 
 stood as if expecting Sir Walter to begin the conversa- 
 tion. He drew his daughter closer to him, paused for 
 a moment, then laying her hand within that of Francis 
 Lansby, said, — " Julia, your cousin — my children ! " 
 
 His own agitation prevented him from seeing the ef- 
 fect of his speech upon his daughter. "I told you, 
 Francis Lansby, when I called here in answer to the 
 letter you had sent me, with the documents restoring 
 this estate to me again, that to accept it was impossible, 
 unless for the purpose of conveying it to my child. My 
 pride is broken as by a thunderbolt. Take her. I 
 thought it was impossible for the hatred of a Lansby to 
 suffer decay — but, nay, no thanks, your letter was a just 
 reproof When the ceremony is over, I shall return to 
 the farm, and find consolation in reflecting that the son 
 of Helen Trevor is the happy husband of the daughter 
 of Walter Lansby." 
 
S57 
 
 EARLY DAYS. 
 
 Who, for all that age could bring 
 Would forget life's budding spring? 
 Hours of frolic ! school-boy days ! 
 Full of merry pranks and plays ; 
 When the untaught spirit beats 
 With a thousand wild conceits; 
 When each pleasure, bright and new, 
 Sparkles fresh with heavenly dewj 
 When the light that shines abroad, 
 Seems the very smile of God ; 
 Who, in after toil and strife. 
 Would forget the morn of life ? 
 
 Maturcr age brings riper thought. 
 Fills with nobler hopes the mind. 
 
 Seeks the truth by Prophets sought, 
 Toils to benefit mankind ; — 
 
 Yet who, mid all that age can bring, 
 
 Would forget life's budding spring ? 
 
 -s * « -^ * 
 
 New-born minds, untouched by sin. 
 
 Make the earth seem holy ground ; 
 Thus the innocence within 
 
 Sheds its light on all around, 
 Till the hills and flowers and streams 
 Are woven o'er with golden dreams. 
 How oft in youth 1 wandered out. 
 With bounding step and merry shout, 
 Running and leaping in the sun. 
 With heart brimful of joy and fun, 
 Till by degrees my eye grew mild, 
 
258 EARLY DAYS. 
 
 And I became less gay and wild, 
 
 And every thing by nature wrought 
 
 Awakened me to calmer thought, 
 
 And my young spirit, unaware. 
 
 Seemed lifted on the wings of prayer. 
 
 How oft beneath the shadows dim, 
 
 I sat beside the fountain's brim, 
 
 Watching the wild-wood flowers, which there 
 
 Breathed their sweet perfume to the air. 
 
 And saw each dew^-bent blossom shine 
 
 With something of a light divine ! 
 
 How oft I watched, with thoughtful eye, 
 The clouds that slowly wandered by. 
 Amid an atmosphere of blue. 
 With pearl and rose and amber hue. 
 And felt, as thus they went abroad. 
 They were the messengers of God ! 
 
 And when, upon the river's side, 
 I saw the silver waters glide ; 
 While my school-mate, half in play, 
 
 Watched the tranquil current flow, 
 And sought to draw the speckled prey. 
 
 From its native home below ; 
 How often have I felt the sight 
 Fill my whole being with delight. 
 While waves below and clouds above 
 Stirred my young heart to holy love ! 
 
 ^ * * Tt * 
 
 Then each scene, before me brought. 
 Did unfold some inward thought ; 
 Happy moments ! Golden hours ! 
 
 Pure and blessed joys of youth ! 
 Then I felt those inward powers. 
 
 That now pant for highest truth ! 
 Not for all that age can bring. 
 Would I forget Life's budding spring ! 
 
•259 
 
 THE NEAR SIGHTED LOYER. 
 
 Those who are born into the world with good eyes, 
 who descry afar the countenances of their friends, and 
 can distinguish across a church or a theatre, the turn of 
 a feature or the color of an eye, the fashion of a head- 
 dress or the shade of a riband; — Happy mortals I how 
 I envy them ; little do they know what a gift they pos- 
 sess, and scarcely can they imagine the utter wretched- 
 ness of being near sighted ! 
 
 Between bad eyes and no eyes at all, those are much 
 the most lucky who have no eyes at all. A blind man 
 is universally known and understood to be blind ; and 
 every body makes allowances accordingly. Let him be 
 ever so awkward, let him make the most ridiculous blun- 
 ders possible ; — he is blind ; he is an object of pity and 
 respect ; and should any one undertake to laugh at his 
 infirmities, such a violator of the sacred rights of mis- 
 fortune would be scouted from society with universal 
 execration. 
 
 But what pity was ever extended to the awkwardness 
 of the near-sighted ? or what pardon to their blunders ? 
 Good heavens ! I would walk barefoot, a thousand miles, 
 to kiss the latchet of that man's shoe, who has omitted 
 to laugh, when his near-sighted friend has mistaken a 
 crimson-colored pincushion for a peach, or a perfect 
 stranger for an old acquaintance. Such good nature as 
 
2G0 THE ISEAR SIGHTED LOVER. 
 
 this, could it any where be found, v/ould, indeed, be 
 worthy of the humblest homage. But it is impossible 
 to find it. The mistakes of the near-sighted man are 
 considered ftiir game; and many a man, — yes, and 
 many a woman, — who would blush at the thought of 
 ridiculing a withered arm or a club foot, will persecute, 
 with the most relentless spirit, a poor near-sighted wretch 
 who, on every rational principle, is as much entitled to 
 mercy as the halt or the crippled. 
 
 To expect a man, whose circle of vision does not ex- 
 lend three inches beyond his nose, to recognize you in 
 he streets, to find you out^ in the midst of a crow^ded 
 saloon, to return your nods at a lecture room or a thea- 
 tre, and to take as much notice of every thing that is 
 going on about him, as if his eyes were a couple of tele- 
 scopes, is just as unreasonable as to require a deaf man 
 to catch all our whispers, or a man with one leg to dance 
 a hornpipe. 
 
 The men sin in this respect ; but not half so much 
 as the ladies. Wilh all that softness, gentleness and 
 generosity, which fill the female bosom to overflowing, 
 it is well known how jealous is the softer sex of any 
 thing that looks like slight or neglect. To pass a lady 
 in the streets without knowing her, is a sin of no trifling 
 magnitude ; but a sin which the near-sighted are always 
 committing, and which tliey are always obliged to expiate 
 by some considerable penance. Is a lady dressed, on 
 any occasion, with peculiar taste, — and who ever knew 
 any lady, on any occasion, not to be so dressed? — at 
 least, in her own opinion ; — not to notice and praise it, 
 13 an omission, of which no man will be guilty, who 
 
THE AEAR SIGHTED LOVEPw 261 
 
 wishes to stand well with his female acquaintances. It 
 is a safe rule to praise always; but what risks does he 
 run, in attempting to praise, whose ej^es are so treacher- 
 ous, that he can tell neither the stuif nor the color of a 
 new dress, nor, indeed, whether the dress itself be an 
 old or a new one ? 
 
 To the grand misfortune of being near-sighted, I may 
 justly ascribe all the miseries of my miserable life. They 
 are numerous enough to fill a volume, or, as I ought 
 rather to say, — two volumes, as large and as closely 
 printed as the " Diary of a Physician," — and, in point 
 of distress, — solid and serious distress, — they outdo 
 the *' Diary of a Physician" altogether. 
 
 But as I have ahvays held it just and reasonable, for 
 every man to bear his own burdens, and not to oppress 
 his neighbors with unending tales of suffering and sor- 
 row, it is far from my intention to inflict the whole two 
 volumes, at once, upon the good nature of my readers. 
 I am content to select a single incident, — one individ- 
 ual item of the whole sum total of my distress ; and this 
 story, simply and sincerely told, to surrender my unhap- 
 py case to the sympathies of my fellow creatures ; not 
 however, with the vain expectation of universal pity; — 
 for the sneerer must have his sneer, and the jester his 
 joke, and the unfeeling, — can it be expected they will 
 feel? But certain I am, that there will be here and 
 there one, — a precious few, — a relict, a remnant, 
 that, having escaped the blighting influences of the 
 world, have still hearts to feel, and tears to shed. 
 
 It is, however, the sympathy of my female friends, 
 that I particularly expect ; — for the tale I have to tell, 
 
262 
 
 THE >EAR SIGHTED LOVER. 
 
 is the story of my first love. All Love ! it is impossi- 
 ble to mention thy name without an apostrophe, yet 
 scarce do I know in what terms to speak of thee ; — 
 thou curse ! — thou blessing ! — source of wo, spring of 
 delight, origin of all evil, fountain of every human 
 good ! no, — I will not curse thee. The pangs thou 
 raisest in the bosom of a disappointed lover, are worse 
 to bear than those endured by him, famous in ancient 
 story, whose heart was torn by insatiable vultures. But 
 once to have known thy joys, — to have been once in 
 love, — actually in love, — to have had that love re- 
 turned, — to have known it; — no matter how short a 
 dream it proved ; — no matter how soon dissipated by 
 thy own folly or the lady's fickleness ; — it is a sensa- 
 tion of pleasure, a draught of delight ; a rich, intoxica- 
 ting draught, worth a whole life of miserable, solitary 
 selfishness. But all this is nothing to my story. 
 
 Emma, — for so was the lady named, to whom I made 
 the first surrender of my heart, — was not commonly 
 reported beautiful. But I thought her so, and if I was 
 mistaken, — 'tis a mistake, — and the ladies may bless 
 their stars for it, — often made by lovers. Her figure 
 was slight and elegant, her complexion delicately pale, 
 her eyes and hair dark, her voice soft and musical ; and 
 there was a sweet smile playing from time to time about 
 her lips, that went directly to my heart. A near-sighted 
 man, does not descend much into particulars. He is 
 not very likely to be captivated by a pretty foot or a well 
 turned ancle, and a lady may sport a delicate hand a 
 whole evening, without his once taking notice of it. It 
 was not in this way that I was enslaved ; — nor yet by 
 
TH£ NEAR SIGHTED LOVER, 263 
 
 any one of the attractions above enumerated, nor by the 
 union of them all. A near-sighted man is not very 
 likely to be the victim of mere personal charms, — he 
 is almost certain not to fall in love at first sight, — be- 
 cause, at first sight he scarcely sees any thing at all, 
 nothing at least, definitely and distinctly ; and though 
 obscurity favors the sublime, it is otherwise with the 
 beautiful. For my part, all ladies, the first time I see 
 them, look very much alike; some I observe, are tall, 
 and some short ; some are blondes, and some brunettes ; 
 — this is about all that I discover the first evening. 
 
 And this leads me to observe, that near-sighted lovers 
 are always the most serious, sincere and sentimental. 
 They find out how a lady talks, as soon as, — or sooner 
 than, — how she looks ; and as their passions are not 
 founded exclusively on the lady's beauty, — though beau- 
 ty has power, it must be confessed, to charm near-sight- 
 edness itself; — there is commonly more sympathy of 
 mind in their attachments, than in those of their neigh- 
 bors, who see more, but observe less. 
 
 However this may be, my love for Emma was serious 
 and sentimental enough. I worshipped her ; I adored 
 her. One word, one look from her, surpassed, in my 
 esteem, all the other pleasures of existence. My life 
 seemed to depend on the continuance of her afiection. 
 I have learnt better since, — I have learnt not to fall in 
 love so very deeply. There should be a moderation in 
 every thing; such passionate devotion is not due to poor 
 humanity ; it results, inevitably, in disappointment ; it 
 overstrains and destroys the sympathies of the soul, and 
 ends in misanthropy, if not in idiotism. Love is like 
 
2G4 THE NEAR SIGHTED LOVER. 
 
 brandy, too powerful to be taken pure ; to be indulged 
 in with safety, it needs to be much diluted. 
 
 Emma had been absent from town about a week, and 
 that very morning, — the morning of that Wednesday, 
 which, ever since, has borne a black mark in my calen- 
 dar, I had received a letter from her, full of fondness 
 and affection, informing me that she did not intend to 
 return for a week to come. Since our enoacrement, I 
 had neglected almost all my former acquaintances, — 
 I had been devoted exclusively, to the dear Emma's ser- 
 vice. If, however, I was guilty of rudeness toAvards my 
 former friends, it was not wholly my fault; for ever 
 since my engagement had become public, my female ac- 
 quaintances had treated me w^ith a cool nonchalance, 
 sufficient to have abashed a man much less sensitive than 
 myself. While Emma was away, I passed my evenings 
 at the theatre ; — it was several years ago, before the 
 theatre had become so unfashionable as it is at present. 
 
 That very Wednesday evening, to the theatre I went, 
 with Emma's letter in my pocket. 
 
 Love is said to be quick-sighted ; and I was delighted 
 to find that it added some quickness, even to such eyes 
 .asmine. I had observed, with no little pleasure, that I 
 could distinguish Emma at a much greater distance than 
 any body else. I entered the theatre about the middle 
 of the first act; the boxes were crowded; but judge my 
 pleasure and surprise, when at no great distance from 
 me, I saw the dear Emma herself. She was surround- 
 ed by two or three ladies, and as many gentlemen, whom 
 I could not distinguish at all ; but her own features I 
 could trace distinctly ; and I saw, from time to time, or 
 
THE NEAR SIGHTED LOVER, 265 
 
 thought I saw, that sweet, peculiar smile, so exclusively 
 her own. I tried to catch her eye ; but as I was farthest 
 from the stage, and she seemed intent upon the play, it 
 was impossible. My heart boiled over with impatience ; 
 but as I have the greatest antipathy to attract the atten- 
 tion of a crowd, and as the house was so full that no 
 one could move without making a disturbance, I waited, 
 however reluctantly, till the act was finished. 
 
 The curtain had hardly begun to fall, before I was in 
 the lobby ; and, as good luck would have it, the people 
 in the box next to Emma's made a move at the same 
 time. They left their box half empty ; I pushed in ; 
 and, as Emma sat on the middle seat of the next box, 
 between two other ladies, I stood close beside her. 
 Still, she did not observe me. A sudden thought came 
 over my mind that the dress she wore was not exactly 
 in her usual good taste ; the ladies with her, I did not 
 know at all, — nor did I half like their looks; but set- 
 ting them down for some country cousins of Emma's, 
 I leaned over the box, and whispered a cadence in 
 Emma's ear. She started, as suddenly as I had expect- 
 ed ; but the look she gave me was one such as I certain- 
 ly did not expect. Her face was covered with blushes, 
 and seemed to indicate a strange confusion. I stood 
 hesitating, when, all at once, the truth burst upon me, 
 — that the lady I had spoken to was not Emma, — but 
 somebody, to be sure, very much like her. The flutter- 
 ing of the ladies drew the attention of a gentleman be- 
 hind them, who seemed to be a brother, or something of 
 the sort ; and I had nothing else to do, after asking the 
 lady's pardon for my intrusion, than to beckon the broth- 
 v ' 
 
266 THE NEAR SIGHTED LOVER. 
 
 er aforesaid, into the lobby, — tell him I was near-sight- 
 ed, — that I had mistaken the lady under his protection 
 for a j3Lirticular friend of mine, and so explained the 
 matter the best way I coald. 
 
 I immediately left the house, inwardly resolving never 
 to enter it again ; and cursing the eyes that had so griev_ 
 ously deceived me. 
 
 Yet what is a resolution, the fruit of a sudden excite- 
 ment, against the calm, but powerful influence of habit? 
 I had now been at the theatre every night, for a week 
 past; and when evening came, without once thinking 
 of the resolution so seriously formed the night before, 
 I walked into the house, and took my seat as usual. 
 The house was not so full as it had been on the previ- 
 ous evening ; but som.e of the same company was pres- 
 ent. For, as I cast ray eye along the boxes, I observed 
 at a distance, that same identical lady on whose account, 
 the last night, I had made myself so ridiculous. I thought 
 she looked at me as though she meant to knov*' me ; I 
 bowed very gravely, and turned my head the other way. 
 The play happened to be a favorite of mine, and I was 
 all attention to it. After the performances were over, 
 .as I vras sauntering leisurely liomeward, I was over- 
 taken by Ned Murrowday, an acquaintance of mine, who 
 took me by the arm, and congratulated me on Emma's 
 return. " Emma returned ? " said I, " why no, 't is im- 
 possible, I have a letter of her's in my pocket, in which 
 she tells me I must wait a week longer." " Don't put 
 too much confidence in a lady's letter," said my friend, 
 " whatever she has written, she has certainly returned ; 
 as I passed by the theatre I met her coming out of it, 
 
THE NEAR SIGHTED LOVER. 2(37 
 
 and what is more," he added in a whisper, " she was 
 leaning on the arm of a very spruce young man, a lieu- 
 tenant in the navy, I believe. Have a care my friend! 
 — have a care ! " 
 
 With these v/ords, he turned down another street, and 
 left me to my own meditations. What kind they were, 
 the reader may easily imagine. That I should have 
 passed the whole evening, so near my Emma, and not 
 have known her ! and when she tried to attract my at- 
 tention, to have repulsed her with a distant nod, — Oh ! 
 'twas too cruel, — 'twas insufferable. There was no 
 spice of jealousy in my composition, and the young 
 lieutenant never once entered my thoughts; but I was 
 kept awake the whole night, thinking how Emma must 
 have thought of me. The next morning, at the earliest 
 possible hour, I waited upon her, — but she refused to 
 see me. I sent up more than once to renew my request, 
 but she proved inexorable. I returned home, sat down, 
 and wrote the best explanation of my unlucky blunder, 
 that my haste and perturbation would permit, and des- 
 patched it immediately. It was som.e time before I re- 
 ceived an answer ; and when it came it was fatal to all 
 my hopes. Emma's note was very civil ; she pitied my 
 unfortunate infirmity, — she was quite satisfied with my 
 explanation, — but circumstances, she said, which had 
 grown out of that evening at the theatre, had made it 
 necessary to return all my letters, and to inform me that 
 henceforth, we could be nothing to each other but com- 
 mon acquaintances. She concluded with assurances of 
 everlasting friendship, and sincere esteem. At first, I 
 hardly knew how to take this letter, but my doubts M-ere 
 
26S THE KEAR SIGHTED I. OVER, 
 
 soon relieved. A half-a-dozen good-natured friends of 
 mine came running in, with all the particulars. Emma, 
 it seems, as she was returning from the theatre, had en- 
 deavored to assuage her sorrows, by opening her heart 
 to the young lieutenant, who attended her. He saw his 
 advantage, and used it. A lady's heart, when softened 
 by grief, is easily moulded. He succeeded in convinc- 
 ing her, that my coldness and neglect must have been 
 intentional ; that, at any rate, such purblind stupidity, 
 if it were nothing worse, was totally unpardonable; and 
 he gave her to understand that if she had lost one lover, 
 another might easily be found. The night was pleasant 
 and their walk was prolonged. My fate was sealed that 
 very evening ; and when my explanation came, it came 
 too late. 
 
209 
 
 THE HONEST MILLER. 
 
 Of all the callings and the trades 
 
 Which in our land abound, 
 The miller's is as useful sure 
 
 As can on earth be found. 
 For vain, without the miller's aid, 
 
 The sowing and the dressing j 
 Then sure an honest miller he 
 
 Must be a public blessing. 
 And such a miller now I make 
 
 The subject of my song, 
 Which, though it shall be very true, 
 
 Shall not be very long. 
 This miller lives in Glo'stershire, 
 
 I shall not tell his name ; 
 For those who seek the praise of God, 
 
 Desire no other fame. 
 In last hard winter — who forgets 
 
 The frost of ninety-five ? 
 Then Vv-as all dismal scarce, and dear, 
 
 And no poor man could thrive. 
 Then husbandry long time stood still. 
 
 And work was at a stand ; 
 To make the matter worse, the mills 
 
 Were froze throughout the land. 
 Our miller dwelt beside a stream, 
 
 All underneath the hill ; 
 Which flowed amain when others froze. 
 
 Nor ever stopped the mill. 
 The clam'rous people came from far 
 
 This favored mill to find, 
 
270 THE HONEST MILLER, 
 
 Both rich and poor our miller sought, 
 
 For none but he could grind. 
 His neighbors cried, ' Now miller seize 
 
 Tiie time to heap up store, 
 Since thou of 3^oung and helpless babes 
 
 Hast got full half a score.' 
 For folks, when tempted to grow rich, 
 
 By means not over nice, 
 Oft make their numerous babes a plea 
 
 To sanctify the vice. 
 Our miller scorned such counsel base, 
 
 And when he ground the grain. 
 With steadfast hand refused to touch 
 
 Beyond his lawful gain. 
 ' When God afflicts the land,' said he, 
 
 ' Shall I afflict it more ? 
 And watch for times of public wo 
 
 To wrong both rich and poor ? 
 Thankful to that Almighty Power 
 
 Who makes my river flow, 
 I '11 use the means he gives to sooth 
 
 A hungry neighbor's wo. 
 My river flows when others freeze, 
 
 But 't is at His command ; 
 For rich and poor I '11 grind alike, 
 
 No bribe shall stain my hand.' 
 So all the countr}- who had corn 
 
 Here found their wants redrest; 
 May every village in the land 
 
 Be with such millers blest ! 
 
271 
 
 THE WEARY WATCHER. 
 
 'T IS not the hour her lover named, 
 Yet she already deems him late ; 
 
 And pouts her lip, as if ashamed 
 
 That mortal man should make her wait. 
 
 She turns the pages o'er and o'er, 
 
 And seems unconscious of Time's flight; 
 
 She vows she '11 watch the path no more 
 Where first his form will be in sight. 
 
 And were she summoned by his voice, 
 She would not turn her head to greet him 
 
 Come when ho may, she will rejoice 
 To show how coldly she can meet him ! 
 
 She will not frown, for frowns would say 
 That she had watched for his return ; 
 
 She will not smile, — it would betray 
 She saw him not with unconcern. 
 
 Oh ! should he ever come, no trace 
 Of weak emotion shall appear ; 
 
 She '11 seem, while gazing on his face, 
 Unconscious that he stands so near. 
 
 No blush shall mantle on her cheek, 
 No tear shall tremble in her eye ; 
 
 To some young stranger she v/ill speak, 
 And seom engrossed by his reply. 
 
272 
 
 THE WEARY WATCHER. 
 
 And thinking thus, she proudly leans 
 
 Over the pages of her book ; 
 Come when he may, she never means 
 
 To raise her head or grant one look ! 
 
 Lady, most beautiful thou art. 
 
 And pride becomes thee mid the crowd ; 
 But oh ! with him who wins thy heart, 
 
 Thou 'rt fond, — weak, — any thing but proud 
 
 Resentment when he leaves her side 
 Betrays the depth of woman's love ; 
 
 And when she prattles of her pride. 
 
 What but her weakness doth she prove ? 
 
 Why starts she now ? why turn her head 
 With such a glance of gay delight ? 
 
 Alas ! forgetting all she said. 
 
 She smiles the moment he 's in sight ! 
 
 The Weary Watcher can command 
 No word to wound, no frown to chill ; 
 
 The silent pressure of her hand 
 Assures him he is welcome still. 
 
S73 
 
 A LEGEND OF CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 " I SHALL tell you 
 A prosing tale ; it may be you have heard it; 
 But since it serves my purpose, I will venture 
 To scale 't a little more." .... Coriolanus. 
 
 The conjurer sat at his books. The various utensils 
 of his art were scattered around liim, — a horoscope, 
 globe, astrolabe and quadrant, and huge volumes of mys- 
 terious characters in an unknown tongue. He was an 
 adept in the black art, shrewdly conversant with what- 
 ever might excite the superstition of the credulous, and 
 usually made his calculations with a sagacity that baf- 
 fled detection. The old man was poring over one of 
 these tomes, when he raised his keen gray eye from the 
 volume as the door opened, and a stranger presented 
 himself He was of small stature, attired in a rustic 
 drab ; his visage thin and wrinkled, an<l his little black 
 eyes hardly separated by an attenuated apology for a 
 nose. The intruder stood silent for a few moments, as 
 if hesitating how to address the man of forbidden knowl- 
 edge. 
 
 " He that would consult the stars," said the conjurer, 
 " must view them in a mirror of silver ; the book of fate 
 is sealed to him who comes empty-handed." 
 
 At this hint the stranger drew from his pocket a well- 
 worn purse of heart-case, and fingering the contents of 
 
271 A LEGE.\D OF CHRISTiMAS EVE. 
 
 tlie bag, desposited a few small coins in the palm of the 
 conjurer. 
 
 *' I would know," said he, " if there is money buried 
 on the great island down the river ? " 
 
 lie of the horoscope opened one of the huge volumes 
 of mystery, and began slov/ly turning the leaves with 
 great care. Apparently unsatisfied, he handled the as- 
 trolabe for a few moments, and at length fell to figuring 
 with earnestness. 
 
 " There is gold there which may not be touched by 
 mortal hands," said he, suspending his calculations; " it 
 is the charmed treasure of the pirate." 
 
 " I dreamed it, — I dreamed it ! " said the visiter, lean- 
 ing towards the table and casting a furtive glance at the 
 talisman ; " but is there no way, — have you not power 
 to disenchant it ? — where is it buried ? " 
 
 The geomancer drew his wand over a cycle inscribed 
 with the characters of the heavens, and again turned 
 the leaves of the mysterious volume. At length he be- 
 o-;in muttering, — " Seventeen hundred and — Saturn as- 
 cendant, — Arcturus glares like a cresset, and Bootes is 
 grim with blood. Enough I — there was murder when 
 the chest was buried and the spirit of the dead watches 
 the gold." 
 
 There was a convulsive movement in the features of 
 the stranger, and his little black eyes for a moment 
 (deamed with an expression of horror. It soon gave 
 way to the all absorbing passion of his being. 
 
 " But where is it buried ? " he repeated. 
 
 " On the south end of the island. Some rods from 
 the water stands an old elm alone. On the fifteenth day 
 
A LEGEND OF CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 Q7n 
 
 of the moon, at midnight, its shadow will fall directly on 
 the iron chest. Measure five paces from the roots, and 
 at the shadow of the junction of a great western limb 
 with the trunk of the tree, dig for your life. You will 
 see and hear what might appal a bolder man, — but 
 speak never a word. The moment a human voice is 
 heard, the spell is broken. If you succeed, there is 
 enough to make you a nabob." 
 
 Another tribute was levied on the purse of the visiter, 
 who took leave in the confidence of success. 
 
 There was a belief prevalent at that time, among 
 many of the good people of New-England, that the no- 
 ted Kidd had in one of his cruises ascended the Con- 
 necticut, and buried on its numerous islands, immense 
 treasures of his hoarded booty. This belief was strength- 
 ened by the confession of an old African, who declared, 
 on his death-bed, that he had been employed in the ca- 
 pacity of cook on board the piratical vessel ; and whose 
 incoherent answers to the eager interrogations of those 
 who shrived him, confirmed sundry dark hints, he had 
 thrown out previously. lie even pointed out this island 
 in question, as the repository of the treasures of a Span- 
 ish galleon he had seen plundered and burned; but 
 whispered, with a shudder, that the deposite was guard- 
 ed by the ghost of the butchered boatswain. The ef- 
 fects of this story on those who hasted to be rich were 
 
 astonishing. 
 
 " Not a soul 
 But felt a fever of the mad." 
 
 Many were the adventurers who haunted this new El 
 Dorado, and fearful were the perils they were reported 
 
276 A LEGEND OF CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 to have encountered in their search for the unhallowed 
 hoard. The substance of the present legend formed the 
 subject of a fire-side tale, which the writer in his boy- 
 hood heard of a long winter evening recounted by the 
 identical hero of the adventure, and who was intro- 
 duced to the reader in his interview with the conjurer. 
 The latter was none other than the celebrated necroman- 
 cer, Ballou ; and the old gentleman never concluded 
 the story, without remarking, with great solemnity, that 
 shortly after this event, he of the fcuniliar spirit died 
 suddenly in his bed, agreeably to a prediction of his own 
 when apparently in perfect health, not six hours pre- 
 vious. 
 
 Be this as it may, our hero returned home with the 
 bewildered feelings of one who has suddenly drawn a 
 capital prize. The almanac was daily consulted with the 
 eagerness of one who would fain move forward the 
 shadow on the dial ; and the long w'eary days, which in- 
 tervened before the appointed time, were eked out in 
 the sickness of hope deferred. He would occasionally 
 kill a lingering hour by projecting princely improve- 
 ments on his little farm, which lay meanwhile like the 
 garden of the sluggard; the conjurer's talisman, like 
 the wand of Prospero, seemed at a stroke to have con- 
 verted his humble tenement into the dwelling of a prince, 
 and air-castles swam before his heated imagination in 
 all the gorgeousness of romance. But it was in his 
 dreams, which " spoke like Sybils of the future," that 
 he revelled in the full fruition of a more than oriental 
 sumptuousness, — a boundlessness of wealth that would 
 have beggared the kings of the genii. Chests of gold 
 
A LEGEND OF CHRISTMAS EVE. 2// 
 
 and silver, mines of caverned riches, avalanches of jew- 
 els tumbling around him, gnomes and goblins, a whole 
 cosmorama of Sinbad fantasies mocked his slumbers, 
 till the good woman at his side, in innocent ignorance 
 of the latter day glory that awaited her, deemed him, as 
 he lay tossing around, the prey of some fearful, damn- 
 ing secret. He had as yet lisped the revelation in no 
 mortal ear, sensible as he was that a participation in the 
 hazard of the adventure would induce a participation in 
 the spoil. Besides, his mind had hitherto been so ab- 
 sorbed in the disposal of the anticipated prize, that he 
 had scarcely bestowed a thought on the means by which 
 it was to be obtained. But as the day drew^ nigh, difficul- 
 ties began to present themselves, which filled him with 
 misgivings. His unassisted efforts might prove insuffi- 
 cient for the removal of the ponderous treasure ; and he 
 could not conceal from himself that a companion of flesh 
 and blood would, to say the least, be very convenient in 
 an adventure which might call for the interposition of 
 an incorporeal agency. Gladly would he have availed 
 himself of the co-operation of the partner of his wordly 
 thrift ; but the injunction of the conjurer that not a 
 word should be spoken, — alack ! " Ichabod " was writ- 
 ten on the very face of it. From this dilemma we leave 
 the good man to extricate himself; premising at the same 
 time that his nearest neighbor was an elderly bachelor 
 brother, whose heir presumptive he flattered himself to 
 be ; and who, in case of his enlisting his services, would 
 still, as the snying is, retain the property in the family. 
 
 It was now the green depth of summer, and the broad 
 banks and meadows of Connecticut were teeming with 
 
 J 
 
978 A LEGEND OF CHRISTIMAS EVE. 
 
 the luxuriance of vegetation. As yet, steam-boats were 
 in the womb of futurity, and the light water-craft with 
 which the followers of the adventurous Ledyard naviga- 
 ted this beautiful river, had but recently given place to 
 the lum.bering batteau of the merchant. Ever and anon 
 as its huge sail hung lazily flapping over the dark waters, 
 the rude song of the boatman might be heard as he 
 wrought at the oar, swelling out among the numerous 
 coves and inlets which bordered its margin, or answer- 
 ed in echoes, faintly multiplied among the mountains 
 beyond. Even this was of so rare occurrence as to at- 
 tract attention ; and the honest rustic on the banks, as 
 it swept along, would lean for a moment on the imple- 
 ment of his labor, to dream of distant voyages, ship- 
 wrecks, and the perils of the water. The shout and 
 merry laugh of childhood were heard among the cluster- 
 ing elms that bordered the stream ; and the pattering of 
 little feet came across the water from the smooth line of 
 beaten sand along its margin. But there was one who 
 gazed on all this with a vacant eye, — he was revelling 
 in the immateriality of a world of his own creation. 
 He called to a little urchin Avho was clambering the 
 thick vines with a group of his fellows, and muttered, 
 as he parted the flaxen curls fi-om his forehead, " to- 
 morrow — and the young rogue will be the son of a na- 
 bob." 
 
 It was late in the brilliant evening ensuing, that a 
 small boat might be seen to push from the shore, and 
 shoot noiselessly across the river in the direction of the 
 isl;md. The moon was near her zenith, and along lino 
 of light gleamed across the water, broken only by the 
 
A LEGEND OF CHRISTMAS EVE. 279 
 
 ripples that circled around the stern of the little craft, 
 or followed dancing in her wake. Approaching the isl- 
 and, it drew up in the shadow of a small cove, and two 
 dark forms stepped on shore ; landing a spade, mattock, 
 and bar, and an old queen's arms, which might have 
 been loaded with a silver bullet. Making the boat fast, 
 they cautiously ascended the bank, and deposited their 
 implements at the foot of an old elm, which threw the 
 shadow of its spreading branches far around over the 
 smooth sod. The younger of the men appeared by far 
 the most active, alternately consulting an old time-piece 
 which he continually drew from his pocket in anxious 
 restlessness, and throw^ing fearful glances among the 
 bosky thickets at hand, which lay motionless as death. 
 The lonely stillness of this wild spot at this "witching 
 time of night," the air of mystery thrown over their con- 
 versation, vvhich, like the mutes of an eastern seraglio, 
 they carried on only by signs, were all befitting some un- 
 holy deed, while 
 
 " The setting of the eye and cheek, proclaimed 
 A matter from them," 
 
 At length, measuring a few paces from the tree, and 
 once more eyeing all around with cautious scrutiny, 
 they commenced digging in its shadow. At this mo- 
 ment an object appeared rounding an angle of the shore 
 below, and in an instant a vessel of war under full sail 
 rushed by the island. Not a soul was discoverable on 
 the deck of the phantom ship, but ever and anon, as it 
 boomed sullenly onward, loud shrieks and the crash of 
 
280 A LEGEND OF CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 swords came mingling with shouts of demoniac laugh- 
 ter, the losel song of carousal, and the fierce oaths of 
 the bucanier. The money digger rested on his spade, 
 and passed his hand athwart his eyes to convince him- 
 self of the reality of the vision ; — all had vanished, and 
 he saw only the brazen clasps of the family bible glit- 
 tering in the moon-beams, which his companion was 
 hugging in an agony of terror. A breathless pause 
 ensued, while their hearts palpitated in audible throbs. 
 Anon, as they resumed their labors, a whale-boat ap- 
 peared slowly bearing down on the island without sail 
 or oar. Not a voice or sound was heard from that 
 shadowy crew, — the headless helmsman stood at his post 
 with the fixedness of a corse, and his companions were 
 ranged along the bows, with the blood still spouting from 
 each ghastly trunk. At this m^oment the elder of the 
 worthies sunk his bar in the sand, and struck the lid of 
 the iron treasure chest with a jar. The presence of 
 mind, which had bridled his tongue in spite of the de- 
 mon visitations, now forsook him in the moment of suc- 
 cess. " There it is, by heaven ! " he exclaimed, leap- 
 ing up in an ecstacy. " And there it is ! " screamed 
 the other, hurling his mattock full at his brother's head 
 in the frenzy of one whose hopes are blasted at a breath. 
 There was a low rumbling beneath their feet, and 
 the ponderous mass passed slowly from under them as 
 the spectral boat gradually melted into moonlight. 
 
281 
 
 MY FATHER'S HOUSE. 
 
 No circling hills may sweeping form 
 
 A boundary for thee ; 
 Nor woods, defying lime and storm, 
 
 Thy ramparts proudly be : 
 Nor winding waters amply stream, 
 Fair as the wrapt enthusiast's dream, 
 Steal through thy sun-bright vales. 
 
 The crowded mart, the noisy street. 
 
 The busy hum of men — 
 A scene where things familiar meet. 
 
 Unknown of poet's pen ; 
 These may be thine — unhallow'd, rude, 
 And thine a " peopled solitude," 
 Ungenial and unloved. 
 
 And yet no sun-bright valley fair, 
 No mountain-screen'd domain. 
 
 No glen, or grove, or waters clear. 
 Can bind in strong link'd chain, 
 
 The heart as thou, amid the din. 
 
 The chaos from without, within. 
 And lost to Nature's charms 
 
 'T is thine to whisper to the heart, 
 
 Of childhood's happy dawn. 
 Of joys that with our youth depart. 
 
 Of Love's bewiy^hing morn ; 
 And thine to speak of playmates fled, 
 Of friends removed, estranged, or dead - 
 A wild and spectral train. 
 
282 MY father's house. 
 
 And thine to 'wake the voice of Love, 
 
 Long silent in the tomb ; 
 Of parent love ! — pure as above, 
 
 The love in worlds to come ! 
 And thou, the scene of births and death, 
 Of burial, and of bridal, hast 
 
 A voice, none else may claim. 
 
 Oh ! many are the storms that roll 
 Their waters o 'er the mind — 
 
 Many the waves that threat the soul 
 By this world's griefs refined. 
 
 To bury in their depths profound. 
 
 Association's hallow 'd mound, 
 
 Thoughts, recollections fond ; 
 
 Yet, in the might of love sublime, 
 One spot undimm'd appears — 
 
 One consecrated spot — no time 
 From Memory's tablet tears ; 
 
 My father's house ! shrine of the best, 
 
 And holiest earthly love, confess'd, 
 Affection's dearest home. 
 
 Guilt may have sear'd, ill fortune worn. 
 
 The sympathies away ; 
 Yet will remembrance fondly turn, 
 
 And own the boundless sway 
 Of parent love ! — the while will be 
 The heart's unsullied sanctuary, 
 A father's house confess'd. 
 
 Fairer, a thousand times more fair, 
 May show full many a scene, 
 
 Than that which gave us birth ; but there, 
 Oh, there 's one spot green ! 
 
 The Oasis of the desert waste. 
 
 With more than scenic beauty graced, 
 Impervious to decay. 
 
983 
 
 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 A SPANISH STORY. 
 
 Don Cayetano Balboa, a respectable and wealthy 
 merchant of Eucija, in Andalusia, had an only son, 
 named Don Pedro, on whom he bestowed a liberal edu- 
 cation, and for whom he subsequently obtained a post 
 in the Health Office at Madrid. In this city the young 
 Pedro, who was left in a measure his own master at the 
 early age of nineteen, formed connexions which deeply 
 implicated his own future peace and that of his family. 
 He was of a generous disposition, but weak-minded in 
 many respects, and easily biassed by the arts of design- 
 ing persons. The half-medical character of Don Pedro's 
 employment brought him into intimate acquaintance 
 with most of the principal physicians and apothecaries 
 of Madrid, and with their families. Among others whom 
 he met in this circle was Donna Catalina, the widow of 
 an eminent chemist who had been banished to Africa 
 for participating in some political conspiracies, and who 
 had, it seems, died in exile. At the period of her hus- 
 band's banishment, Donna Catalina was very young, but 
 her character had already fully developed itself; and 
 what that character was, may be in part imagined from 
 the confession which her husband made to some friends 
 before his departure, ''that his sentence was endurable, 
 
284 ROMA^-CE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 because it freed him from the bonds of his imperious 
 helpmate." 
 
 Donna Catalina was considerably under her thirtieth 
 year, and yet very beautiful, when she became acquaint- 
 ed with Don Pedro de Balboa. Her wit and charms 
 fascinated the young Andalusian, and she, in her turn, 
 formed for him a deep and ardent passion. In Catalina's 
 disengaged and widowed state, there was no obstacle to 
 the formation of a matrimonial alliance between them, 
 and in all likelihood a marriage would have ensued, but 
 for the discovery which Balboa made of Catalina's vio- 
 lent and intolerable temper. Still, after the advances 
 he had made, he could not easily give up his imperious 
 beauty. She had acquired a power over him, and he 
 feared to dare the outburst of her passion. At length 
 he found the means of withdrawing himself His father 
 sent an express order for his return without delay, and 
 as this injunction could not be disobeyed, or trifled with, 
 Pedro tore himself away from the company of Catalina, 
 and returned to the paternal mansion. 
 
 When Don Pedro reached his father's house, he found 
 that the old merchant had become anxious (probably 
 from having heard of the state of matters in Madrid) 
 that his son should marry and settle in life. He had 
 even provided a match for the youth, in the person of a 
 young and lovely cousin, whom Don Pedro, at the peri- 
 od of his return, found resident in his father's family. 
 Nor was Pedro long in becoming captivated with the 
 simple and amiable character of his young relation, so 
 unlike that of the enchantress who had formerly en- 
 thralled him. Every thing, in short, went on as the fa- 
 
ROMAxNCE IN REAL LIFE. 285 
 
 ther wished. But, meanwhile, the deserted Catalina, 
 alarmed at the prolonged absence of her lover, wrote 
 him letter upon letter, reproaching him with his appa- 
 rent infidelity, and urging him, in the strongest and 
 most passionate terms, to return to Madrid. By degrees, 
 the tone of her letters changed from reproach to men- 
 ace, and the conclusion of one of these epistles ran 
 thus : — " Yes, traitor ! 1 now know why you went to 
 Andalusia, and I know why you remained there so long." 
 Alluding to Don Pedro's cousin, she then continues, 
 **But beware ! for, with the aid of the blessed Virgin, 
 I will kill her, then I will kill you, and, lastly, I will kill 
 myself!" She then, with the same inconsistency of 
 spirit w^hich other parts of the letter betray, commends 
 her lover to divine guardianship, and signs " Catalina." 
 This effusion fell by accident into the hands of Don 
 Pedro's father, who opened it by mistake, and thus be- 
 came fully acquainted with the serious nature of the 
 ties which his son had contracted at Madrid, of which 
 he was, perhaps, but in part aware. The result was, 
 that the old man, desirous that his son should be extri- 
 cated from the connexion, fully, as well as honorably, 
 wrote to Donna Catalina, informing her of his son's in- 
 tended marriage with his own cousin, and offering at 
 the same time to settle on his correspondent a respecta- 
 ble annuity, if she would pledge herself to abstain from 
 seeking any further correspondence with Don Pedro. 
 
 The proud and passionate Catalina returned no an- 
 swer to this proposal, nor did she again write to Don 
 Pedro. Hoping that his letter had made her give up all 
 thoughts of the matter, the old merchant hurried on the 
 
 X 
 
286 ROMANCE IN REAL, LIFE. 
 
 inatcli between the cousins ; and, with tliat pliability 
 which formed a prominent part of his nature, Pedro, 
 also, was perfectly willing to have the marriage com- 
 pleted. Accordingly, a dispensation from the church 
 (necessary on account of the consanguinity of the par- 
 ties) was obtained, and the connubial ceremony was fix- 
 ed for an early day^ When that day came, the rites of 
 the church were performed, and its blessing pronounced 
 upon Pedro and his bride — in peace. But the parties 
 had scarcely left the altar, when a fearful and lamenta- 
 ble catastrophe took place. The newly married lady 
 was just leaving the portico of the church, when she 
 was met by some young ladies of her acquaintance, who 
 presented her with a nosegay. She blushed at this mark 
 of attention, and raised the flowers to her face ; but she 
 had inhaled their perfume but fur a very short time, 
 when she instantly fell back a corpse in the arms of her 
 husband. All attempts to recover her proved ineffect- 
 ual — she was dead ! The nosegay must have been poi- 
 soned. It was sought for everywhere, but it had van- 
 ished ; in the first moment of confusion it had been en- 
 tirely forgotten. 
 
 The young ladies who had presented the flowers were 
 fifst examined. They related that they had received the 
 nosegay from a stranger, who was to have accompanied 
 them, but who had failed to keep her promise. Then 
 did the father of Pedro recollect the menaces of Cata- 
 lina. Eager to avenge his neice's death, he applied to 
 the ministers of justice, and had Catalina brought from 
 Madrid. She was confronted with the young ladies, 
 and they all recognized her as the person from whom 
 
ROMANCE IN RF.AL LIFE. 287 
 
 they liad received the fatal nosegay. Catalina, on her 
 part, declared that she had not left Madrid, and nu- 
 merous witnesses were brought forward to confirm her 
 statement. The report of the medical men tended to 
 make the affair yet more complicated. They declared 
 that, on opening the body, they had not found in the 
 organs of respiration any trace of the action of poison. 
 The brain they had found strongly injected ; but though 
 such an alteration might have been caused by violent 
 narcotics, it was also possible that it might have been 
 the effect of sudden apoplexy. Some of the physicians 
 denied the possibility of poisoning so suddenly by means 
 of a nosegay. The hydrocyanic acid, they said, could 
 alone operate with such violence, but would have lost 
 its power if exposed for several minutes to the air ; be- 
 sides which, this, as well as several other poisons that 
 they enumerated, would have been sure to leave a trace 
 behind. Other physicians, on the contrary, maintained 
 that we are but imperfectly acquainted in Europe with 
 the science of poisons, in which the Orientals, and even 
 some savage nations, had made much greater advances. 
 The consequence of these contradictory reports, and the 
 positive evidence adduced that she had not quitted Ma- 
 drid, was, that Catalina was ordered to be set at liberty. 
 While in prison, she addressed several letters to Don 
 Pedro. " My affection for you (she wrote) is the only 
 cause of the persecution to which I have been exposed. 
 I am innocent, I am innocent! — but had I ever been 
 guilty, it would only have been because I loved you too 
 \\c\\ ; surely you will not forsake me ! " Whatever may 
 have been his motive, Don Pedro, it seems, visited her 
 
288 ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 
 
 while in prison, and she succeeded in resuming her an- 
 cient influence over him. Not satisfied with this proof 
 of her power, slie succeeded, on her liberation, in in- 
 volving him in a law-suit with the family of his deceased 
 bride, and was on the point of persuading him to return 
 with her to Madrid, when his father once more inter- 
 fered, and, by a vigorous exertion df'parental authority, 
 prevailed on Don Pedro once mor.e'to abandon all ideas 
 of marrying her. Catalina found an opportunity that 
 very day to enter the merchant's house, and the apart- 
 ment of her vacillating lover. She played off all her 
 arts of seduction, but in vain, for this time Don Pedro 
 proved firm in his purpose. Gradually giving way to 
 the violence of her passion, ''Dastard ! " she exclaimed- 
 " you allow yourself to be fooled by the words of a silly 
 old man ; but do nojt fancy that I am to be outraged with 
 impunity ! I have 'not yet forgotten how to take venge- 
 ance on those th^t insult me ! Know 't was I that killed 
 your bride, and'^you also shall die ! " 
 
 As she said this, she seized him by the arm, and it 
 was not wiLliout a feeling of dread that he contemplated 
 the altered countenance of the fury. He perceived that 
 she had between her fingers a pin that she had drawn 
 from her hair. He had scarcely noticed this movement 
 when he felt himself pricked in the arm. " I have killed 
 the^e ! " she exclaimed, and rushed out of the room, 
 flinging away the pin with which she had inflicted the 
 > wound. Don Pedro almost immediately felt his head grow 
 
 ' Jieavy, and his sight dim : he uttered a few faint cries ; 
 
 /but before he had time to say a prayer, he fell senseless 
 to the ground. The servants heard the fall, and hasten- 
 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 289 
 
 ed to the room. A physician was sent for, who suc- 
 ceeded in recallinor him to life. Don Pedro related 
 what had happened. The pin was sought for and found, 
 and, on a chemical analysis, some traces were discover- 
 ed on it of the juice of a certain subtile poison in which 
 the native hunters of Spanish America used formerly to 
 dip their arrows, to enable them to kill their game the 
 more speedily. The poisoned weapon had passed 
 through the several folds of Balboa's dress, by which 
 means, probably, a part of the venom had been rubbed 
 off, for he recovered in a short time. Catalina, on be- 
 ing brought before the Alcades del Crimen, not only 
 avowed her crimes, but added, that her failure was the 
 only circumstance that she regretted. She was ccn-"-^ 
 demned to the scaffold, and met ner death with firmness. 
 Her husband's skill as a chemist had of course given 
 her the opportunity of acquiring that knowledge of poi- 
 sons which ultimately caused her own end. 
 
 This tale is taken Avithout the slightest change of 
 facts, from the records of the criminal courts of Seville, 
 where the trial of the unfortunate and guilty lady took 
 place but a few years since. However marvellous some 
 of the circumstances may appear, there can be-no doubt 
 of the veracity of the relation, though it is possible that 
 Catalina, in compassing her rival's death, may have, con- 
 trived secretly to conjoin more common-place and effec- 
 tual means with those to which the catastrophe is here 
 ascribed, and was ostensibly owing. N 
 
 X ^ -^ 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
290 
 
 JENNY AND THE WATCIL 
 
 In some of the country parts of Scotland, a custom 
 prevails of young men giving their watches in trust to 
 young women for Vv'hom they have declared their attacli- 
 ment. The watch is kept and carried in the bosom of 
 the fair one, until the anxious couple are united in the 
 bonds of wedlock, when, as a matter of course, the pledge 
 of sincerity is delivered up to its original owner. This 
 is imagined by country lasses to be an iniinitely better 
 plan for securing the fidelity of a svv-eetheart, than that 
 of breaking a sixpence. A watch is a valuable and 
 highly prized article. It is worth at least a couple of 
 pounds; and the loss of that sum by an individual in a 
 humble condition of life, is a very serious matter. Still 
 we believe tliere arc cases in which the proposed match 
 is broken off, and the watch abandoned for ever ; though 
 doubtless this is only in cases of great fickleness, or 
 when weighty reasons for desertion intervene. 
 
 The follovv'ing laughable incident regarding a uTitch so 
 entrusted, occurred a few years ago. Jenny Symington, 
 a well-favored sprightly girl, in a certain farm-house in 
 Galloway, had been entrusted with t'le watch of her 
 sweetheart, Tarn llalliday, a neighboring shepiierd, and 
 which she carried with scrupulous care in her bosom ; 
 but even the most carefully kept articles will sometimes 
 disappear, in spite of all the precautions considered neces. 
 
jr.\NY AND THE WATCFl. 291 
 
 sary to preserve tlicm. Jenny, be it known, was es- 
 teemed a first-rate hand at preparing potatoes for the 
 fiimily supper ; none could excel her in serving them up 
 beaten and mashed in the most tempting style. On one 
 occasion, in harvest, when the kitchen was crowded 
 with a number of shearers waiting for their evening meal, 
 and while Jenny was busy beating a mess of potatoes, 
 wdiat did the unlucky watch do, but drop from her bosom, 
 chain, seals, and all, into the pot among the potatoes ! 
 Jenny's head being turned away at the moment, she 
 knew nothing of the disaster, and therefore continued to 
 beat on and at her task. She certainly was a little sur- 
 prised when she felt there was still a hard potatoe to 
 beat, notwithstanding her previous diligence ; but think- 
 ing nothing of it, she continued to beat, occasionally 
 giving the hard potatoe, alias the watch, a good thump 
 with the end of the beetle. At length she thought she 
 had fairly completed the business : and so infusing a 
 large jar of sv/eet milk into the mess, she stirred all to- 
 gether, and placed the vessel ready for ihe attack of the 
 hungry on-lookers. 
 
 Behold then the pot, a round clumsy tripod, planted 
 in tlic middle of the floor. A circle was formed around 
 it in a trice, and horn for horn the shearers began 
 to stretch and strive. Many mouthfuls had not been 
 taken, before certain queer looks began to be manifest- 
 ed. " Deil 's in the tatties ! " says one, " I think they 've 
 got banes in them." " Banes ! " says another, " they 're 
 the funniest banes ever I saw ; they 're made of broken 
 glass and pieces o' brass; I'll sup nae mair o' them." 
 With that another produced a silver watch-case, all bat- 
 
292 JEIS^Y AND THE WATCH. 
 
 tered and useless, from his capacious horn spoon, and a 
 universal strike among the suppers immediately ensued. 
 It was clear that a watch had been beaten up with the 
 potatoes ; so the good wife had nothing for it but to or- 
 der the disgraced pot out of the way, and to place a bas- 
 ket of oatmeal cakes and milk in its stead. 
 
 What were poor Jenny's feelings during this strange 
 denouement ? On the first appearance of the fragments 
 of the watch, she slipped her hand to her bosom, and 
 soon found how matters stood. She had the fortitude, 
 however, to show no symptom of surprise ; and although 
 every one was wondering where the broken watch had 
 come from, she did not disclose her knowledge of how 
 it had found its way into the pot. As it had belonged to 
 no one in the house, the materials were not identified, — 
 and as Jenny was a young woman of great prudence 
 and modesty, and had never shown any one that she had 
 a watch in her possession, no one teased her about it. 
 In a short time the noise of the circumstance died 
 away, but not till it had gone over the neighborhood 
 that the family had found a watch in the potato-pot ; — 
 and, among others, it came to the ears of the owner. 
 Tarn Halliday, who was highly pleased with the conduct 
 of his beloved Jenny ; for he thought that if she cried or 
 sobbed, and told to whom the watch belonged, it would 
 have brought ridicule on them both. Tam was, in short, 
 delighted with the way the matter had been managed, 
 and he thought that the watch was well lost, though it 
 had been ten times the value. 
 
 Whatever Tarn's ideas were on the subject, Jenny 
 
JENNY AND THE WATCH. 29.3 
 
 felt conscious that it was her duty to replace the watch. 
 Accordingly, next time she met her lover, she allowed 
 no time to elapse before she thus addressed him : — 
 *'Now, Tarn, ye ken very weel how I have demolished 
 your good silver watch, but it is needless to regret what 
 cannot be helped. I shall pay you for it, every farthing. 
 The one half I will give you when I get my half-year's 
 wages, at Marti'mas, and the other half soon, as my 
 brother is awn me three pounds, which he has promised 
 to pay me afore the next Fastern's e'en fair." " My 
 dear Jenny," said the young man, taking her kindly by 
 the hand, " I beg you will say nothing about that ridicu- 
 lous affair. I do not care a farthing for the loss of the 
 watch ; mair by token, I have gotten a rise in my wages 
 frae the new lord ; for I maun tell ye, I am now ap- 
 pointed chief herd in the Ca's Hope. However, to take 
 any payment from you, to rob you of your hard-won 
 penny-fee, would be disgraceful. No, no, I will take 
 none of your wages ; but there is one thing I will take, 
 if you are willing, and which, I hope, will make us 
 baith happy for life." " And what may that be, Tam, 
 now that ye 're turned a grand head shepherd?" " I 
 will take," said he, " yourself; but mind, I do not ask 
 you as a recompense for a paltry watch ; no, in my eyes 
 your worth is beyond all estimation. If you will agree 
 to be mine, let it be done freely ; but whether you are 
 willing to marry me or not, from this time henceforth 
 the watch is never to be more spoken of." 
 
 What followed may be easily imagined. Tam and 
 Jenny were married as soon as the plenishing for the 
 cottage at the Ca's Hope could be prepared ; and at the 
 
294 
 
 JENNY AND THE WATCH. 
 
 wedding, the story of tlie watch and the potato-pot was 
 made the topic of much hearty mirth among the assem- 
 bled company. The last time we visited Jenny's cot- 
 tage, we reminded her of the transaction. " Houts," 
 said she, " that 's an auld story now ; the laird has been 
 sae weel pleased w i' the gudeman, that he has gien him 
 a present o' that eight-day clock there; it cost eight 
 pounds in Jamie Lockie's, at the east port o' Dumfries, 
 and there 's no the like in a' the parish." 
 
295 
 
 STANZAS FOR EVENING. 
 
 There is an hour when leaves are still, and winds sleep on the 
 
 wave ; 
 When far beneath the closing clouds the day hath found a 
 
 grave ; 
 And stars that at the note of dawn begin their circling flight, 
 Return, like sun-tired birds, to seek the sable boughs of night. 
 
 The curtains of the mind are closed, and slumber is most sweet, 
 And visions to the hearts of men direct their fairy feet ; 
 The wearied wing hath gain'd a tree, pain sighs itself to rest, 
 And beauty's bridegroom lies upon the pillow of her breast. 
 
 There is a feeling in that hour which tumult ne'er hath known, 
 Which nature seems to dedicate to silent things alone ; 
 The spirit of the lonely wakes, as rising from the dead, 
 And finds its shroud adorn'd with flowers, its night-lamp new- 
 ly fed. 
 
 The mournful moon her rainbows hath, and mid the bright of all 
 That garlands life, some blossoms live, like lilies on a pall ; 
 Thus while to lone affliction's couch some stranger-joy may 
 
 come. 
 The bee that hoardeth sweets all day hath sadness in its hum. 
 
 Yet some there are whose fire of years leaves no rcmember'd 
 
 spark. 
 Whose summer-time itself is black, whose very daybreak dark. 
 The stem, though naked, still may live, the leaf though perish'd 
 
 cling ; 
 But if at firot the root be cleft, it lies a branchless thing. 
 
29G STANZAS FOR EVENING. 
 
 And oh ! to such, long, hallow'd nights their patient music 
 
 send ; 
 The hours like drooping angels walk, more graceful as they 
 
 bend ; 
 And stars emit a hope-like ray, that melts as it comes nigh. 
 And nothing in that calm hath life that doth not wish to die. 
 
 
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M71204 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY