7
 
 HOME SCENES AND HEART STUDIES.
 

 
 HOME SCENES 
 
 AND 
 
 HBAET STUDIES. 
 
 GRACK AOUILAR, 
 
 AC1I10R OF " WOMAN'S FRIENDSHIP ;" " TUB DAYS OK 1;KUC« ; 
 " THE VALE OF CEDARS ;" ETC., ETC. 
 
 JTbirieentlj <£bULon. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 BT 
 
 HYDE W. BRISCOE. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 GROOMBRIDGE AND SONS 
 
 1876.
 
 HERTFORD : 
 
 BIMSON AND GROOMBUIDOE, 
 
 PRINTERS.
 
 PR 
 
 fr2l5ir 
 IB7G 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The Perez Family .... 
 
 
 
 
 
 PAG3 
 
 1 
 
 The Stone-cutter's Boy of Possagko 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 95 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 109 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 , 122 
 
 The Escape : a Tale of 1 7."..1 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 162 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 13G 
 
 Gonzalyo's Daughter . 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 205 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 227 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 245 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 253 
 
 The Spirit's Entreaty . 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 273 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 The Group op Sculptors 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 319 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Recollections of a Rambler 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 375 
 
 "Cast thy Bread dpos the Waters" 
 
 
 
 
 . 383 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ! 248
 
 HOME SCENES AND HEART STUDIES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Leading out of one of those close, melancholy alleys in the 
 environs of Liverpool, was a small cottage, possessing little 
 of comfort or beauty in outward appearance, but much in 
 the interior in favour of its inhabitants ; cleanliness and 
 neatness were clearly visible, greatly in contradistinction to 
 the neighbouring dwellings. There were no heaps of dirt 
 and half-burnt ashes, no broken or even cracked panes in 
 the brightly shining windows, not a grain of unseemly dust 
 or stains either on door or ledge, — so that even poverty 
 itself looked respectable. The cottage stood apart from the 
 others, with a good piece of ground for a garden, which, 
 stretching from the back, led through a narrow lane, to the 
 banks of the Mersey, and thus permitted a fresher current 
 of air. The garden was carefully and prettily laid out, and 
 planted with the sweetest flowers; the small parlour and 
 kitchen of the cottage opened into it, and so, greatly to the 
 disappointment and vexation of the gossips of the alley, 
 nothing could be gleaned of the sayings and doings of its 
 inmates. Within the cottage the same refinement was 
 visible ; the furniture, though old and poor, was always 
 clean and neatly arranged. The Mezzuzot (Deut. vi. 9, 
 20) were carefully secured to every door-nost, and alto- 
 gether there was an indescribable something pervading the 
 dwelling, that in the very midst of present poverty seemed 
 to tell of former and more prosperous days. 
 
 Simeon and Rachel Perez had married with every prospect 
 of getting on well in the woi'ld. Neither were very young a 
 
 B
 
 2 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 for though they had been many years truly devoted to each 
 other, they were prudent, and had waited till mutual industry 
 had removed many of the difficulties and obstacles to their 
 union. All "which might have been irksome was persevered 
 in through the strength of this honest, unchanging affection ; 
 and when the goal was gained, and they were married, all 
 the period of their mutual labour seemed but as a watch in 
 the night, compared to the happiness they then enjoyed. 
 
 Simeon had been for several years foreman to a watch- 
 maker, and was remarkably skilful in the business. Rachel 
 had been principal assistant to a mantua-maker, and all her 
 leisure hours were employed in plaiting straw and various 
 fancy works, which greatly increased her little store. Never 
 forgetting the end they had in view, their mutual savings 
 had so accutnulated, that on their marriage, Perez was 
 enabled to set up a small shop, which, conducted with 
 honesty and economy, soon flourished, and every year 
 brought in something to lay aside, besides amply providing 
 for their fast-increasing family. 
 
 The precepts of their God were obeyed by this worthy 
 couple, not only in word but in deed. They proved their 
 love for their heavenly Father, not only in their social and 
 domestic conduct, but in such acts of charity and kindness, 
 that many wondered how they could do so much for others 
 without wronging their own. Perez and his wife were, 
 however, if possible, yet more industrious and economical 
 after their marriage than before, and many a time preferred 
 to sacrifice a personal indulgence for the purer pleasure of 
 doing good to others ; and never did they do so without 
 feeling that God blessed them in the deed. 
 
 A painful event calling Perez to London was the first 
 alloy to their happiness. A younger sister of his wife, 
 lei s prudent because, perhaps, possessed of somewhat more 
 personal attraction, had won the attentions of a young man 
 who had come down to Liverpool, he said, for a week's 
 pleasure. No one knew anything about Isaac Levison. 
 As a companion, Perez himself owned he was very enter- 
 taining, but that was not quite sufficient to make him a good 
 husband. Assurances that he was well able to support a 
 wife and family, with Perez and Rachel (they were not then 
 id), went for nothing ; they wanted proofs, and these 
 he either could not or would not bring ; but in vain they
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 3 
 
 remonstrated. Leah had never liked their authority or good 
 example, and in this point determined to have her own 
 way. 
 
 They were married, and left Liverpool to reside in London, 
 and Leah's communications were too few and far between to 
 betray much concerning their circumstances. At length 
 came a letter, stating that Leah was a mother, but telling 
 also that poverty and privation had stolen upon them. 
 Their substance in a few troubled years had made itseli 
 wings, and flown away when most needed, and Leah now 
 applied for assistance to those very friends whose kindness 
 and virtues she had so often treated with contempt. The 
 fact was, Levison had embarked all his little capital (col- 
 lected no one knew how) in an establishment dashing in 
 appearance, but wanting the basis of honesty and religion. 
 After seeming to flourish for a few years, it, of course, failed 
 at last, exposing its proprietors to deserved odium and dis- 
 trust, and their families to irretrievable distress. 
 
 For seven years Perez and his wife almost supported Leah 
 and her child (secretly indeed, for no one in Liverpool 
 imagined they had need to do so). Leah was still too dear, 
 for the faults and follies of her husband, and perhaps her 
 own imprudences, to form any subject of conversation with 
 her relatives. 
 
 At length Leah wrote that she was ill, very ill. She 
 thought the hand of death was on her ; and she feared it 
 for her child, her darling Sarah, whom she had striven to 
 preserve pure amidst the scenes of misery and sin which she 
 now confessed but too often neared her dwelling. What 
 would become of her ? Who would protect her ? How 
 dared she appeal to the God of the orphan, when her earthly 
 father yet lived, seeming to forget there was a God ? Perez 
 and his wife perused that sad letter together ; but ere it was 
 completed, Hachel had sunk in bitter tears upon his bosom, 
 seeking to speak the boon which was in her heart; but, 
 though it found no words, Perez answered — 
 
 " You are right, dear wife ; one more will make little 
 difference in our household. Providence blessed us with 
 four children, and has been pleased to deprive us of one. 
 Sarah shall take her place : and in snatching her from the 
 infection of vice and shame, may we not ask and hope a 
 blessing ? Do not weep then, my Ptachel ; Leah may not
 
 4 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 be so ill as she thinks. I will go and bring her and her 
 child ; and there may be happy days in store for them yet." 
 
 Perez departed that same night by the mail to London ; 
 but, prompt as he was, poor Leah's sufferings were ter- 
 minated before his arrival. Her death, though in itself a 
 painful shock, was less a subject of misery and depression 
 to a mind almost rigid in its notions of integrity and honour 
 as that of Perez, than the fearful state of wretchedness and 
 shame into which Isaac Levison had fallen. Perez soon 
 perceived that all hope of effecting a reformation was absolute 
 folly. His poor child had been so repeatedly prevented 
 attending school, by his intemperate or violent conduct, that 
 she was at length excluded. Levison could give no good 
 reason for depriving his little girl of these advantages, except 
 that he hated the elders who were in office ; that he did not 
 see why some should be rich and some should be poor, and 
 why the former should lord it over the latter. He was as 
 good as they were any day, and his daughter should not be 
 browbeaten or governed by any one, however she might 
 call herself a lady. To reason with folly, Perez felt was 
 foolishness, and so he contented himself with entreating 
 Levison to permit his taking the little Sarah, at least for a 
 time, into his family. Levison imagined Perez was the 
 same rank as himself, and, therefore, that his pride could 
 not be injured by his consenting. Equal in birth perhaps 
 they were, but as far removed in their present ranks as vice 
 from virtue, dishonesty from truth. 
 
 Perez, however, glad and grateful for having gained his 
 point, made no comment on the many muttered remarks of 
 his brother-in-law, as to his conferring, not receiving an 
 obligation, by giving his child to the care of her aunt, but 
 hastened home, longing to offer the best comfort to his wife's 
 sorrow by placing the rescued Sarah in her arms. And it 
 was a comfort, for gradually Rachel traced a hand of love 
 even in this affliction ; the loss of her mother, under such 
 circumstances, proving perhaps, in the end, a blessing to 
 the child, if her father would but leave her with them. She 
 feared that he would not at first ; but Perez smiled at the 
 fear as foolishness, and it gradually dwindled away ; for 
 years passed, and the little Sarah grew from childhood into 
 womanhood, still an inmate of her uncle's family, almost 
 forgetting she had any father but himself.
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 5 
 
 But it is not to the unrighteous or the irreligious only that 
 misfortunes come. Nay, they may flourish for a time, and 
 give no evidence that there is a just and merciful God who 
 ruleth. But even those who have loved and served Him 
 through long years of probity and justice, and who, according 
 to frail human perceptions, would look for nothing but favour 
 at His hand, are yet afflicted with many sorrows ; and our 
 feeble and insufficient wisdom would complain that such 
 things are. If this world were all, then indeed we might 
 murmur and rebel ; but our God himself has assured us, 
 " There will come a day when He will discern between the 
 righteous and the wicked ; between those who serve God 
 and those who serve Him not." And it is our part to wait 
 patiently for that day, and that better world where that word 
 will be fulfilled. 
 
 Perez had now five children. Reuben, his eldest son, was 
 full five years older than the rest, a circumstance of rejoicing 
 to Perez, as he hoped his son would supply his place to his 
 family, should he be called away before the threescore and 
 ten years allotted as the age of man. 
 
 To do all he could towards obtaining this end, Perez early 
 associated his son with him in his own business of watch- 
 making ; but too soon, unhappily, the parents discovered that 
 a heavy grief awaited them, from him to whom they had 
 most fondly looked for joy. They had indeed striven and 
 prayed to train up their child in the way he should go, but it 
 seemed as if his after years would not confirm the sage 
 monarch's concluding words. Wild, thoughtless, and head- 
 strong, Reuben, after a very brief trial, determined that his 
 father's business was not according to his taste, and he could 
 not follow it. His father's authority indeed kept him steady 
 for a few years, but it was continued rebellion and reproof : 
 and often and often the father's hard-earned savings were 
 sacrificed for the wild freaks and extravagance of the son. 
 Perez trembled lest the other members of his family, equally 
 dear, should suffer eventual loss ; but there is something in 
 the hearts of Jewish parents towards an eldest son, which 
 calls imperatively for indulgence towards, and concealment 
 of his failings. Again and again Perez expended sums much 
 larger than he could conveniently afford, in endeavouring ta 
 fix his son in business according to his inclinations ; but no 
 sooner was he apparently settled and comfortable, and his
 
 6 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 really excellent abilities fairly drawn forth, than, by negli- 
 gence or inattention, or some graver misdemeanour, he dis- 
 gusted his employers, and, after a little longer trial, was re- 
 turned on his father's hands. 
 
 Deeply and bitterly his parents grieved, using every affec- 
 tionate argument to convince him of the evil of his ways, and 
 bring him back again to the paths of joy. They did not 
 desist, however their efforts and prayers seemed alike un- 
 answered ; they did not fail in faith, though often it was 
 trembling and faint within them. One hope they had ; 
 Reuben was not hardened. Often he would repent in tears 
 and agony of spirit and deplore his own ill fate, that he was 
 destined to bring misery to parents he so dearly loved. But 
 he refused to believe that it only needed energy to rouse 
 himself from his foil}?", for as yet it was scarcely more. He 
 said he could not help himself, could not effect any change, 
 and therefore made no effort to do so. But that which 
 grieved his parents far more than all else, was his total indif- 
 ference to the religion of his forefathers. His ears, even as 
 his heart and mind, were closed to those divine truths his 
 parents had so carefully inculcated. He knew his duty too 
 well to betray infidelity and indifference in their presence, 
 but they loved him too well to be blind to their existence. 
 
 " What is it to be a Jew," they heard him once say to a 
 companion, " but to be cut off from every honourable and 
 manly employment ? To be bound, fettered to an obsolete 
 belief, which does but cramp our energies, and bind us to 
 detestable trade. No wonder we are looked upon with con- 
 tempt, believed to be bowed, crushed to the very earth, as 
 void of all spirit or energy, only because we have no oppor- 
 tunity of showing them." 
 
 Little did he know the bitter tears these words wrung 
 from his poor mother, that no sleep visited his father's eyes 
 that night. Was this an answer to their anxious prayer ? 
 Yet they trusted still. 
 
 Anxiety and grief did not prevent Perez attending to his 
 business ; but either from the many drains upon his little 
 capital, or that trade was just at that time in a very low state, 
 his prosperity had begun visibly to decrease. And not long 
 afterwards a misfortune occurred productive of much more 
 painful affliction than even the loss of property which it so 
 seriously involved. A dreadful fire broke out in the neigh-
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 7 
 
 bourhood, gaining such an alarming height ere it was dis- 
 covered, that assistance was almost useless. Amongst the 
 greatest sufferers were Perez and his family. Their happy- 
 home was entirely consumed, and all the little valuables it 
 had contained completely destroyed. Perez gazed on ruin. 
 For one brief moment he stood as thunderstricken, but then 
 a terrible shriek aroused him. He looked around. He 
 thought he had seen all whom he loved in safety, but at one 
 glance he saw his little Ruth was not there. His wife had 
 caught a glimpse of the child in a part of the building which 
 the flames had not yet reached, and with, that wild shriek had 
 flown to save her. He saw her as she made her way through 
 falling rafters and blazing walls ; he made a rush forward to 
 join and rescue or die with her ; but his children clung 
 round him in speechless terror; his friends and neighbours 
 seconded them, and before he could effectually break from 
 them, a loud congratulatory shout proclaimed that the daring 
 mother had reached her child. A dozen ladders were hurried 
 forward, their bearers all eager to be the first to plant the 
 means of effectual escape ; and clasping her Ruth closely to 
 her breast, regardless of her increasing weight (for terror 
 had rendered the poor child utterly powerless), the mother's 
 step was on the ladder, and a hush fell upon the assembled 
 hundreds. There was no sound save the roar of the devour- 
 ing element and the play of the engines. The flames were 
 just nearing the beam on which the ladder leaned, but hope 
 was strong that Rachel would reach the ground ere this frail 
 support gave way ; and numbers pressed round, regardless 
 of the suffocating smoke and heat, in the vain hope of speed- 
 ing her descent. 
 
 Perez had ceased his struggles the moment his wife 
 appeared. With clasped hands, and cheeks and lips so 
 blanched, as even in that lurid light to startle by their 
 ghastliness, he remained, his eyes starting from their sockets 
 in their intense and agonised gaze. He saw only his wife 
 and child ; but his children, with horror which froze their very 
 blood, could only look on the fast-approaching flames. A 
 wild cry of terror was bursting from young Joseph, Ruth's 
 twin brother, but Sarah, with instinctive feeling, dreading 
 lest that cry should reach his mother's ears and awaken her 
 to her danger, caught him in her arms, and soothed him 
 into silence.
 
 8 THE PEREZ FAMILY 
 
 Carefully and slowly Rachel descended. She gave no look 
 around her. No. one knew if she were conscious of her 
 danger, which was becoming more and more imminent. 
 Then came a smothered groan from all, all save the husband 
 and the father. The flame had reached the beam, — it 
 cracked — caught — the top of the ladder was wreathed with 
 smoke and fire. Was there faltering in her step, or did the 
 frail support fail beneath her weight ? The half was past, 
 but one-third to the ground remained ; fiercer and fiercer the 
 flames roared and rose above her, but j^et there was hope. 
 It failed, the beam gave way, the ladder fell, and Rachel and 
 her child were precipitated to the ground. A heavy groan 
 mingled with the wild shriek of horror which burst around. 
 Perez rushed like a maniac forward ; but louder, shriller 
 above it all a cry resounded " Mother ! mother ! oh God, my 
 mother ! why was I not beside you, to save Ruth in your 
 stead ? Mother, speak ; oh speak to me again ! " And the 
 father and son, each unconscious of the other's presence, 
 met beside what seemed the lifeless body cf one to both so 
 dear. 
 
 But Rachel was not dead, though fearfully injured ; and it 
 was in the long serious illness that followed, Reuben proved 
 that despite his many faults and follies, affection was not 
 all extinguished ; love for his mother remained in its full 
 force, and in his devotion to her, his almost woman's tender- 
 ness, not only towards her, but towards his little sister Ruth, 
 whose eyes had been so injured by the heat and smoke as to 
 occasion total blindness, he demonstrated qualities only too 
 likely so to gain a woman's heart, as to shut her eyes to all 
 other points of character save them. 
 
 A subscription had indeed been made for the sufferers by 
 the fire, but they were so numerous, that the portion of indi- 
 viduals was of course but small ; and even this Perez' honest 
 nature shrunk in suffering from accepting. Religious and 
 energetic as he was, determined not to evince by word or 
 sign how completely his spirit was crushed, and thus give the 
 prejudiced of other faiths room to say, " the Jew has no re- 
 source, no comfort," he yet felt that he himself would never 
 be enabled to hold up his head again, felt it at the very 
 moment friends and neighbours were congratulating him on 
 the equanimity, the cheerfulness with which he met and bore 
 up against affliction.
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 9 
 
 Yet even now, when the sceptic and unbeliever would have 
 said, surely the God he has so faithfully served had deserted 
 him, Perez felt he was not deserted, that he had not laboured 
 honestly and religiously so long in vain. The wild and way- 
 ward conduct of the son could not, in candid and liberal 
 minds, tarnish the character of the father ; and thus he was 
 enabled easily and pleasantly to obtain advantageous situ- 
 ations for his two elder children. 
 
 The dwelling to which we originally introduced our reader 
 was then to let ; and from its miserably dilapidated condition 
 (for when Perez first saw it, it was not as we described), at a 
 remarkably low rent. An influential friend made it habit- 
 able, and thither, some three months after the fire, the family 
 removed. 
 
 And where was Sarah Levison in the midst of these changes 
 and affliction ? In their heavy trial, did Rachel and Perez 
 never regret they had made her as their own ? nor permit the 
 murmuring thought to enter that, as the girl had a father, they 
 had surely no need to support an additional burden? To 
 such questions we think our readers will scarcely need an 
 answer. As their own daughter Leah, they loved and 
 cherished their niece, whose affection and gratitude towards 
 them was yet stronger and more devoted than that of their 
 own child, affectionate as she was. Leah had never known 
 other than kind untiring parents, never, even in dreams, 
 imagined the misery in which her cousin's early years fad 
 passed. To Sarah, life had been a strange dark stream or 
 grief and wrath, until she became an inmate of her uncle's 
 house. Though only just seventeen when these heavy 
 sorrows took place, her peculiarly quiet and reflective el i- 
 racter and strong affections endowed her with the experience 
 of more advanced age. She not only felt, but acted. Enter- 
 ing into the feelings alike of her uncle and aunt, she uncon- 
 sciously soothed and strengthened both. She taught Leah's 
 young and, from its high and joyous temperament, somewhat 
 rebellious spirit, submission and self-control. She strength- 
 ened in the young Simeon the ardent desire to work, and not 
 only assist his father now, but to raise him again to his 
 former station in life. She found time to impart to the little 
 Joseph such instruction as she thought might aid in gaining 
 him employment. Untiringly, caressingly, she nursed both 
 her aunt and the poor little patient sufferer Ruth, telling such
 
 10 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 sweet tales of heaven and its beautiful angels, and earth and 
 its pleasant places, and kind deeds, that the child would 
 forget her sorrow as she listened, and fancy the sweet music 
 of that gentle voice had never seemed so sweet before ; and 
 while it spoke she could forget to wish to look once more 
 on the flowers and trees and sky. And Reuben, what was 
 his cousin Sarah not to him in these months of remorseful 
 agony, when he felt as if he could never more displease or 
 grieve his parents ; when again and again he cursed himself 
 as the real cause of his father's ruin ; for had not such large 
 sums been wasted upon him, there might have been still 
 capital enough to have set him afloat again ? For several 
 days and nights Sarah and Reuben had been joint-watchers 
 beside the beds of suffering; and the .gentle voice of the 
 former consoled, even while to the divine comfort and hope 
 which she proffered Reuben felt his heart was closed. He 
 bade her speak on ; he seemed, in those still silent hours, to 
 feel that without her gentle influence his very senses must 
 have wandered ; and that heart must have been colder and 
 harsher than Sarah's which could have done other than 
 believe she was not indifferent to him. Sarah did not think 
 of many little proofs of affection at the time ; she was only 
 conscious that, at the very period heavy affliction had visited 
 her uncle's family, a new feeling, a new energy had awakened 
 within her heart, and she was happy — oh, so happy ! 
 
 It was to Sarah's exertions their new dwelling owed the 
 comfort, cleanliness, and almost luxury of its interior arrange- 
 ments ; her example inspired Leah to throw aside the proud 
 disdain with which she at first regarded their new home — to 
 conquer the rebellious feeling which prompted her to entreat 
 her father to apprentice her anywhere, so she need not live 
 so differently at home, and not only to conquer that sinful 
 pride, but use her every energy to rouse her natural spirits, 
 and make her parents forget how their lot was changed : and 
 the girl did so ; for, in spite of youthful follies, there was 
 good solid sense and warm feelings on which to work. 
 
 Sarah and Leah, then, worked in the interior, and Perez 
 and Simeon improved the exterior of the house, so that when 
 the little family assembled, there was comfort and peace around 
 them, and thus their song of praise and thanksgiving mingled 
 with and hallowed the customary prayer, with which the son 
 of Israel ever sanctifies his newly-appointed dwelling.
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 11 
 
 Each el could no longer work as she' had done ; her right 
 arm had been so severely injured as to be nearly useless, but 
 Sarah supplied her place so actively, so happily, that Rachel 
 felt she had no right to murmur at her own uselessness : the 
 poor motherless girl she had taken to her heart and home 
 returned tenfold all that had been bestowed. She could 
 have entered into more than one lucrative situation, but she 
 would not hear of leaving that home which she knew needed 
 her presence and her services; and this was not the mere 
 impulse of the moment — week after week, month after 
 month, found her active, affectionate, persevering as at first. 
 
 The most painful circumstance in their present dwelling 
 was its low neighbourhood ; and partially to remedy this evil, 
 Sarah prevailed on her uncle to employ his leisure in cul- 
 tivating the little garden behind the house, making their 
 sitting-room and kitchen open into it, and contriving an 
 entrance through them, so as scarcely to use the front, 
 except for ingress and egress which necessity compelled. 
 This arrangement was productive of a twofold good ; it 
 prevented all gossiping intercourse, which their neighbours 
 had done all they could to introduce, and gave Perez an 
 occupation which interested him, although he might never 
 have thought of it himself. Both local and national dis- 
 advantages often unite to debar the Jews from agriculture, 
 and therefore it is a branch in which they are seldom, if 
 ever, employed. Their scattered state among the nations, 
 the occupations which misery and persecution compel them 
 to adopt, are alone to blame for those peculiar characteristics 
 which cause them to herd in the most miserable alleys of 
 crowded cities, rather than the pure air and cheaper living 
 of the country. Perez found pleasure and a degree of health 
 in his new employment ; the delight which it was to his poor 
 little blind Ruth to sit by his side while he worked, and 
 inhale the reviving scent of the newly-turned earth or 
 budding flowers, would of itself have inspired him, but his 
 wife too shared the enjoyment. It was a pleasure to her to 
 take the twins by her side, and teach them their God was a 
 God of love, alike through His inspired word and through 
 His works ; and Joseph and Ruth learned to love their new 
 house better than their last, because it had a garden and 
 flowers, and they learned from that much more than they 
 had ever learned before j
 
 12 THE PEEEZ FAMILY. 
 
 For nine months all was cheerfulness and joy in that lowly 
 dwelling. The heavy sorrow and disquiet had partially sub- 
 sided. Reuben was more often at home, and seemed more 
 steadily and honourably employed. Twice in six months he 
 had poured his earnings in his mother's lap, and while he 
 lingered caressingly by her side, how might she doubt or 
 fear for him ? though when absent, his non-attendance at the 
 synagogue, his too evident indifference to his faith, his visible 
 impatience at all its enjoyments, caused many an anxious 
 hour. Simeon and Leah gave satisfaction to their employers, 
 and Sarah earned sufficient to make her aunt's compelled 
 idleness of little consequence. Perez himself had been gladly 
 received by his former master, as his principal journeyman, 
 at excellent wages; and could he have felt less painfully 
 the bitter change in his lot, all might have been well. 
 Pride, however, was unhappily his heirloom, as well as that 
 of Levison. With Perez it had always acted as a good 
 spirit — with Levison as a bad ; inciting the former to all 
 honourable deeds and thoughts, and acting as religion's best 
 agent in guarding him from wrong. Now, however, it was 
 to enact a different part. In vain his solid good sense 
 argued misfortune was no shame, and that he was as high, 
 in a moral point of view, as he had ever been. Equally vain 
 was the milder, more consoling voice of religion, in assuring 
 him a Father's hand had sent the affliction, and therefore it 
 was love ; that he failed in submission if he could not bear 
 up against it. In vain conscience told him, while she was 
 at rest and glad, all outward things should be the same ; 
 that w r hile his wife and children had been so mercifully 
 preserved, thankfulness, not grief, should be his portion. 
 Pride, that dark failing which will cling to Judaism, bore all 
 other argument away, and crushed him. Had he complained 
 or given way to temper, his health perhaps would not have 
 been injured ; but he was silent on his own griefs, even to 
 his wife, for he knew their encouragement was wrong. 
 There was no outward change in his appearance or physical 
 power, and had he not been attacked by a cold and fever, 
 occasioned by a very inclement winter, the wreck of his con- 
 stitution might never have been discovered. But trifling as 
 his ailments at first appeared, it was but too soon evident 
 that he had no strength to rally from them. Gradually, yet 
 surely, he sunk, and with a grief which, demonstrating itself
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 13 
 
 in each according to their different characters, was equally- 
 violent in all, his afflicted family felt they dared not hope, 
 the husband and the father was passing to his home above, 
 and they would soon indeed be desolate. 
 
 It was verging towards the early spring, when one even- 
 ing Perez lay on his lowly pallet surrounded by his family ; 
 his hand was clasped in that of his wife, whose eyes were 
 fixed on him with a look of such deep love, it was scarcely 
 possible to gaze on her without tears ; the other rested lightly 
 on the beautiful curls of his little Ruth, who, resting on a 
 wooden stool close beside his bed, sometimes lifted up her 
 sightless orbs, as if, in listening to the dear though now, 
 alas ! but too faint voice, she could see his beloved face once 
 more. One alone was absent — one for whom the father 
 yearned as the patriarch Jacob for his Joseph. Reuben had 
 been sent by his employer to Manchester, and though it was 
 more than time for him to return, and tidings of his father's 
 illness had been faithfully transmitted, he was still away. 
 No one spoke of him, yet he was thought of by all ; so little 
 had his conduct alienated the affections of his family, that 
 no one would utter aloud the wish for his presence, lest it 
 should seem reproach ; but the eyes of his mother, when they 
 could turn from her husband, ever sought the door, and 
 once, as an eager step seemed to approach, she had risen 
 hastily and descended breathlessly, but it passed on, and 
 she returned to her husband's pallet with large tears stealing 
 down her cheeks. 
 
 " Rachel, my own dear wife, do not weep thus ; he will 
 come yet," whispered Perez, clasping her hands in both his ; 
 " and if he do not, oh, may God bless him still ! Tell him 
 there was no thought of anger or reproach within me. My 
 firstborn, first beloved, beloved through all — for wayward, 
 indifferent as he is, he is still my son — perhaps if he tarry 
 till too late, remorse may work upon him for good, may 
 awaken him to better thoughts, and if our God in His mercy 
 detain him for this, we must not grieve that he is absent." 
 
 For a moment he paused ; then he added, mournfully, 
 "I had hoped he would have supplied my place ■ — would 
 have been to you, my Rachel, to his brothers and sisters, all 
 that a firstborn should ; but it may not be. God's will be 
 done ! " 
 
 " Oh, no, no ; do not say it may not be, dear uncle !
 
 14 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 Think how young lie is ! Is there not hope still ? " inter- 
 posed Sarah, so earnestly, that the colour rose to her cheeks. 
 " He will be here, I know he will, or the letter has not 
 reached him. You cannot doubt his love ; and whilst there 
 is love, is there not, must there not be hope ? " 
 
 The dying man looked on her with a faint, sad smile. 
 " I do not doubt his love, my child ; but oh, if he love not 
 his God, his love for a mortal will not keep him from the 
 evil path. His youth is but a vain plea, my Sarah ; if he 
 see not his duty as a son and brother in Israel now, when 
 may we hope he will ? but you are right in bidding me not 
 despond. He is my heaviest care in death ; but my God 
 can lighten even that." 
 
 " Death," sobbed Leah, suddenly flinging herself on her 
 knees beside the bed and covering her father's hand with 
 tears and kisses, "death ! Father, dear, dear father, do 
 not say that dreadful word ! You will live, you must live — 
 God will not take you from us ! " 
 
 " My child, call not death a dreadful word, it is only such 
 to the evil doers, to the proud and wicked men, of whom 
 David tells us, ' They shall not stand in the judgment, nor 
 enter the congregation of the righteous, but shall be as chaff 
 which the wind driveth away.' For them death is fearful, 
 for it is an end of all things ; but not to me is it thus, my be- 
 loved ones. I have sought to love and serve my God in 
 health and life, and His deep love and fathomless mercy 
 is guiding me now, holding me up here through the dark 
 shadows of death. His compassion is upon my soul whisper- 
 ing my sins are all forgiven, that he has called me unto Him 
 in love, and not in wrath. There was a time I feared and 
 trembled at the bare dream of death ; but now, oh, it seems 
 but as the herald of joy, of bliss which will never, never 
 change. My children, think that I go to God, and do not 
 grieve for me." 
 
 " If not for you, my father, chide us not that we weep for 
 ourselves," answered Simeon, struggling with the rising sob ; 
 " what have you not been to all of us ? and how may we bear 
 to feel that to us you are lost for ever, that the voice whose 
 accents of love never failed to thrill our hearts with joy, and 
 when in reproach ever brought the most obdurate in re- 
 pentant sorrow to your feet, that dear, dear voice we may 
 never — " he could not go on for his own voice was choked.
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 15 
 
 " My boy, we shall all meet again ; follow on in that path 
 of good in which I have humbly sought to lead you ; forgot 
 not your God, and the duties of your faith ; obey those com- 
 mands and behests which to Israel are enjoined ; never forget 
 that, as children of Israel, ye are the firstborn and beloved of 
 the Lord ; serve Him, trust Him, wait for Him, and oh, 
 believe the words of the dying ! We shall meet again never 
 more to part. I do but go before you, my beloved ones, and 
 you will come to me ; there are many homes in heaven where 
 the loved of the Lord shall meet." 
 
 " And I and Ruth — father, dear father, how may we so 
 love the Lord, as to be so loved by Mm ? " tearfully inquired 
 the young Joseph, drawing back the curtain at the head of the 
 bed, which had before concealed him, for he did not like his 
 father to see his tears. " Does he look upon us with the 
 same love as upon you, who have served him so faithfully 
 and well? Oh, what would I not do, that I may look upon 
 death as you do, and feel that I may come to you in heaven, 
 v.'ritten amongst those He loves." 
 
 " And our God does love you, my little Joseph, child as 
 3 - ou are, or you would not think and wish this ; my works 
 are not more in His sight than yours. Miserable indeed 
 should I now be, if I had trusted in them alone for my salva- 
 tion and comfort now. No, my sweet boy, you must not look 
 to deeds alone ; study the word of your God to know and love 
 Him, and then will you obey His commandments and statutes 
 with rejoicing, and glory that He has given you tests by 
 which you may prove the love you bear Him : and in death, 
 though the imperfection and insufficiency of your best deeds 
 be then revealed, you will feel and know you have not 
 loved your God in vain. His infinite mercy will purify and 
 n." 
 
 His voice sunk from exhaustion ; and Rachel, bending over 
 him to wipe the moisture from his brow, tenderly entreated 
 him not to speak any more then, despite the comfort of his 
 simplest word. 
 
 " It will not hurt me,_ love," he answered, fondly, after a 
 pause. "I bless God that He permits me thus to speak, before 
 i from earth for ever. When we meet again, there 
 will be no need for me to bid my children to know and love 
 the Lord ; for we shall all know Him, from the smallest to 
 the greatest of us. But to you, my own faithful wife, oh, what
 
 16 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 shall I say to you in this sad moment ? I can but give you 
 to His care, the God of the widow and the fatherless, and 
 feel and know He will not leave you nor forsake you, but 
 bless you with exceeding blessing. And in that heavy care — 
 which, alas ! I must leave you to bear alone — care for our 
 precious Reuben, oh, my beloved wife, remember those 
 treasured words, which were our mutual strength and com- 
 fort, when we laboured in our youth. How well do I re- 
 member that blessed evening, when we first spoke our love, 
 and in our momentary despondence that long years must 
 pass ere we could hope for our union, we opened the hallowed 
 word of God, and could only see this verse : ' Commit thy 
 ways unto the Lord, trust also in him and he will bring it 
 to pass.' And did He not bring it to pass, dear wife ? Did 
 He not bless our efforts, and oh, will He not still ? Yes, 
 trust in Him ; commit our Reuben unto Him, and all shall 
 yet be well ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know it will ; but oh, my husband, pray for 
 me, that I may realize this blessed trust when you are gone. 
 You have been my support, my aid, till now, cheering my 
 despondence, soothing my fears ; and now — " 
 
 " Rachel, my own wife, I have not been to you more than 
 you have to me ; it is our God who has been to us more — oh, 
 how much more ! — than we have been to each other, and He 
 is with you still. He will heal the wound His love inflicts. 
 But for our erring, yet our much-loved boy, I need not bid 
 you love him, forgive him to the end — and his brothers and 
 sisters. Oh, listen to me, my children." He half-raised him- 
 self in the energy of his supplication. " Promise me but 
 this, throw him not off from your love, your kindness, how- 
 ever he may turn aside, however he may fall ; even if that 
 fearful indifference increase, and in faitli he scarcely seems 
 your brother, my children, my blessed children, oh, love him 
 ^till. Seek by kindness and affection to bring him back to 
 his deserted fold. Promise me to love him, to bear with 
 him ; forget not that he is your brother, even to the last. 
 Many a wanderer would return if love welcomed him back, 
 many a one who will not bear reproach. Do not cast 
 him from your hearts, my children, for your dead father's 
 sake." 
 
 " Father, father, can you doubt us?" burst at once from all, 
 and rising from their varied postures, they joined hands around
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 17 
 
 hiin. " Love him ! yes. However lie may forget and desert 
 us, he is still our brother and your son. We Avill love him, 
 bear with him. Oh, do not fear us, father. There needed not 
 this promise, but we will give it. We will never cease to 
 love him." 
 
 " Bless you, my children," murmured the exhausted man, 
 as he sunk back. " Sarah, you have not spoken. Are you 
 not our child ?" 
 
 She flung down her work and darted to his side. She 
 struggled to speak, but no words came, and throwing her 
 arms round his neck, she fixed on his face one long, piercing 
 look, and burst into passionate tears. 
 
 "It is enough, my child. I need not bid you love him," 
 whispered Perez, so as to be heard only by her. " Would you 
 were indeed our own ; there would be less grief in store." 
 
 " And am I not your own ?" she answered, disregarding 
 his last words, which seemed, however, to have restored her 
 to calmness. " Have you not been to me a true and tender 
 father, and my aunt as kind a mother ? Whose am I if I am 
 not yours ? Where shall I find another such home ?" 
 
 " Yet you have a father, my gentle girl ; one whom I have 
 lately feared would claim you, because they told me he was 
 once more a wealthy man. And if he should, if he would 
 offer you the rest and comfort of competence, why should 
 you labour throughout your young years for us ? If he be 
 rich, he surely will not forget he has a child, and there- 
 fore claim you." 
 
 " He has done so," replied Sarah, calmly, regardless of the 
 various intonations of surprise in which her words were re- 
 peated. "My father did write for me to join him. He told 
 me he was rich ; would make me cease entirely from labour, 
 and many similar kind offers." 
 
 " And you refused them ! Sarah, my dear child, why have 
 you done this V 
 
 " Why," she repeated, pressing the trembling hand her 
 aunt held out to her between both hers ; " why, because 
 now, only now, can I even in part return all you have done 
 for me ; because I cannot live apart from all whom I so love. 
 I cannot exchange for short-lived riches all that makes life 
 dear. Had my lather sent for me in sickness or in woe, I 
 should fly to him without an hour's pause. But it is he who 
 is in affluence, in peace ; and you, my best, kindest friends, 
 
 c
 
 18 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 in sorrow. No, no ; my duty was to stay with you, to work 
 for you, to love you ; and I wrote to beseech his permission 
 to remain, even if it were still to labour. I did not feel it 
 labour when with you ; and I have permission. I am still 
 your child ; he will not take me from you." 
 
 " God's blessing be upon him !" murmured Rachel, as she 
 folded the weeping girl to her bosom. 
 
 A pause of deep emotion fell upon the group. Perez 
 drew her faintly to him, and kissed her cheek; then saying 
 he felt exhausted, and should wish to be left alone a brief 
 while, Sarah led the twins away, and, followed by Leah, 
 softly left the apartment. Simeon and his mother still 
 remained beside his couch. 
 
 The night passed quietly. Sarah put the twins to bed, and 
 persuaded Leah to follow their example, and, exhausted by 
 sorrow, she was soon asleep, leaving Sarah to watch and pray 
 alone ; and the poor girl did pray, and think and weep, till 
 it seemed strange the night could so soon pass, and morning- 
 smile again. She had not told that permission to remain 
 with her aunt had been scornfully and painfully given ; that 
 her father had derided her, as mean-spirited and degraded ; 
 that as she had chosen to remain with her poor relations, she 
 was no longer his daughter. Nor did she pray and weep for 
 the dying, or for those around him. One alone was in that 
 heart ! Why was he not there at such a moment ? and she 
 shuddered as she pictured the violence of the self-accusing 
 agony which would be upon him when he discovered he bad 
 lingered until too late. Hour after hour passed, and there 
 was no footstep. She thought the chimes must have rung 
 too near each other ; for as one struck, she believed he must 
 be at home ere it struck another, and yet he came not : she 
 watched in vain. 
 
 Day dawned, and as light gleamed in upon the dying, 
 there was a change upon his face. He had not suffered 
 throughout the night, seeming to sleep at intervals, and then 
 lay calmly without speaking; but as the day gradually 
 brightened, he reopened his eyes and looked towards the 
 richly glowing east. 
 
 " Another sun !" he said, in a changed and hollow voice. 
 "Blessed be the God who sets him in the heavens, strong 
 and rejoicing as a young man to run a race : my race is over 
 — my light will pass before his. I prayed one night's
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 19 
 
 delay, but still he does not come ; and now it will soon be 
 over. Rachel, my true wife, call the children ; let me bless 
 them each once more." 
 
 They were called, and, awe-struck even to silence at the 
 fearful change in that loved face, they one by one drew near 
 and bowed down their bright heads before him. Faintly 
 yet distinctly, he spoke a blessing upon each ; then mur- 
 mured, "The God of my Fathers bless you all, all as you 
 love Him and each other. Never deny him : acknowledge 
 Him as One ! Hear, Israel ! the Lord our God, the Lord 
 is one !" 
 
 The words were repeated in tears and sobs by all ; he fell 
 back, and they thought his spirit gone. Minutes rolled by, 
 and then there was a rapid step without ; it neared the door, 
 one moment paused, and entered. 
 
 " My son, my son ! God, I thank thee ! Reuben, my 
 firstborn, in time, I bless, bless — " the words were lost in 
 a fearful gurgling sound, but the father's arms were flung 
 wildly, strongly round the son, who, with bitter tears, had 
 thrown himself upon his neck — and there was silence. 
 
 " Father ! oh, my father, speak — bless, forgive me !" at 
 length Reuben wildfy exclaimed, breaking from that con- 
 vulsive hold to sink as a penitent upon the earth. He spoke 
 in vain ; the spirit had lingered to gaze once more upon the 
 firstborn of his love, then fled from earth for ever. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 It is two years after the mournful event recorded in our last 
 chapter that we recommence our simple narrative. When 
 time and prayer had softened the first deep affliction, the 
 widow and her family indeed proved the fulfilment of that 
 blessed promise, " Leave thy fatherless children to me, and 
 1 will keep them alive, and let thy widows trust in me ;" for 
 they prospered and were happy. Affliction, either of failing 
 health in those compelled to labour, or in want of employ- 
 ment, was kept far from them. The widow, indeed, herself 
 often suffered; but she thanked God, in the midst even of 
 pain, as she compared the blessings of her lot with those of 
 others. Little Ruth, too, from her afiliction and very delicate
 
 20 THE PEREZ FAMILT. 
 
 health, was often an object of anxiety ; but so tenderly was 
 she beloved, that anxiety was scarcely pain in the delight 
 her presence ever caused. Sweet-tempered, loving, and 
 joyous, with a voice of song like a bird's, and a laugh of 
 child-like glee, and yet such strong affections, such deep 
 reverence for all things lioly, that who might grieve for her 
 afflictions when she was so happy, so gratified herself? She 
 was the star of that lowly little dwelling, for sorrow, or dis- 
 cord, or care could not come near her. 
 
 Joseph, her twin brother, had attracted the notice of a 
 respectable jeweller, who, though he could not take the boy 
 into his house as a regular apprentice till he was thirteen, 
 not only employed him several hours in the day in cleaning 
 jewels, etc., but allowed him small wages — an act of real 
 benevolence, felt by the widow as an especial blessing, 
 rendered perhaps the dearer from the fact that it was 
 the high character her husband had borne which gave his 
 youngest son so responsible an office, intrusted as it was to 
 none but the strictly honest. 
 
 Simeon, now nearly seventeen, was with the same watch- 
 maker who had formerly brought forward his father. It was 
 not a trade he liked; nay, the delicate machinery required 
 was peculiarly annoying to him, but it was the only opening 
 for him, and he conquered his disinclination. He had long 
 since made a vow to use his every effort to restore his parents 
 to the comfortable estate from which they had unfortunately 
 fallen, and no thought of himself or his own wishes should 
 interfere with its accomplishment. Persevering and resolute, 
 he took a good heart with him to the business ; and though 
 his first attempts were awkward, and the laughter of his 
 companions most discouraging, the praise of his master and 
 his own conscience urged him on, and before the two years 
 which we have passed over had elapsed, he had conquered 
 every difficulty, and promised in time to be quite as good a 
 workman as his father. 
 
 The extent of suffering which his father's death had been 
 to him no one knew, but he had felt at first as if he could 
 not rouse himself again. It was useless to struggle on ; for 
 the beloved parent, for whose sake he had made this solemn 
 vow, was gone for ever. His mother indeed was spared 
 him ; but much as he loved and reverenced her, his father 
 had been, if possible, first in his affections. Perhaps it was
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 21 
 
 that his own feelings, his own character, gave him a clue to 
 all that his father had done and endured. He had all his 
 honesty and honour, all his energy, and love for his ancient 
 faith. One difference there was : Perez could bear with, 
 nay, love all mankind — could find excuse for the erring, even 
 for the apostate, much as he abhorred the deed ; could believe 
 in the sincerity and piety of others, though their faith differed 
 from his own ; but Simeon could not feel this. Often, even 
 in his childhood, his father had to reprove him for prejudice ; 
 and as he grew older, his hatred against all those who left 
 the faith, or united themselves in any way with other than 
 Israelites, continued violent. Prejudice is almost the only 
 feeling which reason cannot conquer — religion may, and 
 Simeon was truly and sincerely religious ; but he loved his 
 faith better than he loved his God. He would have started 
 and denied it, had any one told him so, and declared it was 
 impossible — one feeling could not be distinct or divided from 
 the other ; yet so it was. An earnest and heartfelt love of 
 God can never permit an emotion so violent as hatred to anj- 
 of God's creatures. It is no test of our own sincerity to 
 condemn or disbelieve in that of others ; and those who do 
 — who prejudiced and violent against all who differ from 
 them — may be, no doubt are, sincerely religious and well 
 intentioned, but they love their faith better than they love 
 their God. 
 
 These peculiar feelings occasioned a degree of coldness in 
 Simeon's sentiments towards his brother Reuben, of whom 
 we have little more to say than we know already. 
 
 The death of his father was indeed a fearful shock ; yet, 
 from a few words which fell from him during some of his 
 interviews with Sarah, she fancied that he almost rejoiced 
 that he was bound by no promise to the dying. In the midst 
 of repentant agony that he had arrived too late for his 
 parent's blessing, he would break off with a half shudder, 
 and mutter, " If he had spoken that, he might have spoken 
 more, and I could not have disobeyed him on his deathbed. 
 Whatever he bade me promise I must have promised ; and 
 then, then, after a few brief months, been perjured. Oh, my 
 father, my father ! why is it my fate to be the wretch I 
 am ':" 
 
 This grief was violent, but it did not produce the good 
 effect which his parents had so fondly hoped. Even in the
 
 22 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 days of mourning, it was evident that the peculiar forms 
 which his faith enjoined, as the son of the deceased, chafed 
 and irritated him ; and had it not heen for the deep, silent 
 suffering of his mother, which he could not bear to increase, 
 he would have neglected them altogether. When he mixed 
 with the world again, he followed his own course and his 
 own will, scarcely ever mixing with those of his own race, 
 but seeking, and at last finding employment with the 
 stranger. He had excellent abilities ; and from his having 
 received a better education than most youths of his race, 
 obtained at length a lucrative situation in an establishment 
 which, trading to many different parts of the British Isles, 
 often required an active agent to travel for them. His 
 peculiar creed had been at first against him ; but when his 
 abilities were put to the proof, and it was discovered he was 
 in truth only nominally a Jew, that he cared not to sacrifice 
 the Sabbath, and that no part of his religion was permitted 
 to interfere with his employments, his services were accepted 
 and well paid. 
 
 Had then Reuben Perez, the beloved and cherished son 
 of such good and pious parents, indeed deserted the religion 
 of his forefathers ? Not in semblance, for there were times 
 when he still visited the synagogue ; and as he did so, he 
 was by many still conceived a good Jew. The flagrant 
 follies of his youth had subsided ; he was no longer wild, 
 wavering, and extravagant. Not a word could be spoken 
 against his moral principles ; his public, even his domestic 
 conduct was unexceptionable, and therefore he bore a high 
 character in the estimation alike of the Jewish and Christian 
 world. What cause had his mother, then, for the grief and 
 pain which swelled her heart almost to bursting, when she 
 thought upon her firstborn ? Alas ! it was because she felt 
 there was One who saw deeper than the world — One, 
 between whom and himself Ileuben had raised up a dark 
 barrier of wrath — One who loved him, erring and sinful as 
 he was, with an immeasurable love, but whose deep love was 
 rejected and abused — even his God, that God who had been 
 the Saviour of his forefathers through so many thousand 
 ages. The mother would have preferred seeing him poor, 
 dependent, obtaining but his daily bread, yet faithful to his 
 faith and to his God, than prosperous, courted, and an 
 alien.
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 23 
 
 The brothers seldom met, and therefore Simeon was 
 ignorant how powerfully coldness was creeping over his 
 affections for Reuben ; how, in violently condemning his 
 indifference arid union with the stranger, he was rendering 
 the observance of his promise to his dying father (to bear 
 with and love his brother) a matter of difficulty and pain. 
 Faithful and earnest himself, he could not understand a 
 want of earnestness and fidelity in others. But, however 
 the world might flatter and appear to honour his exemplary 
 moral conduct, one truth it is our duty to record — Reuben 
 was not happy. It was not the mere fancy of his mother 
 and cousin, it was truth ; they knew not wherefore — for if 
 he neglected and contemned his religion, he could scarcely 
 feel the want of it — but that he was unhappy, perhaps was 
 the secret cause which held the love of his mother and Sarah 
 so immovably enchained, bidding them hope sometimes in 
 the very midst of gloom. 
 
 Of the female members of Perez' family we have little to 
 remark. Leah's good conduct had not only made her the 
 favourite of her mistress, but her liveliness and happy 
 temper had actually triumphed over the sometimes harsh 
 disposition she had at first to encounter. There was no 
 withstanding her good humour. She had the happy knack 
 of making people good friends with themselves, as well as 
 with each other, and was so happy herself, that, except when 
 she thought of her dear father, and wished that he could but 
 see her and hear her sing over her work, sorrow was un- 
 known. Every Friday evening she went home to remain till 
 the Sunday morning, and that was superlative enjo} T ment, 
 not only to herself, for her mother looked to the visit of her 
 merry, affectionate daughter as a source of pure feeling, 
 delight, and recreation. 
 
 In Sarah there was no change. Still pensive, modest, and 
 industrious, she continued quietly to retain the most devoted 
 affections of her relatives, and the good-will and respect of 
 her employers. Of her own individual feelings we must not 
 now speak, save to say that few even of her domestic circle 
 imagined how strong and deep was the under-current of cha- 
 racter which her quiet mien concealed. 
 
 It was the evening of the Sabbath, and the widow and her 
 daughters were assembled in their pretty little parlour. 
 Simeon and Joseph were not yet returned from synagogue.
 
 24 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 Reuben, alas ! was seldom there on the Sabbath eve. The 
 table was covered with a cloth, which, though not of the 
 finest description, was white as the driven snow ; and the 
 Sabbath lamp was lighted, for in their greatest poverty this 
 ceremony had never been omitted. When they had na 
 lamp, and could not have afforded oil, they burnt a wax 
 candle, frequently depriving themselves of some week-day 
 necessary to procure this indulgence. The first earnings of 
 Sarah, Leah, and Simeon had been used to repurchase the 
 ancient Sabbath lamp, the heirloom in their family for many 
 generations. It was silver and very antique, and by a 
 strange chance had escaped the fire, which rendered per- 
 haps the sale of it the more painful to Perez. His grati- 
 fication on beholding it again had amply repaid his affec- 
 tionate children. Never being used but on Sabbaths, it 
 seemed to partake of the sanctity of that holy day. 
 
 Bread and salt were also upon the .table, and the large 
 Bible and its attendant prayer-books there also, open, as if 
 they had just been used. Ruth had plucked some sweet 
 ilowers just before Sabbath, and arranged them tastefully in 
 a china cup, and Leah had playfully removed a sprig of rose- 
 buds and wreathed it in the long glossy curls whicli hung 
 round Ruth's sweet face and over her shoulders. The 
 dresses of all were neat and clean, for they loved to make a 
 distinction between the seventh day and the six days of 
 labour. 
 
 ' c If we were about to pass a day in the presence of an 
 earthly sovereign, my dear children," the widow had often 
 been wont to say, " should we not deserve to be excluded if 
 we appeared rudely and slovenly and dirtily attired ? You 
 think we could not possibly do so ; it would not only be such 
 marked disrespect, but we should not be admitted. How, 
 then, dare we seek the presence of our heavenly sovereign in 
 such rude and sinful disarray ? The seventh day is His day. 
 He calls upon us to throw aside all worldly thoughts and 
 cares, and come to Him, and give our thoughts and hearts to 
 His holy service. If an earthly king so called us, how 
 anxious should we be to accept the invitation — shall we do 
 less for God?" 
 
 "But, dear mother," Leah would answer, "will God re- 
 gard that ? Is He not too holy, too far removed from us, too. 
 pure to mark such little things V
 
 TIIE PEREZ FAMILY. 25 
 
 " Nothing is too small for Him to remark, if done in love 
 and faith, my child. The heart anxious to mark the Sabbath 
 by increase of cleanliness and neatness in personal attire, as 
 ■well as household arrangements, must conceive it God's own 
 day, and observing it as such will receive His blessing. It is 
 not the act of dressing or the dress He observes. He only 
 marks it as a proof His holy day is welcomed with love and 
 rejoicing, as He commanded ; and the smallest offering of 
 obedience is acceptable to Him." 
 
 "But I have heard you remark with regret, mother, that 
 some of our neighbours are dressed so very smart on Sabbath. 
 If it be to mark the holy difference between that day and the 
 others, why should you regret it V 
 
 " Because, love, there ought to be moderation in all things, 
 and when I see very smart showy dresses, which, if :iot in 
 material, in appearance are much too fine and smart for our 
 station, I fear it is less a religious than a worldly eeling 
 which dictates them. Have you not noticed that those who 
 dress so gaily generally spend their Sabbath in walking 
 about the streets and exchanging visits, conversing, of course, 
 on the most frivolous topics ? I do not think this the proper 
 method of spending our Sabbath day, and therefore I regret to 
 see them devote so much time and thought on mere outwar/T 
 decoration, which is so widely different from obedience to 
 their God." 
 
 Leah thought of this little conversation many times. From 
 thoughtlessness and dislike to trouble, she had hitherto been 
 rather negligent than otherwise in her dress ; then going to 
 a contrary extreme, felt very much inclined to imitate some 
 young companions in their finery. Her mother's word saved her 
 from the one, and their subsequent misfortunes effectually from 
 the other, as all her earnings were hoarded for one holy purpose, 
 simply to assist her parents ; and she would have thought it 
 sacrilege to have spent any portion on herself, except on 
 things which she absolutely needed. But so neat and clean 
 was she invariably in her dress, that her mistress always sent 
 her to receive orders, and, trifling as appearance may seem, it 
 repeatedly gained customers. 
 
 " They are coming — I hear their footsteps," said the little 
 Ptuth, springing up to open the parlour door. " Oh ! I do so 
 love the Sabbath eve, for it brings us all together again so 
 happily."
 
 26 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 " Is it only Simeon and Joseph, my child ?" inquired the 
 widow, mournfully ; for there was one expectation on her heart 
 and that of Sarah, which, alas ! was seldom to be fulfilled. 
 
 Ruth listened attentively. 
 
 " Only they, mother !" she said, checking her voice of glee, 
 and returning to her mother's side, for she knew the cause of 
 that saddened tone, and she laid her little head Caressingly on 
 her mother's breast. 
 
 Simeon and Joseph at that moment entered, and each ad- 
 vancing, bent lowly before their mother, who, laying her 
 hand upon each dear head, blessed them in a voice faltering 
 from its emotion, and kissed them both. The kiss of love 
 and peace went round, and gaily the brothers and sisters 
 drew round the table, which Sarah's provident love speedily 
 covered with the welcome evening meal. The happy laugh 
 and affectionate interchange of the individual cares and 
 pleasures, vexations and enjoyments of the past week, occu- 
 pied them delightfully during tea. Sarah had to tell of a 
 new kind of work winch had diversified her usual employ- 
 ment, and been most successful ; a kind of wadded slipper, 
 which, after many trials, she had completed to her satisfaction, 
 in the intervals of other work ; and which not only sold well, 
 but gave her dear aunt an occupation which she could accom- 
 plish without pain, in wadding and binding the silk. Leah 
 told of a pretty dress and bonnet which her mistress had pre- 
 sented to her, in token of her approbation of her steadiness 
 in refusing to accompany her companions to some place of 
 amusement, which, from its respectability being doubted, she 
 knew her mother would not approve ; and, by staying at 
 home, enabled Mrs. Magnus to finish an expensive order a 
 day sooner than had been expected, and so gained her a new 
 and wealthy customer. 
 
 "Dearest mother, you told me how to resist temptation 
 even in trifles," continued the affectionate girl, with tears of 
 feeling in her bright dark eyes. " You taught me from my 
 earliest childhood there was purer and more lasting pleasure 
 in conquering my own wishes than any doubtful recreation 
 could bestow ; and that in that inward pleasure our 
 heavenly Father's approval was made manifest. And so, you 
 see, though you were not near me and I could not, as I wished, 
 ask your advice and permission, it was you who enabled me 
 to conquer myself, and resist this temptation. I did want
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 27 
 
 to go, and felt very, very lonely when all went ; but when 
 Mrs. Magnus thanked me for enabling her to give so much 
 satisfaction, and said I had gained her a new customer, oh, 
 no circus or play could have given me such happiness as that ; 
 and it was all through you, mother, and so I told her." 
 
 The happy mother smiled on her animated girl ; but her 
 heart did not glorify itself, it thanked God that her early 
 efforts had been so blessed. "And Ruth!" some of our 
 readers may exclaim, "poor blind Ruth, what can she have 
 to say?" And we answer, happy little Ruth had much of 
 industry and enjoyment to dilate on. The straw she had 
 plaited, the hymns she had learnt through Sarah's kindly 
 teaching, the dead leaves she had plucked from the shrubs 
 and flowers, for so delicate had her sense of touch become, 
 she could follow this occupation in perfect security to the 
 plants, distinguishing the dead and dying from the perfect 
 leaves at a touch. Then she told of a poor little orphan 
 beggar girl, whom Sarah had one day brought in cold and 
 crying, because she had been begging all day and had re- 
 ceived nothing, and she knew she should be beaten when she 
 went home ; and how she had said she hated begging ; but 
 she could do nothing else ; and little Ruth had asked her if 
 she would like to sell flowers ; and poor Mary had told her she 
 should like it very very much, but she could not get any. She 
 knew no one who would let her take them from the garden. 
 How she (Ruth) had promised to make her some little nose- 
 gays, and Sarah and her mother said they would make her 
 some little nick-nacks, pincushions, and housewives to put 
 with her flowers. 
 
 "Ah, we made her so happy ! " continued the child, clasping 
 her little hands in delight. "Mother gave her some of my 
 old things, which were quite good to her, and it is quite a 
 pleasure to me to make her nosegays, and feel they give her 
 a few pence better than begging ; and Sarah is going to try if 
 I can make her some little fancy things when winter comes. 
 You know I am quite rich to her, for God has given me a 
 home, and such a kind mother, and dear brothers and sisters, 
 and she has neither home nor mother, nor any one to love 
 her. Poor, poor Mary ! and then, too, some say the 
 Christians do not like the Jews, and I know she will and 
 does like us, and she may make others of her people like us 
 too."
 
 28 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 " Ruth," said her brother Simeon, in a very strange husky 
 voice, " Ruth, darling, come here and kiss me. I wish you 
 would make me as good as you." 
 
 "As good!" exclaimed the child, springing on his knee, 
 and throwing her arms round his neck ; " dear naughty 
 Simeon, to say such a thing. How much more you can do 
 than I. Do you not work so very much, that dear mother 
 sometimes fears for your health ? and it is all for us, to help 
 to support us, mother and me, because we cannot work for 
 ourselves. Ah, I am blind, and can only do little things, and 
 try to make every one happy, that they may love me ; but I 
 am only a little girl ; I cannot be as good as you." 
 
 "Ruth, darling, I could not do as you have done. I cannot 
 love and serve those who hate and persecute us as Israelites." 
 
 " They do not persecute us now, brother. Sarah told me 
 sad tales of what we suffered once ; but God was angry with 
 us then, and he made the nations punish us. But now, if 
 they still dislike us we ought not to dislike them, but do all 
 we can to make them love us." 
 
 Simeon bent his head upon his sister's ; her artless words 
 had rebuked and shamed him. But prejudice might not even 
 then be overcome. He knew she was right and he was 
 wrong, so he would not answer, glad to hear Leah gaily de- 
 mand a history of his weekly proceedings, as he had not yet 
 spoken. He had little to relate, except that he was now 
 beginning really to understand his business. His master had 
 said that he should soon be obliged to raise his salary ; and, 
 what was a real source of happiness, from the care and quick- 
 ness with which he now accomplished his tasks, he found 
 time for his favourite amusement of modelling, which circum- 
 stances had compelled him so long to neglect. Joseph had 
 to tell of similar kindness on the part of his master and industry 
 on his own. He told, too, with great glee, that Mr. Bennet 
 had promised to give him some lessons in the evenings, in 
 the language which of all others he wished most particularly 
 to understand. He knew many were satisfied merely to read 
 their prayers in Hebrew, whether they understood them or 
 not, but he wished to understand it thoroughly, and all the 
 time he was cleaning jewels, for he was now quite expert, he 
 thought over what his master had so kindly taught him ; 
 perhaps one day he might be able to know Hebrew 
 thoroughly himself, and oh, what a delight that would be !
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 29 
 
 By the time Joseph had finished his tale, the* table had 
 been cleared ; and then the widow opened the large Bible, 
 and after fervently blessing God for His mercy in permitting 
 them all to see the close of another week in health and 
 peace, read aloud a chapter and psalm. Varied as were the 
 characters and wishes of all present, every heart united in 
 reverence and love towards this weekly service — in, if pos- 
 sible, increased devotion towards that beloved parent, who 
 so faithfully endeavoured to support not alone her own 
 duties towards her offspring, but those of their departed 
 father. She had not lost those hours and days, aye, and 
 sometimes long weeks of suffering, with which it had pleased 
 God to afflict her. When confined to her bed, the Bible 
 had been her sole companion, and she so communed with it 
 and her own heart, that many passages, which had before 
 been veiled, were now made clear and light, and her constant 
 prayer for wisdom and religion to lead her offspring in its 
 paths of pleasantness and peace granted to the full. Yet 
 Rachel was no great scholar. Let it not be imagined 
 amongst those who read this little tale, that she was un- 
 usually gifted. She was indeed so far gifted that she had a 
 trusting spirit and a most humble and child-like mind, and of 
 worldly ways was most entirely ignorant ; and it was these 
 feelings which kept her so persevering in the path of duty, 
 and, leading her to the footstool of her God, gave her the 
 strength of wisdom that she needed ; and to every mother in 
 Israel these powers are given. 
 
 " Well, my dear children, to whom must I look for the 
 text which is to occupy us this evening?" said the widow, 
 glancing affectionately round as she ceased to read. 
 
 " To me and Ruth, mother ; for you know we always 
 think together," answered Joseph, eagerly. "And you 
 don't know how we have both been longing for this evening, 
 for the verse we have chosen has made us think so much, 
 and with all our thinking, we cannot quite satisfy ourselves." 
 
 " But what is it, my boy? " 
 
 " It is the one our clear father repeated on his death-bed, 
 mother. I have often thought of it since, but feared it would 
 make you sorrowful, if we spoke of it for the first year or two ; 
 but as I found Ruth had thought of it and wished it explained 
 also, we said we would ask you to talk about it to-night. You 
 repeat it, Ruth; you pronounce the Hebrew so prettily !"
 
 30 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 And timidly, but sweetly, Ruth said, first in Hebrew and 
 then in English, " ' Commit your ways unto the Lord ; trust 
 also in him, and he will bring it to pass.' Ways," continued 
 the child, "was the word which first puzzled us, but Sarah 
 has explained it to me so plainly, I understand it better 
 now." 
 
 " Tell us then, Sarah dear," said her aunt. 
 "It seems to me," she said, "that the word ways has 
 many meanings. In the verse, 'Show me thy ways, 
 Lord,' I think it means actions. In another verse, ' The 
 Lord made known his ways unto Moses, his acts unto the 
 children of Israel,' I think ways mean thoughts ! " 
 
 "And there are several in Proverbs," interposed Simeon, 
 "which would make us regard ways as the path we are to 
 tread ; as for instance, ' Who leaveth the path of righteous- 
 ness, to walk in the ways of darkness.' " 
 
 "But Ruth and I want to know in which of these ways 
 we are to regard it in our verse," persisted Joseph. 
 
 "As meaning both outward actions and inward thoughts, 
 my dear children," replied his mother. " I have thought 
 long on this verse, and I am glad you have chosen it for 
 discussion. Perhaps you do not know, my little Joseph, that 
 we must think to act ; that it is very seldom any good or bad 
 action is performed without previous thought ; and, con- 
 sequently, if we would be pure in act, we must commit our 
 thoughts unto the Lord." 
 
 " But how are we to do this, mother ?" asked Leah. 
 " By constant prayer, my love ; by endeavouring, wherever 
 we are, or whatever we may be doing, to remember God 
 knows our every thought before it has words, and long 
 before it becomes action. We are apt, perhaps, to indulge 
 in the wildest thoughts, simply because we imagine ourselves 
 secure from all observation. From human observation we 
 arc secure', but not from our Father who is in heaven ; and 
 therefore we should endeavour so to train our thoughts as to 
 banish all which we dare not commit unto our God." 
 
 "But are there not some things, dear aunt, too trivial, too 
 much mingled with earthly feelings, to bring before a Being 
 of such ineffable holiness and purit}'?" inquired Sarah, in a 
 voice which, notwithstanding all her efforts, audibly faltered. 
 
 "Ah, that is what I want so much to know," added 
 Joseph.
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 31 
 
 " You must not forget, my dear Sarah," resumed Mrs. 
 Perez, " that our God is a God of love and compassion, as 
 infinite as His holiness ; that every throb of pain or joy in 
 the creature His love has formed, is felt as well as or cleaned 
 by Him. No nation has a God so near to them as Israel ; 
 and we, of all others, ought to derive and realize comfort 
 from the belief that He knows our nature in its strivings 
 after righteousness, as well as in its sin. He knows all our 
 temptations, all our struggles, far better than our dearest 
 earthly friends, and His loving mercy towards us is in- 
 finitely stronger. Therefore Ave can better commit our secret 
 thoughts and feelings unto His keeping, than to that of our 
 nearest friends on earth." 
 
 "And may children do this, mother ?" 
 
 " Yes, dear boy ; our Father has children in His tender 
 care and guiding, even as those of more experienced age. 
 Accustom yourselves, while engaged in thought, to ask, ' Can 
 I ask my Father's blessing on these thoughts, and on the 
 actions they lead to ? ' and rest assured conscience will give 
 you a true answer. If it say, ' No,' dismiss the trifling or 
 sinful meditations on the instant ; send up a brief prayer to 
 God for help, and He will hear you. If, on the contrary, 
 conscience approve your thought, encourage it, as leading 
 you nearer, closer, and more lovingly to God." 
 
 " But is not this close communion more necessary for 
 women than for men, mother ?" inquired Simeon. 
 
 " Women may need it more, my dear boy ; but, believe 
 me, it is equally,, if not more necessary for man. Think of 
 the many temptations to evil which men have in their inter- 
 course with the world ; the daily, almost hourly call for the 
 conquest of inclination and passion, which, without some 
 very strong incentive, can never be subdued. One un- 
 guarded moment, and the labour of years after righteousness 
 may be annihilated. Man may not need the comfort of this 
 close communion so much as women, but he yet more re- 
 quires its strength. Nothing is so likely to keep him from 
 sin, as committing his thoughts even as his actions unto the 
 Lord." 
 
 " Thank you, my dear mother ; that first bit is clear," 
 said Joseph. " Now I want the second : the third is the 
 most puzzling of all, but we shall come to that by and 
 bye."
 
 32 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 "You surely know what it means by to 'trust in Him,' 
 Joseph ?" said Leah. 
 
 " I think I do, sister mine, for it was mother's humble 
 trust in the Lord that supported her in Iter sorrows : that I 
 saw, I felt, though I was a child ; but — " he hesitated. 
 
 "Well, my boy ?" 
 
 "To trust, I think, means to have faith. Now, Hergy 
 Stevens said the other day, Jews have no faith — and how can 
 we trust, then ?" 
 
 "My dearest Joseph, do not let your companions so mis- 
 lead you," answered his mother, earnestly. " I know that 
 is a charge often brought against us ; but it is always from 
 those who do not know our religion, and who judge us only 
 from those who, by their words and actions, condemn it 
 themselves. The Jew must have faith, not only in the 
 existence of God, but in the sacred history our God inspired, 
 or he is no Jew. He must feel faith — believe God hears and 
 will answer, or his prayers, however fervent, are of no avail. 
 Without faith, his very existence must be an enigma, and 
 his whole life misery. Oh, believe mc, my dear children, as 
 no nation has God so near them, so no nation has so much 
 need of faith, and no nation has so experienced the strength, 
 and peace, and fulness which it brings." 
 
 " But how does our verse mean that we are to trust in the 
 Lord, mother ?" asked Ruth. 
 
 " It belongs both to the first and last division of the verse, 
 my love. If we commit our ways unto the Lord, and trust 
 also in Him (remember one is of no avail without the other), 
 then He will bring it to pass." 
 
 "Ah ! that is it. I am so glad we have come to that," 
 eagerly exclaimed Joseph. " Mother, does it mean, can it 
 mean that our Father will grant our prayers, will give us 
 what we most wish ? " 
 
 " If it be for our good, my boy ; if our wishes be accept- 
 able in His sight ; if they will tend to our eternal as well as 
 our temporal welfare ; and we bring them before Him in 
 unfailing confidence, believing firmly that He will answer in 
 His own good time — we may rest assured that He will 
 answer us, that He will grant our prayers." 
 
 " But that which is for our good may not be what we most 
 wish for," resumed Joseph, dcspondingly. 
 
 " But. my boy, if what we wish for is not for our good, is
 
 " THE PEREZ FAMILY. 33 
 
 it not more merciful and kind to deny than to grant it? 
 Remember, God knows us better than we know ourselves ; 
 and we may ask what would lead us to evil temporally and 
 eternally. If, for a wise and merciful purpose, even our good 
 desires are not granted, be assured that peace, strength, and 
 healing will be given in their stead." 
 
 The little circle looked very thoughtful as the impressive 
 voice of the widow ceased. 
 
 Sarah seemed more than usually moved ; for, as she bent 
 over her little Bible, which she had opened at the verse, 
 tears one by one fell silently upon the page. Whether Ruth 
 heard them drop, or from her seat close by her cousin felt 
 that the hand she caressingly held trembled, we know not, 
 but the child rose and threw her little arms around her neck. 
 
 " Do you remember who it was wrote the verse we are 
 considering ?" said the widow, after a pause. 
 
 " King David," answered Joseph and Simeon together. 
 
 " Then you see it was no prosperous monarch, no peaceful 
 lav/giver, but one whose life had passed in trials, compared to 
 which our severest misfortunes must seem trifling. Hunted 
 from place to place, in daily danger of his life, compelled 
 even to feign madness, separated from all whom he loved, 
 from all of happiness or peace, even debarred from the public 
 exercise of his faith, his very prayers at times seemingly un- 
 heeded — yet it is this faithful servant of God who exclaims, 
 ' Commit your ways unto the Lord ; trust also in him, and he 
 wiM bring it to pass.' We know not the exact time he wrote 
 these words ; but we know he wrote from experience, for did 
 not God indeed bring happiness to pass for him ? If we 
 think of the life of him who wrote these blessed words, as 
 well as the words themselves, we must derive strength and 
 comfort from the reflection." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I see and feel it all now," exclaimed Joseph, 
 eagerly as before. " Oh, mother, I can think about it now 
 without any puzzling at all. I am so glad. Cannot you, 
 Ruth?" 
 
 "Hush!" answered the child, as she suddenly started up 
 in an attitude of attentive listening. "Hush! I am. sure 
 that is Reuben's step : he is coming, he is coming. Oh, 
 what joy for me !" 
 
 "You are wrong, dear; and it only disappoints mother," 
 said Leah, gently. 
 
 l)
 
 34 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 " No, no ! I know I am not. There listen ; do you not 
 hear steps now?" 
 
 " Yes : but how can you be sure they are his ?" answered 
 Simeon. " It is so very unlikely, I should have thought of 
 everybody else first ?" 
 
 Ruth made no answer; but she bounded from the room, 
 and had opened the street-door, regardless of Leah's 
 entreaties to wait at least till the steps came nearer. A 
 "very few minutes more, and all doubts were solved by the 
 entrance of Ruth, not walking, but clinging round her brother 
 Reuben's neck and almost stifling him with kisses, only in- 
 terrupting herself to say, "Who was right, Miss Leah and 
 Master Simeon ? Ah, you did not have Reuben for long 
 weeks to attend and nurse, as I had, or you would have 
 known his step too." 
 
 " You can love me still, then ?" murmured her brother, as 
 only to be heard by her ; then added aloud, " my mother 
 should have had the first kiss, dearest ; let me ask her bless- 
 ing, Ruth?" 
 
 She released him, though she still held his hand ; and 
 hastening to his mother, he bent his head before her. 
 
 "Is it too late to ask my mother's Sabbath blessing?" he 
 said, and his voice was strangely choked. " Bless me, 
 dearest mother, as you used to do." 
 
 The widow rose and, laying her hands upon Iris head, re- 
 peated the customary Hebrew blessing, and then folded him 
 to her heart. 
 
 "It is never, never too late for a mother's blessing — a 
 mother's love, my Reuben," she said, her voice quivering with 
 the efforts she made to restrain her emotion. "I could have 
 wished it oftener and earlier asked on the Sabbath eve ; but 
 it is yours, my boy, each night and morning, though you hear 
 it not." 
 
 " And will it always be ? Mother ! mother ! will you 
 never withdraw it from me ? No, no, you will not. You 
 love me only too, too well," and abruptly breaking from 
 her, after kissing her passionately, he turned to greet his 
 brothers and sisters. 
 
 All met him cordially and affectionately, except perhaps 
 that there was a stern look of inquiry in Simeon's e)^es, 
 which Reuben, from some unexpressed feeling, could not 
 meet ; and, looking from him, he exclaimed —
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 35 
 
 " Sarah ! where is my Idnd cousin Sarah ? will she not 
 give me welcome ? " 
 
 " She was here this moment," said Leah ; " where can she 
 have vanished ? " 
 
 " Not very far, dear cousin : I am here. Pteuben, can you 
 believe one moment that I do not rejoice to see you once 
 again at home ? " said Sarah, advancing from the farther side 
 of the room and placing her hand frankly in her cousin's, 
 looking up in his face with her clear, pensive eyes, but cheeks 
 as pale as marble. 
 
 Reuben pressed her hand within his own, tried to meet 
 smilingly her glance and speak as usual, but both efforts 
 failed, and again he turned away. 
 
 "And he has come to stay with us — he will not leave 
 us in a hurry again," said the affectionate little Ruth, keep- 
 ing her seat on his knee, and nestling her head in his 
 bosom. I wanted but you to make this evening quite, quite 
 happy." 
 
 Reuben kissed her to conceal a sigh, and controlling him- 
 self, he entered cheerfully and caressingly into all Ruth and 
 Joseph had to tell, called for all interesting conversation from 
 the other members of his family, and imparted many particu- 
 lars of himself. He was rising high in the world, had been 
 the fortunate means of preventing a great loss to the firm of 
 which he was a servant, and so raised his salary, and him- 
 self in the estimation of his employers. Fortune smiled on 
 him, he said, in many ways, and he had had the happiness 
 of securing a trifling fund for Ids mother, which though 
 small was sure, and would provide her yearly with a 
 moderate sum. He had something else to propose, but there 
 would be time enough for that. His mother blessed and 
 thanked him ; but her heart was not at rest. Cheerful as the 
 conversation was, happy as the last hour ought to have been, 
 there was a dim foreboding on her spirit which she could not 
 conquer. Something was yet to be told, Reuben was not at 
 peace, and when indeed he did speak that something, it was 
 with a confused more than a joyous tone. 
 
 "I do not know why I should delay telling you of my inten- 
 tion, mother," he said at length ; " I have had too many 
 proofs of your affection to doubt of your rejoicing in any- 
 thing that will make my happiness — I am going to be 
 married."
 
 36 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 There was a general start and exclamation from all but tvio- 
 in the group — his mother and cousin. 
 
 " If it will make your happiness, my son, I do indeed re- 
 joice," the former said very calmly. " Whom do you give me 
 for another daughter? " 
 
 " You do not know her yet, mother ; but I am sure you 
 will learn to love her dearly : it is Jeanie Wilson, the only 
 child of my fellow-clerk." 
 
 " Jeanie Wilson ! — a Christian ! Reuben, Reuben, how have 
 you fallen ! " burst angrily, almost fiercely, from Simeon ; 
 " but it is folly to be surprised — I knew it would be so." 
 
 " Indeed ! wonderfully clear-sighted as you were then, if 
 you consider such a union humiliation, it would have been 
 more brotherly, perhaps, to have warned me of the precipice 
 on which I stood," answered Reuben, sarcastically. 
 
 " Yes ! you gave me so fair an opportunity to act a 
 brother's part ; never seeking me, or permitting me to seek 
 you, for weeks together ; herding with strangers alone — fol- 
 lowing them alike in the store and in the mart — loving what 
 they love, doing as they do — and, like them, scorning, des- 
 pising, and persecuting that holy people who once called you 
 son — forgetting your birthright, your sainted heritage — 
 throwing dishonour on the dead as on the living, to link 
 yourself with those who assuredly will, if they do not now, 
 despise ) r ou. Shame, foul shame upon you ! " 
 
 " Have you done ? " calmly inquired Reuben, though the 
 red spot was on his cheek. " It is something for the elder to 
 be bearded thus by the younger. Yet be it so. I have done 
 nothing for which to feel shame — nothing to dishonour those 
 with whom I am related. If they feel themselves dishonoured, 
 let them leave me ; I can meet the world alone." 
 
 " Aye, so far alone, that you will rejoice that others have 
 cast aside the chains of nature, and given you freedom to 
 follow your own apostate path unquestioned and unre- 
 buked." . 
 
 " Peace, I command you ! " exclaimed the widow, with a 
 tone and gesture of authority which awed Simeon into silence, 
 and checked the wrathful reply on Reuben's lips. " My 
 sons, profane not the Sabbath of your God with this wild and 
 wicked contention. Simeon, however you may lament what 
 Reuben has disclosed, it is not your part to forget he is your 
 brother — yes, an elder brother — still."
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 37 
 
 *' I will own no apostate for my brother ! " muttered the 
 still irritated young man. " Others may regard him as 
 they list ; if he have given up his faith, I will not call him 
 brother." 
 
 " I have neither the will nor occasion to forswear my faith," 
 replied Reuben calmly. " Mr. Wilson has made no condi- 
 tion in giving me his daughter, except that she may follow 
 her own faith, which I were indeed prejudiced and foolish to 
 deny. He believes as I do ; to believe in God is enough — 
 all religions are the same before Him." 
 
 " That is to say, he is, like yourself, of no religion at all," 
 rejoined Simeon, bitterly. " Better he had been prejudiced, 
 rigid, even despising us as others do ; then this misfortune 
 would not have befallen us." 
 
 "Is it a misfortune to you, mother? Leah — Ruth — 
 Joseph, will you all refuse to love my wife ? You will not, 
 cannot, when you see and know her." 
 
 " As your wife, Reuben, we cannot feel indifference to- 
 wards her," replied Leah, tears standing in her eyes ; " yet if 
 you had brought us one of our own people, oh, how much hap- 
 pier it would have made us ! " 
 
 " And why should it, my dear sister ? Mother why should 
 it be such a source of grief ? I do not turn from the faith of 
 my fathers : I may neglect, disregard those forms and ordi- 
 nances which I do not feel at all incumbent on me to obey, but 
 I must be a Jew — I cannot believe with the Christian, and I 
 cannot feel how my marriage with a gentle, loving, and most 
 amiable girl can make me other than I am. We are in no 
 way commanded to marry only amongst ourselves." 
 
 " You are mistaken ; we are so commanded, my dear son. 
 In very many parts of our Holy Law we are positively for- 
 bidden to intermarry with the stranger ; and, as a proof that 
 so to wed was considered criminal, one of the first and most 
 important points on which Ezra and Nehemiah insisted, was 
 the putting away of strange wives." 
 
 " But they were idolaters, mother. Jeanie and I worship 
 the same God." 
 
 " But you do not believe in the same creed, and therefore 
 is the belief in one God more dangerous. We ought to keep 
 ourselves yet more distinct, now that we are mingled up 
 amongst those who know God and serve Him, though not as 
 we do. You do not think thus, my dear son ; and there-
 
 38 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 fore all toe may do is but to pray that the happiness you 
 expect may be realised." 
 
 " And in praying for it, of course you doubt it, though I 
 still cannot imagine why. Sarah, you have not spoken : do 
 you believe me so terrible a reprobate that there is no chance 
 for my happiness, temporally and eternally ? " 
 
 He spoke bitterly, perhaps harshly, for he had longed for 
 her to speak, and her silence strangely, painfully reproached 
 him. Pie did not choose to know why, and so he vented in 
 bitter words to her the anger he felt towards himself. 
 
 " My opinion can be of little value after my aunt's," she 
 answered, meekly ; " but this believe, dear cousin, if you 
 and Jeanie are only as blessed and happy together as I wish 
 you, you will be one of the happiest couples on earth." 
 
 "I do believe it ! " he said, passionately springing towards 
 her, and seizing both her hands. " Sarah, dear Sarah, for- 
 give me. I was harsh and bitter to you, who were always 
 my better angel ; say you forgive me ! " He repeated the 
 word, witli a strong emphasis upon it. 
 
 " I did not know that you had given me anything to for- 
 give, Reuben," she replied, struggling to smile ; " but if you 
 think you have, I do forgive you from my very heart." 
 
 " Bless you for the word ! " he said, still gazing fixedly in 
 her face, which calmly met his look. 
 
 " Thank God, one misery is spared me," he muttered to 
 himself ; then added, " and you think I may be happy ?" 
 
 " I trust you will ; and if it please God to bless you with 
 prosperity, I think you may." 
 
 " How do you mean ? " 
 
 " That while all things go smoothly, you will not feel the 
 division, the barrier which your opposing creeds must silently 
 erect between you. But if affliction, if death should happen, 
 Reuben, dearest Reuben, may you never repent this engage- 
 ment then." 
 
 The young man actually trembled at the startling earnest- 
 ness of her words. 
 
 " And will you, surely you will not, marry in church, 
 brother ? " timidly inquired Joseph. 
 
 He must, he cannot help himself ! " hoarsely interposed 
 Simeon, who had remained sitting in moody silence for some 
 time ; " and yet he would say he is no apostate, no deserter 
 from our faith."
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 39 
 
 "You said you had something to ask mother, Reuben," 
 said Ruth, pressing close to his side, for she feared the 
 painful altercation between her brothers might recommence. 
 
 " I had," he answered, " but I fear it is useless now. 
 Mother, Jeanie and I hoped to have offered you a home — to 
 have entreated you to live with us, and return to the comforts 
 which were yours ; we should seek but to give you joj r . But 
 after what has passed this evening, I fear we have hoped in 
 vain." 
 
 " I wonder you dared hope it," muttered Simeon. " Would 
 our mother live with any one who lives not as a Jew, whose 
 dearest pride is to seem in all points like the stranger with 
 whom he lives ?" 
 
 " Thank you for the land will, my dear son," replied the 
 widow, affectionately, though sorrowfully ; " but you are 
 right in thinking it cannot be. I am too old and too ailing 
 to mingle now with strangers. I cannot leave my own lowly 
 dwelling ; I cannot give up these forms and ordinances 
 which I have learned to love, and believe obligatory upon 
 me. Bring your wife to me, if indeed she does not scorn 
 your poor Jewish mother; she will meet but love from me 
 and mine." 
 
 Reuben flung himself impetuously on her neck, and she 
 felt his whole frame tremble as with choking sobs. His 
 sister, Sarah, and Joseph reiterated their mother's words ; 
 Simeon alone was silent. Another half-hour passed — an in- 
 terval painful to all parties, despite the exertions of Sarah 
 and the widow to make it cheerful, and then Reuben rose to 
 depart. His affectionate embrace, his warm " Good night, 
 God bless you," was welcomed and returned as warmly by 
 all, and then he looked for Simeon. The youth was standing 
 at the farther end of the apartment, in the deepest shadow, 
 his arms folded on his breast, his lip compressed, and eyes 
 fixed sternly on the ground. 
 
 " Simeon !" exclaimed Reuben, as he approached him 
 with frankly extended hand, " Simeon ! we are brothers ; 
 let us part friends." 
 
 " Give up this intended marriage, come back to the faith 
 you have deserted, and we are brothers," answered Simeon, 
 sternly. " If not, we are severed, and for ever." 
 
 "Be it as you will, then," answered Reuben, controlling 
 an^er with a violent effort. " Should you need a brother or
 
 40 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 a friend, you will find them both in me : the God of our 
 fathers demands not violence like this." 
 
 " He does not — He does not. Simeon, I beseech, com- 
 mand you, do not part thus with your brother ; on your 
 love, your duty to me, as your only remaining parent, I com- 
 mand this," his mother said, mildly, but imperatively; but 
 for once she spoke in vain. Leah, Sarah, Joseph, all accord- 
 ing to their different characters, sought to soften him ; but 
 the dark cloud only thickened on his brow. At that moment 
 a light form pressed through them all, and clasping his 
 knees, looked up in that agitated face, as if those sightless 
 orbs had more than common power — and Ruth it was that 
 spoke. 
 
 "Brother," she said, in her clear, sweet voice, "brother, 
 our father bade us love our brother, even if he turned aside 
 from all we hold most sacred and most dear. We stood 
 around his death-bed, and we promised this — to love him to 
 the end. Brother, you will not break this vow ? No, no : 
 our father looks upon us, hears us still !" 
 
 There was a strong and terrible struggle on the part of 
 Simeon, and a heavy groan of repentant anguish broke from 
 the very heart of Reuben. 
 
 "My father, my poor father! did he so love me? And 
 will you still hate me, Simeon ?" he gasped forth. 
 
 Another moment, and the brothers were clasped in each 
 others arms. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 It had been with the most simple and heartfelt prayer, that 
 the widow Perez had sought to instil the beautiful spirit 
 breathing in the verse forming the subject of their Sabbath 
 conversation in the hearts of her children. Yet ere the 
 evening closed, how sadly and painfully had her faith been 
 tried, and liow bitterly did she feel that to her prayers there 
 seemed indeed no answer. It was her firstborn whom she 
 had daily, almost hourly " committed to the Lord ;" for him 
 she sought with her whole heart, "to trust" that He would, 
 in His deep mercy, awaken her boy to the error of his ways ; 
 but did it appear as if iudeed the gracious promise would be
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 41 
 
 fulfilled, and the Lord would indeed " bring it to pass ?" 
 Alas ! farther and farther did it now seem removed from 
 fulfilment. By his marriage with a Gentile what must 
 ensue ? — a yet more complete estrangement from his father's 
 faith. 
 
 The mother's heart indeed felt breaking ; but quiet and 
 ever gentle, who but her loving children might trace this 
 bitter grief ? And there were not wanting very many to give 
 the mother all the blame of the son's course of acting. 
 " What else could she expect by her weak indulgence ?" 
 was almost universally soid. "Why did she not threaten 
 to cast him off, if he persisted in this sinful connection, 
 instead of encouraging such things in her other children, 
 which of course she did, by receiving Reuben as usual? 
 Why had she not commanded him, on peril of a parent's 
 curse, to break off the intended match ? Then she would 
 have done her duty ; as it was, it would be something very 
 extraordinary if all her other children did not follow their 
 elder brother's example." 
 
 The widow might have heard their unkind remarks, but 
 she heeded them little ; for she had long learned that the 
 spirit guiding the blessed religion which she and her husband 
 had felt and practised was too often misunderstood and un- 
 dervalued by many of her co-religionists ; the idea of love 
 bringing back a wanderer was, by the many, thought too 
 perfectly ridiculous ever to be counted upon. But her con- 
 science was at rest. None but her own heart and her God 
 knew how she had striven to bring up her firstborn as he 
 should go, or how agonizing she had ever felt this failure of 
 her struggles and prayers in the conduct of her son, and this 
 last act more agonizing than all. She knew, aye,_ felt secure, 
 that neither of her other children needed severity towards 
 Reuben to prevent their following his example. In them 
 she saw the fruits of her efforts in their education, and she 
 knew that they felt their brother's wanderings from their 
 beloved faith too sorrowfully ever to walk in Ins ways. They 
 saw enough of their poor mother's silent, uncomplaining 
 grief, to suppose for a moment that her absence of all harsh- 
 ness towards Reuben proceeded from her approval of his 
 marriage ; and each and all lifted up the fervent cry for 
 strength always to resist such fearful temptation, and to 
 adhere to the faith of their fathers, even until death.
 
 42 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 We are quite aware that, by far the greater number of our 
 readers, widow Perez will be either violently condemned or 
 contemptuously scorned as a weak, mean-spirited, foolish 
 woman. We can only say that if so, we are sorry so few 
 have the power of understanding her, and that the loving 
 piety, the spiritual religion of her character should find so 
 faint an echo in the Jewish heart. The consequences of her 
 forbearance will be too clearly traced in our simple tale, to 
 demand any further notice on our own part. We would only 
 ask, with all humility, our readers of every class and grade, 
 to recal any one single instance in which parental violence 
 and severity, even coupled with malediction, have ever suc- 
 ceeded in bringing back a wanderer to his fold ; if so, we 
 will grant that our idea of love and forbearance effecting 
 more than hate and violence is both dangerous and false. 
 But to return to our tale : — 
 
 There was another in that little household bowed like the 
 mother in grief. Sarah had believed that it was her care for 
 Reuben's spiritual welfare which had engrossed her so much 
 — that it was as distinct from him temporally as from herself. 
 A rude shock awakened her from this dream, and oh, so 
 fearfully ! The wild tumult of thought pressing on her heart 
 and brain needs no description. From the first year of her 
 residence with her aunt, Reuben had been dear to her ; 
 affection so strengthening, increasing with her growth, so 
 mingled with her being, that she was unconscious of its 
 power. And now that consciousness had come — the prayers, 
 the wishes of a lifetime were dashed down unheard and un- 
 regarded — could she believe in the soothing comfort of that 
 inspired promise ? Had she not committed her ways ? 
 had she not trusted ? and had it not proved in vain ? 
 Sarah was young, had all the inexperience, the elasticity, 
 and consequent impatience of early life ; and so it was, that 
 while the mother trusted and believed, despite of all, aye, 
 trusted her boy would yet be saved, to Sarah life was one 
 cheerless blank ; ber heart so chilled and stagnant, it seemed 
 as it were, the power of prayer was gone — there could be no 
 darker woes in store. Perhaps her very determination to 
 conceal these feelings from every eye increased the diffi- 
 culties of self-conquest. 
 
 Day after day passed, and her aunt and cousins saw 
 nothing different from her usually quiet, cheerful ways. It
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 43 
 
 might be that they suspected nothing — that even the widow 
 knew not Sarah's trial was yet greater than her own. But 
 at night it was that the effects of the day's control were felt ; 
 and weeks passed, and time seemed to bring no respite. 
 
 " You can trust, if you cannot pray," the clear still voice 
 of conscience one night breathed in the ear of the poor suf- 
 ferer, so strangely distinct it seemed as if some spiritual 
 voice had spoken. " Come back to the Father, the God, 
 who has love and tenderness for all — who loves, despite of 
 indifference and neglect — who has balm for every wound, 
 even such as thine. Doth He not say, ' Cast your burden on 
 Him, and he will sustain you ; trust in His word, and sin no 
 more ? " It was strange, almost awful in the dead stillness 
 of night, that low piercing whisper ; but it had effect, for 
 the hot tears streamed down like rain upon the death-like 
 cheek ; the words of prayer, faint, broken, yet still trustful, 
 burst from that sorrowing heart, and brought their balm : 
 from that hour the stagnant misery was at an end. Sarah 
 awoke to duty, alike to her God as to herself ; and then it 
 was she felt to the full how unutterably precious was the 
 close commune with the Father in heaven, which her aunt's 
 counsels had infused. Where could she have turned for 
 comfort had she been taught to regard Him as too far 
 removed from earth and earthly things to love and be 
 approached? 
 
 Time passed. Reuben's marriage took place at the time 
 appointed, and still with him all seemed prosperity. It was 
 impossible to see and not to love his gentle wife. Still 
 in seeming a mere child, so delicate in appearance, one could 
 scarcely believe her healthy, as she said she was. It was, 
 however, only with his mother and sisters that Reuben per- 
 mitted her to associate. 
 
 He called himself, at least to his mother, a sou of Israel ; 
 but all real feeling of nationality was dead within him — yet 
 he was not a Christian, nor was his wife, except in name. 
 They believed there was a God, at least they said they did ; 
 but life smiled on them. He was not needed, and so they 
 lived without Him. 
 
 Simeon, true to his prejudices, would not meet his brother's 
 wife, nor did his mother demand such from him. It was 
 enough that with Reuben himself, when they chanced to 
 meet, he was on kindly terms. Ruth's appeal had touched
 
 44 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 his heart, for the remembrance of his father was as omni- 
 potent as his wishes had been during his lifetime. The 
 interests of the brothers, alike temporal as eternal, were, 
 liowever, too widely severed to permit confidence between 
 them, and so they passed on their separate ways ; loving 
 perhaps in their inward hearts, but each year apparently 
 more and more divided. 
 
 About six months after Reuben's wedding, Sarah received 
 a letter which caused her great uneasiness. Our readers 
 may remember, at the conclusion of our first chapter, we men- 
 tioned Isaac Levison having written to his daughter, stating 
 he was again well to do in the world, and offering her 
 affluence and a cessation from all labour, if she liked to join 
 him. We know also that Sarah refused those offers, feeling 
 that both inclination and duty bade her remain with the 
 benefactors of her youth, when they were in affliction and 
 needed her ; and that, irritated at her reply, her father had 
 cast her off, and from that time to the present, nearly three 
 years, she had never heard anything of him. The letter she 
 now received told her that Levison was in the greatest dis- 
 tress, and seriously ill. His suspiciously-amassed riches had 
 been, like his former, partly squandered away in unnecessary 
 luxuries for house and palate, and partly sunk in large 
 .speculations, which had all failed ; that he was now too ill to 
 do anything, or even to write to her himself, but that he 
 -desired his daughter to come to him at once. She had been 
 ready enough to labour for others, and therefore she could 
 not hesitate for him, who was the only one who had any real 
 claim upon her. 
 
 " The only one who can claim my labour," thought the 
 poor girl, as she read the harsh epistle, again and again. 
 " What should I have been without the beloved friends 
 whom he thus commands me to leave ? Yet he is my father ; 
 he sent for me in prosperity — I could, I did refuse him then, 
 but not now. No, no, I must go to him now, and leave all, 
 all I so dearly love ; " and letting the paper fall, she covered 
 her face with her hands, and wept bitterly. 
 
 "Yet perhaps it is better," she thought, after a brief 
 interval of bitter sorrow ; " I can never conquer this 
 one consuming grief while I am here, and so constantly 
 liable to see its cause. My heavenly Father may have 
 Ajrdained this in love ; and even if it brings new trials, I
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 4S 
 
 can look up to Him, trust in Him still. I do not leave Him 
 behind me — He will not leave me, nor forsake me, what- 
 ever I may be called upon to bear," and inexpressibly 
 strengthened by this thought, she was enabled, without 
 much emotion, to seek her much-loved aunt, to show her 
 the letter and its mandate. The widow saw at a glance the 
 duty of her adopted child, and though to part with her 
 was a real source of grief, she loved her too well to in- 
 crease the difficulty of her trial by endeavouring to dissuade 
 her from it. 
 
 " You must go, my beloved girl," she said, folding her to- 
 iler heart ; " but I trust it will be but for a short time. My 
 home is yours, remember — always your home, wherever else 
 you may be, as only a passing sojourn. Your duty is indeed 
 trying, but fear not, you will be strengthened to perform it." 
 
 Yet however determined were the widow and her family 
 to control all weakening sorrow and regret, there was not one 
 who did not feel the unexpected departure of Sarah as an 
 individual misfortune. Each was in some way or other so- 
 connected with her, that separation caused a blank in their 
 affections ; and what then must have been her own feelings ? 
 They parted with but one dear friend ; she from them all, to- 
 go amongst those with whom she had not one thought or 
 feeling in common. 
 
 But she who had worked so perseveringly for them, who 
 had felt herself a child in blood as well in heart of the 
 widow's, that she had never thought of making a distinct pro- 
 vision for herself, this unselfish one was not to leave them 
 portionless ; and with so much attention to her feelings did 
 her aunt and cousins proffer their gifts, it was impossible, 
 pained as she was, to refuse. They said, it would be long 
 perhaps before she could find employment in her new home, 
 and she might need it : besides, it was not a gift, it was her 
 due ; her earnings had all gone for them, and they offered 
 but her rightful share. Reuben and his wife were not at 
 Liverpool when Sarah was compelled to leave it ; and she 
 rejoiced that it was so. 
 
 We will not linger either on the day of parting or the 
 poor girl's sad and solitary journey. Simeon went with her 
 as far as Birmingham, and when he left her, the scene of 
 loneliness, of foreboding sorrow, pressed so heavily upon her 
 that her tears fell unrestrainedly ; but though her heart did
 
 46 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 feel desolate, slie knew she was not forsaken. Her God was 
 with her still, and He would in His own good time bring 
 peace. She was obeying His call, by discharging her 
 dufcy, and He would lead her through her dreary path. 
 
 " Fear not, Abraham, I am thy shield and exceeding great 
 reward," were the words in her little Bible, on which her 
 eyes had that morning glanced, dim with tears — they could 
 see but those ; again and yet again she read them, till they 
 seemed to fix themselves upon her heart, as peculiarly and 
 strangely appropriate to herself. Like Abraham, she was 
 leaving home and friends, to dwell in what was to her a 
 strange land, and the same God who had been with him the 
 God of Abraham and Israel, was her God also. "His arm 
 was not shortened, nor his ear heavy, that he could not save." 
 And oh, what unspeakable comfort came in such thoughts. 
 Century on century had passed ; but the descendants of 
 Abraham were still the favoured of the Lord, having, in the 
 simple fact of their existence, evidence of the B;ble truth. 
 Sarah had often gloried in being a daughter of Israel, but 
 never felt so truly, so gratefully thankful for that holy privi- 
 lege as she did when thinking over the history of Abraham, 
 and the promise made to him and his descendants, in her 
 lonely journey, and feeling to the full the comfort of the con- 
 viction that Abraham's God was hers. 
 
 It was a dull and dreary evening when Sarah entered the 
 great city of London. The stage put her down about half 
 an hour's walk from her destination, and she proceeded on 
 foot, followed by a boy conveying her little luggage. She 
 struggled hard to subdue the despondency again creeping 
 over her, as she traversed the crowded streets, in which there 
 was not one to extend the hand of kindly greeting. She felt 
 almost ashamed, though she could not define why, that the 
 boy should see the low dark alleys which she was obliged to 
 tread before she could discover where her father now lived, 
 and when she did reach it, she stood and hesitated before the 
 door, as if the house she sought could scarcely be there, it 
 was such a wretched-looking place. 
 
 Her timid knock was unheard, and the impatient porter 
 volunteered a tap, loud enough to bring many a curious head 
 to the other doors in the alley, and hastily to open the one 
 wanted. A long curious stare greeted Sarah, from an old 
 woman, repulsive in feature and slovenly and dirty in dress,
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 47 
 
 who to Sarah's faltering question if Mr. Levison lived there, 
 somewhat harshly replied — 
 
 " Yes, to be sure he does ; and who ma}' you be that wants 
 him ? He is not at home, whatever your business is." 
 
 " Did he not expect me, then ? I wrote to say I should be 
 with him to-night," answered Sarah, trying to conquer the 
 painful choking in her throat. " I thought he was too ill to 
 go out." 
 
 "Why, sure now, you cannot be his daughter !" was the 
 reply, in a softened tone, and the woman looked at her with 
 something very like pity. " Come in with you, then, if you 
 really are Sarah Levison ; send the boy away and come in." 
 
 Trembling from a variety of feelings, Sarah mechanically 
 obeyed, giving the boy the customary fee ere she discharged 
 him ; a proceeding which caused the woman to look at her 
 with increasing astonishment, and to exclaim, when Sarah 
 was fairly in the dirty miserable room called a parlour, " She 
 can do that too, and yet she comes here. Sarah Levison, are 
 } t ou not a great fool ?" 
 
 The poor girl started, fairly bewildered by the question, 
 and looked at her companion very much as if she thought 
 she had lost her wits. " A fool !" she repeated. 
 
 " My good girl, yes. What have you left a comfortable 
 house and kind friends, and perhaps a good business, for ?" 
 
 "To obey my father," replied Sarah, simply. "Did he 
 not send to tell me he was ill, and wanted me ; that he was no 
 longer the wealthy, prosperous man that he was, and I must 
 labour for him now ? or have I been deceived, and is it all 
 false," she added, in accents of terror, as she grasped old 
 Esther's arm, " and has some one only decoyed me here ?" 
 
 " No, child, no ; folks about here are bad enough, but not 
 as bad as that. Levison is poor enough, both in health and 
 pocket, and wrote as you say ; but for all that, I say you are 
 a -fool for coming." 
 
 " Was it not my duty ?" asked Sarah. " Oh, it was sad 
 enough to leave all I love !" 
 
 " I dare say it was, clear, I dare say it was," and the old 
 woman's face actually lost its repulsiveness, in such a strong 
 expression of pity, that the desolate girl drew closer to her, 
 and clasped her hand. " And more's the pity you should 
 have left them at all. Duty — it is a fine sounding word ; but I 
 don't know what duty Levison can claim — he has never
 
 48 THE PEP.£2 FAMILY. 
 
 acted like a father, never done anything for you ; how can he 
 expect you should for him ?" 
 
 " Still he is my father," repeated Sarah. " He sent for me 
 when he was prosperous ; and though I did not come, his 
 kind wish was the same, and proved he did not forget me 
 Besides, even if he had, God's plain command is, to honour 
 your father and mother. We can scarcely imagine any case 
 when this command is not to be obeyed ; and surely not 
 when a pai'ent is in distress." 
 
 " You have learned fine feelings, my poor child. I hope 
 you will be able to keep them ; but I don't know, I tried to 
 do my duty, God knows, when I was young and hearty, but 
 aow poverty and old age have come upon me, and I have 
 left off caring for anybody or anything. It is better to take 
 life as we find it, and hard enough it is. ' 
 
 " Not if Ave believe and feel that God is with us, and will 
 lead us in the end to joy and peace," rejoined Sarah, 
 timidly. 
 
 " Why, you cannot be so silly, child, as to believe that 
 God," her voice deepened into awe, " cares for such miserable 
 worms as we are, and would lead us as you say ?" 
 
 " We are taught so, and I do believe and feel it," replied 
 Sarah, earnestly. 
 
 " Taught so ; where, child, where ?" reiterated old Esther 
 eagerly. 
 
 "In God's own book, the Bible," answered Sarah. The old 
 woman's countenance fell. 
 
 " The Bible, child ! now that must be your own fancy. I 
 never found it there, and I think I must have read it more 
 than you h?„ve." 
 
 "Have you looked for it ?" inquired Sarah, timidly, for 
 she feared to be thought presumptuous. 
 
 " Looked for it — I don't know what you mean. I read it 
 every Saturday, the parts they tell us to read ; and I do not 
 find much comfort in them, for they seem to tell me God is 
 too far off to care for such as us." 
 
 " Oh, do not, do not say so," replied Sarah, with unaffected 
 earnestness. "Every word of that blessed book brings our 
 God near us as a tender and loving father — tells us we 
 are His children. He loves us, cares for us, bears all our 
 sorrow, feels for us more deeply than any earthly friend. I 
 am not very old, but I have learned this from His holy book ;
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 49 
 
 find so, I am sure, will you. Forgive me," she added, meekly, 
 taking the old woman's withered hand, " I am too young 
 perhaps to speak so to one old and experienced as you 
 are." 
 
 "Forgive you — you are a sweet angel!" hastily replied 
 Esther, suddenly rising and pressing Sarah in her arms. 
 " Too good, too good to come to such a house as this. God 
 forbid you should have such trials as to make you doubt 
 what you now so steadfastly believe ; the more you talk the 
 more I wish you had not come." 
 
 " But why do you regret it ? What is it I must expect ? 
 Pray tell me ; be my friend, I have none on earth near me to 
 love me now." 
 
 "I wish I could be a friend to you, poor child, but I 
 am of little service now, and you can better tutor me than I 
 can you. It is a hard thing to say to a child of her own 
 father, but you are too good for such as he." 
 
 " Oh no, no ; pray do not say so. Tell me, only tell me 
 I may love my father !" entreated Sarah. 
 
 " You cannot, child ; you have been used to kindness and 
 love, you will find harshness and anger ; you have only asso- 
 ciated with religion and virtue, you have come to misery 
 and vice. As the niece of the worthy widow Perez you 
 have been respected, and always found employment ; as the 
 daughter of Isaac Levison you will be shunned, and may be 
 left to starve. It is hard enough to find employment for 
 children of respectable parents amongst us poor Jews ; and 
 so how can we expect it for others ? Don't cry, dear ; it is 
 sad enough, but it is only too true ; and so I grieve you have 
 given up even }^our character to come here." 
 
 "But what can I do — what can I do?" repeated Sarah, 
 lifting up her streaming eyes with an expression which 
 almost brought tears to those of Esther. " Could I desert 
 my own father, and I heard he needed me ? Is he not in 
 poverty and distress ? And is his own child to forsake him 
 because others do ?" 
 
 " Poor he is, child, and so are most of us. But how can 
 you help him ?" 
 
 " Can I not work for him as I did for my aunt ?" 
 
 " Yes ; if you can get employment, which will not be 
 very easy. You are known in Liverpool, and you are not in 
 London ; and the few trades in which we poor Jews can work 
 
 E
 
 50 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 are overstocked. Take old Esther's advice — return as you 
 came ; your father will never know you have been here, and 
 you may be sure I will not betray you. Go back to your 
 happy home and kind frieDds, it cannot be your duty to give 
 up happiness for misery ; and as he forsook you, your con- 
 science can be quite at rest in your leaving him. Do not 
 hesitate, my good child, go at once ; he has no claim upon 
 you." 
 
 There are some who doubt the necessity of daily prayer ; 
 that we need not pray against temptation, there being so 
 few times in which any great temptation is likely to assail 
 us. Great temptations to sin perhaps we seldom have, but 
 small— oh, of what hour can we be secure ? Little did 
 poor Sarah imagine when she entered that lowly roof, the 
 almost overpowering- temptation which was to assail her. 
 The home of peace, cleanliness, and comfort which she had 
 deserted ; the beloved friends of her youth ; the happy hours 
 that were gone ; all rose so vividly before her, conjuring her 
 to return to them, not to devote herself to misery — which, 
 after all, was but a doubtful duty — that her first impulse was 
 indeed to fly from a scene where everything around her con- 
 firmed old Esther's ominous words. But Sarah was no weak, 
 wavering child of impulse ; her principles were steady, her 
 faith was fixed, and the inward petition arose, with a, fervour 
 and faith which gave it power to penetrate the skies — 
 
 " Save me from myself, God ? Do not forsake me now. 
 Teach me my duty, the one straight path, and whatever may 
 befall, let me abide by it." 
 
 The brief orison was heard, for the God of Israel has love 
 and mercy for the lowest of his creatures, and strength was 
 given. 
 
 " No, Esther, no," she answered mildly, yet firmly ; " I 
 will not turn aside, whatever may await me. God sees my 
 heart, knows that I am here to do my duty, even if I be mis- 
 taken in the means. He will strengthen me for its per- 
 formance. Do not try to frighten me away," she added, 
 trying to .smile. " I dare say all you tell me may be very true, 
 and it will be difficult to bear, but a good heart and a firm 
 faith may make it lighter, you know. I want a friend sadly, 
 aid I feel as if you Avould be a kind one ; your experience 
 may smooth my way." 
 
 " Blessings on your sweet face for such words, my
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 51 
 
 darling !" murmured the old woman; "it is long since old 
 Esther has heard anything but abuse and unkindness. I 
 wish I could do for you all my heart tells me, but, deary me, 
 that is a vain wish ; for I would take away all sorrow 
 from you, and how can a poor creature iike me do 
 that?''' 
 
 Esther would have run on much more in the same strain, 
 and Sarah felt much too grateful for the kind feeling, how- 
 ever rudely expressed, to check her, had not the old woman 
 suddenly recollected the poor traveller might like some -tea, 
 which she hastened to prepare. It was, indeed, a different 
 meal, both in quality and comfort, to that which, even in her 
 uncle's poorest days, she had been accustomed to ; but Sarah 
 was too much engrossed in anxiety for her father to heed it, 
 and only made the effort to partake of it, in gratitude to he*" 
 companion. She had time to conclude her meal and heai 
 much concerning her father, before he appeared. Esther 
 said he had been ill, but never seriously so ; that he could 
 often have procured employment in various humble ways ; 
 but for some of them he was too proud, and in others be- 
 haved so as to disgust those who would have befriended him, 
 and that now he literally had not a friend in the world, 
 either amongst his superiors or his equals. It was a sad, 
 sad tale, and Sarah's feelings, as she listened, may easily be 
 imagined. But how could he live? Old Esther really did 
 not know. She lodged in the same house with him, but she 
 knew little of his private concerns ; she only knew he 
 was a wretched temper, which, of course, daily grew worse 
 and worse. He went to the synagogue regularly, that he 
 did, but it did not seem to benefit him much. How could it, 
 when his actions denied his prayers ? 
 
 It was late before Levison returned. He was still a good- 
 looking man, but miserably attired, and pale from recent 
 illness. He greeted his daughter with affection, for in the 
 lowest and most debased amongst Israel that redeeming 
 virtue is seldom found wanting ; and Sarah felt, as she looked 
 on him, all the daughter glowing in her heart : that she 
 could love, work for, do anything for him. Little sleep had 
 she that night ; not because her bed was hard, its covering 
 coarse and unseemly, but from the many thoughts pressing 
 on her mind. Her path was all dark ; nothing but the un- 
 expected warmth of her father's welcome and old Esther's
 
 52 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 kindness to make it light. She could but trust and pray- 
 not only for strength to meet her trials, but that she might 
 so be blessed as to erase from her heart the pang which lin- 
 gered in it still. 
 
 Weary days passed ; often and often did Sarah's spirit so 
 sink within her, that she felt as if it could never rise again. 
 Her father's moroseness returned ; affection, in a character 
 like his could not obtain effective power over the evil habits 
 of long years. Sarah could not realize that he loved her, 
 and had it not been for her firm confidence in the love which 
 was unending, pitying, strengthening, as the gracious Lord 
 from whom it comes, her every energy must have failed. She 
 exerted herself to effect a reformation in their dwelling and 
 in her father's slender wardrobe. To look on him, any one 
 would have believed him a very mendicant ; yet there were 
 some few articles of clothing easily to be repaired, and so 
 made decent, and this Sarah did. Struck by her method, 
 her perseverance, and the quiet easy way in which she did 
 everything, Esther Cardoza, old, and often ailing as she was, 
 did not disdain to profit by her example ; she became more 
 tidy, more careful, and was surprised to find that it was just 
 as easy to be clean and neat, however poor her apparel, as 
 the contrary, and for comfort the one could not be men- 
 tioned with the other. One sweet source of pleasure Sarah 
 indeed had. She had excited an ardent desire in the old 
 woman's mind to become thoroughly acquainted with God's 
 holy volume, and many an evening did they sit together, 
 and Esther listened to the sweet pleading voice of her young 
 companion, till she felt with her whole heart that God must 
 be with Sarah ; she could not be the good, gentle, yet strong- 
 minded creature she was without His help : and then came 
 the thought and belief, that if she sought Him, He would 
 be found too of her, unworthy and lowly as she was. Such 
 a rich treasury of promises did Sarah open to her longing 
 heart and eyes, that she often wondered how she could have 
 been blind so long ; and she would thank and bless her with 
 such strong feeling, that Sarah would feel with thankfulness, 
 and chastened joy, in the midst of her own sorrows, that she 
 had not left her own dear home in vain. 
 
 " I begin to think, dearie," Esther one day said, "that I 
 must have been cross and harsh m3 r self, which made 
 folks abuse me as they did ; since you have been here,
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 53 
 
 I feel an altered creature, and now meet with kindness 
 instead of wrong." 
 
 " Perhaps you are more inclined to think it kindness," said 
 Sarah, smiling. 
 
 " Perhaps so, dear ; but that is all your doing. Since you 
 have read to me, and proved to me that God, even Abraham's 
 God, cares for and loves me, I am as happy again, and I 
 think if He can love me why, surely some of my fellow- 
 creatures can too. They cannot be as unjust and harsh as I 
 once thought them. What would have become of me if you 
 had taken my advice, and gone home again ?" 
 
 " Then you see, Esther, I was not sent here for nothing ; 
 humble as I am, I have made one fellow-creature happy." 
 
 " You must make every one happy who talks with you, 
 darling ; but I want you to be happy yourself, and you have 
 not come here to be that, I'm thinking." 
 
 " It is better for me that I should not be happy yet, 
 Esther, or our Father would make me so. You know He 
 could, with a word, and He will in His own good time. 
 I did not think I should find one friend, but His love provided 
 you." Her voice quivered, and she threw her arms round 
 old Esther's neck, to hide and subdue her emotion, which 
 kindness alone had power to excite. 
 
 But though for Esther she had been permitted to do so 
 much, her father seemed neither to understand nor appre- 
 ciate her ; and to change the opinions to which he so often 
 gave vent, and which, from their strangeness and laxity, often 
 actually appalled her, seemed to her utterly impossible. The 
 sacred name of God was with him a common interjection, 
 introduced in every phrase ; it mattered not whether called 
 for by anger or vexation, or any other feeling. Sarah shud- 
 dered with agony as she heard it — that awful name, which 
 she never dared pronounce save with reverence and love, 
 which should be kept far from all moods and tempers of sin — 
 that name, the holiness of which was enjoined as strictly, as 
 solemnly, as " thou shalt not kill," and " thou shalt not 
 steal." She could not conquer the feeling which its constant 
 and sinful use excited, and once so horror-struck was her 
 countenance, that her father marked it and demanded its 
 cause. Tremblingly she told him, and a rude laugh was his 
 reply, coupled with an injunction not to preach to him — 
 words which ever checked her when, in his moments of
 
 0-4 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 irritation against the whole world and his own fate, she 
 .sought to comfort him by the religion of her own pure mind ; 
 she gave up the effort at length, but she did not give up 
 prayer. She would not listen to the agonized supposition that 
 for such as he even the long suffering of an infinitely com- 
 passionate God would be of no avail. She prayed and wept 
 for those who prayed not for themselves, and there was com- 
 fort in her prayer. 
 
 But to pass her life iu idleness was impossible. From the 
 first week of her residence in London, she had sought for 
 employment. Her father would not hear of her living out, 
 and so she endeavoured to find daily occupation, or to work 
 at home. In both of these wishes, as old Esther had fore- 
 boded, she failed. 
 
 In the low neighbourhood where her father dwelt there was 
 no one to employ her, and she had no friend to speak for 
 her in the higher classes. In vain she had at first urged she 
 must seek for a situation in a private family, as upper house- 
 maid, lady's maid, or nurse. Levison so raged and stormed 
 at the first mention of the plan, that Sarah felt as if she 
 never dared resume it. Yet as weeks passed and the little 
 fund she had brought from Liverpool would very soon be 
 exhausted, something must be done. Our readers, perhaps, 
 think that her idea of the duty she owed her father went so 
 far as even in this to obey him ; they are wrong if they do. 
 Sarah's mind was not of that weak cast which could not 
 discern right from wrong. She knew it was a false and sinful 
 pride which actuated Levison's refusal. "Jews were Jews," 
 he declared, " and one class should not serve the other ; his 
 daughter was as good as any in the land, and she should not 
 call any one mistress." Mildly, yet firmly, Sarah resisted his 
 arguments. We have not space to repeat all she said, but 
 her father at length yielded, with an ill grace indeed, and 
 vowing she should go nowhere unless they would let her 
 come to him when he wanted her. But still he yielded, 
 and Sarah thankfully pursued her plan. But, alas ! she 
 encountered only disappointment ; there were no Jewesses 
 established as milliners, dressmakers, or similar trades in 
 London, and therefore no possibility of her getting occu- 
 pation with them as she wished. She would not heed old 
 Esther's assurances that no one would take Jewish servants. 
 Unsophisticated and guileless herself, she could not believe
 
 THE PEHEZ FAMILY. 55 
 
 that her nation would refuse their aid and patronage to those 
 of their own faith ; and she strained every energy, she con- 
 quered her own shrinking diffidence, but all without effect 
 Again and again the fact of her being a Jewess completed tho 
 conference at once. One said that Jewish servants were more 
 plague than enough, they should never enter her house. 
 xVnother, that their pride and ignorance were beyond all 
 bounds, and as for a proper deference towards their superiors, 
 a willingness to be taught or guided, it was not in their 
 nature. Another, that a Jewish cook might be all very well, 
 but for anything else it was quite out of the question ; they 
 knew the low habits, the laziness and insolence that charac- 
 terized such kind of people, and they certainly would not 
 expose themselves to it with their eyes open. In vain Sarah 
 pleaded for a trial — that she was willing, most willing to be 
 taught her duty ; that she was not wholly ignorant, and 
 humbly yet earnestly trusted she was not proud. Her duty 
 to her God had, she hoped, taught her proper deference 
 towards her superiors on earth. Some there were who, only 
 her superiors in point of fortune, stared at her with stupid 
 surprise, and utterly unable to understand such pure and 
 truthful feelings, sharply terminated their conference at 
 once. Others would not even hear her. Some there were 
 really superior in something more than fortune, and anxiously 
 desirous to alleviate distress and aid their poorer brethren, 
 but they shrank from being the first to engage a Jewess as 
 lady's maid or nurse. Some, touched by her respectful, and 
 gentle manner, would have waived this, but when the 
 question who was her father, was asked and answered, the 
 most kindly intentioned shrank back — it could not be. In 
 vain she told them she had never been under his care, and 
 offered references to many -respectable families in Liverpool. 
 A daughter of Levison was no fit servant for any respectable 
 family ; they were sorry, but they could do nothing for 
 her. 
 
 Day after day, week after week thus passed, till even 
 months had elapsed, and, despite her unwavering faith, 
 Sarah's weary spirit flagged. 
 
 " But why should it be ? " she asked one day, as she sat 
 by the rude bed to which poor old Esther was confined, and 
 in answer to her observation, it was only what she had 
 feared; " but why should it be? there must be some reasoD for
 
 56 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 our being so shunned. Those of the stranger faith, of course, 
 could not employ us ; but our own ? — how much better and 
 happier we might be if they would take us into their families, 
 and unite us by kindness on the one hand, and obedience and 
 faithfulness on the other." 
 
 "It certainly would make us happier, but we must be better 
 fitted for it, Sarah, dear, before it can be accomplished," re- 
 plied the old woman. " You don't know anything of the 
 majority of us here ; how many of us hate the very idea of 
 going into service. What a dreadful deal of pride is amongst 
 us, and such false pride ; we very often throw away those 
 that would be our friends, and repay sometimes with abuse 
 any kindness. Then, again, we want to be taught our proper 
 duties. It is not enough to read our Bibles and prayer-books, 
 because a great many are blinded to what they tell us. We 
 want some one to explain them, and tell us plainly what we 
 ought to do, and may do, without breaking our religion. 
 Because you see, dear, when we were in Jerusalem, some 
 things must have been different to what they can be now ; 
 and, as servants, we might be called upon to do some things 
 which we think we ought not. Then, it is all very true about 
 being lazy and sometimes insolent. We must set about 
 doing all we can to be kinder to ourselves, before we can 
 expect anybody to be lander to us. I see that now quite 
 clearly, though I did not once ; but for you, darling, you are 
 good enough for anybody to find a treasure in you. I wish I 
 could help you ; there is one good, land, charitable lady that 
 I would send you to, but a sister of mine behaved so ungrate- 
 fully to her, that I do not like intruding on her again. She 
 nearly clothed my sister's little girl, and, would you believe 
 it, Becky went to her house and abused her. What right, 
 forsooth, had she to know that her child wanted clothes." 
 
 Sarah uttered an exclamation of surprise. 
 
 " Indeed, and yes, dear ; and so you see, though I had 
 nothing to do with it, I don't much like to go to Miss Leon 
 again ; but you might, though. I am sure she would do 
 what she could for you." 
 
 Sarah eagerly inquired who this Miss Leon was. 
 
 " None of your very rich carriage people, dear ; indeed I 
 don't know how she contrives to do all the good she does,, 
 for she is not half as rich as many who think themselves 
 poor. She finds out those who want help ; she employs all
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 57 
 
 she possibly can ; she gets us work from others ; makes our 
 interests hers ; teaches our girls all sorts of useful know- 
 ledge ; gives many a poor family the meal on which they 
 break their fast, and all such good acts ; comes amongst us, 
 and, somehow or other, always does us good. I don't know 
 how many people she cured of rheumatism last winter, by 
 supplying them with some doctor's stuff and warm clothing. 
 Then, as for the girl's schools, I don't know what would be- 
 come of them without her ; she gets them work, cuts out all 
 they want, and teaches them often herself. She is a good 
 creature, God bless her ! I lost a kind friend by Becky's be- 
 having as she did, for I never had the face to go to her 
 again, and I would not have her come to this low place ; but 
 that she would not mind, as she does not care for the world 
 in doing good." 
 
 Sarah listened eagerly ; had she indeed found a friend ? yet 
 she checked her rising hopes. Miss Leon might do her 
 service, but might not have the power. Before she could 
 make up her mind to seek her, she received, as was her 
 custom every month at least, a long letter from the dear 
 home she had left ; she had stated her many disappointments 
 to her aunt, and that beloved relative entreated her to 
 return. 
 
 " Tell your father," she wrote, " two-thirds you earn shall 
 be honestly sent to him ; and you can better, much better, 
 support him here than in London. Entreat him to let you 
 return to us — all our happiness is damped when we think of 
 your heavy trials. Come to us, my love ; it can scarcely be 
 your duty to remain any longer where you are." 
 
 Sarah read this letter to her father, hoping more than she 
 dared acknowledge to herself, that he would see how much 
 better it would be for her to return. But for this he was far 
 too selfish. Sarah had so rivetted all the affection which he 
 was capable of feeling, that he would not let her leave him. 
 He was jealous and angry that she should so love her absent 
 friends, and swore that they should not take any more of 
 her heart from him ; he would rather remain as he was, than 
 she should work for him at Liverpool ; he did not want her 
 labour, he wanted her love, and that she would not give him. 
 Sarah submitted with a strange feeling of consolation amidst 
 her sorrow — did he indeed want her love ? Oh, if she could 
 but believe it, she might have some influence over him yet.
 
 58 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 Not long after this, as she was sitting reading one morning 
 to poor old Esther that holy book, which was now as great a 
 comfort to Esther as to herself, a lady unexpectedly entered, 
 and before even she heard her name, Sarah guessed who she 
 was. There was the decided manner and kind speech of 
 which Esther had spoken ; the plain attire with which, to 
 avert notice, she ever went her rounds of charity ; and even 
 had there been none of these peculiarities, the very fact of 
 her coming to that poor place at all proclaimed Miss Leon. 
 She gently upbraided the poor old woman for not letting her 
 know she was ill and needed kindness ; would not accept 
 her plea that after her sister's ungrateful conduct she could 
 have no right to appeal to her, and by a very few judicious 
 words set Esther's heart at rest. She inquired what her 
 ailing was, seemed to understand it at once, and promised 
 soon to get her about again. 
 
 " God bless you, lady dear ! " exclaimed the grateful 
 creature, fervently ; " only the other day was I talking 
 about you and all you did ; not that I wanted you — for you 
 see my threescore and ten years are almost run out, and it 
 signifies little now if I suffer more or less — but for this poor 
 girl, bless you, lady, you could do so much for her. I 
 ought not to call her poor though, for in one sense God has 
 made her rich enough, and she has been a good angel to 
 me." 
 
 With a vivid blush of true modest feeling, that attracted 
 Miss Leon's penetrative eye at once, Sarah tried to check the 
 old woman's garrulity, but in vain. She would pour out all 
 that Sarah had done for her, and wanted and suffered for 
 herself, and who she was, and how brought up, and where 
 she came from. Miss Leon meanwhile had quietly taken a 
 seat, and without the smallest symptom of impatience or 
 failing interest, listened to the tale. When it was concluded, 
 she put some questions to Sarah, the answers to which 
 appeared much to please and satisfy her. She promised to 
 do what she could, making, however, no professions that 
 could excite delusive hopes, yet somehow leaving such com- 
 fort behind her, that on her departure Sarah sought her own 
 room to pour forth her swelling thanksgiving to God. 
 
 Miss Leon never made professions, but she always acted. 
 When it was known amongst her friends where she had 
 been, and whose daughter she intended, if possible, to
 
 THE PEREZ TAMIL Y. 59 
 
 befriend, a complete storm of advice and warning and censure 
 had to be encountered, but Adelaide Leon was not to be 
 daunted ; for advice she was grateful, but timidity and selfish 
 consideration never entered her code of charity. She felt no 
 fear of consequences whatever ; even had she to come in 
 contact with Levison himself, she saw nothing very dreadful 
 in it, and as for the censure, she smiled very quietly at the 
 idea; but when her conscience told her she was right, it 
 mattered little what other people said. In a word, she did 
 as most strong-minded, right people do — finally carried her 
 point. She went to see Esther three times that week, and 
 before a month had passed the old woman was able to sit 
 up, doing a little knitting, which Miss Leon herself had 
 taught her ; and Sarah went sometimes four days in the week 
 to work at the Square. 
 
 A very brief period of intercourse convinced Miss Leon 
 that Sarah certainly was a superior person, and her benevolent 
 intentions did not terminate in merely getting her daily work. 
 She had not enough in her own family to occupy her suffi- 
 ciently, and many in her circle were too prejudiced to follow 
 her good example. 
 
 Now it so happened Miss Leon had a widowed sister, a 
 Mrs. Corea, who had four little girls, and was in want of a 
 young woman to attend on and work for them, and take care 
 of them when they were not with her or their governess. 
 Genteel and modest in her manners, without a portion of 
 pride or insolence, truly and unostentatiously pious, and 
 withal better informed on many subjects than very many 
 who profess a great deal, Sarah was just the- very person 
 whom Miss Leon could desire to be with her nieces ; but the 
 difficulties she had to contend with, before she accomplished 
 the end, we have no space to dilate on. Mrs. Corea was 
 about as weak-minded, prejudiced, and foolish, as Miss Leon 
 was the contrary. First she had a horror of all low-born 
 people, however they might be brought up ; and no one 
 could say but that, if Sarah was Levison's child, she was the 
 very lowest of the low. Secondly she could not have a 
 Jewess ; she would give the children all sorts of super- 
 stitious ignorant ideas, and was as helpless and exacting as 
 any fine lady. And thirdly, and most convincing of all, in 
 her own ideas, she did not like the plan, and would not have 
 her; what would people say too — doing what no one else did?
 
 CO THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 Fortunately for our poor Sarah, Miss Leon never desponded 
 •when determined to do good ; the more difficulties she had 
 to contend with, the more determined was she to carry her 
 point, and, to the surprise of everybody, even in this she 
 succeeded. Mrs. Corea yielded to perseverance. It was too 
 much trouble to say "no" any longer. She had seen no 
 one that would do, and Adelaide had promised she would 
 take all the blame, and answer everybody who meddled and 
 found fault ; and if Sarah did not suit, why Adelaide would 
 take the blame for that too, and never torment her to take a 
 Jewess again. 
 
 Sarah did not know all that Miss Leon had encountered 
 in her cause, but she knew it was to her she owed the com- 
 fortable situation in which she was at length installed ; and 
 the grateful girl not only prayed God to bless her bene- 
 factress, but to bless her own efforts, that she might do her 
 duty to her young charge, and, in serving them, prove her 
 gratitude to their aunt. 
 
 With her father she had at first a difficult part to play. 
 He, of course, could not be allowed to come to the house to 
 see her, and he had sworn she should go nowhere, where he 
 might not be admitted. A voiceless prayer that his heart 
 might be changed rose from Sarah's heart, as she attempted 
 to tell him of her plans ; and the prayer was heard, for, to 
 her own astonishment, her gentle arguments and meek per- 
 suasions were successful. His anger subsided at first into 
 sullenness, then he seemed endeavouring to conceal some 
 strong emotion, and at last, as she drew closer to him, 
 trembling and fearful, conjuring his reply, he caught her in 
 his arms, kissed her again and again, bade God bless hei 
 and spare her till he was a better man, when she would 
 love him more. He knew she could not as he was ; but 
 for her sake there was nothing she could not persuade 
 him to do ; she did not know how much he loved her, and, 
 as Sarah sobbed from many varied feelings on his bosom, 
 she thanked God that He had called her to her father, and 
 permitted her even in the midst of sorrow and sin to cling to 
 him still.
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. CI 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Our readers must imagine a period of eighteen months since 
 we bade them farewell. But few changes had taken place, 
 Leah, Simeon, and Joseph continued in their respective 
 situations, every year increasing their wages, and riveting 
 the esteem and good-will of their employers. 
 
 The widow might have had another home in a gayer part 
 of the town, but she refused to leave the lowly dwelling she 
 had so dearly loved, until Leah or one of her sons had a 
 home, to keep which she was needed. One change in the 
 widow's household had indeed taken place, for Ruth was in 
 London. Sarah's excellent conduct had interested Miss 
 Leon not only in herself, but in her family. As they were 
 all comfortably providing for themselves, Miss Leon could 
 find no object for her active benevolence but the little Ruth. 
 The poor child had not indeed so many resources as many 
 similarly afflicted, for though all were desirous, none knew 
 how to teach her. It so happened Miss Leon was peculiarly 
 interested in Ruth, because she had once had a sister who 
 was blind ; one whom she had so dearly loved, that she had 
 learned the whole method of tuition for the blind simply for 
 that sister's sake. She died just when she was of an age to 
 know all that affection had done for her ; and Miss Leon 
 now offered to impart all she knew to Ruth, to give her 
 board and lodging at her house till she was enabled to earn 
 something for herself, when she herself would send her to 
 her mother. 
 
 It was a hard struggle before the widow could consent to 
 part with her darling ; but the representations of Leah and 
 Simeon, and R,uth's own yearnings to be able to do something 
 for herself, overcame all selfish considerations. She could 
 not feel Miss Leon a stranger, for her kindness to Sarah had 
 made her name never spoken without a blessing, and Sarah 
 would always be near Ruth to watch over and write of her ; 
 and so with tears of thankfulness the widow consented. 
 Leah was often permitted to take her work to the widow's 
 cottage and pursue it there ; and the little Christian girl, to 
 whom Ruth and Sarah had been so kind, was delighted to 
 come and do any cleaning or scouring in the house, or sit
 
 62 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 with the widow and work and read for her, to prove how 
 
 grateful she was. 
 
 And where was Reuben Perez all this while ? Were his 
 mother's prayers for hirn still unanswered ? Alas ! farther 
 and farther did they seem from fulfilment. He had left 
 Liverpool to accept, in conjunction with his father-in-law, 
 the management of a bank, in one of the smaller towns of 
 Yorkshire, and, of course, even his casual visits were dis- 
 continued. Not that they were of much avail, going as he 
 did ; but still his mother had hoped, against her better 
 reason, that while near her he would never entirely take 
 himself away. Now that hope was at an end. He was 
 thrown entirely amongst Gentiles, and Sabbaths and holidays 
 seemed wholly given up. He did not often write home, 
 but when he did, always affectionately ; and his mother's 
 allowance was regularly paid. She yearned to see and bless 
 him once again, but months, above a year passed, and his 
 foot had never passed her threshold. 
 
 With regard to Sarah, a very few months' association with 
 her, though only in the relative positions of mistress and ser- 
 vant, had completely conquered Mrs. Corea's prejudices ; and 
 the very indolence and foolishness, which had originally been 
 so difficult to overcome, was now as likely to ruin as they 
 formerly had been to oppose. But fortunately Sarah was not 
 one for indulgence and confidence to spoil ; indeed she 
 often regretted her mistress's indolence, from the responsi- 
 bility it devolved on her. Mrs. Corea had repeatedly allowed 
 herself to be cheated and deceived, because it was too much 
 trouble to find fault. She often permitted the most serious 
 annoyances in her establishment — keys and even money 
 repeatedly lying about, her children neglected, their clothes 
 often thrown aside long before they were worn out. In a 
 very few months Sarah's ready mind discovered this state of 
 tilings. One only she had the power of herself to remedy — 
 the neglect of her charge ; and so admirably did she do her 
 duty by them, that Miss Leon felt herself amply rewarded. 
 Finding it was of no use to entreat Mrs. Corea to have more 
 regard to her own interest, and not allow herself so repeatedly 
 to be deceived, Sarah in distress appealed to Miss Leon, 
 who quietly smiled, and enured her she would soon settle 
 matters entirely to Mrs. Corea's satisfaction. She did so, by 
 giving to Sarah's care almost the entire charge of the house-
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 63 
 
 keeping, with strict injunctions to take care of her mistress's 
 keys and purse, whenever she saw them lying about. Sarah 
 at first painfully shrunk from the responsibility, knowing well 
 it would expose her yet mote to the dislike of her fellow- 
 servants, who, as a Jewess, already regarded her with preju- 
 dice. Mrs. Corea was charmed that such a vast amount of 
 trouble was spared her ; telling everybody Sarah was a 
 treasure, and she only wondered there were not more Jewish 
 servants. 
 
 But our readers must not imagine that Sarah's situation 
 was all delightful. She had many painful prejudices to bear 
 with, many slights and unkindness in her fellow-servants to 
 forgive and forget, many jests at her peculiar religion, and 
 ridicule at its forms — much that, to a character less gently 
 firm and forbearing, would have led to such domestic bicker- 
 ing and misery, that she would have been compelled to leave 
 her place, or perhaps have been induced weakly to hide, if 
 it did not shake her reverence for, the observance of her 
 ancient faith. But Sarah had not read her Bible in vain. 
 She had not now to learn that such prejudice and scorn were 
 of God, not of man. That He permitted these things, in His 
 wisdom, to teach His people, though they were still His 
 own, still His beloved, their sins had demanded chastisement, 
 and thus received it. That the very prejudice in which by 
 the ignorant they were held, was proof of the Bible's truth — 
 proof that they were His chosen and His firstborn ; and more 
 consolatory still, chat as the threatenings were thus fulfilled, 
 so, in His own good time, would be His promises. Sarah 
 never wavered in the line of duty which she had marked out 
 for herself — to make manifest that her faith was of God by 
 actions, not by ivords ; and she so far succeeded, that after a 
 while peace was established between her and her fellow- 
 servants. They began to think, even if she were a, heathen, she 
 was a very harmless and often a very kind one, and there 
 was not so much difference between them as at first they had 
 fancied. 
 
 These are but trifling things te mention ; but we most par- 
 ticularly wish our readers to understand that though good 
 conduct will inevitably find reward even on earth, it is not to 
 be expected that it will have no trials. Virtue and religion 
 will not exempt us from suffering, but they teach us so to 
 bear them, that we can derive consolation and unfailing hope
 
 <84 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 even in the darkest hours ; aud, instead of raising a barrier 
 between us and our God, they draw us nearer and nearer to 
 Him, till we can realize His immeasurable love towards us ; 
 and tracing every suffering from His hand sent for our good, 
 to love Him more and more, and in that very love find com- 
 fort. Do not then let us practise religion and virtue because 
 we think they have power to shield us from all trial and 
 sorrow, but simply for the love of Him who bids us practise 
 them, and who has promised, if we seek Him, He will heal 
 our sorrows and heighten our joys. 
 
 One unspeakable source of comfort Sarah had : it was that 
 her influence with her father rather increased than lessened 
 with him. Once every month she spent the Sabbath evening 
 with him, and she felt that indeed he loved her. Old Esther 
 told her, even that when she was absent he was an altered 
 man. He sought employment, and after some difficulty 
 found it, though it was of a kind so humble, that before Sarah 
 came to town he would have spurned it as so derogatory to 
 his pride, he would rather starve than have it ; but now it 
 was welcome, because he would not be a burden on his Sarah. 
 His Sarah ! — every dormant virtue seemed to spring into life 
 with those dear precious words. The very interjections of 
 that sacred name of God, which had been once ever on his 
 lips, were now constantly checked. " She does not like it, 
 my angel Sarah, and I will not say it," Esther heard him 
 mutter when the accustomed phrase broke from him ; and 
 many other evil habits, that thought — " my angel Sarah " — 
 had equal power to remove. The bad man seemed fast 
 breaking from his sins, and it was from the influence of his 
 gentle pious child. The father was at work within him, and* 
 God blessed him through that feeling, and through his 
 daughter's unceasing prayers. Every time Sarah visited 
 him she saw more to hope, more for which with grateful 
 tears to bless her God ; and each time to love him more, and 
 feel she was yet more beloved. 
 
 On Sarah's ' returning home one afternoon, after a brief 
 visit to old Esther, who was not quite well, she was informed 
 a young man had called to see her, and stayed some time ; 
 but as she did not come as soon as they expected, he had 
 gone away, promising to return in the course of the evening. 
 He had not left his name, they added ; but he seemed a 
 gentleman, quite a gentleman, though one of her own nation,
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 65 
 
 and was in the deepest mourning. Sarah was not one given to 
 speculation or curiosity, though she did wonder who this 
 gentleman could be, but quietly continued her usual employ- 
 ments. She had just finished dressing her young ladies to 
 go with their mother to the theatre, and ran down to see 
 them safely in the carriage, when the footman called out — 
 
 " Sarah, the gentleman has come again ; he is waiting for 
 you in the housekeeper's room." 
 
 She went accordingly ; but her self-possession almost 
 deserted her when, on looking up in the face of the stranger 
 as she entered, she recognised at once her cousin Reuben — 
 pale, thin, and worn indeed, but still himself, and it required 
 a powerful effort, even in that strong and simple mind, to 
 evince no feeling but surprise and welcome. 
 
 Few words, however, at the first moment passed between 
 them. Reuben sprang forward as she entered, and clasped 
 both her hands in his, which were cold and trembling ; and 
 she saw his lip quiver painfully, and, to her grief and almost 
 terror, as she spoke to him he gradually let go her hands, 
 and, sinking on the nearest chair, covered his face with his 
 handkerchief, and wept like a child. 
 
 " I terrify you, dear cousin, do forgive me," he said at 
 length, as he heard the gentle voice which sought to soothe 
 him falter in spite of herself. " Sarah, dear Sarah, I do not 
 know why your kind voice should affect me thus. I cannot 
 tell you why I have come to grieve you with my grief, except 
 that when I least desired it, you were always kind and good 
 and feeling, and gave me comfort when I could not console 
 myself ; and my heart has so yearned to you now — now, 
 when your own word has come to pass, to tell you you were 
 right. In prosperity I might be happy, though God knows 
 it was but a strange unnatural happiness ; but in affliction — 
 Sarah, do you remember your own words ? " 
 
 She did remember them ; but she had no voice to repeat 
 them then, and her quivering lip alone gave answer. Her 
 cousin continued, almost choked with many emotions — 
 
 " ' If affliction, if death — may you never repent your en- 
 gagement then.' These were the words you said ; and oh, 
 how often the last few months have they returned to me. 
 Affliction has come, my own cousin ; affliction, oh, such 
 affliction that God alone could send — death, even death!" 
 The word was almost inaudible.
 
 66 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 " Death ! " repeated Sarah, startled at once into per- 
 fect consciousness. She looked at his dress — the deepest 
 mourning — and the words more fell from her than were 
 spoken. " Not Jeanie, your own Jeanie — tell me, it 
 is not she ? " Then, as she read his answer in the tighter 
 pressure of his hand, the convulsive movement of his lips, 
 she threw her arms round him, and faintly exclaiming, 
 " Reuben, my poor Reuben, may God grant you His com- 
 fort ! " burst into tears. 
 
 Nothing is so true a balm to the afflicted as unaffected 
 sympathy ; and Reuben roused himself from his own sorrow, 
 to bless his cousin for her tears, yet bid her not weep for 
 him. 
 
 "It is better thus, my gentle cousin. The God of my 
 parents has revealed Himself to their sinful offspring, even 
 in His chastening. I cannot tell you all now, clear Sarah ; 
 how, even when life seemed all prosperous around me, there 
 was still a void within — I was not happy. I had returned to 
 virtue, turned aside from all irregular and sinful pursuits, 
 kept steady to business, and in doing kind acts towards men ; 
 and more still, I had a gentle being who so loved me, that 
 she forced me into loving her more than when I first sought 
 her ; for then, then — Sarah, do not hate me — I did but seek 
 her, because I thought a union with a Christian would put a 
 final barrier between me and the race I had taught myself to 
 hate — would mark me no more a Jew ; and so for this, this 
 dreadful sin, I banished feelings which had once been mine. 
 Sarah, do not ask me what they were. Yet still, still, even 
 when I did love my fair and gentle wife, when she lavished 
 on me such affection it ought to have brought but joy, I was 
 not happy. I was away from all who knew my birth and 
 race ; the once hated name, a Jew, no longer hurt my ears ; 
 courted, flattered, admired, Sarah, Sarah, was it not strange 
 there was still that gnawing void ? " 
 
 She looked up with streaming eyes. " It was a void no 
 man could fill, dear cousin. You thought its cause was of 
 earth, and sought with earth to fill it ; but now, oh, let us 
 thank God, His image fills it now." 
 
 " You have guessed aright, my Sarah, as you always do ; 
 but, oil, you know not all I endured before it was so filled. 
 I tried to believe with my Jeanie and her father, but I could 
 not. I attended their church at times, I listened to their
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. G7 
 
 doctrines, I read their books ; but no, no, God's finger was 
 upon me. I could not believe in any Saviour, any Redeemer, 
 but Himself; and then that holy name, that sacred subject, 
 which should be the dearest link between those that love, 
 never found voice. We dared net read each other's thoughts. 
 When we married, you know Jeanie thought little of those 
 things ; but she became acquainted with a good and holy 
 man, a pious minister of her own faith, and he made her 
 think more seriously: and what followed? She loved me 
 more and more, but she knew I did not believe in that 
 Saviour whose recognition she deemed necessary for my 
 salvation, and so she drooped and drooped at the very time 
 when nature demanded greater sustenance and support. In 
 a few months I was a father. God, the agony of that 
 hour which should have been all bliss ! Then I felt in all 
 its fulness there was a God, and I had neglected Him. My 
 innocent babe might be snatched from me, as David's was, 
 for its father's sin; and how was I to avert this misery — 
 how devote it to its God, as its mother believed ? I shud- 
 dered. From that hour my Jeanie sunk, even though they 
 said she had recovered all effects of her confinement. Month, 
 after month I watched over her. I heard her clinging to a 
 faith, a Saviour, which to me was mockery. I heard her call 
 aloud for help and mercy from Jesus, not from God. Sarah, 
 it is in vain, I cannot tell you what those hours were. You 
 can tell their anguish, for you warned me such might be." 
 He paused, every limb trembling with his emotion ; and 
 Sarah, almost as much affected, entreated him not to harrow 
 his feelings by such recollections any more. 
 
 "Bear with me, dear cousin; I shall be better, happier 
 when all is told. I saw her look on our infant (thank God, 
 it was a girl !), with the big tear stealing down her pale face, 
 and I knew of what she thought ; yet I could not, I dared 
 not give her the only promise that might be her comfort, and 
 her love for me was so strong, so intense, she had no voice 
 to ask it. At length, one evening, after Mr. Vaughan, the 
 clergyman, had been urging on her the necessity of her child 
 receiving baptism, she called me to her, and, laying her head 
 on my bosom, conjured me to grant her last request, the 
 only one, she said, she had ever feared to ask me. Her voice 
 was faint from weakness, yet it thrilled so on my heart, that 
 it was a struggle to reply, and conjure her not to say more.
 
 68 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 I knew what she would ask, but she interrupted me by sink- 
 ing on her knees before me, and wildly reiterating her prayer, 
 ' My child, my child ! let her be made pure — let me feel I 
 shall look upon her again. Reuben, my husband, have 
 mercy on us all!' Sarah, had that moment been all my 
 punishment, it would have been enough. "Why could I not 
 feel then, as I had so often declared before, that all faiths 
 were the same in the sight of God ? Why could I not make 
 this promise to the dying and beloved? I know not, I know 
 not now, save that I felt myself a father, and the immortal 
 spirit of my child was of more value than my own had ever 
 been. I raised her : I solemnly vowed that I would study 
 both faiths — I would read with and listen to Mr. Vanghan, 
 and if I could believe, my child should be reared a Christian, 
 and be baptized with myself. She raised her sweet face to 
 mine with such a smile. 'Bless you, bless you, my own 
 husband ! we shall all meet again, then. Oh, you have made 
 me so happy ! Jesus will save — will bring us all to — ' 
 Her sweet voice sunk, and her head drooped down on my 
 bosom ; and thinking she was exhausted, I clasped her closer 
 to me, and kissed her again and again. Nearly half an hour 
 passed, and I felt no movement, heard no breath. It was 
 quite dark, and with sudden terror I called aloud for lights. 
 They were brought : I lifted the bright curls from her dear 
 face, and raised her head. It was vain, vain." 
 
 He ceased abruptly, and there was silence, for Sarah could 
 not speak. Reuben hastily paced the room ; then, reseating 
 himself by his cousin, continued more calmly ; but, limited 
 as we are for space, we are forbidden to continue the con- 
 versation, though it deepened in interest, even as it subsided 
 in emotion. Reuben told how he had faithfully kept his 
 promise — how, for two months, he had remained with his 
 father-in-law, studying the word of God, and listening to all 
 the instructions of Mr. Vaughan, whose very kindness and 
 true piety in spirit made his arguments more difficult to 
 resist, than had they been harshly and determinately enforced. 
 A year was the period Reuben had promised to devote to the 
 fulfilment of his vow ; and if, at the end of that time, he 
 could believe in Jesus, he and his child would, of course, be 
 made Christians ; but if his studies had a contrary effect, no 
 more, either by Mr. Wilson or the clergyman, would be said 
 to him on the subject.
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 69 
 
 " Sarah, my dear cousin, do not fear for me. My God did 
 not forsake me, even when I forsook Him. He Avill not then 
 forsake me now that I seek Him, and night and day implore 
 Him to reveal that path, that faith, which is most acceptable 
 to Him. I have already read and felt enough to glory in 
 the faith I once despised — to feel it is a privilege, aye, and a 
 proud one, to be a Jew: for the rest, let us trust in Him." 
 
 " And your child, dear Reuben — where is she ? " 
 
 " With Mrs. Vaughan at present. At the conclusion ot 
 the year, God willing, and my mother is spared, she shall be 
 cared for by the same tender love which her erring father 
 only now knows how to value and return." 
 
 " And does my aunt know this ? " 
 
 " No, Sarah, no. I cannot tell her. I feel as if I had no 
 right to go to her again, until I have indeed returned with 
 heart and soul to the faith in which all her gentle counsels 
 had not power to retain me. No, no, no ; I cannot, cannot 
 claim the solace of her love till I am worthy to be called her 
 son in faith as well as love." 
 
 The cousins were long together, and much, much was 
 spoken between them, which we would fain repeat as likely 
 to be useful to our readers, but we are warned to desist : 
 enough to know that Sarah prevailed on Reuben to write to 
 his mother and tell her all, even if the story of his inward 
 life were otherwise kept secret. 
 
 Reuben said he had given up his place in the bank, and 
 intended, for the remainder of the year, to endeavour to obtain 
 a situation in some Jewish counting-house as clerk, for some 
 hours in the day, and thus allow him evenings, Sabbaths, 
 and holidays for his sacred purpose. It was with this in- 
 tention he had come up to London, as, though he might have 
 procured employment in Liverpool or Manchester, he shrunk 
 from all remark, even kindness, from his own nation, until he 
 had in truth returned to them. He had brought with him 
 letters of high recommendation, which had obtained a capital 
 situation in a thriving house of his own nation ; a branch of 
 which resided in Birmingham, to which place it was likely he 
 should go. 
 
 " It is not that I fear the temptations of this large city, 
 dearest Sarah, that I would rather live elsewhere. No, I 
 shrink from all scenes of pleasure now with sensation ot 
 loathing ; but I feel as if it would be better for me to be
 
 70 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 alone, even away from those I most love, till this one year 
 is. passed. Sarah, will you think of me, pray for me ? " he 
 took both her hands, and looked pleadingly in her face. " It 
 would be a comfort, such a comfort to come to you for 
 •sympathy, for counsel ; for you it was, when we watched 
 together by my sick mother's bed, who first made me feel 
 that were all like you, the name 'a Jew' would cease to 
 be reproached ; but no, no, it is better for me — perhaps too, 
 for your character, dear girl — that we should not meet yet 
 awhile. I threw away happiness once when it might per- 
 chance have been mine ; and now — but it is better thus." 
 
 He had spoken incoherently, and he broke off abruptly. 
 Sarah only answered by the simple assurance that she never 
 ceased to pray for his happiness, nor would she now ; 
 and soon after they separated affectionately, confidingly, as 
 in long past years, perchance yet more so ; for then a barrier 
 was between them, now there was none ; their rock of 
 refuge, the shield of their salvation, was the same. 
 
 To define Sarah's feelings, as she prostrated herself before 
 her God in prayer that night, is indeed impossible ; nor is 
 there need — surely the coldest, the most callous, can imagine 
 them, and give her sympathy. Not indeed that hope was 
 dawning for her long-tried, long-hidden affection ; for Reuben 
 never dreamed he was so loved. It was simply thanksgiving, 
 the purest, most heartfelt, that her prayers were heard — the 
 beloved one of her heart brought back to his God. 
 
 Yet many were the secret tears she shed, as 'she pictured 
 her cousin's anguish. She gave not one single thought to 
 those words, which a less guileless heart might have 
 believed related to herself. She never thought of the con- 
 sequences which Pveubeii's return to his faith might bring to 
 her individually. It was enough of happiness to feel he had 
 sought her in his sorrow, had felt her as his friend. 
 
 But sorrow was at hand, as unexpected as terrible. About 
 four or five months after her interview with Reuben, old 
 Esther came to her one day in such extremity of grief and 
 horror, that even her little share of discretion vanished before 
 it, and she imparted her tidings to Sarah so suddenly, that the 
 poor girl stood stunned and paralyzed, preserved only by a 
 strong though almost unconscious effort from fainting. 
 Levison had been taken up and carried to Newgate as an 
 a.ccomplice in an act of burglary and robbery, which, attended
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 71 
 
 by circumstances of unusual notoriety, had been lately com- 
 mitted in the neighbourhood of Epping. Levison had loudly 
 and fiercely asserted his innocence ; but of course his asseve- 
 rations had been disregarded. 
 
 " But he has said it — he has said it ! He has declared he 
 is innocent, and he is — he is !" reiterated poor Sarah, with a 
 violent burst of tears, which restored sense and energy. Esther, 
 however, seemed to derive no comfort from the assertion. 
 
 " Yes, dear, yes ; I do believe he is not guilty — bad as 
 some of us are, we do not do such things. Who ever heard 
 of a Jew being a housebreaker or a thief? But who will 
 believe him ? Who will take his word, his oath 1 Oh, what 
 will become of us ? " and the old woman rocked herself to and 
 fro, in the misery of the thought. Sarah was in no state to 
 offer the usual comfort ; but stunned, bewildered as she was, 
 her thought formed itself into unconscious prayer for help 
 and strength. Her plan of action was decided on the 
 instant ; she would, she must go to him. In vain Esther 
 bade her think of the consequences ; what would her mistress 
 say, if she knew that Sarah was any way related to Levison, 
 the reputed housebreaker, much less that she was his 
 daughter. 
 
 " Would you then advise me, if this misery come to her 
 knowledge, deny my father, now that he may need me more 
 than ever ? Oh, Esther, I cannot do this," replied Sarah 
 mournfully, though firmly. "My mistress need not know 
 my errand now perhaps, and this terrible trial may be per- 
 mitted to pass away before it comes to the worst. But 
 should it indeed reach her ears, I cannot deny him ; 
 he has only me, and if it cause me the loss of my situ- 
 ation, of my character in the opinion of my fellow- 
 creatures, my God will love me, care for me still. I cannot 
 desert my father." 
 
 And while she seeks him we must inform our readers, 
 briefly as may be, how the matter really stood. Levison had 
 been seen and recognized talking to a party of men the 
 evening previous to the night's robbery. No one could 
 swear to his person as accessary to the act by having seen 
 him in the house, but in such earnest conversation with 
 those who were taken in the fact, that he was, in consequence, 
 committed as one of the gang, for the apprehension of whom a 
 large reward had been offered. It was true none of the
 
 72 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 stolen property had been found on his person, or in his 
 dwelling ; but these facts were little heeded in his favour. 
 
 He was a Jew — a man who had been noted for his dis- 
 honest practices in business, and consequently there was 
 no one to come forward with such report of his former 
 character as could be taken in his favour. 
 
 He persisted that he was innocent ; that though he had 
 been talking to the men as was alleged, he knew nothing of 
 their real character or intentions ; that he had been ac- 
 quainted with them formerly, but only in the way of 
 business ; that they knew he had separated from them, at 
 seven o'clock that evening, to proceed several miles in a 
 contrary direction, to the burial-ground of his people, 
 where he had been engaged to watch beside the grave of one 
 that day interred ; the person who had been engaged to do 
 so having been suddenly taken ill, and asked him, Levison, 
 to watch in his stead. How could he prove this? he waa 
 asked. 
 
 The unhappy man groaned aloud for answer — he had no 
 proof. Some one, a gentleman, had indeed visited the grave 
 at break of day, had demanded who he was, and why he was 
 there instead of the person engaged ; and he answered, giving 
 his full name. The gentleman had thrown him money, and 
 hastily departed ; but who or what he was, except a Jew, as 
 himself, Levison did not know. 
 
 Of course, such a tale, and from such a person, was not to 
 be believed, and he was committed to Newgate, with his 
 supposed accomplices, to take his trial. 
 
 It was with great difficulty Sarah gained admittance to his 
 cell ; but it was not till in his presence, till the door was 
 closed upon her for a specified time, that the energy which 
 Supported her throughout gave way. 
 
 She could but throw herself on her knees before him, but 
 fling her arms round him, and sob forth, "Father!" the 
 convulsions of agony and fear which shook her every limb 
 depriving her at once of power and of voice. 
 
 The effect of her presence on Levison was terrible. He 
 gave vent to a wild, shrill cry, then catching her to his- 
 bosom, gasped forth, " My daughter ! oh, my daughter t 
 the God of wrath and justice will withdraw His hand, if you 
 are near," and then sunk back in a strong convulsive fit. 
 Perhaps it was as well that the poor girl was thus compelled
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 73 
 
 to exertion. Terrified as she was, she knew to call for help 
 was useless, for who could hear her? But by unloosening 
 his collar, and the application of cold water, which happened 
 to be in the room, after a few minutes of intense terror, she 
 saw the convulsive struggles gradually give way, and he lay 
 sensible but exhausted. It was then she saw the ravages 
 either illness or imprisonment had made ; it seemed as if 
 even death itself was upon him. He had never quite 
 recovered the illness which had originally called her to 
 London, and the last few days seemed to have brought it 
 back with increase of suffering and complete prostration of 
 physical power. His black hair had whitened, and his form 
 was bent, as if a burden of many years had descended upon 
 him ; his features were contracted, and wan as death. 
 
 " Sarah, Sarah, I thought God had forsaken me ; but I see 
 you, and I know He has not. Miserable and guilty as I am 
 — guilty of many sins, as I know, I feel now — but not of 
 this : no, no, no ; my child, my child, I am innocent of this. 
 I turned away from vice and sin for your sake. I made a 
 vow to try and become worthy of such an angel child ; and 
 see, see what has come upon me ! I have been deceiving 
 and dishonest in former days, but even then I never, never 
 turned aside to steal — to join a gang of thieves. Sarah, 
 Sarah, I thought to make you happy at last ; and I shall be 
 but your curse, your misery. Perhaps you too will not 
 believe me, but I am innocent of this crime ; my child, my 
 child, I am indeed ! " 
 
 It was long ere Sarah's gentle soothings and earnest 
 assurances of her firm belief in his perfect innocence could 
 calm the fearful agitation of her unhappy father. Still her 
 presence, the pressure . of her hand was such comfort, that a 
 light appeared to have gleamed on the darlmess of his despair, 
 and he poured forth his agonizing thoughts, his terrors, alike 
 of life and death and eternity, as if his child Avere indeed the 
 ministering angel of hope and faith and comfort which his 
 deep love believed her. 
 
 " Had I not you, my daughter, oh, there would be no 
 hope, no mercy for one like me. I have disobeyed and pro- 
 faned my God, and taken His holy name in vain, and called 
 down on me His wrath, His vengeance ; and how can I, how 
 dare I hope for mercy ? I cannot repent — I cannot seek 
 righteousness now ; it is too late, too late ! Yet God has.
 
 74 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 given me you ; and is He then all wrath, all punishment ? 
 Tell me, tell me, there is mercy for the sinner, even now." 
 
 " Father, dear father, there is ! Has He not said it ? 
 Yes, and reiterated it in His holy book, till the most doubting 
 of us must believe. ' He hath no pleasure in the death of 
 the wicked, but rather that he should turn from his wicked- 
 ness and live;' bidding us repent and believe, and that in 
 the day we did so our guilt should not be remembered — 
 should not appear against us ; telling us but to confess our 
 sin, to throw ourselves on His mercy, that mercy all perfect 
 to purify, redeem, and save — that He is merciful and gracious, 
 long-suffering, abundant in mercy and love — showing mercy 
 unto thousands ! My father, oh, my father, there is no sin 
 so infinite as His mercy — no sin for which repentance and 
 love and faith in Him will not in His sight atone." 
 
 " But I can make no atonement, my child. I can do 
 nothing to prove repentance — that I would serve and love 
 Him now — nothing to make reparation for past sin : too late, 
 too late ! " and he groaned aloud. 
 
 " He does not ask works, my father, when He knows they 
 cannot be performed. Have you not sought Him this last 
 year, in penitence and prayer, and amendment of your ways ? 
 and does not He record this, though man may not ? and now, 
 oh, do but believe in Him, in His will and power to forgive 
 and save — do but call upon Him with the faith and repent- 
 ance of a sorrowing child. Oil, my father, God asks no 
 more than we can do. His sacrifices are a broken heart and 
 a contrite spirit, which we all have power to bestow. He 
 has told us this blessed truth, through the lips of one who 
 had the power to do and give much more in atonement for 
 his sin, that we, who can do nothing but believe and repent, 
 may be comforted. Father, my own dear father, if indeed 
 you repent, and love, and believe, oh, God is near you, will 
 save you still !" 
 
 Much, much more did Sarah say, as she sat on the straw 
 pallet where her unhappy father half reclined, her dark, 
 truthful eyes, often swelling in large tears, fixed on his face 
 as she spoke. It was impossible for one whom her influence 
 the last twelvemonth had already, through God's mercy, 
 changed in heart, to listen to her healing words, and look on 
 her sweet pleading face, and yet retain the doubts and terrors 
 of despair. It seemed to Levison that if such a being could
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 75 
 
 love and pity him, and cling to him thus even in a prison 
 cell, he could not be cut oft" from all of heavenly hope — the 
 all-pitying love and consoling promises of God appeared to 
 him through her as if by a voice from heaven. They could 
 not deceive, and even in the depth of repentant agony — for 
 it was true repentance — there was comfort. Sarah was sum- 
 moned away only too soon, but she promised to visit him 
 often again. The piece of gold which she had slid into the 
 turnkey's hand, she knew, would be her passport ; but to do 
 this unknown to her mistrsss was an act of injustice towards 
 her, which her pure mind rejected. 
 
 Yet how to tell her? The determination was made, but 
 on the manner of fulfilling it poor Sarah thought some time. 
 Perhaps it was fortunate she was roused to exertion. On 
 entering the kitchen for something she wanted, she saw her 
 fellow-servants congregated in a knot together, the footman 
 reading aloud the account of the robbery; and the committal 
 of the gang, from the newspapers. He stopped as she 
 entered, and every eye turned on her. Her cheek grew 
 white as ashes, and her lip quivered, so as to be remarked 
 by all. The footman seemed about to speak, but the house- 
 maid laid her hand on his arm, with an imploring look to 
 forbear. It was enough. Sarah felt she could better leave 
 her mistress than encounter the questions or suspicions of 
 her fellow-servants, and that instant she sought the parlour. 
 Miss Leon was with her sister. The ghastly paleness and 
 agonized expression of the poor girl*s face struck her at once, 
 and with accents of earnest kindness she inquired what was 
 the matter. Bursting into tears, Sarah almost inarticulately 
 related the heavy trial which had befallen her, and her in- 
 tention to give up her situation. Confidential, happy as it 
 was to devote herself to her unfortunate father, feeling that 
 the child of one suspected as he was could bring but dis- 
 reputableness to a respectable family, Sarah felt her story was 
 incoherent ; but that it was understood was visible in its 
 effects. Mrs. Corea, selfish and weak as her wont, thought 
 only of the trouble and annoyance Sarah's resignation of her 
 situation would bring her; and overwhelmed her with re- 
 proaches, as ungrateful and capricious. Miss Leon spoke 
 calmly and reasonably. There was no need for any decisive 
 parting. Sarah might leave them for a time, if she were 
 desirous of doing so, though she did not think it wise ; that
 
 7G THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 if Mrs. Corea valued her so much, she could have no objec- 
 tion to her returning. " What ! the daughter of a pickpocket, 
 a housebreaker ! No, no, if Sarah were fool enough to say 
 she were the daughter of such a person, she would have 
 nothing more to do with her ; but there was no need for her 
 to do so. What was to prevent her disclaiming all relation- 
 ship ; and what good could she do him or herself by going 
 to him ? It was all folly. There were plenty of Levisons in 
 the world. Nobody need know this Levison was Sarah's 
 father, if the girl herself were not such a fool as to betray 
 it." 
 
 "And can you advise this, Miss Leon?" implored Sarah, 
 turning towards her. " Oh, do not, do not say so. I would 
 not displease one so kind and good as you are. I would do 
 anything, everything to show you I am grateful ; but I can- 
 not, oh, I cannot deny my father ! I should never know a 
 happy day again." 
 
 Miss Leon was not at all a person to evince useless emo- 
 tion, but there was certainly something rising in her throat, 
 which made her voice husky ere she replied. Reasonable 
 and feeling, however, as her arguments were, that, without 
 actually denying or deserting her father, she need not ruin 
 her own reputation for ever, by proclaiming it was to visit 
 him in person, she left her place. Sarah could at that moment 
 only feel ; her future was bound up in her father's. 
 
 We have not, however, space to dilate on all Miss Leon 
 urged or Sarah felt. Suffice it, that the next morning Sarah 
 turned away from the house which for nearly two years had 
 been a happy home. She knew not if she should ever be 
 welcome there again. Miss Leon was indeed still her friend ; 
 but how could even she aid her now ? She returned to that 
 dilapidated dwelling where old Esther still lived, feeling that 
 heavy as she had thought her trial when she had first 
 entered those doors, it was light, it was joy to that which was 
 hers now. 
 
 Day after day, in the brief period intervening before Levi- 
 son's final trial, did his devoted daughter visit his cell, and 
 not in vain. The terror, the anguish which had possessed 
 him were passing from his soul. He did believe in the 
 saving power of his God. He did approach his throne with 
 a broken and contrite heart ; and it was the prayers, the 
 faith, the forbearing devotion of his child, which brought him
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 77 
 
 there. Sarah had told all his story to Miss Leon, who had 
 listened attentively, though she herself feared that to remedy 
 this and prove him innocent was, even to her energetic 
 benevolence, impossible. 
 
 The morning of the trial came, the court was crowded ; 
 for the extensive robberies traced home to this gang occa- 
 sioned unusual excitement. The trembling heart of the 
 daughter felt that to wait to hear of its termination, and her 
 father's sentence, was impossible, the very effort would drive 
 her mad. In vain old Esther remonstrated ; offered, infirm as 
 she was, to go herself, if Sarah would but remain quietly at 
 home. Sarah insisted on accompanying her, muffled up so 
 as not to be recognised. They mingled with the thronging 
 crowds, were jostled, pushed, and otherwise annoyed, yet Sarah 
 knew it not — seemed conscious of nothing till her eyes rested 
 on her misguided father. What was it she hoped? She 
 knew not, except a strange undefined belief that even now, 
 in the eleventh hour, his innocence would be made evident. 
 Alas, poor girl ! the summary proceedings of a court of 
 justice on a gang of noted criminals allowed no saving clause. 
 He was sworn to as having been seen with them, and that 
 was sufficient. All he said was unheeded, perhaps unheard ; 
 and sentence of transportation for life was pronounced on 
 every man by name, Isaac Levison included. 
 
 Sarah did not scream ; she thought she did not faint, for 
 the words rung in her ears as repeated by a hundred echoes, 
 each one louder than the other; but, except this power of 
 hearing, every other sense seemed suddenly stilled. She did 
 not know whose arm led her from that terrible scene — who 
 was conducting her hastily yet tenderly towards home. She 
 walked on quick, quicker still, as if the rapidity of movement 
 should hush that mocking sound. It would not, it could not ; 
 and when she was at home, she sunk down powerless, con- 
 scious only of misery that even faith might not remove. 
 
 " Sarah, my own Sarah ! look up, speak to me, this silence 
 is terrible ! " exclaimed a voice which roused her as with an 
 electric shock. Pteuben Perez was beside her, his ^ arm 
 around her ; the ice of misery, the restraint of long-hidden 
 feelings, were broken by the power of that voice, and laying 
 her head on his shoulder, she sobbed in un controllable agony. 
 He told her how he had seen the name of Levison in the 
 papers, and his defence, and how he had trembled lest it should
 
 78 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 be her father ; how anxiously he had wished to come up at 
 once to London, but was unavoidably prevented leaving 
 Birmingham till the previous night. How he had proceeded 
 to the court ; at once recognised Levison, and at the same 
 moment, guided by some strange instinct, looked for and 
 found Sarah, muffled as she was. 
 
 He had gradually and with difficulty made his way through 
 the crowd towards her, and reached her just as the sentence 
 was pronounced. Old Esther had begged him to take care 
 of Sarah home, as she could follow more slowly. He tried 
 to speak comfort respecting her father ; but in this he failed. 
 Shudderingly, she reiterated the sentence. " Transportation, 
 and for life — to be sent away to work, to die, untended, un- 
 loved," and then, as with sudden thought, she started up — 
 
 " No, no, no ! " she exclaimed, a hectic glow tinging her 
 pallid cheek. " Why cannot I go too ?" not with him, they will 
 not let me do that ; but there are ships enough taking out emi- 
 grants, and I can meet him there — be with him again. They 
 shall not separate the father from his child ; and he is inno- 
 cent ! My father, my poor father, your Sarah will not forsake 
 you even now ! " and she wept again, but less painfully than 
 before. Startled as he was, Reuben could yet feel this was 
 scarcely a resolution to be kept, and with argument and per- 
 suasion sought to turn her from her purpose. Her father 
 could not need such sacrifice ; how could she aid him in his 
 far distant dwelling. 
 
 " He has but me — he has but me ! " she reiterated ; " who 
 is there that has claim enough to keep me from him ? I have 
 thought a former trial heavy to be borne ; but had it not been 
 for that, my poor father might have died in sin, for perhaps I 
 could not have come to him as I did when free. No, no, I 
 was destined to be the instrument, in the hands of mercy, in 
 bringing him back to the God he had offended, and I may do 
 so still. Pteuben, Reuben, who is there has such claim upon 
 me, as my poor, poor father ? Others love me, and oh, God 
 only knows how I love them ! but they are happy and pros- 
 perous, they do not need me." 
 
 ^ "Sarah," answered Eeuben, his voice choked with emo- 
 tion, " Sarah, you spoke of a former heavy trial, one hard to 
 bear. Oh, answer me, speak to me! Was not I its cause? 
 I deceived myself when I thought I had not injured your 
 peace when I wrecked my own."
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 79 
 
 " It matters little new," replied Sarah, turning from his 
 look, while her cheek again blanched to marble ; " my path 
 is marked out for me. I may not leave it, even to think 
 of what has been or might be : it cannot, must not matter 
 now." 
 
 " It must — it shall ! " exclaimed Reuben, with more than 
 wonted impetuosity. " Sarah, Sarah, you ask me who needs 
 you as your father does — to whom you can be as you are to 
 him ? I answer, there is one, one to whom, as to your father, 
 you have been a guardian angel, winning him back even by 
 your memory, when far separated, to the God he had forsaken. 
 I trampled on the love I bore you — my own feelings as well 
 as yours — to unite myself with a strange race, to bid all who 
 knew me cease to regard me as a Jew. I sought to believe I 
 had nothing to reproach myself with, as I had not caused you 
 grief, and yet — conscience, conscience ! Oh, Sarah, my poor 
 Jeanie's very love was constant agony, for I could not return 
 it. I never loved her as I loved you, even though she 
 wound herself about my very heart, and her death seemed 
 misery. I looked to the end of this twelvemonth to feel 
 myself worthy to tell you all my sin, my misery, and, if you 
 could forgive me, to conjure you to become mine. Oh, do 
 not sentence me to increase of trial ! I looked to you to 
 train up my motherless Jeanie, as indeed a child of God, ac- 
 cording to your own pure belief ; and to bind me to Him by 
 links I could never, even in the strongest temptation, turn 
 aside. And now, now, when my heart tells me I was deceived, 
 and I had injured you — for you did love me, you do love me — 
 oil, will you leave me — for a doubtful duty, part from me for 
 ever ? I care not how long I serve to win you. Sarah, Sarah, 
 only tell me you can still love me, you will be mine." 
 
 " Too late, too late, oh, it is all too late ! " replied Sarah, 
 firmly, though her voice was choked with tears. 
 
 " Reuben, dear Reuben, why have you spoken thus, and 
 at this moment ? It were a weak and idle folly to deny that 
 to be your wife would be the dearest happiness which could 
 be mine ; that I have loved you, long before I knew what 
 love could mean ; and prayed for you, wept for you — but I 
 must not think of these things now. Months ago, such 
 words from you would have been all joy ; but now — do not 
 speak them, dearest Reuben — they increase my trial, but 
 cannot change my purpose. My poor father is innocent, con-
 
 80 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 demned unjustly. Were lie guilty, I might decide otherwise ; 
 for perhaps it were then less a positive duty to tend him to 
 the last." 
 
 And in vain did Reuben combat this determination. In 
 vain, rendered more eloquent from his conviction that he was 
 beloved, did he speak and urge, and speak again. He desisted 
 at length ; not from lack of argument, but because he saw 
 it only increased the anguish of her feelings. 
 
 "If it must be so, dearest — yet indeed, indeed, it is a mis- 
 taken duty ; do not look on me so beseechingly, I will urge 
 no more. For myself I know I did not merit the joy I had 
 dared to picture ; yet still, still to resign it thus, to know 
 you love me spite of all — Sarah, how may I struggle on, with 
 every hope and promise blighted ? " 
 
 " Do not say so, Reuben. Our Father will not leave you 
 lonely. Seek Him, love Him, and He will fill up all the 
 void which my absence may create ; and do not think we part 
 for ever. Oh, Reuben, the love borne in my heart so long 
 can know no cloud or change, and though years may pass on — 
 my first duty be accomplished — yet when it is, and my poor 
 father's weary course is ended, if you be still free, may I not 
 return to you, all, all your own ? " 
 
 She lifted up her pale face to his with such a look of con- 
 fidence and love, that Reuben's only answer was to fold her 
 to his heart and bid God bless her for such words. 
 
 Days passed on, and though all who heard her resolution 
 were against it, though she had to encounter even Miss 
 Leon's arguments and entreaties that she would forego a 
 purpose as uncalled for as misguided, Sarah never for one 
 moment wavered. Vainly Miss Leon sketched the miseries 
 that would await her in a foreign land ; the little chance 
 there was of her even being permitted to be near her father ; 
 the little she could do for him, even if they were together. 
 She reasoned well and strongly and even feelingly, but there 
 are times and duties when the heart hears only its own 
 impulses, its own feelings, and must follow them. Had she 
 wavered before she again met her father after his condemna- 
 tion, which, however, she did not, her first interview would 
 have strengthened her yet more. There was a wild and hag- 
 gard look about him, a hollow tone and wandering words, 
 that made her at the first moment tremble for his reason. 
 
 " Sarah, my daughter ! they have banished me from my
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 81 
 
 God ! they have sentenced me to return to sin. Better, 
 better had they said I was to die, for then I should have 
 gone direct from you to judgment, and your prayers, your 
 angel words, had turned me from my sin ; but they will send 
 me from you, and I shall sin again. I shall fall away from all 
 the good you taught me. With you, with you only I am safe 
 — my daughter, oh, my daughter ! " 
 
 " And I will not leave you, father — I go with you, not in 
 the same ship, but I will meet you in a strange land. We 
 shall be together there as here. I will not leave you while 
 vou need me. Do not look so, father, I have sworn it to my 
 God." 
 
 She threw herself upon his neck, and the sinful but re- 
 pentant man wept as an infant on her shoulder ; and from 
 that hour her dread that his reason was departing never 
 tormented her again. 
 
 The evening before Levison's removal with his fellow- 
 convicts to Portsmouth — the ship awaiting them there — the 
 influence of a larger bribe than usual from Reuben to the 
 turnkey had secured to Sarah a few uninterrupted hours 
 with her father in a separate cell. There was something 
 strange in Levison's countenance which rather alarmed him 
 when he joined them ; it was flushed and excited, and 
 as he walked across the cell his limbs seemed to totter 
 beneath him. 
 
 They had not much longer to be together, when an unusual 
 number of footsteps crowded along the passage ; and, soon 
 after, the turnkey, a sheriff, and a gentleman whom neither 
 Sarah nor E-euben knew, though he was evidently of their 
 own nation, entered the cell. There was still quite daylight 
 sufficient to distinguish persons and features, and the very 
 instant Levison's eye caught the stranger, he started with a 
 shrill cry to his feet, endeavoured to spring forward, but 
 failed, and would have fallen had not Reuben caught him in 
 his arms, where he remained in a fit of trembling, which 
 almost seemed convulsion. " Now be quiet, my good 
 fellow, you will do well enough," whispered the turnkey, as 
 he stepped forward to assist in supporting Levison upon his 
 feet. " Here is this here gemman come to swear to your 
 person, as having seen you in the burial-ground, just as how 
 you said, that there night ; proving an alibi, d'ye see. They'll 
 let you go even now — who'd ha' thought it 1 " 
 
 G
 
 82 THE' PUHEZ FAMILY. 
 
 " You, said, sir, that you saw and spoke to a man named 
 Isaac Levison, of the Jewish nation, in the burial-ground of 
 your people, on the morning of Wednesday, the 14th of May, 
 exactly as the clock of Mile End Church chimed three," 
 deliberately began the pompous sheriff, on whose blunted 
 sensibilities the various attitudes of agonized suspense, hope 
 and terror delineated in the group before him excited no 
 emotion whatever. " I have troubled you to come here to 
 see this man, who calls himself by that name, and tells the 
 same tale, seeing, that if j^ou can swear to his person, he 
 must be detained from accompanjdng the rest of the gang, 
 and undergo a second trial, that your assertion in the court 
 may publicly prove it." 
 
 " I do not see much use in that," interrupted the gentle- 
 man, who, no lawyer, did not quite comprehend technicalities ; 
 " I should think my oath as to his person quite enough to 
 free him. I did not appear on his trial, simply because I was 
 abroad, and only heard of it through a friend sending me a 
 newspaper and the particulars of the case — a friend of his 
 wishing the man's innocence to be proved. He wrote to me, 
 knowing that either I or some one belonging to me had em- 
 ployed a watcher that night, and vague as the tale was, I 
 might help to clear it ; this, however, is nothing to the pur- 
 pose. If the robbery you speak of was committed at Epping 
 on the 14th of May, just about three o'clock in the morning, 
 that man, Isaac Levison, is as innocent as I am ; for I can 
 take my oath as to seeing and speaking with him that very 
 morning, at that very hour, in the burial-ground of our people 
 at Mile End. I particularly remarked him, as he was not 
 the person I had engaged. There is no justice in England if 
 you do not let him go — he is innocent ! " 
 
 " Innocent — innocent — innocent ! My child, you are right; 
 there is a God, and a God of love ! Blessed — blessed — for- 
 given ! " He bounded from the detaining arms of K,euben 
 and the turnkey, clasped Sarah to his heart with strange un- 
 natural strength, and fell back a corpse !
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 83 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A SMALL, but most comfortably-furnished parlour of a new, 
 respectable-looking dwelling, in one of the best streets of 
 Liverpool, is the scene to which we must conduct our readers 
 about two years after the conclusion of our last chapter. 
 The furniture all looked new, except a k*nd of antique silver 
 lamp, which stood on an oaken bracket opposite the window. 
 It was a room thrown out from the usual back of the house, 
 opening by a large French window and one or two steps into 
 a small but beautifully hiid-out flower garden, divided by a 
 passage and another parlour from the handsome shop which 
 opened on the street. It was a silversmith and watchmaker's, 
 with the words " Perez Brothers," in large but not showy 
 characters, over the door. The shop seemed much fre- 
 quented, there was a constant ingress and egress of respect- 
 able people ; but there was no bustle, nothing going wrong, 
 all seemed quietness and regularity ; orders received and 
 questions answered, and often articles of particularly skilful 
 workmanship displayed with that gentle courtesy and good 
 feeling which can spring but from the heart. 
 
 But we arc forgetting — it is the parlour and not the shop 
 with which we have to do. , The room and its furniture may 
 be strangers to us — perhaps one of the inmates — but not the 
 other. The still infirm and aged, but the thrice-bl 
 thrice-happy mother was still spared to bless God for the 
 prosperity, the well-doing, and the unchanging faith and piety 
 of her beloved children. Simeon's wish was fulfilled — his 
 mother was restored to her former station, nay, raised 
 higher in the scale of society than she had ever been ; 
 but meek in prosperity as faithful in adversity, there 
 was no change in that widowed heart, save, if possible, 
 yet deeper love and gratitude to God. And a beautitul 
 picture might that gentle face have made, bending down 
 with such a smile of caressing love on the lovely infant of 
 nearly three years, who had clambered on her knee, and was 
 folding its little round arms about her neck. It was a 
 touching contrast of age and infancy, for Rachel looked 
 much older than she really was, but there was nothing sad 
 in it. The unusual loveliness of the child cannot be passed 
 unnoticed : the snowy skin, the rich golden curls, just
 
 34 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 touched with that chesnut which takes away all insipidity 
 from fairness, might have proclaimed her not a child of 
 Israel ; but then there was the large, lustrous black eye and 
 its long fringe, the subdued, soul-speaking beauty of the 
 other features — that was Israel's, and Israel's alone ! Full 
 of life and joyousness, her infant prattle amused her grand- 
 mother, till at the closing, about six in the evening, her 
 son Simeon joined her. We should perhaps have said that 
 an elderly Jewess, remarkably clean and tidy in her person, 
 had very often entered the parlour to see, she said, if the 
 dear widow were comfortable or wanted anything, or little 
 Jeanie were troublesome, etc. It was old Esther, who ful- 
 filling all sorts of offices in the family, acting companion and 
 nurse to the widow and Jeanie, cleaning silver — in which she 
 was very expert — seeing to the conking of the dinner, and 
 taking care of the lad's clothes, delighted herself, and more 
 than satisfied those with whom she lived. 
 
 To satisfy our readers' curiosity, as to how this great change 
 in the widow's condition had been brought about, we will 
 briefly narrate its origin. When Reuben's year of probation 
 was over, and he felt he was a Jew in heart and soul and 
 reason, as well as name, he returned to Liverpool, to delight 
 his mother with the change. He was met with love and with 
 rejoicing, no reference was made to the past, and between 
 himself and Simeon not a shadow of estrangement remained. 
 The latter had at first hung back, feeling self-reproached that 
 he had wronged his brother ; but Reuben's truly noble nature 
 conquered these feelings, and soon after bound him to him 
 with the ties of gratitude as well as love. Simeon's talent 
 for modelling in silver was now as marked as his dislike to 
 that trade, which despite of disinclination, he had perse- 
 veringly followed. Reuben, on the contrary, retained all his 
 father's instructions in watch-making, and had determined, 
 when he returned to Liverpool, to set up that business which, 
 from the excellent capital he had amassed and laid by, was 
 not difficult to accomplish. He had determined on this plan, 
 feeling as if he thus tacitly acknowledged and followed his 
 lamented father's wishes, and atoned to him, even in death, 
 for former disregard. He, of course, wished to associate 
 Simeon in the business ; but as the young man's desires 
 and talents seemed pointed otherwise, he placed him for a 
 year with a first-rate silversmith in London. Morris,
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 85 
 
 Simeon's late master, had given up business, and this in itself 
 was a capital opening for Reuben, lie made use of it, and 
 flourished. In less than eighteen months after his return to 
 Liverpool, " Perez Brothers " opened their new shop as 
 silversmiths and watchmakers, and from the careful, econo- 
 mical, and strictly honourable way in which the business was 
 carried on — the name, too, with the associations of the honest 
 hard-working man of whom these were the sons, adding 
 golden weight — a very few months trial proved that 
 industry, economy, and honesty must carry their own 
 reward. 
 
 But why was the widow alone ? Was not Reuben married, 
 and should not Sarah have been with her ? Gentle reader, 
 Reuben is not yet married ; he has now gone to fetch his 
 Sarah, for the term of probation for both is over. The 
 morrow is the thirteenth birthday of the twins ; and the 
 widow is expecting the return of Reuben and Sarah and 
 Ruth, as she sits with her darling Jeanie in her little parlour, 
 the evening we meet her again. 
 
 Levison's innocence and his sudden death had, of course, 
 been made public, not only in an official v/a,y, but through 
 the eagerness of Reuben that not a shadow of shame should 
 ever approach his Sarah. When the first month of mourn- 
 ing had expired, Sarah returned to her situation; her mis- 
 tress quite forgetting former anger, and ready to declare 
 Sarah had only done just as she ought towards her poor 
 innocent father ; that she was a pattern of Jewish daughters, 
 and poured forth a volume of praises, all in the joy of getting 
 her back. 
 
 Reuben had been anxious for their marriage as soon as he 
 liad completed two years from poor Jeanie Wilson's early 
 death. Sarah fully sympathized in his feelings towards 
 Jeanie, and they would often talk of her as a being dear to 
 and cherished by them both. When the two years were 
 completed, the marriage was still delayed, Mrs. Corea en- 
 treating Sarah to remain with her till she went on the Con- 
 .tinent with her daughters, which she intended to do in about 
 six or eight months. She had been too indulgent a mistress, 
 •and Miss Leon too sincere a friend, for Sarah to hesitate a 
 moment in postponing her own happiness. Besides, the 
 delay, though Reuben did not like it, might be beneficial to 
 him in allowing him time to get settled in his business-
 
 86 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 Before the period elapsed, Sarah and Reuben too were 
 rejoiced that she was still in London, for Ruth needed her ; 
 the wherefore we shall find presently. 
 
 " Are they not late, mother 1 " inquired Simeon, as he 
 joined his mother in her own parlour. " Troublesome 
 loiterers ! I wish they would arrive — I want my tea." 
 
 " And is that all you want, Simeon ? " said the widow, 
 smiling ; " because that may easily be satisfied." 
 
 " No, no ; not quite so voracious as that comes to. I 
 want the loiterers themselves, though I have seen them later 
 than you have, you know. You won't find Sarah a whit 
 altered ; she is just the gentle yet energetic creature she 
 always was, only more animated, more happy, I think. 
 Then Ruth, darling Ruth — oh, how much I owe to her ! I 
 never shall forget her reminding me of my promise to my 
 poor father — her compelling me as it were, to love ray 
 brother ; and now what is not that brother to mc ? Mother, 
 is it not strange how completely prejudice has gone ? " 
 
 " No, my dear son ; your heart was too truly and faith- 
 fully pious, too desirous really to love its God, for prejudice 
 long to obtain the ascendant. It comes sometimes in very 
 early youth, when we are apt to think we alone are quite 
 right, but, unless encouraged, cannot long stand the light of 
 strengthening reason and real spiritual love." 
 
 " But does it not seem strange, mother, that I alone of my 
 family, should have been the one selected to receive such 
 extreme kindness from a Christian — one of those whom, in 
 former days, I was more prejudiced against than I dared 
 acknowledge ? I was very ill on my way home from 
 London, and as you know, Mr. Morton had me conveyed 
 to his house, instead of leaving me to the care of heartless 
 strangers at the public inn — had a physician to attend me, 
 nursed me as his own son — would read and talk to me, even 
 after he knew I was a Jew, on the spirit of religion, which 
 we both felt. Never shall I forget the impressive tone and 
 manner with which he said, when parting with me, ' Young 
 man, never forget this important truth — that heart alone in 
 sincerity loves God, who can see, in every pious man, a brother, 
 despite of difference of creed. That difference lies between man 
 and his God : to do good and love one another is man's duty 
 unto man, and can, under no circumstances and in no places, 
 be evaded. Learn this lesson, and all the kindness I have
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 87 
 
 shown you is amply lCwarded.' Is it not strange this should 
 have occurred to me 1" 
 
 " I do not think it strange, my dear son," replied Mrs. 
 Perez affectionately, though seriously. "I believe so firmly 
 that God's eye is ever on us, that He so loves us, that He 
 guides every event of our lives as will be most for our eternal 
 good. He saw you sought to love and serve Him — that the 
 very prejudice borne towards others had its origin in the 
 ardent love you bore your faith, and His infinite mercy per- 
 mitted you to receive kindness from a Gentile and a stranger, 
 that this one dark cloud should be removed, and your love 
 for Him be increased in the love you bear your fellow- 
 creatures." 
 
 "May I believe this, mother? It would be such a com- 
 fort, such a redoubled excitement to love and worship," 
 answered Simeon, fixing his large dark eyes beseechingly 
 on his mother's face. " But can I do so without profane- 
 nessj without robbing our gracious God of the sanctit} r which 
 is so imperatively His due ?" 
 
 "Surely you may, my clear boy. We have the whole 
 word of God to prove and tell us that we are each individu- 
 ally and peculiarly His care — that he demands the heart; 
 for dearer even than a mother's love for her infant child is 
 His love towards us. How may we give Him oar heart, if 
 we never think of Him but as a being too inexpressibly 
 awful to approach ? How feel the thanksgiving and grati- 
 tude He loves to receive, if we do not perceive His guiding- 
 hand, even in the simplest events of our individual lives ? 
 How seek Him in sorrow, if we do not think He has power 
 and will to hear and to relieve ? — in daily prayer, if we were 
 not each of us especially His own ? My boy, if the hairs of 
 our head are numbered, can we doubt the events of our life 
 are guided as will be but for our eternal good, and draw us 
 closer to our God ? Think but of one dear to us both : did 
 it not seem, to our imperfect wisdom, that Reuben's marriage 
 must for ever have divided him from his nation ? Yet that 
 very circumstance brought him back. Our Father in mercy 
 permitted him to follow his own will, to be prosperous, to 
 lose even the hated badge of Israel, that his own heart 
 might be his judge. Affliction also, sent from that same 
 gracious hand, deepened the peculiar feelings which becom- 
 ing a parent had already excited. Then the year of research
 
 88 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 put the final seal on his return to us. His mind could 
 never have believed without calm, unimpassioned, steady- 
 examination. He has examined not alone his own faith. 
 Mr. Vaughan, from being the explainer, was forced to 
 become the defender of his own creed. He drew back, 
 avowing, with a, candour and charity which proved how 
 truly of God w 7 as the spirit of religion within him, spite of 
 the mistaken faith, that Reuben never could become a 
 convert. And we know what true friends they are, not- 
 withstanding Mr. Vaughan's disappointment. They have 
 strengthened themselves in their own peculiar doctrines', 
 without in the least shaking each other's." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; you are quite right, mother dear, as you 
 always are," replied Simeon, putting his arm round her, and 
 affectionately kissing her. " What a blessing it has been 
 fur me to have such a mother. Why, how now, master 
 Joseph, what has happened ? have you lost your wits ? " 
 
 '"'if I have, it is for very joy !" exclaimed the boy, spring- 
 ing into the parlour, flinging his cap up to the ceiling, and 
 so stifling his mother with kisses, as obliged her to call for 
 mercy. "Mother, mother, how can I tell you the good 
 news? I must scamper about before I can give them vent." 
 
 " Not another jump, not another step, till you have told 
 us," exclaimed Simeon, laughing heartily at the boy's 
 grotesque movements, and catching him midway in a jump 
 that would not have disgraced a harlequin. " Now what is 
 it, you overgrown baby ? Are you not ashamed not to meet 
 joy like a man?" 
 
 " No baby ever felt such joy, Simeon ; and though I am 
 a man to-morrow, I am not ashamed to act the madcap 
 to-night. Mother, have I not told you the notice Mr. 
 Morales has always taken of me, and the books he has lent 
 me ? Well, my master must have said such kind things of 
 me ; for what, what do you think he has offered ? — that is, 
 if you will consent ; and I know, oh, I know you love me 
 too well to refuse. He will call on you himself to-morrow 
 about it." 
 
 "About w r hat?" reiterated Simeon. "My good fellow, it 
 is of no use his calling. You are gone distracted, mad, fit 
 for nothing ! " 
 
 "What does he offer, my love?" anxiously rejoined the 
 widow.
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 89 
 
 "To take me home with him, as companion and friend to 
 his own son, a boy just about my age — and such a fellow ! 
 He has often come to talk with me about the books we have 
 both read. And Mr. Morales said I shall learn all that 
 Conrad does. That I shall go abroad with them, and receive 
 Buch an education, that years to come, if I still wish it, I may 
 be fitted to be, what of all others I long to be, the Hazan of 
 our people. Hebrew, the Bible and the Talmud, and Latin, 
 and Greek, and everything that can help me for such an 
 office ; besides the lighter literature and studies, which will 
 make me an enlightened friend for his son. Oh, mother! 
 Simeon ! is it not enough to make me lose my wits ? But I 
 must not though, for I shall want them more than ever. 
 You do not speak, my own dear mother ; but you will not, 
 oh, I know you will not refuse." 
 
 "Refuse!" repeated the grateful widow, whose voice re- 
 turned. " No, no ; I would deserve to lose all the friends 
 and blessings my God has given me, could I be so selfish to 
 refuse, because for a few years, my beloved child, I must 
 part with you. I do not fear for you ; you will never 
 forget to love your mother, or to remember and obey her 
 precepts !" 
 
 " Give you joy, brother mine ! though, by my honour, I 
 had better not wish you &wy more joy, for this has well-nigh 
 done for you," laughingly rejoined Simeon ; for he saw that 
 both Joseph and his mother's eyes were wet with grateful 
 tears, and he did not wish emotion to become pain. 
 
 " Yes, one more joy, but one : it is almost sinful to wish 
 more, when so much has been granted me," replied Joseph, 
 almost sorrowfully. " Would that Ruth, my own Ruth, 
 could but look on me once more ; could but have sight re- 
 stored, that I might think of her as happy, independent, not 
 needing me to supply her sight. Oh, I should not have one 
 wish remaining ; but sometimes I think, afilicted as she is, 
 and bound so closely as we are, I ought not to leave her." 
 
 " Then don't think any more silliness, my boy. Reuben 
 and your humble servant are much obliged to you for 
 imagining, because we do not happen to be her twin 
 brothers, we cannot be to her what you are — out on your con- 
 ceit ! Make haste, and be a Hazan, and give her a home, 
 and then you shall have her all to yourself ; till then we will 
 take care of her ! "
 
 90 THE PEEEZ FAMILY. 
 
 Joseph's laughing reply was checked by the entrance of 
 Leah, attended by a young man of very prepossessing appear- 
 ance. It was Maurice Carvalho, the son and heir of a 
 thriving bookseller and fancy stationer, of Liverpool, noted 
 for a devoted attendance on the pretty young milliner. 
 
 " Not arrived yet ! why, I feared they would have been 
 here before me, and thought me so unkind," said Leah, 
 after affectionate i_r greeting her mother. "Are we not 
 late?" 
 
 "Dreadfully!" replied Simeon, mischievously. "Mrs. 
 Valentine said you were at liberty after five ; what have you 
 been doing with yourselves?" 
 
 " Taking a walk, and went farther than we thought," said 
 Maurice, with affected carelessness, while Leah turned away 
 with a blush. 
 
 " A walk ! whew," and Simon gave a prolonged whistle ; 
 "were you not cold V 
 
 " Cold, you stupid fellow ! why it is scarce autumn yet — 
 the evenings are delightful." 
 
 " Particularly when the subject of conversation is of a 
 remarkably summer warmth ; with doves billing and cooing 
 in the trees, and nightingales singing to the rose — there, am 
 I not poetical ? Leah, my girl, you used to like poetry ; you 
 ought to like it better now." 
 
 " Better— why ?" 
 
 " Oh, because — because poetry and love are twin brothers, 
 you know !" 
 
 " Simeon ! " remonstrated Leah ; but the pleased expression 
 of young Carvalho's face and the satisfaction beaming on the 
 widow's betrayed at once that the bachelor was quite at 
 liberty to talk and amuse himself at their expense ; their 
 love was acknowledged to each other, and hallowed by a 
 parent's blessing and consent. 
 
 Joseph had scarcely had time to tell his joyful tale to his 
 sister, before a loud shout from Simeon, who had gone to the 
 front to watch, proclaimed the anxiously-desired arrivals. 
 Joseph and Maurice darted out, and in less than a minute 
 Bcubcn and Sarah entered the parlour. 
 
 " Mother, dearest mother, she is here — never, never, with 
 God's blessing, to leave us again !" exclaimed Reuben, as 
 Sarah threw herself alternately in the arms of the widow and 
 Leah, and then again sought the embrace of the former, to
 
 THE PEEEZ FAMILY. 91 
 
 hide the gushing tears of joy and feeling on her bosom, 
 without the power of uttering a single word. 
 
 " My child, my own darling child ! oh, what a blessing it 
 is to look on your dear face again ! Still my own Sarah, spite of 
 all the cares and trials you have borne since we parted ! " ex- 
 claimed the widow, fondly putting back the braids of beautiful 
 hair, to look intently on that sweet gentle face. 
 
 "And your blessing, mother, dearest mother ; oh, say as 
 you have so often told me, you could wish and ask no dearer, 
 better wife for your Reuben ; and such blessing may give 
 my Sarah voice !" He threw his arm round her as he spoke, 
 and both bent reverently before the widow, whose voice 
 trembled audibly as she gave the desired blessing, and told 
 how she had prayed and yearned that this might be, and 
 Sarah's voice returned, with a tone so glad, so bird-like in its 
 joy, it needed but few word?. 
 
 " My Ruth, where is my Ruth ? and where are Joseph and 
 Simeon gone?" asked the widow, when one joy was sufficiently 
 relieved to permit her thinking of another. 
 
 " She will be here almost directly, mother. She was 
 rather tired with the journey, and so I persuaded her to rest 
 quiet at the inn close by, till I sent Simeon and Joseph with 
 a coach for her and our luggage ; they will not be long before 
 they return. But tell me, where is my Jeanie ? not in bed I 
 hope, though we are late ?" 
 
 " No ; Esther took her away about half an horn- ago, to 
 ■ and keep her awake — not very difficult to do, as she is 
 as lively as ever." Reuben was off in a moment. 
 
 "And Esther, clear Reuben, bid her "come and see me," 
 rejoined Sarah ; and then clasping her aunt's hand, " oh, my 
 dear aunt, what have I not felt, since we last met, that I owe 
 3'ou ! I thought I was grateful, felt it to the full before ; but 
 not till I was tried, not till I learned the value of strong prin- 
 ciples, steady conduct, and firm control, did I know all 
 3 r ou had done for me. M}^ God, indeed, was with me 
 throughout; but this would not have been, had not your 
 care and your affection taught me how to seek and love Him. 
 Oh, will a life of devotion to our Reuben, and to you, 
 and to his offspring, in part repay your kindness, dearest 
 aunt ?" 
 
 The widow's answer we leave our readers to imagine; 
 fearing they should accuse us of again becoming sentimental.
 
 92 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 Old Esther speedily made her appearance, and her greeting 
 was second only in affection to the widow's own. 
 
 " Father, dear father, come home, come home ! " was the 
 next sweet lisping voice that met the delighted ears of Sarah, 
 and in another moment Reuben appeared with the child in 
 his arms, her little rosy fingers twisted in his hair, and her 
 round soft cheek resting against his. 
 
 " This is my poor motherless babe, for whom I have 
 bespoken your love, your protection, your guiding hand, my 
 Sarah," he whispered, in a low, earnest voice. " Will you 
 love her for my sake ?" 
 
 " And for her own and for her mother's ; do not doubt 
 me, Reuben. If she is yours, is she not, then, mine?" she 
 answered, in the same voice. The child looked at her as if 
 half inclined to spring into the caressing, extended arms, but 
 then, with sudden shyness, hid her face on her father's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Jeanie, darling, what was the word I taught you to say? 
 Look at her and say it, and kiss her as you do me." 
 
 The child still hesitated ; but then, as if emboldened by 
 Sarah's sweet voice calling her name, she looked full in her 
 face and lisped out " Mother," held up her little face to kiss 
 her, and was quite contented to be transferred from Reuben's 
 arms to those of Sarah. 
 
 "Ruth, Ruth — I think I hear her coming?" joyfully ex- 
 claimed Leah, a few minutes afterwards. 
 
 "Go to her then, dear — detain her one minute," hastily 
 whispered Reuben, in a tone and manner that made his 
 sister start. " Do not ask me why now — you will know the 
 moment you see her — only go. I must prepare my mother. 
 I did not think she would have been here so soon." 
 
 Leah obeyed him, her heart beating, she did not know 
 why, and Reuben turned to his mother. Sarah had given 
 little Jeanie to Esther's care, and was kneeling by her as if 
 to intercept her starting up. 
 
 "What is it — what is it? Why do you keep my child 
 from me ? why send her brothers and sisters to her, instead 
 of letting her come to me ? Reuben, Sarah ! what new 
 affliction has befallen my angel child ? " 
 
 "Affliction? None, none!" repeated Sarah and Reuben 
 together. "It is joy, dearest aunt, all joy. Oh, bear but 
 joy as you have borne sorrow, and all will be well."
 
 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 93 
 
 " Joy ? " she repeated, almost wildly ; " what greater joy 
 can there be than to have my children all once again around 
 me ? I have heard my Ruth has been ill, but that she was 
 quite well, quite strong again, and have blessed God for that 
 great mercy." 
 
 " But there may be more, my mother, yet more for which 
 to bless Him. Oh, are not all things possible with Him ? 
 He who in His wisdom once deprived of sight, can He not 
 restore it ? " 
 
 " Reuben, Sarah ! what can you mean ? My child, my 
 Ruth ! " but voice and almost power failed, for such a 
 trembling seized her limbs that Reuben was compelled to 
 support her as she sat. It was but for a moment, for the 
 next a light figure had bounded into the room, followed by 
 Simeon and Joseph, Maurice and Leah. 
 
 " Mother ! mother ! mother ! They need not tell me where 
 you are. You need not come to your poor blind Puith. I 
 can see your dear face — see it once again." 
 
 The widow had sprung up from her chair ; but ere she 
 had made one step forward her child was in her arms — was 
 fixing those long-closed eyes upon her face as if they would take 
 in every feature with one delighted gaze. One look was 
 sufficient. A deadly faintness, from over-excited feelings, 
 passed over the widow's heart ; but as she felt Ruth's pas- 
 sionate kisses on her lips and cheeks, life returned in a wild 
 burst of thanksgiving, and the widow folded her child 
 closer and yet closer to her heart, and, overpowered by joy as 
 she had never been by sorrow, " she lifted up her voice and 
 wept." 
 
 Reader, our task is done — for need w r e say it was the bene- 
 volent exertion of Miss Leon, under a merciful Providence, 
 which procured the last most unlooked-for blessing to the 
 widow and her family. She had remarked there was a 
 slight change in the appearance of the child's eyes, had taken 
 her without delay to the most eminent oculist of the day, and 
 received his opinion that sight might be restored. The rest, 
 to a character such as hers, was easy ; and thus twice was 
 she the means of materially brightening the happiness of the 
 Perez family ; for, though we had not space in our last 
 chapter to dilate on it, it had been actually through her
 
 94 THE PEREZ FAMILY. 
 
 means the innocence of Levison had been discovered, though 
 she herself was at the time scarcely conscious how. She had 
 mentioned it to everybody she thought likely to be useful in 
 discovering it, had been laughed at for her folly in believing 
 such a tale, warned against taking up the guilt or innocence 
 of such a person's character, and, in short, almost every one 
 dissuaded her from mentioning the subject ; it really would 
 do her harm. But she had persevered against even her 
 own hope of effecting good, and was, as we have seen, 
 successful. 
 
 Before we quite say farewell, we would ask our readers if 
 we have indeed been happy enough in this simple narration 
 to make one solemn and most important truth clear as our 
 own heart would wish — that, however dark may be our hori- 
 zon, however our prayers and trust may for a while seem 
 unheeded, our eager wishes denied us, our dearest feelings 
 the mere means of woe, yet there is an answering and pitying 
 God above us still, who, when He bids us " commit our 
 ways unto Him, and trust also in Him," has not alone the 
 power, but the will, the loving-kindness, the infinite mercy, 
 to " bring it to pass." My friends, that God is still our God ; 
 and though the events of our simple tale may have no origin 
 in real life, is there one amongst us who can look back upon 
 his life, and prayers, and thoughts, and yet say that over- 
 ruling Providence is but fiction, for we feel it, know it not ? 
 Oh, if so, it is his own heart, not the love and word of his 
 God, at fault. All may not be blessed so visibly as the 
 widow and her family, but all who wait on and trust in the 
 Lord will have their reward, if not on earth, yet dearer, more 
 gloriously in heaven.
 
 95 
 
 ^Iie Stow- fetter's g0g of gas&tpij. 
 
 A SKETCH FROM HIS LIFE. 
 
 It was evening in Venice. The queen of the Adriatic, her 
 marble palaces and princely halls, her stately bridges and 
 her dreary prisons, lay sleeping in gorgeous beauty, flushed 
 by the glowing splendour of the setting sun, lingering as 
 loth to fade away and be lost in the more sombre hues of 
 twilight, which, rising, from the east, was softly and balmily 
 stealing over the expanse of heaven, bearing silence, and 
 repose, and quiet loveliness on her meekly pensive brow. It 
 was an hour of deep calm — the pause of life and nature, 
 when the business of the day was done, the gay festivities of 
 night not yet begun. Now and then the sound of a guitar, 
 or the thrill of melody from music-gushing voices, echoed 
 from the water ; or whispered accents, in the passioned tones 
 of Italy, betraying some tale of happy love ; and then, again, 
 might be traced a muffled figure, with shadowed brow and 
 stern-closed lip, holding himself aloof, as if his world were 
 contained in the mighty passions, the deep secrets of his own 
 heart ; and thus, from hate, or guile, or scorn, contemning 
 all his fellows. And then would come by, with measured 
 oar and evening hymn, the fisher's humble skiff ; and then, 
 in strange contrast, the decorated bark of patrician pride,, 
 with noble freight and liveried attendants. Presentl} r , light 
 after light gleamed up from palace, and hall, and bridge, 
 rivalling the stars of heaven, spangling earth and water. 
 Sunset faded into twilight ; and twilight, resting a brief 
 interval on the bosom of night, gave up to her the care of 
 earth, and disappeared. But not with the marble palaces 
 and their princely honours — not with the midnight intrigue, 
 the lover's meeting — not with the pirate of the seas, the 
 brigand of the land ; all of which seem springing up, more 
 vivid than memory, more tangible than fancy, in that one 
 magic word, Venice — not with these have we to treat. 
 
 In a small, rudely furnished apartment, scattered round 
 with implements of sculpture, half-finished models in clay
 
 96 the stone-cutter's boy of possagno. 
 
 and stone, sketches, both in chalk and colouring, and some 
 few volumes of miscellaneous lore, sat one, a boy in years, 
 but bearing on his brow and in his eye somewhat far — oh ! 
 far beyond his age. Clothed as he was in the simplest, most 
 homely attire, his peculiarly graceful and well-proportioned 
 figure marked him noble ; his intelligent, nay more, his soul- 
 breathing features, the light of mind illumining his full, dark 
 eye, and resting on the broad, high forehead, even the beau- 
 tiful hair of glossy black, curling so carelessly round the 
 peculiarly well-shaped head : — could these characteristics 
 belong to the stone-cutter's boy of Possagno, whose first 
 twelve years had been passed in the mud-walled cabin of his 
 poor and hard-working grandfather ? It was even so ; but 
 the lowliness of birth was, even at this early period of his 
 life, lost in the nobility of Genius. Her voice had breathed 
 its thrilling whisper within him ; and he heard, but as yet 
 understood it not — was unconscious of the deep meanings, 
 the glorious prophecy, the mighty shadows of an unborn 
 future, of which those thrilling whispers spoke. He only 
 knew there was a spirit within him, urging, impelling, he 
 scarce knew what : and longing for the Infinite which pressed 
 so heavily upon him, that he felt, to use his own impressive 
 words, " He could have started on foot with a velocity to 
 outstrip the wind, but without knowing whither to direct his 
 steps ; and when activity could no longer be supported, he 
 would have desired to lie down and die." He would hurry 
 to the haunts of Nature — the wildest, most boundless scenes, 
 gazing on the distant mountain, the rushing torrent, the dark, 
 mysterious forest ; and then up to the gorgeous masses of 
 cloud, sailing over the transparent heaven of his own bright 
 land, watch intently each light, each shade, each fleeting 
 change, longing to soar to them, to penetrate the mysteries 
 of Nature. At such moments he was happy ; for the 
 sense of Infinity seemed taken from his own overcharged 
 heart to be impressed on Nature, to linger around, below, 
 above him, to breathe its tale aloud, from the voice of the 
 torrent to the glistening star reflected in its depths — from 
 the radiant star to the lowly flower, trembling beneath its 
 burning gaze ; and the voice was less painfully oppressive 
 then than when it came, in the still, the lonely hour, to the 
 deep recesses of his own young heart. And from these 
 scenes he would turn again to the work of his own hand;
 
 THE STONE-CUTTERS BOY OF POSSAGXO. 97 
 
 and despondency and darkness, at times, clouded up his 
 spirit, for they gave not back the impress of the beauty, the 
 infinity, with which his soul was rilled. He knew not the 
 wherefore of this deep-seated joy and woe ; and had there 
 been one to whisper it did but prophesy immortal fame, the 
 boy would have smiled in disbelief. 
 
 But on this fair eve neither the hurrying impulse nor 
 desponding sadness was upon him. The boy sat beside the 
 open casement, looking forth on the gradual approach of 
 night and her starry train, on the still waters slumbering 
 beneath, or flashing in passing light from illuminated skiffs ; 
 but his thoughts were not on these. An open volume lay 
 upon his knee, which had so absorbed alike heart, mind, and 
 fancy, that darkness had stolen around him unconsciously; 
 and when compelled to cease reading, there was a charm in 
 the thoughts created, too entrancing, too irresistible, to 
 permit their interruption, even by a movement. 
 
 "Why, Antonio, lad, what holds thee so tranced, even 
 thine own Guiseppe stands beside thee, rudely and inhos- 
 pitably unnoticed ? Shame on thee ! The Falieri had not 
 welcomed Tonin thus." 
 
 With a start of joyful surprise, the boy turned to grasp 
 the extended hands of his noble friend, to welcome him 
 again and again, and then to ask and answer so many ques- 
 tions interesting to none but themselves, that some time 
 passed ere Guiseppe Falieri found leisure to ask what had so 
 engrossed his friend when he entered. 
 
 " Up in the skies again, Tonin, lad — riding on a star, or 
 reposing on a cloud — yonder one, perchance, so exquisitely 
 silvered by the moon ?" 
 
 " No, Guiseppe mio, I was more on earth than in heaven 
 that moment." 
 
 "Thou on earth! and with such a sky, such a moon, 
 above us ! Marvellous ! Ah, a book !" And, attracted by 
 Antonio's smile to the volume, he took it up, and read by 
 the clear moonlight, "'Life of Dante.' Only his life ! Nay, 
 had it been his Divina Commedia, his soul-thrilling poesy, I 
 could better have forgiven thy neglect." 
 
 " Yet, perchance, had his life no Beatrice, Guiseppe, Italy 
 had had no poet." 
 
 "It was Beatrice, then, that so enchanted thee ! Come, 
 that's some comfort for my pride. I give thee permission 
 
 ii
 
 98 the stone-cutter's boy op possagno. 
 
 to neglect me for her. Yet," he added, after a brief pause, 
 " how know we it was not all illusion — a vision of the poet 
 — a fancy — a beautiful creation ? I have often thought it 
 too shadowy, too much of the ideal, for dull, dark reality." 
 
 " Illusion or reality, oh ! it was blessed for Italy, thrice 
 blessed for the poet !" answered Antonio, with such un- 
 affected fervour, that it extended to his companion. " With- 
 out Beatrice, what had Dante been ? A poet, perchance, 
 but wanting the glow, the life, the thrilling beauty, now 
 gushing so eloquently from every line. Beauty, and such as 
 hers, ethereal from first to last, till nought but his own heart 
 and heaven retained her. Oh, Guiseppe, the glance of her 
 eye, the touch of her hand, was all-sufficient to ignite the 
 electric lamp of genius, which, without such influence, per- 
 chance, had been buried in its own smouldering gloom, and 
 never flung its -rays upon a world." 
 
 " Thinkest thou, then, Tonin, that the influence of beauty 
 could, indeed, be so experienced, by one who, though so 
 mighty in intellect, was still only a boy in years ?" 
 
 " Do I think so, Guiseppe ? — yes, oh yes ! It filled up 
 all the yearning void so dark before ; it threw a sunshine 
 and a glory over all of life and earth ; it gave a semblance 
 and a shape to all the glowing images of mind ; and as the 
 countless rays down-gushing from one sun, it poured into 
 the poet's breast infinity from one !" 
 
 Guiseppe Falieri looked on the enthusiast, feeling far more 
 than Antonio himself the glorious gifts that boyish heart 
 enshrined ; and loved, aye, reverenced him — him, the 
 peasant boy, though he himself was noble, the younger son 
 of an illustrious Venetian house. But what, he felt, was 
 rank of birth compared to rank of intellect ? and with that 
 peasant boy the youthful noble remained for hours, only 
 leaving that lowly room to wander forth with him, as their 
 souls had freer, more delicious communion, under the blue 
 vaults of heaven than in confining walls. To enjoy the 
 society of his humble friend in their brief visits to Venice, 
 Guiseppe Falieri ever relinquished the more exciting plea- 
 sures of the boon companions of his rank and station ; and 
 ere the mantle of age descended upon him, how did he glory 
 in the penetration pi bis boyhood !
 
 THE STONE-CUTTER'S BOY OF PGSSAGHO. 99 
 
 II. 
 
 It was morn in Venice : her seventy islets were lighted up 
 with a flood of sunshine of transparent brilliance known 
 only to fair Italy, but falling with soft and mellowed rays 
 within the gallery of the proud Farsetti Palace. Thrown 
 open to the youth of both sexes studying the fine arts, pri- 
 vate munificence had gathered together the most perfect 
 specimens of ancient and modern art — all that could forward 
 the eager student in his darling pursuit, ensuring priceless 
 advantages even to the poorest and the humblest, fostering 
 in every individual breast the gift peculiarly his own. Oh, 
 truly is that country where such things are the nurse of 
 Genius ! Truly may her children decorate her with the 
 fruits of those resplendent gifts with which Heaven has 
 endowed them ! Truly may her poets breathe forth lays to 
 mark her as themselves — immortal ! Italy, beautiful Italy, 
 how does the heart burn, the spirit love, when we write 
 of thee ! 
 
 To this gallery the young Antonio was a constant visitor, 
 and he was so persevering in his studies as to attract the 
 attention and rivet the friendship of its noble owner, at whose 
 order he executed the first specimen of that sculpture which 
 was to enrol his lowly name amid the mighty .spirits of his 
 native land, and bear to distant shores the echoes of his 
 fame. Morning after morning found him in the Farsetti 
 galleiy, engaged either in drawing, modelling, or painting 
 from antique casts, or from those modern ones to which the 
 possessors of the establishment directed his notice. No diffi- 
 culty could deter, no more tempting model could allure. 
 Severely, faithfully true to the path marked out, every other 
 student shrunk from competition with him, as pigmies from 
 a giant. 
 
 Wrapt as Antonio ever was in his task, however severe or 
 little interesting, generally so absorbed as to be unconscious 
 of all outward things, it was strange that a voice had power 
 to rouse him from such preoccupation, and bid him, half- 
 unconsciously yet inquiringly, look round. Soft, low, sil- 
 very, it thrilled to the boy's soul, as a voice that had haunted 
 his dreams, and was yet tp reality unknown. And the being
 
 100 THE STONE-CUTTERS BOY OF POSSAGXO. 
 
 from whom it came ? Had lie ever seen one like to her, or 
 was it the mere embodying of all those visions of beauty, 
 which, sleeping or waking, haunted his soul ? He knew 
 not. He only knew he sat entranced, breathless, awestruck, 
 as though some angelic being had stood before him, demand- 
 ing adoration. Young, very young, she seemed yet older 
 than himself ; and pale, but oh ! so exquisitely lovely — with 
 all of heaven, nought of earth ! E'en the deep feeling rest- 
 ing on that full bright lip ; the dark, lustrous, deep-souled 
 eye; the rich, the glorious intellect sitting throned upon 
 that beauteous brow ; the smile flitting round that chiselled 
 mouth, as an emanation from the soul ; nay, every move- 
 ment of the sylph-like form, too light, too spirit- like, for 
 coarser earth — all Avhispered to the boy's full heart with 
 power, eloquence, unfelt though often dreamed before. And 
 matter of astonishment it was to him, that the other students 
 so calmly continued their labours, content with one glance of 
 admiration on the stranger. 
 
 Leaning on the arm of a friend or attendant, she advanced 
 up the gallery, and took her scat as one of the students. 
 The model was selected, her drawing materials arranged, and 
 silently she pursued her task. 
 
 Little more did Antonio do that day ; for the strange, 
 tumultuous emotions of his bosom seemed from that time to 
 paralyse his hand. He worked on, indeed, mechanically till 
 the hour of closing, and then, oh ! how grateful was the 
 fresh breeze of heaven, the free, active movement of a rapid 
 walk. Yet even then — strange incongruity of feeling — he 
 yearned for the morrow to find himself anew by her side ; 
 and then a trembling was upon him, that it was all illusion, 
 all a sweet, bright vision, which would fade as it had come. 
 
 But such it was not. The hours of study came and 
 passed, and each morning found that frail, ethereal being in 
 the Farsetti gallery, attended on her entrance and departure, 
 but left to pursue her studies, as was the custom, alone ; and, 
 irresistibly, the young sculptor chose those casts which drew 
 him closer to her side, that even as he worked he might 
 glance on that surpassing beaut}', might watch each graceful 
 movement ; and this was happiness, inexpressible happiness, 
 although he knew not wherefore. He could not speak it, 
 even to his dearest friend. He felt it all too sacred, too 
 deeply shrined for voice, as if the first breath that gave it
 
 Page 1U0.
 
 THE STONE-CUTTERS BOY OF POSSAGNO. 
 
 101* 
 
 utterance would bid it fly for ever. He shrunk deeper and 
 deeper within himself; not moodily, not sadly, but only 
 sensible that " with such a being he should be for ever 
 happy ;" for even her silent presence shed a glow around 
 him, fading not even when she was no longer near. He 
 was feeling what his own lips had so vividly described as 
 Beauty's influence on Dante ; but the guileless, unsophis- 
 ticated boy knew not that such it was. 
 
 Silently he felt, and silently he worked; for those new, 
 strange, yet delicious feelings weakened not his mighty 
 powers ; nay, new light suffused them, even to his own 
 impartial, often desponding eye. Once she stood by his 
 side, leaning on the arm of her attendant. He felt the 
 glance of those lovely eyes was fixed admiringly on the 
 work of his hand ; and that hand trembled for the first time. 
 Her voice readied his ear in its sweet music, and though it 
 simply praised his work as " assai hello" it lingered on his 
 heart as a never-forgotten melody, thrilling through the 
 deeper, louder, mightier voice of Fame, of monarchs' praise, 
 of world's applause, as an angel's whispering amidst the crashing 
 storm. He only bowed his head in low acknowledgment, in 
 voiceless answer. He could not summon strength to breathe 
 one word, or meet that gentle glance ; but, oh ! the deep, 
 full, gushing joy which was upon him from that hour, in- 
 spiring more air of beauty in his labours, for her eye might 
 rest on them again. 
 
 Days, weeks, thus passed, and still, as by magnetic in- 
 fluence, those youthful students were ever side by side ; but 
 ere the second moon had wholly waned, Antonio sat alone ; 
 that lovely one had vanished from her usual haunt, and 
 mournfully, darkly, the hours, once so joyous, passed — for 
 the sunlight had departed from them. 
 
 Day after da.y, hope returned to the boy's heart, but not 
 its beauteous object to his eye, and heavily this silent 
 adoration lay upon his soul. Another and another day, and 
 still she came not ; a week, another, and how might he 
 inquire her fate, when, even could he speak that yearning 
 sorrow, he had no trace — no clue to her identity ? She had 
 Come with nought but her own loveliness to steal upon his 
 heart, and he could not violate the sanctuary her image filled 
 by one word of question. He shrunk from every eye, as if 
 he feared his treasure were discovered, and the notice of his
 
 102 the stone-cutter's boy op possagno. 
 
 fellows would sully its ethereal purity by mingling it with 
 ^arth. 
 
 Still he laboured indefatigably as before ; for her voice 
 was sounding in the still depths of his own soul, and perhaps 
 it might sound again — her praise might hallow the work, 
 even of his impotent hand, and mark it bles. ed ? 
 
 A ray of sunshine had fallen upon the work of the young 
 sculptor, giving it that peculiar light and shadow which it 
 had worn that never-to-be-forgotten day, when his eye first 
 marked the loveliness his soul had visioned. Such as the 
 ray had reached him from its fount, flashed back every feel- 
 ing, every pulsation of that hour, till, in its magic, the very 
 form of the beloved, the worshipped one, stood, or seemed to 
 stand, before him, tangible, palpable as life, save that the 
 smile, the shadowy form, were as if all of earth had gone. 
 Breathless, pale, motionless, Antonio's trembling hand re- 
 fused to guide the pencil — his fixed and starting eye to 
 move, lest all should fade away, and leave him desolate. A 
 noise among the students aroused him, and with a sudden 
 start and heavy sigh he awoke to consciousness. It was but 
 vacancy on which he gazed, or his spirit held commune with 
 beings not seen of earth. 
 
 Another week, and Antonio looked on the faithful attendant 
 of his spirit's idol ; but she was alone, and pale and sad, and 
 robed in all the sable draperies of woe. His heart throbbed, 
 his voice failed, a sickness as of death crept over him ; yet, 
 as she passed to seek and remove the portfolio of the missing 
 one, he struggled to subdue that inward trembling, and 
 speak, but only a few brief, faltering accents came. 
 
 " The Signora — her friend — was she well ? — had she 
 quitted Venice ?" 
 
 A burst of agonizing tears answered him, and then the 
 mournful confirmation : " The Signora Julia had gone to 
 that heaven whose child she was ; earth would see her sweet 
 face, list her glad laugh, feel her light step, no more." And 
 the mourner passed on : and Antonio leaned his head upon 
 his hands, as if some invisible stroke had crushed him. 
 Gone ! and for ever ! Oh, the unutterable agony to the 
 young, the loving, contained in those brief words ! 
 
 And never more did the young sculptor hear that name. 
 Never did he know the birth, the rank, the story of her 
 who so like a spirit had crossed his path ! Lien knew not..
 
 THE STONE-CUTTERS BOY OF POSSAGNO. 103 
 
 dreamed not, the tide of feeling on that young boy's soul. 
 Now in him were working the silent influences of beauty, of 
 hopeless love. They saw him engaged each day, studying 
 his art, laboriously working under his master, Ferrari, on 
 eome still, cold, soulless statues, still to be seen in the Villa 
 of Trepoli ; and how could they imagine the glowing visions 
 of beauty, of poetry, at work within ? No ! It was in after 
 years, when such forms of unrivalled loveliness, of immortal 
 beaut} r , sprung in almost breathing life beneath the magic 
 chisel of Antonio Canova, that the vision of early boyhood 
 might be traced ; and even now, in the perfection to which 
 his art attained, man may behold the realization of those 
 vague yet impelling yearnings after Beauty, Infinity, all that 
 Genius craves, which had started into life and being from 
 the lovely vision of his first and only love.
 
 104 
 
 Sttteh vx& Wtit\j* 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 Far in the illimitable space, seeming to earth as one of those 
 bright yet tiny stars, which even the most powerful telescope 
 will not increase in size, so immeasurable is the distance 
 between them and us, two Spirits sate enthroned, each in- 
 trusted with an attribute of the Creator, with which to renew 
 His image in man and vivify the earth. Their work was one, 
 each so aiding each that, though in outward form distinct, 
 their inward being was the same. The one, known in the 
 language of heaven as Amete — and who, were there measure- 
 ment of Time in the children of Eternity, might seem the 
 elder — was in aspect grave, almost stern, but those who could 
 steadily gaze upon him, and receive his image within their 
 hearts (and man did so a thousand and a thousand times, 
 though the Spirit's visible form was unrevealed), loved him, 
 with such deep, earnest love, as to forget the seeming stern- 
 ness in the deep calm and still security his recognition ever 
 brought. A coronet of light circled his brow, his wings 
 were of living sapphire, and in his hand he held a transparent 
 spear. Wherever he moved, darkness and mist fled from 
 before him ; and error sunk annihilated, before one touch of 
 that crystal lance. Change and mutability touched him not ; 
 coeval with Creation, he endured to Everlasting — ever pre- 
 senting the same exquisite aspect, producing on earth the 
 same effect, and through every age aiding to mould man for 
 Immortality. Distinct from his companion, yet the same ; 
 reflecting his every changeful hue of loveliness, yet retaining 
 undisturbed his own. 
 
 Not such was the outward appearance of Yafeh. Less 
 majestic, less grave, Earth and Heaven ever hailed him with 
 rejoicing. The latter, indeed, knew him not apart from 
 Amete ; and the former, in her darkness, sometimes greeted 
 his semblance, not himself. Robed in light, drawn not from 
 
 * Two Hebrew words, whose translations will be found in the con- 
 cluding paragraph.
 
 AMETE AND YAFEH. 105 
 
 the ethereal fount which circled Amete, but from those 
 dazzling iris-coloured rays, the reflection of which we some- 
 times catch when the sun shines upon a prism, the various 
 changes of his exquisite loveliness were impossible to be 
 defined. But it was only when in close unity with Amete he 
 was seen to full perfection, and his glittering garb endowed 
 with vitality and glory ; apart those iris rays shone forth 
 resplendent and most dazzling, but without the light 
 glistening on the brow of his companion were too soon 
 merged in gloom. 
 
 But this Yafeh himself knew not, and in his young ambi- 
 tion besought permission to work alone. His revealed form 
 was more visible on earth than that of Amete. As he looked 
 down, and around, and above him, the attribute of which he 
 was the guai'dian seemed so powerfully and palpably im- 
 pressed, that he could not trace the invisible workings of his 
 companion, and in his presumption he deemed it all his own, 
 and chafed and spurned the bond which, since their creation, 
 had entwined and marked them one. Mournfully and 
 earnestly Amete conjured him to check the impious praj r er ; 
 that which the All-Wise had assigned them was surely best 
 and safest. But Yafeh would not heed, and ceased not his 
 murmuring supplication till it was granted. With the 
 work already done, the work of Creation, he might not 
 interfere ; but the archangelic minister bade him " Go 
 down to earth, and in the workshop of man, be his creation 
 of hand or brain, display thy power : thou art free to 
 work alone," and with a glad burst of triumphant song, 
 and the brilliant velocity of a fallen star, the Spirit darted 
 down to earth. 
 
 "Follow him not!" commanded the archangel, answering 
 Amete's imploring gaze ; " once convinced of his nothingness 
 alone, he will never leave thee more. That lesson learned, 
 thou mayest rejoin him ; meanwhile, look down upon his 
 course," and sorrowingly Amete obeyed. 
 
 He beheld him, arrayed in even more than his wonted love- 
 liness, enter the several habitations of man ; his invisible but 
 felt presence greeted with wild joy, and his inspirings 
 followed in the new creative genius of all whom he touched. 
 In the lowly homes of the mechanic and the artizan he 
 lingered, and their work grew beneath their hand ; and at 
 first it seemed most lovely, but still something was wanting,
 
 106 AMETE AND YATEH. 
 
 and they toiled and toiled to find it, but in vain ; and despair 
 and ruin usurped the place of glad rejoicing. 
 
 " They are of too low a grade, too dull a mind," mur- 
 mured the Spirit, and he flew to the easel of the painter* 
 the workshop of the sculptor ; and new conceptions of loveli- 
 ness floated so vividly in their minds, that day and night 
 unceasingly they toiled to give them embodied form, and 
 sweet dreams of fame mingled with their creation, till life 
 itself seemed brighter than before. And Yafeh rejoiced, for 
 surely now he was triumphant ; here at least perfection would 
 vitalize his presence, and prove how little needed he Amete. 
 He mingled invisibly with the judges of the works, and he 
 beheld them scorned — contemned as dreams of madmen ; and 
 the artists fled, disgraced and miserable, to their homes, 
 with difficulty restrained from shivering their work to 
 atoms. 
 
 Terrified, yet still not humbled, Yafeh winged his flight 
 to the studio of the musician, and harmonies of heaven 
 floated in his ear, entrancing him with their exquisite perfec- 
 tion, and hour after hour he laboured to bring them from 
 their impalpable essence to the bondage of note and phrase, 
 but in vain — in vain ! The sounds he did produce were 
 wild, discordant, unconnected, and in passionate agony he 
 refused to listen more. 
 
 The poet, the philosopher, the historian — wherever genius 
 lay — Yafeh touched with his quivering breath, and to all 
 came the same dream of marvellous loveliness — the same 
 ideal perfection. On all burst the torrent of inspiration, 
 compelling toil and work, to give words to the pressing 
 thought, and all for awhile believed it perfect ; and their 
 burning souls throbbed high in the fond hope that each 
 glorious lay, each novel discovery, each startling hypothesis — 
 clothed in such glowing imagery and thrilling words — must 
 last for ever. And Yafeh triumphed, for surely here he was 
 secure, and in these prove that he could work alone, and 
 needed the aid of none, 
 
 A brief, brief while, and the burning lays of the poet were 
 forgotten and unread. The theory of the philosopher, lovely 
 as it had seemed, quivered into darkness before the test of 
 usefulness and reason. The new discoveries, new thoughts 
 of the historian met with scorn and laughter in the vain 
 search for their foundation. And, in their deep despair, Yafeh
 
 AMETE AND YAFEH. 107 
 
 heard the names by which he was known to earth accursed 
 and scorned ; his presence banished ; his inspirations rudely 
 checked, as bringing not loveliness and joy, but misery and 
 ruin, and the Spirit fled, in his wild agony, far, far from the 
 homes of earth and the hearts of men ; and shrinking from 
 his starry home and light-clad brother, sought to pierce 
 through and through the vast realms of unfathomable space, 
 and lose himself in darkness. His iris rays seemed fading 
 from his lovely form, lost in denser and denser gloom. 
 Above, below, and around him thunder rolled, and the 
 glittering Hosts of Heaven trembled, lest his proud wish 
 were to be chastised still further. But soon the majestic 
 form of the Spirit Amete stood beside his brother, and before 
 the touch of his glittering spear, Error and Despair, about to 
 claim Yafeh, fled howling. 
 
 " Yafeh, beloved ! we will descend together," he said, vl 
 tones clear, distinct, and liquid, impossible to be withstood. 
 " Thy work shall yet live and be immortal." 
 
 " Nay, 'twill be thine," murmured the repentant Spirit, his 
 darkened loveliness resuming light and giory from the efful- 
 gent brow so pityingly bent down on his. " What need hast 
 thou for me ? Go forth and work alone ; I have no part on 
 earth." 
 
 " Thou hast ; for without thee I have no power. Man 
 trembles at my form when at the Eternal's mandate, I must 
 go forth alone ; but with thee, perchance because my sterner 
 self is hidden, he loves and hails me, and permits my work 
 ascendencj'. Without thee I could but bind to earth ; 
 with thee I lead to heaven. Brother, we -are One, though 
 earth may deem us twain. We cannot work for Immortality 
 apart." 
 
 Side by side, so closely twined that even their brother 
 spirits could with difficulty distinguish their individuality, 
 Amete and Yafeh stood within the dwellings of man. The 
 mechanic and the artizan started from their desponding 
 trance ; the neglected work was resumed. The form, the 
 inspiration was the same ; but as if a flash of light had 
 touched it, it gave back that perfect image of the mind for 
 which before they had so toiled and toiled in vain. On to 
 the artist, the sculptor, the musician, and one touch from that 
 crystal spear, and the mist} r cloud dispersed, and the sense- 
 less canvas gave back the perfected thought ; the cold
 
 108 AMETE AND YAFEH. 
 
 marble sprung into the warmth of actual being ; the impal- 
 pable but exquisite harmonies, the ethereal essence of sound, at 
 the word of Aniete, resolved itself into the necessary bondage 
 of note and form, and breathed forth to admiring thousands 
 the music lent to one. Hovering over the poet, again the 
 thrilling words burst forth, and fraught with such mighty 
 meanings every heart responded, as to the voice of the 
 Immortal ; folding his azure pinion round the panting soul of 
 the philosopher, the shrouding cloud dispersed, and science, 
 deep, stern, lasting, took the place of the mere lovely dream ; 
 and on the page of the historian, light from the brow of 
 Amete so flashed as to make him a gifted reader of the Future, 
 by the wondrous record his spirit-thought unfolded of the 
 Past. Wherever the Spirits lingered, man worked for immor- 
 tality ; it mattered not under what guise, or in what rank. 
 From the highest to the lowest, each creative impulse, 
 fashioned by Yafeh, received perfection from Amete. The 
 former, indeed, alone was visible, but never more he sought to 
 work alone. Within his outward work was the vital essence 
 breathed by Amete, without which the most exquisite form 
 was incomplete — the most lovely thought imperfect — the 
 fairest theory a dream. 
 
 And so it is even now. Up, up in yon distant star, gleam- 
 ing so brightly through the immeasurable space, as may be 
 their throne, still does their glorious and united Presence 
 walk the earth. Their semblance may be found apart, but 
 not themselves. Twain as they are in name and aspect, in 
 essence they are One. Truth is the vital breath of 
 Beauty ; Beauty the outward form of Truth ; the Real 
 the sole foundation of the Ideal ; the Ideal but the spiritu- 
 alized essence of the Real.
 
 109 
 
 A TRUE TALE. 
 
 Judah Azavedo was the only son of a rich Jewish mer- 
 chant, settled in London. His grandfather, a native and 
 resident of Portugal, having witnessed the fearful proceed- 
 ings of the Inquisition on some of his relations and friends, 
 secretly followers of Israel, as himself, fled to Holland, bear- 
 ing with him no inconsiderable property. This, through 
 successful commerce, swelled into wealth ; and when, on his 
 death, his son, with his wife and child, removed to England, 
 and settled in the metropolis, they were considered, alike in 
 birth, education and riches, one of the very highest families 
 of the proud and aristocratic Portuguese. 
 
 But the situation of the Jews in England, some eighty or 
 ninety years ago, was very different to their situation now. 
 Riches, nay, even moral and mental dignity, were not then 
 the passport to society and friendliness. Lingering preju- 
 dice, still predominant in the hearts of the English, and pride 
 and nationality equally strong in the Hebrew, kept both 
 parties aloof, so that no advance could be made on either 
 side, and each remained profoundly ignorant of the other, 
 not alone on the subject of opposing creeds, but of actual 
 character. 
 
 This, though certainly a social evil, was, in some respects, 
 as concerned the Israelites, a national good. It drew them 
 more closely, more kindly together ; aliens and strangers to 
 the children of other lands, the true followers of their perse- 
 cuted creed were as brothers. Rich or poor, it mattered not. 
 Hebrews and Portuguese were the ties in common, and the 
 joy or grief of one family was the joy or grief of all. 
 Fashion was little thought of. Heartlcssness and that false 
 pride which forswears relation to or connection -with poverty 
 were unknown. Faults, no doubt they had ; but a more 
 kindly, noble-hearted set of men, in their own sphere, than 
 the Spanish and Portuguese Jews, nearly a hundred years 
 ago, never had existence.
 
 110 THE FUGITIVE. 
 
 The restlessness and over-sensitiveness of Judali Azave'do was 
 a subject of as much surprise to his nation as of regret to his 
 father. Sole heir to immense wealth — unencumbered with 
 business — nothing to occupy him but his own pleasure — 
 gifted with unusual mental powers — dignified in figure — a 
 kindly and most winning manner, when he chose to exert it ; 
 yet was his whole life embittered by the morbid sensitiveness 
 with which he regarded his most unfortunate lack of all 
 attraction in face and feature. He was absolutely and dis- 
 agreeably plain ; we would say ugly, did we not so exceed- 
 ingly dislike the word. Yet there were times when the glow 
 of mind, or still more warmth of heart, would throw such a 
 soft and gentle expression over the almost deformed features, 
 that their natural disfigurement ceased to be remembered. 
 Those who knew him never felt any difference between him 
 and his fellow-men, save in his superior heart and mind ; but 
 Azave'do himself always imagined that, wherever he went he 
 must be an object of derision or dislike. He shrunk from 
 all society, particularly from that of females, who, he was 
 convinced, would be terrified even to look at him. Entreaties, 
 commands, and remonstrances were vain. Could he have 
 known more mingled more with the world at large, these 
 morbid feelings would, in time, have been rubbed oft; but in 
 his very limited circle of familiar friends this was impossible, 
 and the evil, in consequence, each year increased. 
 
 To the Israelites of ninety years ago, the idea of travelling 
 for pleasure was incomprehensible ; they were too happy, too 
 grateful to the land which gave them rest and peace, to think 
 of quitting it for any other. That Juclah Azavddo should 
 restlessly desire to leave England, and seek excitement in 
 foreign lands, was in accordance with all his other extra- 
 ordinary feelings ; but that his father, the wise, sedate, con- 
 tented old man, whose every hope and affection were centred 
 in this son, should give his consent, was more extraordinary 
 still ; and many, in kindness, sought to dissuade him from it. 
 But Azavedo loved his son too well to permit old habits and 
 prejudices to interfere with the only indulgence Judah had 
 ever asked : he gave him his blessing and carte blanche 
 with regard to- gold, and the young man forthwith departed. 
 
 He was absent three years, having travelled as far as the 
 East, and visited every scene endeared to him as one of that 
 favoured race for whom the sea itself had been divided. He
 
 THE FUGITIVE. HI 
 
 had looked on misery, in so many varied forms, as the portion 
 of his nation, that he felt reproached and ashamed at his own 
 repinings. He learnt that only sin and crime could authorize 
 the misery he had endured ; that he was an immortal being, 
 and one whose earthly lot was blessed so much above 
 thousands of his brethren, that he only marvelled his sin of 
 discontent had not called down on him the wrath of God. 
 His soul seemed suddenly free from fetters, and he moved 
 among his fellow-men fearless and unabashed. 
 
 Notwithstanding the danger of such a route — for, if known, 
 or even suspected as a Hebrew, he would inevitably have 
 perished — Judah chose to return home through Spain and 
 Portugal, making himself known to some friends of his family 
 still dwelling in the latter kingdom. With them he remained 
 some few months, and then it was that a new emotion awoke 
 within him, chaining him effectually, ere aware of its exist- 
 ence. From his earliest youth Judah had dreaded, and so 
 forsworn love, feeling it next to impossible for him ever to 
 be loved in return ; but Love laughs at such forswearers. 
 Before he could analyse why that bitterness against his un- 
 happy ugliness should return, when he had thought it so suc- 
 cessfully conquered, he loved with the full passionate fervour 
 of his race and his own peculiar disposition, and loved one of 
 whom he could learn nothing, trace nothing, know nothing, 
 save that she was so surpassingly lovely, that though he had 
 seen her but three times, never near, and only once without 
 her veil, her beauty both of face and form lingered on his 
 memory as indelibly engraved as if it had lain there for years, 
 and then had been called into existence by some strangely 
 awakening flash. She was as unknown to his friends as to 
 himself ; only at the Opera had she been visible ; no inquiry, 
 no search could elicit information. Once only he had heard 
 the sound of her voice, and it breathed music as thrilling and 
 transporting as the beauty of her face. Yet was she neither 
 saintlike nor angelic : it was an arch witchery, a shadowless 
 glee, infused with the nameless, descriptionless, but convincing 
 charm of mind. 
 
 Judah Azavddo returned home an altered man, yet still no 
 one could understand him. He no longer morbidly shunned 
 society, nor even cared to eschew the company of females, 
 seeming as wholly careless and insensible to the effects of 
 his presence as he had before thought too much about it.
 
 112 THE FUGITIVE. 
 
 Some said he was scornfully proud ; others, that it was im- 
 penetrable reserve : all agreed that he was changed, but only 
 his most intimate friends could perceive that he was unhappy, 
 and from some deep-seated sorrow essentially distinct from 
 the feelings engrossing him when he left England, and that 
 this one feeling it was which rendered him so totally indif- 
 ferent to everything else. 
 
 Three, nearly four years elapsed, and Azave'do, in character 
 and habits, remained the same. His father was dead, leaving 
 him immense wealth, which he used nobly and generously, 
 winning " golden opinions " from every class and condition of 
 men, who, at the same time, wished that they could quite 
 understand him ; and so we must leave him to waft our 
 readers over the salt seas, and introduce them to a more 
 southern land and a very different person. 
 
 In a luxuriously furnished apartment of a beautiful little 
 villa, a few miles from Lisbon, was seated a lady of that ex- 
 traordinary beauty which ever fastens on the memory as by 
 some strange spell. Not more than three or four and twenty, 
 all the freshness of girlhood was so united to the more mature 
 graces of woman, that it was often difficult to say to which of 
 these two periods of life she belonged. Her large, lustrous, 
 jet-black eye, and the small, pouting mouth, alike expressed 
 at will either the mishievous glee of a mirth-loving girl or 
 the high-souled intellectuality of maturer woman. Hair of 
 that deep, dark brown, only to be distinguished from black 
 when the sunshine falls upon it, lay in rich masses and braids 
 around the beautifully shaped head, and giving, from the con- 
 trast, yet more dazzling fairness to the pure complexion of face 
 and throat which it shaded; the brow, so "thought-thronged" 
 when at rest, yet lit up, when eye and mouth so willed, with 
 such arch, laughter-loving glee ; but we must pause, for the 
 pen can never do beauty justice, and even if it did, would be 
 accused of exaggeration, although there yet remains those 
 who, from personal acquaintance, can still bear witness to its 
 truth. 
 
 A gentleman was standing near her as she sat on her sofa, 
 in the busy idleness of embroidery ; and as part of their con- 
 versation may elucidate our tale, we will record it briefly as 
 may be. 
 
 " Then you refused him ? 
 
 "Can you ask?" and the lightning flash of the lady's dark
 
 THE FUGITIVE. 113 
 
 eye betrayed unwonted indignation. " He who would have 
 so tempted a helpless girl of seventeen — I was then no more, 
 though I had been married nearly a year — under such specious 
 reasoning, that I dreamed not his drift till the words of 
 actual insult came ; sought to sow suspicion and distrust in 
 my heart against my husband, his own brother, to serve his 
 vile purposes : and you ask me if I refused him, when, being 
 once more free to wed, he dared pollute me with his ab- 
 horred addresses ! Julian, my fair cousin, have you so for- 
 gotten Inez ? " 
 
 " If I had, that indignant burst would have recalled her ; 
 but of insult, remember, I knew nothing. You were married 
 when so young, to a man so much older than yourself, that 
 when I heard of his death, three years ago, I fancied, as you 
 know is often the case with us, you would have married his 
 younger brother, so much more suitable in point of qualities 
 and years." 
 
 " More suitable ! "Wrong again, cousin mine. If I did 
 not love my husband, I respected, honoured him — yes, loved 
 him too as a father ; but as for Don Pedro, as men call him, 
 Julian, I would rather have trusted the tender mercies 
 of the Inquisition than I would him, and so I told him." 
 
 " You could not have been so mad ! " 
 
 " In sober truth, I was feeling too thoroughly indignant to 
 weigh my words. It matters not, he dare not work me harm, 
 for the secret on whish alone he can, involves his safety as 
 well as mine." 
 
 " I wish I could think so ; there are many to say that he 
 is in truth what he appears to be, and therefore one most 
 dangerous to offend." 
 
 " I fear him as little as I scorn him much. I have heard 
 this report before, but heed it not at all. Our holy cause 
 loses little in the apostasy of such a member." 
 
 " It may be so, Inez ; but he holds the lives of others in 
 his keeping, and therefore revenge is easily obtained." 
 
 " You will not frighten me, Julian, try as you may. They 
 say Pedro Benito is ill, almost to death — I am sorry for him, 
 for I know no one more unfit to die ; but I have far too much 
 pride to fear him, believe me. Better he should injure me, 
 than I my own soul in uniting it with his. See," she con- 
 tinued, laughing, as she pointed to the portly figure of a 
 Dominican priest pushing his mule up the steep ascent lead- 
 
 I
 
 114 THE FUGITIVE. 
 
 ing to the villa, in such evident haste and trepidation as to- 
 occasion some amusement to his beholders ; " there is more 
 fear there than I shall ever feel. What can the poor priest 
 need ? Do you know him, Julian ? comes he to you or 
 me ( 
 
 " I trust to neither, Inez, for such hot haste bodes little 
 good." 
 
 " Why, now, what a craven you have grown ! I will 
 disown you for my cousin if you pluck not up more spirit, 
 man ! 
 
 Julian Alvarez tried to give as jesting a reply, but succeeded 
 badly, his spirits feeling strangely anxious and oppressed. 
 He was spared further rallying on the part of Inez, by the 
 sudden reappearance of the priest (whom they had lost sight 
 of by a curve in the ascent), without his mule, at the private 
 entrance of Inez's own garden, and without ceremony or 
 question neared the window. Inez addressed him courte- 
 ously, though with evident surprise ; the priest seemed not 
 to heed her words, but laying his hand on her arm, said, in a 
 deep, low tone — 
 
 " Donna Inez, this is no time for courtesy or form. 
 Daughter, fly ! even now the bloodhounds are on the track. 
 The scent has been given ; a dying man proclaimed you 
 a Jewess in hearing of others besides his confessor, else had 
 you been still safe and free. Ere two hours, nay, in less time, 
 they will be here. Away ! pause not for thought ; seek to 
 save nothing but life, too precious for such sacrifice. A 
 vessel lies moored below, which a brisk hour's walk will reach. 
 She sails for England the moment the wind shifts ; secure a 
 passage in her, and trust in the God of Israel for the rest." 
 
 " And who are you who thus can care for me, knowing that 
 which I am ? " answered the lady, in accents low as the sup- 
 posed priest's, but far less faltering, and only evincing the 
 shock she had sustained by the sudden whiteness of cheek 
 and lip. 
 
 " Men call me — think me, Padre Jose\ my child ; but were 
 I such you had not seen me here. That which you are am I, 
 and because I thought Pedro Benito the same, 1 stood beside 
 his death-bed. Vengeance and apostasy went hand in hand. 
 Ask no more, but hence at once ; how may those fragile 
 limbs bear the rack — the flames ? Senor Alvarez, shake oft 
 this stupor, or it will be too late i "
 
 THE FUGITIVE. 115 
 
 Julian did indeed stand as paralysed, so suddenly and 
 fearfully were his worst fears confirmed. Fly ! and from all, 
 home, friends, luxury, to be poor and dependent in a strange 
 land ! It was even so ; the voice of vengeance had betrayed 
 the fatal secret of race and faith, the very first whisper of 
 which consigned to the Inquisition — but another word for 
 torture and death. In two short hours, part of which had 
 already gone, Inez had to find the vessel, be received on 
 board, and leave no trace whatever of her way. Her very 
 domestics must suspect nothing, or discovery would inevi- 
 tably ensue. And yet, in the midst of all this sudden accu- 
 mulation of misfortune, Inez but once betrayed emotion. 
 
 " Julian, Julian, my boy !" she exclaimed, her sole answer 
 to the reiterated entreaties of her companions for her to de- 
 part at once ; " what will they not do to him ?" 
 
 "Nothing, lady; he shall be with me till he can rejoin 
 you. Who will suspect Padre Jose* of harbouring an 
 Israelite save to convert him to the Holy Faith ?" 
 
 Inez caught the old man's hand, her lip and eyelids quiver- 
 ing convulsively ; but even the passion of choking tears was 
 conquered by the power of mind. In less than half an hour 
 she was walking, at a brisk pace, through the shrubberies, in 
 the direction of the river, enveloped in mantilla and veil, and 
 Julian Alvarez carrying a small parcel, containing the few 
 jewels which she could collect, and one or two articles of 
 clothing, the all that the mistress of thousands could 
 save from the rapacious hands which, under the garb 
 of religion, were ever stretched out to confiscate and to 
 destroy. 
 
 Scarcely had the}^ quitted the shrubberies, after nearly an 
 hour's brisk walking, and entered the high road, their only 
 path, when about a dozen men, in the full livery of the Holy 
 :, were clearly discernible on a slight rising not half a 
 mile beyond them, pushing their horses so as directly to face 
 them, and advancing at full speed. To turn back was to ex- 
 cite suspicion, to meet them, tempt discovery. Fo 
 a small enclosure of tall larches and thick firs lay forward, a 
 little to the left, and there Inez impelled her bewildered com- 
 panion, walking as carelessly, to all appearance, as taking a 
 saunter for amusement. They saw the troop rapidly advance, 
 pause exactly in front of their hiding-place, look round in- 
 ouiringly; one or two spurred forwards, as to beat the bushes;
 
 116 THE FUGITIVE. 
 
 a man's step at the same time sounded in their rear — his 
 dress fanned them as lie passed : it was one of Donna Inez's 
 own labourers. They heard him hailed as he appeared, and 
 questions asked, of which they heard nothing, but that word- 
 less sound of voices so torturing to those who deem that 
 life or death are hanging on the words. A few minutes — 
 feeling hours — the conference lasted ; some direction, loudly 
 repeated along the file, betrayed that their questions only re- 
 lated to their further route to the Villa Benito, and the horses 
 galloped on. 
 
 Without exchanging a syllable, Inez and her companion 
 hurried forward. It was still full half-an-hour's walk to the 
 river, the sun was declining, and the wind had risen fresh 
 and balmy ; but while Julian rejoiced in its reviving power, 
 he trembled lest it should be bearing his cousin's only chance 
 of safety farther from them. Their pace was brisk as could 
 be, yet every step seemed clogged with lead, and weary felt 
 the way, till the river's brink was gained. Bathed in the 
 lingering glow of a magnificent sunset, the bright waters lay 
 before them, and every sail spread, gliding softly yet swiftly 
 on her course, they beheld the longed-for vessel receding from 
 their sight. 
 
 For one minute they stood, gazing on the departing ship, 
 as mute, as feelingless as stone, save to the horrible conscious- 
 ness that flight was over, all hope of escape must be vain. 
 But great emergencies prevent the continuance of despair. 
 Ere Julian had recovered the stupor of alike disappointment 
 and dread, Inez had hailed the boatman, and drawing a 
 diamond ring of immense value from her hand, bade him 
 place her in safety on board the English vessel, and it 
 should be his. The man hesitated, then swore it was worth 
 the trial, and very speedily a boat was ready, manned by 
 four stout rowers impatient as herself. 
 
 " And now farewell, dear Julian !" she said, calmly, taking 
 the parcel from his hand, and looking in his astonished face 
 with her own sweet smile. " You go no farther ; I will not 
 risk your life, so precious to your wife and children, because 
 I weakly fear to meet my destiny alone. Do not attempt to 
 argue with me, it will be useless, as you ought to know. 
 Look to my poor boy, he needs you more than I do." Her 
 voice sunk to a thrilling whisper : " The God we both serve 
 bless you, and keep you from a similar iate."
 
 THE FUGITIVE. 117 
 
 She wrung his hand, and lightly springing into the boat, 
 it was pushed off, and rapidly cutting the yielding waters, 
 ere Julian Alvarez recovered sufficiently from his emotion to 
 speak even a farewell word. And now, with feelings wrought 
 almost to agony, he watched a chase seemingly so utterly 
 vain. For some time the vessel still kept ahead, but the 
 efforts of the rowers in no degree relaxed. He heard their 
 stentorian hail repeated by the innumerable echoes on the 
 shore, but still there seemed no answer. Again, and yet again! 
 It is fancy. No, the sails are lowered, the vessel's speed is 
 diminished, till the boat appears almost alongside. Julian 
 strained his gaze, while his very heart felt to have ceased 
 beating, in the sickening fear that even now her flight- 
 might be prevented by a refusal to receive her. He could 
 discern no more, for twilight had gathered round him, and 
 interminable seemed the interval till the boat returned with 
 the blessed assurance that the Senora was safe on board. 
 
 Night fell ; the lovely southern night, with its silvery 
 moonshine on the gleaming waters, its glistening stars, 
 appearing suspended in the upper air as globes of liquid 
 light, with its fresh, soft breezes, bearing such sweet scents 
 from the odoriferous shores, that a poet might have fancied 
 angelic spirits were abroad, making the atmosphere luminous 
 with their pure presence, and every breeze fragrant with 
 their luscious breath. 
 
 Inez sat upon the deck, a fugitive, and alone. She who, 
 only the evening previous, had been the centre of a brilliant 
 group, whose halls had sounded with the voice of revelry, 
 the blithesome dance, whence aught of sorrow seemed so far 
 away as to be but a name, not a reality. To us, looking back 
 on the extraordinary fact of the most Catholic kingdoms 
 being literally peopled with secret Jews, whose property 
 and life might be sacrificed from one hour to another, it 
 appears incomprehensible that security or happiness could 
 ever have existed, and still more difficult to understand what 
 secret feeling it was which thus bound them to a country 
 where, acknowledged or discovered, Judaism was death, 
 when there were other parts of the globe where they could 
 be protected and received. Yet so it was, and there are still 
 families in England to trace their descent from those who, 
 like the Senora Benito, were compelled to fly at an hour's 
 warning, saving little else than life.
 
 118 THE FUGITIVE. 
 
 Some spirits would heave sunk under a misfortune so 
 sudden, so overwhelming in its details, but Inez rose above 
 it. She had nothing to look to but her own resources ; the 
 few valuables she had secreted would, she knew, soon be 
 exhausted, did she depend on them alone. She was going to 
 a land where she knew not one, her only credentials being a 
 letter hurriedly written by her cousin to one of his friends 
 in London. Loneliness, privation, care, and even manual 
 toil, all awaited her, child as she had been of luxury and 
 wealth, lavish as it was believed exhaustless ; yet, as she 
 looked forth on the glorious night with her starlit dome, as 
 she inhaled the sweet breath of a thousand flowers floating 
 on the breeze, she knew she was not forsaken. He who 
 cared for all nature would still more care for her, and, 
 when the spirit is at. peace, how lightly is all of sorrow 
 borne. 
 
 The unusual stir in the harbour, which they reached about 
 midnight, attracted the attention not only of Inez but of the 
 captain and crew. On stopping at the quay for passengers 
 and freight, he was told that the vessel must remain at 
 anchor, no English ship being allowed to leave the harbour 
 until it had received a visit from the officers of the Inquisi- 
 tion, in search of a female fugitive suspected of Judaism, 
 who, having effectually disappeared from her home, was sup- 
 posed to have taken refuge in some English vessel, the 
 general receivers of heretics and unbelievers. 
 
 " I halt not at any man's beck or bidding !" was the proud 
 reply. "England owns no Inquisitional supremacy. Had 
 any such fugitive taken refuge in my ship, no power of the 
 Inquisition, backed by the whole kingdom, should force me 
 to give her up." 
 
 Time for reply or seizure there was none. Every sail 
 spread at the word of command, and almost bending beneath 
 her weight of canvas, the gallant ship, with her right 
 English-hearted crew, sped on to sea. 
 
 Inez had seen all, felt all — but though her heart beat 
 quicker, no word or sign betrayed it. She saw the captain 
 look hastily on her, and for a terrible moment she knew 
 not whether the glance of discovery, for such it was, would 
 be followed by her surrender or her safety. His words 
 speedily reassured her, and sent her to the berth provided 
 for her comfort, with more care than for any other passenger,
 
 THE FUGITIVE. 119 
 
 with the grateful feeling that all of danger was indeed at 
 end. She was in Eugland's keeping, and no Inquisition 
 could work her harm. 
 
 Nor was it the mere excitement of misfortune which so 
 endowed her with courage to endure. She retained not 
 only firmness but liveliness during the voyage, and when 
 received in England with the most hospitable kindness by 
 Julian's friends, gaily consulted them on the best means of 
 subsistence — whether to take in plain work or enter upon the 
 business of fancy confectionary, for both of which her con- 
 vent education had well fitted her. And what with her brilliant 
 beauty, her sparkling wit, and readiness of repartee, ere two 
 days had passed she had completely fascinated old and young. 
 
 The evening of the third day, Mr. Nunez's family had 
 been engaged to spend with a friend living a few miles from 
 London. On sending to state that a Portuguese lady 
 staying with them would prevent their going, an en- 
 treaty was instantly forwarded that she would accompany 
 them. 
 
 " What, go ! and my whole wardrobe consists of this one 
 dress?" was her laughing reply. "I shall bring shame on 
 your fashionable reputation, my kind friends." 
 
 They assured her that dress was of little consequence, and 
 even if it were, she need not be alarmed, being more likely 
 to bring them fame by the fashion of her face than shame by 
 the plainness of her robe ; which, by the way, a rich 
 black velvet, set off the dazzling clearness of her complexion 
 more becomingly than the most carefully assorted garb. 
 
 To the house of their friend, in consequence, they went; 
 and the beautiful stranger, with her broken English, sweetly 
 spoken Portugese, and most romantic story, soon com- 
 manded universal attention. 
 
 Towards the middle of the evening a rapidly approaching 
 carriage, followed by a thundering rap, announced the arrival 
 of some new guest. 
 
 "That is Azavddo," observed one, "I know him by the 
 sound of his four horses. A strange fancy that, always 
 sporting a carriage and four, when in eveiything else he has 
 no pretension whatever. Did you expect him, Cordoza ? " he 
 asked of his host. 
 
 " He said he might look in on his way to Epping," was 
 the reply.
 
 120 THE FUGITIVE. 
 
 " What a changed man he is," said another ; " I re- 
 member when he literally loathed society, and shrunk from 
 beauty, male or female, as if it stung him by the contrast 
 with himself." 
 
 " I have never heard him admire a woman yet though," 
 rejoined the first speaker. " I wonder if he will notice the 
 beauty of to-night ? " 
 
 Azavddo entered as he spoke, and, after addressing his 
 host and hostess, began an earnest conversation with a friend 
 near them. 
 
 A low, musical laugh from the centre of a merry group at 
 the opposite end of the large drawing-room caused Azavddo 
 suddenly so to start, with such an indescribable change of 
 countenance, as to impel the anxious query whether he were 
 ill. He answered hurriedly in the negative, but his friend 
 perceiving his eye fixed on the group, eagerly entered on the 
 story of the stranger, from whom the laugh had come, 
 inviting him to join the circle round her. Somewhat hesi- 
 tatingly he did so. Inez, in compliance with the customs of 
 her own country, still wore her veil, which, in answer to the 
 inquiry of some one near her as to the different fashions of 
 wearing it in Portugal, she had drawn so closely round her 
 as to hide every feature. 
 
 " Tell her that it is not the custom of English ladies to 
 wear veils," whispered Azavddo to his hostess, in tones of 
 such strong and most unusual excitement, that she looked at 
 him as if in doubt of his identity. His hint was acted upon, 
 however, and Inez, with winning courtesy, soon after laid 
 aside her veil. 
 
 Azavedo had become in some degree a man of the world, 
 and it was well he was, or he might have found it difficult so 
 to suppress inward emotion as to conceal it from those 
 around him. He looked once more on the being who for 
 four long years had in secret so occupied his heart, as never 
 to permit the entrance of another image, or the faintest 
 thought of another love. She was there, not only yet more 
 radiant in finished loveliness than when he had first beheld 
 her, but free, and of his own race and creed. And so ex- 
 quisite were the feelings of the moment, that he feared to 
 be introduced, lest her first glance upon his face, if it re- 
 vealed the horror that he believed it would, should sentence, 
 him to misery.
 
 THE FUGITIVE. 121 
 
 That he had trembled needlessly was proved by his never 
 leaving her side that evening. The lively spirits of the 
 young stranger appeared, by some extraordinary species of 
 mesmerism, to call forth the same from him ; and he con- 
 versed more brilliantly, more unreservedly, than he had ever 
 before been known to do. 
 
 Judah Azavddo pursued his journey to his country-house, 
 and Inez quietly fixed her residence with a Jewish family in 
 London, and pursued her intention of taking in plain work ; 
 giving no more thought of her former affluence, save to wish 
 that part had been spared for her boy, who, through the 
 efforts of Padre Jose* and Julian Alvarez, joined her about 
 three weeks after her flight, bringing the information that 
 every article belonging to her had been seized and confiscated. 
 
 Twice a week, then three times, and at length every day, 
 did Azavddo, on some pretence or other, visit the fair fugi- 
 tive. Folks talked and wondered, but for once _ he heeded 
 neither. But why prolong our tale, claimed as it is by truth, 
 however it may read like fiction ? Not six weeks after Inez 
 left Portugal, a fugitive for her very life, she became the 
 wife of Judah Azavexlo, the richest Hebrew in London, and 
 the possessor of a love as warm and unwavering as was ever 
 felt by man. But did she — could she — return it ? Reader, 
 we will not blazon the simplicity of truth with the false 
 colouring of romance. She did not love him, in the general 
 acceptation of the term, and she told him so, beseeching him 
 to withdraw his offer, if his heart could not rest satisfied with 
 the respect and gratitude which alone she felt. He thanked 
 her for her candour, but the hand was not withdrawn, and 
 they were married. Some biographers stop here, bidding 
 the curious reader probe not too deeply into the history of 
 wedded life. As regards our heroine, however, we shrink 
 not from the probe. The romance of love before marriage 
 she might not have known, but its reality afterwards she 
 made so manifest, even when disease, joined to other infir- 
 mities, so tried her husband as to render him fretful and 
 irritable, that there are still living some to assert that never 
 was wife more tenderly affectionate, more devotedly faithful 
 than was Inez Azavedo. Her extraordinary beauty seemed 
 invulnerable to age, for I have heard it said that even in 
 her coffin, and she lived to the full age of mortality, she 
 retained it still.
 
 122 
 
 « 
 
 m mitt 
 
 A TALE OF 1492. 
 
 "The love that bids the patriot rise to guard his country's rest, 
 With deeper mightier fulness thrills in woman's gentle breast." — MS. 
 
 "And we must wander, witheringly, 
 In other lands to die ; 
 And where our father's ashes be, 
 Our own may never lie." — ByeoiT. 
 
 " TiiEDf thou wouldst not leave this beautiful valley even 
 with me, Josephine?" 
 
 " Nay, thou knowest thou dost but jest, Imri ; thou 
 wouldst not give me such a painful alternative ?" 
 
 " How knowest thou that, love ? Perchance I may grow 
 jealous even of thy country, an it hold so dear a place in thy 
 gentle breast, and seek a home elsewhere — to prove if thy 
 love of Imri be dearer than thy love of land." 
 
 " I know thou wouldst do no such thing, my Imri ; so 
 play the threatening tyrant as thou mayest, I'll not believe 
 thee, or lessen by one throb the love of my land, which. 
 shares my heart with thee. I know too well, thy heart 
 beats true as mine ; thou wouldst not take me hence." 
 
 " Never, my best beloved. Our children shall rove where 
 we have roved, and learn their father's faith uninjured by 
 closer commune with its foes. Here, where the exiles of 
 Israel for centuries have found a peaceful home, will we rest, 
 my Josephine, filling the little hearts of our children with 
 thanksgiving that there is one spot of earth where the 
 wandering and the persecuted may repose in peace." 
 
 "And surely it is for this cause the love we bear our 
 aountry is so strong, so deep, that the thought of death is 
 less bitter than the dream of other homes. We stand alone 
 in our peculiar and most sainted creed, alone in our law, 
 alone in our lives on earth, in our hopes for heaven. Our 
 doom is to wander accursed and houseless over the broad 
 earth, exposed to all the misery which man may inflict, 
 without the power to retaliate or shun. Surely, oh, surely
 
 THE EDICT. 123 
 
 then, the home that is granted must be doubly dear — so 
 sheltered from outward ill, so blessed with inward peace 
 that it might seem we alone were the inhabitants of Spain. 
 Oh ! it is not only memory that hallows every shrub and 
 stream and tree — it is the consciousness of safety, of peace, 
 of joy, which this vale enshrines, while all around us 
 seeineth strife and gloom. Dearest Imri, is it marvel that I 
 love it thus ?" 
 
 The speaker was a beautiful woman of some two or three 
 and twenty summers. There was a lovely finished roundness 
 of form, a deep steady lustre in her large black eye, a full 
 red ripe on her beautiful lip, a rose soft yet glowing as the last 
 tinge of sunset beaming, in the energy of her words, upon a 
 cheek usually more pale — all bespeaking a stage of life some- 
 what past that generally denominated girlhood, but only 
 pressing the threshold of the era which follows. Life was 
 still bright and fresh, and buoyant as youth would paint it ; 
 but in the heart there were depths and feelings revealed that 
 were never known to girlhood. Her companion, some three 
 or four years her senior, presented a manly form, and features 
 more striking from their frankness and animation than any 
 regular beauty. But there was one other individual, seated at 
 some little distance from the lovers (for such they were), 
 whose peculiar and affecting beauty would rivet the attention 
 to the exclusion of all else, lie was a slight boy, who had 
 evidently not seen more than ten years, though the light in 
 the dark blue eye, so deep, so concentrated in its expression, 
 that it seemed to breathe forth the soul ; the expression ever 
 lingering round his small delicately pencilled mouth appeared 
 to denote a strength and formation of character beyond his 
 year.?. His rich chesnut hair, long and gracefully curling, 
 fell over his light blue vest nearly to his waist, and, parted 
 in the centre, exposed a brow of such transparent fairness, 
 so arched and high, that it scarce appeared natural to his 
 Eastern origin and Spanish birth. Long lashes, much 
 darker than his hair, almost concealed the colour of the eye, 
 save when it was fixed full on those who spoke to him, and 
 shaded softly, yet with a mournful expression, the pale and 
 delicate cheek, to which exertion or emotion alone had 
 power to bring the frail and fleeting rose. An indescribable 
 plaintiveness pervaded the countenance ; none could define 
 wherefore, or why his very smile would gush on the heart
 
 124 THE EDICT. 
 
 like tears. He was seated on the green sward, weaving 
 some beautiful flowers into a garland or wreath, in perfect 
 silence, although he was not so far removed from his com- 
 panions as to be excluded from their conversation, could he 
 have joined in it. Alas ! those lips had never framed a 
 word ; no sound had ever reached his ear. 
 
 An animated response from Imri followed his Josephine's 
 last eager words ; and the boy, as if desirous of partaking 
 their emotion, whatever it might be, bounded towards them, 
 placing his glowing wreath on the brow of Josephine with a 
 fond admiring glance, calling on Imri by a sign to admire it 
 with him ; then nestling closer to her bosom, inquired in the 
 same manner the subject of their conversation : and when 
 told, there was no need of language to speak the boy's reply. 
 He glanced eagerly, almost passionately, around him ; he 
 stretched forth his arms, as if embracing every long-loved 
 object, and then he laid his hand on his heart, as if the image 
 of each were reflected there, and stretching himself on the 
 mossy earth, as if there should be his last long sleep. He 
 pointed to distant mountains, made a movement with his 
 hands, to denote the world beyond them, then turned 
 shudcleringly away, and laid his head on the bosom of his 
 nearest and clearest relative on earth. 
 
 The situation of the valley of Eshcol was in truth such as 
 to inspire enthusiasm in colder hearts than Josephine's. 
 Formed by one of the many breaks in the Sierra Morena, 
 and sharing abundantly the rich vegetation which crowns 
 this ridge of mountains nine months in the year, it appeared 
 set apart by Nature as a guarded and blessed haven of peace 
 for the w r eary wanderers of Israel ; who, when the Roman 
 spoiler desolated their holy land, tradition said there found a 
 resting-place. Lofty rocks and mountains hemmed it 
 round, throwing as it were a natural barrier between the 
 valley and the world beyond. The heath, the rosemary, the 
 myrtle, and the cistus grew in rich profusion amidst 
 the cliffs ; while below, the palm, the olive, the lemon, 
 orange and almond, interspersed with flowering shrubs of 
 every variety, marked the site of the hamlet, and might 
 mournfully remind the poor fugitives of the yet richer and 
 holier land their fathers' sins had forfeited. To the east, a 
 thick grove of palm, cedar, and olive surrounded the lowly 
 temple, where for ages the simple villagers worshipped the
 
 THE EDICT. 125 
 
 God of Israel as their fathers did. Its plain and solid archi- 
 tecture resisted alike the power of storm and time ; and it 
 was the pride of every generation to preserve it in the 
 primitive simplicity of the past. Innumerable streams, 
 issuing from the mountains, watered the vale ; some, flowing 
 with a silvery murmur and sparkling light, others rushing 
 and leaping over crags, their prominences hid in the snowy 
 foam, creating alike variety and fertility. The brilliant 
 scarlet flower of the fig-marigold mingled with the snowy 
 blossoms of the myrtle, peeping forth from its dark glossy 
 leaves, formed a rich garland around the trunks of many a 
 stalwart tree ; and often at the sunset hour the perfume of 
 the orange and almond, the balsamic fragrance of the cistus, 
 mingling with, yet ajjart from the others, would float by on 
 the baimy pinions of the summer breeze, adding inde- 
 scribably to the soothing repose and natural magic of the 
 scene. 
 
 But it was not the mere beauty of nature which sunk so 
 deeply on the hearts of the Eshcolites, as to create that 
 species of amor patriw, of which Josephine's ardent words 
 were but a faint reflection ; it was the fact that it was, had 
 been, and they fondly hoped ever would be, to them a second 
 Judea. Its very name had been bestowed by the unhappy 
 fugitives from the destruction of Jerusalem, who hailed its 
 natural loveliness as their ancestors did the first-fruits of the 
 land of promise. Throughout the whole of Spain, indeed, 
 the sons of Israel were scattered, far more numerously and 
 progperously than in any other country. Despite her re- 
 peated revolutions, her internal wars, her constant change 
 of masters, the Hebrews so continued to flourish that the 
 whole commerce of the kingdom became engrossed by them ; 
 and occupying stations of eminence and trust — the heads 
 of all seminaries of physic and literature — they commanded 
 veneration even from the enemies and persecutors of their 
 creed. 
 
 With the nation at large, however, our simple narrative 
 does not pretend to treat. Century after century found the 
 little colony of Eshcol flourishing and happy ; acknowledging 
 no law but that of Moses, no God but Him that law revealed. 
 It mattered not to them whether Mahoramedan or Nazarene 
 claimed supremacy in Spain. Schism and division were un- 
 known amongst them ; the same temple received their simple
 
 126 THE EDICT. 
 
 worship from age to age ; for if it chanced that the more 
 eager, the more ambitions spirits sought more stirring 
 scenes, they returned to the simplicity of their fathers, 
 conscious they had no power to alter, and satisfied that they 
 could not improve. 
 
 Varying in population from three to five hundred families, 
 actuated by the same interests, grief and joy became as it 
 were the common property of all — the one inexpressibly 
 soothed, the other heightened by sympathy — the vale of 
 Eshcol seemed marked out as the haven of peace. The 
 poet, the minstrel, the architect, the agriculturist, even the 
 sculptor, were often found amongst its inmates, flourishing, 
 and venerated as men more peculiarly distinguished by their 
 merciful Creator than their fellows. The sins that convulse 
 kingdoms and agitate a multitude to them were unknown ; 
 for the seditious, the restless, the ambitious sought a wider 
 field, bidding an eternal farewell to the vale, whose peaceful 
 insipidity they spurned. Crimes were punished by banish- 
 ment, perpetual or for a specified time, according to the guilt ; 
 liable indeed to death, if the criminal returned, but of this 
 the records of Eshcol present no example. 
 
 Situated, in the southern ridge of the Sierra Morena, on 
 the eastern extremity of Andalusia, and consequently at the 
 very entrance of the Moorish dominions, yet Nature's care 
 had so fortified the vale, that it had remained both uninjured 
 and undiscovered by the immense armies of Ferdinand and 
 Isabella, who for ten years had overrun the beautiful pro- 
 vince of Grenada, and now, at the commencement of our nar- 
 rative, had completed its reduction, and compelled the last 
 of the Caliphs to acknowledge their supremacy in Spain. 
 Misery and death were busy within ten miles of the Hebrew 
 colony, but there they entered not. Some aspiring youths 
 had in truth departed to join the contending hosts ; but b} r 
 far the greater number, more indifferent to the fate of war, 
 cared not on which side the banner of victory might wave — 
 their affections centred so strongly on the spot of ear 
 once their birthplace and their tomb, that to depart from it 
 .':eemed the very bitterness of death. 
 
 Tedious as this digression may seem, it is necessary for 
 the clear comprehension of our narrative; for the apprecia- 
 tion of that feeling of amor patrlce which is its basis ; an 
 emotion experienced in various degrees by every nation, but
 
 THE EDICT. 127 
 
 by the Jew in Spain with a strength and intensity equalled 
 by none and understood but by a few. 
 
 Josephine Castello, in whom this feeling was resting yet 
 more powerfully than in her compeers, was regarded as an 
 orphan, and as such peculiarly beloved ; yet an orphan she 
 was not. The youth of her father, Simeon Castello, had 
 been marked by such ungovernable passions, as to render him 
 an object of doubt and dread to all ; with the sole exception 
 of one — the meekest, gentlest, most timid girl of Eshcol. 
 Perhaps it was the contrast with herself — the generous 
 temper, the. frank and winning smile, the bold character of 
 his striking beauty, or the voiceless magic which we may 
 spend whole lives in endeavouring to define, and which only 
 laughs at our wisdom — but Ptachel Asher loved him, so 
 faithfully, so unchangeably, that it stood the test of many 
 months, nay years, of wandering on the part of Simeon, who 
 on each return to the vale appeared more restless, more way- 
 ward than before. 
 
 Men said he was incapable of loving, and augured sorrow 
 and neglect for the gentle Rachel, even when, seemingly 
 touched by her meek and timid loveliness, he bent his proud 
 spirit to woo her love, and was accepted. They were married; 
 and some few years of quiet felicity appeared to belie the 
 prognostics of the crowd. But, soon after the birth of a 
 daughter, the wandering propensities of her father again 
 obtained ascendency ; and for months, and then years, he 
 would be absent from his home. 
 
 Uncomplainingly Rachel bore this desertion, for he was 
 ever fond when he returned; and even when she once ven- 
 tured to entreat permission to accompany him, it was with 
 soothing affection, not harsh repulse, he refused, assuring 
 her, though honoured and trusted by the Nazarene, he was 
 seldom more than a month at one place ; and he could not 
 offer delicate females the quiet settled home they needed. 
 Rachel could have told him that privation and hardship with 
 him would be hailed as blessings, but she knew her husband's 
 temper, and acquiescing, sought comfort in the increasing 
 intelligence and beauty of her child. 
 
 Ten years thus passed, and then Simeon, as if involun- 
 tarily yielding to the love of his wife and child, declared his 
 intention of never again seeking the Nazarene world, and 
 for two years he adhered to his resolution ; at the end of that
 
 128 THE EDICT. 
 
 time hailing with pleasure the promise of another little one, 
 to share with Josephine the affection he lavished upon her. 
 This sudden change of character could not pass unnoticed 
 by his fellows ; and no man being more tenacious of his 
 honour than Simeon Castello, it was of course exposed to 
 many aspersions, which his passionate temper could not 
 brook. 
 
 It happened, in a jovial meeting of youngsters when 
 somewhat heated by excitement and -wine, that the character 
 and actions of Castello were canvassed somewhat more 
 freely than sobriety would have ventured. One of them at 
 length remarked, that in all probability he was glad to avail 
 himself of the retreat of Eshcol, to eschew the hundred eyes 
 of justice or revenge. 
 
 " Then die in thy falsehood, liar !" were the words that, 
 uttered in thunder, startled the assembly. " The man lives 
 not who dares impugn the honour of Castello !" and the 
 hapless youth sunk to the earth before them, stricken unto 
 death. The speechless horror of all around might easily 
 have permitted flight, but Castello scorned it. He knew his 
 doom, and met it in stern unflinching silence ; — to wander 
 forth alone, with the thoughts of blood clinging to his con- 
 science, till the mandate of his God summoned him to answer 
 for his crime ; — death, if he ever ventured to insult the 
 sacred precincts of his native vale by seeking to return. 
 
 The voice of his father faltered not as from his seat of 
 judgment, amid the elders of his people, he pronounced this 
 sentence. His cheek blanched not as the wife and child of 
 the murderer flung themselves at his feet, beseeching per- 
 mission to accompany the exile. It could not be. Nay 
 more, did he return, the law was such, that his own wife or 
 child must deliver him up to justice, or share the penalty of 
 his crime. Hour by hour beheld the wretched suppliants 
 pleading for mercy, but in vain. 
 
 Nor did this more than Roman firmness (for it was based 
 on love, not stoicism) desert him when, in agonized remorse, 
 his son besought his forgiveness and his blessing. Pie con- 
 fessed his sin, for he felt it such. No provocation could call 
 for blood. And headstrong and violent as w r ere the passions 
 of Simeon Castello, his father believed in his remorse, his 
 penitence ; for he knew deeds of blood were foreign to his 
 nature. He raised his clasped hands to heaven, he prayed
 
 THE EDICT. 129 
 
 that the penitence of the sinner might be accepted, lie spoke 
 Ms forgiveness and his blessing, and then flinging his arms 
 around his son, his head sunk upon his shoulder. Minutes 
 passed and there was no sound — the Hebrew father had done 
 his duty : but Ins heart had broken — he was dead ! 
 
 From the moment she was released from the parting em- 
 brace of her doubly-wretched husband, and her strained eyes 
 might no longer distinguish his retreating figure, no word 
 escaped the lips of Rachel. For the first time, she looked 
 on the sorrow of her poor child, without any attempt to 
 soothe or console. She resumed her usual duties, but it was 
 as if a statue had been endowed with movement. Nor could 
 the entreaties of her aged grandfather, her sole remaining 
 relative, nor the caresses of Josephine, wring even one word 
 of suffering from her lips. 
 
 A week passed, and Josephine held a little brother in her 
 arms ; the looks of her mother appeared imploring her to 
 cherish and protect him, and kneeling, she solemnly swore 
 to make him the first object of her life ; belief beamed in 
 the eyes of the dying — her look seemed beseeching the 
 blessing of heaven on them both ; but Josephine yearned in 
 vain for the sweet accents of her voice — she never spoke 
 again. 
 
 From that hour the gay and sprightly child seemed 
 changed into premature and sorrowing womanhood. She 
 stood alone of her race. Alone, with the sole exception of 
 that aged relative, who had seen his children and children's 
 children fall around him, and her infant brother. She 
 shrunk, in her sensitiveness, from the young companions 
 who would have soothed her grief. She did not fear that 
 the crime of her father would be visited upon her innocent 
 head, for such feelings were unknown to the simple government 
 of Eshcol ; but her loneliness, the shock which had crushed 
 every hope and joy of youth, caused her to cling closer to 
 her aged relative, and direct every energy to the welfare of her 
 young and — as, alas ! she too soon discovered — afflicted brother. 
 She watched his increase in strength, intelligence, and love- 
 liness, and pictured in vivid colouring the delight which 
 would attend his instruction ; she longed intensely for the 
 moment when her ear should be blessed by the sweet accents 
 of his voice. That moment came not ! the affliction of her 
 mother had descended to the child she bore, and Josephine, 
 
 K
 
 130 THE EDICT. 
 
 in irrepressible anguish, became conscious that not only was 
 his voice withheld from her, but hers might never reach his 
 ear. 
 
 Her deep affection for him, however, roused her from this 
 mournful conviction ; and energetically she sought to render 
 his affliction less painful than it had appeared, and she suc- 
 ceeded. She led him into the fields of nature — every spot 
 became to the child a fruitful source of intelligence and love, 
 providing him with language, even in inanimate objects ; by 
 his mother's grave she instilled the thoughts of God and 
 heaven, of their peculiar race and history ; of the God of 
 Israel's deep love and long-suffering ; and she was under- 
 stood — though to what extent she knew not, imagined not, 
 till the hour of trial came. That she was inexpressibly 
 assisted by the child's rapid conception of the good and 
 evil, of the sublime and beautiful — by its extraordinary 
 intellect and truly poet's soul, is true, but the lowly spirit of 
 Josephine felt as if a special blessing had attended her task, 
 and urged yet further efforts for his improvement. 
 
 By means of waxen tablets, formed by the hand of Imri 
 Benalmar, she taught him to read and write. Leading his 
 attention to familiar objects, she would write down their 
 appropriate names, and familiarising his eye to the writing, 
 he gradually associated the written word with the visible 
 object. The rest was easy to a mind like his. The flushed 
 cheek and sparkling eye denoted the intense delight with 
 which he perused the manuscripts collected, and often 
 adapted for his use by Imri, and pcesy became his passion ; 
 breathing in the simplest words, on his waxen tablets, the 
 love he bore his devoted sister, and the pure, beautiful sen- 
 timents which filled his soul. 
 
 The kindness of Imri to her Areli, passed not unfelt by 
 the heart of Josephine. Tremblingly she became conscious 
 than an emotion towards him was obtaining ascendency, 
 which she deemed it her duty to conquer, or at least pro- 
 foundly to hide. She could not forget the stigma on her 
 name, and believed none could seek her love. The daughter 
 of a murderer (for though the crime was involuntary, such 
 he was) was lonely upon earth. Dignified and reserved, 
 they would have thought her proud, had not her constant 
 kindness, her total forgetiulness of self, in continually serving- 
 others, belied the thought; but this they did think (and
 
 TFiE EDICT. 131 
 
 Imri Benalmar himself, so well did she hide her heart) that 
 her affections were centred in her aged relative and her young 
 brother. 
 
 But when the magic words were spoken, when Imri 
 Benalmar, whose unwavering piety and steady virtue had 
 caused him to stand highest and dearest in the estimation of 
 his fellows, young and old, conjured her with a respectful 
 deference, which vainly sought to calm the passionate 
 affection of his soul, to bless him with her love, her trust — 
 the long hidden feelings of Josephine were betrayed, their 
 inmost depths revealed. Blessed, indeed, was that moment 
 to them both. Fondly did Imri combat her arguments, 
 that she had no right to burden him with the aged Asher 
 and her helpless Areli, yet from them she could never con- 
 sent to part. 
 
 " Had not Areli ever been dear to him as a brother — had 
 he not always intended to prove himself such ? " he asked, 
 with many other arguments of love ; and how might 
 Josephine reply, save with tears of strong emotion to consent 
 to become his bride ? 
 
 Josef Asher heard of their engagement with delight ; but 
 he would not consent to burden them with his continued 
 company. True, he was old, but neither infirm nor ailing. 
 He w r ould retain possession of Ins own dwelling, which had 
 descended to him from many generations ; but the nearer his 
 children resided, the greater happiness for him. 
 
 Imri understood the hint, and, as if b}' magic, a picturesque 
 little cottage, not two hundred yards from her native home, 
 rose before the wondering eyes of Josephine ; and Ar^Ii, as 
 he Avatched its progress, clapped his hands in childish joy, 
 and sought to aid the workmen in their tasks. Presents from 
 all, as is the custom of the Hebrew nation, were showered on 
 the youthful couple, to enable them to commence housekeeping 
 with comfort, or add some little ornament or useful article of 
 furniture to the house or its adjoining lands. The more the 
 fiancees were beloved, the greater source of public joy was 
 a wedding in Eshcol. 
 
 The conversation which the commencement of our tale in 
 part records took place a few evenings previous to the day 
 fixed for the nuptials. 
 
 On leaving his sister and her betrothed, Ardli betook 
 himself, as was his custom, ere he joined the evening meal,
 
 132 THE EDICT. 
 
 to his mother's grave, to water the flowers around it, and 
 peruse, in his simple and innocent devotion, the little Bible 
 which Josephine and Imri's love had rendered into the 
 simplest Spanish, from the Hebrew Scriptures of their race. 
 The shades of evening had already fallen around the leafy 
 shadowed place of tombs, but there was sufficient light re- 
 maining for the boy to discern a cloaked and muffled figure 
 prostrate before his mother's grave, the head resting in a 
 posture of inexpressible anguish on the cold marble of the 
 tomb. The stranger's form moved convulsively, and though 
 Areli could distinguish no sound, he knew that it was grief 
 on which he gazed. Softly he approached and laid his little 
 hand on that of the stranger, who started in evident alarm, 
 looking upon that angelic face with a strange mixture of be- 
 wilderment and love. He spoke, but Areli shook his head 
 mournfully, putting his arm around his neck caressingly, as 
 if beseeching him to take comfort ; then, as if failing in his 
 desired object, he hastily drew his tablets from his vest, and 
 wrote rapidly — 
 
 " Poor Areli cannot speak nor hear, but he can feel ; do 
 not weep, it is so sad to see tears in eyes like thine ! " 
 
 "And why is it sad, sweet boy?" the stranger wrote in 
 answer, straining him as he did so involuntarily closer to his 
 bosom. 
 
 " Oh, mau should not weep, and man like thee, who can 
 list the sweet voice of nature, and the tones of all he loves ; 
 who can breathe forth all he thinks, and feels, and likes. 
 Tears are for poor Areli, and yet they do not come now as 
 they did once, for I have a father who loves, and who can 
 hear me too, though none else can." 
 
 "A father?" wrote the stranger. "Who is thy father, 
 gentle boy ? Thou bearest a name I know not. Tell me 
 who thou art." 
 
 " Oh, I have no father that I may see and hear — none, 
 that is, on earth ; but I love Him, for He smiles on me, 
 through the sweet flowers, and sparkling brooks, and 
 beautiful trees ; and I know Pie loves me and cares for me, 
 deaf and dumb and afflicted as I am, and he hears me when 
 I ask him to bless me and my sweet sister, and reward her 
 for all she does for me. He is up — up there, and all around." 
 He stretched out his arms, pointing to the star-lit heavens 
 and beautiful earth. " My Father's house is everywhere ;
 
 THE EDICT. 133 
 
 and when my body lies here, as my mother's does, my 
 breath will go up to Him, and Areli will be so happy — so 
 happy!" 
 
 " Thy mother !'' burst from the stranger's lips, as though 
 the child could hear him ; and his hand so trembled that he 
 could hardly guide the steel pencil which traced the word 
 " Who is thy mother — where does she lie V 
 
 Ardli laid his hand on the tomb, pointing to the name cf 
 Rachel Castello, there simply engraved. The effect almost 
 terrified him. The stranger caught him in his arms — he 
 pressed repeated kisses on his cheek, his brow, his lips — 
 clasping him, as if to release him were death. The child re- 
 turned his caresses without either impatience or dissatisfaction. 
 After a while the stranger again wrote — 
 
 "Thy sister, sweet boy — is it she who hath taught thee 
 these things — doth she live — is she happy ?" 
 
 "Oh, so happy! and Imri, kind Imri, will make her happier 
 still. Areli loves him next to Josephine, and grandfather 
 and I am to live with them, and we are all happy. Oh, how 
 I love Josephine ! I should have been so sad — so sad, had 
 she not loved me, taught me all ; but come to her — she will 
 make thee happy too, and thou wilt weep no more. The 
 evening meal waits for us both — wilt thou not come ? 
 Josephine will love thee, for thou lovest Are'li." 
 
 A deep agonized groan escaped from the stranger, vibrating 
 through his whole frame. Several minutes passed ere he 
 could make reply, and then he merely wrote, in almost 
 illegible characters — 
 
 "I am not good enough to go with you, my child. Pray 
 for me — love me ; I shall remember thee." 
 
 And then again he folded him in his arms, kissed him pas- 
 sionately, and disappeared in the gloom, ere Areli could 
 detain him or perceive his path, though he sprang forward to 
 do so. 
 
 The child watered his flowers more hastily than usual, 
 evidently preoccupied by some new train of thought, which 
 was shown by a rapid return to his grandfather's cottage, 
 and an animated recital, through signs and his tablets, of 
 all that had occurred, adding an earnest entreaty to Imri to 
 seek and find him. 
 
 Josephine started from the table — the rich glow of her 
 cheek faded into a deathlike paleness, and, without uttering a
 
 134 THE EDICT. 
 
 syllable, she threw her mantle around her and hastily ad- 
 vanced to the door. Imri and even the aged Josef threw 
 themselves before her. 
 
 "Whither wo a List thou go, Josephine, dearest Josephine? 
 this is not well — whom wouldst thou seek ?" 
 
 " My father" she replied, in a voice whose low deep tone 
 betrayed her emotion. " Shall he be lingering near, un- 
 heeded, uncared for by his child ? Imri, stay me not ; I must 
 see him once again." 
 
 " Thou must not, thou shalt not !" was Imri's agonized 
 reply, clasping her in his - arms to prevent her progress. 
 "Josephine, thy life is no longer thine own, to fling from 
 thee thus as a worthless thing; it is mine — mine by thine 
 own free gift ; thou shalt not wrest it from me thus." 
 
 " My child, seek not this stranger ; draw not the veil aside 
 which he has wisely flung around him. The penalty to both 
 may not be waived — thou mayest not see him, save to pro- 
 claim — or die. My child, my child, leave me not in my old 
 age alone." 
 
 The mournful accents of the aged man completed what the 
 passionate appeal had begun. Josephine sunk on a seat near 
 him, and burst into an agony of tears. Areli clung round 
 her, terrified at the effect of his simple tale ; and for him 
 she roused herself, warning him to repeat the tale to none, 
 but indeed to grant the stranger's boon, and remember him 
 in lowly prayers. Fearfully both Imri and Asher waited 
 the morning, dreading lest its light should betray the stranger ; 
 and thankfully did they welcome the close of that day and 
 the next without his reappearance. A very different feeling 
 actuated the afflicted Areli ; he sought him with the longing 
 wish to look on his face again, for it haunted his fancy, lin- 
 gered on his love — and a yet more hallowed spot became his 
 mother's tomb. 
 
 The intervening days had passed, the affection of Imri 
 bearing from the heart of Josephine its last lingering sad- 
 ness, and enabling her to feel the anguish her impetuosity 
 might have brought not only on her father and herself, but on 
 all whom she loved. The first of May, her bridal morn, 
 found her composed and smiling like herself. She had 
 placed her future fate, without one doubt or fear, in the 
 keeping of Imri Benalmar, for the tremors and emotions of 
 modern brides were unknown to the maidens of Eshcol ;
 
 THE EDICT. 135 
 
 •once only her calmness had been disturbed, when her young 
 brother had approached her, had clasped his arms about 
 her neck, and with glistening eyes had written his boyish 
 love. 
 
 " Look at the sun, sweet sister ; how brightly and beauti- 
 fully he shines, how soft and blue the sky, and the sweet 
 dowers, and the little birds ! Oh, they all love thee, and 
 can smile and sing their joy ! and gentle friends throng- 
 round thee, and speak loving words. Oh, why is poor 
 Areli alone silent, when his heart is so full ? But he can 
 pray, sweet sister ; pray as thou hast taught him ; and he 
 will pray his Father to give back to thee all which thou hast 
 done for him." 
 
 Was it marvel that Josephine's tears should fall over those 
 fond words ? But the boy's caresses turned that dewy joy 
 to softer smiles, as surrounded by her j'outhful companions 
 she waited the entrance of her aged relative to conduct her 
 to the temple. 
 
 Three hours after noon the nuptial party there assembled, 
 marriages among th y Hebrews seldom being performed at an 
 earlier hour. Twenty young girls dressed alike, and half 
 that number of matrons, attended the bride ; and proudly 
 did old Josef gaze upon her, as she leaned on his arm in all 
 the grace and loveliness of beautiful womanhood, uncon- 
 scious how well It contrasted with his sinewy and athletic 
 form ; his silvery beard and hair alone betrayed his four 
 score and fourteen years. There was no shadow of age 
 upon his features, beaming as they were, in his quick sym- 
 pathy, with all around him. The path was strewed with the 
 fairest flowers, and the freshest moss, of varied hues, while 
 rich garlands, interwoven with the blushing fruits, festooned 
 the trees. The whole village wore the aspect of rejoicing, 
 and every shade passed from the brow of the young Areli ; 
 the flush deepened on his fair cheek, the intense blue of his 
 beautiful»eye so fparkled in light, that the eyes of all were 
 upon him, till they glistened in strange tears. 
 
 The bridegroom awaited the bride and her companions in 
 the temple, attended by an equal number. The little ediace 
 was filled, for marriages in Eshcol were ever solemnized in 
 public ; the number that attended evincing the feelings with 
 which the betrothed were regarded. The ceremony com- 
 menced, and, save the voice of the officiating priest, there
 
 136 THE EDICT. 
 
 was silence so profound, that the faintest sound could have- 
 been distinguished. 
 
 As Josephine flung back her veil, at once to taste the 
 sacred wine, and prove to Imri that no Leah had been sub- 
 stituted for his Rachel, a distant trampling fell clearly on 
 the still air. The service continued, but many looked up to 
 the high casements as if in wonder. The sun still poured 
 down his golden flood of light ; no passing cloud announced 
 an approaching storm, so to explain the unwonted sounds as 
 distant thunder. They came nearer and nearer still ; the 
 trampling of many feet seemed echoing from the mountain 
 ground ; and at the moment Imri flung down the crystal 
 goblet on the marble at his feet, as the conclusion of the 
 solemn rites, the shrill blast of many trumpets and the long 
 roll of the pealing drum were borne on the wings of a 
 hundred echoes, far and near. Wild birds, whose rest had 
 never before been so disturbed, rose screaming from their 
 haunts, darkening the air with their flapping wings. Again 
 and again, at irregular intervals, this unusual music was re- 
 peated ; but though alarm blanched many a maiden's cheek, 
 and the brows of the sterner sex became knit with indefinable 
 emotion, the afternoon service, which ever follows the Jewish 
 nuptials, continued undisturbed. 
 
 The eyes of Josephine were fixed on Imri more in wonder 
 than alarm, and Benalmar had folded his arm round her 
 and whispered, " Mine, mine in woe or in weal ; mine 
 thou art, and wilt be, love ! whatever ill these martial sounds 
 forbode." 
 
 A smile so bright, so confiding, was the answer, that even 
 had he not felt her cling closer to his heart, Imri would have 
 been satisfied. A sudden paleness banished the rich flush 
 from the cheek of the deai and dumb ; he relinquished his 
 station under the canopy which had been held over the bride 
 and bridegroom during the ceremony, and drew closer to 
 them. He had heard indeed no sound ; but so keen are the 
 other senses of the deaf and dumb, that many have been 
 known to feel what they cannot hear. Areli could read, in 
 a moment's glance, the countenances of those around him, 
 and at the same instant he became conscious of a thrilling 
 sensation creeping through his every vein. Pie took the 
 hand of Imri and looked up inquiringly in his face. The 
 answer was g'/en, and the child resumed the pos-
 
 THE EDICT. 137 
 
 ture of devotion, which his strange feelings had dis- 
 turbed. 
 
 The last words of the presiding priest were spoken, and 
 there was silence ; even the sounds without were hushed, 
 and a voiceless dread appeared to withhold those within from 
 seeking the cause. There was evidently a struggle ere the 
 usual congratulations could be offered to the young couple ; 
 and so preoccupied was the attention of all, that the absence 
 of Areli was unnoticed, till, as trumpet and drum again 
 pierced the thin air, he darted back, and with hasty and. 
 agitated signs related what he had beheld. 
 
 " Soldiers, many soldiers ! It may be so ; yet wherefore 
 this alarm, my children ? " exclaimed the aged Asher, stepping 
 firmly forward, and speaking in an accent of mild reproof. 
 " What can ye fear ? Nazarene and Mahommedan have oft- 
 times found a shelter in this peaceful valley : fearlessly the}' 
 came, uninjured they departed. Wrong we have never done 
 to man : peace and goodwill have been our watchword ; 
 wherefore, then, should we tremble to meet these strangers ? 
 My children, the God of Israel is with us still." 
 
 The cloud passed from the brows of his hearers. The 
 young maidens emulated the calm firmness of the bride, and 
 gathering round her, followed their male companions from 
 the temple. The spot on which the sacred edifice stood 
 commanded a view of the village market-place, which, from 
 its occupying the only level ground half a mile square, was 
 surrounded by all the low dwellings of the artizans, and was 
 often the place of public meeting, when any point was dis- 
 cussed requiring the suffrages of all the male population. 
 This space was now filled with Spanish soldiers, some on 
 horseback, others on foot ; while far behind, scattered in 
 groups amongst the rocks, many a steel morion flung back 
 the sun's glistening rays. The villagers, startled and amazed, 
 had assembled on all sides, and even Josef Asher for a 
 moment paused, astonished. 
 
 " Let us on, my children," he said, " and learn the mean- 
 ing of this unusual muster. Yet stay," he added, as several 
 young men hastened forward to obey him ; " they arc about 
 to speak ; we will hear first what they proclaim." 
 
 Another flourish of drums and trumpets sounded as he 
 spoke, and then one of the foremost cavaliers, attired as a 
 herald, drew from his bosom a parchment roll. The officer. 1 *
 
 138 THE EDICT. 
 
 around doffed their helmets, and he read words to the follow- 
 ing import : — 
 
 " From the most high and mighty sovereigns, Ferdinand 
 and Isabella, joint-sovereigns of Arragon and Castile, to 
 whose puissant arms the grace of God hath given dominion 
 over all heretics and unbelievers, before whose banner of the 
 Holy Cross the Moorish abominations have crumbled into 
 dust — to, our loyal subjects of every principality and pro- 
 vince, of every rank, and stage, and calling, of every grade 
 and every state, these — to which we charge you all in charity 
 give good heed. 
 
 " Whereas we have heard and seen that the Jews of our 
 states induce many Christians to embrace Judaism, par- 
 ticularly the nobles of Andalusia ; for this they are ba- 
 nished from our domains. Four months from this day, we 
 grant them to forswear their abominations and embrace 
 Christianity, or to depart ; pronouncing death on every 
 Jew found in our kingdom after that allotted time. 
 
 (Signed) Ferdinand and Isabella. 
 
 "Given at our palace of Segovia this thirtieth day of March, 
 of the year of grace one thousand four hundred and ninety- 
 two" 
 
 As a thunderbolt falling from the blue and cloudless sky — 
 as the green and fertile earth yawning in fathomless chasms 
 beneath their feet, so, but more terribly, more vividly still, 
 did this edict fall on the faithful hearts who heard. A 
 sudden pause, and then a cry, an agonized cry of horror and 
 despair, burst simultaneously from young and old, woman 
 and child ; and then, as awakened from that stupor of woe, 
 wilder shouts arose, and the fiery youth of Eshcol gathered 
 tumultuously together, and shrill cries of " Vengeance, ven- 
 geance ! cut them down — rend the lying parchment into 
 shreds, and scatter it to the four winds of heaven — thus will 
 we defend our rights ! " found voice amid groans and hisses 
 of execration and assault. A volley 01 stones fell among the 
 Spaniards, who, standing firmly to their arms, appeared in 
 the act of charging, when both parties were arrested by the 
 aged patriarch of Eshcol rushing in their very centre, heeding 
 not, nay, unconscious of personal danger, calling on them to 
 forbear. 
 
 " Are ye all mad ? " he cried. " Would ye draw down 
 further ruin on your devoted heads ! Think ye to cope with
 
 THE EDICT. 139 
 
 those armed by a .sovereign mandate, .backed by a mighty 
 kingdom ? Oh, for the love of your wives, your children, 
 your aged, helpless parents, keep the peace and let your 
 elders speak !" 
 
 Even at that moment their natural veneration for old age 
 had influence. Reproved and sorrowful, they shrunk back — 
 the angry gesture calmed, the muttered execration silenced. 
 Surrounded by his brother elders, Asher drew near the 
 Spaniards, who struck by his venerable age and commanding 
 manner, consented to accompany him to the council -room 
 near at. hand, desiring their men on the severest penalties to 
 create no disturbance. The edict was laid before them, its 
 purport explained, enforced emphatically, yet kindly ; for the 
 Spaniards felt awed, in spite of themselves. But vainly the 
 old men urged that the given cause of their banishment 
 could not extend to tliera. They had had no dealing with 
 the Nazarene ; they lived to themselves alone ; they inter- 
 fered not with the civil or religious government of the 
 country, which had sheltered them from age to age ; they 
 warred with none, offended none ; their very existence was 
 often unsuspected ; they asked but liberty to live on as they 
 had lived; and would the sovereigns of Spain deny them 
 this ? It could not be. The Spaniards listened mildly ; but 
 the edict had gone forth, they said, unto all and every class 
 of Jews within the kingdom, and not one individual was 
 exempt from its sentence, save on the one condition — their 
 embracing Christianity. It was true that many of their 
 nation might be faithful subjects; but even did their banish- 
 ment involve loss to Spain, her sovereigns, impressed with 
 religious zeal, welcomed the temporal loss as spiritual gain. 
 If, indeed, they could not comply with the very simple con- 
 dition, they ui-ged the old men instantly to depart, for one 
 month out of the four had already elapsed, the edict bearing 
 date the last day but one of the month of March. They 
 added, the secluded situation of the valley had caused the 
 delay, and might have delaj^ed its proclamation yet longer, 
 had not chance led them to these mountains in search of an 
 officer of rank, who had wandered from them, and they 
 feared had perished in the hollows. 
 
 Even at that moment a chilling dread shot through the 
 heart of the aged Asher. Could that officer be he whom 
 Areli had seen but seven days previous ? He dared not
 
 140 THE EDICT. 
 
 listen to his heart's reply, and gave his whole attention tt 
 that which followed. A second edict, the Spaniards con- 
 tinued to state, had been issued prohibiting all Christians to 
 supply the fugitives with bread or wine, water or meat, 
 after the month of April. 
 
 The old men heard : there was little to answer, though 
 much to feel ; and sorrowing council occupied some time 
 after the officers had retired. They wished to learn the con- 
 dition of their wretched countrymen, and the real effects of 
 this most cruel edict. The blow had descended so unex- 
 pectedly, it seemed as if they could not, unless from the lips 
 of an eye-witness, believe it true, and they decided on send- 
 ing twenty of their young men to learn tidings, under the 
 control of one, calm, firm, and dispassionate enough to 
 restrain those acts of violence to which they had already 
 shown such inclination. But who was this one ? How 
 might they ask Mm? 
 
 The old men together sought the various groups, and, ex- 
 pressing their wishes, all were eager to obey. Josef Asher 
 alone approached his children, who sat apart from their com- 
 panions. He related all that had passed between them and 
 the Spaniards, and then awhile he paused. 
 
 " Imri," he said at length, " my son, thou hast seen the 
 misguided passion of our youth ; they must not go forth on 
 this mission of unhnpassioned observation alone. Our 
 elders, the wise and moderate, must husband their little 
 strength for their weary pilgrimage. Thou, my son, hast 
 their wisdom, with all the activity and energy of youth. 
 We would that thou shouldest head this band ; but a very 
 brief absence is needed. Canst thou consent ? " 
 
 A low cry of suffering broke from the pale lips of Jose- 
 phine, and she threw her arms round Imri, as thus to chain 
 him to her side. " In such an hour wilt thou leave me, 
 Imri ?" His lip quivered, his cheek paled, and the few 
 words he uttered were heard by her alone. " Yes, yes, thou 
 shalt go, my beloved ; heed not my woman's weakness. 
 Thou wilt return ; and then — then we will depart together." 
 Oh, what a world of agony did that one word speak ! 
 
 The instant departure of the younger villagers occasioned 
 some surprise, but without further interference. The 
 Spaniards began to pitch tbeir tents amongst the rocky 
 eminences, as preparing for some months' encampment.
 
 THE EDICT. - 141 
 
 Had not the inhabitants of Eshcol felt that their cup of 
 b< tterncss was already full to the brim, the appearance of an 
 armed force in the very centre of their peaceful dwellings 
 would have added gall ; but every thought, feeling, and 
 energy were merged in one engrossing subject of anguish. 
 Some there were who rejected all belief in the edict's truth. 
 They could not be banished from scenes in which they and 
 their fathers had dwelt, from age to age, in peace and bliss. 
 Others felt their minds a void ; they asked no question of 
 their elders, spoke not to each other, but in strange and 
 moody silence awaited the return of Imri and his com- 
 panions. Nor could the obnoxious sight of a huge wooden 
 crucifix, which the next morning greeted the e} r es of every 
 villagei', rouse them effectually from the lethargy of despair. 
 
 And Josephine, did she weep and moan, now that the fate 
 she so instinctively dreaded had fallen ? Her tears were on 
 her heart, lying there like lead, slowly yet surely under- 
 mining strength, and poisoning the gushing spring of life. 
 In sobs and tears her young companions gathered round her, 
 and she spoke of comfort and resignation, her gentle kind- 
 ness soothing many, and rousing them to hope, on the return 
 of the young men, things might not be found so despairing 
 as they now seemed. But when twilight had descended and 
 all was hushed, Josephine led her young brother to her 
 mother's grave. She looked on his sweet face, paled with 
 sympathetic sorrow, though as yet he knew not why he 
 wept ; and she sought to speak and tell him all, but the 
 thought that his young joys, yet more than her own, were 
 blighted — that, weakly and afflicted as he was, he too must 
 be torn from familiar scenes and objects which formed his 
 innocent pleasures, and encounter hardships and privation 
 that stood in dread perspective before her — oh, was it strange 
 that that noble spirit lost its firmness for the moment, and 
 that, sinking on the green sward, she buried her face in her 
 hands, and sobbed in an intensity of suffering which found 
 not its equal even midst the deep woe around her ? Areli 
 knelt beside her ; he clasped her cold hands within his 
 own ; he hid his head in her lap — seeking by all these mute 
 caresses, which had never before appealed in vain, to restore 
 her to composure. For his sake she roused herself ; she 
 raised her tearful eyes to the star-lit heavens in silent prayer, 
 and drawing him closer to her, commenced her painful task.
 
 142 THE EDICT. 
 
 Too well liis ready mind conceived her meaning. His beau- 
 tiful lip grew white and quivering — the dew of suffering 
 stood upon his brow ; but he shed no tear — nay, he sought 
 to smile, as thus to lessen his sister's care. But when she 
 told him the condition which was granted, and bade him 
 choose between the land of his love or the faith of his 
 fathers — a change came over his features : he started from 
 her side, the red flush rushing to his cheek ; he drew his 
 little Bible from his bosom, pressed it fervently to his lips 
 and heart, shook his clenched fist in direction of the Spanish 
 encampment, and then laid down beside the grave. " My 
 boy, my boy, there spoke the blessed spirit of our race ! " and 
 tears of inexpressible emotion coursed down the cheek of 
 Josephine, as she clasped him convulsively to her aching 
 heart. " Death and exile, aye, torture, thou wilt brave 
 rather than desert thy faith. My God, my God, thou wilt be 
 with us still ! " 
 
 It was not till the nintli day from their departure that 
 Imri Benalmar and his companions returned. One glance 
 sufficed to read their mournful tale. On all sides, they 
 said, they had beheld but cruelty and ruin, perjury or 
 despair. From every town, from every province, their 
 wretched brethren were flocking to the sea-coast — their 
 homes, their lands left to the ruthless spoiler, or sold for 
 one-tenth of their value. They told of a vineyard exchanged 
 for a suit of clothes — a house with all its valuables, for a 
 mule. Their gold, silver, and jewels, prohibited cither to 
 be exchanged or carried away with them, became the prey of 
 their cruel persecutors. Famine and horror on every side 
 assailed them ; many they had seen famishing on the roads, 
 for none dared give them a bit of bread or a draught of 
 water ; and even mothers were known to slay their own 
 children, husbands their wives, to escape the agony of watch- 
 ing their lingering deaths. Their illustrious countryman, 
 Isaac Abarbanel, Imri said, had offered an immense sum to 
 refill the coffers of Spain, emptied as they were by the 
 Moorish war, would his sovereigns recal the fatal edict. 
 They had appeared to hesitate, when Thomas de Torque- 
 mada, advancing boldly into the royal presence, raised high 
 before them a crucifix, and bade them beware how they sold 
 for a higher price Him whom Judas betrayed for thirty 
 pieces of silver — to think how they would render an account
 
 THE EDICT. 143 
 
 of their bargain before God. He had prevailed, and the 
 edict continued in full force. 
 
 On a towering rock, in the centre of the mourning popu- 
 lace, the aged Asher stood. He stretched forth his hands 
 in an attitude of supplication, and tears and groans were 
 hushed to a voiceless pause. There was a deep-red spot on 
 the old man's either cheek, but his voice was still firm, his 
 attitude commanding. 
 
 " My children," he said, " we have heard our doom, and 
 even as our brethren we must go forth. Let us not in our 
 misery blaspheme the God who so long hath blessed us with 
 prosperity and peace, and pour down idle curses on our foes. 
 My children, cruel as they seem, they are but His tools ; 
 and therefore, as to His decree, let us bow without a 
 murmur. Have we forgotten that on earth the exiles of 
 Jerusalem have no resting — that for the sins of our fathers 
 the God of Justice is not yet appeased ? Oh, if we have, 
 this fearful sentence may be promulgated to recal us to 
 Himself, ere prosperity be to us, as to our misguided an- 
 cestors, the curse, hurling us into eternal misery. We bow 
 not to man ; it is the God of Israel we obey ! We must 
 hence ; for who amongst us will deny Him ? Tarry not, 
 then, my children ; we are but few days' journey from the 
 sea, and in this are blest above our fellows. Waste not, 
 then, the precious time allowed us in fruitless sorrow. 
 There are some among ye who speak of weakness and 
 timidity, in thus yielding to our foes without one blow in 
 defence of our rights. Sights ! unhappy men, ye have no 
 rights ! Sons of Judah, have ye yet to learn we are wan- 
 derers on the face of the earth, without a country, a king, a 
 judge in Israel ? My children, we have but one treasure, 
 which, if called upon, we can DIE* to defend — the glorious 
 faith our God himself hath given. To Him, then, let us 
 unite in solemn prayer, beseeching His guidance in our 
 weary pilgrimage — His forgiveness on our orucl foes ; and 
 fearless and faithful we will go forth whore His will may 
 lead." 
 
 The old man knelt, and all followed his example ; and 
 silence, deep as if that wild scene were desolate, suc- 
 ceeded those emphatic words. A fervent blessing was then 
 pronounced by the patriarch, and all departed to their 
 homes.
 
 144 THE EDICT. 
 
 And now day after day beheld the departure of one or two 
 families from the village. We may dwell no lunger on their 
 feelings, nor on those of their brethren in other parts of 
 Spain. We envy not those who feel no sympathy in that 
 devotedness to a persecuted faith, which could bid men go 
 forth from their homes, their temples, the graves of their 
 lathers, the schools where for centuries they had presided, 
 honoured even bv their foes, and welcome exile, privation, 
 misery of every kind, woes far worse than death, rather than 
 depart from it. If they think we have exaggerated, let the 
 sceptic look to the histories of every nation in the middle 
 ages, and they will acknowledge this simple narrative is but 
 a faint outline of the sufferings endured by the persecuted 
 Hebrews, and inflicted by those who boast their religion to 
 be peace on earth and goodwill to all men. 
 
 Reduced from affluence to poverty, from every comfort to 
 the dim vista of every privation, without the faintest con- 
 sciousness where to seek a home, or how to cross the ocean, 
 did Imri Benalmar regret that he had now a wife and a 
 young, helpless boy for whom to provide ? Nay ; that Jose- 
 phine was his, ere this dread edict was proclaimed, was even 
 at this moment a source of unaided rejoicing. He knew 
 her noble spirit, and that, had not the solemn service been 
 actually performed, she would have refused his protection, 
 his love, and, rather than burden him with such increase of 
 care, have lingered in that vale to die. That she was in- 
 violably his own, endowed him, however, with an energy to 
 bear, which, had he been alone, would have failed him. He 
 thought but of her sufferings ; for, though from her lips they 
 had never found a voice, lie knew what she endured. He 
 told her there were some of their unhappy countrymen, who, 
 rather than lose the honourable situations they enjoyed, the 
 riches they possessed, had made a public profession of 
 Christianity, and received baptism at the very moment they 
 made a solemn vow, in secret, to act up to the tenets of their 
 fathers' faith. 
 
 ''Alas ! are there indeed such amongst us, thus doubly 
 perjured?" was the sole observation of Josephine, looking 
 up sorrowfully in his face. 
 
 '"' They do not think it perjury, my beloved : they say the 
 God of Israel will pardon the public falsehood, in considera- 
 tion of their secret allegiance to Himself."
 
 THE EDICT. 145 
 
 " But thou, Imri, canst tliou approve this course of acting ? 
 Couldst thou rest in such fatal security ? " 
 
 " Were I alone, my Josephine, with none to love or care 
 for, death itself were preferable ; but oh, when I look on 
 thee, and remember thy deep love for this fair soil — when I 
 think on Areli, on all that he must suffer — the misery we 
 must all endure — I could wish my mind would reconcile 
 itself to act as others do ; that to serve my God in secret, 
 and those of wood and stone in public, were no perjury." 
 
 " Oh, do not say so, Imri ; think not of me, my beloved : 
 I love not my home better than my God — I would not accept 
 peace and prosperity at such a price ! Had I been alone, 
 death, even by the sword of slaughter, would have been 
 welcome, would have found me here, for I could not have 
 gone forth. But now I am thine, Imri, thine, and whither 
 thou goest I will go ; and thou shalt make me another home 
 than this, my husband, where we may worship our God in 
 peace and joy, and there shall be blessing for us yet." 
 
 She had spoken with a smile so inexpressibly affecting in 
 its plaintive sweetness, that her husband could only press 
 her to his heart in silence, and inwardly pray it might be as 
 she said. Of Areli she had not spoken, and he guessed too 
 truly wherefore. From the hour of their banishment, a 
 change had come over the spirit of the boy ; his smiles still 
 greeted those he loved, but he was longer away than was his 
 wont, and Imri, following him at a distance, could see him 
 ever lingering amid his favourite haunts ; and when far re- 
 moved, as he believed, from the sight of man, he would fling 
 himself on the grass, and weep, till sometimes, from very 
 exhaustion, sleep would steal over him, and then, starting 
 up, he would make hasty sketches of some much-loved 
 scenes, to prove to his sister how well he had been em- 
 ployed. 
 
 These painful proofs of the poor boy's sorrow Imri could 
 conceal, but not the decay of bodily strength ; or deny, when 
 Josephine appealed to him, that his frame became yet more 
 shadowy in its beautiful proportions, — that the rose which 
 had spread itself on either cheek, the unwonted lustre of the 
 eye, the increased transparency of his complexion, told of 
 the loveliness of another world ; yet for him how might they 
 grieve ? 
 
 It happened that one of the Spanish soldiers, a father 
 
 L
 
 I4G tub ll>:ot. 
 
 himself, and less violently prejudiced than his fellers, had 
 taken a fancy to the beautiful and afflicted boy always wan- 
 dering about alone ; and he thought it would be doing a kind 
 action to prevent his accompanying the fugitives, by adopting 
 him as his own ; believing it would be easy to rear him to 
 the Catholic church, as one so young, and moreover, deaf 
 and dumb, could have imbibed little of the Jewish mis- 
 belief. Kindly and tenderly he sought and won the child's 
 affection, and found means to converse with him intel- 
 ligibly. 
 
 Incapable of thinking evil, Ardli doubted not his com- 
 panion's kindness, and though aware he was a Spaniard and a 
 Catholic, artlessly betrayed the deep suffering his banishment 
 engendered. Fadrique worked on this ; he told him he 
 should not leave them, that he would bring his family and 
 live there, and Areli should be loved by all. He worked 
 on the boy's fancy till he felt he had gained his point, 
 then erecting a small crucifix, bade him kneel and worship. 
 
 The film passed from the eyes of the child, indignation 
 flashed from every feature, and springing up, he tore the 
 cross to the earth, and trampled it into the dust. Ten or 
 twelve soldiers who had been carelessly watching Fadrique's 
 proceedings from a distance, enraged beyond measure at this 
 insult from a puny boy, darted towards him, flung him 
 violently to the earth, and pointed their weapons at i. ; s 
 throat. At that instant Josephine stood before them ; for 
 she too had watched, with the anxious eye of affection, the 
 designs of Fadrique. 
 
 " Are ye men ! " she exclaimed, and the rude soldiers 
 shrunk abashed from her glance, " that thus ye would take 
 the blood of an innocent helpless child — one whose very 
 affliction should appeal to mercy, denied as it may be to 
 others ? On yourselves ye called this insult to your faith. 
 How else could he tell ye he refused your offers? You bade 
 him acknowledge that which his soul abhors ; and was it 
 strange his hand should prove that which he hath no voice to 
 speak ? And for this would ye take his life ? Oh, shame, 
 shame on your coward hearts ! " 
 
 Sullenly the men withdrew, at once awed by her mien, 
 and remembering that in assaulting any Hebrew before the 
 time specified in the edict was over, they were liable to 
 military severity. Fadrique lingered.
 
 THE EDICT. 14? 
 
 " This was not my seeking," lie said respectfully ; " I 
 Sought but the happiness of that poor child : I would save 
 liim from the doom of suffering chosen by the elders of his 
 race. Leave him with me, and I pledge my sacred word his 
 life shall be a happy one." 
 
 " I thank thee for thy offer, soldier," replied Josephine, 
 mildly, " but my brother has chosen his own fate ; I have 
 used neither entreaties nor commands." 
 
 The boy, who had betrayed no fear even when the deadly 
 weapons w r ere at his throat, now took the hand of Fadrique, 
 and by a few expressive signs craved pardon for the insult 
 he had been led to commit, and firmly and expressively re- 
 fused his every offer. 
 
 " Thou hast yet to learn the deep love borne to our faith 
 by her persecuted children, my good friend," said Josephine, 
 perceiving the man's surprise was mingled with some softer 
 feeling ; " that even the youngest Jewish child will prefer 
 slavery, exile, or death, to forswearing his father's God. 
 May the God of Israel bless thee for the kindness thou 
 hast shown this poor afflicted boy, but seek him not 
 again." 
 
 She drew him closer to her, and they disappeared to- 
 gether. A tear rose to the Spaniard's eye, but he hastily 
 brushed it away, and then telling his rosary, as if it 
 were sin thus to care for an unbeliever, rejoined his com- 
 rades. 
 
 The family of Imri Benalmar was the last to quit the vale. 
 Each was mounted on a mule, and there were two led or 
 sumpter mules, on which was strapped as much clothing as 
 they could conveniently stow away, and provisions which 
 they hoped would last them till the3 r reached the vessel, 
 knowing well they could procure no more. Some few 
 valuables Imri contrived to secrete, but his fortune, prin- 
 cipally consisting in land and its produce, was of necessity 
 irretrievably ruined. 
 
 Josef Asher accompanied them ; he had been active in 
 consoling, encouraging, and assisting his weaker brethren. 
 Not a family departed without receiving some token of his 
 sympathy and love ; and young and old crowded round him, 
 ere they went, imploring his blessings and his prayers. 
 
 It was, however, observed that of his own departure, his 
 own plans, Asher never spoke. That he would accompany
 
 148 THE EDICT. 
 
 his children, all believed, and so did Josephine herself; but 
 all were mistaken. 
 
 On the evening of their first day's journey, as they halted* 
 for rest and refreshment, some unusual emotion was ob- 
 servable in the mien and features of the old man. He asked 
 them to join him in prayer, and as he concluded, he spread 
 his hands upon their heads, and blessed each by name, em- 
 phatically, unfalteringly, as in his days of youth. 
 
 " And now," he said, as they arose, " farewell, my beloved 
 children. The God of Israel go with ye, and lead ye, even 
 as our ancestors of old, with the daily cloud and nightly 
 pillar. I go no further with ye." 
 
 " No further ! what means our father ? " exclaimed Imri and 
 Josephine together. 
 
 " That I am too old to go forth to another land, my 
 children. The God of Judah demands not this from his old 
 and weary servant. Fourscore and fifteen years I have 
 served Him in the dwelling-place of mine own people, and 
 there shall His Angel find me. My sand is well-nigh run 
 out, my strength must fail ere I reach the shore. Wherefore, 
 then, should I go forth, and by my infirmities bring down 
 danger and suffering on my children ? Oppose me not, be- 
 loved ones ; refuse not your aged father the blessing of dying 
 beside his own hearth." 
 
 " Alone, untended, and perchance by the sword of 
 slaughter ? Oh, my father, ask us not this ! " exclaimed Jose- 
 phine, with passionate agony throwing herself at his feet 
 and clinging to his knees. 
 
 " My child, the Spirit of my God will tend me : I shall 
 not 1 e alone, for His ministering angels will hover round me 
 ere Pie takes me to Himself ; and if it be by the sword of 
 slaughter, 'twill be perchance an easier passage for this sor- 
 rowing soul than the lingering death of age." 
 
 " Then let me return and die with you ! " 
 
 " Not so, my child ! thy life hath barely passed its spring ; 
 'twould be sin thus to sport with death. The God who calls 
 me to death, bids thee go forth to serve Him — to proclaim 
 His great name in other lands. Thy husband, thy poor 
 Areli, both call on thee to live for them ; thou wouldst not 
 turn from the path of duty, my beloved child, dark and 
 dreary as it may seem. See, thine Imri weeps ; and thou, who 
 shouldst cheer, hast caused these unmanly tears."
 
 THE EDICT. 149 
 
 She turned towards her husband, and with a painful sob, 
 sunk into his extended arms. Asher gave one long lingering 
 look of love, folded the weeping Areli to his bosom, and ere 
 Irnri could sufficiently recover his emotion to speak, the old 
 man was gone. 
 
 The death he sought was speedily obtained. The Spanish 
 officers and several of the men had quitted Eshcol, leaving 
 only the lowest rank of soldiery to keep watch lest any of 
 the fugitives should return, and, taking advantage of the 
 .secluded situation of the vale, set the edict at defiance. 
 Effectually to prevent this, the men were commanded to turn 
 the little temple to a place of worship for true believers. 
 Workmen, with images, shrines, and pictures, were sent 
 to assist them, and a pension promised to every Catholic 
 family who would reside there, thus to exterminate utterly 
 all trace of heresy and its abominations. 
 
 The men thus employed, ignorant and bigoted, exulted in 
 the task assigned them, and only lamented that no human 
 blood had been shed to render their holocausts to their patron 
 saints more efficacious still. The return of Asher excited 
 ,some surprise, but believing he would depart ere the allotted 
 period had expired, they took little heed of his movements. 
 The work continued, crosses were affixed to every side, 
 images decked the interior, and all promised fair completion, 
 when one night a wild cry of fire resounded, and hurrying to 
 the spot, they beheld their work in flames. It was an awful 
 picture. The night was pitchy dark, but far and near the 
 thick woods and blackened heavens suddenly blazed up with 
 lurid hue. There were dusky forms hurrying to and fro ; 
 oaths and execrations mingled with the stormy gusts which 
 fanned the flames into greater fury; and, amidst them all, 
 calmly looking on the work his hand had wrought, there 
 -stood an aged man, whose figure, in that glow of light, ap- 
 peared gigantically proportioned, his silvery hair streamed 
 back from his broad unwrinkled brow, and stern, unalterable 
 resolution was impressed upon his features. He was seen, 
 recognised, and with a yelling shout the murderers darted on 
 their prey. 
 
 "Come on!" he cried, waving his arms triumphantly 
 above his head. " Come on, and wreak your vengeance on 
 these aged limbs ; 'tis I have done this ! Better flames 
 should hurl it to the dust, than the temple of God be pro-
 
 150 THE EDICT. 
 
 faned by -the abominations He abhors. Come on, I glory in 
 the deed!" 
 
 He spoke, and fell pierced with a hundred wounds. A 
 smile of peculiar beauty lighted up his features. " Blessed 
 be the God of Israel, the sole One, the Holy One ! " he cried, 
 and his spirit lied rejoicing to the God he served. 
 
 Slowly and painfully did Imri's little family pursue their 
 way. They chose the most secluded paths, but even there 
 truces of misery and death awaited them, and they shrank 
 from suffering they could not alleviate. There might be seen 
 a group dragging along their failing limbs, their provisions 
 exhausted, and the pangs of hunger swallowing up all other- 
 thoughts. There lay the blackening bodies of those who had 
 sunk and died, scarcely missed, and often envied by the sur- 
 vivors. Often did the sound of their footsteps scare away 
 large flocks of carrion birds, who, screaming and flapping 
 their heavy wings, left to the travellers the loathsome sight of 
 their half-devoured prey. And they saw, too, the tearful 
 fascinated gaze of those in whom life was not utterly extinct, 
 as they watched the progress of these horrible birds, dread- 
 ing lest they should dart upon thorn ere death had rendered, 
 them insensible. Josephine looked on these things, and then 
 on her young brother, whose strength each day too evidently 
 declined. 
 
 Areli's too sensitive spirit shrank in shuddering anguish 
 from every fresh scene of human suffering. He, whose 
 young life had been so full of peace and bliss, knowing but 
 love and good-will passing from man to mau, how might he 
 sustain the change? He had no voice to speak those feel- 
 ings, no time to give them vent in the sweet language of 
 poesy, which, in happier hours, had been the tablet of his 
 soul. As the invisible worm at the root of a blooming 
 flower, secretly destroying its sap, its nourishment, and the 
 flower falls ere one of its leaves hath lost its beauty, so it 
 was with the orphan hoy. Each day was Imri compelled to 
 shorten more and more their journey, for often would Areli 
 drop fainting from his mule, though the check retained its 
 exquisite bloom, his eye its lustre. Imri became fearfully 
 anxious ; from the comparative vicinity of the sea-shore, he 
 had believed their provisions would be more than sufficient 
 to last them on their way, but from these unlooked-for de- 
 lays, the horrors of iamine, thirst, that most horrible death>
 
 THE EDICT. 151 
 
 stood darkly before him. Josephine, his own, his loved, 
 would she encounter horrors such as they had witnessed '. 
 Imri shuddered. 
 
 One evening, Areli lay calmly on the soft bed of moss and 
 heath his sister's love had framed ; his hand clasped hers ; 
 his eyes seemed to speak the unutterable love and gratitude 
 he felt. They were in the wildest part of a thick "forest in 
 the Sierra Nevada ; and Imri, unable to look on the suffer- 
 ings of his beloved ones, had wandered forth alone. Distant 
 sounds of the chase fell at intervals on the ears of Josephine ; 
 but they were far away, and her soul was too enwrapt to heed 
 them. Suddenly, however, her attention was effectually 
 roused by the large crashing of the buslies near them, accom- 
 panied by low yet angry growls. Areli marked the sudden 
 change in her features, his eye too had caught an object by 
 her still unseen. He sprang up with that strength which 
 energy of feeling so often gives when bodily force has gone, 
 and grasped tightly the hunting spear lie held ; scarcely had 
 he done so, when a huge boar sprung through the thicket, 
 his flanks streaming with blood, his tusks upraised, his mouth 
 gaping, covered with foam, and uttering growls, denoting 
 pain and fury yet more clearly than his appearance. He 
 .stood for a second motionless, then, as if startled by the ago- 
 nized scream of terror bursting from Josephine, he sprung 
 upon the daring boy. Undauntedly Areli met his approach. 
 His spear, aimed by an eye that never failed, pierced him for 
 a second to the earth, but, alas ! the strength of the boy was 
 not equal to his skill. The boar, yet more enraged, tore the 
 on from the ground, which it had not pierced above an 
 inch. Once more he fell, struck down by a huge stick, 
 which Areli, with the speed of lightning, had snatched up. 
 Again he rose, and fastened on the child. A blow from 
 behind forced him to relax his stifling hold ; furious, he 
 turned on the slight girl who had dared attack him, and 
 Josephine herself would have shared her brother's fate, 
 when the spear of Imri whizzed through the air, true to its 
 mark, and the huge animal, with a cry of pain and fury, 
 rolled lifeless on the ground. 
 
 The voice of his beloved had startled Imri from his 
 mournful trance ; the roar which followed explained its 
 source, and winged by terror, he arrived in time. Jose- 
 phine was saved indeed, but no word of thankfulness broke
 
 152 THE EDICT. 
 
 from that heart, which, in grateful devotion, had never 
 been dumb before. She knelt beside the seemingly lifeless 
 body of her Areli, scarcely conscious of the presence of 
 her husband ; his hands, his neck, his brow, were deluged 
 in blood ; she bathed him plentifully with cold water. 
 Could she remember at such a moment that no springs 
 were near, and that, if overwhelmed with thirst, the 
 pure element would be denied them ? Oh, no, no ; she 
 saw only the helpless sufferer, to whom her spirit clung 
 with a love that, in their affliction, had with each hour 
 grown stronger. 
 
 But death was still a brief while deferred, though so 
 fearfully had Ardli been injured, they could not move 
 him thence. His wounds were numerous and painful, and 
 strength to support himself, even in a sitting position, never 
 again returned. Yet never was that sweet face sad ; his 
 smiles, his signs were ever to implore his sister not to weep 
 for him — to take comfort and be happy in another land ; 
 that the blissfulness of heaven was already on his soul — that 
 if it might be, he would pray for her before his God, and 
 hover like a guardian spirit over her weary wanderings, till 
 he led her to a joyous home. For him, indeed, Josephine 
 might not grieve, but for Imri she felt the deepest anxiety. 
 The horrors to which this unlooked-for delay exposed him 
 had startled her into consciousness, and on her knees she 
 besought him to seek his own safety ; she would not weakly 
 shrink, but when all was over she would follow him, and, in 
 all probability, they would meet again in another land ; not 
 to risk his precious life and strength by lingering with her 
 beside the dying boy. She pleaded with all a woman's un- 
 selfish love, but, need we say, in vain? — that Imri's sole 
 answer was to lift his right hand to heaven and swear, by all 
 they both held most sacred, never to leave her — they would 
 meet their fate together ? Days passed ; their small portion 
 of food and water, economised as it was, dwindled more and 
 more away, and so did the strength of Ardli. It was a night 
 of unclouded beauty ; millions and millions of stars spangled 
 the deep blue heavens ; the moon in her full glory walked 
 forth to silver many a dark tree, and dart her most 
 refulgent rays on that little group of human suffering. 
 Yet all was not suffering ; the purest happiness beamed on 
 the features of the dying, and an unconscious calm per-
 
 THE EDICT. 153 
 
 yaded the weary spirit of these lonely watchers. Nature 
 was so still, they spoke almost in whispers, as fearing to 
 disturb her. 
 
 A sudden change spread on the features of the dying boy. 
 Imri started: "Josephine, the chains are rent — he hears 
 us !" he cried ; and Josephine, raising him in her arms, 
 almost involuntarily spoke in uttered words, " Areli, my 
 own, my beautiful !" 
 
 He heard ; the film was removed one brief moment from 
 his ear ; her voice, sweet as thrilling music, fell upon his 
 soul : his lips moved, and one articulate word then came, 
 unearthly in its sweetness, " Josephine ! " He raised his 
 clasped hands to heaven, and sunk back upon her bosom : 
 his soul had hovered on the earth one moment free, then 
 lied for ever. 
 
 Imri and Josephine joined in prayer beside the loved. 
 They neither mourned nor wept, and calmly Josephine 
 wrapped the fadeless flower in the last garment of mortality, 
 while Imri formed his resting-place. They laid him in that 
 humble grave, strewed flowers and moss upon it, prayed that 
 their God would in mercy guard his body from the ravening 
 beasts, then turned from that hallowed spot, and silently 
 pursued their journey. 
 
 It wanted out two da)^s to the completion of the allotted 
 period, when, faint, weak, and well-nigh exhausted, Imri and 
 his Josephine stood on the sea-shore, and there horrible 
 indeed was the sight that presented itself. Hundreds 
 of the wretched fugitives lay famishing on the scorch- 
 ing sands. Many who had dragged on their failing limbs 
 through all the horrors of famine, of thirst, of miseries in a 
 thousand shapes, which the very pen shrinks from delineating, 
 arrived there but to die ; for there were but few vessels to 
 bear them to other lands, and these often sailed with half 
 their number, either because the bribes they demanded were 
 refused (for the wretched victims had nought to give), or 
 that their captains swore so many heretics would sink their 
 ships, and they would take no more. Then it was that, with 
 a crucifix in one hand, and bread and wine in the other, the 
 Catholic priests advanced to the half senseless sufferers, and 
 offered the one, if they acknowledged the other. Was it 
 marvel that at such a moment there were some who yielded ? 
 Oh, there is a glory and a triumph in the martyr's death »
 
 154 THE EDICT. 
 
 Men look with admiring awe on those who smile when at 
 the stake ; but the faith that inspired courage and firmness 
 and constancy 'mid suffering which we have but faintly out- 
 lined — 'mid lingering torments 'neath which the heart, yet 
 more than the frame, was crushed — that faith is regarded 
 Avith scorn as a blinded, wilful misbelief. Could man endow 
 his own spirit with this devotedness? Pride might load 
 him to the stake, but not to bear what Israel had borne, 
 aye, and will bear till the wrath of his God is turned 
 aside. No ; the same God who strengthened Abraham to 
 offer up his son, enables His wretched people to give up all 
 for Him. Would He do this, had they denied and mocked 
 Him ? 
 
 Imri saw the cold shuddering creeping over the blighted 
 form of his beloved, and he led, her to a sheltering rock, 
 whose projecting cliffs partly concealed the wretched objects 
 on the beach. There was one vessel on the broad ocean, and 
 in her he determined at once to secure a passage, if to do so 
 cost the forfeit of the few valuables he had been enabled to 
 secrete. He lingered awhile by the side of his Josephine, 
 for he saw, with anguish, the noble spirit, which had so long 
 sustained and consoled her, now for the first time appear to- 
 droop. The sudden appearance of a Spanish officer, and his 
 apparent advance towards them, arrested him as he was 
 about to depart. He was attired richly, his whole bearing 
 seeming to denote a person of some rank and consequence. 
 Josephine's gaze became almost unconsciously riveted upon 
 him. He came nearer, nearer still ; they could trace his 
 features, on which sorrow or care had fixed its stamp. A 
 moment he removed the plumed cap from his head, and 
 passed his hand across his brow. An exclamation of recog- 
 nition 'escaped the lips of Imri, and in another moment 
 Josephine had bounded forward and was kneeling at his 
 feet. "My father! my father!" she sobbed forth. "0 
 God, I thank Thee for this unlooked-for mercy. I have 
 seen him once again." 
 
 " Thou — art thou my child, my Josephine, whom I left in 
 such bright, blooming beauty — whom I have sought in such 
 trembling anguish from the moment I might reach these 
 shores ? Child of my Rachel, art thou, canst thou be ? Oh, 
 yes, yes, yes ! 'Twas thus she looked when I departed. 
 Could I hope to see thee as I left thee, when blight and
 
 THE EDICT.* 155 
 
 misery fell upon thy native vale, as on all the dwellings of 
 thy wretched race ? And I — God ! — my child, my child, 
 curse me, hate me — I hurled down destruction on thy 
 house." 
 
 But even as he spoke in those wild accents of ungovern- 
 able passion, but too familiar to the ears that heard, he had 
 raised and strained her convulsively to his breast, covering 
 her cheeks and lips with kisses, till his burning tears of 
 agonized remorse mingled with those of softer feeling on 
 the cheeks of Josephine. But not long might she indulge in 
 the blessed luxury of tears ; shuddering, she repeated his 
 last words, gazing up in his face with eyes of horrified 
 inquiry. 
 
 " Yes, I, even I, my child. I was not sufficiently wretched 
 — the bitter cup of remorse was not yet full. The edict was 
 proclaimed. On all sides there was but wretchedness and 
 unutterable misery, beyond all this woe-built world hath 
 known. Then came a wild yearning to look again upon my 
 native vale — to know if in truth its concealed and sheltered 
 caves had escaped uninjured by the wide-spreading, devas- 
 tating scourge that edict brought — to look on thee, my child, 
 if I might without endangering that precious life — to know 
 the fate of my unborn babe. I dared not dream mj wife yet 
 lived. Josephine, I looked upon her tomb, and by its side 
 beheld my own, my beautiful, my unknown boy. God ! 
 God ! my crime was visited upon his innocent head ; and 
 where — oh, where is he ? Why may I not look upon his 
 sweet face again ?" 
 
 He ceased, choked by overwhelming emotion, and some 
 minutes passed ere either of his agitated listeners could 
 summon sufficient composure to reply. But the anguish of 
 Castello seemed incapable of increase. For several minutes, 
 indeed, he was silent ; the convulsive workings of his 
 features denoting how deeply that simple narrative had sunk. 
 When he spoke, it was briefly and hurriedly to relate how he 
 had lingered in the vicinity of Eshcol, till at length discovered 
 by a party of Spaniards sent to seek him, with a message from 
 the sovereigns. His w T anderings had been tracked, and that 
 which he had most desired to avert he had been the means of 
 accomplishing — the discovery of the vale. And then con- 
 vulsively clasping the hands of Josephine and Imri in 
 his own, he besought them to remove in part the load
 
 15G THE EDICT. 
 
 of misery from his heart — to say they would not leave him 
 more. 
 
 " Goest thou then forth, my father ? Hast thou indeed 
 tarried for us, that we may seek a home together?" The 
 lather's eyes shrunk beneath those mild inquiring eyes. 
 
 " My child, I go not forth," he said at length, and his voice 
 trembled. Josephine gently withdrew herself from his arms, 
 and laid her hand on her husband's. 
 
 " My child ! my noble child," he said, in smothered accents, 
 " I am not perjured. I am still a son of Israel, though to 
 the world a Catholic. Oh, do not turn from me. Come with 
 me to my home, and thou shall see how the exiled and the 
 persecuted can defy the power of their destroyers. Life, with 
 every luxury, shall be thy portion ; thine Imri shall have 
 every dream of ambition and joy fulfilled. The children of 
 »Sigismund Castello will be courted, cherished, and loved. 
 'Tis but to kneel in public before the cross of the Nazarene — 
 in private, we are sons of Israel still." 
 
 " Father, urge me not ; it cannot be," was her calm and 
 firm reply. 
 
 " Hast thought on all that must befall thee in other, per- 
 chance ecpaally hostile, lands ? My child, thou knowest not 
 all thou mayest have to endure." 
 
 " It is welcome," she answered ; " the more rugged 
 the path to heaven, the more blessed will seem my final 
 rest." 
 
 "And thou wilt leave me to all the agonies of remorse ; 
 to struggle on with the blackening thought, that not only 
 have I murdered those I love best on earth — m}^ wife, my 
 boy — but sent ye forth to poverty, privation, and misery. 
 Josephine, Josephine, have mercy ! " and the father threw 
 himself before his child, grovelling in the sand, and clasping 
 his hands in the wild energy of supplication. 
 
 " Father, father, drive me not mad ! I cannot, can- 
 not bear this. Imri, my husband, if thou wouldst save 
 my heart from treachery, raise him — in mercy raise him. 
 I cannot answer with him there ! God, God of Israel ! 
 leave me not now. My brain is reeling — save me from 
 myself." 
 
 She staggered back, and terrified at those accents of almost 
 madness, her father sprang from the ground, he caught her 
 again in his arms, while Imri, kneeling beside her. chafed
 
 THE EDICT. 15* 
 
 tier cold hands in his, imploring her to speak, to look on him 
 again. 
 
 " My child, my child, wake, wake ! I will not grieve 
 thee thus again. But oh, thy husband's look would 
 pray thee not to go forth ! The God of love, of pity, 
 demands not this self-sacrifice. Imri, one word from thee 
 would be sufficient. Look on her. Think to what_ thou 
 bearest her, when peace, comfort, and luxuries await ye, 
 with but one word. Speak, speak ! Thou canst not, wilt- 
 not take her hence." 
 
 Though well-nigh senseless, well-nigh so exhausted alike in 
 body and mind that further exertion seemed impossible, 
 Josephine roused herself from that trance of faintness to gaze 
 wildly and fearfully on the face of her husband. It was 
 terribly agitated. She threw herself on his neck, and gasped 
 forth, "Canst thou bid me do this thing, my husband?" 
 He struggled to answer, but there came no word. Strength, 
 the mighty strength of virtue, returned to that sinking frame. 
 She s'tood erect, and spoke without one quivering accent or 
 one failing word. 
 
 " Imri, my husband ! by the love thou bearest me, by all 
 we both hold sacred, by that great and ineffable name we 
 are forbidden to pronounce, I charge thee answer me truly. 
 Didst thou stand alone — were Josephine no more — how 
 wouldst thou decide ? The eye of God is upon thee — deceive 
 me not !" 
 
 He turned from that searching glance, his strong frame 
 shook with emotion ; his voice was scarcely audible, yet these 
 words came — 
 
 " I never could deny my God ! Exile and death were 
 welcome — but for thee ! " 
 
 "Enough, my husband!" she exclaimed, and throwing 
 her arms around him, she turned again to her father, a glow 
 of holy triumph tinging her pallid check. "And wouldst 
 thou tempt him to perjury for my sake ? On, no, no ! father, 
 beloved, revered, from the first hour I could lisp thy name, 
 oh, pardon me this first disobedience to thy will ! Did I 
 linger, how might I save thee from remorse ; when each day. 
 each hour, thou wouldst see me fade beneath the whelming 
 weight of perjury and falsity ? No, no ! Bless me, oh, 
 bless me, ere I go, and the prayers of thy child shall rise 
 each hour for thee ! "
 
 158 THE EDICT. 
 
 Again she knelt before him, and Castello, inexpressibly 
 affected, felt lie dared urge no more. How might he agonize 
 that heart ; when in neither word, nor hint, nor sign did she 
 litter reproach on him ? Again and again he reiterated 
 blessings on her sainted head ; and when he could re- 
 lease her from his embrace, it was to secure their speedy 
 passage in the vessel, which his command had detained 
 in her moorings ; though the hope that he should once 
 more look upon his child had well-nigh faded ere she 
 came. 
 
 The exiles stood upon the deck. A hundred other of the 
 miserable fugitives had found a refuge in this same vessel, 
 whose captain, somewhat more humane than many of his 
 fellows, and richly bribed by Castello, set food before the 
 famishing wanderers directly they had weighed anchor. But 
 even the cravings of nature were lost in the one feeling, that 
 they gazed for the last time on the land they loved. There 
 were dark thunder-clouds sweeping over the sky, mingled 
 with others of brilliant colouring, that proclaimed the hour of 
 sunset. The ocean-horizon seemed buried in murky gloom ; 
 but the shores of Spain stood forth bathed in a glow of warm 
 red light, as if to bid the unhappy wanderers farewell in un- 
 rivalled brilliance. For awhile there was silence on the 
 vessel, so deep, so unbroken, that the flapping of the sails 
 against the masts was alone distinguishable. It was then a 
 wild and wailing strain burst simultaneously from the fugi- 
 tives ; the young and the old, the strong man and exhausted 
 female, joined almost unconsciously. In the language of 
 Jerusalem they chanted forth their wild farewell, which may 
 thus be rendered in English verse. 
 
 Farewell ! farewell ! we wander forth, 
 Doom'd by tb' Eternal's awful wrath ; 
 "With nought to bless our lonely path, 
 
 Across the stormy wave. 
 Cast forth as wanderers on the earth ; 
 Torn from the land that hailed our birth, 
 Prom childhood's cot, from manhood's hearth, 
 
 From temple and from grave. 
 
 Farewell ! farewell ! thou beauteous sod, 
 Which Israel has for ages trod ; 
 We leave thee to the oppressor's rod, 
 Weeping yie exiles' doom.
 
 Page ]S9.
 
 THE EDICT. 159 
 
 We go ! no more thy turf we press ; 
 No mere thy fruits and vineyards bless ; 
 No land to love — no home possess, 
 
 (Save earth's cold breast — the tomb. 
 
 Where we have roamed the strangers roam ; 
 The stranger claims each cherished home ; 
 And we must ride on ocean's foam, 
 
 Accursed and alone. 
 False gods pollute our holy fane, 
 False hearts its sacred precincts stain ; 
 False tongues our fathers' God profane ; 
 
 But we are still His own. 
 
 Farewell ! farewell ! o'er land and sea, 
 Where'er we roam, our soul shall be, 
 Land we have loved so long, with thee, 
 
 Though sad and lone we dwell. 
 Thou land, where happy childhood played ; 
 Where youth in love's sweet fancies strayed ; 
 Where long our fathers' bones have laid ; 
 
 Our own bright land — farewell ! 
 
 Wilder and louder thrilled the strain until the last verse, 
 when mournfully the voices lor a few seconds swelled, and then 
 gradually died away to silence, broken only by sobs and tears. 
 Imri and Josephine alone sat apart; they had not joined the 
 melody, but their souls in silence echoed back its mournful 
 wailing. Josephine half sat, half reclined on a pile of 
 cushions, where she might command the last view of Spain. 
 Imri leaned against a mast, close beside her ; but few wor Is 
 passed between them, for each felt the effort to speak 
 was made only for the other, and they ceased to war thus 
 with nature. 
 
 A sudden gloom darkened the heavens. The glow pa 
 from the beautiful shores. A heavy fall of dense clouds hung 
 over them, and concealed them from the eyes which in that 
 direction lingered still. The last gleam of light disclose;! to 
 Imri his Josephine in the attitude of calm and h 
 slumber. Her head reclined upon her arm, and the Ion- 
 dark curls had fallen over her face and neck. He rejoiced ; 
 for he thought nature had at length found the repose she o 
 much needed. His own eyelids felt heavy, and his lin 
 much exhausted ; but he remained watching, untired, the 
 sleep of his beloved. Heavy gusts now at intervals sw ! 
 alone: the ocean. The blackened waves rolled higher and
 
 160 THE EDICT. 
 
 higher at the call, now crested by the snowy foam. The 
 vessel rocked and heaved, and speedily driven from her course, 
 mocked every effort to guide her southward, one moment 
 riding proudly on the topmost wave, the next sinking in a 
 deep valley, as about to be whelmed by huge mountains of 
 roaring water. Distant thunder, mingled with the moaning 
 gust, coming nearer and nearer, till it burst above their 
 heads, louder and longer than the discharge of a hundred 
 cannons. The forked lightning streamed through the ebon 
 sky, illumining all around for above a minute by that blue 
 and vivid glare, and then vanishing in darkness yet more 
 terrible. 
 
 The elements were at war around them, cries of human 
 terror joined with the roar of the ocean, the rolling thunder, 
 the groaning blasts ; but there was no movement in the form 
 of Josephine. Could she still sleep ? Could exhaustion 
 render her insensible to sounds like these ? Imri knelt 
 beside her and called her by name : — " Josephine, my 
 beloved ! Oh, waken ! " 
 
 There was no answer. At that moment a bright flash 
 darted through the gloom, and sea and sky appeared on fire. 
 A strange and crashing sound succeeded, followed by a cry 
 of agony, which, bursting from a hundred throats, echoed far 
 and near, drowning even the noise of the raging storm, for it 
 was the deep tone of human terror and despair. The top- 
 mast fell, shivered by the lightning, in the very centre of the 
 deck ; flames burst forth where it fell, and on went the devoted 
 vessel, a blazing pile on the booming waters. 
 
 Imri Benalmar moved not from his knee — he heard not the 
 cries of suffering echoing round — he knew not the cause of 
 that livid glare, which had so suddenly illumined every 
 object — he knew nothing, felt nothing, save that he gazed on 
 the face of the dead. 
 
 A fearful sound, seeming distinct from the warring 
 elements, called forth many of the hardy inhabitants of 
 Malaga from their homes. They hurried to the beach, and 
 appalled and startled, beheld one part of the horizon com- 
 pletely bathed in living fire ; sea and sky united by a sheet, of 
 flame. Presently it appeared to divide, and borne onwards
 
 THE EDICT. 1G1 
 
 by the winds and waves, a ball of fire floated on the water. 
 It came nearer — and horror and sympathy usurped the place 
 of superstition, as a burning vessel rose and fell with every 
 heaving wave. The storm was abated, though the sea yet 
 raged, and many a hardy fisherman pushed out his boat in 
 the pious hope of saving some of the unfortunate crew. 
 Their efforts were in vain ; ere half the distance was accom- 
 plished, there came a hissing sound ; the flames for one brief 
 moment blazed with appalling brilliance — then sunk, and 
 there was a void on the wide waste of waters.
 
 162 
 
 5DJjc (tap. 
 
 A TALE OF 1755. 
 
 " Dark lowers our fate, 
 And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us ; 
 But nothing, till that latest agony 
 Which severs thee from nature shall unloose 
 This fixed and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house ; 
 In the terrific force of armed law ; 
 Yea ! on the scaffold, if it needs must be, 
 I never will forsake thee."— Joanna Baillie. 
 
 About the middle of the eighteenth century, the little town 
 of Montes, situated some forty or fifty miles from Lisbon, 
 was thrown into most unusual excitement by the magnifi- 
 cence attending the nuptials of Alvar Rodriguez and Almah 
 Diaz ; an excitement which the extraordinary beauty of the 
 bride, who, though the betrothed of Alvar from her child- 
 hood, had never been seen in Montes before, of course not a 
 little increased. The little church of Montes looked gay and 
 glittering, for the large sums lavished by Alvar on the 
 officiating priests, and in presents to their patron saints, had 
 occasioned every picture, shrine, and image to blaze in un- 
 covered gold and jewels, and the altar to be fed with the 
 richest incense, and lighted with tapers of the finest wax, to 
 do him honour. 
 
 The church was full ; for, although the bridal party did 
 not exceed twenty, the village appeared to have emptied 
 itself there ; Alvar 's munificence to all classes, on all oc- 
 casions, having rendered him the universal idol, and 
 caused the fame of that day's rejoicing to extend many 
 miles around. 
 
 There was nothing remarkable in the behaviour of either 
 bride or bridegroom, except that both were decidedly more 
 calm than such occasions usually warrant. Nay, in the fine, 
 manly countenance of Alvar, ever and anon an expression 
 seemed to flit, that in any but so true a son of the church 
 would have been accounted scorn. In such a one, of course, 
 it was neither seen nor regarded, except by his bride ; for at
 
 THE ESCAPE. 163 
 
 such times her eyes met his with an earnest and entreating 
 glance, that the peculiar look was changed into a quiet, 
 tender seriousness which reassured her. 
 
 From the church they adjourned to the lordly mansion of 
 Rodriguez, which, in the midst of the flowering orange and 
 citron trees, stood about two miles from the town. 
 
 The remainder of the day passed in festivity. The ban- 
 quet and dance and song, both within and around the 
 house, diversified the scene and increased hilarity in all. By 
 sunset, all but the immediate friends and relatives of the 
 newly wedded had departed. Some splendid and novel fire- 
 works from the heights having attracted universal attention, 
 Alvar, with his usual indulgence, gave his servants and 
 retainers permission to join the festive crowds ; liberty, to 
 all who wished it, was given for the next two hours. 
 
 In a very brief interval the house was cleared, with the 
 exception of a young Moor, the secretary or book-keeper of 
 Alvar, and four or five middle-aged domestics of both sexes. 
 
 Gradually, and it appeared undesignedly, the bride and 
 her female companions were left alone, and for the first time 
 the beautiful face of Almah was shadowed by emotion. 
 
 " Shall I, oh, shall I indeed be his ? " she said, half-aloud. 
 " There are moments when our dread secrets are so terrible ; it 
 seems to forbode discovery at the very moment it would be 
 most agonizing to bear." 
 
 " Hush, silly one ! " was the reply of an older friend ; 
 " discovery is not so easily or readily accomplished. The 
 persecuted and the nameless have acquired wisdom and 
 caution at the price of blood — learned to deceive, that they 
 may triumph — to conceal, that they may flourish still. 
 Almah, we are not to fall ! " 
 
 " I know it, Inez. A superhuman agency upholds us ; 
 we had been cast off, rooted out, plucked from the very face 
 of the earth long since else. But there are times when 
 human nature will shrink and tremble — when the path of 
 deception and concealment allotted for us to tread seems 
 fraught With danger at every turn. I know it is all folly, 
 yet there is a dim foreboding, shadowing our fair horizon of 
 joy as a hovering thunder-cloud. There has been suspicion, 
 torture, death. Oh, if my Alvar — " 
 
 " Nay, Almah ; this is childish. It is only because you 
 are too happy, and happiness, in its extent is ever pain. In
 
 164 THE ESCAPE. 
 
 good time comes your venerable guardian, to chide and 
 silence all such foolish fancies. How many weddings have 
 there been, and will there still be, like this ? Come, smile, 
 love, while I re-arrange your veil." 
 
 Almah obeyed, though the smile was faint, as if the soul 
 yet trembled in its joy. On the entrance of Gonzolas, her 
 guardian (she was an orphan and an heiress), her veil was 
 thrown around her, so as completely to envelope face and 
 form. Talcing his arm, and followed by all her female com- 
 panions, she was hastily and silently led to a sort of ante- 
 room or cabinet, opening, by a massive door concealed with 
 tapestry, from the suite of rooms appropriated to the private 
 use of the merchant and his family. There Alvar and his 
 friends awaited her. A canopy, supported by four of the 
 youngest males present, was held over the bride and bride- 
 groom as they stood facing the east. A silver salver lay at 
 their feet, and opposite stood an aged man, with a small 
 richly-bound volume in his hand. It was open and dis- 
 played letters and words of unusual form and sound. An- 
 other of Alvar's friends stood near, holding a goblet of 
 sacred wine ; and to a third was given a slight and thin 
 Venetian glass. After a brief and solemn pause, the old 
 man read or rather chanted from the book he held, joined 
 in parts by those around ; and then he tasted the sacred 
 wine, and passed it to the bride and bridegroom. Almah's 
 veil was upraised, for her to touch the goblet with her lips, 
 now quivering with emotion, and not permitted to fall again. 
 And Alvar, where now was the expression of scorn and con- 
 tempt that had been stamped on his bold brow and curling- 
 lip before ? Gone — lost before the powerful emotion which 
 scarcely permitted his lifting the goblet a second time to his 
 lips. Then, taking the Venetian glass, he broke it on the 
 salver at his feet, and the strange rites were completed. 
 
 Yet no words of congratulation came. Drawn together in 
 a closer knot, while Alvar folded the now almost fainting 
 Almah to his bosom, and said, in the deep, low tones of 
 intense feeling, "Mine, mine for ever now — mine in the 
 sight of our God, the God of the exile and the faithful ; our 
 fate, _ whatever it be, henceforth is one ; " the old man lifted 
 up his clasped hands, and prayed. • 
 
 " God of the nameless and homeless," he said, and it was 
 in the same strange yet solemn-sounding language as before,
 
 THE ESCAPE. 165 
 
 *' have mercy on these Thy servants, joined together in Thy 
 Holy name, to share the lot on earth Thy will assigns them, 
 with one heart and mind. Strengthen Thou them to keep 
 the secret of their faith and race — to teach it to their off- 
 spring as they received it from their fathers. Pardon Thou, 
 them and us, the deceit we do to keep holy Thy law and 
 Thine inheritance. In the land of the persecutor, the exter- 
 minator, be Thou their shield, and save them for Thy Holy 
 name. But if discovery and its horrible consequences — im- 
 prisonment, torture, death — await them, strengthen Thou 
 them for their endurance — to die as they would live for 
 ^Thee. Father, hear us ! homeless and nameless upon earth, 
 we are Thine own ! " 
 
 "Aye, strengthen me for him, my husband ; turn my 
 woman weakness into Thy strength for him, Almighty 
 Father," was the voiceless prayer with which Almah lifted 
 up her pale face from her husband's bosom, where it had 
 rested during the whole of that strange and terrible prayer ; 
 and in the calmness stealing on her throbbing heart, she 
 read her answer. 
 
 It was some few minutes ere the excited spirits of the 
 devoted few then present, male or female, master or servant, 
 could subside into their wonted control. But such scenes, 
 such feelings were not of rare occurrence ; and ere the 
 domestics of Rodriguez returned, there was nothing either 
 in the mansion or its inmates to denote that anything un- 
 common had taken place during their absence. 
 
 The Portuguese are not fond of society at any time, so 
 that Alvar and his young bride should, after one week of 
 festivity, live in comparative retirement, elicited no surprise. 
 The former attended his house of business at Montes as 
 usual; and whoever chanced to visit him at his beautiful 
 estate, returned delighted with his entertainment and his 
 Iiosts ; so that, far and near, the merchant Alvar became 
 noted alike for his munificence and the strict orthodox 
 Catholicism in which he conducted his establishment. 
 
 And was Alvar Rodriguez indeed what he seemed? If 
 so, what were those strange mysterious rites with which in 
 secret he celebrated his marriage? For what were those 
 many contrivances in his mansion, secret receptacles even 
 from his own sitting-rooms, into which all kinds of forbidden 
 food were conveyed from his very table, that his soul might
 
 166 THE ESCAPE. 
 
 not be polluted by disobedience? How did it so happen? 
 that one day in every year Alvar gave a general holiday — 
 leave of absence for four and twenty hours, under some 
 well-arranged pretence, to all save those who entreated per- 
 mission to remain with him ? And that on that day,_ Alvar, 
 his wife, his Moorish secretary, and all those domestics who 
 had witnessed his marriage, spent in holy fast and prayer — 
 permitting no particle of food or drink to pass their lips from 
 eve unto eve ; or if, by any chance, the holiday could not be 
 given, their several meals to be laid and served, yet so con- 
 triving that, while the food looked as if it had been partaken 
 of, not a portion had they touched? That the Saturday 
 should be passed in seeming preparation for the Sunday, in 
 cessation from work of any kind, and in frequent prayer, was 
 perhaps of trivial importance ; but for the previous mysteries 
 — mysteries known to Alvar, his wife, and five or six of his 
 establishment, yet never by word or sign betrayed ; how 
 may we account for them ? There may be some to whom 
 the memory of such things, as common to their ancestors, 
 may be yet familiar; but to by far the greater number of 
 English readers, they are, in all probability, as incompre- 
 hensible as uncommon. 
 
 Alvar Rodriguez was a Jew. One of the many who, in 
 Portugal and Spain, fulfilled the awful prophecy of their 
 great lawgiver Moses, and bowed before the imaged saints 
 and martyrs of the Catholic, to shrine the religion of their 
 fathers yet closer in their hearts and homes. From father 
 to son the secret of their faith and race descended, so early 
 and so mysteriously taught, that little children imbibed it — 
 not alone the faith, but so effectually to conceal it, as to 
 avert and mystify all inquisitorial questioning, long before 
 they knew the meaning or necessity of what they learned. 
 
 How this was accomplished, how the religion of God was 
 thus preserved in the very midst of persecution and in- 
 tolerance, must ever remain a mj^stery, as, happily for Israel,, 
 such fearful training is no longer needed. But that it did 
 exist, that Jewish children, in the very midst of monastic 
 and convent tuition, yet adhered to the religion of their 
 fathers, never by word or sign betrayed the secret with which 
 they were intrusted ; and, in their turn, became husbands 
 and lathers, conveying their solemn and dangerous in- 
 heritance to their posterity — that such things were, there-
 
 THE ESCAPE. 167 
 
 are those still amongst the Hebrews of England to affirm and 
 recal, claiming among their own ancestry, but one generation 
 removed, those who have thus concealed and thus adhered. 
 It was the power of God, not the power of man. Human 
 strength had been utterly inefficient. Torture and death 
 would long before have annihilated every remnant of Israel's 
 devoted race. But it might not be ; for God had spoken. 
 And, as a living miracle, a lasting record of His truth, His 
 justice, aye, and mercy, Israel was preserved in the midst of 
 danger, in the very face of death, and will be preserved for 
 ever. 
 
 It was no mere rejoicing ceremony, that of marriage, 
 amongst the disguised and hidden Israelites of Portugal and 
 Spain. They were binding themselves to preserve and pro- 
 pagate a persecuted faith. They were no longer its sole re- 
 positors. Did the strength of one waver, ail was at end. 
 They were united in the sweet links of love — framing foi 
 themselves new ties, new hopes, new blessings in a rising 
 family — all of which, at one blow, might be destri 
 They existed in an atmosphere of death, yet they lived and 
 flourished. But so situated, it was not strange that human 
 emotion, both in Alvar and his bride, should, on their 
 wedding-day, have gained ascendency ; and the solemn hour 
 which made them one in the sight of the God they wor- 
 shipped, should have been fraught with a terror and a shud- 
 dering, of which Jewish lovers in free and happy England 
 can have no knowledge. 
 
 Alvar Rodriguez was one of those high and noble spirits, 
 on whom the chain of deceit and concealment weighed 
 heavily ; and there were times when it had been difficult to sup- 
 press and conceal his scorn of those outward observances which 
 his apparent Catholicism compelled. When united to Almah, 
 however, he had a stronger incentive than his own safety ; 
 and as time passed on, and he became a father, caution and 
 circumspection, if possible, increased with the deep pas- 
 sionate feelings of tenderness towards the mother and child. 
 As the boy grew and flourished, the first feelings of dread, 
 which the very love he excited called forth at his birth, sub- 
 sided into a kind of tranquil calm, which even Almah's 
 foreboding spirit trusted would last, as the happiness of 
 others of her race. 
 
 Though Alvar's business was carried on both at Montes
 
 168 THE ESCAPE. 
 
 and at Lisbon, the bulk of both his own and his wife's 
 property was, by a strange chance, invested at Badajoz, a 
 frontier town of Spain, and whence he had often intended 
 to remove it, but had always been prevented. It happened 
 that early in the month of June, some affairs calling him to 
 Lisbon, he resolved to delay removing it no longer, smiling at 
 his young wife's half solicitation to let it remain where it was. 
 and playfully accusing her of superstition, a charge she cared 
 not to deny. The night before his intended departure his young 
 Moorish secretary, in other words, an Israelite of Barbary 
 extraction, entered his private closet, with a countenance of 
 entreaty and alarm, earnestly conjuring his master to give up 
 his Lisbon expedition, and retire with his wife and son to 
 Badajoz or Oporto, or some distant city, at least for a while. 
 Anxiously Rodriguez inquired wherefore. 
 
 "You remember the Senor Leyva, your worship's guest a 
 week or two ago ? " 
 
 "Perfectly. What of him?" 
 
 "Master, I like him not. If danger befall us it will 
 come through hirn. I watched him closely, and every 
 hour of his stay shrunk from him the more. He was a 
 stranger ? " 
 
 "Yes; benighted, and had lost his way. It was im- 
 possible to refuse him hospitality. That he stayed longer 
 than he had need, I grant ; but there is no cause of alarm in 
 that — he liked his quarters." 
 
 " Master," replied the Moor, earnestly, " I do not believe 
 his tale. He was no casual traveller. I cannot trust 
 him." 
 
 "You are not called upon to do so, man," said Alvar, 
 laughing. " What do you believe him to be that you would 
 inoculate me with your own baseless alarm ?" 
 
 Hassan Ben Ahmed's answer, whatever it might be, for it 
 was whispered fearfully in his master's ear, had the effect of 
 sending every drop of blood from Alvar's face to his very 
 heart. But he shook off the stagnating dread. He com- 
 bated the prejudices of his follower as unreasonable and un- 
 founded. Hassan's alarm, however, could only be soothed 
 by the fact, that so suddenly to change his plans would but 
 excite suspicion. If Leyva were what he feared, his visit 
 must already have been followed by the usual terrific 
 effects.
 
 THE ESCAPE. 169 
 
 Alvar promised, however, to settle his affairs at Lisbon as 
 speedily as he could, and return for Almah and his son, and 
 convey them to some place of greater security until the 
 imagined danger was passed. 
 
 In spite of Iris assumed indifference, however, Rodriguez 
 could not bid his wife and child farewell without a pang of 
 dread, which it was difficult to conceal. The step between 
 life and death — security and destruction — was so small, it 
 might be passed unconsciously, and then the strongest nerve 
 might shudder at the dark abyss before him. Again and 
 again he turned to go, and yet again returned ; and it was with 
 a feeling literally of desperation he at length tore himself 
 aw T ay. 
 
 A fearful trembling was on Almah's heart as she gazed 
 after him, but she would not listen to its voice. 
 
 " It is folly," she said, self-upbraidingly. " My Alvar is 
 ever chiding this too doubting heart. I will not disobey him, 
 by fear and foreboding in his absence. The God of the 
 nameless is with him and me," and she raised her 
 eyes to the blue arch above her, with an expression that 
 needed not voice to mark it prayer. 
 
 About a week after Alvar 's departure, Almah was sitting 
 by the cradle of her boy, watching his soft and rosy slumbers, 
 with a calm, sweet thankfulness that such a treasure was her 
 own. The season had been unusually hot and dry, but the 
 apartment in which the young mother sat opened on a 
 pleasant spot, thickly shaded with orange, lemon, and almond 
 trees, and decked with a hundred other richly-hued and richly- 
 scented plants ; in the centre of which a fountain sent up 
 its heavy showers, which fell back on the marble bed, with a 
 splash and coolness peculiarly refreshing, and sparkled in the 
 sun as glittering gems. 
 
 A fleet yet heavy step resounded from the garden, which 
 seemed suddenly and forcibly restrained into a less agitated 
 movement. A shadow fell between her and the sunshine, 
 and, starting, Almar looked hastily up. Hassan Ben Ahmed 
 stood before her, a paleness on his swarthy cheek, and a com- 
 pression on his nether lip, betraying strong emotion painfully 
 restrained. 
 
 " My husband ! Hassan. What news bring you of him ? 
 Why are you alone ? " 
 
 He laid his hand on her arm, and answered in a voice which
 
 170 THE ESCAPE. 
 
 so quivered that only ears eager as her own cotild have distin- 
 guished his meaning. 
 
 " Lady, dear, dear lady, you have a firm and faithful heart. 
 Oh ! for the love of Him who calls on you to suffer, awake 
 its strength and firmness. My dear, my honoured lady, sink 
 not, fail not ! God of mercy support her now ! " he 
 added, flinging himself on his knees before her, as Almah 
 one moment sprang up with a smothered shriek, and the next 
 sank back on her seat rigid as marble. 
 
 Not another word she needed. Hassan thought to have 
 prepared, gradually to have told his dread intelligence ; but 
 he had said enough. Called upon to suffer, and for Him, 
 her God — her doom was revealed in those brief words. One 
 minute of such agonized struggle, that her soul and body 
 seemed about to part beneath it ; and the wife and mother 
 roused herself to do. Lip, cheek, and brow vied in their 
 ashen whiteness with her robe ; the blue veins rose distended 
 as cords ; and the voice — had not Hassan gazed upon her, he 
 had not known it as her own. 
 
 She commanded him to tell her briefly all, and even while 
 he spoke, seemed revolving in her own mind the decision 
 which not four and twenty hours after Hassan's intelligence 
 she put into execution. 
 
 It was as Ben Ahmed had feared. The known popularity 
 and rumoured riches of Alvar Rodriguez had excited the 
 jealousy of- that secret and awful tribunal, the Inquisition, one 
 of whose innumerable spies, under the feigned name of 
 Leyva, had obtained entrance within Alvar 's hospitable walls. 
 One unguarded word or movement, the faintest sem- 
 blance of secrecy or caution, were all sufficient ; nay, with- 
 out these, more than a common share of wealth or felicity 
 was enough for the unconscious victims to be marked, 
 tracked, and seized, without preparation or suspicion of their 
 fate. Alvar had chanced to mention his intended visit to 
 Lisbon ; and the better to conceal the agent of his arrest, as 
 also to make it more secure, they waited till his arrival there, 
 watched their opportunity, and seized and conveyed him to 
 those cells whence few returned in life, propagating the 
 charge of relapsed Judaism as the cause of his arrest, ro 
 was a charge too common for remark, and the power which 
 interfered too mighty for resistance. The confusion of the 
 arrest soon subsided ; but it lasted long enough for the faith-
 
 THE ESCAPE. 171 
 
 ful Hassan to escape, and, by dint of very !rapid travelling, 
 he reached Montes not four hours after his master's seizure. 
 The day was in consequence before them, and he ceased not 
 to conjure his lady to fly at once ; the officers of the Inquisi- 
 tion could scarcely be there before nightfall. 
 
 "You must take advantage of it, Hassan, and all of you 
 who love me. For my child, my boy," she had clasped him 
 to her bosom, and a convulsion contracted her beautiful 
 features as she spoke, " you must take care of him ; convey 
 him to Holland or England. Take jewels and gold sufficient ; 
 and — and make him love his parents — he may never sec either 
 of them more. Hassan, Hassan, swear to protect my child ! " 
 she added, with a burst of such sudden and passionate agony, 
 it seemed as if life or reason must bend beneath it. Bewil- 
 dered by her words, as terrified by her emotion, Ben Ahmed 
 gently removed the trembling child from the fond arms that 
 for the first time failed to support him, gave him hastily to 
 the care of his nurse, who was also a Jewess, said a few 
 words in Hebrew, detailing what had passed, beseeching 
 her to prepare for flight, and then returned to his mistress. 
 The effects of that prostrating agony remained, but she had 
 • conquered, as to seem outwardly calm ; and in answer 
 to his respectful and anxious looks, besought him not to fear 
 for her, nor to dissuade her from her purpose, but to aid her 
 in its accomplishment. She summoned her household around 
 her, detailed what had befallen, and bade them seek their 
 own safety in flight ; and when in tears and grief they left 
 her, and but those of her own faith remained, she solemnly 
 committed her child to their care, and informed them of her 
 own determination to proceed directly to Lisbon. In vain 
 Hassan Ben Ahmed conjured her to give up the idea ; it was 
 little short of madness. How could she aid his master ? why 
 not secure her own safety, that if indeed he should escape, 
 the blessing of her love would be yet preserved him ? 
 
 " Do not fear for your master, Hassan," was the calm reply ; 
 " ask not of my plans, for at this moment they seem but 
 chaos, but of this be assured, we shall live or die together." 
 
 More she revealed not ; but when the officers of the Inqui- 
 sition arrived, near nightfall, they found nothing but deserted 
 walls. The magnificent furniture and splendid paintings 
 which alone remained, of course were seized by the Holy 
 Oxiice, by whom Alvar's property was also confiscated. Had
 
 172 THE ESCAPE. 
 
 his arrest been deferred three months longer, all would have 
 gone — swept off by the same rapacious power, to whom great 
 wealth was ever proof of great guilt — but as it was, the 
 greater part, secured in Spain, remained untouched ; a cir- 
 cumstance peculiarly fortunate, as Almah's plans needed the 
 aid of gold. 
 
 We have no space to linger on the mother's feelings, as 
 she parted from her boy ; gazing on him, perhaps, for the 
 last time. Yet she neither wept nor sighed. There was but 
 one other feeling strong in that gentle bosom — a wife's 
 devotion — and to that alone she might listen now. 
 
 Great was old Gonzalos' terror and astonishment when 
 Almah, attended only by Hassan Ben Ahmed, and both 
 attired in the Moorish costume, entered his dwelling and 
 implored his concealment and aid. The arrest of Alvar 
 Rodriguez had, of course, thrown every secret Hebrew into 
 the greatest alarm, though none dared be evinced. Gon- 
 zalos' only hope and consolation was that Almah and her 
 child had escaped ; and to see her in the very centre of 
 danger, even to listen to her calmly proposed plans, seemed 
 so like madness, that he used every effort to alarm her into 
 their relinquishment. But this could not be ; and with the 
 darkest forebodings, the old man at length yielded to the 
 stronger, more devoted spirit with whom he had to deal. 
 
 His mistress once safely under Gonzalos' roof, Ben Ahmed 
 departed, under cover of night, in compliance with her 
 earnest entreaties, to rejoin her child, and to convey him 
 and his nurse to England, that blessed land, where the veil 
 of secrecy could be removed. 
 
 About a week after the incarceration of Alvar, a young 
 Moor sought and obtained admission to the presence of Juan 
 Pachcco, the secretary of the Inquisition, as informer against 
 Alvar Rodriguez. He stated that he had taken service with 
 him as clerk or secretary, on condition that he would give 
 him baptism and instruction in the holy Catholic iaith ; that 
 Alvar had not yet done so ; that many things in his esta- 
 blishment proclaimed a looseness of orthodox principles, 
 which the Holy Office would do well to notice. Meanwhile 
 he humbly offered a purse containing seventy pieces of gold, 
 to obtain masses for his salvation. 
 
 This last argument carried more weight than all the rest. 
 The young Moor, who boldly gave 1 ■' name as Hassan Ben
 
 THE ESCAPE. 173 
 
 Ahmed (which was confirmation strong of his previous state- 
 ment, as in Leyva's information o: Alvar and his household 
 the Moorish secretary was particularly specified), was listened 
 to with attention, and finally received in Packeco's own 
 household, as junior clerk and servant to the Holy Office. 
 
 Despite his extreme youthfulness and delicacy of figure, 
 face, and voice, Hassan's activity and zeal to oblige every 
 member of the Holy Oilice, superiors and inferiors, gradually 
 gained him the favour and goodwill of all. There was no 
 end to his resources for serving others ; and thus he had 
 more opportunities of seeing the prisoners in a few weeks, 
 than others of the same rank as himself had had in years. 
 But the prisoner he most longed to see was still unfound, 
 and it was not till summoned before his judges, in the grand 
 hall of inquisition and of torture, Hassan Ben Ahmed gazed 
 once more upon his former master. He had attended 
 Pacheco in his situation of junior clerk, but had seated 
 himself so deeply in the shade that, though every movement 
 in both the face and form of Alvar w r as distinguishable to 
 him, Hassan himself was invisible. 
 
 The trial, if trial such iniquitous proceedings may be 
 called, proceeded ; but in nought did Alvar Rodriguez fail in 
 his bearing or defence. Marvellous and superhuman must 
 that power have been which, in such a scene and hour, pre- 
 vented all betrayal of the true faith the victims bore. Once 
 Judaism confessed, the doom was death ; and again and 
 again have the sons of Israel remained in the terrible dun- 
 geons of the Inquisition — endured every species of torture 
 during a space of seven, ten, or twelve years, and then been 
 released, because no proof could be brought of their being 
 indeed that accursed thing — a Jew. And then it was that 
 they fled from scenes of such fearful trial to lands of tolera- 
 tion and freedom, and there embrace openly and rejoicingly 
 that blessed faith, for which in secret they had borne so 
 much. 
 
 Alvar Rodriguez was one of these — prepared to suffer, but 
 not reveal. They applied the torture, but neither word nor 
 groan was extracted from him. Engrossed with the pri- 
 soner, for it was his task to write down whatever disjointed 
 words might escape his lips, Pacheco neither noticed nor 
 even remembered the presence of the young Moor. No 
 unusual paleness could be visible on his embrowned cheek,
 
 171 THE ESCAPE. 
 
 but his whole frame felt to himself to have become rigid as 
 stone ; a deadly sickness had crept over him, and the terrible 
 conviction of all which rested with him to do alone prevented 
 his sinking senseless on the earth. 
 
 The terrible struggle was at length at an end. Alvar was 
 released for the time being, and remanded to his dungeon. 
 Availing himself of the liberty he enjoyed in the little notice 
 now taken of his movements, Hassan reached the prison 
 before either Alvar or his guards. A rapid glance told him 
 its situation, overlooking a retired part of the court, cultivated 
 as a garden. The height of the wall seemed about forty feet, 
 and there were no windows of observation on either side. 
 This was fortunate, the more so as Hassan had before made 
 friends with the old gardener, and pretending excessive love 
 of gardening, had worked just under the window, little 
 dreaming its vicinity to him he sought. 
 
 A well-known Hebrew air, with its plantive Hebrew words, 
 sung tremblingly and softly under his window, first roused 
 Alvar to the sense that a friend was near. He started, almost 
 in .superstitious terror, for the voice seemed an echo to that 
 which was ever sounding in his heart. That loved one it 
 could not be, nay, he dared not even wish it ; but still the 
 words were Hebrew, and, for the first time, memory flashed 
 back a figure in Moorish garb who had flitted by him on his 
 return to his prison, after his examination. 
 
 Hassan, the faithful Hassan ! Alvar felt certain it could 
 be none but he ; though, in the moment of sudden excitement, 
 the voice had seemed another's. He looked from the 
 window ; the Moor was bending over the flowers, but Alvar 
 felt confirmed in his suspicions, and his heart throbbed with 
 the sudden hope of liberty. He whistled, and a movement in 
 the figure below convinced him he was heard. 
 
 One point was gained; the next was more fraught with 
 danger, yet it was accomplished. In a bunch of flowers, 
 drawn up by a thin string which Alvar chanced to possess, 
 Ben Ahmed had concealed a file ; and as he watched it ascend, 
 and beheld the flowers scattered to the winds, in token that 
 they had done their work, for Alvar dared not retain them in 
 his prison, Hassan felt again the prostration of bodily 
 which had before assailed him for such a different cause, 
 and it was an almost convulsive effort to retain his faculties ; 
 but a merciful Providence watched over him and Alvar,
 
 THE ESCAPE. 175 
 
 making the feeblest and the weakest, instruments of His all- 
 sustaining love. 
 
 We are not permitted space to linger on the various inge- 
 nious methods adopted by Hassan Be.'i Ahmed to forward and 
 mature his plans. Suffice it that all seemed to smile upon 
 him. The termination of the garden wall led, by a concealed 
 door, to a subterranean passage running to the banks of the 
 Tagns. This fact, as also the secret spring of the trap, the 
 old gardener in a moment of unwise conviviality imparted to 
 Ben Ahmed, little imagining the special blessing which such 
 unexpected information secured. 
 
 An alcayde and about twenty guards did sometimes patrol 
 the garden within sight of Alvar's window ; but this did not 
 occur often, such caution seeming unnecessary. 
 
 It had been an evening of unwonted festivity among the 
 soldiers and servants of the Holy Office, which had at length 
 subsided into the heavy slumbers of general intoxication. 
 Hassan had supped with the gardener, and plying him well 
 with wine, soon produced the desired effect. Four months 
 had the Moor spent within the dreaded walls, and the moment 
 had now come when delay need be no more. At midnight 
 all was hushed into profound silence, not a leaf stirred, and 
 the night was so unusually still that the faintest sound would 
 have been distinguished. Hassan stealthily crept round the 
 outposts. Many of the guards were slumbering in various 
 attitudes upon their posts, and others, dependent on his 
 promised watchfulness, were literally deserted. He stood 
 beneath the window. One moment he clasped his hands 
 and bowed his head in one mighty, piercing, though silent 
 prnyer, and then dug hastily in the flower-bed at his feet, 
 removing from thence a ladder of ropes, which had lain there 
 some days concealed, and flung a pebble with correct aim 
 against the bars of Alvar's window. The sound, though 
 scarcely loud enough to disturb a bird, reverberated on the 
 trembling heart which heard, as if a thousand cannons had 
 been discharged. 
 
 A moment of agonized suspense, and Alvar Rodriguez 
 stood at the window, the bar he had removed, in his hand. 
 He let down the string, to which Hassan's now trembling 
 hands secured the ladder and drew it to the wall. His de- 
 scent could not have occupied two minutes, at the extent ; 
 but to that solitary watcher what eternity of suffering did
 
 176 THE ESCAPE. 
 
 they seeffl! Alvar was at his side, had clasped his hands, 
 had called Iiira "Hassan! brother!" in tones of intense 
 feeling, but no word replied. He sought to fly, to point to 
 the desired haven, but his feet seemed suddenly rooted to 
 the earth. Alvar threw his arm around him, and drew him 
 forwards. A sudden and unnatural strength returned. 
 Noiselessly and fleetly as their feet could go, they sped be- 
 neath the shadow of the wall. A hundred yards alone 
 divided them from the secret door. A sudden sound broke 
 the oppressive stillness. It was the tramp of heavy feet and 
 the clash of arms ; the light of many torches flashed upon 
 the darkness. They darted forward in the fearful excitement 
 of despair ; but the effort was void and vain. A wild shout 
 of challenge — of alarm — and they were surrounded, captured, 
 so suddenly, so rapidly, Alvar's very senses seemed to reel ; 
 but frightfully they were recalled. A shriek, so piercing, it 
 seemed to rend the very heavens, burst through the still air. 
 The figure of the Moor rushed from the detaining grasp of 
 the soldiery, regardless of bared steel and pointed guns, and 
 flung himself at the feet of Alvar. 
 
 "0 God, my husband — I have murdered him !" were the 
 strange appalling words which burst upon his ear, and the 
 lights flashing upon his face, as he sank prostrate and lifeless 
 on the earth, revealed to Alvar's tortured senses the features 
 of his WIFE. 
 
 How long that dead faint continued Almah knew not, but 
 when sense returned she found herself in a dark and dismal 
 cell, her upper garment and turban removed, while the 
 plentiful supply of water, which had partially restored life, had 
 removed in a great degree the dye which had given her coun- 
 tenance its Moorish hue. Had she wished to continue con- 
 cealment, one glance around her would have proved the effort 
 vain. Her sex was already known, and the stern dark coun- 
 tenances near her breathed but ruthlessness and rage. Some 
 brief questions were asked relative to her name, intent, and 
 faith, which she answered calmly. 
 
 "In revealing my name," she said, "my intention must 
 also be disclosed. The wife of Alvar ltodriguez had not 
 sought these realms of torture and death, had not undergone 
 all the miseries of disguise and servitude, but for one hope, 
 one intent — the liberty of her husband." 
 
 " Thus proving his guilt," was the rejoinder. " Had you
 
 THE ESCAPE. 177 
 
 known him innocent, you would have waited thd justice of 
 the Holy Office to give him freedom." 
 
 "Justice!" she repeated, bitterly. "Had the innocent 
 never suffered, I might have trusted. But I knew accusation 
 was synonymous with death, and therefore came I here. For 
 my faith, mine is my husband's." 
 
 "And know you the doom of all who attempt or abet 
 escape ? Death — death by burning ! and this you have 
 hurled upon him and yourself. It is not the Holy Office, but 
 his wife who has condemned him," and with gibing laugh 
 they left her, securing with heavy bolt and bar the iron door. 
 She darted forwards, beseeching them, as they hoped for 
 mercy, to take her to her husband, to confine them under- 
 ground a thousand fathoms deep, so that they might but be 
 together ; but only the hollow echo of her own voice replied, 
 and the wretched girl sunk back upon the ground, relieved 
 from present suffering by long hours of utter insensibility. 
 
 It was not till brought from their respective prisons to hear 
 pronounced on them the sentence of death, that Alvar 
 itodriguez and his heroic wife once more gazed upon each 
 other. 
 
 They had provided Almah, at her own entreaty, with 
 female habiliments ; for, in the bewildering agony of her spirit, 
 she attributed the failure of her scheme for the rescue of her 
 husband to her having disobeyed the positive command of 
 God, and adopted a male disguise, which in His eyes was 
 abomination, but which in her wild desire to save Alvar she 
 had completely overlooked, and she now in consequence 
 shrunk from the fatal garb with agony and loathing. Yet 
 despite the haggard look of intense mental and bodily suf- 
 fering, the loss of her lovely hair, which she had cut close to 
 her head, lest by the merest chance its length and luxuriance 
 should discover her, so exquisite, so touching, was her deli- 
 cate loveliness, that her very judges, stern, unbending as was 
 their nature, looked on her with an admiration almost soften- 
 ing them to mercy. 
 
 And now, for the first time, Alvar's manly composure 
 seemed about to desert him. He, too, had suffered almost 
 as herself, save that her devotedness, her love, appeared to 
 give him strength, to endow him with courage, even to look 
 upon her fate, blended as it now was with his own, with calm- 
 ness in that merciful God who called him thus early to Him- 
 
 N
 
 178 THE ESCAPE. 
 
 self. Alffiah could not realize such thoughts. But one 
 image was ever present, seeming to mock her very misery to 
 madness. Her effort had failed ; had she not so wildly 
 sought her husband's escape — had she but waited — they 
 might have released him ; and now, what was she but his 
 murderess ? 
 
 Little passed between the prisoners and their judges. 
 Their guilt was ail-sufficiently proved by their endeavours to 
 escape, which in itself was a crime always visited by death ; 
 and for these manifold sins and misdemeanours they were 
 sentenced to be burnt alive, on All Saints' day, in the grand 
 square of the Inquisition, at nine o'clock in the morning, 
 and proclamation commanded to be made throughout Lisbon, 
 that all who sought to witness and assist at the ceremony 
 should receive remission of sins, and be accounted worthy 
 servants of Jesus Christ. The lesser severity of strangling 
 the victims before burning was denied them, as they neither 
 repented nor had trusted to the justice and clemency of the 
 Holy Office, but had attempted to avert a deserved fate by 
 flight. 
 
 Not a muscle of Alvar's fine countenance moved during 
 this awful sentence. He stood proudly and loftily erect, 
 regarding those that spake with an eye, bright, stern, un- 
 flinching as their own ; but a change passed over it as, break- 
 ing from the guard aronnd, Almah flung herself on her 
 knees at his feet. 
 
 " Alvar ! Alvar ! I have murdered — my husband, oh, my 
 husband, say you forgive — forgive — " 
 
 " Hush, hush, beloved ! mine own heroic Almah, fail not 
 now !" he answered, with a calm and tender seriousness, 
 which seeming to still that crushing agony, strengthened her 
 to bear ; and raising her, he pressed her to his breast. 
 
 "We have but to die as we have lived, my own ! true to that 
 God whose chosen and whose firstborn we are, have been, and 
 shall be unto death, aye, and beyond it. He will protect our 
 poor orphan, for He has promised the fatherless shall be His 
 care. Look up, my beloved, and say you can face death with 
 Alvar, calmly, faithfully, as you sought to live for him. God 
 has chosen for us a better heritage than one of earth." 
 
 She raised her head from his bosom ; the terror and the 
 agony had passed from that sweet face — it was tranquil as 
 his own.
 
 THE ESCAPE. 179 
 
 "It was not rny own death I feared," she said, unfalter- 
 ingly, " it was but the weakness of human love ; but it is 
 over now. Love is mightier than death ; there is only love 
 in heaven." 
 
 " Aye ! " answered Alvar, and proudly and sternly he 
 waved backed the soldiers who had hurried forward to divide 
 them. "Men of a mistaken and bloody creed, behold how 
 the scorned and persecuted Israelites can love and die. 
 While there was a hope that we could serve our God, the 
 Holy and the only One, better in life than in death, it was 
 our duty to preserve that life, and endure torture for His 
 sake, rather than reveal the precious secret of our sainted 
 faith and heavenly heritage. But now that hope is at an end, 
 now that no human means can save us from the doom pro- 
 nounced, know ye have judged rightly of our creed. We 
 are those chosen children of God, by you deemed blas- 
 phemous and heretic. Do what ye will, men of blood and 
 guile, ye cannot rob us of our faith." 
 
 The impassioned tones of natural eloquence awed even the 
 rude crowd around ; but more was not permitted. Rudely 
 severed, and committed to their own guards, the prisoners 
 were borne to their respective dungeons. To Almah, those 
 earnest words had been as the voice of an angel, hushing 
 every former pang to rest ; and in the solitude and darkness 
 of the intervening hours, even the thought of her child could 
 not rob her soul of its calm, or prayer of its strength. 
 
 The first of November, 1755, dawned cloudless and lovely, 
 as it had been the Jast forty days. Never had there been a 
 season more gorgeous in its sunny splendour, more brilliant 
 in the intense azure of its arching heaven than the present. 
 Scarcely any rain had fallen for many months, and the heat 
 had at first been intolerable, but within the last si:-; weeks a 
 freshness and coolness had infused the atmosphere and 
 revived the earth. 
 
 As it was not a regular auto dafd (Alvar and his wife being 
 the only victims), the awful ceremony of burning was to 
 take place in the square, of which the buildings of the In- 
 quisition formed one side. Mass had been performed' before 
 daybreak, in the chapel of the Inquisition, at which the 
 victims were compelled to be present, and about half-past 
 seven the dread procession left the Inquisition gates. The 
 soldiers and minor servitors marched first, forming a hollow
 
 180 THE ESCAPE. 
 
 square, in the Centre of which were the stakes 'and huge 
 faggots piled around. Then came the sacred cross, covered 
 with a black veil, and its body-guard of priests. The victims, 
 each surrounded by monks, appeared next, closely followed 
 by the higher officers and inquisitors, and a band of fifty 
 men, in rich dresses of black satin and silver, closed the pro- 
 cession. 
 
 We have no space to linger on the ceremonies always 
 attendant on the burning of Inquisitorial prisoners. Although, 
 from the more private nature of the rites, these ceremonies 
 were greatly curtailed, it was rather more than half an hour 
 after nine when the victims were bound to their respective 
 stakes, and the executioners approached with their blazing 
 brands. 
 
 There was no change in the countenance of either prisoner. 
 Pale they were, yet calm and firm ; all of human feeling 
 had been merged in the martyr's courage, and the martyr's 
 faith. 
 
 One look had been exchanged between them — of love 
 spiritualized to look beyond the grave — of encouragement to 
 endure for their God, even to the ond. The sky was still 
 cloudless, the sun still looked down on that scene of horror ; 
 and then was a hush — a pause — for so it felt in nature, that 
 stilled the very breathing of those around. 
 
 " Hear, Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One — 
 the Sole and Holy One ; there is no unity like His unity ! " 
 were the words which broke that awful pause, in a voice 
 distinct, unfaltering, and musical as its wont ; and it was 
 echoed by the sweet tones from woman's lips, so thrilling in 
 their melody, the rudest nature started. It was the signal of 
 their fate. The executioners hastened forward, the brands 
 were applied to the turf of the piles, the flames burst up be- 
 neath their hand — when at that moment there came a shock 
 as if the very earth were cloven asunder, the heavens rent in 
 twain. A crash so loud, so fearful, so appalling, as if the whole 
 of Lisbon had been shivered to its foundations, and a shriek, 
 or rather thousands and thousands of human voices, blended 
 in one wild -piercing cry of agony and terror, seeming to 
 burst from every quarter at the self-same instant, and fraught 
 with universal woe. The buildings around shook, as im- 
 pelled by a mighty whirlwind, though no sound of such was 
 heard. The earth heaved, yawned, closed, and rocked
 
 Pa^e 131.
 
 THE ESCAPE. 181 
 
 again, as the billows of the ocean were lashed to fury. It was 
 a moment of untold horror. The crowd assembled to witness 
 the martyr's death fled, wildly shrieking, on every side. 
 Scattered to the heaving ground, the blazing piles lay power- 
 less to injure ; their bonds were shivered, their guards were 
 fled. One bound brought Alvar to his wife, and he clasped 
 her in his arms. " God, God of Mercy, save us yet again ! 
 Be with us to the end ! " he exclaimed, and faith winged the 
 prayer. On, on he sped ; up, up, in direction of the heights, 
 where he ^.new comparative safety lay ; but ere he reached 
 them, the innumerable sights and sounds of horror that 
 yawned upon his way ! Every street, and square, and avenue 
 was choked with shattered ruins, rent from top to bottom ; 
 houses, convents, and churches presented the most fearful 
 aspect of ruin ; while every second minute a new impetus 
 seemed to be given to the convulsed earth, causing those 
 that remained still perfect to rock and rend. Huge stones, 
 falling from every crack, were crushing the miserable fugi- 
 tives as they rushed on, seeking safety they knew not where. 
 The rafters of every roof, wrenched from their fastenings, 
 stood upright a brief while, and then fell in hundreds to- 
 gether, with a crash perfectly appalling. The very ties of 
 nature were severed in the wild search for safety. Individual 
 life alone appeared worth preserving. None dared seek the 
 fate of friends — none dared ask, "Who lives?" in that one 
 scene of universal death. 
 
 On, on sped Alvar and his precious burden, on, over the 
 piles of ruins ; on, unhurt amidst the shower of stones, 
 which, hurled in "ine air as easily as a ball cast from an in- 
 fant's hand, fell back again laden with a hundred deaths ; 
 on, amid the rocking and yawning earth, beholding thou- 
 sands swallowed up, crushed and maimed, worse than death 
 itself, for they were left to a lingering torture — to die a thou- 
 sand deaths in anticipating one ; on, over the disfigured 
 heaps of dead, and the unrecognised masses of what had 
 once been magnificent and gorgeous buildings. His eye was 
 well-nigh blinded with the shaking and tottering movement 
 of all things animate and inanimate before him ; and his 
 path obscured by the sudden and awful darkness, which had 
 changed that bright glowing blue of the sunny sky into a 
 pall of dense and terrible blackness, becoming thicker and 
 denser with every succeeding minute, till a darkness which
 
 182 THE ESCAPE. 
 
 might be ielt, enveloped that devoted city as with the grim 
 shadow of death. His ear was deafened by the appalling 
 sounds of human agony and Nature's wrath ; for now, sounds 
 as of a hundred water-spouts, the dull continued roar of 
 subterranean thunder, becoming at times loud as the discharge 
 of a thousand cannons; at others, resembling the sharp 
 grating sound of hundreds and hundreds of chariots driven 
 full speed over the stones ; and this, mingled with the pierc- 
 ing shrieks of women, the hoarser cries and shouts of men, 
 the deep terrible groans of mental agony, and the shriller 
 screams of instantaneous death, had usurped the place of 
 the previous awful stillness, till every sense of those who yet 
 survived seemed distorted and maddened. And Nature her- 
 self, convulsed and freed from restraining bonds, appeared 
 about to return to that chaos whence she had leaped at the 
 word of God. 
 
 Still, still Alvar rushed forwards, preserved amidst it all, 
 as if the arm of a merciful Providence was indeed around 
 him and his Almah, marking them for life in the very midst 
 of death. Making his rapid way across the ruins of St. 
 Paul's, which magnificent church had fallen in the first 
 shock, crushing the vast congregation assembled within its 
 walls, Alvar paused one moment, undecided whether to seek 
 the banks of the river or still to make for the western 
 heights. There was a moment's hush and pause in the 
 convulsion of nature, but Alvar dared not hope for its con- 
 tinuance. Ever and anon the earth still heaved, and houses 
 opened from base to roof and closed without further damage. 
 With a brief fervid cry for continued guidance and pro- 
 tection, scarcely conscious which way in reality he took, 
 and still holding Almah to his bosom — so supernaturally 
 strengthened that the weakness of humanity seemed far 
 from him, Eodriguez hurried on, taking the most open path 
 to the Estrella Hill. An open space was gained, half-way 
 to the summit, commanding a view of the banks of the 
 river and the ruins around. Panting, almost breathless, yet 
 still struggling with his own exhaustion to encourage Almah, 
 Alvar an instant rested, ere he plunged anew into the 
 narrower streets. A shock, violent, destructive, convulsive 
 as the first, flung them prostrate ; while the renewed and 
 increased sounds of wailing, the tremendous and repeated 
 crashes on every side, the disappearance of the towers,
 
 Tilt: fciSCAPE. 1S3 
 
 eteeples, and ftirreis which yet remained, revealed the further 
 destructiveness which had befallen. A new and terrible cry 
 added to the universal horror. 
 
 "The sea! the sea!" Alvar sprung to his feet, and,, 
 clasped in each other's arms, he and Almah gazed beneath. 
 JNot a breath of wind stirred, yet the river (which being at 
 that point four miles wide appeared like the element they 
 had termed it) tossed and heaved us impelled by a mighty 
 storm — and on it came, roaring, foaming tumbling, as if every 
 bound were loosed ; on, over the land tu the very heart of the 
 devoted city, sweeping off hundreds in its course, and re- 
 tiring with such velocity, and so far beyond its natural 
 banks, that vessels were left dry which hud five minutes 
 before ridden in water seven fathoms deep. Again und 
 again this phenomenon took place; the vessels in the river, 
 at the same instant, whirled round and round with frightful 
 rapidity, and smaller boats dashed upwards, falling back to 
 disappear beneath the booming waters. As it chained to the 
 spot where they stood, fascinated by this very horror, Alvar 
 and his wife yet gazed ; their glance fixed uu the new marble 
 quay, where thousands and thousands of the fugitives had 
 congregated, fixed, as if unconsciously forboding what was 
 to befall. Again the tide rushed in — on, on, over the 
 massive ruins, heaving, raging, swelling, as u living thing; 
 and at the same instant the quay and its vast burthen of 
 humanity sunk within an abyss of boiling waters, into which 
 the innumerable boats around were alike impelled, leaving not 
 a trace, even when the angry waters returned to their 
 channel, suddenly as they had left it, to mark what had 
 been. 
 
 " 'Twas the voice of God impelled me hither, rather than 
 pausing beside those fatal banks. Almah, my best beloved, 
 bear up yet a brief while more — He will spare and save us 
 as He hath done now. Merciful Providence ! Behold 
 another wrathful element threatens to swallow up all of 
 life and property which yet remains. Great God, this is 
 terrible ! " 
 
 And terrible it was : from three several parts of the ruined 
 city huge fires suddenly blazed up, hissing, crackling, 
 ascending as clear columns of liquid flame ; up against the 
 pitchy darkness, infusing it with tenfold horror — spreading 
 on every side — consuming all of wood and wail which the
 
 184 THE ESCArE. 
 
 earth and water had left unscathed ; wreathing its serpent- 
 like folds in and out the ruins, forming strange and terribly- 
 beautiful shapes of glowing colouring; fascinating the eye 
 with admiration, yet bidding the blood chill and the flesh 
 creep. Fresh cries and shouts had marked its rise and 
 progress ; but, aghast and stupified, those who yet survived 
 made no effort to check its way, and on every side it spread, 
 forming lanes and squares of glowing red, flinging its lurid, 
 glare so vividly around, that even those on the distant 
 heights could see to read by it; and fearful was the scene 
 that awful light revealed. Now, for the first time, could 
 Alvar trace the full extent of destruction which had befallen. 
 That glorious city, which a few brief hours previous lay 
 reposing in its gorgeous sunlight — mighty in its palaces 
 and towers — in its churches, convents, theatres, maga- 
 zines, and dwellings — rich in its numberless artizans and 
 stores — lay perished and prostrate as the grim spectre of 
 long ages past, save that the fearful groups yet passing 
 to and fro, or huddled in kneeling and standing masses, 
 some bathed in the red glare of the increasing fires, others 
 black and shapeless — save when a sudden flame flashed on 
 them, disclosing what they were — revealed a strange and 
 horrible present, yet lingering amid what seemed the 
 shadows of a fearful past. Nor was the convulsion of 
 nature yet at an end ; — the earth still rocked and heaved 
 at intervals, often impelling the hissing flames more strongly 
 and devouringly forward, and by tossing the masses of 
 burning ruin to and fro, gave them the semblance of a 
 sea of flame. The ocean itself, too, yet rose and sunk, and. 
 rose again ; vessels were torn from their cables, anchors 
 wrenched from their soundings and hurled in the air — while 
 the warring waters, the muttering thunders, the crackling 
 flumes, formed a combination of sounds which, even without 
 their dread adjuncts of human agony and terror, were all- 
 sui'iicient to freeze the very life-blood, and banish every sense 
 and feeling, save that of stupifying dread. 
 
 But human love, and superhuman faith, saved from the 
 stagnating horror. The conviction that the God of his 
 fathers was present with him, and would save him and 
 Almah to the end, never left him for an instant, but urged 
 him to exertions which, had he not had this all-supporting 
 faith, he would himself have deemed impossible. And hia
 
 THE ESCAPE. 185 
 
 faith spake truth. The God of infinite mercy, who had 
 stretched out His own right hand to save, and marked the 
 impotence of the wrath and cruelty of man, was with 
 him still, and, despite of the horrors yet lingering round 
 them, despite of the varied trials, fatigues, and privations 
 attendant on their rapid flight, led them to life and joy, 
 and bade them stand forth the witnesses and proclaimers of 
 His unfailing love, His everlasting providence ! 
 
 With the great earthquake of Lisbon, the commencement 
 of which our preceding pages have faintly endeavoured to 
 portray, and its terrible effects on four millions of square 
 miles, our tale has no further connection. The third day 
 brought our poor fugitives to Badajoz, where Alvar's pro- 
 perty had been secured. They tarried there only long 
 enough to learn the blessed tidings of Hassan Ben Ahmed's 
 safe arrival in England with their child ; that his faithfulness, 
 in conjunction with that of their agent in Spain, had already 
 safely transmitted the bulk of their property to the English 
 funds ; and to obtain Ben Ahmed's address, forward tidings of 
 their providential escape to him, and proceed on their journey. 
 
 An anxious but not a prolonged interval enabled them to 
 accomplish it safely, and once more did the doubly-rescued 
 press their precious boy to their yearning hearts, and feel 
 that conjugal and parental love burned, if it could be, the 
 dearer, brighter, more unspeakably precious, from the dangers 
 they had passed ; and not human love alone. The veil of 
 secrecy was removed, they were in a land whose merciful 
 and liberal government granted to the exile and the wanderer 
 a home of peace and rest, where they might worship the 
 God of Israel according to the* law he gave ; and in hearts 
 like those of Alvar and his Almah, prosperity could have no 
 power to extinguish or deaden the religion of love and faith 
 which adversity had engendered. 
 
 The appearance of old Gonzalos and his family in England, 
 a short time after Alvar's arrival there, removed their last- 
 remaining anxiety, and gave them increased cause for thank- 
 fulness. Not a member of the merchant's family, and more 
 wonderful still, not a portion of his property, had been lost 
 amid the universal ruin ; and to this very day, his descend- 
 ants recal his providential preservation by giving, on every 
 returning anniversary of that awful day, certain articles of 
 clothing to a limited number of male and female poor.* 
 
 *A fact.
 
 186 
 
 3& l&fssz sffxlla, Mb its JuImtofHuts, 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 On the outskirts of a certain country town, "which for eu- 
 phony we will call Briarstone, from its being situated in one of 
 the most picturesque but least known parts of old England, 
 and almost imbedded in hills and lanes, where the wood or 
 briar-rose grew redundantly, was a certain castellated-looking 
 mansion, glowing with red bricks and bright blue slates, 
 storied with large-paned windows, framed with such fresh 
 green, that it would seem as if the painter's brush could 
 never have been absent above a month together. The 
 i entrance-door, of most aristocratic dimensions, was of bright 
 glazed yellow, never sullied by dust or dimness. Below the 
 portent is-looking (Briarstone was yet in 
 
 happy ignorance of the ww-aristocracy of knockers) was a 
 large brass plate, glittering in the sunshine like burning 
 and bearing thereon, in sd letters, as if the 
 
 name was of such importance in itself that it required no 
 engraver's ornament, the monosyllables — portentous in their 
 very brevity — Miss Brown. The gravel walk which led up 
 to the imposing flight of steps (white as the most scrupulous 
 care could make them) that the yellow door surmounted, was 
 kept so particularly neat, that the very birds feared to alight 
 upon it, lest they should be swept off for some intrusive leaf 
 or twig, quicker even than their voluntary flight. It was 
 impossible to look upon the ex1 " : . >r of the mansion without 
 being impressed with a grand idea of its as yet invisible 
 interior. 
 
 Standing, as Red Rose Villa did, in a spacious garden, full 
 ten minutes' walk out of the town, it was marvellous how the 
 daily events of this said town became known within its walls, 
 as if a train had been laid — a sort of electrical conductor — to 
 the interior of every dwelling which conveyed back to its 
 starting-place all the information required. However invi- 
 sible the means of communication, the effects were certain : for 
 Miss Brown knew everything, even before the persons 
 affected knew it themselves.
 
 KED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 187 
 
 Now, Miss Brown, though her dignified name appeared on 
 the brass plate solus, was not the sole inmate of this stately 
 mansion by any means. She was, in fact, one of a multitude ; 
 for there were times when the capacious walls of Red Rose 
 Villa enshrined no fewer than fifty living souls. The truth 
 must out on our paper, though Miss Brown would have been 
 shocked almost to annihilation had any one suggested the 
 propriety of permitting it to speak on her cherished brass 
 plate — Miss Brown kept a first-rate finishing academy for 
 young ladies of the first families, and a boarding house for 
 all who needed kind friends, cheerful lodgings, and com- 
 fortable board. Then she had an English, and a French, 
 and an Italian, and of course a German teacher — all exem- 
 plary young women. Masters were rarely admitted, it being 
 a gross impropriety in Miss Brown's educational code to 
 accustom young ladies to male tuition. 
 
 One indeed there was, a Mr. Gilbert Givevoice ; but then 
 Brown and his lamented mother had been such friends, 
 at one time they had thought of becoming another 
 Ponsonby and Lady Eleanor Butler, and causing a sensation 
 by retiring to live on friendship ; but, unfortunately, before 
 this could be carried into effect, a Mr. Givevoice appeared, 
 and Miss Brown was left to mourn the inconsistency of those 
 professions which had declared friendship all-sufficient for 
 life. The offence was not forgiven for many years ; but when 
 Mrs. Givevoice was left a . i Brown generously 
 
 relented, and Gilbert showing some musical talent (magnified 
 by the Briarstonians into marvellous genius), he was gradu- 
 ally installed as music-i :eral, and aid extraordinary 
 in all the concerns of Red Rose Villa. 
 
 Besides five-and-twenty pupils, a dozen boarders, four 
 teachers, and half a dozen servants, Miss Brown was blessed 
 with two brothers and two sisters, to all of whom she had 
 performed most inimitably a mother's part. Many marvelled 
 that such grown men as Mr. Gustavus and Mr. Adolphus 
 Brown should so contentedly succumb to female domination, 
 and not seek homes for themselves ; but petticoat govern- 
 ment was so supreme in Red Rose Villa, that even the hint 
 of such a thing would have been tar too great a stretch of 
 masculine audacity ; and, in fact, they were very well con- 
 tented where they were. Mr. Adolphus was a banker's 
 clerk, and was only known at .home as going to sleep upon
 
 588 RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 
 
 the sofa. Mr. Gustavus had been (according to his own 
 account), at one time, a land-surveyor, at another, an archi- 
 tect, and then an engraver ; but he was, he declared, one of 
 the unlucky ones, and so quietly sunk down in his sister's 
 establishment, as merely a domestic man, who could set his 
 hand to anything. He taught writing and arithmetic, and 
 oriental tinting, and lead tinting, and a variety of finishing 
 accomplishments ; and copied music, and invented patterns 
 for all the young lady-boarders who were worth something 
 more than smiles. Mr. Adolphus was always asleep. Mr. 
 Gustavus never seemed to sleep at all ; thin as a lath, he 
 was here, there, and everywhere, busying himself in every- 
 body's concerns, but never succeeding in forwarding his own. 
 
 Miss Brown, portly and majestic in carriage as of imper- 
 turbable gravity in look, possessed a fund of high-sounding, 
 choice-worded, conversational powers — that is to say, her 
 speech, once entered upon, flowed on in such a continuous 
 gently-murmuring stream, that to break or interrupt it by a 
 rejoinder was utterly impossible. The voice was as imper- 
 turbable and unvarying as the fase. She was wondrously 
 learned ; schooled in the lore of the ancient, and wise in the 
 ways of the modern world. No scheme could be set afloat 
 at Briarstone unless Miss Brown had been consulted ; no 
 shop was the fashion unless Miss Brown had patronised ; no 
 case of distress worth relieving, unless forwarded by Miss 
 Brown ; and, in sober truth, Miss Brown was benevolent — 
 was generous — did the kindest deeds imaginable ; but as she 
 never left her pinnacle of ice to look into human hearts, lest 
 their warmth should thaw hers, she received neither the 
 regard nor esteem which her sterling qualities in reality 
 merited. Miss Wilhelmina Brown was her antipodes — all 
 sweetness — all graciousness — all fascination ! Miss Brown 
 was learned, and not accomplished ; Miss Wilhelmina accom- 
 plished, and not learned. Miss Brown was all sobriety, Miss 
 Wilhelmina all smiles. At thirty, she learnt the harp ; at 
 five-and-thirty the guitar ; at forty, she discovered she had^a 
 voice, and could sing inimitably — all the Briarstone soirees 
 said so, and of course it must be true. Whole scenes from 
 the French tragedians — stanzas from Dante — long lines from 
 Schiller — Miss Wilhelmina would recite with such pathos, 
 such expression, there was no occasion to understand tho 
 languages to enter into such charming recitations. English
 
 RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 189 
 
 poetry was not ventured upon : Byron and Moore were 
 charming, certainly ; but then her sister's responsible posi- 
 tion — she dared not admit them upon the drawing-room 
 tables of Red Rose Villa — she could only indulge herself 
 strictly in private. 
 
 Miss Angelica, the youngest of the family by some years, 
 was different to either sister. Nature had not been very 
 bountiful in the powers of the brain, but, in their stead, had 
 endowed her with powers of housewifery in no common 
 degree. She managed all the domestic concerns of this 
 human Noah's ark as no one else could. From morning till 
 night she was moving ; so overlooking every department, 
 that at the farthest sound of her footsteps (none of the 
 lightest, for Miss Angelica was as short and stout as Miss 
 Wilhelmina was tall and languidly slim) every brush and 
 broom seemed endowed with double velocity. Jingle, jingle, 
 went a huge bunch of keys — pat, pat, her substantial feet, 
 from kitchen to attic — scullery to roof. Even if she sat down, 
 her fingers continued the same perpetual motion, in the 
 creation of sundry caps, bonnets, head-dresses — all the para- 
 phernalia of female elegancies. No one dressed so becom- 
 ingly as the Misses Brown ; and Miss Angelica was consi- 
 dered the originator and inventor of fashions which all Briar- 
 stone followed. 
 
 The pupils Avere like most misses in their teens. Ori- 
 ginality of character always succumbed to system in Red Rose 
 Villa. Miss Brown's was a finishing academy for manners 
 as well as morals ; and so in the weekly soirees of her man- 
 sion, the young ladies, by alternate eights, appeared in the 
 drawing-room, dressed very becomingly, to sit down and 
 smile, and answer in monosyllables ; to play their last speci- 
 men of Herz or Thalberg, or sing their last bravura, or make 
 one in a quadrille ; but in all they did to bear witness to the 
 admirable code of tuition and government carried out in Red 
 Rose Villa. 
 
 The boarders presented a variety of characters ; but as our 
 sketch only extends over one evening, we can merely mention 
 them generally. Officers' widows, on half-pay, who, by a 
 residence in Miss Brown's establishment, combined first-rate 
 education for their daughters, and society for themselves; 
 ancient spinsters, who had not given up the idea of becoming 
 middle-aged matrons, well knowing that Miss Brown's
 
 190 RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 
 
 philanthropic disposition gave them opportunities for the 
 cultivation of the tender passion, when any one else would 
 have imagined the time for such juvenilities was over. In 
 the fortnightly soirees, one, two, or three pairs of lovers were 
 always found among Miss Brown's guests — unfortunates, 
 whose interminable engagements, from pecuniary difficulties, 
 or the stern dissent of cruel guardians, would have seemed 
 hopeless to all, but for the energetic encouragement of the 
 benevolent Miss Brown, who always acted on the idea 
 
 " Passion, I see, is catching." 
 
 And, still more urgent reason, never did a wedding-party 
 issue from the well-glazed portals of B,ed Rose Villa (and 
 such events did really occur) but an accession of pupils and 
 boarders immediately followed. 
 
 Amongst the boarders were two young ladies, sisters' 
 children, and both orphans, but the similitude went no fur- 
 ther. Isabel Morland, the eldest by two years, was a 
 sparkling brunette — satirical — clever ; eccentric in habits, 
 uneven in temper, and capricious as the wind. But what 
 did all this signify ? She was an heiress ; and, reckoning- 
 according to the estimation of Briarstone, a rich one. She 
 had been a pupil, and her love of display, and coquetiy, and 
 determination to get a husband, had occasioned her resolve 
 to remain with a family whom in heart she detested, rather 
 than reside with the only relations she possessed, old respect- 
 able folks in the country. She had sense enough to know 
 that her fortune, inexhaustible as it seemed in Briarstone, 
 would not endow her with the smallest consequence else- 
 where. And though so highly gifted by nature as, had she 
 selected the society of superior minds, to have become both 
 estimable and happy ; yet her love of power — of feeling 
 herself superior to any one with whom she associated — made 
 her voluntarily become a member of a family whom she lost 
 no opportunity of turning into objects of satire and abuse ; 
 receiving the marked attentions of Mr. Gustavus Brown so 
 graciously, when no better offered, as to give him every 
 hope of ultimate success ; but cold, distant, and disdainful, 
 at the remotest chance of achieving a more desirable con- 
 quest. 
 
 Very different was Laura Gascoigne. Unusually retiring 
 i:; maimer, the peculiar charm hovering around her could
 
 BED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 191 
 
 better be felt than described. Possessing neither the wit nor 
 the cleverness, or, as Coleridge so happily expresses it, " the 
 brain in the hand," which characterised her cousin, she had 
 judgment, feeling, thought — the rare power of concentration, 
 which enabled her to succeed in all she attempted — the quiet, 
 persevering energy which leads to completion, even in the 
 simplest trifles, and prevents all mere superficial acquirement. 
 Perhaps early sorrow had deepened natural characteristics. 
 From the time her mother became widowed, no pen can 
 describe the devotedness which was the tie between them. 
 The failing health of Mrs. Gascoigne had, during the last 
 year of her life, compelled a residence in the south of Eng- 
 land; and, when in the neighbourhood of Briarstone, the 
 real kindness to the mother and daughter received from the 
 Misses Brown induced Laura, after Mrs. Gascoigne's death, 
 to make their house her home, till she could decide on her 
 future plans. She was indeed lonely upon earth ; and the 
 straitened means which had urged her to teach many 
 hours in the day, to supply her mother with luxuries and 
 comforts, by stamping them as poor, prevented her being 
 known in those circles where her gentle virtues would have 
 gained her real appreciating friends. 
 
 All that she had sacrificed in her filial devotion even her 
 mother never knew, though that mighty sacrifice had been 
 made full two years before her death. An invalid, whose 
 life might pass from night till morning with none on earth 
 to love and tend her but her child, Laura could not leave her. 
 And when she had said this, her lover, in all the jealous 
 irritation of an angry, passionate nature, reproached her that 
 she did not, could not love him, else every other con ' 
 tion would be waived — that the reports of her affections 
 having been transferred to another were true, and therefore 
 it was better they should part. She had meekly left him to 
 resume her sad duties by her mother's side, and they had 
 never met again. She knew he had been on the eve of 
 leaving England for an honourable appointment in the West 
 Indies, to which he had been nominated. But the 
 would rise that he would write ; he could not continue in 
 anger towards her ; time must show the purity, the justice, 
 of her motive in her refusal, at such a moment, to leave 
 England. And gladly would she have remained in one spot, 
 hoping, believing on ; but her mother needed constant
 
 192 RED HOSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 
 
 change, and they had gone from place to pla.ce, that perhaps, 
 even if he had written, no letter could have reached her. 
 Three years had passed ; and if the hope to prove her truth 
 still lingered, the expectation had indeed long gone. And 
 so Laura's early youth had passed, with not one flower cast • 
 upon it save those her own sweet disposition gave. Miss 
 Brown's establishment was not, indeed, a congenial home ; 
 but she had her own room, her own pursuits ; and though 
 often yearning — how intensely! — for sympathy and intellectual 
 companionship, could be thankful and contented. She could 
 not love the Miss Browns, but she respected their sterling 
 qualities, and regretted their eccentricities ; and so found 
 some good point to dilate on when others quizzed and 
 laughed at them, that her presence always checked ill- 
 nature. 
 
 " What is the cause of all this unusual confusion and ex- 
 citement, Isabel ?" inquired Laura one morning, entering 
 her cousin's apartment ; "do enlighten me. You always 
 know everything as thoroughly as Miss Brown her- 
 self." 
 
 " And you always know nothing, my most rustic cousin. 
 Fortunate for you, you have so superior a person as myself 
 to come to. There is to be a grand assembly in the lower 
 regions to-night, and so of course sweet Wilhelmina is prac- 
 tising and tuning enough to terrify away all harmony, and 
 Angelica is buried in all the mysteries of supper craft. Don't 
 look unbelieving, it is true." 
 
 "And it is Wednesday, not Saturday, Isabel." 
 " Granted, Laura ; but such a grand event as receiving a 
 baronet and his sister demands everything uncommon, even 
 to a change of night. It would be doing him no honour to 
 receive him on a usual soiree night. Learned Lucretia is 
 deep in the last novel and this month's most fashionable 
 magazine. Folks report that Sir Sydney Harcourt likes 
 literary conversation. I mean to try if Isabel Morland will 
 not have more effect in captivating than the three graces, 
 Lucretia, Wilhelmina, and Angelica altogether, backed by 
 their whole corps of spinsters and schoolgirls. What has 
 seized you, Laura, that you do not scold me, as usual, for 
 my self-conceit ? Do you begin to feel it is breath wasted ? 
 My dear, you shall see me in perfection to-night. Sir 
 Sydney shall not depart heart-whole from Briarstone, though
 
 RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 193 
 
 he does look as if nobody within it could be worth speaking 
 to." 
 
 Isabel was standing before a large mirror, much too 
 engrossed in admiring her own face and studying various 
 attitudes, and the best mode of arranging her glossy black 
 hair, to notice how strangely and fitfully Laura's colour 
 varied, and the voice in which she said, " Sir Sydney Har- 
 court, is he a new resident at Briarstone ?" was not suffi- 
 ciently agitated to cause remark, save to a much quicker 
 perception than Isabel's. 
 
 " Yes, within the last few days ; such a sensation has his 
 arrival made, you must have heard of it even in your sanc- 
 tum." 
 
 "My dear Isabel, have I not been staying out the last 
 fortnight, and only returned last night V 
 
 " Oh, by-the-bye, so you have." 
 
 " How much you must have missed me !" 
 
 " I did the first few days ; but, my good child, how could 
 I think of anything but the new lion, splendid as he is, too ? 
 He is only here for a month. Will you dare me to the field, 
 Laura, to make that month two, or six, or something more 
 into the bargain ? " 
 
 " No, Isabel, you need no daring. Only remember your 
 own peace may be endangered too." 
 
 " My peace ! my dear foolish child. I shall see Sir Sydney 
 at my feet long before any such catastrophe. Lady Har- 
 court ! how well it sounds !" 
 
 "And Mr. Brown, Isabel ?" 
 
 " The wretch ! we have quarrelled irretrievably." 
 
 "And when I left you were giving him every encourage- 
 ment you could." 
 
 " Nonsense, Laura. You are always preaching of my 
 giving encouragement. The poor wretch would die in 
 despair if I did not relent sometimes." 
 
 "Better, as I have always told you, put an end to his 
 attentions at once. I am certain he would cease to persecute, 
 if you did not encourage him, as you know you do." 
 
 " I know I do. Poor dear Gussy — he is very well, when 
 I can get no one else." 
 
 " But indeed, Isabel, you are verv wrong ; your manner to 
 Mm is the talk of every one." 
 
 "I do not care for what every one thinks, as I have told 
 

 
 194 EED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 
 
 you hundreds of times. I will just pursue my own inclination, 
 whether the world approve of it or not. What is the world 
 to me ? You cannot possibly imagine I mean ever to become 
 Mrs. Brown. Why, the very name is enough to make me 
 drown myself first. No, I am free to receive all Sir Sydney's 
 attentions, which I fully mean to win. You know I have 
 some power, Laura." 
 
 " To attract, but not to keep, Isabel." 
 
 "Laura, if you were not a thorough simpleton, I should 
 say you had designs on Sir Sydney yourself. Come, will 
 you run a tilt with me for him ? I will be generous, and 
 keep back some of my fascinations, that we may try as equals, 
 if you will." 
 
 "Thank you for the proposal, but it would hardly be fair. 
 You will burst upon Sir Sydney in the freshness and bril- 
 liancy of novelty, in addition to all your other attractions. I 
 have not even novelty to befriend me, for I rather think I 
 have met him before." 
 
 " Sir Sydney Harcourt ! How sly of you not to tell me 
 all this time. When ? — how 1 — where ? " 
 
 " How could I tell you before, Isabel, when you have 
 scarcely given me breathing space ? " 
 
 " But do you know anything of his former life ? Report 
 says he was jilted by a poor insignificant girl, and has 
 been a professed woman-hater ever since. I do believe 
 there he is in his curricle. What a splendid set-out ! — 
 do look, Laura. Stay — I shall see him better in the next 
 room." 
 
 And to the next room she flew, so engrossed with Sir 
 Sydney's splendid driving that she did not perceive that 
 Laura had not accepted the invitation, but had quietly retired 
 to her own room. 
 
 "Miss Gascoigne, I trust you will join us to-night. I 
 expect the honour of Sir Sydney Harcourt's and his accom- 
 plished sister's company. Your manners and appearance 
 are so completely comme il faut that they will, no doubt, be 
 glad to meet you. I do not approve of young ladies hunting 
 after gaiety and dissipation ; but it is a great advantage to 
 mix in such society as I can offer you to-night. I shall 
 expect to see you, of course," and without waiting for a 
 reply — for such a thing as dissent to Miss Brown's com- 
 mands was not to be thought of — Miss Brown, or learned
 
 RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 195 
 
 Lucretia, in Isabel Morland's phraseology, majestically floated 
 onwards. 
 
 "Laura, my sweet Laura, play over the accompaniment 
 to this luscious ' Ah te o cara.' Mr. Givevoice will be here 
 to-night, so I shall not want you ; but now, if you will assist 
 me, you will do me such a favour. The music is so melli- 
 fluous, it will quite repay you for the trouble." And Laura 
 complied, regretting most sincerely that a person possessing 
 such real sense and goodness as Miss Wilhelmina should so 
 expose herself to ridicule, but feeling that, young as she 
 was, it was more her duty to bear with folly than reprove it. 
 
 " Laura, dear, put the finishing bows to Lucretia's cap for 
 me, there's a love. I have such innumerable things to see 
 after and get done before seven o'clock to-night, that I have 
 no time to breathe." 
 
 "You are always busy, my dear Miss Angelica. I wish 
 you would make me of use. I shall finish this in ten 
 minutes ; so you had better give me something else to do." 
 
 " You are the best girl in the world, Laura, my dear ; but 
 you can't assist me in household concerns. No one can; 
 they worry me to death — but I don't grow thin upon them, 
 that's one comfort. Come, I am glad you are smiling, Laura, 
 my dear. What a pity you are not more merry. By-the-bye, 
 you may help me very much — I shall never get through the 
 tea-making all by myself." 
 
 "Let me take it off your hands entirely. I will with 
 pleasure." 
 
 " Thank you — thank you, my dear ; but nothing would 
 go right if I were not there too, depend upon it. If there 
 is not Molly only going now to dust the rooms — the lazy 
 huzzy !" and off trotted Miss Angelica, to scold and dust by 
 turns. 
 
 The evening at length arrived. Confusion and noise, 
 and sundry domestic jars, had subsided into silence and 
 solemnity actually portentous. The pupils, with the excep- 
 tion of six most highly favoured, had been dismissed to their 
 dormitories, and the school-room fitted up for the supper, 
 which, under Miss Angelica's auspices in the culinary de- 
 partment, Miss Wilhelmina's in the elegant arrangement of 
 fruit and flowers, and Miss Lucretia's in the selection of 
 sweets and solids least hurtful to the gastronomic and diges- 
 tive powers, was to be unequalled.
 
 196 RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 
 
 In the front drawing-room the Misses and Messrs. Brown 
 and their train of boarders sat in imposing state. The covers 
 had all been removed from the couches, chairs-lounges, otto- 
 mans, etc., displaying a variety of embroidery by the fair 
 fingers of Miss Wilhelmina, and the splendid designs of Mr. 
 Gustavus. The harp was uncovered; the guitar, with its 
 broad blue ribbon, laid carelessly on the grand piano-forte, 
 which was open ; and at his post on the music-atool sat 
 Mr. Gilbert Givevoice, fair and famous, smiling very sweetly 
 on his tall pupil, Miss Wilhelmina, who was in earnest con- 
 versation by his side. Miss Brown was on the sofa, looking 
 wiser and grander than ever. A vacant place was left beside 
 her, which no one thought of taking, for that it was de- 
 signed for Miss Harcourt being as well known as if the 
 name had been chalked up on the wall behind. Presently 
 all the presentable inhabitants of Briarstone nocked in, 
 attired in their very best, and satisfying Miss Brown as to 
 the imposing appearance of her saloon. The back drawing- 
 room, somewhat less brilliantly lighted, was occupied, as 
 usual, by three or four sets of lovers. The blue room opened 
 from it, and Laura was there ensconced as Miss Angelica's 
 aid extraordinary. The door being thrown open permitted a 
 full view of the two drawing-rooms and all their proceedings, 
 though from the blue room occupying a sort of angular 
 corner, its inmates could not even be observed. Isabel 
 Morland, looking actually dazzling from her becoming dress 
 and indescribable tournure, had chosen to settle down into a 
 regular flirtation with a Mr. Manby, a young man she some- 
 times deigned to notice, at others deemed too little even to 
 be visible. Mr. Gustavus looked black as a thunder-cloud ; 
 his thin form moving in and out the circle, but alwavs hover- 
 ing nearest Isabel, who took no more notice of hinlPthan of 
 his vacant chair. 
 
 At length the magic words, "Sir Sydney and Miss Har- 
 court,'^ were pronounced, and the door flung back as if its 
 very hinges should suffer martyrdom to do them honour ; 
 and the whole roomful rose, as by one movement, except 
 Isabel, who carelessly remained seated. Then came sundry 
 flourishes and introductions, and mutual bows and curtseys, 
 till Miss Harcourt fairly sank down on her seat of honour, 
 casting a rueful glance at her brother, who returned it with 
 one so irresistibly comic, that Isabel, to whom alone the look
 
 RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 197 
 
 was visible, was compelled to smile too. Sir Sydney, whose 
 eye was wandering round the room, caught the look, eagerly 
 bowed recognition, and in another minute was at her side, 
 leaving Mr. Gustavus with half his tale untold. 
 
 That Sir Sydney was handsome, and had all the ease and 
 elegance of a polished gentleman, there could not be two 
 opinions about ; but there was something more about him, 
 no one could exactly define what. He was too well bred to 
 be haughty or repulsive when he had quite willingly accepted 
 Miss Brown's invitation ; yet he certainly did not seem in his 
 element. He did smile and talk w r ell ; but Miss Wilhelmina 
 whispered to an intimate friend to observe how very melan- 
 choly his countenance was when at rest ; she was certain he 
 was not a happy man, and what could be the reason ? Miss 
 Harcourt was pronounced, after a trial of ten minutes, a 
 most charming, accomplished, elegant girl ; she was in 
 reality merely an unaffected, genteel, quiet, little personage, 
 without any pretension whatever, and somewhat past what 
 she deemed girlhood. 
 
 The evening proceeded most harmoniously. Tea was 
 accomplished elegantly, under Miss Angelica's active sur- 
 veillance. She was in the blue room, back and front draw- 
 ing-rooms, so quickly, one after the other, that she seemed 
 gifted with ubiquity for the evening. Then Miss Brown pro- 
 posed music and dancing ; she thought they were such 
 delectable adjuncts to young people's amusement — such 
 social pleasure, etc. ; to all of which Miss Harcourt grace- 
 fully assented. She would be happy to perform her part ; 
 her brother seldom danced. A general lamentation followed. 
 What a loss to the dancers : perhaps he would prefer music ; 
 they could offer him some very passable ; and a concert com- 
 menced, in appearance very naturally given, but, in reality 
 performed in exact accordance with well-cogitated arrange- 
 ments beforehand. 
 
 Whether Sir Sydney benefited by the succession of " sweet 
 eounds," or not, remained a problem ; as Isabel, to Miss 
 Brown, and Mr. Gustavus's excessive annoyance, kept him 
 so exclusively her attendant, that it required all his acquaint- 
 ance with worldy tact to save him from rudeness to his 
 hostesses, at the same time that he fully encouraged his com- 
 panion. The only thought Isabel could spare from Sir 
 Sydney, was for Laura to witness her triumph ; but Laura
 
 198 RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 
 
 was nowhere to be seen. If Isabel could have known that 
 her cousin saw her and Sir Sydney too, and the sickness of 
 heart that vision gave, she might have triumphed more. 
 
 Dancing was at length accomplished, and Sir Sydney 
 actually joined in it, dancing two quadrilles successively 
 with Isabel, and then remaining standing with her, leaning 
 against the piano, in such apparent earnest conversation as 
 allowed attention to nothing else. Mr. Manby and several 
 other beaux of Briarstone, whom Isabel never disdained at 
 the public balls, when none superior were to be had, came 
 in humble adoration entreating the honour of her hand. 
 The toss of the head and curl of the lip with which they 
 were refused elicited an expression in Sir Sydney's eye and 
 very handsome mouth which must have startled Isabel, had 
 she not been too engrossed with her own apparent conquest 
 to perceive it. 
 
 " Sydney, you are wrong," whispered Miss Harcourt, as 
 Isabel, for an instant, disappeared to find a musical album 
 on which she very much prided herself. 
 
 " Mary, I am right," was the reply. If young ladies 
 choose to play the coquette, it is but fair in us to pay them 
 back in their own coin. How ungracious I should be to let 
 all these graceful arts be wasted." 
 
 Miss Harcourt still looked disapproval, but further re- 
 joinder was impossible ; for Isabel, flushed with conquest, 
 had returned, more animated and engrossing than before. 
 
 " Of course you sing, Miss Morland ? " 
 
 " No, Sir Sydney ; I abhor all pretension ; and as I knew 
 I could never sing like a professor, I never attempted it." 
 
 " Pardon me, but I think you are wrong. There can be 
 no necessity for private performers to equal professors ; 
 indeed I would banish all Italian bravuras from private 
 rooms." 
 
 "You will think my brother a sad Goth, Miss Morland; 
 but he prefers a simple English ballad to anything else." 
 
 " I admire his taste ; but you surely do not think ballad- 
 singing an easily-accomplished matter ? " 
 
 " Easy enough for any one with natural feeling," replied 
 Sir Sydney, somewhat hastily, "and with boldness sufficient 
 to express it. I would rather hear ' Go, forget me,' as I 
 \tave heard it, than the finest Italian scena by a prima 
 donna."
 
 RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 199 
 
 " I am delighted, Sir Sydney, that we have it in our power 
 to afford you that gratification," energetically interposed Miss 
 Wilhelmina. The baronet made her a graceful bow, looking 
 at his sister, however, with eyes that plainly said, " Save me 
 from this." 
 
 " Laura ! " (Sir Sydney actually started, but recovered 
 himself so rapidly that the sudden flushing of his brow was 
 unremarked even by Isabel.) " Dear me, where can the 
 dear girl have hid herself ? I assure you, Sir Sydney, though 
 she sings very seldom, she is considered first-rate in English 
 ballads," and away gracefully glided Miss Wilhelmina in 
 search of her. 
 
 " Who is this ' dear girl,' Miss Morland \ Can she really 
 sing that song ? I would rather she chose any other," said 
 Sir Sydney in a tone almost of irritation. 
 
 Isabel looked up with one of her most mischievous smiles, 
 which recalled him instantly to his artificial self ; but before 
 he could rally sufficiently to speak again, Miss Wilhelmina's 
 voice, in its most dulcet tones of encouragement, was close 
 beside him. 
 
 " Come, Laura, my dear ; we are all friends, you know — 
 no one to be afraid of. Sir Sydney is so particularly partial 
 to ' Go, forget me : " I am sure you will favour him." 
 
 " Or any other song the young lady likes. I would not 
 be so arbitrary as to select for her," he exclaimed, springing 
 up, with gentlemanly politeness, to relieve Miss Wilhelmina 
 of the music-book she carried, and, as he took it from her, 
 coming in close contact with the fair girl behind her, whom 
 her flowing drapery had till then completely concealed. 
 
 " Laura ! Miss Gascoigne ! Is it possible ? " he articulated, 
 in a tone which, though suppressed, must, to any perception 
 less obtuse than the Misses Brown's, have betrayed intense 
 emotion ; but Miss Wilhelmina only read casual acquaint- 
 anceship, and supposed an introduction had taken place in 
 the early part of the evening. Laura bowed, Sir Sydney 
 thought, coldly, and quietly passed on to the piano. The 
 song was selected and sung. She had often been heard 
 before, but her voice had never seemed the same as at that 
 moment. It might have been that what a baronet and his 
 sister listened to with such interest, that the former had 
 moved himself some distance from Miss Morland's fascinations 
 to look at and listen to the singer unobserved, must be of
 
 200 RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 
 
 greater value than it had ever before been supposed, or that; 
 there really was some spell in the song which Laura had 
 never been heard to sing before (Miss Wilhelmina, seeing it 
 amongst her music, had spoken on supposition merely) ; but 
 it fell upon the most thoughtless, the most obtuse, with such 
 unaccountable power, that even when the strain ceased, the 
 sudden and unusual hush continued, until rudely broken by 
 Mr. Gustavus Brown and Mi*. Gilbert Givevoice clapping 
 their hands most vehemently, exciting an uproar of applause, 
 under which Laura tried to make her escape, but she was 
 prevented by the friendly advance of Miss Harcourt, who, 
 with both hands extended, exclaimed, so as to be heard by 
 all, " Miss Gascoigne, will you permit me to thank you for 
 your beautiful song and claim your acquaintance in the same 
 breath ? We have, in truth, never met before ; but if you 
 knew me as well as I know you from report, we should be 
 friends — nay more, allies — already. You need not look so 
 very terrified," she added, with laughing earnestness ; " I am 
 not a very formidable person, though my want of ceremony 
 may really be rather startling; but I am so glad to have 
 found you, that I must entreat Miss Brown's kind permission 
 to excuse me, if I do forget everybody but you for a little 
 while." 
 
 Her ready tact met with the rejoinder she desired : she 
 was entreated by all the sisters to make herself quite at 
 home ; they were delighted she should know their dear 
 Laura. The blue room was quite deserted, and they could 
 chat there quite comfortably ; and to the blue room Miss 
 Harcourt eagerly led her companion, who so trembled that 
 she feared for the continuance of her composure. The door 
 was not closed ; to do so would have occasioned remark ; 
 but, as we said before, the room was so situated for its in- 
 mates to be completely retired from all obervation. 
 
 Isabel Morland was furious. She had seen Sir Sydney's 
 suppressed emotion, and, with the quickness of thought, 
 connected that and Miss Harcourt's eager address with the 
 floating rumours of Sir Sydney's early life ; but that her 
 insignificant, unfashionable cousin, could be the heroine of 
 the tale, and retain such hold of his recollection as to drive 
 all her present fascinations from his mind, was a degradation 
 not to be passively endured ; in fact, it was impossible — she 
 would not think about it — Sir Sydney should be caught yet j
 
 BED EOSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 201 
 
 but at present there certainly was little hope of it. He had 
 deserted her, and was in earnest, if not agitated, conversation 
 with Miss Lucretia and Miss Wilhelmina Brown, who were 
 listening and answering, and then gradually entering into 
 detail, with so much interest, that all superficial folly gave 
 way, for the time, before the real goodness of heart which 
 they in general so strenuously contrived to conceal. 
 
 "Disagreeable, designing old women!" Isabel thought, 
 " what can he see in them to hold his attention so chained ? 
 He shall not listen any longer," and she glided close to the 
 sofa where the two were seated. Sir Sydney rose, and 
 offered her his seat. No ; she would rather stand. Sir 
 Sydney bowed, and quietly sat down again. Something 
 seemed the matter w r ith Isabel's bracelet; she clasped and 
 unclasped it vehemently, but the movement did not disturb 
 the earnest conversation, which Sir Sydney, in a low voice, 
 still continued. The trinket broke, and fell at his feet. He 
 gracefully raised and presented it, regretting the accident, 
 and turned again to the Misses Brown. An exclamation of 
 "What could have become of her beautiful bouquet?" was 
 the young lady's next effort to recal the deserter to his alle- 
 giance ; but Sir Sydney did not even seem to hear it, or, if 
 he did, before he could make a move to seek it, it was pre- 
 sented to her by the officious Gussy, with a most malicious 
 bow. Isabel did not quite throw it at his head, as inclination 
 prompted, but in a very few seconds every flower lay in 
 fragments at her feet ; one beautiful exotic fell, uninjured, so 
 close to Miss Wilhelmina, that she raised it with an ex- 
 pression of lamentation ; but Isabel snatched it from her, 
 and hastily stamped her pretty little foot upon it, with such 
 a very unequivocal expression of temper, that Sir Sydney 
 almost unconsciously fixed an astonished gaze upon her. It 
 was too much to be borne quietly ; she turned angrily away, 
 sauntering through the rooms, deigning to hold converse 
 with none, and would have so far sacrificed all propriety, as 
 to enter the blue room to solve the mystery at once, had not 
 Laura and Miss Harcourt at that instant reappeared. The 
 countenance of the latter bore such evident traces of emotion, 
 spite of the strong control she was practising, that Isabel 
 was on the point of making some bitterly satirical remark, 
 but those dark reproving eyes were again upon her, and Sir 
 Sydney spoke before she did ; but it was to Laura, not to her.
 
 202 RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 
 
 " Has my sister pleaded in vain, or may I indeed claim an 
 old friend — and forgiveness?" he added, speaking the last 
 word in so low a tone as only to be heard by his sister, 
 Laura, and Isabel. Laura's lip so quivered, that no word 
 would come ; but her hand was unhesitatingly placed in that 
 which Sir Sydney so eagerly extended, and her eyes met his. 
 He drew her arm in his, and led her, to all appearance, so 
 easily and naturally to a quadrille that was forming, that few 
 suspected more than that they had been old friends ; and 
 how strange it was they should meet there and then ; and, if 
 he should talk to her, and make her sing twice again, during 
 the short remainder of the evening, it was nothing re- 
 markable ! 
 
 Isabel had thrown herself moodily on one of the sofas in 
 the blue room, half concealed by the curtains of the window, 
 trying, in vain, to connect Sir Sydney's conduct and the 
 report of his former life. It seemed clear enough, but she 
 would not believe it. There was nothing in his manner but 
 old acquaintanceship ; she would conquer him yet. How 
 could Laura vie with her? Alas, for the delusion! Miss 
 Harcourt's shawl, by the provident care of Miss Angelica, 
 had been brought to the blue room, and there, with Laura, 
 she repaired ; the Misses Brown, in trio, assembled to do 
 them great honour ; and Isabel remained wholly unperceived. 
 After being well shawled, Miss Harcourt disappeared with 
 her body-guard of Browns. Sir Sydney, who had come 
 ostensibly to hurry her, lingered — ' 
 
 "Laura! my own beloved! forgiven — loved through all! 
 How could I doubt — how could I make myself and you so 
 miserable ? Can I ever repay you, even by a long life of 
 love? If you but knew the remorse, the wretchedness I 
 have endured, you would forgive still more," were the some- 
 what incoherent sentences that fell distinctly on Isabel's ear ; 
 and, though there was no answer, no words, she could see 
 Sir Sydney's arm thrown round her cousin, and that she 
 shrunk not from his parting kiss. Another moment, and 
 both had disappeared ; Sir Sydney to take such farewell of 
 the really worthy women who had befriended his Laura, that 
 he left them in perfect raptures ; and Laura to fly to the 
 security of her own room, where, burying her face in hex 
 hands, the tears burst forth like a torrent, giving relief, vent, 
 calm to a heart which, though so sustained in grief, had been
 
 RED ROSE VELLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 203 
 
 so unused to joy, that its presence had well-nigh prevented 
 its realization. 
 
 Our readers must imagine all the various crosses and 
 vexatious contretemps which had prevented Sir Sydney Har- 
 court from discovering Laura, as he had so ardently desired 
 to do ; for ours is a mere sketch, not a tale. They must 
 recollect he had, only the last six months, returned from the 
 West Indies, a residence in which had entirely frustrated his 
 wishes for a reconciliation, even by a letter ; for, as we have 
 said before, Mrs. Gascoigne's constant removals had pre- 
 vented the possibility of any letter from such a distance find- 
 ing them. When he had first loved her he was dependent 
 on a coarse-minded worldly relation, to whom an affection 
 for a poor girl dared not be breathed. He had sought an 
 appointment abroad, to escape a matrimonial connection 
 which was being forced upon him, and he had wished Laura 
 to consent to a private marriage, and accompany him abroad 
 as the companion of his sister, who preferred daring the 
 miseries of the West Indies with her brother, to remaining 
 in England without him. Sir Sydney (then plain Sydney 
 Harcourt, with little hope of the baronetcy and independence 
 for many years), naturally of a fiery and somewhat jealous 
 temper, materially increased from the privations and checks 
 he was constantly enduring, chose to believe Laura's calm, 
 reasoning indifference, and her refusal to leave her ailing 
 mother, only a cover to reject his affection for that of some 
 richer lover. Time, his sister's representations, and the bitter 
 pain of separation cooled these unjust suspicions, and he 
 only recollected Laura's look of suffering and tone of sup- 
 pressed agony, with which she had bade him farewell. 
 
 The unexpected demise of his relation, the baronetcy, and 
 a moderate independency recalling him to England much 
 sooner than he had dreamed of, every effort was put in force 
 to find Laura, but in vain, till chance led him to Briarstone, 
 and some magnetic instinct urged him to accept an invitation 
 which it was more in his nature to have travelled some miles 
 to avoid. He always declared his belief in mesmeric in- 
 fluences henceforward. 
 
 Isabel's schemes to prevent the course of true love from 
 running smooth were fruitless. The old adage had already 
 had its more than quantum of fulfilment, and Laura Gas- 
 coigne became Lady Harcourt before she was two months
 
 204 RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 
 
 older. The delight and self-complacency of the Misses 
 Brown were beyond description ; Miss Lucretia looked 
 grander, Miss Wilhelmina more gracious, and Miss An- 
 gelica more bustling than ever. An accession of pupils and 
 boarders was almost the immediate consequence of Laura's 
 marriage, and the fair fame of Red Rose Villa was so well 
 established, as fortunately to receive no diminution from an 
 affair which so scandalized Miss Brown, that she herself 
 could not rally from it for months. After alternately encou- 
 raging Mr. Gustavus Brown and Mr. Gilbert Givevoice, till 
 each gentleman so believed himself the favoured individual 
 as to be ready to call his rival out, if he dared to deny it, 
 Isabel Morland, one fine summer morning, eloped with an 
 Italian emigrant count, who, much against Miss Brown's 
 ideas of propriety, she would have to teach her Italian, 
 leaving both lovers in the somewhat disagreeable predica- 
 ment of having been most egregiously deceived and laughed 
 at, at the very moment they were anticipating the gold, far 
 more than the hand, of an heiress ; and as such was the 
 origin of their dreams and the source of their disappoint- 
 ment, we can better forgive Isabel's conduct to them, than 
 we can her conduct to herself. Alas, indeed, for those 
 whom Nature has so gifted, and over whom principle has 
 no sway !
 
 205 
 
 (Stealta's Sswjilfifr. 
 
 I. 
 
 " Constance, my child ! take comfort ; all is not lost to 
 thee, though I must leave thee sooner than I expected,* 
 ■were the almost inarticulate words of a dying warrior, as, 
 supported in the arms of an attendant, he bent over a 
 beautiful girl who had flung herself on her knees beside his 
 rude pallet, burying her face in his hand in all the abandon- 
 ment of grief. It was a low-roofed, rudely-furnished 
 chamber in the olden castle of Ruvo, supporting on its 
 panelled walls and divisions of the ceiling many specimens 
 of the warlike implements of the time. Shields of massive 
 workmanship, with the overhanging helmet, the long sword, 
 and misericorde or dagger, interspersed with spears and 
 iron caps, were suspended on all sides ; while jars and flasks, 
 a bugle horn, an unsheathed sword and belt, and such like 
 gear, were scattered on the floor. The dying man was 
 stretched on the only couch the room afforded ; a wooden 
 pallet serving alike for bed and chair, one part of which 
 was occupied by two of the warrior's men-at-arms, their 
 eyes fixed alternately on their beloved commander and the 
 fair being on whom his last thoughts seemed centred. On 
 their left stood two venerable monks ; the one holding aloft 
 the cross, the other bearing on a silver salver the consecrated 
 bread and wine, which the warrior had received in lowly 
 faith, convinced his last moment was at hand. Two other 
 armed figures, sturdy cavaliers, finished the group. Indi- 
 vidual sorrow was deepened by the thought, that with Duke 
 Manfred died the last lingering hopes of Naples. He had 
 refused to follow his brother, the voluntarily-exiled monarch 
 Frederic, to the court of France, hoping still to preserve his 
 ill-fated country from being trampled on, even if its liberty 
 were gone ; — struggling against Spain, and her great captain, 
 simply because he thought France less likely to look on 
 Naples as a slave, though for him individually life had 
 lost all joy — for he felt his country would never again rise, 
 beautiful and fr'je, a she had been. Mortally wounded in au
 
 206 GONZALVO'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 unexpected skirmish with the Spaniards, Manfred would 
 yet have met death calmly, if not willingly, had not the 
 deep grief of the fair girl who had clung to him as io a 
 second father — preferring to linger by his side in the roughest 
 part of Naples, to accompanying her own royal parent to 
 the luxurious court of Louis — distracted him to the forgetful- 
 ness of all, save how to comfort her. He knew it was no 
 small loss she mourned, — the young, impoverished, yet noble 
 Luigi Vincenzio, to whom the first freshness of her young- 
 affections had been given, with all the fervid warmth of an 
 Italian heart, was as dear to Manfred as his own son, and he 
 had promised to plead for Vincenzio with her father, in lieu 
 of the gay Duke de Nemours, whom Frederic favoured, but 
 whom Constance instinctively abhorred. No marvel the 
 words of the dying man fell vainly and discordantly upon 
 her ear, — that she. clung to him as if that wild embrace 
 should fetter life within; — he should not, must not leave 
 her ! Fainter and fainter became the voice of Manfred, — 
 and then all was silent, save the convulsive sobs <yf the 
 kneeling girl, whose tears had so bedewed the rough hand 
 she clasped that she knew not how cold it grew, and the 
 deep yet suppressed breathings of those around. A quick 
 step made its way through the groups of mourning Neapoli- 
 tans, who thronged the chamber, and a tall manly form stood 
 reverentially and mournfully beside the pallet. 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! too late, — he has gone ! his look, his voice 
 of kindly blessing — all denied me ! Constance ! my be- 
 loved ! " 
 
 The voice aroused her ; she started to her feet, looked 
 shudderingly on the face of the dead, and then sinking in 
 the arms of Vincenzio, wept less painfully upon his bosom. 
 But, brief as was that upward glance, it displayed a face so 
 youthful, and of such touching loveliness, that tears should 
 have been strangers there ; childlike as it was, yet there was 
 something in its sweet expression which told the threshold 
 of life was past ; she had looked beyond, and tasted the 
 magic draught whose first drop transforms the being, and 
 influences the whole of after life. Her rich golden hair 
 hung loose and dishevelled over her pale cheek, and her 
 deep blue beautifully-formed eye was swollen with weeping, 
 yet was she lovely despite of all. 
 
 But short communion was allowed the youthful pair, for the
 
 GONZALVO'S DAUGIITEft. 207 
 
 last wish of the dying -warrior had been that his niece should 
 seek the convent of St. Alice, twenty miles distant, there to 
 remain till happier hours dawned for Naples, or she could 
 more securely rejoin her father. 
 
 " Yes, better there than lingering here, where Nemours 
 may deem himself privileged to seek thee when he lists," 
 resumed the young Neapolitan when his words of gentle 
 soothing had had effect, and Constance was comforted. 
 " Sweetest ! it shall be but a very brief farewell ; the thought 
 that thou art in safety shall soothe the hours of absence, and 
 thou wilt promise to think of me — my own ! " 
 
 " Think of thee ! " she repeated, and a smile lit up that 
 sweet face, till to say in which it looked more lovely, smiles 
 or tears, would have been difficult. " There is no need to 
 make me promise that, my Luigi ; I could not, if I would, 
 think aught of other save " (her voice faltered) " of the kind 
 heart gone ! " She paused a moment, then added, sorrow- 
 fully, " My father, my poor father ! I should wish to join him 
 — yet I cannot. Luigi, dearest Luigi, 'tis my turn to chide 
 now, if thou lookest doubtingly and sad ; our best friend 
 has gone ! Oh, we cannot weep too long for him ! yet, canst 
 thou think if Frederic knew whom his Constance loved he 
 would still deny her ? No ! no ! smile on me, love, and 
 trust me, Constance of Naples will have none other lord but 
 thee." 
 
 • He did trust her; and the brief period left them passed 
 in such sweet, and hopeful converse, that sorrow itself 
 was soothed, and both were strengthened for the parting 
 hour. 
 
 Luigi himself headed the gallant little troop of native 
 warriors, collected to convey her with all honour to the 
 convent. He dreaded that Nemours, obtaining notice of the 
 intended movement, would attempt the capture of the 
 princess by force, and otherwise annoy them ; but to his 
 surprise not a trace of the French army awaited them. 
 
 Quartered as they were almost all over Calabria, generally 
 presenting their steel fronts as strong lines of defence 
 for the towns and castles round, this . desertion appeared 
 extraordinary ; particularly as their aim had been to in- 
 capacitate the Spaniards from leaving their entrenchments 
 within the fortified city of Barletta, twelve miles to the south 
 of Ruvo, where they were at present quartered.
 
 208 GONZALVO's DAUGHTER. 
 
 Night was falling when Vincenzio returned to Ruvo ; but 
 there was still light enough for him to distinguish more than 
 usual military bustle within the walls ; soldiers were hurrying 
 to and fro ; arms were burnishing ; lances and swords 
 sharpening ; large fires blazing up ; bands of armed men 
 assembling ; the heavy harness and unsheathed weapons 
 forming in heaps and lines to be donned and grasped at a 
 moment's warning. Anxious and curious, Vincenzio hastened 
 to the quarters of the Sire de La Palice, governor of the 
 town, and found him, though joyous and laughter-loving as 
 was his wont, alternately giving orders to several officers, 
 who seemed to appear and disappear with a glance, and 
 muttering oaths and execrations on some extraordinary act 
 of folly, the nature of which, or by whom committed Luigi 
 found some difficulty in comprehending. 
 
 Our limits will not permit our becoming personally ac- 
 quainted with La Palice, which a conversation might accom- 
 plish. We must confine ourselves to a brief relation of 
 historical facts. It appeared that the inhabitants of Castel- 
 lanata, enraged beyond all measure at the licentious and 
 insulting conduct of the French troops quartered in their 
 vicinity, had risen in sudden revolt, and finally betra)^ed the 
 town into the hands of the Spaniards. Nemours, thinking more 
 of his own dignity, which he imagined had been outraged in 
 this revolt, than of the real interests of his sovereign, swore the 
 most signal vengeance, and marched his whole force north- 
 ward, disregarding the representations of more experienced 
 officers, that it would be the height of folly to leave all 
 Calabria unguarded, for the reduction of one paltry town. 
 The character of Gonzalvo was too well known to admit a 
 thought of his neglecting this opportunity of attack ; and 
 La Palice therefore, on his part, determined to be on the 
 alert, though he guessed not how soon or whence the attack 
 would come. 
 
 There were many sad thoughts on the young Neapolitan's 
 heart as he returned to his own chamber. Alas ! it little 
 signified to Naples who were her masters, French or 
 Spaniards ; but he recalled that period of his country's 
 brief prosperity, when the celebrated Captain Gonzalvo had 
 been his monarch's guest and honoured friend, and grieved 
 that Frederic had chosen France, instead of Spain, for 
 refuge : perhaps his instinctive hatred to Nemours, as the
 
 GONZALVO'S DAUGHTER. 209 
 
 encouraged aspirant to the hand of his Constance, increased 
 these regrets ; but still to La Palice he was bound by all 
 the chivalric ties of military companionship, and he deter- 
 mined, if danger threatened, to forget his nationality awhile, 
 and fight in his friend's defence. 
 
 The night was peculiarly mild and lovely ; the soft silvery 
 halo flung down from the full moon on the clustering olives 
 and vineyards, stretching beneath the young Italian's window, 
 over some miles of fertile country, seemed to whisper tran- 
 quillity and peace, that war had not yet disturbed ; and Luigi 
 looked forth lingeringly till the calm sank into his own soul, 
 and Constance alone stood forth amid those troubled visions 
 like a star gleaming through clouds on the trembling 
 waves. 
 
 It was near daybreak ere he sought his couch and slept ; 
 but not for long. One pale streak of dawn alone was visible ; 
 but there were sounds on the still air little in accordance with 
 the lingering night. A dull, heavy, monotonous roar, as of 
 a continued cannonade close at hand, was accompanied by 
 sharp, vivid flashes of light playing athwart the casement ; 
 then followed the roll of many drums, — the shout "to arms," 
 — "the foe! the foe!" — the clash of the alarum bell — the 
 heavy trampling of a hundred feet — the shrill shrieks of 
 woman's terror, and other sounds of tumult and war. Vm- 
 cenzio listened a moment as one still dreaming : but then 
 La Palice's warning flashing on his mind, he sprang to 
 his feet and glanced beneath him. Far, far as his eye could 
 reach, trampling down that fair scene of fertility and 
 peace, there came band after band of armed men, rolling 
 onward in such dense masses, that he felt at a glance 
 resistance was in vain. Marvellous as it seemed, Gonzalvo 
 de Cordova himself was upon them ; and that name in 
 its mighty eloquence was paralysing terror ! A very brief 
 interval sufficed to banish every thought from Luigi's mind 
 but fears for La Palice, by whose side he speedily was. The 
 noise waxed louder, closer, but there was no trace of dis- 
 turbance, or even anxiety, on the governor's open brow, as 
 he gaily marshalled his little band of three hundred lances, 
 to throw themselves into the first breach which Gonzalvo's 
 unceasing cannonade was rapidly making in the walls. 
 
 " Ha ! welcome, comrade mine !" he cried, grasping 
 Vincenzio's hand. "Mark La Palice as a true prophet, 
 
 P
 
 210 GONZALVO's DAUGHTER. 
 
 and Nemours the most egregious blockhead that ever wrote 
 himself a man. Ha ! all compact there ; ready ! that's well 
 — to the right, forward ! and on they rushed through the 
 town. Already every wall was manned, and showers of 
 arrows and stones galled the Spaniards at every turn, but 
 had no power on the immense mass at work against the 
 ramparts. Already the walls were tottering, falling, borne 
 down by the heavy cannonade. On the opposite side the 
 walls had been scaled, and Spanish and French fought hand 
 to hand on the summit. A yell of triumph soon after pro- 
 claimed the formation of an immense breach, into which 
 Gouzalvo himself and his choicest troops poured like a 
 mountain torrent, increasing, swelling, as it came, as if 
 utterly to overwhelm the compact little phalanx which La 
 Palice threw forward to oppose him. A very brief struggle 
 sufficed to show how fruitless was every effort of the French ; 
 the immense odds speedily forced the breach ; but still, 
 hemmed in on all sides so closely that their swords had 
 scarcely room for full play, there was no word of surrender 
 or defeat ; struggling only to preserve their honour in their 
 death, man after man fell, without yielding an inch, around 
 his leader. Presently wilder and more deafening sounds 
 arose ; mingling indiscriminately the roar of artillery, the 
 clang of steel, the rush of a hundred chargers, the shrill 
 shri !:s of women, so that not one could be distinguished 
 from another. The town was forced, and every street, for a 
 brief interval, became the scene of combat. Another hour, 
 and the strife was at an end. La Palice, who had striven as 
 if his individual efforts could avert defeat, had been over- 
 whelmed with numbers, and brought to the ground with the 
 crushing blow of a battle-axe ; yet even then, with his own 
 gay laugh, he flung his sword over the heads of his captors, 
 that none should claim him as an individual prize. Vin- 
 cenzio shared his fate, the capture of his friend removing 
 from him all inclination to prolong the fruitless combat, and 
 yet more exasperate the Spaniards against his ill-fated 
 countrymen. 
 
 The close of that day beheld Ptuvo deserted ; the heavy 
 banner of Spain waving above the ruined ramparts alone 
 marked what had been ; for the riches of Iluvo, — gold, 
 treasure, horses and arms, the French prisoners, almost all 
 of whom were badly wounded, and the principal Neapolitan
 
 GONZALVO'S daughter. 211 
 
 citizens, were conveyed under strong detachments to Barletta, 
 the head-quarters of the great captain and his troops. 
 
 II. 
 
 Twentjr-four hours after his daring reduction of Ruvo, 
 Gonzalvo de Cordova was seated in one of the best furnished 
 apartments of Barletta, bearing little trace either of the 
 eager warrior or sagacious general ; all other emotions merged 
 in that one which, even in his glorious campaigns, reigned 
 uppermost — love for the loveby, the transcendent being, who, 
 in woman's freshest, most beautiful prime, was seated at his 
 feet, her arm reclining caressingly on his knee, and her dark, 
 spkndid orbs, all their flashing passion stilled in filial love, 
 fixed on his face as he narrated his last triumph. It was his 
 daughter Elvira, for whom so deep was the hero's love that 
 even in his foreign wars she was never known to be parted 
 from his side. 
 
 " Trust me, they shall be seen to, my father," she said, in 
 r to his entreaty that her woman's tenderness and care 
 would look to the comfort of his wounded prisoners, whom 
 he had already luxuriously installed, with his own surgeon to 
 attend them. "La Palice is in truth a champion to gain 
 guerdon of woman's care." 
 
 " But not of woman's heart, my gentle one ; thine must 
 not pass to the wardence of our foes." 
 
 " Nor shall it, father ; it is thine, all thine ! " and the rich 
 burning flush resting on her cheek, as she spoke, was 
 deemed by her father but the glow of sunset which played 
 around her. He kissed her fondly, vowing he would accept 
 such devotedness only till another and a dearer sought it. 
 "Find but one deserving of thy love, my child, and no 
 selfish pangs shall bid me keep thee by my side ; yet, 
 inethinks, thou as myself art difficult to please ; the noblest 
 and the best have bowed to thee in vain — thy heart was ice 
 to all, and seliish as I am, I have rejoiced it was bo." 
 
 Her face was buried in his hand, and lie saw not how pain- 
 fully its colour varied. He did i; lie full, quick throb 
 of that maiden heart : if her fond lather penetrated not its 
 secret, how may we ? 
 
 In obedience to Gonzalvo's command (in those days no 
 strange cne), Elvira, attended by her women, herself visited
 
 212 GONZALVOS DAUGHTER. 
 
 the apartments of the wounded prisoners, administered to 
 their wants, superintended the healing of their wounds, 
 speaking words of comfort and of hope, till — veiled as she 
 was, her rank, even her name often unknown — the sound of 
 her voice, the touch of her gentle hand, were hailed by eacli 
 sufferer with such feeling of devotion and gratitude, as 
 might have marked her indeed the angel visitant their fevered 
 fancies deemed her. 
 
 " And I have seen all ? — thou art sure none other needs my 
 tending ?" she asked of an attendant. " Methinks those 
 rooms we have not visited." 
 
 " There are no prisoners of moment there, lady ; but one 
 room tenanted ; — a poor Italian — Neapolitan, I should say — 
 who, as he may bring little honour and less ransom to our 
 leader's coffers, scarce needs your gracious care ; he will do 
 well enough." 
 
 " Peace, slave ! it is well Gonzalvo hears you not ;" he 
 crouched beneath her flashing scorn. " Poor — friendless ; 
 the more he needs his captor's care : lead on I" 
 
 She was obeyed, and the apartment gained. A young man 
 was reclining on a rude couch — his limbs stretched out, his 
 head bent forward, resting on his arm in all the abandon- 
 ment of complete repose ; his long jetty hair had fallen as 
 partly to shade his face, but there was just enough visible of 
 his cheek and brow to startle by their ghastly whiteness, 
 gleaming out in fearful contrast with the crimson cloak he 
 had drawn around him. The opening of the door had not 
 aroused him, and a moment the intruders paused ; there was 
 a start, a quick and choking breath, as if respiration had 
 been suddenly impeded ; and the Lady Elvira stood beside the 
 slumberer, and lifted the damp curls from his brow. Why 
 did she so pause, so stand, pale, rigid, breathless ? — feared 
 she to break those peaceful slumbers? — if so, her caution 
 was in vain : the young man started, looked wildly round, 
 then heavily and painfully arose, as if conscious he was in 
 the presence of rank and beauty, and struggled to give them 
 homage. 
 
 " Nay, fair sir, we come to thee as leech, not queen, 
 and must refuse all homage but obedience," the lady said, 
 calmly. " We must condemn thee to thy couch, not to thy 
 knee." 
 
 " Who is it that speaks ? Lady, that voice comes to my
 
 GONZALVO'S DAUGHTER. 213 
 
 -ear laden with happy memories, bringing a vision of one 
 whoso faintest smile was chivalry's best fame — aye, e'en to 
 Naples' sons." 
 
 " And is it marvel, Signor Vincenzio, the daughter of 
 Gonzalvo should be with her father still, though Naples no 
 longer calls him friend ? Nay, we have refused thine homage, 
 as little suited to thy weakness, gentle sir. Resign thee for 
 a brief while to the leech's art, and take comfort ; Gonzalvo 
 wars with France, not Naples. We will visit thee again." 
 
 Luigi Vincenzio rose from his knee, where he had sunk 
 simply in greeting to one whose resplendent gifts in happier 
 days had excited his young imagination in no ordinary degree ; 
 and the calm unimpassioned posture in which he stood till she 
 departed, betrayed no warmer feelings than reverence and 
 admiration. Days passed, merging into weeks ; but long 
 before that period, Luigi Vincenzio was not only convalescent, 
 but permitted and enabled to roam at large about Barletta 
 and its environs ; unguarded, even by his parole. Whence 
 came this extraordinary indulgence none knew ; but all 
 supposed, that as the great captain had repeatedly declared 
 he warred not with the Neapolitans — not at least with those 
 who chose to accept his friendship — and own the supremacy 
 of his sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabella — the young noble- 
 man had accepted these conditions, and had been thus re- 
 ceived into favour. Again, as had been the case before the 
 capture of Ruvo, chivalric games agreeably diversified the 
 dull routine of military duty. Nemours, overcome with 
 shame, at the consequences of his own folly, had retired to 
 Canosa ; and as Gonzalvo had not received the expected 
 reinforcements, enabling him to change his mode of attack 
 to the offensive, his officers, and many of the Neapolitans 
 friendly to his interests, entered with spirit into all their 
 general's plans for military recreation, while the Lady Elvira 
 resumed her station, as queen of the revels, crowning the 
 victor with her own fair hand. Her influence had led 
 Vincenzio there ; she rallied him on his deep gloom, play- 
 fully demanding why he alone should scorn the prize she 
 gave ; he had professed such deep gratitude for the tender 
 eare she had so silently lavished on his sufferings, soothing 
 him by the charm of her voice to health, more powerfully 
 than the leech's art, and yet he refused such trifling boon. 
 And he obeyed ; he joined the combatants, received bright
 
 214 GOKZALVO'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 wreaths of glory from lier hand, and lingered by her side, but 
 the smile she sought was not upon his lips ; her step, her 
 voice, however unexpected, had no power to flush his cheek, 
 or light his eye with joy ; but his to her ! — the echo of Ms 
 footstep, the faintest whisper of Ms voice, as the smoulder- 
 ing fire in the bosom of the volcano, seeming so still, so 
 silent, till, roused to whelming might, they lay upon her heart. 
 
 Fiercely and terribly the thunder-cloud of wrath had 
 gathered on the brow of Gonzalvo de Cordova, as with heavy 
 strides he paced his private cabinet about a month after 
 Euvo's capture. He chafed not at fair and open fight, nay, 
 gloried in the heat, the toil, the press of war ; but conspiracy, 
 treachery, or that which in the present excited state of his 
 mind he deemed as such, he could not brook. A plot had 
 been discovered— ill formed, ill digested, bat if correct in its 
 details, in the names of its principals, involving many of 
 those whom Gonzalvo had treated and trusted as friends — 
 amid the Neapolitans to throw off the yoke of the Spaniards, 
 to be free, and preserve their liberty at the sword's point, 
 till seconded by other cities, and encouraged by Nemours' 
 inactivity, Frederic himself might be recalled; this seemed 
 their object, pledged to by the most solemn oaths. Gonzalvo's 
 name was found upon their lists of victims, but all was dark 
 and little tangible. Still warrants had been issued ; those 
 supposed the principal conspirators arrested and secured ; 
 and the great captain now chafed and fumed, unwilling to 
 believe the whole tale true, from the heavy judgment it de- 
 manded, yet feeling to the full the tremendous responsibility 
 devolved upon himself. 
 
 " My father ! God in heaven ! the tale is not false, then — 
 yet — yet, they have dared to connect the innocent ! Luigi — 
 Vincenzio — he is not, he cannot be, of these ! speak — speak, 
 in mercy !" and the proud, the majestic daughter of Spain, 
 whom it hath seemed no human power, no human emotion 
 could bow, sunk in powerless agony on the earth, grasping 
 the robe of her father, and gazing on his face, as if her life 
 depended on his answer. Startled, amazed, Gonzalvo, who 
 had been unconscious that for several minutes she had been 
 in his presence reading his brow, ere she found words, vainly 
 sought to raise and soothe her ; she reiterated but those 
 words, her tone becoming wilder and shriller in its agony, 
 as the reply was evidently evaded.
 
 GONZALVO's DAUGHTER. 215 
 
 " Aye, even he ! " at length it came, and Gonzalvo sternly- 
 pointed to the young nobleman's name upon the list. 
 " Elvira, Gonzalvo's daughter ! away with this engrossing 
 weakness ; well is it for thee, none but . thy father marks it. 
 I have heard, and in return for that kind confidence would, 
 had the fates decreed, have sought, fixed, gloried in thy hap- 
 piness, though the choice had been other than mine own ! but 
 now — with this damning proof. My child ! my child ! away 
 with the unworthy weakness ; it shall not so debase 
 thee!" 
 
 " Weak ! debased ! who dares to say these words to me — to 
 me ? Am I not still Elvira ?" she sprang to her feet, stand- 
 ing erect in all her majesty, but with cheeks of marble white- 
 ness, gleaming out from that night-black hair, as if their rich 
 current had rushed back to her heart. " What is it they 
 said — that he was guilty ? — false ! 'tis false ! yet if 'tis not- 
 misled — misguided — father, is there no pardon ? — there must 
 — there shall be. What is his doom ? speak ! there is no 
 weakness now ! " 
 
 " Death, or the galleys ! — what else befits the ingrate 
 traitors ? " in a deep concentrated voice the answer came. 
 "Ha! Holy Virgin! my child! my child!" _ She had 
 tottered — fallen — and lay without voice or motion at his 
 feet. 
 
 III. 
 
 Luigi Vincenzio denied none of the charges brought 
 against him, save that of the intended murder of the prin- 
 cipal Spaniards in Italy. Such baseness he strenuously 
 denied ; they had decoyed him into the conspiracy, working 
 on all his peculiar feelings of love of land and of his exiled 
 king, who was not alone regally, but personally dear to him. 
 The conspiracy appeared to him but a noble effort of some few 
 bold hearts to throw off the hated yoke of the foreigner ; and 
 therefore he had joined it, and even now, in danger of death, 
 of worse than death — the galleys, he insisted in the glory, 
 the virtue of his cause. It was rumoured that Gonzalvo, in 
 his still continued desire to conciliate the Neapolitan nobles, 
 had offered to Vincenzio, not alone pardon but riches, and 
 connection by marriage with one of the most powerful and
 
 216 GOXZALVO'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 noble families of Castile, though its name never transpired, if 
 lie would take a solemn oath to be true to the interests of 
 Ferdinand of Arragon, and never seek Naples again, save 
 in pursuance of that monarch's interests; and these offers, 
 more than usually magnanimous even for Gonzalvo, were, to 
 the utter bewilderment of all, refused. 
 
 Scarcely a week after Vincenzio's arrest, the unusually strict 
 retirement of the Lady Elvira was disturbed by an earnest 
 petition for a private interview, on the part of a Neapolitan 
 boy, who, the attendant said, had been so urgent, and appeared 
 so exhausted, that he could not refuse him entrance. He 
 w T ould not tell his business to any save the Lady Elvira. 
 Permission was given, and he was conducted to her presence, 
 clothed in a coarse folding cloak of Neapolitan cloth, with 
 j the red picturesque cap of the country slouched upon his 
 brow. He stood at the threshold of the apartment, his arms 
 folded in his mantle, his head bent on his breast, as if either 
 physical or mental strength had for the moment utterly failed 
 him. " Retire," was the first word that met his ear ; and 
 he perceived the Lady Elvira addressed her attendants, who 
 still lingered. " Retire, all of you. The boy asked a private 
 audience, and I have promised it. Treachery ! danger ! — I 
 fear them not ! — begone ! " and they obeyed. One searching 
 glance the boy cast around, and ere the lady could address 
 him, he had darted across the room, and flung himself at her 
 feet, clasping her knees with the convulsive grasp of agony, 
 struggling for words, but so ineffectually that nought but 
 quivering anguish convulsed those parched lips, nought but 
 agonized sobs found vent. Mantle and cap had both fallen in 
 the quickness of the movement, and though the inner dress 
 was still the boy's, that exquisite face, that swelling bosom 
 told a different tale. 
 
 " Ha ! who art thou ? What wouldst thou ? — speak, silly 
 trembler," and even at the moment that an indescribable 
 thrill passed through the heart of Gonzalvo's daughter, she 
 struggled to speak playfully. "In sooth, thou art too lovely 
 to wander forth alone, save in this strange guise; speak — 
 what is thy boon?" 
 
 "A life ! a life they say is forfeited ! Lady, kind, generous 
 lady, oh, have merc3 r ! I thought I had words to plead 
 his cause, to beseech, implore, adjure thee, but I have none — 
 none ! Mercy, oh, have mercy ! "
 
 GONZALVO'S DAUGHTER. 217 
 
 " Mercy ! I am no sovereign to give life or death, poor 
 child ! How may I serve thee, and whom is it thou wouldst 
 save?" 
 
 "Art thou not Elvira ? — art thou not Gonzalvo's daughter ? 
 — and will he not pardon at thy word ? Oh, seek him ! 
 Tell him Constance, princess of Naples, is in his power ! 
 yields herself his prisoner, to be dealt with as he lists, let him 
 but spare Luigi — Luigi, my own noble love ! Give him but 
 pardon, life, liberty ! Lady, lady ! plead for him ! let them 
 told me prisoner in his stead. Wherefore lookest thou thus ? 
 Mercy, oh, have mercy — save him !" 
 
 "Whom saidst thou, girl? Whom wouldst thou save? — 
 speak, I command thee ! " exclaimed Elvira, in a voice so 
 changed, so unnatural, that Constance shuddered, vainly en- 
 deavouring to shrink from the heavy hand that grasped her 
 shoulders, the eyes that flashed upon her, as if fire had dwelt 
 within their depths. "As thou hopest for mercy, speak !" 
 
 " Save ! whom but my own, my plighted lord ! Is there 
 one in the wide world to love me now as Luigi — Luigi 
 Vincenzio, he who hath honoured Constance with his troth ? 
 Oh, save — " 
 
 " Love ! thou darest not tell me that he loves thee ! — 
 false — false — he does not love thee!" She sprang up, cheek, 
 lip, brow, flushing for a single instant crimson, then fading 
 into a white so ghastly, it seemed as if life itself must 
 have passed, save for the mighty passion which held it 
 chained. 
 
 " Thee ! one like thee, poor foolish child ! art thou one to 
 bid Luigi Vincenzio love, to hold his heart enchained ? Yet 
 thou art lovely, good God of Heaven, how exquisitely lovely ! 
 Poor child, poor child, I have appalled thee ! — does he so 
 love thee?" She had sunk back on the cushion, her hands 
 convulsively pressed together, as to conceal their trembling, 
 but the wild light of those eyes, now still movelessly fixed 
 on Constance, who had risen from that posture of entreatj r , as 
 if the deep emotion of another had stilled her into com- 
 posure. 
 
 " Love me ! yes, as none but Luigi can love ; daughter of 
 a ruined, a persecuted house, with little to make me worthy 
 of such love, yet doth he love me, as I in truth were all in all 
 to him, as he is all to me — love me ! Oh ! did they bid me 
 die, or wander forth an exile, an outcast, like all of my
 
 218 GONZALVO S DAUGHTER. 
 
 race, yet queens might envy Constance for Luigi Vincenzio'a 
 love!" 
 
 "And thou wouldst save him ?" 
 
 "Aye, with my life — with all that they may deem precious, 
 Constance of Naples is no common prize ; 'tis said, Ferdinand 
 would give a jewel from his coronet for all of Frederic's un- 
 happy offspring placed within his power ; I am here ; bid 
 Gonzalvo send me a state prisoner, as he so nobly did my 
 brother. Ha ! lady, noble lady, forgive the word ; 'tis not 
 for the captive, the suppliant, to arraign the captor and the 
 judge. Grief makes the speech unwaiy — heed it not, heed it 
 not ; take my life, my liberty for his ! " 
 
 "Constance of Naples, thou mayst save both ! Gonzalvo 
 wars not with women ! " The princess threw herself at her 
 feet, with a wild cry of gratitude : the strangeness of that 
 voice, the rigid expression of that face, she heeded not, knew 
 not, she only dreamed of hope. 
 
 "Aye, but I have not said hoiv, girl ; pardon, life, liberty, 
 all have been offered to him for whom thou pleadest, on the 
 sole condition of swearing allegiance to Ferdinand, fealty to 
 Spain." .» 
 
 "And he hath refused," she interrupted ; " oh ! give me 
 entrance to him — I will plead, kneel, move not from his feet 
 till he hath done this ; he will submit for me, he will hear 
 me, live for Constance — let me but plead." 
 
 " Peace ! there is more ; he must be naturalized in Spain, 
 wed one of her noblest daughters, aye, one that loves him ; 
 let him do this, and he shall have life, riches, honour, all that 
 can make life glad. Ha ! dost thou fail ! bid him do this, 
 and he shall live." 
 
 " Yes, even this !" was the reply, after one single moment's 
 pause ; and the quivering lip, the ashy cheek, the trembling 
 frame, alone betrayed that young heart's agony. " Let Luigi 
 Vincenzio be free, be happy — for if she whom he must wed in 
 truth thus love him, the dream of his youth will fade beneath 
 the glory of his manhood, and he shall, he must be blessed — 
 if such things be, what recks it that Constance droops alone ? 
 I shall have saved him, have given him back to life, to his 
 fellows, to honour, to glory, and my death will be happy, oh ! 
 so happy ! Lady, I will do this." 
 
 "Death ! who spoke of death for thee ? bid Luigi thus ac- 
 cept his life, and thine is secured, is free."
 
 GOHZALVO'S DAUGHTER. 219 
 
 " Free ! speakcst thou of love, yet dreamest thou life could 
 exist apart from him — peace, peace — let me but save him, let 
 him but live, give me but admission to his presence, let me 
 but speak with him. Lady, lady, wherefore tarry? I will 
 do this, take me but to him. 
 
 "Thou wilt swear!" That low terrible whisper was a 
 more fearful index of passionate agony in the speaker than 
 even that which crushed her who stood in such meek, mourn- 
 ful, yet heroic suffering before her ; one only feeling prompted 
 Constance, but in Elvira it was the fierce contest of the evil 
 and the good ; one whelming passion struggling for dominion 
 over all that had been so fair, so bright, so beautiful before. 
 
 " Swear to sacrifice my all of selfish bliss -for him ? aye, 
 without one moment's pause ! Oh ! lady, thou knowest not 
 love, if thou deemest it needs oath to hallow that which I have 
 said. If thou doubtest me, bid one thou mayst trust, be 
 witness of my truth ; but oh ! keep me no longer from liim ; 
 let me save his life ! " 
 
 Without a word or notice in reply, the Lady Elvira sat a 
 moment in deep thought, then rose, and signed to the 
 princess to follow her. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The prison of Luigi Vincenzio had been changed from the 
 dark loathsome dungeon, in which he had first been cast, to 
 a low-roofed, rambling apartment, in that wing of the citadel 
 of Barletta which generally served as a barrack for infantry. 
 An iron grating, however, running in the centre from roof to 
 floor, cut the chamber in two, one portion generally serving 
 as a guardroom, when any important prisoner demanded un- 
 usual care. This annoyance had been spared Vincenzio ; 
 although the evening following the interview above described 
 about ten soldiers were then assembled, occupying the 
 farthest corner of the chamber, grouped in a circle, enjoy- 
 ing their pipes and cups, seasoned by many a jest, which 
 effectually turned their attention alike from their own officer 
 and their prisoner. The former, closely muffled in a military 
 cloak, and cap, with a heavy plume of black feathers, stood 
 leaning against the stone piliar to which the grating was 
 affixed by thick iron rings, parted only by that open railing
 
 220 GONZALVO'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 from the prisoner, and consequently enabled not alone to hear 
 all that passed between him and the lovely being whom he 
 was holding convulsively to his breast, but to mark every 
 change in the countenance of each. 
 
 What had already passed between those loving ones it is 
 needless to record ; nor the deep suffocating emotion which 
 had for several minutes utterly deprived Vincenzio 
 of voice, when his Constance so strangely, so unexpectedly 
 sprang into his arms. What cared he now that his guards 
 were present ; that she was not permitted to sec him alone, 
 save to smile at Gonzalvo's idle fear that she could bring him 
 means to escape ? He felt nothing but her presence, drink- 
 ing in for the first few moments the sweet faint accents of her 
 beloved voice, as if nothing of ill or misery could touch him 
 more. But soon, oh ! how much too soon, the sweet dream 
 fled, and but one truth remained — that he was doomed to 
 death, to close his eyes on that beloved one, and for ever ! A 
 shudder had convulsed his frame, a deep groan had been 
 wrung from him by that thought, and Constance had heard 
 and guessed its import. She knew not at first what she said, 
 but one thought, one feeling, one stern necessity was distinct 
 upon her mind ; all else was confused and painful, as if a 
 dark cloud had folded up her brain, leaving nought clear but 
 the letters of fire in which that one stern necessity was written. 
 
 "And dost thou indeed, in very deed, so love me, Luigi? 
 Oh ! then thou will grant my boon ; thou wilt not let 
 thy Constance plead to thee in vain," said she, after many, 
 many minutes had rolled by, unheeded in that sad commune, 
 and she lifted up her pale and mournful face, as the white 
 rose that, beat by some heavy storm, droops its lovely head 
 to earth, ere one leaf had lost its freshness. 
 
 " Boon — in vain. Constance, mine own sweet love, is there 
 aught thou canst ask Luigi will deny ?" 
 
 "Ah ! thou knowest not the weight of what I crave ; nor 
 will I speak it on thy simple word. Thou must pledge it 
 me, my love ; aye, by solemn oath — by hallowed vow — I 
 claim it on thy love, thy fealty, and how mayst thou refuse 
 me?" 
 
 Playfully he besought her to speak it first, and then, 
 dreaming not her object, unconscious even that the offered 
 conditions were known to her, he knelt at her feet, and placing 
 his hands between both hers, which felt strangely and fear-
 
 GONZALVO's DAUGHTER. 221 
 
 fully cold, he solemnly swore to do her bidding, whatever 
 it might be. The words were said, and Constance sank upon 
 his bosom. 
 
 " Saved ! saved ! oh, I have saved thee, Luigi ; thou wilt 
 live — be free — thou shalt not die ! " 
 
 lie started to his feet ; the whole truth bursting on his 
 mind, and yet, if so, why did she so cling to him, as if he 
 were spared to her ? no, no, it could not be. " Live ! Con- 
 stance, my blessed one, what canst thou mean ? my life is 
 forfeited ! " 
 
 " No, no, no ! " she reiterated, " it is granted thee, and on 
 conditions easy to accept. Luigi ! thou hast sworn to grant 
 my boon — to do my bidding ; and I bid thee live ! live, to 
 be happy, glorious, as I know thou wilt be ! Speak not ; 
 hear me. Frederic is no longer a king ; Naples no longer a 
 kingdom ; she is parcelled out to others ; she hath no sons — 
 no name — one hour acknowledging the rights of France, the 
 next bowed to the arms of Spain. To one or other of these 
 mighty potentates she must belong. My poor, poor father 
 can never claim her more. Luigi, my own Luigi, banish the 
 vain hope of her freedom — her future influence. Were 
 Frederic here, thou knowest he would say to thee, as he did 
 to all when he departed, ' My children, 'tis vain to struggle ; 
 make peace with whom ye will ; Frederic absolves you of* 
 your allegiance. No oath of fealty restrains you.' Hast 
 thou forgotten this ? no, no ; then wherefore shouldst thou 
 pause ; many have bowed to Louis, why not to Ferdinand ? 
 — Luigi, my own Luigi, thou shalt live ! " 
 
 " Constance," he answered, and he drew her closer to his 
 bosom, while his own frame shook, " Constance, were 
 this the sole cou/lition, for thy sake, beloved, I had not 
 paused — even thus I would have lived ; for this poor, un- 
 happy country, I feel, will never rise again ; such oath reflects 
 no shame upon her sons. Constance, was this all they told 
 thee ? " m 
 
 " Luigi, no ; there is another, — we must part — for ever ! 
 Yet — yet, I bid thee live." Slowly ever}- word fell ; but so 
 distinctly, so expressively, that despite that low gasping tone, 
 he heard them all, and not he alone. 
 
 " Ha ! thou knowest this. Part, Constance ! and thou 
 bidst me live ! I choose death instead. I will not lose thee ; 
 I will not wed another."
 
 222 GONZALVO's DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Thou wilt — thou shalt ! Luigi, Luigi, 'twill be but 
 a brief, a brief pang, followed by years of bliss. Oh ! do 
 not think this moment's agony will never, never pass 
 away. The hero's glory, — the warrior's fame, — the states- 
 man's pride — all, all, shall be thine own. Ambition, with 
 her hundred paths to immortality, shall lure thee to forget- 
 fulness, and then to peace ; and she — she, who will be thy 
 bride, — oh, if she love thee as they say she does, even 
 she at length will woo thee into joy. Luigi, my own, my 
 own, why dost thou turn from me ? Speak, oh, speak ; 
 tell me thou wilt live ! " She sunk on her knees before him, 
 as if that action should continue the entreaty for which voice 
 for the moment had utterly failed. 
 
 " Constance, Constance ! Dost thou urge me ? Thou — 
 wilt thou give me to another ? Is it thou who bidst me thus 
 be happy ? No, no, thou knowest not how much I love 
 thee!" 
 
 "Do I not love thee, Luigi? — Oh ! it is only thus that I 
 can save thee, — only thus they will grant thy life, — and what 
 care I for my happiness ? Luigi, if thou diest, how mayst 
 thou love me, — guard me as thou wouldst ? Oh, live, live ! 
 — in my lonely convent cell let me think of thee as I know 
 thou wilt be, — honoured, loved — aye, and in time so blessed ! 
 Let the bright thought be mine, — that I, even I, poor simple 
 Constance, have saved thee. Luigi, deny me not this, turn 
 not away. Thou canst not refuse me, — thou darest not — 
 thou art sworn !" 
 
 The countenance of Vincenzio became more and more 
 terribly agitated, — he struggled to break from her hold ; but 
 the grasp of agony was upon his cloak, and either held him 
 a giant strength, or his every limb had lost its power, 
 and chained him there. He sought to speak ; but only un- 
 intelligible murmurs came, and again that voice of impas- 
 sioned appeal came upon his heart, crushing it almost to 
 madness. It bade him live ; she might need his friendship, 
 though denied his love, when time permitted such intercourse 
 innocently to both. That tall form bowed, as stricken b}' a 
 mighty wind : a i and he had caught her to his 
 
 bosom, had murmured some inarticulate word.-!, and a burst 
 of passionate weeping convulsed his frame. Ere the pa- 
 roxysm passed, he was alone ; soldiers, officers, Constance, 
 all were gone.
 
 GOXZALVOS DAUGHTER. 223 
 
 V. 
 
 It was noon ; the brilliant sun of Italy poured its golden 
 flood through the high pointed casements of a small private 
 chapel, in the citadel of Barletta, which had been set apart 
 for the sole use of Gonzalvo de Cordova, his family, and 
 personal attendants. It was lavishly decorated, seeming in 
 all points well suited to the establishment of the great 
 captain. Heavy brocades, worked in gold and silver, hung 
 from the walls, shading many a shrine, ox the same precious 
 metals, where saints, Virgin, and Saviour were all blazing in 
 gems. A cloth of gold covered the altar, which stood just 
 beneath a gorgeously-painted window, that when lighted up, 
 as now, with the sun of noon, flung down the most brilliant 
 colouring on floor and wall. This day a rich carpet of superb 
 Genoa velvet covered the mosaic pavement at the foot of 
 the altar, and decorated cushions seemed to denote that some 
 unusual ceremony was then to be performed ; while the 
 number of sumptuously-attired nobles, Spanish, French, and 
 Neapolitan, already assembled, and the private chaplain of 
 Gonzalvo, missal in hand, behind the altar, with his priestly 
 attendants, proclaimed the hour at hand. The great captain 
 himself was present, magnificently attired, leaning on his 
 jewel-hilted sword, wrapt it seemed, by the fixed repose of his 
 countenance, in deep meditation, which none present chose 
 to interrupt. 
 
 The interest increased tenfold when, attended, or rather 
 guarded — few could tell which — Luigi Vincenzio, attired 
 with some care, but deadly pale, bearing an expression of 
 fearful internal agony on his countenance, slowly advanced 
 up the choir to the altar. The gaze of Gonzalvo moved not 
 from him ; serious it was, yet scarcely stern, and the tone 
 was calm in which he said, "We have heard, Signor Vin- 
 cenzio, you accept the conditions proposed ! — have we heard 
 aright?" Luigi simply bowed his "head in answer, imagining 
 the oath of fealty to Ferdinand, and denial of Frederic, would 
 next be administered ; but it came not, silence reigned again 
 uninterrupted as before. Then came sounds along the 
 corridor ; the folding-doors at the base of the chapel were 
 flung wide open, and the Lady Elvira, more than usually 
 majestic in mien and carriage, entered, followed by several
 
 224 GONZALVO'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 attendants; her resplendent beauty was heightened by an 
 expression of countenance none could define, save that it 
 affected the most indifferent spectator then present with a 
 species of awe, of veneration, that could have bowed every 
 knee in unfeigned homage. Stars of diamonds glittered 
 in her raven hair, and sparkled down the bodice and front 
 of her dark velvet robe. The first glance of all rested im- 
 movably, seemingly fascinated, on her ; the next turned on 
 the slight figure she led forward ; but every curious effort to 
 discover the stranger's identity was rendered vain by the 
 thick shrouding veil which completely enveloped her ; per- 
 mitting nothing but the tiny foot and exquisitely-turned ankle 
 to be visible. 
 
 A strong shudder had convulsed the form of Vincenzio ; 
 he tried to step forward, to speak, but all power appeared to 
 forsake him, till a voice, sweet, clear, and silvery, uttered the 
 simple words " I will," the customary rejoinder to the priest's 
 demand, " wilt thou accept this man as thy wedded lord," 
 and its attendant vows to "love, honour, and obey." The 
 voice thrilled through him, awakening him to consciousness, 
 he knew not how or why ; and Jie saw he w r as kneeling before 
 the altar, beside that veiled and shrouded form by whom Gon- 
 zalvo and his daughter were both standing, as if from their 
 hands he received her. Gradually everything became dis- 
 tinct ; La Palice was at his side, his hand upon his shoulder, 
 as if rousing him from that deadening stupor. He recog- 
 nised his friends amidst the noble group standing around. 
 Had the marriage vow been administered to him ? If so, he 
 must have replied, or the ceremony could not have continued, 
 but he knew not he had spoken ; and what had in fact aroused 
 him? — a voice ! — whose voice? — to whom was he irrevocably 
 joined ? Not that one whom his fevered fancy had so wildly 
 pictured, for she stood there looking on the ceremony, as calm 
 and motionless as the most indifferent spectator. 
 
 It was over. Vincenzio and his nameless bride rose from 
 their knees, and then it was the hands of Gonzalvo removed 
 the veil and led her forward, that the eyes of all might 
 rest with admiration on the loveiiness displayed. A cry of 
 ishment burst simultaneously from the French prisoners 
 .•mi I Neapolitans around, and the latter rushed forward and 
 prostrated themselves before her, clasping her robe, her feet, 
 'mid sobs and tears calling on heaven to bless the daughter
 
 GONZALVO'S DAUGHTER. 225 
 
 of their king, the being whom from her cradle they had well- 
 nigh worshipped — the Princess Constance ! but one alone 
 stood speechless ; one alone had no power to go forward, for 
 all seemed to him a dream, whose bewildering light and bliss 
 would be for ever lost in darkness. But as those eyes turned 
 on him, that radiant glance sought his, there was one sob, one 
 choking cry, and Luigi had bounded forward, had clasped her 
 to his heart. And then he would have flung himself at Gon- 
 zalvo's feet, to pour out the burdening load of gratitude that 
 almost crushed him with its magnitude, but Gonzalvo, grasp- 
 ing his hand in the friendly pressure of sympathy, forbade all 
 speech till he had been heard. 
 
 " It has been said," he exclaimed, " that to the King of 
 Naples and his ill-fated family Gonzalvo cle Cordova is in- 
 capable of generosity, or even of humanity ; because the 
 stern mandate of his sovereign demanded the sacrifice of his 
 own private sentiments of generosity and honour, and 
 compelled the captivity of Frederic's heir. My friends, I 
 plead no excuse, no offence for this dark deed ; but 
 now that nought but Gonzalvo's own heart may dictate, I bid 
 ye absolve me of all undue severity, all unjust dishonour. 
 The Princess Constance offered her liberty for that of the 
 Signor Vincenzio ; but, nobles of Naples, Gonzalvo scorned 
 it. She is free, as is her husband. His ransom, five thousand 
 marks, is discharged from my private coffers, and settled 
 as a marriage dowry on his bride. Both, then, arc free, un- 
 shackled by condition, free as the winds of heaven to travel 
 Avhere they list. We heard of a noble of France hostile to 
 this union, and on account of his birth approved of by King 
 Frederic ; and therefore it is we have been thus secret, and 
 would counsel Signor Vincenzio to accept the vessel lying at 
 anchor, ready for his use, and convey his gentle bride to the 
 court of her father without delay. We will take all blame ; 
 for the union, as ye have all witnessed, hath been without 
 consent of the bridegroom. For thee, Signor Vincenzio, 
 thy fault is unconditionally pardoned, a grace won for thee 
 by the truth and glorious heroism of thy gentle bride. No 
 thanks — to us they are not due ; we had been terrible in 
 wrath, resolute to demand the forfeit of rebellion, even to the 
 last, save for one whose earnest pleadings we had no power to 
 resist. In your love, your happiness, think on Gonzalvo's 
 daughter, for to her ye owe it all. " 
 
 Q
 
 226 GOUZALVO'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 It needed not the name : ere that rich voice ceased, Vin- 
 cenzio and his bride were kneeling at the feet of the Lady 
 Elvira ; the former pouring forth with passionate eloquence 
 his gratitude, his veneration ; in words burning, thrilling, 
 known only to Italy's impassioned clime. She heard, and a 
 faint quivering smile was on those lips ; one hand she yielded 
 to his respectful homage, and laid the other caressingly, fondly, 
 on the beautiful head of Constance, whose fase was lifted up to 
 hers beaming in all the blissful confidence of love, of joy, 
 of devotion, conscious that to her she owed all that made life 
 dear. 
 
 " Bid Constance tell thee how much Elvira owes to her, 
 Signer Vincenzio, and thou wilt learn I have yet more cause 
 of gratitude than thou hast," she said, and not one word 
 quivered. " To thee she hast given a life ; to me — what is 
 far more valuable — Elvira to herself, unstained, unscathed ; 
 her soul of honour cloudless, true, when all methouglit had 
 failed. Farewell ! be happ} 7- , and may good angels guard ye 
 both ! " 
 
 She raised the Princess, and folded her to her heart. 
 " There was an eye thou knewest not upon thee in his prison," 
 she whispered, ere she released her. " Constance, hadst 
 thou failed, we had both been lost, for I had seen no stronger 
 spirit than my own. Thou hast saved us both, and must be 
 blessed. She printed a long kiss on that beautiful brow, and 
 placed her in her husband's arms. A brief interval of con- 
 gratulation, of joyful conference followed, and then all within 
 that chapel was silent and deserted. Hours passed. The 
 chieftain of Spain had returned from accompanying Vin- 
 cenzio and his bride to their vessel, though he had tarried to 
 watch them weigh anchor and disappear in the distance. He 
 inquired for his daughter, sought her in all her haunts, and 
 lastly, with a strange foreboding, re-entered the chapel. No 
 voice, and at first no figure met his eye or ear ; he rushed 
 forwards, a beautiful form lay either lifeless or in a deep 
 swoon at the altar's foot, her rich and luxuriant hair falling 
 
 heavily and darkly around her. It was the Lady Elvira. 
 ****** 
 
 The remainder of the Lady Elvira's career is a matter of 
 ':': bory : with it the romancer interfereth no further.
 
 227 
 
 i. 
 
 " You surely do not intend acting such a fool's part, Dudley. 
 as that our little world assigns you ? " was the address of 
 one friend to another, as they drew their chairs more cosily 
 together, in the little sanctum to which they had retreated, 
 after a tete-a-tete dinner. 
 
 " And what may that be, my good fellow ? " 
 
 " Why, throw away yourself and your comfortable property 
 on a person little likely to value either one or the other, and 
 certainly worthy of neither — Clara Stanley." 
 
 Granville Dudley coloured highly. " Oblige me, at least, 
 by speaking of that young lady with respect," lie said; 
 " however you and your companions may mistake my inten- 
 tions concerning her." 
 
 " Mistake, my good fellow ; your face and tone are con- 
 firmation strong. I am sorry for it though, for I would 
 rather see you happy than any man I laiow." 
 
 " I believe you, Charles ; but what is there so terribly 
 opposed to my happiness in an union with Miss Stanley, 
 granting for the moment that I desire it ? " Charles Heyward 
 sat silent, and stirred the fire. " Because she is not rich ? 
 nay, I believe, rather the contrary." 
 
 " I did not think you worldly, Granville." 
 
 " Thank you, for doing me but justice. I am perfectly 
 indifferent as to wealth or poverty in a woman. But what is 
 your objection then ? She is not superlatively beautiful nor 
 seemingly first-rate in accomplishment ; but what then ? 
 She is pleasing, unaffected, full of feeling, very domestic, for 
 I seldom meet her out." 
 
 Again were the poker and the blazing coals at variance, 
 and more noisily than before. 
 
 " My good friend, you have roused that fire and my 
 curiosity to a most unbearable state of heat. Do speak out. 
 What is the matter with Miss Stanley, that when 1 mention 
 the words ' feeling ' and ' domestic,' you look unbelieving as 
 a heretic? Can you say ' Nay' to any one thing I have said ?"
 
 228 THE AUTHORESS. 
 
 " Nay, to tliem all, Granville Dudley," exclaimed Hey- 
 ■ward, with vehemence. " It is because you need a most 
 domestic woman for your happiness, I tell you do not marry 
 Clara Stanley ; she is a determined blue — light, dark, every 
 imaginable shade — a poet, a philosopher, a preacher — writes 
 for every periodical — lays down the law on all subjects of 
 literature, from a fairy tale to a philosophical treatise or 
 ministerial sermon. For heaven's sake, have nothing to do 
 with her. A literary woman is the very antipodes to 
 domestic happiness. Fly, before your peace is seriously at 
 stake." 
 
 Granville Dudley looked, and evidently felt disturbed. 
 At first, startled and incredulous, he compelled his friend to 
 reiterate his charge and its proofs. Nothing loath, Charles 
 Heyward brought forward so many particulars, so many 
 facts, concerning the lady in question, which, from his near 
 relationship to the family with whom she lived, he had been 
 enabled easily to collect, that Granville, unable to disapprove 
 or even contradict one of them, sank back on his chair, 
 almost with a groan. 
 
 " Why, my dear sobei'-minded, philosophic friend, you 
 cannot surely have permitted your heart to escape your wise 
 keeping so effectually in so short a space of time, that you 
 cannot call it back again with a word ? Cheer up, and be a 
 man. Thank the fates that such a melancholy truth was 
 discovered before it was too late. I have heard you forswear 
 literary women so often that I could not stand calmly by, and 
 see you run your head blindfold into such a noose ; she is a 
 nice girl enough, and if she were not so confoundedly clever, 
 might be very bearable." 
 
 " But how is it I never discovered that she is so clever? 
 If it be displayed so broadly, how can she hide it so com- 
 pletely before strangers ? " 
 
 " She does not display it, Granville. No one would 
 imagine she was a whit cleverer than other people ; she has 
 no pretension, nor airs of superiority ; but she writes, she 
 writes, 'there's the rub,' and she loves it too — which is 
 worse still — and a public literary character cannot be a 
 domestic wife ; one who is ever pining for and receiving 
 fame can never be content with the praise of one; and one 
 who is always creating imaginary feelings can have none for 
 realities. To speak more plainly, those who love a thousand
 
 THE AUTHORESS. 229 
 
 times in idea can never love once in reality ; and so I say, 
 Clara Stanley cannot value you sufficiently ever to possess the 
 rich honour of being chosen as your wife. Do not be angry with 
 my bluntness, Granville ; I only speak because I love you." 
 
 Granville Dudley was not angry ; perhaps it had been better 
 for his happiness if he had been, as then he would not have been 
 so easily convinced by the specious reasoning of his friend. 
 The conversation lasted all that evening, and when Dudley 
 retired to rest, it was with a firm determination to watch 
 ■Clara Stanley a few weeks longer, and if it really were as 
 Heyward stated, to dismiss her from his thoughts at once, and 
 even quit England for a time, rather than permit a momen- 
 tary fancy to make him miserable for life. 
 
 Now, though Charles Heyward had spoken in the language 
 of the world, he was not by any means a worldly man ; nor 
 Granville Dudley, though he had listened and been convinced, 
 unjust or capricious. Unfortunately for Miss Stanley's 
 happiness, Granville's mother had been one of those shallow 
 pretenders of literature which throw such odium upon all its 
 female professors. From his earliest childhood Dudley had 
 ■been accustomed to regard literature and authorship as 
 .synonymous with domestic discord, conjugal disputes, and a 
 complete neglect of all duties, social or domestic. As he 
 grew older, the excessive weakness of Ins mother's character, 
 her want of judgment and common sense, and — it appeared 
 to his ardent disposition — even of common feelings, struck 
 him more and more ; her descriptions of conjugal and mater- 
 nal love were voted by her set of admirers as perfect ; but he 
 could never remember that the practice was equal to the 
 theory. Nay, it did reach his ears, though he banished the 
 thought witli horror, that his father's early death might have 
 been averted, had he received more judicious care and tender 
 watchfulness from his literary wife. 
 
 Mrs. Dudley, however, died before her son's strong 
 affections had been entirely blunted through her apparent 
 indifference ; and he therefore only permitted himself to 
 remember her faults as being the necessary consequence of 
 literature and genius encouraged in a woman. He was 
 neither old nor experienced enough, at the time of her death, 
 to distinguish between real genius and true literary aspirings, 
 and their shallow representatives, superficial knowledge and 
 overbearing conceit.
 
 230 THE AUTHORESS. 
 
 As this was the case, it was not in the least surprising that 
 he should be so easily convinced of the truth and plausibility 
 of Heyward's reasoning, or that Charles Heyward, aware of 
 all which Dudley's youth had endured from literature and 
 authorship in a mother, should be so very eager to save him 
 from their repetition in the closer relationship of wife. 
 
 But Clara Stanley was no mere pretender to genius ; the 
 wise and judicious training of affectionate parents had saved 
 her from all the irregularities of temper, indecision of pur- 
 pose, and inconstancy of pursuit which, because they have 
 characterised some wayward ones, are regarded as peculiar to 
 genius. Her earliest childhood had displayed more than 
 common intellect, and its constant companions, keen sensi- 
 bility and thoughtfulness ; a vivid imagination, an intuitive 
 perception of the beautiful, the holy, and the good ; an 
 extraordinary memory, and rapid comprehension of every 
 variety of literature, alike prose and poetry, unfolded with 
 her youth, combined with most persevering efforts after 
 improvement in every study which could assist her natural 
 gilts. It was impossible for her parents not to regard her 
 with pride, but it was pride mingled with trembling ; for they 
 knew, though she did not, that even as she was set apart in 
 the capability of mind from her fellows, so she was in the 
 capability of suffering. Knowing this, their every wish, 
 their every effort, was directed to providing her with a haven 
 of refuge, where that ever-throbbing heart might find its 
 only perfect rest. Taught to regard mental powers, how- 
 ever varied, as subordinate to her duties as a woman, and an 
 English and religious Avoman, modesty, gentleness, and 
 love marked every word and every action. Few there were, 
 except her own immediate circle and friends, who knew the- 
 extent of her mental powers, or the real energy and strength 
 of her character ; but countless was the number of those 
 that loved her. 
 
 It was not, however, till after her father's death she saw 
 and felt the necessity of making her talents a source of 
 usefulness as well as of pleasure. She was then little more 
 then seventeen, but under the fostering care of an influential 
 literary friend, she was introduced to the periodicals of the 
 day, her productions accepted, and more requested from the 
 same hand. 
 
 Though a few years after Mr. Stanley's death, however.,
 
 THE AUTHORESS. 231 
 
 their pecuniary affairs were so advantageously settled that 
 Clara had no longer any necessity to make literature a pro- 
 fession. Their income was moderate, but it rendered them 
 happily independent. 
 
 " Now, now," was Clara's ardent exclamation, as she 
 clasped her arms about her mother's neck, " I may concen- 
 trate my energies to a better and holier purpose than the 
 mere literature of the day ; now I may indulge the dream of 
 effecting good, more than the mere amusement of the hour ; 
 now I am no longer bound. Oh, who in this world is hap- 
 pier or more blessed than I am V 
 
 And as long as she resided under her mother's roof, in the 
 pretty little village which had so long been her home, she 
 was truly happy. Encouraged by the popularity which, 
 through her literary friend, she learned that she had acquired; 
 satisfied that he thought her capable of the work she had 
 attempted, and blessed with a mother for whose sake 
 Clara valued fame ; for she knew how sweet to maternal 
 affection were the praises of a child. 
 
 But this might not last. Before she was one-and-twemVy 
 Clara was an orphan, and long, long it was ere she could 
 resume the employments she had so loved, or look forward to 
 anything but loneliness and misery. Every thought, every 
 task was associated with the departed, and could filial love 
 have preserved the vital spark the mother had yet been 
 spared ; and had Granville Dudley known Clara in that sad 
 time, he wouli have been compelled to abjure his belief in the 
 incompatibility of literature with woman's duties and affec- 
 tions. 
 
 But of such a trial both Granville and Heyward knew 
 nothing ; nor, when the latter said that she loved her profes- 
 sion, did he imagine the struggle it had been for her to 
 resume it — how completely at first it had been the voice of 
 duty, not of love. Fame had never been to her either 
 incentive or further reward than the mere gratification of the 
 moment, and as a source of pleasure to her mother ; and how 
 vain and hollow did fame seem now ! But hers was not a 
 spirit to be conquered by deep sorrow. She resumed hex 
 employments when health returned, with a bursting heart, 
 indeed, but they brought reward. They drew her from ner- 
 self for the time being, and energy in seeking to accomplish 
 good gradually followed. The severity of her trial was,
 
 232 THE AUTHOKESS. 
 
 however, if possible, heightened by the great change in her 
 mode of life. Her only near relation was an uncle, who 
 lived and moved in one of those circles of high pretension 
 and false merit with which the metropolis abounds. His 
 wife, an ultra-fashionist, lived herself and educated her 
 daughters for the world and its follies alone, inculcating the 
 necessity of attracting and gaining husbands, but not of 
 keeping them. Exterior accomplishment, superficial con- 
 versation, graceful carriage, and fashionable manners were 
 all that were considered needful — and all of feeling or of 
 sentiment rubbed off, as romance much too dreadful to be 
 avowed. 
 
 To this family, at the request of her uncle, who actually 
 made the exertion of fetching her himself, Clara removed 
 eight months after her mother's death. Yearning for affec- 
 tion, and knowing little of her relatives, Clara had given 
 imagination vent, and hoped happiness might again be 
 dawning for her. How greatly she was disappointed, our 
 readers may judge by the sketch we have given. In their 
 vocabulary, authorship and learning were synonymous with 
 romance and folly ; and worse still, as dooming their pos- 
 sessors, unavoidably, to a state of single blessedness, and 
 therefore to be shunned as they would the plague itself. 
 That Clara devoted to her literary pursuits but the same 
 number of hours that one Miss Barclay did to music (that is its 
 mechanical, not its mental part), another to oriental or mezzo- 
 tinting, or another to the creation of wax-work, Berlin wool, 
 etc., was not of the least consequence ; their horror of blueism 
 was such, that to prevent all supposition of their approval of 
 Clara's mode of life, they never lost an opportunity of be- 
 wailing her unfortunate propensity — and of so impressing all 
 who visited at the house with the idea of her great learning 
 and obtrusive wisdom, that the gentle, unpretending manners 
 of the authoress could not weigh against it ; and she found 
 herself universally shunned as something too terrible to be 
 defined. 
 
 " With all this, I write on, hope on," she once wrote to an 
 intimate friend ; "struggling to feel that if indeed I accom- 
 plish good, I shall not live in vain ; and my own personal 
 loneliness and sorrow will be of little consequence. But, 
 oh ! how different it is to write merely for the good of others, 
 to the same efforts, to the same goal, pursued under the in-
 
 THE AUTHORESS. 233 
 
 fluence of sympathy and affection ! Because a woman has 
 mind, she is supposed to have no heart, and has no occasion 
 therefore for the sweet charities of life ; when by her, if 
 possible more than any other, they are imperatively needed. 
 Others may find pleasure or satisfaction in foreign excite- 
 ment ; to her, home is all in all. If there be one to love her 
 there — be it parent, husband, or friend — she needs no more ; 
 the yearnings of her heart are stilled, the mind provides her 
 with unfading flowers, and her lot is as inexpressibly happy 
 as without such domestic ties it is inexpressibly sad. Do not 
 wish me, as you have sometimes done, clear Mary, to love, 
 for it would be unreturned ; simply, because it is the general 
 belief that an authoress can have no time, no capability of 
 any emotion save for the creations of her own mind." 
 
 So wrote Clara ; though, at the time, she knew not how 
 soon her words would be verified. As soon as the term of 
 mourning had expired, though little inclined for the exertion, 
 she conquered her own shrinking repugnance to asserting 
 and adopting her own rights ; and, to the astonishment of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Barclay, she accepted some of the invitations 
 which courtesy had sent her. Though entered into merely 
 as a duty, society gradually became a source of pleasure, in 
 the discovery that all her aunt's circle were not of the 
 same frivolous kind ; and then slowly, but surely, the plea- 
 sure deepened into intense enjoyment from the conversation 
 and attentions of Granville Dudley, whom she met constantly, 
 though he did not visit her uncle. Clara was so very unlike 
 her cousins, whose endeavours to gain husbands were some- 
 what too broadly marked, that Dudley had been irresistibly 
 attracted towards her ; a fancy which every interview so 
 strengthened, that he began very seriously to question his 
 own heart as to whether he really was in love. 
 
 As Miss Stanley's name was not generally known to the 
 literary world, and the lady, at whose house Granville mostly 
 met her, was herself scarcely aware that she was anything 
 nil »re than an amiable, sensible and strongly feeling girl, 
 Granville Dudley knew nothing of her claims to literature 
 and authorship till his conversation with Charles Hcyward, 
 near the close of the season, revealed them as we have said. 
 The very next time they met, Dudley, half fearfully, half 
 resolutely, led the subject to literature and literati, and drew 
 from Clara's own lips the avowal he dreaded. In the happy
 
 234 THE AUTHORESS. 
 
 state of feeling which his presence always created, she at 
 first imagined he thus spoke from interest and sympathy in 
 all she did ; and enthusiastic, as was her wont in conversa- 
 tion with those who she thought understood her, she said 
 more on the subject, its enjoyment and resources, than she 
 had ever done in London. Granville said nothing, in reply, 
 which could have chilled her at the time. Yet, when the 
 evening was over, Clara's heart sunk within her ; she knew 
 not wherefore, save that a secret foreboding whispered within 
 her that conversation had sealed her fate. Dudley would not 
 trust his happiness with her. 
 
 At one other party she was to meet him, ere the season 
 closed, and the veriest devotee to balls and soirees could not 
 have longed for it more than poor Clara : who looked forward 
 to it as the confirmer or dispenser of her fears. The morning 
 of the day on which it was to take place, little Emily, the 
 youngest of the family, was seized with a violent attack of 
 fever, which increased as evening advanced. It so happened 
 that all the Barclay family who were " out " were engaged 
 that evening ; Mr. and Mrs. Barclay, and their two elder 
 daughters, at a card and musical soiree ; the other two, and 
 their brothers, under the chaperonage of Mrs. Smith, the 
 gouvernante, at the ball to which Clara looked forward with 
 so much eagerness. What was to be done ? The child 
 could not be left ; and without Mrs. Smith, what was to 
 become of her sisters ? It was impossible for them to go 
 alone, and equally impossible for mother, father, or either 
 sister of the little sufferer, to give up a fashionable party for 
 the dreadful doom of sitting by a sick bed. 
 
 Looks and hints of every variety were levelled at Clara ; 
 who, with her usual benevolence, had stationed herself close 
 by her little cousin, ever ready to administer kindness or 
 relief. At any other time, she would not have hesitated a 
 moment ; but with the restless craving to see Granville 
 Dudley again, the giving up her only chance, for a time at 
 least, was so exquisitely painful, she could not offer to remain. 
 Mrs. Barclay, howevei', seeing hints Oi no avail, at length 
 directly entreated that, as she was less fond of going out 
 than any one else, she might be glad of the excuse, to give 
 the time to her books and writing, and it would really be 
 doing her (Mrs. Barclay) an especial favour ii she would 
 stay and nurse Emily. Clara's high spirit, and strong sense
 
 THE AUTHORESS. 235 
 
 of selfish indulgence, obtained such unusual dominion, that she 
 had well-nigh proudly refused ; but the little sufferer looked 
 in her face so piteously, and entreated her so pleadingly to 
 remain, that, ever awake to the impulse of affection, Miss 
 Stanley consented. 
 
 The disappointment was a bitter one, though Clara's 
 strong sense of rectitude caused her to reproach herself for 
 its keenness, as uncalled for. What did Granville Dudley 
 care for her, that she should so think of him ? but vain the 
 question. Every backward glance on their intercourse con- 
 vinced her that he had thought of her, had singled her out, 
 to pay her those attentions, that gentle and winning defe- 
 rence, which, from a man of honour, such as the world 
 designated him, could not be misconstrued. There was one 
 comfort, however, in her not meeting him ; if he knew what 
 kept her at home, he would! scarcely continue to believe that 
 her only thoughts were of literature and authorship. 
 
 Little did she know that, before they departed on their 
 several ways, it was settled in the Barclay parliament that 
 nothing whatever was to be said of little Emily's illness, 
 lest peuple should fancy it contagious, and send them no 
 more invitations, so closing their chances of matrimony for 
 that season, before it was quite time. 
 
 "If Clara is asked for, my dears — which is not at all likely 
 — you can say you know that she could not leave her writing, 
 or correcting a proof, or some such literary business. I 
 leave it to you, Matilda ; you are sharp enough, particularly 
 in framing excuses for a rival, whoni I know you are glad to 
 get out of your way. Folks say Granville Dudley had 
 a literary mother; he is not likely to wish for a literary 
 wife." 
 
 The young lady answered with a knowing nod ; and per- 
 formed her mission so admirably, that after that evening 
 Granville Dudley disappeared. Power she certainly had to 
 separate him from Clara, but to attach him to herself was 
 not quite so easy. The answer she had given to Granville's 
 inquiries after her cousin was so carelessly natural — that 
 Clara, as an authoress, a literary character, had so many 
 superior claims, that parties and everything else must be 
 secondary, and this followed up by a high encomium on her 
 great talent, she should say genius ; _ but it was, she thought, 
 almost a pity to be so gifted, as it incapacitated her from
 
 236 THE AUTHORESS. 
 
 common sympathies and duties — that it confirmed Granville's 
 previous fears. And while it made him almost turn sick 
 with disappointment and anguish, for it seemed only then he 
 felt how completely she had become a part of himself, he 
 vowed to tear himself from her influence ere it was too late, 
 and the very next morning left London. 
 
 "You were right, Hey ward. I suppose I shall be a happy 
 man again some day or other, but not now ; so do not try to 
 philosophise me into being so." 
 
 "But, my good fellow, perhaps after all we have been 
 frightened at shadows ; and, hang it ! but I am sorry I said 
 so much at first. That Emily Barclay has been very ill, and 
 was so that eventful night, are facts; and, in my opinion, 
 Clara stayed to nurse her, because the others were all too 
 selfish." 
 
 "A sentimental excuse to obtain time for dear, delightful, 
 solitary musings, or some such thing. It is too late, 
 Hey ward ; she is literary, and so she cannot be domestic. I 
 will not think of her any more." 
 
 This was not quite so easy to do as to say ; but Granville 
 Dudley was a man of the world, far too proud and resolute 
 to bow, or seem to bow, beneath feeling, particularly when 
 he believed himself on the point of loving one who was 
 utterly incapacitated from giving him any heart in return. 
 He went abroad, travelled during the remainder of the 
 summer, joined the first Parisian circles in the autumn, and 
 before the year closed was a married man. 
 
 II. 
 
 Eight years have passed, and Clara Stanley is still unmar- 
 ried ; yet she is happy and contented, for she is once more 
 amid the scenes of her childhood ; once more the centre of a 
 domestic circle, who vie with each other who can love her 
 best. Two years after she heard of Granville Dudley's mar- 
 riage, finding a London life less and less suited to her tastes, 
 and not conceiving any actual duty bound her to reside with 
 her uncle's family, she resolved on making her home with an 
 intimate friend of her mother's, who was associated with all 
 the happy memories of her own childhood and youth. Re- 
 duced circumstances had lately compelled Mrs. Langley to 
 take pupils; a fact which had instantly determined Clara's
 
 THE AUTHORESS. 237 
 
 plans. She was the more desirous for retirement and 
 domestic ties, from the very notoriety which the constant 
 success of her literary efforts had flung around her. She did 
 not disdain or undervalue fame ; but all of expressed admira- 
 tion, all public homage, was so very much more pain than, 
 pleasure, that she shrunk from it ; longing yet more for some 
 kindly heart on which to rest her own. Let us not be mis- 
 taken : it was not for love, in the world's adaptation of the 
 word, she needed ; it was a parent's fostering care — a 
 brother's supporting friendship — a sister's sympathy, or one 
 friend to love her for herself, for the qualities of heart, not 
 for the labours and capabilities of mind. From the time she 
 heard of Dudley's marriage, all thought of individual happi- 
 ness as a wife faded from her imagination. Her only efforts 
 were to rouse every energy to supply objects of interest and 
 affection, and so prevent the listlessness and despondency too 
 often the fate of disappointed women. This had, at first, 
 been indeed a painfully difficult task ; for her heart had 
 whispered it was because she was different from her fellows, 
 because she was what the world termed literary and learned, 
 Granville had shunned her ; and a few words, undesignedly 
 and carelessly spoken by Charles Heyward, relative to Dud- 
 ley's dislike to female literature, from its effects on his mother, 
 confirmed the idea, and made her shrink from her former 
 favourite pursuits. But she, too, had a character to sustain ; 
 and once more she compelled herself to work, believing that 
 her talents were lent her to be instruments of good, not to 
 lie unused. And yet, to a character of strong affections and 
 active energies, mental resources, however varied, were not 
 quite sufficient for happiness ; and therefore was it she formed 
 and executed the plan we have named. 
 
 So seven years had sped, and there was little variation in 
 the life of our heroine for her biographer to record. Her 
 constant prayer was heard. Her name had become a house- 
 hold word, coupled with love, from the pure high feelings 
 and ennobling sympathies which her writings had called 
 forth. Her works had made her beloved and revered, 
 though her person, nay, her very place of residence and all 
 concerning her were, as she desired, utterly unknown. This 
 in itself was happiness, inexpressibly heightened by he* 
 present domestic duties, lightening Mrs. Langley's household 
 cares ; giving part of every day to that lady's pupils ; teach-
 
 238 TUE AUTHORESS. 
 
 ing them not only to be accomplished and domestic, but to 
 be thinkers; training the heart, even more than the mind; 
 making nature alike a temple and a school : all the sweet 
 charities of home were now hers, and her heart was indeed 
 happy and once more at rest. 
 
 And was Granville Dudley, then, forgotten ? When we 
 say that Clara might have married more than once, and most 
 happily, but that she had refused, simply because she could 
 not permit an unloved reality to usurp the place of a still 
 loved shadow — all doubts, we think, are answered. 
 
 Of Granville Dudley she could never hear ; all trace of 
 hiin seemed lost. Within the last few years the newspapers 
 had indeed often teemed with the praises and speeches of a 
 Sir Dudley Granville; but, though the conjunction of names 
 had at first riveted her e}^ and made her heart turn strangely 
 sick, she banished the thought as folly. It was a Granville 
 Dudley, not a Dudley Granville, whom she had too fondly 
 loved. 
 
 Miss Stanley had resided about seven years with Mrs. 
 Langley, 'when application was made to the latter lady to 
 receive the only child of Sir Dudley Granville as her pupil. 
 The child was motherless, and in such very precarious health, 
 that the milder climate of Devonshire had been advised, as, 
 combined with extreme care, the only chance of rearing her 
 to womanhood. Mrs. Langley 's establishment was full, six 
 being her allotted number, which no persuasion had as yet 
 ever induced her to increase. There was something, how- 
 ever, in the appearance of the little Laura which so uncon- 
 sciously won upon Clara, that she could not resist pleading 
 in the child's behalf; and as one of the pupils was to leave 
 the next half year, Mrs. Langley acceded. Clara's name, 
 however, had not been mentioned in this transaction. The 
 lady who had the charge of Laura had indeed conversed with 
 her, and had been charmed with her manner; but little 
 imagined she was enjoying the often-coveted honour of con- 
 versing with an authoress, and one so popular as Clara 
 Stanley. She said that Laura, though eight years old, 
 literally knew nothing. Lady Granville had been the belle of 
 her time, but one who had the greatest horror of all learning 
 in woman, and in consequence possessing nothing of herself 
 but showy accomplishment, which told in society. She had 
 neglected the poor child, wasted alike her own health and
 
 THE AUTHORESS. 239 
 
 her husband's income in the sole pursuit of pleasure, and 
 hurried herself to an early grave. Laura's health had been 
 so delicate since then, that her father feared to commence her 
 studies, even while he was most anxious she should become 
 a sensible and accomplished woman, with resources for happi- 
 ness within herself. 
 
 "And she shall be, if I can make her so," was Clara's 
 inward thought, as she looked on the sweet face of the 
 child, and a new chord in her heart was touched she knew 
 not wherefore. It was impossible to analyse the feeling, 
 even to one long accustomed to analysing hearts, and Clara 
 gave it up in despair ; but affection and interest alike clung 
 round the child, who gave back all she received. Her weak 
 health prevented her entering into ail the routine of the 
 schoolroom, and she became Clara's constant companion and 
 pupil. Repeatedly the artless letters of the child to her 
 doating father teemed with the goodness, the gentleness, the 
 tenderness of Miss Stanley ; soon convincing Sir Dudley 
 how quick and ready were her powers of comprehension, 
 and filling his heart with gratitude towards that kind friend, 
 whom he knew not, guessed not was the authoress of the 
 same name whose gentle eloquence in her sex's cause had 
 even now his admiration. 
 
 Laura Granville had been with Mrs. Langley about eight 
 months, when she became extremely ill, from an epidemic 
 that had suddenly broken out in the village ; all Mrs. 
 Langley 's household were attacked by it in a greater 
 or less degree, but in Laura alone did it threaten to be fatal. 
 Careless of her own fatigue, Clara devoted herself, day and 
 night, to the young sufferer. Her affections had never 
 before been so warmly enlisted ; not one of her young 
 t'riends had ever become so completely part of herself, and 
 as she watched and tended her morning prayers for her 
 recovery, it seemed as if the child must be something nearer 
 to her than in reality she wa 
 
 An express had been sent off for Sir Dudley Granville ; 
 but, from his having gone unexpecte I 
 
 Germany, it was m rid nearly 
 
 three weeks elapsed ere the baronet reached Ashford. Prom 
 the haste with which he had travelled, uo account of her 
 progress could reach him ; and it was in a state of agony 
 and suspense no words 3 that the : flung
 
 240 THE AUTHORESS. 
 
 himself from his carriage at Mrs. Langley 's gate, and rushed 
 into her presence. 
 
 " Your child lives ; is rapidly recovering — may be stronger 
 than she has been yet," were the first words he heard, for 
 his look and manner were all-sufficient introduction ; and the 
 benevolent physician, who had that instant quitted his little 
 patient, grasped Sir Dudley's hand with reassuring pressure. 
 The baronet tried to return it with a smile, but his quivering 
 lip could only gasp forth an ejaculation of thankfulness, 
 and sinking on a chair, he covered his face with his 
 hand. 
 
 " Let me see this incomparable young woman, the preserver 
 of my child ! " he passionately exclaimed, as Dr. Bernard 
 and Mrs. Langley, after describing the progress and crisis of 
 Laura's illness, attributed her unexpected recovery, under 
 Providence, to the incessant care and watchfulness of Miss 
 Stanley, the physician declaring his utmost skill had been, 
 without it, of no avail whatever. Being assured his ap- 
 pearance would not injure Laura, who was, in truth, daily 
 expecting him, he eagerly followed Mrs. Langley to the 
 room, and paused a moment on the threshold unobserved. 
 
 Laura was sitting up in her little bed, supported by pillows, 
 looking pale and delicate, indeed, but smiling with that 
 joyous animation which, in childhood, is so sure a sign of 
 returning health ; and dressing, with the greatest zest, a 
 beautiful doll, which, with its plentifully-supplied wardrobe, 
 lay beside her. Near the bed, and seated by a small table, 
 covered with books and writings, was Clara, who, by the 
 rapid movement of her pen, and her immovable attention, 
 was evidently deeply engrossed in her employment. Sir 
 Dudley could not see her face, for it was bent down, and 
 even its profile turned from him, but a strange thrill shot 
 through him as he gazed. 
 
 " Oh ! look, Miss Stanley, how beautiful your work shows, 
 now she is dressed. How kind you were to make her all these 
 pretty things. I can do it all but these buttons, Avill you 
 do them for me ? " 
 
 Clara laid down her pen with a smile, to comply with the 
 child's request ; and as she did so, Laura laid her little head 
 caressingly on her bosom, saying, fondly, " Dear, dear, Miss 
 Stanley, I wish papa would come ; he would thank you for 
 all your goodness much better than I can.
 
 THE AUTHORESS. 241 
 
 " I wish lie would come, for your sake and liis own, 
 dearest — not to thank me, though I shall not love you the 
 less for being so grateful, Laura," was the reply, in a voice, 
 whose low, musical tones brought back, as by a flash of 
 light to Sir Dudley's heart, feelings, thoughts, memories, 
 of past years, which he thought were hushed for ever. 
 
 " Miss Stanley ! Clara ! inscrutable Providence ! — is it to 
 you I owe my child?" he exclaimed, springing suddenly 
 forward, and clasping his little child to his heart — one 
 moment covering Laura's upturned face with kisses, the next 
 turning his earnest, grateful gaze on the astonished Clara. 
 
 For an instant her heart grew faint, for the fatigue of long- 
 continued nursing had weakened her ; nor could she realize 
 in that agitating moment the lapse of ten years, since she had 
 last looked on his face, or listened to its richly expressive 
 voice. Time had passed over her heart, leaving its early, 
 dream unchanged, and vainly she strove to feel how long a 
 period had flown. All seemed a thick and traceless mist ; 
 but when she succeeded in shaking off that prostrating 
 weakness, forcing herself to remember it was Sir Dudley 
 Granville, not Granville Dudley, who had thus addressed 
 her, still one fact was certain, the object of her first, her 
 only affection was at her side once more — it was his child her 
 care had saved. 
 
 Day after day did Clara Stanley and Sir Dudley Granville 
 pass hours together by the couch of Laura. Though con- 
 scious her secret was still her own, and grateful that, after 
 the first burst of natural feeling, Granville's manner to her 
 was only that of an obliged and appreciating friend, Clara's 
 peculiarly delicate feelings would have kept her from Laura's 
 room during the visits of her father ; but the child was 
 restless, and uncomfortable whenever she was absent, and 
 Granville so evidently entreated her continued presence, that 
 to keep away was impossible. It was during these pleasant 
 interviews Sir Dudley related the cause of his change of 
 name. He had become, most unexpectedly, the heir to his 
 godfather, Sir William Granville, who had left him all his 
 estates, on the sole condition of his adopting, for himself and 
 his heirs, the name of Granville — Sir Granville Granville, he 
 added, with a smile, was not sufficiently euphonious, and so 
 he had placed the Dudley first instead of last. He alluded 
 
 B
 
 242 THE AUTHOEESS. 
 
 in terms of the warmest admiration to her works, and 
 wondered at his own stupidity in never connecting the Miss 
 Stanley of his Laura's letters with the authoress he had 
 once known. A veiy peculiar smile beamed on the lips 
 of Clara as he tlfus spoke, but she did not say its 
 meaning. 
 
 One day, some six or seven weeks after Granville's ap- 
 pearance at Asliford, Clara had just comfortably seated 
 herself at her desk, after seeing Laura ensconced in her 
 little pony chaise, when she was startled by hearing Sir 
 Dudley's voice, in accents of unusual seriousness, close 
 beside her. 
 
 "Will you tell me, Miss Stanley, how you can possibly 
 contrive to unite so perfectly the literary with the domestic 
 characters ? I have watched, but cannot find you fail in 
 either — how is this ?" 
 
 " Simply, Sir Dudley, because, in my opinion, it is im- 
 possible to divide them. Perfect in them, indeed, I am not ; 
 but though I know it is possible for woman to be domestic 
 without being literary — as we are all not equally endowed by 
 Providence — to my feelings, it is not possible to be more than 
 usually gifted without being domestic. The appeal to the 
 heart must come from the heart ; and the quick sensibility 
 of the imaginative woman must make her feel for others, and 
 act for them, more particularly for the loved of home. To 
 write, we must think, and if we think of duty, we, of all 
 others, must not fail in its performance, or our own words 
 are bitter with reproach. It is from want of thought most 
 failings spring, alike in duty as in feeling. From this want 
 the literary and imaginative woman must be free." 
 
 Granville's eyes never moved from the fair, expressive face 
 of the gentle woman who thus spoke, till she ceased, and 
 then he paced the room in silence ; till, seating himself beside 
 her, he besought her to listen to him, and pity and forgive 
 him, and prove that she forgave him ; and, ere she could 
 reply, he poured forth the tale of his earlier love — how truly 
 he loved her, even when his idle prejudices against literary 
 Women caused him to fly from her influence, and enter into 
 a hurried engagement with one, beautiful indeed, but, from 
 having no resources within herself, the mere votaress of 
 pleasure and outward excitement. How bitterly lie had 
 repented through seven weary years the misery lie had
 
 THE AUTHORESS. 213 
 
 brought upon himself — how constantly he had yearned for 
 a companion of his home and of his mind — and how re- 
 peatedly, as he glanced over her pages, where pure fresh 
 feeling breathed in every line, and the love of home and its 
 sacred ties were so forcibly inculcated, he had cursed his 
 own folly. How he had sought to drown thought in a public 
 career, but had still felt desolate ; and now that he looked 
 on her again, not only in her own character, but as the pre- 
 server of his child, how completely he felt that happiness 
 was gone from him for ever, unless she would give it in 
 herself ! 
 
 Clara's face was turned from him as he spoke, but, ere he 
 concluded, the quick, bright tears were falling in her lap ; 
 and when she tried to meet his glance and speak, her lip so 
 quivered that no words came. It was an effort ere she could 
 tell her talc ; but it was told at length, though Granville's 
 ardent gratitude was for the moment checked by her serious 
 rejoinder. 
 
 " It is no shame now, dear Granville, to confess how deeply 
 and constantly I have returned your affection ; but listen to me 
 ere you proceed further. I do not doubt what you say, that your 
 prejudices are all removed ; but are you certain, quite certain, 
 that a woman who has resources of mind as well as of heart 
 can make you happy, as you believe ? At one-and -twenty 
 you could have moulded me to what you pleased. I doub'S 
 whether I should have written another line, had you not 
 approved of my doing it. At one-and-thirty this cannot be. 
 My character — my habits are formed. I cannot draw back 
 from my literary path, for I feel it accomplishes good. Can 
 I indeed make your happiness as I am ? Dearest Granville, 
 do not let feeling alone decide." 
 
 " Feeling ! sense ! reason ! Clara — my own Clara — all 
 speak and have spoken long. Make my child but like your- 
 self, and with two such blessings I dare not picture what life 
 would be — too, too much joy." 
 
 And joy it was. Joy as it seemed. Granville has felt 
 that for once imagination fell short of reality, for his path 
 is indeed one of sunshine ; and as Lady Granville, the 
 authoress, continues her path of literary and domestic use- 
 fulness, proving to the fall how very possible it is for woman
 
 244 THE AUTHORESS. 
 
 to unite the two, and that our great poet* is right when, in 
 contradiction to Moore's shallow theory of the unfitness of 
 genius to domestic happiness, he answered — " It is not 
 because they possess genius that they make unhappy homes, 
 but because they do not possess genius enough. A higher 
 order of mind would enable them to see and feel all the 
 beauty of domestic ties." 
 
 * Wordsworth.
 
 245 
 
 Dclcm. 
 
 A FRAGMENT FROM JEWISH IIISTORY. 
 
 "Joy ! joy ! Spring hath come ! 
 
 Bounding o'er the enrth, 
 Laughing in the insect's hum, 
 
 In the flow'ret's birth. 
 Ere his spirit springs above, 
 
 Summer's wreath to twine, 
 Oh, what joy for ine, my love I 
 
 Then thou wilt be mine ! 
 
 "Joy ! joy ! though awhile, 
 Dearest, we must part, 
 "Warmly will thy sunny smile 
 
 Best upon my heart. 
 Spring the earth is greeting, love, 
 
 With a ciown of Mowers ; 
 
 For the hour of meeting, h>ve, 
 
 Sweeter hopes are ours." 
 
 So sung, in a rich, mellow, though somewhat subdued voice, 
 a young man, as he stood beneath the window of a grim old 
 mansion. The sun had but just risen, and sky and earth 
 seemed still bathed in his soft rosy glow. Flowers of delicate 
 form and many a brilliant tint were gemming the greensward, 
 Avhich looked fresh and bright as emerald. Fringed with 
 hoary rocks and thick dark woods, lay the deep blue waters 
 of the lovely Rhine, seeming as if the spirits of the early 
 morning had flung on them a rich robe of golden sheen. 
 Even the black forest in the far distance, and the old, appa- 
 rently half-ruinous mansion itself, .all but laughed in the 
 glowing light ; hailing, as they did, the new birth of nature, 
 as well as that of the day. Spring had, within the last few 
 days, leaped from the arms of winter ; and flowers and birds, 
 and earth and sky, welcomed his birth, as with a very jubilee 
 of gladness. 
 
 The deep seclusion of the scene, however, was remarkable : 
 castles and towns, convents and monasteries, generally
 
 246 IIELON. 
 
 studded the banks of the Rhine, even as early as the close of 
 the eleventh century, the period of our narrative ; but here 
 there was not a habitation of any kind visible, save this one 
 old house and its out-door offices. 
 
 It was a Hebrew school or college, the origin of which was 
 bo far removed into the past as to be involved in mystery. 
 From its extreme seclusion it had remained undisturbed, 
 when elsewhere every trace of Israel's locality had been 
 washed out in blood. Century after century beheld it occu- 
 pied by a succession of venerable teachers, learned in all the 
 mysteries of their law, and faithful to its every ordinance ; by 
 some few Hebrew families who, from being pupils, loved its 
 peaceful seclusion too well to exchange it for the dangers of 
 towns ; and by some youths, brought there by anxious 
 parents, or there own will, to learn such lessons as would bid 
 them live to glorify their faith, or die to seal its truth with 
 blood. 
 
 The young minstrel, whose song we have given, had been 
 one of these pupils since the age of ten, and was about re- 
 turning to Worms, his native city, to see his widowed mother, 
 from whom he had been parted fourteen years, obtain her 
 blessing on his choice (the daughter of one of his teachers), 
 and then return for his beh'otbed, either to dwell in this safe 
 retreat or elsewhere, as circumstances might be. 
 
 A knapsack was on his shoulder, and in his eager look up- 
 ward as he sung, his cap had fallen off, and one of those 
 countenances which, once seen, rivet themselves upon the 
 heart, was fully displa}-ed. It was purely spiritually noble ; 
 expressive of every emotion which can elevate and rejoice, 
 and utterly devoid of that abject mien and fearful glance, 
 the brand which persecution laid on the Israelites of 
 towns. 
 
 A sweet face appeared for a minute at the window as the 
 song ceased ; a smile whose sunny warmth the poet had, 
 not too glowingly described, a fond wave of the hand, and 
 then the window was tenantless again, and the young man 
 turned away, still humming — 
 
 " For the Lour of meeting 1 , love, 
 Sweeter hopes are ours ;" 
 
 when he was joined by the companion for whom he had 
 waited : a man some ten years his senior, dark and stern in
 
 IIEL0N. 247 
 
 aspect, as if every human emotion had been battled with and 
 conquered. 
 
 "Joy — hope ! Have such words meaning for an Israelite V* 
 he said, bitterly. "Art thou of the doomed and outcast race, 
 and canst yet sing in the vain dream of joy ? Know est thou 
 not the fate of Israel, when once looked on by man ? The 
 rack, cord, death ! Hast thou not heard, that in this new 
 war of the accursed Nazarene, their holy war, the signal for 
 marching is the death-shriek of the slaughtered Jews ? 
 Spires, Metz, Cologne, Treves, Presbourg, Prague, ask them 
 the fate of Israel, and sing if thou canst. Ask yonder river, 
 from whose kindly waters those who had sought their calm 
 repose, rather than wait the cruelty of man, were drawn forth 
 and butchered on the blood-reeking land. Ask yon river the 
 fate of the hundreds who threw themselves within it — and 
 then sing of joy !" 
 
 "I do know these things, Arodi," was the calm reply, 
 though the flushed cheek denoted some feeling of pain. " I 
 know that for Israel there is only such joy as may be resigned 
 at a moment's call ; only such hope as looks beyond this 
 world for perfection and fulfilment. Think you because, with 
 a grateful heart and joyful song, I breathed forth a dream 
 of earthly happiness, that I am less fitted than yourself to give 
 up all of joy, hope, and love, if such be the will of God ?" 
 
 "It cannot be. You love, you are joyful. You have woven 
 sweet dreams, whose destruction will bow you to the dust. 
 Human affections fetter your soul to earth. How can it 
 give itself to God ? " 
 
 " Through the blessings He has given ; blessings which so 
 fill my heart with love for Him, that without one murmur I 
 would resign them at His call." 
 
 " You think so now ; beware lest this, too, prove a dream. 
 For ine, hope and joy are as far from me as yon blue arch 
 from the cold earth on which I see but my brethren's 
 blood." 
 
 " Look beyond it, then," answered Helon, fervently. 
 "Why should there not be joy for Israel? Dark as is his 
 present, so bright will be his future. As both have been 
 prophesied, so both will be fulfilled." 
 
 He spoke in vain ; as well might he have striven to pour 
 forth sunshine on the dark bosom of night, as infuse his 
 spirit in the heart of his companion.
 
 248 HELON. 
 
 Their way being long, and travelling tedious, from the 
 trackless forests and mountain torrents which they were re- 
 peatedly compelled to cross, they found they had miscalcu- 
 lated their time, and that the solemn festival of the Passover, 
 which they had hoped to celebrate in Worms, would fall some 
 few days before they reached it. Remembering that a kind 
 of hostelry, kept by one of their brethren, lay but a few 
 roods out of their way, they determined on abiding there till 
 the festival was over. 
 
 It was on the fourth day that a man rushed into the court, 
 covered with dust and mud, and so exhausted as barely to be 
 able to tell his horrible tale. Massacre and outrage again 
 menaced the hapless Jews. He stated that, on the first day 
 of Passover, as the procession of the Host had passed down 
 the Jewish quarter of Worms, a cry arose that it had been 
 insulted by two Jews, who had vanished directly afterwards. 
 That, were not the real criminals given up, the whole Jewish 
 population should be exterminated, without regard to age, sex, 
 or rank. Seven days were allowed them to determine their 
 own fate ; a useless delay, for when all were innocent, who could 
 avow guilt ? The city gates were closed ; not a Jew allowed 
 egress from the town, and, at the imminent risk of his own 
 life, the bearer of these horrible tidings had alone escaped. 
 
 Darker and sterner grew the countenance of Arodi, as he 
 heard. He had neither relative nor friend amid the 
 doomed, but once more the curse had fallen on his people, 
 and he burst forth in fearful execration. 
 
 " Ye sang of joy," he exclaimed, turning fiercely towards 
 Helon, on whose face, though pale as marble, a strange yet 
 beautiful light had fallen. " Sing on ! a joyous song to greet 
 a mouldering home and murdered parent. Ye dared hope — 
 ye dared be joyful — 'tis the wrathful voice of the avenger !" 
 
 " Peace, Arodi ; they shall yet be saved." 
 
 " Saved ! bid the ravening wolf release the lamb, the 
 hungry lion his fought-for prey." Helon's sole answer was 
 so thrilling in its low brief words, that Arodi started several 
 paces back, gazing on him, as if he had doubted or understood 
 not the meaning of his words. " Canst thou — wouldst thou 
 — what ! resign all ?" he rather permitted to fall from his lips 
 than said. 
 
 " I do not resign them — 'tis but their exchange for bliss 
 which is unfading."
 
 heloit. 24$ 
 
 " And Admah — Helon, hast thou thought of her ? " 
 
 " Thought of her ! " and the strong convulsion passing over 
 Helon's face and frame was indeed sufficient answer. Yet 
 he added calmly, after some minutes' pause, " For this she, 
 too, would resign me. Her spirit speaks within me, bidding 
 me do what my full soul prompts. What is the happiness 
 of one compared with the lives of hundreds ? " 
 
 The soul of the dark, stern man shook within him. He 
 battled with emotion for the first time in vain. Falling on 
 Helon's neck, these words broke forth in sobs : " Forgive 
 me, oh, forgive me, brother ! I despised, contemned thee ; 
 yet from thee I learn my duty. ' Whither thou goest, I will 
 go.' What thou doest, I will do. Brother, make me as 
 thyself." 
 
 But one night intervened, and the wretched Jews of 
 Worms, in the stern stillness of utter despair, awaited their 
 fearful doom. The festive rejoicing which, even in the 
 darkest era of persecution, ever attended the Passover, was 
 changed into deepest mourning. Not one ray of human hope 
 illumined this horrible darkness. The similar fate of hun- 
 dreds, aye, thousands, even millions, yet rung in their ears. 
 He who alone could save had turned His face in wrath from 
 his afflicted people. They had but one consolation, and 
 mothers clasped closer their unconscious babes, and husbands 
 their trembling wives, in the one glad thought that none 
 would be left to lament the other — they should die together. 
 
 Night fell, calmly and softly ; oh who that looked up on 
 those radiant heavens, losing all of earth in the thoughts of 
 the hundreds and hundreds of unknown worlds filling the vast 
 courts of trackless space, can imagine without a shudder, the 
 mighty mass of human passion and human suffering which 
 one little corner of the globe contains ? Who that feels for 
 one brief minute the pressure of infinity upon his soul, 
 speaking, as it will, in the solemn stillness of spiritual night, 
 can come back to earthly things, without shuddering at the 
 awful amount of countless cruelties worked by insect man, 
 without feelinor that we have indeed 
 
 " Nerd of patient faith below 
 y the mysteries of such woe ? ' 
 
 To clear away 
 
 There was one lone watcher of the silent night, but he 
 thought not of these things. For above an hour a tall
 
 250 HELON. 
 
 muffled figure had been standing without the window of a 
 lowly Jewish dwelling, gazing within, and wrapt up in the 
 strong emotions which the gaze called iorth. A lamp was 
 burning on a table, round which a mother and her children 
 sat. Years had passed, long years, since the lone watcher 
 had been among those loved ones, save in dreams ; and now, 
 while his whole heart yearned to fling himself upon that 
 mother's neck, and feel her kiss, and claim her blessing — to 
 clasp hands once more with those loved companions of his 
 childhood, now sprung into sweet blooming youth — he dared 
 not follow feeling's impulse. Better his own heartsick 
 yearning, the agonized throb of human love and human fear, 
 than the momentary bliss of meeting, to part again for 
 ever. 
 
 He had seen the burst of terror, of the wild clinging to 
 life, even such life as theirs, natural to youth, soothed by a 
 mother's prayer. He had seen them twine hand in hand with 
 hers, and lilt their bright heads to heaven in that meek, endur- 
 ing constancy, the undying attribute of persecuted Israel ; 
 and then the mother was alone, and the watcher beheld the 
 calm a brief while give way, and natural anguish take its 
 place. 
 
 " My God ! thou wilt spare one," fell on the hushed air, 
 "my first-born, first-loved, my beautiful Helon ! I had 
 thought to look on him again, but I bless thee that thou hast 
 refused my prayer. Bless him, oh, bless him, Father ! my 
 own bright boy ! " 
 
 Was it her own low sob she heard, or its echo, that she so 
 started even from so much grief and looked fearfully round ? 
 Th< j re seemed a shadow between the window and the faint 
 moonlight, but ere she could trace it to a human form it had 
 gone. 
 
 The morning was clothed in dull, leaden clouds ; and, 
 flocking from their dwellings, as was their wont, on the 
 seventh day of Passover, in holiday attire, and with com- 
 posed appearance, every Jewish family sought the synagogue. 
 ^Divine service commenced, proceeded, and was concluded 
 without interruption. Scarcely, however, had they reached 
 the outer court to return to their homes, than fearful shouts 
 smote the ear, waxing louder, hoarser, more terrible with 
 every passing moment. On came the infuriated crowd, a dark 
 impenetrable phalanx, increasing in every street, and fearfully
 
 HELON. 251 
 
 illumined with Mazing torches held aloft ; blades gleaming 
 in the red flame ; clubs, axes, pitchforks, every weapon that 
 first came to hand. On they came, wrought into yet wilder 
 frenzy, yet deeper thirst for human blood, by their own 
 mad shouts, and the lurid flames that, as they rushed down 
 the Jewish quarter, marked their progress. And how stood 
 their victims ? So firm, so motionless in the shadow of their 
 house of prayer, that even the wild mob, when they first 
 beheld them, fell back a moment powerless. Formed in a 
 compact square, woman, children, and tottering age in the 
 centre, youth and manhood stood around, with arms folded 
 and head erect ; not a limb, not a muscle moved ; not a sound 
 broke forth, even when their fiendish foes poured down and 
 faced them. It was an awful pause ; lasting not a minute, 
 yet seeming to be hours ; and then, with brandished arms 
 and wilder cries, they rushed on to the work of death. 
 
 " Back ! " exclaimed a voice not loud nor stern, but so 
 thrillingly distinct and sweet, that it was heard by every 
 individual of both parties, and involuntarily compelled 
 obedience. " Back ! — touch not the innocent. Ye have 
 demanded the criminals, behold them ! Ye have sworn 
 their lives shall suffice — take them, torture them as ye 
 list ; but touch not, on your peril, touch not these ! " 
 
 Two strangers stood suddenly between the murderers and 
 the victims, as the unknown voice spake, the one in the 
 loveliest bloom of youth, the other in manhood's prime. 
 With an appalling yell of disappointed malice, hate, and 
 aggravated wrath, the fierce crowd rushed forwards, and 
 closed round the voluntary martyrs. And here we pause, 
 for how may the pen linger on the horrible tortures, the 
 agonizing death inflicted on these noble men ; or the horror 
 of the stunned yet liberated Israelites, in being forced by 
 their tormentors to witness the fate of their preservers ? Yet 
 no groan escaped the victims, to glut the long pent-up fury of 
 their foes ; no word to reveal to their brethren whence they 
 came or who they were, or that they had spoken but to save. 
 
 The poet's prophecy was fulfilled : " Ere spring had 
 changed to summer," Helon and his faithful Admah had 
 met again, where hope was lost in fulfilment, temporal joy in 
 an eternity of bliss. Tne summer {lowers had twined their 
 clinging tendrils round a lowly tomb of pure white marble 
 in the grave-yard of that old mansion, Helen's home so long,
 
 252 HELON. 
 
 and half hiding the single word "Admah. " with, their 
 radiant clusters, whispered in sweet breath to the passing 
 breeze the bliss of a pure spirit, so early freed from the 
 detaining fetters of a broken heart. 
 
 To this day the names of the martjTS rest unknown ; but 
 the two lamps still kept burning to their memory, in the 
 synagogue of Worms, testify the truth of this fearful tale, and 
 bear witness to a faith, a self-devotedness in scorned and 
 hated Israel, unsurpassed in the annals of the world !
 
 253 
 
 AN AUTUMN WALK. 
 
 It was a lovely afternoon, in the fall of the year ; that 
 season by many deemed the most melancholy of them all. 
 The fallen leaves, the decay of vegetation, the absence of 
 flowers, the trees shorn of their summer glory, are to some 
 such painful emblems of man's estate, that they shrink in 
 strange and melancholy trembling from the calm and pensive 
 aspect of autumn, as if the death of nature whispered of their 
 own. Yet it is not so. Autumn, even in its sadness, looks 
 beyond the grave, and breathes of immortality. The shorn 
 tree will put on its gala dress again ; the withered hedge 
 will send forth the loveliest flowers. Earth, burdened now 
 in seeming with its emblems of decay, in reality derives 
 thence her nourishment and strength, and will spring up 
 again, bright and beautiful, strong and smiling in her re- 
 awakened joy. And shall man alone, amid the creation of 
 Omnilic love, pass hence for ever? No, oh, no ! As a flower 
 to bloom and be cut down, so as a flower will he burst forth 
 again in a lovelier world and never-ending spring. 
 
 The day was well suited for such consoling musing ; there 
 was a balmy freshness in the air, a clearness in the atmo- 
 sphere, in the cloudless expanse of azure, stretching above 
 and around ; a warmth and glow in the sun, even as he 
 approached the west, unusual to the season. And there was 
 beauty, too, in the landscape; or the fountain of enjoyment 
 which Nature had unsealed in our hearts, bathed the seme 
 in its own bright colouring, as in those exquisite lines of 
 Coleridge : — 
 
 * * * " We receive but what we give, 
 And in our hearts alone does Nature live ; 
 Ours uer wedding garment, and ours her shroud, 
 And would we ought receive of higher worth 
 Than that inanimate, cold world allow'd 
 To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd f 
 An ! from the soul itself must issue forth 
 A light, n glory, a fair luminous cloud, 
 Enveloping the earth."
 
 254 lucy. 
 
 The trees lifted tip their graceful heads to the circling 
 heaven ; every branch and every spray clearly defined against 
 the blue ; so still, so moveless, they looked like pencil- 
 sketches of exquisite delicacy and softness. Then often, as 
 in beautiful relief, started up a gigantic holly, every leaf 
 green and glossy as in the richness of summer, with clusters 
 of its bright scarlet berries standing out against the dark 
 leaf, like sprays of coral. Ever and anon, a break in the 
 hedge displayed towering hills and far-stretching meadows, 
 green and glistening from the late rains ; while bold crags, 
 chained by the grey lichen and golden stonecrop, and 
 patches of gloomy firs, frowning like grim shadows in the 
 sunshine, proclaimed the mountainous district to which we 
 were approaching, and heightened, by contrast, the beauty 
 all around. There was something in the whole aspect of 
 Nature so calm, so cheerful, bereft as she was of every 
 flower and leaf, and all her rich summer hoards, that made 
 us compare her to one on whom affliction has fallen with a 
 heavy hand, whose flowers of life are withered, but who can 
 yet lift up heart and brow, with serene and placid faith, to 
 that heaven where the vanished flowers wait her smile again. 
 
 The very sounds, too, were in unison with the scene. 
 The sweet note of many an English bird, not in full chorus 
 of melod}r, as in the warmth and luxury of summer, but one 
 or two together, answered by others as they floated to and fro 
 in the field of azure, or paused a moment on the quivering 
 spray. Then came the twinkling gush of a silvery stream, 
 seeming, by its blithesome voice, to rejoice in its increase 
 of waters from previous heavy rains. Then, sparkling and 
 leaping in the glittering rays, like a shower of silver, a rustic 
 watermill became visible through the trees ; the music of its 
 splash and foam bringing forth the voice of memory yet 
 more tlirillingly than before, for it was a sound of home. 
 We paused ; when suddenly another sound floated on the 
 air, of more mournful meaning. It was the solemn toll of 
 a church bell, distinct though (lis cant, possessing all that 
 simple sanctity peculiar to the country — that voice of wail- 
 ing which comes upon the heart as if the departed, whom it 
 mourns, had had its dwelling there, claiming kindred alike 
 with our sorrows and our joys. We hurried on, and just as 
 we neared the ivy-mantled church, the solemn chanting of a 
 jw.'kn by several young and most sweet voices sounded in
 
 LUCY. 255 
 
 the dim distance, and becoming nearer and more near, pro- 
 claimed tlie approach of the funeral train. The peculiar 
 mode of tolling the bell, as is customary in those primitive 
 districts of the north of England, had already betrayed the 
 rex of the departed, and with forboding spirits we listened 
 for the age. We counted twenty-one of those mournful 
 chimes, and then they sunk in silence solemn as their sound. 
 
 The church was situated midway on the ascent of a hill, 
 or rather mount, guarded by a thick grove of yews and tire, 
 their sad and pensive foliage assimilating well with the olden 
 shrine. The ivy had clambered over the slender buttress, 
 clustering round the old square belfry, decking age with 
 beauty, and moss and lichen pressed forth in fantastic patches 
 on the roof. The green earth was filled with lowly graves, 
 thickly twined with evergreen shrubs and hardy flowering 
 plants. Headstones and marble tombs there were ; some so 
 crusted over by the cold finger of Time, that even the briefest 
 record of those who slept beneath was lost for ever ; and 
 others gleaming pure and white in the declining sun, seeming 
 to whisper hope and faith in the very midst of desolation and 
 death. 
 
 The clergyman stood at the churchyard gate, waiting the 
 arrival of the corpse. He was leaning against the stone 
 pillar which held the hinges of the gate, his head buried in 
 his hands, and his bowed and drooping aspect breathing a 
 more than common love. His figure was so peculiarly 
 youthful, we wondered at his full canonical costume. 
 
 The psalm continued ; now low, as mourning the departed 
 — now in solemn rejoicing that a ransomed soul was free. 
 The snow-white pall which covered the coffin, the white 
 a and hoods of the bearers and the young girls, who, 
 to the number of eight or ten, headed the train, confirmed 
 the mournful tale which the bell had already told. A young 
 girl of one-and-twenty summers was passing to her last long 
 home. There were but few chief mourners, and these 
 seemed struggling to subdue their grief to the composed and 
 holy stillne-s meet for such an hour. As the train entered 
 the last winding path of the ascent, the bell began again to 
 tub, and the sound seemed to rouse the young minister from 
 his all-absorbing grief. lie started, with a visible shudder, 
 and the expression of agony that his face revealed haunted 
 us for many a long day. There was a strong effort at con-
 
 256 lucy. 
 
 trol ; and he turned to meet the corpse, repeating, as he did 
 so, in low impressive tones, part of the burial service. He 
 walked at the head of the train to the place appointed — the 
 centre of a little cluster of yews ; and there, in silent awe, 
 we watched the ceremony of the interment. 
 
 An aged minister had been among the train of mourners, 
 and, as they entered the churchyard, had approached the 
 officiating clergyman, evidently entreating to perform the 
 melancholy office in his stead. The reply was merely a 
 strong grasp of the hand and a mournful shake of the head ; 
 and the old man fell back to his place, his eyes still fixed on 
 his young brother, and gradually they filled with large tears, 
 which fell unconsciously, and seemed more for the living 
 than the dead. Once only the service was wholly inarticu- 
 late, and the old man drew near hurriedly, as fearing the 
 calm of mental torture must at length give way ; but still he 
 struggled on, though the tone in which the awful words — 
 " earth to earth, and dust to dust," now at length pronounced, 
 was as if the very spirit had been wrung to give them voice. 
 Never did the sound of filling in the grave fall with such cold 
 and heavy weight on our hearts as at that moment ; yet still, 
 spell-bound, we lingered. 
 
 The early twilight of autumn had deepened the beautiful 
 blue of the heavens, as the service concluded, and with low, 
 subdued chant the mourning train departed. The slender 
 forms of the young girls, in their snowy robes, gleaming 
 strangely and rl fully through the darkening shadows of the 
 winding paths ; their sweet, young voices sounding almost 
 like spirit music, as they faded, fainter and more faint in the 
 far distance. 
 
 Still the young clergyman remained, pale, rigid, moveless, 
 gazing on the newly-turned earth, till he fancied he was alone 
 with the homes of the dead ; and then, with a low, smothered 
 £roan of anguish, he flung himself on the damp grave, clasp- 
 ing it with his outstretched arms, pressing his cold lips upon 
 it. his whole frame quivering with the effort to restrain his 
 bursting sobs. The old man hurried forwards and laid his 
 trembling hand on his arm, the tears streaming down his 
 furrowed face the while, and with faltering accents conjured 
 him to take comfort, for his poor mother's sake. 
 
 "1 will, I will," was the agonized reply. "Leave me, 
 leave me to my God. lie will bring peace. I see but the
 
 LUCY. 257 
 
 cold grave now; out faith will come again. She is free, 
 rejoicing. She will know now how much, how faithfully — 
 but leave me, leave me now." And the old man turned 
 sorrowingly away ; and softly and sadly, for such grief might 
 not bear a witness, we departed also — our last lingering 
 glance revealing the youthful mourner kneeling in voiceless 
 supplication on the sod. 
 
 To the aged minister so often mentioned we were indebted 
 for that true English hospitality, still so warmly proffered in 
 these " nooks of the world," and in listening to the following 
 sad and simple stor}^, the evening hours sped on. 
 
 Lucy Lethvyn was the daughter of a rich merchant, in one 
 of our large commercial cities of the north of England. The 
 village of Elmsford had been the site alike of her childhood 
 and happy school-days ; and so associated was it with hours 
 of peace and joyance, far removed from the strife and con- 
 fusion around her city home, that her wonted summer visit 
 to its shades and flowers was ever welcomed with delight. 
 
 At the Vicarage of Elmsford, then occupied by our vene- 
 rable host, Mr. Eveljm, Mrs. Lethvyn and her daughters 
 were constant visitors ; and there it was that Nevil Herbert, 
 . the young clergyman who had so deeply interested us, again 
 met Lucy after a lapse of seven years. Formerly they had 
 been frequent companions, from the near relationship of 
 their parents ; and Nevil had been accustomed to think of 
 Lucy as the gentle, artless, affectionate little girl of ten 
 summers, he had last beheld her. Her occasional letters, 
 breathing the same fresh, child-like spirit, increased this 
 illusion. She had called him brother, and often wished he 
 had indeed been such ; and he had laughingly acknowledged 
 and promised to value the relationship. In those seven 
 of separation, however, Nevil's lot had changed. At 
 eighteen he lost his father, and the same stroke cast him and 
 lother penniless on the cold world. A rich relation 
 promised to give him a collegiate education, preparatory to 
 his taking orders, a living being in his gift. The offer, 
 benevolently made as it was, might not be rejected ; though 
 to Nevil, the parting with his mother, for her also to endure 
 the miseries of dependence, was fraught with such anguish, 
 that he would willingly have worked lor her in the meanest 
 capacity, so that she might still feel free. 
 
 Mrs. Herbert was, however, much too unselfish to permit 
 
 s
 
 253 Lucr. 
 
 tills ; she soothed, urged, and in part comforted him, by the 
 anticipation of the time when they might be once again 
 together, assuring him that to contribute to that joyful end, 
 much more painful alternatives could be borne than the one 
 that she had chosen. 
 
 On all that Nevil Herbert had to endure in college, we 
 have no space to linger. Suffice it he was poor — he was 
 dependent ; and however lavish may be the kindness and 
 benevolence bestowed, it will not take away the sting con- 
 tained in these two words, or permit the taking that station 
 in the world for which such spirits pine. It is strange how 
 often poverty will change to reserve, and bitterness, and 
 pride, dispositions which in affluence would have been 
 humble, and loving, and open as the day. And sad, oh ! 
 how bitterly sad it is that the cold, heartless world should- 
 fling such scorn and contempt upon that word, and shrink 
 from the children of poverty, noble-gifted though they be, as 
 they would from crime, and, by a thousand nameless slights 
 and petty provocations, add a hundred-fold to the misery 
 already theirs. Philosophy may preach, and religion soothe ; 
 but while such things are, poverty must ever be regarded as 
 a doom of horror and of dread. 
 
 Nevil Herbert's peculiarly sensitive nature caused him to 
 feel these evils even more keenly than the multitude so 
 situated ; and therefore the rest and peace of the vicarage 
 of Elmsford was, indeed, to him almost heaven upon earth. 
 There nothing ever galled him, but all around breathed the 
 balm of that true sympathy and appreciation, which, raising 
 the drooping spirit to its proper level, restores its self-esteem, 
 and consequently its happiness. 
 
 Nevil was just two-and-twenty when his ideal of female 
 loveliness and innocence burst upon him in most exquisite 
 reality, through the child-like loveliness and artlessness of 
 Lucy. Alike the favourites of the vicar, he rejoiced to see 
 them together, and never dreamed that to his petted Nevil 
 danger might thence accrue. To him Lucy was still a child, 
 as so she was to herself and all around her, but to one, 
 and that one, unhappily, was Nevil. He guessed not her 
 influence till he returned to his solitary studies, and then he 
 felt, too keenly, that, despite his every resolution, he loved — 
 and loved in vain ; not only from their different stations, but 
 that it was still only as a brother she regarded him.
 
 LUCY. , 259 
 
 The next recess found them again together, more closely 
 than before, for Lucy was the old man's guest equally with 
 himself ; but a change had come upon her — not towards 
 Nevil, but in herself. The child had sprung into the woman 
 — the incipient germs of thought and feeling burst into the 
 ilossomed flowers. There was a deeper tone in her 
 sweet voice, a more intense light in her radiant eye, a fuller 
 sentiment in her bright smile. Yet to Nevil's eye alone 
 these things were visible. None other, even of those who 
 loved her best, saw the change ; but Nevil read by the light 
 of his own feelings, and they told him she, too, loved — and 
 loved another. 
 
 It was even so, and from her own lips the artless tale was 
 poured into his ear. She called and felt him brother, and 
 claimed his sympathy as such ; feeling that, did she conceal 
 ing which concerned her happiness from one so true, 
 and kind, and good as Nevil Herbert, she wronged him, 
 and deserved to lose his friendship altogether ; and even at 
 such a moment Nevil's martyr spirit did not forsake him. 
 The hand, indeed, was cold and damp which pressed the 
 fairy one held out to him, as she spoke, but the lip did not 
 quiver, nor the voice falter, in which he assured her that her 
 confidence was not misplaced — that her happiness and in- 
 terest were clear to him as his own. 
 
 A few weeks brought Mr. and Mrs. Lethyvn and Mordaunt 
 
 LyUdscy to the vicarage. Handsome, intelligent, and ani- 
 
 1, there was :nuch in the latter to possess and win. 
 
 He had been Lucy's partner at her first ball, and by the 
 
 • cVrin of his varied conversation, the magnetic power 
 
 which fa cin ites at a first interview, and calling forth the 
 
 yeavning to know more, gradually changes into earnest and 
 
 g love, fixed that evening indelibi}' on her mind and 
 
 heart. 
 
 It is in vain to argue either on the birth, the nature or 
 the duration of love. It may spring into existence uncon- 
 sciously; becoming so completely part of our being, that it 
 remains unknown until some sudden shock of joy or grief 
 awakens us from our rest, and dooms us to an almost oveiv 
 powering sense of joy or an equal intensity of grief; or one 
 little hour may reveal depths within the human heart, whose 
 existence was never known before — will awaken restless, 
 baseless imaginings, that linger, strengthening with every
 
 260 LUCY, 
 
 interview, till the earthly fate is fixed for ever. And how 
 may we argue on this, how seek its explanation ? Yet who,. 
 that hath once opened the wide, mysterious volume of the 
 human heart, will deny that so it is ? 
 
 It was so with Lucy. She who had remained free and 
 child-like in her intercourse with Nevil Herbert (though her 
 character assimilated with his far more than with Lyndsey's), 
 was chained and bound for ever beneath the magic of Mor- 
 daunt Lyndsey's voice and smile. The spell of their first 
 interview lingered to the second, and each clay, each week 
 strengthened Lucy's love. 
 
 Mordaunt Lyndsey was an orphan, and not rich enough, 
 to wed a portionless bride ; but, unlike Nevil, as he knew 
 not the privation and bitterness of dependence, so was he 
 utterfy ignorant of those finely organized feelings which could 
 debar his association with the wealthier than himself. He 
 made his way in the world, for he had good connections, 
 well-sounding friends, and so was courted and received. It 
 was some little time before Mr. Lethvyn could give his con- 
 sent to their union, his ambition looking higher for his Lucy, 
 but his paternal affection was stronger than his ambition ; 
 and perceiving how completely her happiness was bound up 
 with Mordaunt's, for whom he himself felt prepossessed, he 
 not only gave unqualified approval, but settled on his darling 
 a portion almost startling in its profuseness, and promised 
 his influence to get Mordaunt entered as partner in the 
 firm. Lucy was still so young, that her parents prevailed on 
 Lyndsey, though very much against his inclination, to wait 
 six months, and celebrate their nuptials with the completion 
 of her eighteenth year. 
 
 It had been with perfect sincerity that Nevil Herbert had 
 promised Lucy to comply with her artless entreaty ; and, like 
 Mordaunt, not only for her dear sake, but from the same 
 honourable and religious principles which actuated all his 
 conduct. Why, he asked himself, should he hate and shun 
 a fellow-creature because he was happier than himself ? and 
 could lie have esteemed as he wished, and hoped to do, 
 young Lyndsey, this principle would have been followed by 
 a friendship as disinterested as was felt by man. 
 
 But this could not be. Rendered watchful and penetrative 
 by his pure and most unselfish affection, a very, very brief 
 interval of intimate association convinced him that Mordaunt
 
 LUCY. 2G1 
 
 was not a character worthy of one like Lucy. She would 
 need, as a wife, tenderness as unvarying as it was exclusive, 
 sympathy in all her high, pure feelings, as in detestation of 
 all worldline* and art ; encouragement in her simple duties 
 and tastes ; in a word, love as faithful, as clinging, as con- 
 stant as her own, and this Nevil saw Mordaunt could not 
 give. Even now, Lucy was not the world to him as he was 
 to her, and Herbert could not argue that such difference was 
 but in nature, that man could not love as woman ; for his 
 own aching spirit told him the creed was false. 
 
 Time passed. The Lethvyns and Mordaunt returned to 
 their city homes, and Nevil to his solitary studies. Weeks 
 sped on to months, the eventful day was near at hand, and 
 Lucy's bridal attire nearing its completion. The nuptials 
 were to be on a scale almost princely ; for as princes did 
 Lethyyn's ambitious spirit regard the merchants of England, 
 forgetting, in his vast schemes and golden visions, that the 
 wealth of yesterday may be poverty the morrow. The 
 expected bridal was the talk of the city ; anxiety for her 
 child's happiness the only thought of the mother ; love for 
 Mordaunt the sole existence of Lucy ; and therefore it was 
 not very strange that by these severally interested parties 
 Letlryyn's unusually harassed countenance and excited 
 manner were unnoticed. Ten days before that appointed 
 for the bridal, however, the blow fell — the firm failed. 
 Lethvyn was utterly and irretrievably ruined, unable, by the 
 dishonest conduct of one of the partners, even to pay one 
 shilling in the pound. 
 
 The usual excitement which such events in provincial 
 cities always create, was heightened by the universal sym- 
 pathy for the principal sufferers. Lethvyn's profuse bene- 
 volence and affability having made him generally beloved, 
 many pressed forward eager to prove what they felt ; but the 
 unfortunate man turned from them with a heart-sickness, a 
 loathing of himself and the whole world, which no human 
 consolation could remove. 
 
 That her father should be so prostrated by his failure was 
 a matter of grief, but scarcely of surprise, to Lucy ; but that 
 it could in any way affect Mordaunt, was a mystery she could 
 not solve. Loving him, and him alone, with such love that 
 she cared not how lowly was their dwelling — nay, rejoicing 
 that she could now prove her love in a hundred little caress-
 
 262 lucy. 
 
 ing ways, which in a wealthier and more influential station 
 would be denied her — how could the thought enter her pure 
 mind, that in his affection her wealth had equal resting with 
 herself? — that his ardent desire for the speedy celebration of 
 their marriage originated as much to possess her dowry as 
 herself ? the insecure tenure of merchants' wealth never 
 having for one instant faded from his mind. 
 
 To Elmsford, at the earnest entreaty of Mr. Evelyn, the 
 ruined family retired ; but vain were all exertions of his 
 friends to rouse Mr. Lethvyn from his despondency ; he 
 drooped and drooped, and there were times when he would 
 fix his eyes on his Lucy with such an expression of intense 
 suffering, of foreboding misery, that she would fly to him, 
 fold her arms about his neck, and weep, and then conjure 
 him to tell her what he feared ; and then he would fold her 
 closer and closer, the big tears rolling down cheeks on which 
 the furrows of age had been hollowed in a single week, but 
 the cause of such emotion never found a voice. 
 
 Too soon, however, did the cause reveal itself. With every 
 manifestation of strong feeling and real affection, Mordaunt 
 Lyndsey confessed that to give Lucy the home and comforts 
 which he felt she so deserved and needed, he had not the 
 adequate means. They were both still young, and he would 
 go abroad, seek his fortune in India, where a lucrative situa- 
 tion had been offered him ; and if, indeed, his Lucy would 
 love him still, through absence, and distance, and time, he 
 would in a few brief } r ears either send for her to join him, or 
 return for her himself, as circumstances would permit. 
 
 Pale, rigid, almost breathless, Lucy sat while her lover 
 spoke, her hands pressed tightly one over the other, and 
 every feature still almost to sternness ; but as he fixed the 
 full glance of his eyes on hers — and they seemed to glisten 
 in tears as he called her name in that accent of love which 
 ever thrilled through her heart and frame — she fell upon his 
 bosom, and, with a passionate burst of weeping, besought 
 him not to leave her. Were there not some sweet spots in 
 England — oh ! surely there were — where they might live, 
 even with his moderate means, in comparative affluence ? 
 Solitude, privation — all more welcome, rather than part with 
 him. 
 
 " And so sacrifice your first blobm, your glowing youth 
 my Lucy, and struggle on through life, wasting your best
 
 LUCY. 2G3 
 
 years, buried in a wild, amid rude boors, who could neither 
 understand nor love you." 
 
 " What care I for others ? Have I not you, dearest Mor- 
 daunt ? Do I seek, ask for, need aught else ? " 
 
 " For that very love I would not so sacrifice you, sweet 
 one ; and — and — oh ! Lucy, forgive me — man is different to 
 woman. My spirit is restless and ambitious. I could not 
 live in the retirement of an English cottage, and restlessness 
 might seem like irritability ; and then — then, Lucy, you 
 would — you must cease to love me ! " 
 
 She lifted up her sweet face, and, oh ! the expression of 
 unutterable sadness upon it. A chill had fallen on her 
 yearning heart, stagnating its every bounding pulse — a sick- 
 ness and dread, more agonizing than parting's self ; for, for 
 the first time, she felt " he does not love as I love ; " but 
 she spoke no word, she uttered no sigh — it was but the 
 shadow ' on that lovely face which betrayed the cloud that 
 Lad buried the sunshine of her heart ; and when with words 
 of repentant agony, almost in tears, Mordaunt flung himself 
 on his knees before her, covering her cold hand with kisses, 
 and imploring her not to doubt his love, his truth, because 
 he had thus spoken, she tried to smile, to forget herself for 
 him, drawing from him with such sweet gentleness his plans 
 and wishes, that his spirits returned, and he forgot even the 
 fancy that he had given her pain, or that the word of a 
 momeut could break the fond dream of months. 
 
 Mordaunt Lyndsey went to India. We may not linger on 
 that l.iitter parting, or on the feelings of either save to say, 
 that with Mordaunt sorrow was so transient, that ere the 
 ; ig voyage was completed, new scenes, new hopes, new 
 !vi hes had obtained such dominion there was scarcely a void 
 remaining. With Lucy could this be ? Alas ! she was a 
 young and loving woman ; and in tbose words we have our 
 r. Nor was she one who had ever so sought outward 
 excitement and enjoyments, as to find in them relief from 
 anxiety, or rest from sorrow. The simple, trusting religion 
 of her own heart — the refreshing and soothing influences of 
 nature — the calm repose of seeking the happiness of others, 
 of devotion to all who gave her the sweet meed of affection ; 
 these were her consolations, and enabled her to meet her 
 heart's deep loneliness with cheerfulness and smiles. And 
 when Mr. Lethvyn sunk gradually away, it seemed not only
 
 264 lucy. 
 
 with individual and present sorrows, but with dim fore- 
 bodings of his child's future, it was Lucy who soothed and 
 comforted her mother, and, by her meek and gentle influence, 
 restored peace and serenity to their lowly cottage, and robbed 
 even the memory of death of its lingering sting. 
 
 And towards Mordaunt, what were her feelings ? Though 
 the conviction that his love was not as hers never left her 
 mind, her affection was too pure and true to know the shadow 
 of a change. She thought it was but the diverse nature 
 of man and woman ; that the varied pursuits, the very 
 strength of the one prevented the exclusiveness, the de- 
 votedness of the other, and her gentle spirit turned long- 
 ingly to the time when she should be all his own ; and, when, 
 perhaps, tired of excitement and ambition, his heart would 
 turn to his home and to herself for rest and peace, and she 
 would be to him, indeed, almost as he had ever been to 
 her. 
 
 His truth she never doubted. Deception, fickleness, or 
 caprice, unkindncss or neglect, were things unknown to her ; 
 and how then could she associate them with the earthly idol 
 her soul enshrined ? She had carried the guilelessness, the 
 innocence, the freshness of the child into the deeper feelings, 
 the clinging devotedness of the woman. Her being was 
 wrapt in the beautiful halo her fancy had flung round another, 
 and did a storm disperse that halo, it would have crushed 
 her in the same destroying blast. 
 
 It was this childlike confiding spirit, the rays of her own 
 heart, which shed such warmth and glow over Mordaunt's 
 letters ; for by spirits more exacting and suspicious, the 
 vital spark from the heart, giving life to the words of the 
 head, would have been found wanting. 
 
 In the second year of their separation, Mr. Evelyn was 
 raised to a deanery in one of the adjoining counties, and his 
 former living became the property of Nevil Herbert, who had 
 just received his ordination. Again, therefore, was this noble- 
 hearted young man thrown into the closest intimacy with the 
 gentle object of his ill-fated attachment, and in circumstances 
 Avhich could not fail to strengthen its endurance and its force. 
 The barrier between wealth and poverty had been shivered — 
 Lucy was now but his equal ; nay, circumstances had rather 
 placed him above her. An unexpected legacy, and some 
 recovered debts of his late father, had given him not only
 
 lucy. 265 
 
 independence, but competence ; and lie could now have 
 offered her the home, the simple comforts and enjoyments 
 which the more he knew her, the more he felt were all she 
 needed for her happiness. Her friendship, the regard of 
 her poor widowed mother, the delight with which ever the 
 young Margaret welcomed his visits, the consciousness that 
 he was of use to them, all prevented his keeping aloof, as 
 perhaps would have been better for his peace : besides, how 
 could he do so without some cause ? — lie, whose adversity 
 their prosperity had soothed and blessed ! No, better the 
 torture of lingering in her presence, feeling she was the 
 property of another, and that other, one who loved not, 
 valued not as he did, than be, even in seeming, one of the 
 butterfly crowd, who sport in the sunshine to fly from the 
 storm. And though repeatedly alone together, though thrown 
 in constant association, intimate and affectionate, in very 
 truth as a brother with a sister, never once in those eighteen 
 months did Nevil Herbert, by sign or word, betray to Lucy 
 or to any other, even to his much-loved mother, the dread 
 secret which bowed his heart and paled his cheek, and 
 dashed his youth with the calm seriousness — the quiet hush 
 of age. 
 
 It was three years after Mordaunt Lyndsey's departure 
 that the longed-for summons came. He could not return for 
 her himself, his situation would not permit his absence for so 
 long a time ; but if, indeed, she loved him still sufficiently 
 to encounter the miseries of a long voyage, of a life in India, 
 the banishment from mother, sister, friends — all for him 
 alone, the sooner their term of suffering and separation closed, 
 the happier for them both ; but if time had cooled the 
 enthusiasm of her love — if one feeling of regret, however 
 faint, bound her to England — one emotion of dread accom- 
 panied the idea of the voyage, or the thought of dwelling 
 in a strange and dangerous land — he released her from her 
 engagement. She was free. He besought her to think well 
 ere she decided ; that he could not, dared not, urge her to 
 make such a weighty sacrifice for him. He did not dilate 
 on his own feelings, but if Lucy marked the omission, she 
 believed he had done so purposely, that no thought of him 
 should bias her decision. Yet even what appeared to her 
 guileless spirit his unselfish resignation of personal happiness 
 for her sake, could not remove the bitter anguish it was to
 
 26 G lucy. 
 
 feel, that even now, tried as she had been through absence 
 and time, he did not, could not, understand the might, the 
 devotedness of her love. 
 
 "I will go to him — he shall learn how much I love him, 
 if he know it not now," was her inward ejaculation ; and 
 at that moment Nevil Herbert entered the room. She 
 welcomed him gladly, for she needed him even more than 
 usual ; and in agitated accents entered at once on the subject 
 which engrossed her, pausing, in sudden fear, as she beheld 
 Nevil's very lips grow white, and the damp drops standing- 
 like beads on his high forehead. 
 
 " Nevil, dear — dear Nevil, you are ill ; and I, selfish as I 
 am, prevent your going home to rest. You are more than 
 tired. Pray let me get something for you." 
 
 She laid both hands on his arms as she spoke, looking up 
 in his agitated face with an expression of such anxious af- 
 fection, that it was with difficulty Nevil could restrain himself 
 from snatching her to his bosom, and pouring forth the agony 
 which at that moment well-nigh prostrated mind and frame ; 
 but he did not. Even at that moment religion and virtue 
 were triumphant ; he conquered the wild impulse of passion, 
 assured her it was but passing faintness, which a glass of 
 water would remove ; and when she flew to fetch it, he bowed 
 his head upon his hands in prayer, and, on her return, re- 
 ceived it with his own meek, soul-felt smile. 
 
 With all the artless confidence of her nature, Lucy im- 
 parted every feeling which that letter caused, except its pain, 
 for that would seem reproach on Mordaunt. She would 
 depart herself for answer — to write first would be but waste 
 of time. The term of parting known, it was better for her 
 mother as for herself to be spared the suffering of antici- 
 pation ; besides, her uncle only waited for her to set sail for 
 India; — his wife went with him, and such an opportunity 
 might not occur again. 
 
 And what could Nevil Herbert answer ? Could he re- 
 iterate Mordauut's own counsel, and beseech her to ponder 
 well ere her final decision ? A chill for her had fallen on his 
 heart. He bade her repeat again and again that part of 
 Lyndsey's letter which she had confided to him ; and each 
 time confirmed the dread conviction, that it was in no spirit 
 of self-sacrifice Mordaunt had written, bat that the engage- 
 ment hung upon him as a weight and chain, from which he
 
 LUCY. 2G7 
 
 longed to be released, yet shrunk from the dishonour of 
 breaking it himself. In vain Nevil struggled with the idea ; 
 it would force itself upon his mind, regard it which way he 
 would. Could he but have believed she was going to happi- 
 ness, he would not have paused till all in his power was 
 done to forward it ; but, as it was, the chaos of that fond and 
 faithful heart no words are adequate to describe. He felt 
 she was going to misery, which he was denied all power, all 
 possibility of averting — nay, which, he was compelled, by a 
 stern peremptory destiny, to advise and forward. 
 
 A few words must suffice to narrate Lucy's departure from 
 her native shores, and uneventful voyage. Doting as she 
 did upon her mother, yet so strong, so omnipotent, was that 
 young girl's love for her betrothed, that even this pang was 
 assuaged by the intense delight which even to think of 
 gazing on his face, of listening to his voice again, never, 
 never more on earth to be divided, emanated over her whole 
 being. The long weary months of the voyage were be- 
 guiled by such fond visions ; they told of dangers, of hovering 
 storms, and she smiled, as if love could guard her oven 
 from these ; and the fond fancy was realized, for she reached 
 India in safety. 
 
 To Mrs. Lethvyn and Margaret, Lucy's departure was 
 indeed desolation ; and as Nevil tried to soothe and comfort 
 by the anticipation of her happiness — oh ! what a storm of 
 contending feelings crushed his very heart. He heard her 
 r bewail that love had not sprung up between her 
 Lucy and himself; that two beings, each so fitted to form 
 the happiness of the other, fate had so divided ; and, though 
 his very spirit trembled, he smiled, and with gentle monition, 
 soothed the momentary irritability by a reference to that 
 wiser, kinder Providence, irom whom all things, even the 
 darkest, have their source in love. 
 
 From a return ship, which had met the Syren about two 
 hundred miles from her destined port, the anxious friends of 
 Lucy received intelligence of her safety thus far ; and Nevil 
 nerved his heart and frame to receive, without any visible 
 emotion, the intelligence expected in her next — her arrival 
 and her marriage. 
 
 The time seemed unusually long before the Indian mail 
 came in ; and when he saw by the papers that it had, and 
 the postman passed the vicarage, evidently on his way to the
 
 268 LUCT. 
 
 widow's cottage, Nevil felt as if all physical power had 
 departed from him. How long he thus sat lie knew not ; — 
 the papers on which he had been writing notes for his next 
 sermon were before him, and his mother fancied he was 
 still busied with them. A hurried step aroused him, and 
 Margaret Lethvyn rushed into the parlour, every feature 
 betraying agitation. 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Herbert, come — pray come with me to poor 
 mamma. Lucy, our own dear, injured Lucy ! That wretch 
 — that villain Mordaunt ! Oh ! that I were but a man, that 
 I could but seek revenge ! " 
 
 " Margaret ! " exclaimed Nevil, springing from his seat, 
 and convulsively grasping her arm, his face livid as death, 
 while that of the young, high -spirited Margaret glowed like 
 crimson ; " revenge ! for what ? on whom ? — what of — of — 
 speak, for God's sake ! " 
 
 " He has deceived, has dealt falsely and foully with her — 
 our own Lucy ; who left friends, home — all, all for him ; 
 and loved him with such love ! Oh ! Mr. Herbert, do not 
 chicle me for the sinful feelings, but I must hate him — must 
 pray for vengeance on him. He has deceived her. Even 
 when he sent for her, he was married — married to 
 another ! " 
 
 Nevil Herbert sunk back on his seat with a groan so deep, 
 a shudder so convulsive, that his mother and Margaret flew 
 to his side in terror. It was long ere he could rouse himself ; 
 his forebodings all were realized ; the blow had fallen ; and 
 for Lucy — who may tell the agony of Nevil's heart, when he 
 thought of its effect on her ? 
 
 It was but too true. Incapable of any strong or enduring 
 emotion, still seeking and loving worldly aggrandizement 
 above all other consideration, Mordaunt Lyndsey had not 
 been a year in India before he felt his engagement with Lucy 
 as a heavy chain, which he longed to cast aside. He found 
 himself courted and followed ; and could he but have stifled 
 the voice of conscience, would have married before the ter- 
 mination of eighteen months. A nature heartless as his own 
 could neither appreciate nor understand the depth of Lucy's. 
 He purposely became colder and colder in his letters, but the 
 warmth and trust of her own heart prevented her perceiving 
 it. He magnified the miseries, the dangers of an Indian life, 
 particularly to a female so thoroughly English as Lucy ; but
 
 LUCY. 2G0 
 
 all was in vain ; — every post brought him letters full of love 
 find confidence, as at first. His feeble affections had been 
 transferred to a wealthy heiress, caught by the diamonds- 
 which had sparkled in her ball costume. Dazzled into for- 
 getfulness of all the past, conscience became drowned in the 
 mad excitement and hilarity with which he pursued his ad- 
 vantage, and not till he was irretrievably engaged, did he 
 remember he was the betrothed of another. 
 
 in one part of her statement Margaret was wrong. Mor- 
 daunt was not actually married when he last wrote to Lucy. 
 In vain even his heartless nature struggled to write those 
 w r ords which could separate her from him for ever. For the 
 first time the full extent of her love seemed to rush upon him, 
 and he started up, and cursed his evil stars for making him 
 such a wretch. For a moment, the idea of dissolving his 
 present engagement entered his mind ; but ere he reached 
 the door, a vision of gold and gems, of untold wealth, came 
 upon him, and the demon triumphed. His better angel fled ; 
 and he wrote to Lucy, as we have seen, believing, with per- 
 tinacious self-delusion, that his meaning would be so evident 
 that she would break off the engagement herself — she must 
 read that he was changed. At least she would write again 
 ere she decided on leaving England, and then it would be 
 easy for him to prevent it : and confiding in this, not a 
 month after his letter had been despatched, the heiress became 
 Mordaunt Lyndsey's wife. 
 
 Our tale is well-nigh done, for to breathe one word of 
 Lucy's feelings would be profanation. In vain her aunt and 
 uncle conjured her to remain with them in India, and prove 
 how little Mordaunt's baseness had affected her, by a s 
 marriage with another, above him alike in birth, wealth, and 
 station; for such unions in India were easily accomplished. 
 By some, perhaps, the proposal would have been seized with 
 avidity, and a broken heart effectually concealed beneath an 
 outward show of prosperity and pride. With Lucy this could 
 not be. The storm had burst, the halo was dissipated ; its 
 beauty and its sunshine, its purity and truth, vanished like 
 falling stars in the dark ab v yss of fathomless space; and tin- 
 gentle spirit, folded in the glowing halo, lay shrined 'neath 
 the shock. Her yearnings were now for home, for a mother's 
 tenderness, a sister's caressing love, a brother's supporting 
 friendship, which would lead her foiling heart up to the only
 
 270 LUCY. 
 
 fount of peace. And, after a long and weary interval — a 
 voyage, whose many dangers, delays, and all but Shipwreck, 
 were, it seemed, as unfelt as unnoticed — those yearnings 
 were at length fulfilled. 
 
 Again was Lucy Lethvyn an inmate of her mother's lowly 
 roof; but oh ! how unspeakably changed, yet still so ex- 
 quisitely, so radiantly lovely, that the eye turned again and 
 again upon her, first in delight, and then with such a strange 
 quivering of the lip and eyelid, betraying that tears were 
 nigh. The smile — oh ! what a history gleamed from it, of 
 a woman's heart broken, vet even from its every shivered 
 fragment reflecting the quickness and confidence — aye, and 
 dee]) heavenly love, which had descended on it from above. 
 Not a bitter word, not an unkind reflection, not a selfish 
 murmur ever escaped those lips. Those who loved and 
 tended her alone occupied her thoughts and deeds. There 
 were times, indeed, when a paroxysm of mental agony came 
 upon her, bowing her fragile frame even to the dust ; but of 
 these intervals no earthly eye was witness. They were only 
 marked by a rapid increase of exhaustion, and all the fatal 
 evidences of decline and death ; and so months passed. 
 And Nevil, may we write of him, as day by day lie watched 
 over the fading form of one so long, so secretly, so un- 
 changeably beloved. Alas ! for him, even as for Lucy, 
 silence is the most eloquent. We do not give such feelings 
 words. 
 
 Autumn had come with a mildness and beauty unusual and 
 most soothing. Lucy's couch had been drawn to the window 
 at her own request, and her eyes wandered over the landscape 
 with a pleased and quiet smile. Nevil Herbert was alone 
 beside her; he had been reading from that blessed book 
 which had given comfort and strength to both, but had 
 seing her inclined to speak. 
 
 "Yes!" she exclaimed, the fervour of her spirit flushing 
 
 with sadden crimson, "yes! His words and works 
 
 alike proclaim Him Love ! Oh, Nevil ! God has heard my 
 
 r. He has spared me till I could realize the beauty 
 
 Iness, and the glory of this world. There was a 
 
 i, outward and inward — all was dark. Not a ray 
 
 i;h depths of misery and despair. Beauty 
 
 . ; truth. I prayed for death ; and once, as 
 
 I stood alone upon the deck, the dread temptation was upon
 
 LUCY. 271 
 
 me to end misery and life together. It was but one plunge, 
 one little moment's resolution, and all would be over. All ! 
 Oh, what a flash of bewildering and awful light burst upon 
 my mental darkness, sent as an angel of mercy to my soul ! 
 I had loved a mortal, and not God ! The world was beautiful 
 with human love — not with His, from -whom it sprang ; — and 
 the light of human love was quenched, to teach me other 
 things : and then it was I prayed, in the deep agony of 
 remorse, my God would spare me, even in suffering, till even 
 this world were lovely to my heart once more ; till I could 
 feel His love more deep, more precious, than the love of man. 
 And he has done this, Nevil, dearest Nevil. A few, a very 
 few hours, and I shall be with Him whose all is j 03% and 
 loveliness, and love, for ever and ever." 
 
 There was no answer, and Lucy turned with difficulty 
 towards him. His face was buried in his hands, and his 
 whole frame shaken as with convulsion. 
 
 " Nevil," she said, softly, " dearest Nevil, you are in 
 sorrow, and I can do nothing to relieve it ; I — to whom you 
 have been such a true consoling friend. I have long feared 
 you had some secret grief ; not in the selfishness of my joy, 
 but since — since I have returned. Oh, that I could be to 
 you what you have been to me ! " 
 
 It was too much for Nevil. In the passionate emotion of 
 that moment, he flung himself on his knees beside the couch, 
 poured forth the torrent of that overwhelming love — how it 
 had lingered with him through years of hopelessness and 
 misery ; and he besought her, in agony, to say that she would 
 live — live to bless him yet ; and, as he spoke, the pious, the 
 .-hearted Nevil Herbert wept, till, as an infant, his very 
 eemed powerless within him. 
 
 'And you have loved me thus ! — you, the good, the 1: 
 the exalted! Oh! I thought human love was all an 
 (•'.-cam — a vain delusion.; but it is not — it is not. Even this 
 may be beautiful and true," murmured Lucy, raising herself 
 1 difficulty till her head rested on the bosom of Nevil. 
 "Do not — do not weep, Nevil ! Our Father will bring peace 
 and love. And, oh ! if the pure and ransomed spirits 
 hover beside those still lingering on this earth, be it mine the 
 blessed task of bringing you the comfort I would give you 
 now. I was never worthy of such love — and from you, 
 dearest Nevil ! — how much less worthy now, that even, were
 
 272 LUCY. 
 
 life granted, I could give but a broken heart, whose all of 
 life and energy had been devoted to another. You must not 
 weep for me, Nevil ! You must not let my memory blight 
 your path of holiness and good. Think of all you have been 
 to me, have done for me ; and — and if that will comfort you, 
 oh ! believe all — all of love this aching heart may yet give to 
 earth, Nevil, dearest Nevil ! is your own ! " 
 
 She raised that sweet face, which had become suddenly 
 pale and dim, as if a shadow had stolen over it. Nevil 
 clasped her convulsively to his heart, and struggled vainly to 
 speak ; his white and quivering lips pressed hers with a long, 
 lingering kiss, and she shrunk not from them. It was his 
 first and last ; for sleep stole upon her, and bowed her head 
 more heavily, more caressingly upon his bosom. And Nevil 
 stilled his heart's full beating, and hushed his very breath, lest 
 that calm slumber should be broken. He yearned to look 
 once more in those lovely eyes, to drink in once, but once 
 again, tlife gushing music of that thrilling voice ; but vain 
 those mortal yearnings. Human love, the purest, mightiest, 
 has no power to chain the heaven-born spirit from its soaring 
 flight. She never woke again ! 
 
 And Mordaunt Lyndsey — was there no vengeance, no 
 retribution for him ? Did justice indeed so slumber \ Long 
 years rolled on ere aught could be distinguished to mark his 
 prosperous path from that of his fellows ; but some twenty 
 years after our "Autumn Walk" in the lovely vales of West- 
 moreland, we learned that the hand of Heaven had dashed 
 his lot with poison. A blooming family had sprung up 
 around him ; but each more or less touched by the malady of 
 their mother. He had wedded madness !
 
 273 
 
 & Spirit's ifltatg, 
 
 FOUNDED ON A HEBREW APOLOGUE. 
 
 There was a pause in the courts of heaven. Seven times 
 had the voice of the Eternal resounded through the vast 
 realms of space, and from the very centre of chaotic dark- 
 ness a world of beauty had sprung forth. Thousands of 
 angelic spirits floated round and round the new-born globe, 
 tending the innumerable sources of loveliness and life, which 
 had burst at once into perfected being at the all-creating 
 word. With every new creation, an increased effulgence 
 flashed over the angelic hosts ; and richer tones of mighty 
 harmony proclaimed the power, and the glory, and the mercy 
 of their God. 
 
 Deep in the unfathomable abyss of formless space hung 
 the new-formed world, suspended from its parent heaven by 
 chains of diamond light, visible only to the pure spirits, who 
 on them ascended and descended, in performance of their 
 newly-assigned employments. 
 
 Myriads of celestial beings stood in dazzling files without 
 the veil, which in unapproachable and indescribable splendour 
 concealed the throne of the Creator ; whence issued that 
 Eternal voice which spake, and creation was ! None, not 
 even the highest and the purest, the most etherealized amidst 
 those spiritual ranks, could gaze on the ineffable glory pierc- 
 ing through the effulgent veil ; nor dared approach it, with- 
 out covering his face with his glittering pinions, and falling 
 low in prostrate adoration. In their several ranks they stood, 
 the glorious archangels to whom the ways, clearly as the 
 works of the Eternal, were revealed. Ilierarchs, who had 
 penetrated deeper and deeper the mysteries of infinity, and 
 by longed-tried obedience, and faithfulness, and love had won 
 the glorious privilege of commune with the Ineffable Majesty 
 of the Supreme. Even to the young seraph, commencing his 
 heavenly career, satisfied to labour and to love, till he should 
 pass through the intermediate ranks, and rising higher and 
 higher in angelic intellect, and the beatified nature of his tasks 
 at length attain the arch-angelic goal. 
 
 T
 
 274 the spirit's entreaty. 
 
 Seven times had gone forth the Omnific Word, and seven 
 times had the Eternal pronounced it good ; and each time of 
 that approving Word, had the resplendent pinions of the 
 hosts of heaven fluttered in irrepressible rejoicing, till space 
 itself seemed lost in one vast flood of glistening and iris- 
 coloured light, and music, soft, spiritual, and thrilling, marked 
 every movement of the radiant wings, and filled up each 
 pause of song. 
 
 And then, midst the deep stillness which succeeded, again 
 spake the Eternal voice: "Let us make man!" and the 
 mandate with the velocity of light rushed through the angelic- 
 peopled courts ; and every spirit of every rank, and every 
 host, caught up the Omnific Word, and, in the full song of 
 adoration, testified their joy. But suddenly a hush sunk on 
 the rejoicing myriads ; for, darting at the same instant from 
 their respective ranks nearest the Eternal's throne, three 
 glorious spirits met together before the resplendent veil, and 
 prostrated themselves in supplication. 
 
 They were of the highest order of the archangels, each 
 intrusted with an attribute of his Creator to uphold its glory 
 and its beauty amidst the celestial and spiritual worlds. And 
 one spake, and his wings of sapphire, his dazzling brow, his 
 radiant eye, before whose single look the mists of error 
 passed ; his cr}*stal spear, before whose slightest touch, 
 falsehood fled trembling and self-abhorred ; alike proclaimed 
 the gift of which he was the guardian. The Spirit of Truth 
 implored — 
 
 " Father, create him not — life will be overshadowed by 
 deceit ! " and the spirit bowed his effulgent brow upon his 
 wings in grief. 
 
 And then the second spirit spake, — akin to Truth, but 
 sterner. His glorious brow was shaded by a glittering helm, 
 and his right hand grasped an unsheathed sword ; a raiment, 
 resembling an hauberk of golden light, clothed his graceful 
 limbs, and the rich full voice, in its entreaty, breathed his 
 name. 
 
 " Father and Lord, create him not ! He will destroy yon 
 beautiful world by his unrighteousness ; and I, unto whom 
 thou hast entrusted thine attribute of Justice, will seem to 
 him, in his darkened light, as the avenger. Father, create 
 him not ! " 
 
 And then spake the third archangel, — his pure white
 
 THE SPIRITS EHTEBATT. 275 
 
 .pinions fluttered tremulously around liini, and the exquisite 
 beauty of his youthful face seemed disturbed by the intense 
 ardour of his supplication ; a wreath of amaranths bound back 
 his flowing hair from a brow ./ such transcendent loveliness, 
 that one look upon it filled the soul with balm ; he held a 
 bough of emerald, resembling the olive-leaf, but radiant with 
 a liquid lustre unknown to the plants of ear ill. 
 
 " Create him not, oh, Father ! " implored the spirit, and 
 the brightness of his meekly expressive orbs was dimmed ; 
 " create him not ! he will chase me from the earth. Peace 
 will be but a name amidst the awful scenes of internal and 
 external war, with which man's passions will devastate yon 
 beautiful world. Father, create him not ! " 
 
 The spirit ceased; and, hushed to a solemn stillness, the 
 listening myriads waited the answering "Word. The efful- 
 gence piercing through the veil, appeared slightly shadowed, 
 as if the Almighty presence had withdrawn his immediate 
 glory, and the entreaty of his favoured angels would be 
 granted. But far, far, in the unfathomable distance, a re- 
 splendent star seemed floating towards the veil, and faint yet 
 thrilling melody proclaimed the rapid advance of angel wings. 
 On, on — and the semblance of a star gave place to the form 
 of a beatified spirit, whose dazzling loveliness irradiated 
 space itself, and heightened the glory all around ; and every 
 rank he passed hailed him, even in that awful hour, with an 
 irrepressible burst of song, and drew closer and closer round ; 
 and watched him with such love as only angels feel ; and he 
 smiled on them, but paused not in his rapid course, and the 
 smile kindled hope anew, and confidence and joy banished 
 the momentary shade. 
 
 It was the Spirit of Love ; the best beloved of the Eternal ; 
 the guardian essence of the whole angelic hosts ; angels and 
 archangels, heirarchs and seraphs, alike acknowledged him, 
 and bowed before his sway, as the representative of the 
 Supreme. And on he floated in his indescribable beauty, 
 and every court of heaven sent forth increased effulgence as 
 he passed. He nearecl the veil, and bowed clown before it, 
 and then he spake, and his low soft tone penetrated the 
 farthest limit of that immeasurable space. 
 
 " Create him, oh, Father ! " he prayed ; " create him to 
 love, and be beloved ! What if he err ? what if he sin ? 
 Thou wilt pardon him ; for thy love is greater than his sin ! "
 
 27 G THE SPIRIT'S ENTREATY. 
 
 A burst of bewildering glory flashed through the veil 
 upon him, as lie knelt, and darted its dazzling rays through 
 the thousand ranks of heaven at the same moment. It was 
 the assenting sign of the Eternal ; and again the Onmific 
 Word went forth : " Let us make man ! " and millions and 
 millions of voices sw r ellcd the glad chorus, that another and 
 yet mightier creation should bear witness to the loving mercy 
 of their God. And Truth, and Justice, and Peace joined 
 in the thrilling strain, for the Spirit of Love had touched 
 them with his quivering breath, and they felt his words were 
 true. Man might still err, but created in love, the immor- 
 tal spirit breathed into the shell of clay ; the angelic hosts 
 gave vent to the full song of rejoicing ; for the Spirit of Love 
 hovered over the new-born world, as over theirs, endowed by 
 the measureless compassion of the Eternal to purify and 
 pardon.
 
 Page 277.
 
 277 
 
 JJMie. 
 
 THE STORY OF A PICTURE. 
 
 No place is more calculated to call forth all the vagaries of 
 the imagination than an old half-ruined castle, surrounded 
 by wood and mount, hoar from many centuries, and lying in 
 such deep seclusiou, as to be unseen by the mere casual 
 traveller. On such a spot, completely circled by a branch of 
 the Cevennes, in the ancient district of Auvergne, it was once 
 my hap to light. Trees of such gigantic growth, that they 
 appeared bending beneath the weight of ages, frowning 
 rocks, and overgrown brushwood formed so close a fortifica- 
 tion, that the building might have been passed and repassed 
 within a mile of its vicinity undiscovered. 
 
 It was a gothic chateau of the olden time, just sufficiently 
 ruinous to give it the interest of age, j^et containing costly 
 tapestried chambers, panelled halls, long rambling galleries, 
 secret rooms, and those deep dark dungeons, where many a 
 brave man has languished and died unknown, save by his 
 ruthless captor, all still in sufficient preservation to fill the 
 mind with visions of the past as with the breathing 
 realities of the present. There was a small chapel in the 
 building, which had once been evidently richly adorned, but 
 whose shrines and hangings were now all crumbling to 
 decay. It was a melancholy visionary place, yet infused 
 with a charm impossible to be resisted, and day after day 
 my wanderings turned to the chateau ; contented at first 
 with rambling over chamber, hall, and gallery, imagination 
 feasting on the thoughts of what had been the life, the stir, 
 the pageantry, where all was now the solitude of silence and 
 neglect. There were still some pictures hanging from the 
 walls, but seemingly so resigned to the cobweb and the 
 dust, that I had heeded them little, till one day the sun 
 gleaming upon an antique frame, unobserved before, attracted 
 me to the picture it enshrined, and in a moment heart, mind, 
 and fancy were irresistibly enchained. 
 
 To attempt description of that face, to say why it haunted 
 me for days and nights, as something almost unearthly, would
 
 278 IDALIE. 
 
 be a hopeless task; yet turn from it as I would, or seek 
 amusement in other objects, still it rose before me, pale, 
 shadowy, yet so lovely, baffling every effort to dismiss it 
 from my mind. Stars and braids of diamonds seemed still 
 literally to glisten in the long jetty tresses, falling as a veil 
 around her. Hands small, thin, and delicately white were 
 crossed upon her bosom ; the large dark eyes were raised, 
 and the pale lips parted as in prayer ; she seemed standing 
 near an ancient altar ; but every other object in the picture 
 time had rendered wholly indistinct. 
 
 That I could obtain any information from the half-blind, 
 wholly deaf guardian of the chateau was little probable ; 
 but the old man, to my astonishment, volunteered the tradi- 
 tion of the portrait, even before I had sufficiently rallied from 
 its effect to look into its past. This tale, when separated 
 from the garrulous annotations of his age and office, was simple 
 and brief enough, yet to resist its spell was impossible. The 
 beings of whom II med to breathe and move around 
 
 me, the old castle to resume the state and order which had 
 characterised it nearly three centuries ago, the very woods to 
 : heir wild ce, and blending in beautiful keeping 
 
 mount and rock, and richly-cultured Ian aed to 
 
 with the innumerable retainers of the proud nob 
 i they had once belonged. Under the influence of such 
 ny visions the following papers were hastily written. 
 Pretensions to a connected romance they have none ; they 
 tell but the story of a picture, which I would fain bring 
 e the mind's eye of the reader, even as its remembrance 
 ill so vividly lingers on my own. 
 
 I. 
 
 It was the third day of th i b show, yet was there no 
 
 ation of chivalric ardour, nor semblance that Lords and 
 gentles were wearied with martial sports, or that the galaxy 
 of beauty which the ornamented galleries presented had in 
 aught diminished of loveliness and grace. Never had the 
 fair sun of Paris looked down on a scene of more spirit- 
 stirring interest, never had the blue arch of heaven re- 
 echoed move martial sounds than on the day which witnessed 
 the last tournament of France. The lists extending through 
 the most central parts of Paris, flanked on one side by the
 
 IDALIE. 279 
 
 terrific towers of the Basiile, were adorned by pavilions and 
 tents of every variety of colouring and material. Heavy 
 des, velvet', and silks, adorned with tlie devices of 
 their owners, betrayed the names and bearings of well-nigh 
 all the nobility of France. Over one, whose silver covering- 
 glittered so resplendently in the July sun that the aching 
 eye turned from its lustre, hung the heavy folds of France's 
 r, the Jh'ur de lis, which, combined with the splendid 
 accoutrements of esquires and pages lingering around, proved 
 that majesty itself was amongst the combatants. The light 
 breeze sporting with the many standards, at times gave their 
 S to view, at others, laid them idly by their staves. 
 Streamers and pennons in gay relief stood forth against the 
 clear blue sky ; while the brilliant- armour, the glittering 
 spears, and stainless blades so multiplied the dazzling rays, 
 there seemed a hundred suns. 
 
 France and Scotland, Spain and Savoy, in the honour of 
 which last these jousts were given, were all marshalled in 
 the li one chose to r main mere spectators of g 
 
 in which their chivalric spirits so heartily sympathised. The 
 princi • lordly house of Guise vying, in richness of 
 
 id number of retinue, with royalty itself. Mont- 
 ici, Coligny, Andelot, Conde', Nemours — names bearing 
 with them such undying memories, their mention is suffi- 
 cient — all were this day present ; for the blood-red standard 
 of in and persecution as lined unfurled. The 
 
 very sounds that stirred the air added to the excitement of 
 -. There were the proud neighings, the hurried 
 impatient for the onset ; the pealing 
 of welcome as each knight w ; . marching 
 
 at the head of well-trained bands to his pavilion ; the answer- 
 cheers of the men-at-arms ; the trampling of many 
 ; the frequent clash of steel, as the knights passed 
 and repassed in the lists ere they formed into bands ; now 
 and then the loud voice of the herald, or the shrill pro- 
 id blast of the trumpet, and ever and anon a thrilling 
 of martial music, lingering awhile in its own rule 
 . then subsiding gently into the softer song of min- 
 strelsy and love, more fitted to the ears of beauty than the 
 wilder notes of war. 
 
 And beauty was indeed assembled in the many galleries 
 erected round the lists. Even had there been no Catherine
 
 280 IDALIE. 
 
 de Medicis, whose character was not yet fully known, and 
 who now, as the queen consort, claimed and received uni- 
 versal homage • no fair and gentle Elizabeth, the youthful 
 bride of Spain, whose child-like form and diminutive though 
 most expressive features accorded little with the heavy gor- 
 geousness of her jewelled robes ; no retiring yet much- 
 loved Margaret, the sister of Henri and bride of Savoy; 
 no Anne of Este, whese regal beauty and majestic mien 
 would have clone honour to a diadem — had there been none 
 of these, there was yet one in the royal group who, though 
 girlhood had barely reached its prime, fascinated the gaze of 
 every eye and fixed the homage of every heart. The diamond 
 coronet of fleur de lis entwining the sterner thistle, that 
 lightly wreathed her noble brow, betrayed her rank ; and 
 the simple mention of Mary of Scotland, the queen dau- 
 phine, is all-sufficient to bring before the reader a fair, 
 bright vision of loveliness and grace, that imagination only 
 can portray. She sate the centre of a fair bevy of young girls, 
 indiscriminately of France and Scotland, all bearing on the 
 smooth brow, the smiling lip, the impaled cheek true tokens 
 of those fresh unsullied feelings found only in early youth. 
 
 The trumpets breathed forth a prolonged flourish, echoed 
 on every side by the silver clarion and rolling drum, and 
 Henri himself entered the lists. Clothed in the richest 
 armour, mounted on a beautiful Arabian, and still wearing 
 across his breast the black and white scarf in homage to 
 Diana, the chivalric monarch challenged one by one the 
 bravest warriors and the first nobles of his kingdom. Ex- 
 cited by the presence of his distinguished guests, he appeared 
 this day urged on by an ardour and impetuosity which, while 
 it endeared him to his subjects, caused many a female heart 
 to tremble. 
 
 " Has thy knight turned truant, Idalie, or is he so wearied 
 from the exertions of the last two days he has no strength or 
 will for more ?" asked the queen dauphine of one beside her, 
 whose large dark eye and soul-speaking beauty betrayed a 
 birth more southern than Scotia's colder shores. 
 
 " He enters not the lists, royal madam," she answered, 
 in a lowered voice, "for he fears the challenge of the 
 king — fears not defeat, but conquest. The king has skill as 
 yet unrivalled, courage none dare question ; but the practice 
 of a soldier brings these things to greater perfection than,
 
 IDALIE. 281 
 
 monarclis ever may obtain. Our gracious sovereign chal- 
 lenges the bravest knights to-day, and therefore does the 
 count avoid the lists." 
 
 " Perhaps he does well. But see how gallantly thy father 
 bears himself; disease hath worked him but little, or rusted 
 his sword within its scabbard. I would trust m} r self to the 
 men of Montemar, Idalie, with better faith than to many of 
 those more courtly-seeming bands. And who is yon gallant, 
 bearing thy colours ? Is the young esquire of thy father a- 
 rival to the goodly count ?" 
 
 " Not so, gracious lady. Louis de Montemar and I are 
 cousins in kindred, friends in affection, and playfellows from 
 infancy. I broidered him the scarf he wears as token of my 
 love, when he doffed the page's garb and donned the squire's. 
 When he hath won his spur, perchance my scarf will be of 
 little value." 
 
 " Thinkest thou so ? Methought the lowly homage that 
 he tendered spoke humbler greeting than that of a brother. 
 But there is some stir below ; the trumpets sound the king- 
 again as challenger." 
 
 A long flourish of trumpets again riveted the attention of 
 the spectators, and the heralds in set phrase, challenged, on 
 the part of their liege lord and gracious sovereign Henri of 
 France, Gabriel de Lorges, Comte de Montgomeri, to run 
 three courses with the lance or spear, and do battle with the 
 same. Thrice was the count challenged according to form, 
 but there was no answer. 
 
 A deadly pallor spread over the flushed' cheek of Idalie de 
 Montemar, and, clinging to the dauphine's seat, she exclaimed, 
 " Lady, dearest lady, oh, do not' let this be ! in mercy speak 
 to her grace the queen, implore her to avert this combat !" 
 
 " Thou silly trembler, what evil can accrue ? Nay, an 
 thou lookest thus, I must do thy bidding," and Mary hastily 
 approached the seat of Catherine de Medicis, whom, how- 
 ever, she found already agitated and alarmed, and in the very 
 act of despatching an esquire to implore the king to leave 
 the lists. Somewhat infected with the terror she witnessed, 
 yet unable to define it, the dauphine returned to her seat, 
 seeking to reassure the trembling Idalie, and watch with her 
 the effect of the queen's solicitation. 
 
 At the moment of the esquire's joining the knightly ring, 
 the Comte de Montgomeri, unarmed and bareheaded, had
 
 282 IDALIE. 
 
 flung himself at the king's feet, imploring him in earnest 
 accents to withdraw his challenge, and not expose him to 
 the misery and danger of meeting his sovereign even in a 
 friendly joust. It was no common fear, no casual emotion 
 impressed on the striking countenance of Montgomeri ; he 
 was not one to bend his knee in entreaty, even to his sove- 
 reign, for a mere trivial cause. The princes and nobles 
 round were themselves struck by his earnestness, knowing too 
 well his great valour and extraordinary skill in every martial 
 deed to doubt them now. The king alone remained unmoved. 
 
 " Tush, man !" he said, joyously ; " what more harm will 
 your good lance do our sacred person, than those whose blows 
 yet tingle on our flesh ? we have run many a gallant course 
 to-day, and how shall we be the worse for a tilt with thee ? 
 Marry, thou art over bold, sir knight, we will not do thy 
 courage such dishonour as to tax it now ; yet, by our Lady, 
 such presumption needs a check. Come, rouse thee from 
 this folly, and don thine armour, as thou wouldst were our 
 foes in Paris ; my chaplet is not perfect till it hath a leaf 
 from thee." 
 
 " It may not be, my liege. I do beseech your grace to 
 pardon me, and seek some opponent more worthy of this 
 honour." 
 
 "I know of none," replied the king, so frankly and feel- 
 ingly, that the warrior's head bent even to the ground ; " and 
 Montgomeri will obey his sovereign, if he will not oblige his 
 friend. Sir Count, we command your acceptance of our 
 challenge." 
 
 Sadly and slowly the count rose from his knee, and was 
 reluctantly withdrawing, when the king again spoke — 
 
 " We would not, good my lord, that you should prepare 
 to accept our challenge even as a criminal for execn 
 therefore, mark you lords and gentles, and bear witness to 
 our words — whatever ill or scathe may chance to us in our 
 intended course, we hold and pronounce Gabriel de Lorges, 
 Comte de Montgomeri, guiltless of all malice, absolving him 
 from all intentional evil, even if he work us harm. How 
 now, sir squire, what would our royal consort, that ye seek us 
 thus rudely ?" 
 
 The esquire bent his knee, and delivered his message. 
 
 The king laughed loud and lightly. 
 
 " By our Lady, this is good/' he said. " Heard ye ever
 
 IDALIE. 283 
 
 the like of this, my lords? What spell doth our brave 
 Montgorneri bear about him, that we may not meet him even 
 as others in friendly combat ? Back to your royal mistress, 
 Conrad ; commend us in all love and duty to her grace, and 
 say we will break this lance unto her honour. Would she 
 have our noble guests proclaim Montgorneri so brave and 
 skilful that Henri dared not meet him even after his challenge 
 had gone forth ? Shame, shame, on such advisers !" 
 
 The esquire withdrew, and the king taking a new lance, 
 and mounting a fresh charger, slowly proceeded round the 
 lists, attended by pages and esquires, and managing his fiery 
 steed so gracefully as to rivet on him many admiring glances. 
 He paused beneath the queen's gallery, doffing his deep- 
 plumed helmet a moment in the respectful greeting of a 
 faithful chevalier ; then looking up, he smiled proudly and 
 undauntedly. At that moment the trumpets proclaimed the 
 of the challenged, and the king hastily replacing 
 his helmet, clasped it but slightly, and galloped to his post. 
 
 A loud shout of welcome greeted the appearance of 
 Montgorneri, and as the spectators marked the pink and 
 white scarf across his shoulder, and the opal clasp 
 secured the deep plumes of his helmet, all eyes involun- 
 tarily turned to see the fair being to whom these colours 
 I him vowed ; nor when they traced the bandeau of 
 opals on the pale high brow of Idalie cle Montemar, her 
 flowing robes secured by a girdle of the same precious stones, 
 and discovered it was to her service the knight was pledged, 
 did they marvel that at length the cold, stern, unbending- 
 Gabriel de Lorges had bowed beneath the spell of love. 
 
 The lists were cleared, and deep silence reigned amidst the 
 I tousands. The combatants, ere the signal 
 sounded, slowly traversed the lists, meeting at both extremi- 
 ties, and ■ h other in all solemn and chivalric 
 fashion. Montgomeri's lance sank as he saluted the queen's 
 pavilion, ; to Id st homage was tendered. 
 She sought to smile in answer ; but her lip only quivered, for 
 her eye, awakened by love, could trace his deep reluctance to 
 accept the challenge. 
 
 The signal was given, and with a shock and sound as of 
 thunder the knights met in the centre of the course. The 
 lances of both shivered. A loud and ringing shout echoed 
 far and wide, forming a deep bass to the military music
 
 284 IDALIE. 
 
 bursting forth at the same moment ; but then the sound 
 changed, and so suddenly, that the shout of triumph seemed 
 turned, by the very breeze which bore it along, to the cries of 
 wailing and despair. The horses of both combatants were 
 seen careering wildly, and with empty saddles, round the 
 lists. Princes, nobles, and knights crowded so swiftly and 
 in such numbers to the spot where the combatants had met, 
 that the eager populace could trace nothing but that one 
 warrior was down and seemingly senseless, the which no one 
 could assert. OMcr and restraint gave place to the wildest 
 tumult ; the peopie, en masse, rushed indiscriminately into 
 the lists, heedless of the efforts of the men-at-arms to keep 
 them back, and scarcely restrained even by the rapid and 
 agitated approach of the cpieen consort and the princesses 
 towards the principal group. Words of terrific import were 
 whispered one to another, till the whisper grew loud and 
 rumour became certainty. The music ceased, save the 
 solitary flourish of trumpets proclaiming the warlike sports 
 concluded. As if by magic, the lists were cleared, the tents 
 struck, and every trace of the tournament removed. But 
 even then the popular ferment continued ; there were men 
 hurrying to and fro, little knots of persons assembling in the 
 street, speaking in anxious whispers, or hastening in silence 
 to their homes. Ever and anon the muffled tone of heavy 
 bells came borne on the air, and then the dead silence, ever 
 the shapeless herald of some dread calamity. Ere night all 
 trace of the morning's glittering splendour and animated life 
 had disappeared, and Paris seemed changed into a very 
 desert of solitude and gloom. 
 
 II. 
 
 Eleven days had passed since the sudden termination of the 
 fatal tournament, and Henri of France still lay speechless 
 and insensible as he had fallen in the lists, when, from the 
 insecure fastening of his helmet, it had given way before the 
 lance of Montgomeri, and caused him to receive the full force 
 of the blow on his eyebrow, thence fatally injuring the brain. 
 Still life was not extinct, and, though against all reason, 
 hopes were still entertained b}' many for his eventual re- 
 covery. In one 01 the apartments of the Louvre, forming 
 the suite of the queen dauphine, sat the unfortunate Comtc-
 
 IDALIE. 285 
 
 de Montgomeri and his betrothed bride. Sometimes sanguine 
 that Henri would, nay, must recover ; at others plunged in 
 the depth of despair — had been the alternate moods of the 
 count during these eleven days. His friends conjured him 
 to lose no time in retiring from France, at least for a time ; 
 and Idalie herself, though she shrunk from the idea of part- 
 ing, with an indefinable feeling of foreboding dread, yet so 
 trembled for his safety if he remained, as to add her solici- 
 tations to those of others. Still the count lingered. The 
 vi ry thought of his having been the ill-fated hand to give 
 the death-blow to the monarch he revered, and the friend he 
 loved, was too horrible to be realized. He could not believe 
 that such would be ; yet so dark was his despair, so ago- 
 nizing his self-accusations, that even his interviews with Idalie 
 had lost their soothing sweetness, and he did but deplore 
 that her pure love had been given to one so darkly fated as 
 himself. 
 
 It was after one of these bursts of misery that the Comte 
 de Montemar, who had been engaged with papers at the 
 further end of the apartment, approached and sought to 
 comfort him by an appeal to those holier feelings, which 
 Montgomeri possessed in a much higher degree than most of 
 his countrymen. 
 
 " It is not well, my friend," De Montemar said, " to poison 
 thus the brief moments we may yet pass together. Remember, 
 thou wert no willing agent of that higher power, by whose 
 mandate alone it was that our monarch fell. All may seem 
 dark, yet even out of darkness He brought forth light — out 
 of a very chaos the most unwavering order ; and does He 
 not do so still? Abide by the advice of those who urge 
 thee to quit France till order is restored, and our gracious 
 sovereign's last words remembered and acted upon. Italian 
 blood is hot and eager to avenge ; but fear not, we shall 
 meet again in happier days, and, oh, embitter not thus the 
 few moments still left my poor child !" 
 
 Softened and subdued more than he had been yet, Mont- 
 gomeri folded his arm round the weeping Idalie, kissed the 
 tears from her pale cheek, conjured her forgiveness, and 
 promised to battle with the despondency that almost crushed 
 him. 
 
 "And wilt thou indeed do this?" she rejoined, implor- 
 ingly. " Oh, bless thee for such promise ! Yet I fear thee,
 
 286 idalie. 
 
 Montgomeri. And when apart from me, and these troubled 
 thoughts regain ascendency, thou wilt rush on danger, on 
 death, to escape them. Think, then, dearest, that it is not 
 your own life alone which you risk ; that one is bound up in 
 i J -- which cannot rest alone. Will the ivy blossom and smile 
 when the oak has fallen ? And as the oak is to the lowly 
 yet clinging ivy, so art thou to me." 
 
 Folding her still closer, Montgomeri in his turn sought to 
 reassure and soothe, but with less success than usual. Every 
 look and tone of Idalie betrayed that heavy weight which 
 had increased with each day that brought the hour of parting 
 nearer. Breathed to none, and battled with as it had been, 
 still it seemed to hold every faculty chained, and at length 
 caused her head to 1 sink on the bosom of De Lorges with 
 such a burst of irrepressible anguish as to excite his alarm, 
 and tenderly he conjured her to reveal its cause. 
 
 "I know it is a weakness, a folly, Gabriel, unworthy of 
 the woman whom thou lovest ; but scorn it not, upbraid it 
 not, bid it go from me ! Is there not woe enough in parting, 
 that before the hope of meeting ever rises a dim and shape- 
 less darkness impossible to be defined, yet so folding round 
 my future as to bury all of hope, of trust, of every feeling, 
 save that we shall not meet as ive have parted ?" 
 
 " Is it change in me thou fearest, love? No. Then heed it 
 not ; 'tis but a baseless fancy, which will come when the frame 
 is weakened by the anguish of the mind. Believe me — " 
 
 He was interrupted. The hangings over the door leading 
 by a private passage to the dauphine's own rooms were sud- 
 denly drawn aside, and, closely muffled, Mary of Scotland 
 stood before them, with anxiety and haste visibly imprinted 
 on her features. 
 
 " This is no time for ceremony, my lord, or we would 
 apologize for our intrusion," she said, turning towards the 
 Count de Montemar ; " our business is too weighty for an 
 indifferent messenger. Count de Lorges," she added, ad- 
 dressing him abruptly, and pausing not for Montemar's 
 courtly words, " tarry not another night in Paris ; you have 
 been unwise to loiter here so long. Pause for no thought, 
 no marvel. Fly at once; put the broad seas between you and 
 France, and there may be happiness in store for you yet. 
 Dearest Idalie, for thy sake, even as for Montgomeri's, I am 
 here : do not look upon me thus."
 
 IDALIE. 237 
 
 "Now must we part — now ? Your highness means not now !" 
 exclaimed Idalie, as her cold hands convulsively closed round 
 the count's arm. " What has he done that he should fly ?" 
 
 " Nothing to call the blush of shame to his cheek or thine, 
 dear child. The words I have heard may mean nothing, may 
 be but wrung from woman's agony, for the grief of Cathe- 
 rine de Medicis is of no softening nature ; yet ought Mcnt- 
 gomeri to* leave Paris without delay, for there may be some 
 to act on broken words, even as on an imperial mandate. 
 Detain him not, Idalie ; we shall visit Scotland perchance 
 ere long, and there no grief shall damp a bridal." 
 
 " Stay but one moment more, royal lad} r ," entreated De 
 Lorges, as the dauphin e turned to go ; " one word, for mercy. 
 How fares the king ? Is there no more hope ? Does he 
 still lay as he has done ever since that fatal stroke ?" 
 
 Mary looked at him somewhat surprised, and very sorrow- 
 
 full > r - 
 
 " No, Montgomeri, no !" she said, after a pause of much 
 
 feeling; "the soul has escaped the shattered prison, and 
 
 Henri is at rest." 
 
 Montgomeri staggered back with a heavy, almost convul- 
 sive groan. He knew not till that moment how powerfully 
 hope had sustained him. The shock was almost as fearful as 
 if he had never thought of death ; and yet the horrible con- 
 viction that he was a regicide had scarcely for one instant 
 left his mind. 
 
 " Montemar, let not this be, for the sake of thy poor child, 
 of both. Part them ere long," whispered the queen (dau- 
 phine no more), as the count knelt before her in involuntary 
 homage; "think not of us now. Would to God we were 
 still Dauphine of France and not her queen. Montgomeri's 
 danger, I fear, is imminent ; let him not linger, and may our 
 Lady guard him still." 
 
 She departed as she spoke ; and Montemar, infected with 
 her evident anxiety, hesitated not to obey. 
 
 "Ptouse thee, Montgomeri," he said, earnestly; "fly, for 
 the sake of this poor, drooping flower; let not our Idalie 
 weep for a darker doom than even this sad parting. Come 
 to thy father's heart awhile, my child. Have I no claim 
 upon thy love ?" 
 
 Gently he drew her from Montgomeri's still detaining 
 arm, almost relieved to find her insensible to any further
 
 288 IDALIE. 
 
 suffering. His beseeching words to fly ere Idalie again 
 awoke to consciousness, moved the count to action. Still 
 he lingered to kiss again and again the pale cheek and lips 
 of his beloved ; then convulsively wringing the count's 
 hand, rushed from the room and from the palace at the very 
 moment that voices shouted " Long live Francis the Second, 
 God preserve the King !" 
 
 f 
 III. 
 
 Eighteen months had passed, and still was the Count de 
 Montgomeri an exile from his country ; and so virulent was 
 Catherine against him, so determinately forgetful of Henri's 
 last words, absolving the count of all intentional evil, what- 
 ever might ensue, that even his best friends dared not wish 
 him back. For Idalie, this interval was indeed heavy with 
 anxiety and sorrow, and all the bitter sickness of bope de- 
 ferred. No doubt of his affection ever entered her heart ; 
 she knew him fond and faithful as herself ; but there seemed 
 no end, no term to the long, long interval of absence. Her 
 future was bounded by the hour of meeting, and a very void 
 of interest, and hope, and pleasure seemed the space which 
 stretched between. Yet, for her father's sake, her ever un- 
 selfish nature struggled with the stagnating gloom. The 
 court was loathsome to them both, for even the friendship of 
 the young queen could not remove from Idalie the horror 
 which Catherine de Meclicis inspired. In the Chateau de 
 Montemar, then, these eighteen months had mostly been 
 passed, and Idalie compelled herself to seek and feel interest 
 in the families of her father's vassals, and in the many lessons 
 of feudal government and policy which, as the heiress of all 
 his large estates and of his proud, unsullied name, her 
 father delighted to pour into her heart. 
 
 One other subject engrossed the Count de Monflemar, and 
 of which he spoke so often and so solemnly to his daughter, 
 that his feelings on the subject became hers ; it was the wide- 
 spreading over France of the new religion, deemed by all 
 orthodox Catholics as a heresy, which, if not checked, would 
 entirely subvert and destroy their ancient faith, and in conse- 
 quence bring incalculable mischief to the country, both 
 temporally and spiritually. De Montemar was no bigot, 
 looking only to violent measures for the extermination of this
 
 IDALIE. 289 
 
 far-spreading evil; but it grieved and affected liirn in no 
 common degree. He spent hours and hours 'with his con- 
 fessor and his daughter in commune on this one engrossing 
 subject ; and from the sincere and earnest lessons of the 
 priest, a true and zealous though humble follower of his own 
 church, he became more and more convinced of the truth of 
 the olden creed, and what he deemed the foul and awful 
 apostacy of the new. 
 
 Yet no violence of party spirit mingled in these dis- 
 cussions, and therefore it was that Idalie felt the conviction 
 of the truth and beauty of her long-cherished religion sink 
 into her soul like balm. Saddened by her individual sorrow, 
 shrinking in consequence from all the exciting amusements 
 then reigning in France, her father's favourite subject be- 
 came equally a resource and comfort to her, thus uncon- 
 sciously fitting her for the martyr part which she "was only 
 too soon called upon to play. 
 
 The Count de Montemar had been a soldier from his youth, 
 and was still suffering from the serious wounds received in 
 his last campaign. Within the last three months he had 
 gradually become weaker and weaker, till at length Idalie 
 watched beside the couch, from which she had been told that 
 her beloved and loving parent would never rise again. She 
 had heard it with an agony of sorrow, which it was long ere 
 the kindly sympathy of the benevolent priest and of her cousin 
 Louis could in any degree assuage. Motherless from early 
 childhood, a more than common tie bound her to her father ; 
 and so deep was the darkness which those cruel tidings 
 seemed to gather round her, that even love itself succumbed 
 beneath it, and the strange, wild yearning rose, that she, too, 
 might " flee away, and be at rest." 
 
 Unable to endure any longer these sad thoughts, Idalie 
 arose from the seat where she had kept vigil for many weary 
 nights and days, and looked forth upon the night. The 
 moon was at the full, and shed such clear and silvery light 
 around, that even the rugged crags and stunted pines seemed 
 softened into beautj r . The vale beneath slumbered in 
 shadow^ save where, here and there, a solitary tree stood forth, 
 seemingly bathed in liquid silver. Sweet -odours from the 
 flowers of the night lingered on the breeze, and the rippling 
 gush of a streamlet, reflecting every star and ray upon its 
 bosom, was the only sound that broke the silence. The holy 
 
 u
 
 290 IDAL1E. 
 
 calm of Nature touched a responding chord in the heart of 
 the watcher, and even grief felt for the moment stilled. A 
 few minutes afterwards the voice of the count recalled her 
 to his side. 
 
 " Is it a fancy, or was Louis here hut now, my child ?" he 
 ashed, feebly. " Is he from the court ? and did he not 
 bring news ? Wherefore came he ?" 
 
 " Because he heard that I was in sorrow, my dear father; 
 and he sought, as he ever does, to soothe, or at least to share 
 it." 
 
 "Bless him for his faithful love ! lie has in truth been to 
 me a son, and will be to thee a brother, mine own love ; but 
 tell me, is it indeed truth, or have my thoughts again wan- 
 dered, has my } r oung sovereign gone before me to the 
 grave I " 
 
 "Alas ! my father, 'tis even so." 
 
 An expression of deep sorrow escaped the lips of the dying 
 man, and for several minutes he was silent. When again he 
 sptk\ his voice was firmer. 
 
 " Idalie, my child, I shall soon follow my royal master ; 
 and it is well, for the regency of Catherine do. Medicis can 
 bring with it but misery. Listen to me, beloved one ! I 
 leave thee sole heiress of our olden heritage, of a glorious 
 name, which from age to age hath descended in a line so pure, 
 so stainless, that the name of Be Montemar hath become a 
 very proverb for all honourable and knightly deeds. There 
 have been times when daughters, not sons, succeeded ; and 
 yet did its lustre not diminish nor its power decrease. Thou 
 knowest this, my child. I know not wherefore I recal it 
 now." 
 
 "Dost thou doubt me, father?" replied Idalie, sadly, and 
 somewhat reproachful^. " Thinkest thou my heart is so 
 engrossed with selfish sorrows that I feel no pride, no love 
 for mine ancient race, that its glory and its power shall de- 
 crease with me ? " 
 
 "No, no, my noble child. Forgive me, I have pained 
 thee, yet I meant it not." Pausing a moment, he continued 
 hurriedly, "Idalie, our faith, our blessed faith is tottering, 
 falling in this land. Each month, each week the heretics 
 gain ground ; nor will all the bloody acts of Catherine and 
 the princes of Guise arrest their progress. Were health and 
 life renewed, I would neither raise sword nor kindle brand
 
 IDALIE. 291 
 
 for their destruction ; but my whole soul trembles for my 
 native land. Idalie, my child, I know thy heart beats true 
 as mine to our ancient creed. I know thou wilt never turn 
 aside thyself from the one true path ; but oh, for thy dead 
 father's sake, let not a heretic be master of these fair lands, 
 and tempt thy vassals to embrace his soul-destroying creed. 
 Thou wilt not wed with heres}', my child?" 
 
 " Never, my father ! I can pity and pray for these mis- 
 guided ones ; but never shall my hand be given to one un- 
 faithful to his God. Yet wherefore this fear? Am I not 
 the plighted bride of one who w r ould rather die than lead me 
 astray, or turn aside himself?" 
 
 The fading eyes of the dying lit suddenly up with feverish 
 radiance, his cheek burned, and his mind evidently so far 
 wandered as to prevent either his hearing or understanding 
 his daughter's last words. 
 
 "And thou wilt promise this?" he said, in a voice at 
 once alarmingly hollow, yet strangely excited ; " thou wilt 
 solemnly promise never to give thyself and thy fair heritage 
 to the heretic ; thou wilt not let the foul spot blacken our 
 noble line ? Promise me this, my child." 
 
 Alarmed at the change in his appearance, and convinced 
 that Montgomeri, who, when he left her, had been as true and 
 zealous a Catholic as herself, was not of a nature to change, 
 Idalie knelt down beside the couch, and in distinct and 
 solemn accents made the vow required. 
 
 The Count de Montemar raised himself with sudden 
 strength, and laid both his hands on the bent head of his 
 child. " Now blessings, blessings on thee for this, my sainted 
 one!" he said, distinctly ; "thou hast removed all doubt, all 
 fear ; death has no terror now, no sting. God's blessing be 
 upon thee, love, and give — " 
 
 His voice sunk, but his lips still warmly pressed her brow, 
 and minutes thus passed. A cloud had come before the 
 moon, and when her light broke forth again, Idalie knelt by 
 the couch of the dead. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Idalie de Montemar was not long permitted to indulge her 
 grief in solitude. Scarcely two months after her loss, an ex-
 
 292 EDALIE. 
 
 press arrived from Paris, and slie was compelled to prepare 
 her chateau and vassals for the reception of the young king, 
 the queen mother, and court, -who in their progress to the 
 south passed through Auvergne. Idalie roused herself from 
 the sorrow which weighed so heavily on her spirits. 
 Although chivalry had lost much of the enthusiasm and 
 warmth which had characterised it not half a century pre- 
 vious, its memory still lingered in the minds of men ; and 
 something of this feeling actuated the men of Montemar as 
 they looked on their youthful countess. Shrinking and timid 
 as she had been whde her parent lived, a new spirit now 
 seemed her own ; and it was with all the proud consciousness 
 that she was now sole representative of one of the most 
 ancient and most noble families of France that Idalie de 
 Montemar, at the head of her loyal vassals, received her 
 royal guests, and knelt in homage to the youthful Charles. 
 
 But amid all that royal group only one had power over the 
 heart of Idalie, and she grieved to see the saddened brow 
 and anxious glance, which had usurped the place of the 
 radiant smiles and sparkling eye, which had never before 
 failed to beam forth from the lovely countenance of Mary 
 Queen of Scots, llobed so completely in white (the costume 
 of royal widows) as to receive the designation of La Heine 
 blanche, her beauty rather increased than diminished by its 
 softened tone ; she was to many an object of still deeper 
 interest now than she had been hitherto ; but it was very 
 soon evident to Idalie that the petty mortifications springing 
 from rooted envy and dislike, to which she was daily, almost 
 hourly subjected by Catherine, were poisoning all youthful 
 enjoyment, and that even while she clave with her whole 
 soul to France, she felt it must not be her home much 
 longer. 
 
 Feeling deeply, as she did, that it was to Mary's faithful 
 friendship her betrothed husband owed his life, Idalie's high 
 spirit rose indignant at this treatment. That the marked 
 respect with which she treated her, the constant deference to 
 her wishes, during the royal sojourn, exposed her to Gather- 
 rine's fatal malice, she cared not for. Soothed by her affec- 
 tion, roused to a sense of her own dignity as sovereign of 
 Scotland, if no longer of France, it was during her sojourn 
 at the Chateau de Montemar, Mary resolved on her return to 
 her native land, and by earnest persuasions prevailed on the
 
 IDALIE. 293 
 
 young countess to sue for the royal permission to accompany 
 her. It was granted, ungraciously enough ; for her engage- 
 ment with the Count de Montgomeri was known, and the 
 hatred borne by Catherine de Medicis towards that unfor- 
 tunate nobleman had in no way diminished by time. 
 
 " Will the good Count Gabriel de Lorges accompany his 
 young bride on her return ? Know ye, my lords, if so, we 
 will give him welcome," the queen mother soon after inquired, 
 in the hearing of Idalie, and in a voice so peculiarly sweet 
 and gracious as to cause the countess's heart, for the moment, 
 to bound up with sudden hope of his permitted, even wel- 
 comed return, and then as suddenly sink down, she knew 
 not wherefore, save that Catherine's deadliest purposes ever 
 breathed through smiles. 
 
 A few months after her visit to the chateau, Mary quitted 
 France, attended by Idalie de Montemar, and some other 
 youthful friends, to whom she clung, as the sole memories left 
 her of that beautiful and happy land, which her foreboding 
 spirit whispered she should never look on more. Intent on 
 soothing the grief of her royal friend, Idalie had but little 
 time to think of her own feelings ; but when she did seek to 
 define them, she became conscious that they were not all joy. 
 Again did the same dim shadow envelope every thought, 
 every hope directed towards the hour of meeting. Every 
 day that brought it nearer seemed to throw a chilling weight 
 on her heart's ecstatic bound. Pier very love felt too intense, 
 too twined with her being, to find rest, even in the thought 
 of looking on him, listening to him again. She strove with 
 the baseless shadow, but it clung pertinaciously to every 
 mental image, and weighed upon her spirits like lead. 
 
 Scotland was reached at last ; the heavy pomp and 
 ceremony attending the sovereign's landing and progress to 
 Holyrood at length at an end, and Idalie had retired to the 
 chamber appointed for the use of herself and suite, seeking 
 calmness and rest from the opposing emotions at one and 
 the same time engrossing her. 
 
 Why should she not be joyful ? the morrow Montgomeri 
 would be at her side once more, and all unchanged to her ; 
 not a doubt had stolen on the bright vision of his love, not a 
 shade darkened the pure thoughts of his constancy — what, 
 then, did she dread ? 
 
 A summons to the chamber of the queen startled her, for
 
 294 IDALIE. 
 
 she had been dismissed, she thought, for the night. 
 Hastily obeying, she ran lightly along the private gallery 
 pointed out as her nearest way, and without pausing drew 
 aside the arras and entered. A cry of astonishment, of bliss 
 at the same moment escaped her lips, and, clasped to the 
 heart of the Count de Montgomeri, all darkness and dread 
 faded for the time in a burst of happy tears upon his bosom. 
 
 V. 
 
 " Nay, chide me not, that my cheek is paler than when we 
 parted, dearest," said Idalie, after long and earnest commune, 
 as they sat together the following day in an olden chamber 
 of Holyrood, far removed from the sovereign and the court. 
 " Thou too art changed ; and if in thee, a soldier and a man, 
 absence can have wrought furrows on thy brow, pallor on 
 thy cheek, and even touched thy hair with grey, is it strange 
 that I, a poor, weak girl, should suffer too ? I scarce had 
 loved thee, Gabriel, had there been no change." 
 
 " I would not have taxed thy love, even had it left less 
 touching impress on thy cheek," replied the count ; " but for 
 me, harsh storms and ruffled thoughts have joined with the 
 yearning thoughts for thee to make me as thou seest. Why 
 look upon me thus ? canst doubt me, dearest ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! thy love is not changed, save that it may be 
 dearer still ; but thine eyes looked not thus the day we 
 parted. There are deeper sterner feelings in thy soul than 
 heretofore ; the change is there. The storms of which thou 
 speakest have not been outward only — glory, ambition, love, 
 are not the sole occupants of thy spirit now." 
 
 " And what if thou hast read aright, sweet one, wilt thou 
 not love thy soldier still ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! for nought could enter the heart of De Lorgcs 
 his Idalie may not revere. But tell me these inward storms 
 — why is thy look, save when it is turned on me, so strangely 
 stern ? It was not always thus ? " 
 
 " Call it not stern my love : 'tis but the shadow of my 
 spirit's change. I did not think thou wouldst so soon have 
 marked it ; yet 'tis not sternness, or if it be, 'tis only towards 
 myself. When wo parted, dearest, I lived for earth and 
 earthly things ; but with sorrow came thoughts of that higher
 
 IDALIE. 295 
 
 world, which must banish the idle smile and idler jest ; 'tis 
 thus that I am changed." 
 
 " And is this all ? " faltered Idalie, looking fearfully in his 
 face ; " is this enough to cause the struggle, of which thy 
 cheek and brow bear such true witness ? The thought of 
 heaven brings with it but balm and rest — not strife and pain. 
 Gabriel, this is not all." 
 
 " It is not all, my own ! I would not have a thought con- 
 cealed from thee ; and yet I pause, fearing to give thee pain. 
 Listen to me beloved one ; and oh, believe, Montgomeri 
 would not lightly turn aside from the path his fathers trod; 
 yet hadst thou seen, as I have, the gross crimes, the awful 
 passions, which have crept into the bosom of our holy 
 church ; the fearful darkness of ignorance and bigotry over- 
 spreading the pure light marking the path of Jesus, thou 
 wouldst feel with me, and acknowledge that I could not 
 think of God and heaven, and yet be other than I am. Idalie, 
 speak to me ! wherefore art thou thus ? " 
 
 He ceased in terror ; her features had become contracted, 
 her lip and cheek blanched almost as death. Her large eyes 
 distended in their terrible gaze upon himself, and the hands 
 which had convulsively closed on his, were cold and rigid as 
 stone. 
 
 " It cannot, cannot be," she murmured, in a low shudder- 
 ing tone. " Montgomeri could not be other than true : no, 
 no. Why will you speak thus, love ? " she added, some- 
 what less unnaturally. " What can such strange words 
 mean, save that thy sword, like my father's, will never be 
 unsheathed in persecuting wars — answer me, Gabriel, is it 
 not so I " 
 
 " Alas ! my love, I may not rest in quiet when the weapon 
 of every true man is needed to protect the creed which con- 
 viction has embraced. In these dark times this badge of 
 Protestantism and the sword of defence must ever be raised 
 together. Idalie, the world may term me heretic ; but thou — " 
 
 " Thou art no heretic ; no, no — it cannot be ! " burst from 
 the wrung heart of Idalie, as she wildly sprung from his 
 embrace, " Montgomeri, thou art deceiving me — thou 
 wouldst try the love I bear thee ! Oh, not thus, not thus! 
 Say thou art no heretic ; thou art still the man my father 
 loved, trusted, blessed ; him to whom he gave his child. 
 Speak to me ; answer me — but one word ! "
 
 296 IDALIE. 
 
 " I will, I will, mine own! let me but see thee calm. Am 
 I not thine own ? Art thou not mine ? Come to my 
 heart, sweet one ; thou wilt find no change towards 
 thee ! " 
 
 " Answer me," she reiterated ; " Gabriel, thou hast not 
 answered ! By the love thou bearest me, by the vow unto 
 my father — to love and cherish me till death — by thine own 
 truth — I charge thee answer me, thou art no heretic ? " 
 
 " If to raise my voice against the gross abuses fostered by 
 the Pope and his pampered minions in every land, to deny to 
 them all allegiance, to refuse all belief in the intervention of 
 saints and martyrs, or that absolution, bought and sold, can 
 bring pardon and peace ; if to read and believe the Holy 
 Scriptures, and follow as they teach — if this is to be a 
 heretic, Idalie, even for thy dear sake, I may not deny it. 
 Yes, dearest, I am a heretic in all, save love for thee ! " 
 
 A low, despairing cry broke from those blanched lips, and 
 Idalie fell forward at his feet. It seemed long ere Mont- 
 gomeri could restore her to life, though he used a tender- 
 ness and skill strange in a rough warrior like himself ; but 
 no fond look returned his anxious gaze. She struggled to 
 withdraw herself from his embrace, but the tone of reproach- 
 ful agony with which he pronounced her name rendered 
 the struggle vain ; and, clinging to him, she sobbed. " I 
 thought not of this, dreamed not of this ; even in the dark 
 foreboding haze clinging round the hour of meeting. Gabriel, 
 in mercy leave me, or I shall forget my vow, and hurl down 
 on me the wrath of the dead." 
 
 " Leave thee ! — vow ! — wrath of the dead ! " he repeated. 
 *' Oh, do not talk so wildly, love ; reproach, upbraid me, as 
 thou wilt ; but tell me not to leave thee. Wherefore should 
 we part ? " 
 
 " Gabriel, it must be ! I have no strength when I gaze on 
 thee. Let not perjury darken this deep misery : leave 
 me!" 
 
 " Perjury ! what hast thou sworn?" demanded Montgomeri, 
 hoarse, and choked with strong emotion. 
 
 " Never to wed with heresy ! To retain the faith of my 
 ancestors pure and unsullied as I received it. My father, 
 from his bed of death, demanded this vow, and I pledged it 
 unhesitatingly ; for could I doubt thee?" 
 
 fc>he had spoken with unnatural composure, but there was
 
 IDALIE. 297 
 
 such a sudden and agonized change on the features of the 
 count, that it not only banished calmness, but reawakened 
 hope. 
 
 " Oh, say thou Avert deceiving me, Gabriel. Dearest 
 Gabriel, have I not judged thee wrongly, that still we may 
 pray together as we have prayed ? Thou hast not turned 
 aside fmm our old and sainted creed. Say but this grief is 
 causeless ; that I may still love thee without sin ; that there 
 is no need to part ! " 
 
 "Part!" he passionately exclaimed, "and from thee? 
 Oh, no, no !" 
 
 " Then thou art, in truth, no heretic ? It has all been a 
 dark and terrible dream, and we shall be happy yet love !" 
 she answered, in a voice of such trusting joyance, that Mont- 
 gomeri started from her side, and hurriedly paced the room. 
 
 She laid her hand gently on his arm, and looked up con- 
 fidingly in his face ; but its expression was enough. Shrink- 
 ing from him, she implored, " Gabriel, Gabriel, look not on 
 me thus, or that fearful dream will come again !" 
 
 "Would, would to God it were a dream!" he exclaimed, 
 raid his hands clasped both hers with convulsive pressure. 
 " Idalie, I am no Catholic ; I dare not again kneel as I have 
 knelt, or pray as I have prayed. No, not even to retain 
 thy precious love, to claim thee mine — thee, clearer than life, 
 than happiness, than all, save eternity — I dare not deny my 
 faith. But, oh, is there no other way ? Can it be, that for 
 this, a firm conviction of truth, an honest avowal of that 
 which my soul believes, for this that we must part ? Idalie, 
 canst thou sentence me to this?" 
 
 " I have sworn," she said, her white lips quivering with 
 the effort. " My vow is registered in heaven — sworn unto 
 the dead ; by death only to be absolved." 
 
 " To retain the line of Montemar unsullied in its ancient 
 faith. Idalie, oh, hear me ; let me plead now ! Give to Louis 
 <le Montemar the government of thine ancestral lands, the con- 
 trol of thy vassals. Thou shalt seek them when thou wilt, 
 unaccompanied by thy husband, unshackled by his counsels. 
 I ask but for thee ; and here, far removed from the blood 
 and misery deluging unhappy France, we may live for eacli 
 other still. May not this be, love, and yet thy vow remain 
 unbroken ?" 
 
 " Montgomeri, it may not be," she said, in a low yet col-
 
 298 IDAIIB. 
 
 lected tone, for it seemed as if the noble spirit of her raca 
 returned to give her strength for that harrowing hour. 
 
 "Tempt me not by such words as these — the love I bear 
 thee is trial all-sufficient'. My oath was pledged that I 
 would never wed with heresy — never give my hand to one 
 unfaithful to our old and sainted creed. Perchance that oath 
 alone may save me from a like perdition, and if so, then Li 
 it well." 
 
 "And doth thou scorn me for this — despise and loathe 
 me? Oh, Idalie, thou knowest not all I have endured. 
 In mercy add not to the anguish of this hour, by scorn of 
 the change which imperious conscience alone had power to 
 impel." 
 
 "Scorn thee, Montgomeri ! No; if thou, the good, tbe 
 wise, can thus decide, and so find peace, is it for me to 
 judge thee harshly ? No, Idalie can never blame thee, 
 UabneL 
 
 He caught her to his heart, and she resisted not the im- 
 passionate kisses he pressed on cheek and brow. She felt 
 his hot tears fall fast upon her face, for in that suffering 
 hour it was the iron-soulcd warrior that wept, not the pale, 
 slight girl he held. 
 
 " This must not be, beloved," she whispered, in low 
 soothing tones. " Montgomeri, my noble love — for in this 
 last hour I may still call thee so — oh, rouse thee from this 
 woman's weakness ; this is no mood for thee. Thou must 
 forget me, Gabriel; or so think of me as to be once again 
 the brave, the high-souled warrior thou hast ever been. For 
 my sake, rouse thee, love ! The God we part to serve will 
 hear my prayers, and bless thee." 
 
 "And thou!" burst passionately from the lips of the 
 count. "Oh, what shall comfort thee, and fill for thee the 
 void of everlasting absence ? In the rush of battle the 
 warrior may find forgetfulness in death ; but — " 
 
 " No, no, not death ; Gabriel, for my sake, live, though 
 not for me : add not this pang to a -heart already tried 
 enough. Promise me to live, and ior me ! Leave me to my 
 God, Montgomeri, and He will give me peace." 
 
 He could not answer, and minutes — many minutes — rolled 
 away, and neither moved from the detaining arms of the 
 other. Fortunately perhaps for both, a page entered with 
 a summons to the count from the queen. Idalie lifted up
 
 ID ALEE. 293 
 
 her head, and while her very blood seemed turned to ice, a 
 smile circled that pale lip. 
 
 " Thou must leave me, dearest. Mary loves not to wait, 
 indulgent as she is." 
 
 " But v, T e shall meet again, sweet love ?" 
 
 There was no answer ; but Montgomeri would not under- 
 stand that silence. He strained her once more to his heart, 
 and turned away : another minute the arras fell, and he was 
 gone. Idalie made one bound forward, as if to detain him, 
 and, with a low shuddering cry, dropped sensele.;s on the 
 ground. 
 
 VI. 
 
 It was in a lordly chamber of the Chateau de Montemar, 
 about three months after the event narrated in our last 
 chapter, that the only remaining scions of that noble house 
 were seated in earnest and evidently sorrowful converse. 
 The beams of the sun, rendered gorgeous by the richly- 
 stained glass of the antique windows through which they 
 pas?ed, fantastically tinged the oaken floor and walls. The 
 furniture was of ebony, inlaid with silver, interspersed with 
 couches and cushions of tapestry, ancient as the days of 
 Matilda of Flanders, which, though somewhat heavy in them- 
 selves, accorded well with the aspect of solemn grandeur 
 pervading the whole apartment. 
 
 " Do not refuse mc, Louis," pleaded Idalie, after a long 
 and painful discussion relative to her papers and parchments, 
 which strewed the table, had passed between them ; "do not 
 thus entreat me to retain my heritage. Is a broken heart, a 
 sinking frame fit chief for Montemar ? I have borne much, 
 suffered much, sought even the court of Charles, which my 
 whole soul loathes, to obtain the transferment to thee of all 
 my earthly possessions, and now do not refuse to relieve me 
 of their heavy charge." 
 
 "But only wait awhile, sweet cousin," he replied ; "sorrow 
 has had as yet no time to expend its force. Do not act so 
 soon on the resolution of a moment's agony ; wait but one 
 brief year, and think well on all you would resign. Has 
 earth no spell to fright away thy purpose ?" 
 
 " None ; it is but the casket, whence the jewel has de- 
 parted. INlay more, it is filled with hopes I dare not
 
 300 IDALIE. 
 
 hope, and thoughts I dare not think. I would fly from 
 these." 
 
 "And will a convent aid thee so to do ?" 
 
 " I know not; yet there at least temptation, which I have 
 no strength to meet, will not assail me more." 
 
 " No strength to meet ! Dearest Idalie, the martyr at the 
 stake might envy thee thy strength." 
 
 " Not now, Louis, it has all gone from me," and for the 
 first time her voice quivered, and she buried her face in her 
 •clasped hands. A fierce malediction on Montgoineri was 
 bursting from the lips of Louis, as he looked on the faded 
 form, and seemed to feel for the first time the full extent of 
 his cousin's agony. Young, buoyant, and ever joyous him- 
 self, Idaho's perfect calmness since her return had deceived 
 him ; but the tone in which those few words were said 
 strangely and suddenly revealed the whole, and the young 
 man's whole heart spoke in his half-uttered curse. 
 
 " No, no ; curse him not, Louis ! " passionately implored 
 Idalie. " Promise me, by the sweet memories of our child- 
 hood, still to be his friend. In these awful times, when the 
 poisoned draught and midnight dagger are ever near these 
 persecuted men, be near him to warn, shield, save." 
 
 "I will, I will, for thy sweet sake," he replied, earnestly. 
 " Yet why fear such danger for him ? he never will be rash 
 enough to return to France." 
 
 " Louis, he is even now in France, and therefore is it I so 
 conjure you to be his friend. He is here, may be near me 
 still, even as he hovered close beside me in my passage 
 home. He thought to be unknown, even to me ; me, whom 
 he was there to guard, protect to the last, speaking not one 
 word to betray himself, or give me again the torture of fare- 
 well. I knew him close beside me ; I heard the disguised 
 accents of his voice, and yet we were as if the grave had 
 parted us. Oh, Louis, Louis ! the strength which then 
 upheld me has departed from me ; I dare not look upon his 
 face and listen to his voice again. Only the convent walls 
 can shield me from a broken vow, a dead father's curse ; and 
 wilt thou keep me from their refuge ? No, no ; relieve 
 
 me from this fearful heritage, and let me be at peace." 
 ****** 
 
 One week after Louis de Montemar had been acknow-
 
 IDALIE. 301 
 
 ledged by all the vassals of his cousin as their suzerain or 
 feudal lord, to -whom and to his heirs they had sworn undy- 
 ing allegiance, Idalie stoxl within the convent church of our 
 Lady of Montemar, preparing to take those awful vows 
 which severed her from earth, and all its cares and joys, and 
 hopes and woes, for ever. It was midnight, but the large 
 waxen tapers burning on the high altar and many shrines 
 completely illuminated the main body of the church, while 
 the deep shadows of the aisles and more distant arches of 
 the nave heightened the effect of light, and rendered the 
 building larger in appearance than in reality. Clouds of in- 
 cense floated on the air, from the rich silver censers held by 
 six beautiful boys, clothed in white, standing on either side 
 the altar. Behind, and exquisitely illuminated by a pecu- 
 liarly softened light falling full upon it, hung a picture of 
 the Saviour kneeling in the garden of Gethsemane, his 
 countenance powerfully expressive of the words, " Neverthe- 
 less, not what I will, but what Thou wilt." 
 
 The church was crowded in the nave and aisles, the choir 
 and chancel being left for the relations of the novice and those 
 of higher rank. As Idalie had but few of the former, and 
 had particularly wished the ceremony to be as private as 
 possible, these parts of the building were comparatively un- 
 occupied, except by monks and priests. 
 
 Clothed with unwonted gorgeousness, Idalie stood beside 
 the altar. A rich robe of grey Genoa velvet descended to 
 her feet, sweeping the marble ground in heavy folds, girded 
 round the waist with a broad belt of large rubies and opals ; 
 glittering stars of the same clasped down the stomacher, 
 and looped the wide sleeve of richest lace, and braids of 
 diamonds glistened in the dark tresses of her hair, and 
 sparkled on the high, pure brow, which; marble pale, seemed 
 all unfitted for their weight. Her eyes were raised, her 
 lips slightly parted, her thin white hands crossed upon her 
 bosom, as in the heartfelt utterance of voiceless prayer. 
 Silence, deep as the grave, had succeeded the priest's prayer, 
 lasting but a moment, for Idalie sinking noiselessly on the 
 ground, the black pall was thrown over her, and the distant 
 discharge of cannon, mingled with the muffled toll of the 
 convent bell, proclaimed far and near that Idalie de Monte- 
 mar was now an inmate of the tomb. A groan so deep and 
 hollow at that instant reverberated through the building, that
 
 302 IDALIE. 
 
 all present started, and shudderingly drew nearer each other, 
 unable to trace whence or from whom it came, until a tall 
 shrouded! figure was discovered leaning against one of the 
 pillars supporting the arched roof of the choir; his face was 
 buried in his cloak, but he was seen to shiver, as by some 
 rudely-passing wind. The organ swelled forth in thrilling 
 tones the requiem for the dead, sweet childish voices pro- 
 longed the solemn strain, till it faded softer and softer in the 
 distance, swelling, falling, then dying all away. Removing 
 the pall, the priests waited for Idalie to rise and kneel before 
 the altar, that the ceremony might continue. They wailed, 
 but there was no movement. She lay even as she had fallen. 
 A cry of terror burst from the aged priest, and at the same 
 instant, heedless of the personal danger inseparable from 
 discovery, bareheaded and unshrouded — heedless of all save 
 one agonizing fear — Gabriel de Lorges rushed forward, and 
 knelt beside her. 
 
 " Idalie ! loveliest ! dearest ! speak to rne, answer me ; 
 say that I have not murdered thee ! Answer me, in mercy, 
 but one word !" 
 
 lie spoke in vain. Louis de Montcmar, priests, and many 
 others crowded round him. They sought to withdraw her 
 from Montgonieri's convulsive hold, to wake her from the 
 seeming trance. But all was useless ; she had passed to 
 heaven in that music swell. The broken-hearted was at 
 rest.* 
 
 * The after-fate of the unfortunate hut guiltless regicide helongs to 
 
 history.
 
 303 
 
 Tnbn (tajram's $ttz. 
 
 A TALE OF THE DAY. 
 
 It was near the end of May, beautiful May, that month of 
 strange contrarieties in our lovely land. In the haunts of 
 Nature, robed with such gorgeous beauty, bringing such a 
 lavish garniture of tree and shrub, and flowers ; such fresh 
 and dewy mornings; such glorious sunsets; and those soft 
 sweet hours of twilight, so fraught with spiritual musings ; 
 and those lovely nights, when the mind loses itself in the 
 infinitude of thought, in the vain yearning to grasp some- 
 thing beyond our present being, in itself evidence of Im- 
 mortality ! In the city, in the proud metropolis, seat of 
 empire and wealth, fashion and beauty, luxury and pleasure, 
 crime and famine, misery and desolation, clothed as May 
 still is with her natural beauty, we know her not, save as the 
 " Season ! " and in that word what a host of thoughts spring 
 up — enjoyment, luxury, fetes, balls, dinners ! These were 
 once, and but a few years bade, its sole association ; but now a 
 mighty spirit is abroad, and over the festal halls a dim clou;! 
 is hovering, breathing of oppression born in that very 
 thoughtless joyance. Through the gay music, the silvery 
 laugh, the murmur of glad voices — aye, through every tone 
 that tells of luxurious pleasure only — a thrilling cry is 
 sounding ! the voice of suffering thousands, claiming brother- 
 hood with Joy ; demanding a portion of that which a bc- 
 nificent Father ordained for all — rest, recreation, homes. 
 
 In the drawing-room of one of the smaller mansions of the 
 aristocratic west, a young lady was sitting near an open 
 window, inhaling the delicious scent of the beautiful ilowers, 
 which tilled the balcony in such profusion that, shaded in 
 the background as they were by the magnificent trees of 
 the park, they looked as if the goddess May had brought a 
 garden from her most sylvan haunts, to mark her presence 
 even there. 
 
 Lucy Neville, the sole inmate of this pleasant room, was 
 neither very young nor very beautiful, yet she had charms 
 enough to occasion some degree of wonderment that she
 
 304 LADY GltESHAMS FETE. 
 
 should have passed through four London seasons and 
 attained the venerable age of three-and-twenty, and was 
 Lucy Neville still. She had the advantage of mingling 
 with some of the most highly-gifted and most learned 
 patriots of the age ; for her brother, Lord Valery, of whose 
 house she was sole mistress, was one of the most influential 
 men of his day. She went into society also continually ; 
 and, altogether, it was a constant marvel to all those who 
 had nothing to do but to talk of their neighbours, why she 
 had never married. Lucy Neville might not have had 
 regular beauty, but she had something better — she had 
 mind, and a heart so full of good and kindly feeling that 
 she was an exception to the general idea, that we must know 
 •sorrow ourselves before we can feel for others. She was 
 indeed, only just putting off mourning for a young and 
 darling brother ; but she had begun to think years before 
 that, and the six months of quietude had only deepened, not 
 created, the principles on which she acted. 
 
 " Visitors so late ! why it is just six o'clock ! " passed 
 through her mind, as a loud impetuous ring announced 
 a carriage ; and a party of young ladies, of ultra-fashionable 
 exterior, hurried into the drawing-room, all talking at once, 
 and of something so very delightful, that Miss Neville had 
 great difficulty in comprehending their meaning. 
 
 " Now, Lucy, don't look so bewildered. You are quick 
 enough at comprehension sometimes, and I really want you 
 to understand me with a word now, for I am in a terrible 
 hurry. I ought to have come to you by eleven this morning, 
 but really this short invitation has give nine so many things 
 to think about, I could not." 
 
 " But what am I to understand, Charlotte?" replied Miss 
 Neville, laughing so good-hurnouredly, that it was difficult to 
 discover why those of her own age and standing so often 
 kept aloof from her, as having so little in common. " Laura 
 — Mary — have pity on my obtuseness." 
 
 " Why, Lady Gresham's long-talked-of fete is fixed at 
 last ; and of course you will go. Your invitation was en- 
 closed in mamma's last night. Absolutely her ladyship con- 
 descends to entreat her to introduce you. I cannot imagine 
 the reason of this sudden empressement — she could have 
 visited you long ago, had she wished it." 
 
 " She did wish it individually, I believe ; but an unfor-
 
 LADY GRESIIAAl's FETE. 305 
 
 Annate misunderstanding between her brother and mine pre- 
 vented it. Edward has long wished the estrangement to 
 cease, so I shall be very happy to meet her half-way, and 
 accept the invitation. When is it ? " 
 " Next Monday." 
 
 " Monday ! Why, to-day is Friday ! You must mean 
 Monday week." 
 
 " Indeed I do not. How she will manage I cannot tell, 
 except that when people have more wealth than they know 
 what to do with, they can do what they please. Her villa at 
 Richmond, too, is just the place for a, fete champetre ; and the 
 novel shortness of the invitation, and being the day before a 
 drawing-room, will crowd her rooms, depend upon it. It 
 is something unusually exciting, the very bustle of the 
 thing." 
 
 " But I thought it was not to be until — " 
 " Until Herbert Gresham returned. Nor will it. He 
 arrives to-morrow night, or some time on Sunday, quite 
 suddenly, not having been expected for several weeks yet. 
 What with his foreign honours, Ins promised baronetcy, 
 and last, not least, his distinguished appearance, he will 
 be sought and feted by all the money-loving mammas 
 and husband-seeking daughters for the remainder of the 
 season." 
 
 " The worst of its being a fete cliampetre is, that we must 
 have complete new dresses," rejoined Laura. "And how to 
 coax papa for the necessary help, I know not ; my last 
 quarter was all gone before I received it, and my debts 
 actually frighten me. But what is to be done ? go I must." 
 
 " And then the shortness of the notice ! " continued Mary ; " 
 "really Lady Gresham might have given us more time. 
 Who can decide what to wear, or even what colour, in three 
 days ? " 
 
 " Come, Lucy, decide ! But of course you will go ! " ex- 
 claimed Charlotte, impatiently. " It will be your first ap- 
 pearance in public this season, and so you can have nothing 
 to think about in the way of expense. Nothing but the 
 trouble of seeing about a new dress." 
 
 " Which will prevent my going, much as I might wish it." 
 replied Miss Neville, very quietly, though the faint tinge rising 
 to her cheek, and the quiver of the lip, might have betrayed 
 some decree of internal emotion.
 
 306 LADY GEBSHAM'S PJ CE. 
 
 " Prevent your going ! What can you possibly mean ? " 
 exclaimed her guests tegether. 
 
 " That as it is now six o'clock on Friday, and you tell mc 
 Lady Gresham's fete is three o'clock on Monday, I have not 
 sufficient time to procure all I want (for having been so long 
 in mourning, I have literally nothing that will do), without 
 breaking a resolution, and sacrificing a principle, which I do 
 not feel at all inclined to do." 
 
 '■ Sacrificing a principle ! Lucy, you are perfectly ridi- 
 culous ! What has principle to do with a fete champetre ? 
 Your head is turned with the stupid cant of oppressing, and 
 the people, as if we had not annoyances, and vexations, and 
 pressure too, when we want more money than we happen to 
 nave ! And as for time, what is to prevent your sending to 
 Mrs. Smith to-night, (by-the-bye, how can you employ an 
 English artiste ?) and get all you want by ten o'clock on 
 Monday morning ? Why, I cannot even give, an order till 
 after the post comes in to-morrow. I must wait to know 
 what was worn at the Duchesse de Nemours' fete champetre 
 the other day. One feels just out of the ark, in England." 
 
 " And I am sure I cannot decide what to wear till then," 
 languidly remarked Mary. 
 
 " And as for me, I am in a worse predicament than either 
 of you," laughed Laura, but her laugh was not a gay one. 
 se the wind I must, but it requires time to think 
 how." 
 
 We have no space to follow this conversation further. 
 Persuasions, reproaches, and taunts assailed Miss Neville on 
 all sides, but she did not waver. Charlotte left her in high 
 dudgeon ; Mary marvelled at her unfortunate delusion, quite 
 convinced that she was on the verge of insanity ; and Laura 
 wishing that she could be but as firm. Not that she com- 
 prehended or allowed the necessity of the principle on which 
 she acted, but only as it would save her the disagreeable 
 task of thinking how to get the necessary costume when 
 both modiste and jeweller had refused to trust her any 
 more. 
 
 _ For nearly half an hour Lucy remained sitting where her 
 visitors had left her, her hands pressed on her eyes, and her 
 whole posture denoting a painful intensity of thought. 
 Herbert Gresham returning ! His mother's unexpected and 
 pressing invitation ! Could it be that the bar between the
 
 LADY GEESHASl's FETE. 307 
 
 families was indeed so entirely removed, that she might hope 
 as she had never dared hope before ? Sir Sydney's hatred 
 to her brother, from some political opposition, had been such, 
 it was whispered at the time, that he had obtained his nephew 
 some honourable appointment abroad, only because he feared 
 that he not only loved Lucy, but leaned towards Lord 
 Valery's political- opinions. Four years had passed since 
 then, and Herbert Gresham was no longer a cipher in 
 another's hands. He had formed his own principles, marked 
 eat his own course ; and Lucy heard his name so often and 
 so admiringly from her brother's lips, that the dream of her 
 first season could not pass away, strive against it as she 
 might, for she knew not whether she claimed more than a 
 passing thought from him who held her being so enchained. 
 And now he was returning ; and to the fete to welcome him 
 she was invited, with such an evident desire for her presence, 
 that her heart bounded beneath the thronging fancies that 
 would come, seeming to whisper it was at his instigation. 
 And why could she not go ? Was it not, indeed, a quixotic 
 and uncalled-for sacrifice ? How could the resolution of one 
 feeble individual aid in removing the heavy pressure of 
 over-work from the thousands of her fellow-creatures? 
 There was time, full time, for all she required, if she saw 
 about it at once. It was but adding an atom to the weight of 
 oppression, which, whether added or withheld, could be of 
 no moment ; and surely, surely, for such a temptation there 
 was enough excuse. How would Herbert construe her 
 absence, if, indeed, it was at his wish the invitation came ? 
 Why might she not 
 
 " Lucy, seven o'clock and not ready for dinner ! Why, 
 what are you so engrossed about?" exclaimed her brother, 
 half-jestingly, half-anxiously, the latter feeling prevailing, as 
 she hastily looked up. A few, a very few words, and he 
 understood it all. 
 
 " And yet I know, even under such circumstances, you will 
 not fail," he said; and how powerful is the voice of affec- 
 tionate confidence in the dangerous moment of hesitation 
 between right and wrong ? " You may, indeed, be but one 
 where there needs the aid of hundreds ; but if all hold back 
 because they are but one, how shall we gain the necessary 
 muster ? To check this thoughtless waste of human life, 
 this (in many) unconscious crushing of all that makes
 
 S08 LADY GBESHAMS FETE. 
 
 existence, is woman's work. Man may legislate, may 
 theorise, but he looks to his female relatives for its practical 
 fulfilment. Dearest, do you choose the right, and trust me, 
 useless as the sacrifice now seems, you will yet thank God 
 -,fiat it was made." 
 
 Lady Gresham's fete was brilliant, recherche — crowded as 
 anticipated. The weather was lovely, the gardens mag- 
 nificent, the arrangements in the best taste that an ultra- 
 fashionist of some thirty years' experience could devise. 
 Youth, beauty, rank, wealth, all were there, and the female 
 portion set off to the best advantage by an elegance of 
 costume and an extreme carefulness of attire, without which 
 all knew an entrance into Lady Gresham's select coterie 
 could never be obtained. A despot in the empire of dress 
 and appearance, she little knew, and still less cared, for all 
 the petty miseries (alas, that such a word should be spoken 
 in the same breath with dress !) which her invitations usually 
 excited. The resolve to outvie — the utter carelessness of 
 expenditure while the excitement lasted — the depression, 
 almost despair, at the accumulated debts which followed — 
 the rivalry of a first fashion — the petty manoeuvres not to 
 give a hint of the intended costume, and the equally petty 
 manoeuvres to discover it — the mortification when, after all the 
 lavish expense, all the mysteries, others appeared more 
 fashionable, more recherche — the disgust with which, in 
 consequence, the previously considered perfect dress was 
 henceforth regarded — these, and a hundred other similar 
 emotions had been, during the " season," called forth again 
 and again ; and in beings destined for immortality ! was 
 it marvel they had no thought for other than themselves ? 
 
 That this fete was in commemoration of Herbert Gresham's 
 return, and that he was present, the hero of the day, not a 
 little increased its excitement and importance. But he 
 moved amongst his mother's guests with native and winning 
 courtesy indeed, but as if his mind were engrossed with 
 other and deeper things. In the four years of his absence 
 many changes, powerful in themselves, but still only in- 
 visibly working, had taken place in the political aspect of 
 his country. By means of private correspondence with the 
 most influential men of the day, and through the public
 
 LADY GRESHAM S FETE. 309 
 
 journals, he had felt the deepest interest in these changes ; 
 and from the very fact of his looking on from a distance, 
 and not mingling with the contending waves of party, he had 
 formed clearer views concerning them than many on the 
 spot. He had returned, determined to devote the whole 
 energies of his powerful mind to removing invisible op- 
 pression, so lessening labour that mind might resume her 
 supremacy, and create for every position its own immortal 
 joys. He was no leveller of ranks ; no believer in that vain 
 dream, equality. He had travelled and thought much, and 
 felt to his heart's core the superiority of England as a 
 nation, both for constitution and morality; but this con- 
 viction, instead of blinding him to her faults, quickened 
 his perceptions, not only regarding the evils, but their 
 causes, and increased the intensity of his desire to remove 
 them. 
 
 It was not, however, only the habitude of thought which, 
 on this occasion, had given him a look of abstraction. He 
 was disappointed. His mother had told him that, in com- 
 pliance with his desire, all foolish coolness between his 
 family and that of Lord Valerj^ should cease — she had con- 
 descended to make advances to Miss Neville, which were 
 coldly rejected. She did not tell him that these advances 
 had been merely an invitation to her fete (of whose sudden 
 arrangement Herbert was himself unconscious), and did not 
 know herself, and certainly would never have imagined the 
 real reason of Lucy's refusal. Before the day closed, how- 
 ever, her son was destined to be enlightened. 
 
 He was standing near a group of very gay young ladies 
 and gentlemen, conversing at first on grave topics with a 
 friend, when his quick ear was irresistibly attracted by the 
 mention of Miss Neville's name, coupled with much satirical 
 laughter. 
 
 " She will become a second Mrs. Fry, depend upon it," 
 was the observation of one. " I should not be at all sur- 
 prised .that at last we shall find her making pilgrimages 
 through the streets of London, to see if all the shops are 
 closed at a certain hour, and the released apprentices properly 
 employed. She should set up an evening school for drapers' 
 assistants and milliners' apprentices. Why don't you pro- 
 pose it to her, Miss Balfour ? " 
 
 Charlotte, whose superb Parisian costume gave her the
 
 310 LADY GRESHAMS FETE. 
 
 triumph of being almost universally envied, laughed, and 
 declared it was too much trouble. 
 
 "You stand in rather too much awe of both her and 
 Lord Valery," was her brother's rejoinder. "It is a pity, 
 though, that Miss Neville has imbibed such outre notions, 
 otherwise she would be a nice girl enough." 
 
 "And did she really refuse to come only because the notice 
 was too short for her to get a proper costume without injuring 
 or ( oppressing — as the cant of the day has it — the poor 
 milliners ? How perfectly ridiculous ! I am sure the artistes 
 who come for our orders are in the finest condition both as 
 to health and wealth." 
 
 "And the shopmen — they are sleek, gay, care-nothing 
 looking fellows. As for their needing greater rest, more 
 recreation, opportunities to cultivate the mind, one has only 
 to look at them to feel the pure romance of the thing. What 
 are some people born for but to work ?" 
 
 "And just imagine how dull London would be if all the 
 were closed by seven or eight o'clock ! I should lose 
 hali' my enjoyment in walking to my club." 
 
 "I should like to know what good Miss Neville ai: 
 party of philanthropists think they will accomplish by ■ 
 so much liberty and leisure, We shall have to build double 
 the number of taverns, for such will be their only resort. 
 What can such people know of intellectual amusement !" 
 
 "And if they did, what do they want with it ? We should 
 have a cessation of all labour, and then Avhat is to become of 
 us, or the country either?" 
 
 "It is jmre folly. Some people must have a hobby to 
 make a noise about ; and so now nothing is heard but 
 oppression, internal slavery, broken-hearted milliners' ap- 
 prentices, and maimed drapers' assistants ! Really, for 
 so much eloquence, it is a pity they do not choose a higher 
 subject !" 
 
 "And I wish the present subject may never drop till the 
 work is done," interposed Herbert Gresham, joining the con- 
 versation with a suddenness, and speaking with such startling- 
 eloquence, that it caused a general retreat of individual. 
 opinion. He would have been amused had he felt less 
 interested, to see the effect on both sexes of his unexpected 
 interference. He spoke very briefly, for he was too dis- 
 gusted with the littleness, the senislmess, of all he had
 
 Pf.ge 311.
 
 LADY GRESHAMS FETE. §11 
 
 heard to attempt anything like argument. And the effort 
 to excuse former sentiments — to dare say he was right, 
 but they had not reflected much about it — thought it 
 a pity to alter things which had been going on so long — 
 could not understand, even granting there was a good deal of 
 misery, how could it be helped, but if Herbert Gresham 
 thought it might be, no doubt there was more in it than they 
 believed, and very many other similar speeches, only excited 
 his contempt. 
 
 We must change the scene, for our space will not allow us 
 more than a slight sketch : a momentary glance, as it were, 
 on things passing daily, hourly around, and yet seen, known 
 of, by how few ! Four or five days after Lady Gresham's 
 fete, Miss Neville might have been seen entering one of 
 those small, close, back streets, found even in the aristocratic 
 west, and whose dilapidated dwellings present almost as 
 great a contrast with the proud mansions which surround and 
 conceal them as the inhabitants themselves. 
 
 It was a poor old needlewoman whom Lucy was visiting, 
 and, surprised at finding her usual sitting-room empty, and 
 fearing she was ill — for there was no sign of work about, and 
 Mrs. Miller was infirm and ailing — she gently entered her 
 sleeping apartment. The rough bed was occupied indeed, 
 but not by its usual inmate, who was sitting by its side, tears 
 rolling down her withered cheeks, and her attention so fixed 
 that she did not perceive Miss Neville's entrance. She was 
 watching the painful, restless movements of a girl, who, 
 in a high state of delirium and fever, was lying on the pallet ; 
 she was very young, and had been beautiful, but suffering had 
 scarcely left any trace but its own. Earnestly and pityingly, 
 Lucy entered into the sad, but only too common tale, her 
 inquiries elicited ; but the old woman's narration being 
 garrulous and unfinished, we will give it in our own words. 
 
 Fanny Roberts and Harry Merton, born and nurtured in 
 the same village, had been playmates, schoolfellows, friends, 
 and at last lovers — not only faithful and affectionate, but 
 prudent and thoughtful. The parents of both were poor, 
 even in their humble village, but the wishes and interests of. 
 their children were their first object, and to see them some- 
 what higher in the world than themselves their sole ambition. 
 To set up an establishment in the neighbouring town, com- 
 bining linen-draper, dressmaker, and milliner, had been their
 
 312 LADY GEESHAMS FETE. 
 
 day-dream from the time they had conned their school_ lessons 
 and taken long walks together, instead of joining their play- 
 mates on the green ; and to fulfil this earnest wish, their 
 parents, by many sacrifices, which, measured by their love, 
 seemed absolutely nothing, gathered together sufficient to 
 send them to London, and apprentice them there. Harry 
 was then nineteen and Fanny two years younger. Hope was 
 bright for both. Their only drawback seemed the impos- 
 sibility of meeting more than once a week ; and six days of 
 entire separation was a weary interval to those accustomed to 
 exchange affection's kindly words and looks each day. Only 
 too soon, however, did the oppressive reality of the present 
 absorb the rosy hues of the future. On the daily routine of 
 unmitigated work, the exhausting labour, the deadened 
 energies, the absorption of every faculty in the depressing 
 weariness, we need not touch. It was no distaste for work, 
 for both had set to their respective duties with hearts burning 
 to conquer every difficulty — to do even more than was re- 
 quired of them, the sooner to gain the longed-for goal ; and 
 had it not been for the fearful burden of over-work, the 
 absence of sufficient rest, of all wholesome recreation, how 
 brightly and nobly might these young loving beings have 
 w T alked the path of life, by mutual exertion creating a home, 
 and all the joys, which, in England that one word speaks ! Alas ! 
 ere eighteen months elapsed, every thought of buoyancy and 
 joy seemed strangely to have deserted Fanny. She could 
 not tell why, for outward things seemed exactly the same as 
 they had been at first. Harry was still faithful, still fond. 
 Her heart intuitively felt that he was altered. Why, she 
 would often ask herself, could she no longer feel happy? 
 Why should every thought of her own dear home cause 
 such a sickly longing for fresh air and green fields, that the 
 hysteric sob would often rise choking in her throat, and more 
 than once, nothing but a timely burst of incomprehensible 
 tears had saved her from fainting as she sat. She could not 
 satisfy herself; but in reality it was the silent workings of 
 insidious disease, seeming mental, because impossible to be 
 traced as physical, save by the constant sensation of weari- 
 ness, which she attributed merely to sitting so long in close 
 and crowded rooms ; but though happiness seemed gone, she 
 retained the power of endurance ; woman can and will endure, 
 but in nine cases out of ten, men cannot. In the one,,
 
 LADY GRESHAM'S FETE. 3 IS 
 
 suffering often purifies ; in the other, it but too often 
 deteriorates. 
 
 Harry Merton had entered on his work joyfully and 
 buoyantly, determined to make the best of everything, and 
 be good friends with everybody. Naturally lively, with the 
 power of very quick acquirement, and a restless activity of 
 mind as well as body, a very few months' trial convinced him 
 that if he had not entirely mistaken his vocation, he certainly 
 must do something to make it more endurable. He had 
 heard of institutions for the people in London, of amuse- 
 ments open even to the most economical ; he had pictured 
 enjoying them with his Fanny, and gaining improvement like- 
 wise. He found it all a dream. There were, indeed, such things, 
 but not for him or her. The hour of his release found not 
 only every wholesome amusement closed, but himself so weary, 
 that mental recreation was impossible, and yet with the 
 yearning for some pleasure, some relief from wearisome 
 work, so natural in youth, stronger than ever. His con- 
 vivial, unsuspecting disposition led him to join the most 
 seemingly attractive, but in reality the most dangerous, 
 of his companions. The consequences need scarcely be 
 narrated. He became intemperate, gay, reckless, looking 
 back on the pure, fresh feelings of his early youth with 
 wonder, and retaining but one of their memories, his love 
 for Fanny ; but even that was no longer the glad, hopeful 
 feeling which it had been. He was constantly told, and he 
 saw, that it must be years before they could marry. He was 
 laughed at for imagining that either he or she would retain 
 their early feelings. He heard her beauty admired, and 
 then pitied as a most dangerous gift, which must eventually 
 and most fearfully separate her from him ; and the most 
 furious but most unfounded jealousy took possession of him, 
 and so darkened every hour of meeting, that poor Fanny at 
 length anticipated them with more dread than pleasure. It was 
 long, indeed, nearly three years, before things came to such a 
 crisis ; but the gradual conviction of the deterioration of her 
 lover's character was to Fanny the heaviest suffering of all : 
 that she still loved him, surely we need not say. She saw the 
 circumstances of this miserable change, not the change itself. 
 Her woman's heart clung to him the more, from the very 
 anxiety he inspired. So intensely did she mourn for his 
 long, wearisome hours of joyless toil, that she scarcely felt
 
 314 LADY GRESHAM'S FETE. 
 
 her own ; though, when he was released at ten or eleven, 
 she was often working unceasingly till two in the morning. 
 The choking cough, the shortened breath, the aching 
 spine, she scarcely felt, in the one absorbing thought of 
 him. 
 
 "Whenever she could be spared, which in the "season" was 
 very seldom, it was Fanny's custom to go to Mrs. Miller (her 
 only friend in London) Saturday night and remain till Sunday 
 evening. Two or three da} r s before the invitations were out 
 for Lady Gresham's fete, a note was given to her from Harry, 
 the perusal of which occasioned deeper suffering than any- 
 thing she had yet endured. Snatching half an hour from 
 the scanty time allowed for sleep, the following was her 
 reply :— 
 
 " Harry ! Harry ! this from you ! when you so fondly 
 promised you would never doubt me more ! Yes, he did 
 seek me that Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning, for 
 it was one o'clock ; and I would not have gone there, had 
 j^ou not made me promise that I would not disappoint you, 
 and that you would take me home. Why were you not 
 there ? Why did you leave me to the chance of such a 
 meeting ? And then upbraid me with putting myself in that 
 bad man's way ! Oh, Harry ! Harry ! by the memories of 
 our early home, our early love, spare me such unjust sus- 
 picion ! You tell me writing will not satisfy you, you must 
 see me, hear from my own lips my version of this cruel and 
 most false tale. How can I see you till Saturday night, the 
 earliest, if then ? Sunday, if' I can only crawl to Mrs. 
 Miller's, indeed I will come, pain as it is now to move. 
 Only trust me till then, dearest, dearest Harry. Do not add 
 to your burden and mine by thoughts like these. You know 
 that I am innocent ; that I never have loved, never can love, 
 any one but you." 
 
 The Sunday came, but Fanny was unable to keep her en- 
 gagement. Madame Malin was so overwhelmed with orders 
 for Lady Gresham's fete, that even the Sabbath-day was 
 compelled to be sacrificed. The peculiar trimmings which it 
 was absolutely necessary for Miss Balfour to have to complete 
 the Parisian costume (the details of which never arrived till 
 eleven o'clock, Saturday, and then all the materials had to be 
 purchased) were Fanny's work ; and, from her delicate taste, 
 she, of all the assistants, could the least be spared. In fact,
 
 LADY GRESHAM'S FETE. 315 
 
 extra hands were hired ; for to complete twenty or thirty full 
 dresses from the noon of Saturday to ten o'clock Monday, in 
 addition to those already in hand for the drawing-room the 
 following day, was an unusual undertaking, even for the in- 
 defatigable Madame Malin. Hour after hour those poor 
 girls worked, — through Saturday night, the ycarned-for 
 Sabbath, again late into the night, till many fainted on 
 their seats, and the miserable toil was continued in a recum- 
 bent posture by those unable to sit upright. A dead \ 
 n poor Fanny's heart, a foreboding misery ; but the 
 ings of the frame were such as almost to deaden the agony of 
 mind. The hour of release came at length, inasmuch that, ill 
 as she was, she craved permission to take home some of the 
 
 hat she might call at Mrs. Miller's on her 
 and learn some news of Harry, and beseech her old friend 
 to seek him, and tell him the reason of her forced absence. 
 Exhausted and most wretched as she was, she had to wai 
 the dresses were tried on — the capricious humour ( - 
 young ladies proved, by altering, realtering, and final arrange- 
 ment as they were originally — to bear with petty fault-ll 
 — until her whole frame seemed one mass of nerve ; and so 
 detained, that she only entered ; leading to her old 
 
 friend's abode, as the carnages whirled off their elegantly- 
 attired inmates to Lad}- Gresham's fete. 
 
 What a tale awaited her ! Harry. . miserable, — 
 
 almost maddened by the false report- 1 from 
 
 the great pressure of business in his master's shop, fro: 
 innumerable visits of modistes assistants to procure the 
 necess so needed for umes of Mrs. 
 
 Gresham's fete, not released till past one o'clock Sunday 
 morning, had perambulated the streets all night, in the vain 
 hope of meeting Fanny, encountering one of his jovial com- 
 panions, who, half intoxicated, swore he had seen her enter- 
 ing a coach with — Merton knew whom — and when collared 
 and shaken by the infuriated lover till he recovered his more 
 sober senses, declared he could not tell exactly, but he 
 thought it was her : at all events, Harry would know to- 
 morrow, if she had gone as usual to Mrs. Miller's. 
 
 There she was not. Never before had six o'clock on 
 Sunday evening come without her presence ; and really 
 anxious, Mrs. Miller (though not believing a syllable against 
 her) conjured the unhappy young man to call himself at
 
 316 LADY GEESHAMS FETE. 
 
 Madame Malms, and inquire if she were ill or detained. He 
 did so. The well-instructed lacquey declared the family were 
 all at evening service, and if the apprentices were not with 
 their friends, he supposed they were there also ; he knew 
 nothing about them ; but he was quite sure his mistress 
 never permitted them to work on Sundays. Harry was in 
 no state coolly to consider his words. He rushed back like 
 a madman to Mrs. Miller, uttered a few incoherent sentences, 
 and darted away before she had time or thought even to 
 reply. That very evening he enlisted, and the Monday 
 found him marching to Southampton with other troops about 
 to embark for India, A few lines to Mrs. Miller told her 
 this, and accompanied a parcel directed to Fanny, in case 
 she should ever see or hear of her again. The poor girl had 
 just strength to tear it open, to discover _ all her letters and 
 formerly treasured gifts, even to some withered flowers, re- 
 turned, with a few words of stinging reproach, bidding her 
 farewell for ever, and dropped lifeless at the old woman's feet. 
 One or two intervals of coherency enabled her, by a few 
 broken phrases, to explain the reason of her absence ; but 
 brain-fever followed, and even when Miss Neville saw her, nil 
 hope was over. Vain was the skill of the gifted and benevo- 
 lent physician Lucy called in. Disease had been too long 
 and too deeply rooted for resistance to a shock which, in its 
 agony, would have prostrated even a healthy constitution. A 
 few, a very few days of intense suffering, and the crushed 
 heart ceased to beat, the blighted frame to feel, and misery 
 for her was over. But for poor Harry — for the parents of 
 both — what might comfort them ? We have seen the dete- 
 rioration of Harry's character. There were many to mark and 
 condemn the faults, but none to perceive their cause. And 
 when he absconded from his apprenticeship, it did but bring 
 conviction as to his determined depravity. Who may tell the 
 agony of those two humble English homes, when the post 
 brought the miserable news of death to the one, and of sin and 
 utter separation to the other ? They had not even the poor 
 comfort of knowing the cause of their son's change ; their 
 own bold, free, happy, loving Harry, — how could his parents 
 associate him with sin ? — or Fanny, the healthy, rosy, graceful 
 Fanny, with suffering and death ? And what caused these 
 fearful evils, amongst which our tale is but one amongst ten 
 thousand ? Lucy Neville buried her face in her hands as
 
 LADY GRESHAM'S FETE. 317 
 
 she sat by the lowly pallet, where lay the faded form whence 
 life had only half an hour before departed, and thanked God 
 that the temptation had been indeed resisted, and that she 
 had not made one at Lady Gresham's fete. It had not, 
 indeed, been the primary, or even the secondary cause. It 
 did but strike the last blow and shiver to atoms the last lin- 
 gering dream of hope and joy which, despite of oppression, 
 misery, despair, will rest invisibly in the youthful heart, till 
 driven thence by death. 
 
 " Lucy ! " exclaimed Lord Valery that same day, stopping 
 the carriage unexpectedly as it was about to drive off from 
 that part of St. James's where it usually waited for her (she 
 shrunk from the notice which a nobleman's carriage, seen in 
 such localities as Mrs. Miller's, would inevitably produce), — 
 " Lucy, an old friend wishes to recal himself to your memory; 
 will you give him a seat in your carriage, and take me on the 
 box ? We both pine for fresh air, and a drive in the Park 
 will revive us for dinner, which, whether he will or no, I in- 
 tend this gentleman to partake." 
 
 The words were the lightest, but the tone which spoke 
 them betrayed the truth at once. It was Herbert Gresham 
 by his side. Herbert Gresham, whose earnest eyes were fixed 
 on hers, with an expression in their dark depths needing no 
 words to tell her that his early dream, even as her own, was 
 unchanged — that the first action of his now unshackled will 
 was to seek her, requiring no renewal of acquaintance, again 
 to love and trust her. And though the suddenness of the 
 meeting, the rapid transition from sorrowing sympathy to 
 individual joy, did so flush and pale her cheek, that her brother 
 looked at her with some alarm, there was neither hesitation 
 nor idle reserve. Her hand was extended at once, and the 
 pressure which clasped it was sufficient response. Whether 
 they continued so silent, when Herbert did spring into the 
 carriage, and took his seat by her side, indeed we know not. 
 Certain it is that, had it not been for Lord Valery, the foot- 
 man might have waited long enough for orders to drive 
 "home ;" and ecfually certain that no day had ever seemed 
 so short to Lucy, — short in its fullness of present enjoyment ; 
 in its retrospect., could it have been but one brief day? 
 
 " And that pour girl is really gone ? " inquired Lord Valery, 
 just as Herbert Gresham was about taking his departure,
 
 318 LADY GRESHAMS FETE. 
 
 most reluctantly warned to do so by a neighbouring clock 
 striking midnight. " Another victim to that hateful system, 
 desecrating our lovely and most noble land ! " 
 
 " Dear Edward, hush ! " interposed Lucy, gently, as her 
 eye rested on her lover. 
 
 " Do not check him, dearest, though I prize that fond 
 thought for me. I know the whole tale — that the fete wel- 
 coming my return, by misdirected zeal and thoughtless folly, 
 has added incalculably to the general burden, and to indivi- 
 duals brought death and a life-long despair. The past, alas ! 
 
 we cannot remedy — the future " and his arm was fondly 
 
 thrown round Lucy, and his lip pressed her brow — " dearest, 
 let us hope next season there will be another Lady Gresham's 
 Fete fraught with happiness for all."
 
 310 
 
 %\n <$xb\w zl Sxttfetefc 
 
 " I have no liope in loving thee, 
 I only ask to love ; 
 I brood upon my silent heart, 
 As on its nest the dove ; 
 
 Eut little have I been beloved — 
 
 Wad, silent, and alone ; 
 And yet I feel, in loving thee, 
 
 The wide world is my own. 
 
 Thine is the name I breathe to heaven — 
 
 Thy face is on my sleep ; 
 I only ask that love like this 
 
 -.lay pray for thee and weep." 
 
 L. E. L. 
 
 " We know not love till those we love depart." 
 
 L. E. L. 
 
 " Why will you sing that old-fashioned song, dear Annie, 
 when you have so many much better suited to your voice ? " 
 expostulated Reginald de Vere, as he led the young song- 
 stress from her harp to a more retired seat. " I do not like 
 your throwing away so much power and sweetness on a song 
 which, of all others, I hate the most." 
 
 " Do not say so, Reginald. You are not usually fastidious, 
 or I would say, had that sweet melody Italian words instead 
 of English, you would acknowledge its beauty, and feel it 
 too." 
 
 " Perhaps so, as it is not the melody, but the words I 
 quarrel with — ' Home, sweet home.' What charm has home 
 ever had for me ? Change the words, dear Annie, English 
 or Italian, I care not, only remove all association of home, 
 aad I will learn to love it more." 
 
 ; ' Nay, Reginald ; to banish such association would be to 
 h its greatest charm. One day you, too, may feel its 
 truth." 
 
 " Never, never ! " he answered, passionately ; " there is a 
 blighting curse around me, which it were worse than folly to 
 resist. I must toil on, lonel)*, and unblessed by one sweet
 
 320 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 tie of home — seeking for no love, and receiving none — iso- 
 lated in a world ! There are many others whose destiny is 
 the same. Bound by the iron chain of fate, he is but a 
 madman who would seek to break it." 
 
 " Destiny — fate ! I thought you had long ere this banished 
 their baneful influence," said Annie, in a tone of mild re- 
 proach. 
 
 " From your ear, my gentle friend, because I saw you loved 
 not their expression ; but not from my own heart. Yet 3 r ou, 
 too, believe all things to be pre-ordained ; that not a sparrow 
 falls to the ground unmarked. Then, why so start at me — 
 is not our creed the same ? " 
 
 " It cannot be, Reginald. I am not wise enough to know 
 wherein the difference lies, I can only judge from effects ; 
 and when they are so opposed, I fancy the cause must be so 
 also. I do believe that all things are ordained, but yet I am 
 no fatalist." 
 
 " Will you try and explain the distinction, for your words 
 seem somewhat contradictory." 
 
 " I fear they do," she replied, simply ; " and I am over 
 bold to speak on this weighty subject at all. Your creed 
 appears to me to consist in this : that before your birth, your 
 path was laid down — your destiny fixed ; that you are, in 
 consequence, bound in chains, enclosed in walls, from which 
 no effort of your own will can enable you to escape ; that 
 3^ou must stand the bursting of the thunder-cloud — for you 
 have no force or energy to seek shelter, no free will to 
 choose — swayed by an irresistible impulse, and, consequently, 
 not a responsible being. Such seems to me the creed of a 
 fatalist." 
 
 " And you are right. Now, then, for yours ; less difficult, 
 I should imagine, to explain, than that in which you have no 
 interest." 
 
 " I differ from you, Reginald. It is comparatively easy to 
 define the subject of a passing thought or an hour's study ; 
 but that which we feel, feel to our inmost soul, is not so 
 easily clothed in words. I believe that an eye of love is ever 
 watching over me — a guiding arm is ever round me ; that 
 nothing can happen to me, unless willed for my good by my 
 Father in heaven ; but I do not believe my lot in life marked 
 out before I saw the light. Such a creed at once changes 
 the law of love into a dark and iron-bouud necessity, from
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 321 
 
 which my whole soul revolts. Where would be the comfort 
 of prayer in such a case — the blessedness of pouring forth 
 one's whole soul in the hour of affliction ? for how could 
 prayer avail us were our lot marked out ? " 
 
 "And do you think prayer ever does? Do you believe 
 that you are answered ? " 
 
 " I do, indeed, dear Reginald ; not always as our own 
 will would dictate, but as a loving Father knows it best. I 
 was not answered as my heart implored when my only parent 
 was taken from me ; but I was answered in the strength 
 that was granted me to feel that he was happy, and God's 
 will kinder and better than my own. I am not here because 
 it is my destiny, but because it is better for me than the calm 
 and quiet life I have hitherto enjoyed." 
 
 "Your creed is indeed that of a gentle, loving woman, 
 Annie," said her companion, more playfully ; but lie smiled 
 not, for he knew how chillingly a smile will fall on young 
 enthusiasm. " But it is too visionary, too ethereal, for cold- 
 hearted man ; perhaps not for some, but for me there are no 
 such dreams. My heart was once full of hope and faith, and 
 all things bright, and fond, and beautiful ; but now crushed, 
 blighted, trampled on, how may it dream again ? but this is 
 folly," and with a strong effort ho subdued emotion, and 
 spoke more calmly. " Let us talk of something else. You 
 alluded but now to your change of life, and I thought, sadly. 
 Are you not happy ? " 
 
 " I shall be in time, Reginald," answered Annie, on 
 whose fair sweet face a shade had flitted at her companion's 
 bitter Avords. "All are kind to me. My mother was Lord 
 Ennerdale's favourite niece, and he loves me for her 
 sake, and so pets me that I cannot but love him most 
 dearly." 
 
 " And Lady Emily ? " 
 
 " I shall learn to love as soon as she will let me. I fancy 
 she thinks me but a simple romantic girl and I have not 
 courage to undeceive her — that I can love and reverence 
 other things besides poetry ; but it is the change of circum- 
 stances that sometimes makes me sad. Clair Abbey is so 
 far removed from Luscombe Cottage, that time has not yet 
 reconciled me to the great change." 
 
 " Time is slow in effecting changes in you, Annie ; yet ere 
 we meet again, trust me, you will have learned to love Clair 
 
 Y
 
 £22 TIIE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 Abbey, or changed it for another home as higli in sounding, 
 and yet more dear." 
 
 " Changed it ere we meet again ? What can you mean, 
 Reginald \ " said Annie, startled yet more by his tone than 
 by his words, but she was not answered ; for Reginald turned 
 away directly he had spoken, his attention called by Lord 
 Ennerdale ; and another quadrille being formed, her hand 
 was claimed, and she was led off almost unconsciously — so 
 strangely was she preoccupied — to join it. 
 
 There had been nothing in the quiet yet earnest conversa- 
 tion of Reginald de Vere and Annie Grey to cause remark 
 amongst the light-hearted group who were that night 
 assembled in Lord Ennerdale's hospitable halls. They had 
 been intimate from childhood, and as Annie was almost a 
 stranger to all present, and merely regarded as a simple 
 country girl hardly emerged from childhood, no one was sur- 
 prised that she should prefer Reginald's society ; though 
 there were some young men who, attracted by the timid yet 
 intelligent style of her beauty, half envied De Vere the pri- 
 vileges of intimacy which he so evidently enjoyed. Annie's 
 place seemed not amidst the followers of fashion ; the long, 
 rich, chesnut hair owned no law but that of nature, and flowed 
 at will from her pale, high brow over a neck and shoulders, 
 whose exquisite form and whiteness were displayed to 
 advantage by the simple fashion of her plain black dress ; 
 the eye so " darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," the fair soft 
 cheek ever varying in colour, revealed every thought and 
 feeling that stirred within. The world's lesson of conceal- 
 ment and reserve she had not yet learned, for living in per- 
 fect retirement with a kind and judicious father, of whom 
 she was the idol, her enthusiasm had been regulated, not 
 chilled, and every high and poetic sentiment raised up to 
 and purified in the only rest for such minds — the religion of 
 the Bible and of Nature. Her life had passed in a small 
 cottage on the banks of Windermere, diversified only by 
 occasional visits to an old relation in Scotland ; where, in 
 fact, the first six months of her mourning had been passed. 
 And there, had it not been for one cogent reason, she would 
 have preferred remaining, as more congenial to her taste and 
 feelings, than the form and grandeur which she imagined 
 must surround the dwelling of an Earl. 
 
 Lord Ennerdale and his family had often sought to draw
 
 THE GKOUP OF SCULPTURE. 323 
 
 Sir Edward Grey from his seclusion, anxious to notice his 
 child ; but fearing to disturb Annie's tranquil happiness 
 by an introduction to a mode of life and pleasures which 
 her very limited fortune must prohibit her enjoying, he had 
 invariably declined these solicitations. Yet when Lord 
 Ennerdale, notwithstanding his age and infirmities, made a 
 rapid journey from London to Luscombe Cottage, purposely 
 to soothe his dying hours by the assurance that his Annie 
 was amply, even richly provided for, and therefore there 
 could be no objection to her making Clair Abbey her future 
 home, Sir Edward placed his weeping child in the arms of 
 her aged uncle, and died with a prayer for both upon his 
 lips. 
 
 But much as Annie loved and venerated her father, it was 
 scarcely so much his last wish as the restlessness of her own 
 heart, which, even while she preferred the simple mode of 
 living at Kelmuir, yet reconciled her to a residence at Clair 
 Abbey. She was restless because her quondam playmate 
 and chosen friend, Reginald de Vere, was far away in his 
 own most wretched home, with none to sing or smile him 
 into peace, or cautiously and gently argue away his fits of 
 morbid sensitiveness or overwhelming gloom. That Lord 
 Ennerdale not only sympathised in the young man's causes 
 of depression, but loved his better qualities, admired his 
 talents, and regretted his failings, was sufficient to excite the 
 warm affections of his great-niece towards him. No spell is 
 so powerful in opening the heart as sympathy, with regard to 
 the character of those we love. 
 
 Clair Abbey's great attraction, then, to Annie Grey was, 
 that there she should constantly see Reginald ; his concluding 
 words, therefore, had both startled and pained her ; but she 
 vainly waited for their solution. She looked earnestly for 
 Reginald to return to her ; but he was constantly engaged in 
 apparently earnest conversation with one or other of Lord 
 Ennerdale's guests. She was too guileless to believe he 
 shunned her merely because he failed in courage to tell her 
 more. 
 
 The evening closed at length ; and passing along the 
 corridor leading from the library to the stairs, a well-known 
 step suddenly sounded behind her, and the voice of Reginald 
 de Vere called her by name. 
 
 " I thought you intended to retire without even wishing
 
 324 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 me good night," she said, playfully, her spirit rallying 
 with his appearance. " What do you mean, sir, by such 
 treatment ? Be better behaved to-morrow, and I will be 
 merciful, and forgive." 
 
 " You must forgive me to-night, dearest Annie ; for to- 
 morrow will see me many miles on my road to Portsmouth, 
 thence speedily to embark for Spain." 
 
 " Portsmouth — Spain ! " repeated the bewildered girl ; and 
 her hand so trembled, that the lamp she held dropped from 
 it, and was instantly extinguished. 
 
 " Yes, Annie, to Spain ! " he, answered, struggling for calm- 
 ness. " I am of age now ; poor, but not so utterly dependent 
 as I have been. My father's house I will never enter more. 
 You start, Annie, but do not — do not condemn me. Judge 
 me by no reasoning but that of your own kind gentle heart. 
 I can bear no more than that which I have borne. Boyhood 
 must submit to a parent's tyranny ; but manhood owns no such 
 law. You know how I would have loved my father, and how 
 he has spurned me. Still I lingered, vainly striving to elicit 
 one softer feeling, hoping — idiot that I was — that he would 
 yet love me. But the dream is over ! He drew the reins 
 still tighter, and so snapped them ; there is a measure to 
 endurance even in a son. Do not weep thus, Annie," he 
 continued, conquering his own emotion to soothe hers, and 
 passing his arm round her, as he had so often done in earlier 
 years, when as a brother he had soothed her griefs and 
 shared her joys. "I will not burden you with the final cause 
 of my present resolution. I have neither means nor influence 
 to tread the path to which my inmost soul aspires ; and to 
 toil for lingering years behind a merchant's desk or trades- 
 man's counter my spirit will not bear. I have obtained a 
 commission amongst the brave fellows now about to join 
 General Mina in his gallant defence of the young queen ; and 
 with him these restless yearnings may be stilled in the ac- 
 tivity of martial service, or the quiet of the grave. And who 
 will mourn for me?" he continued, rapidly and bitterly; 
 " who, in the wide world, will think of me, or shed one tear 
 for me, save thine own sweet self ? Oh, Annie, speak to me ! 
 Tell me you will think of me sometimes. I know there will 
 be many, very many, to supply my place to you ; but, oh, 
 who will ever be to me as you have been ? " 
 
 " And yet you have decided on this plan, endured more
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 325 
 
 than ever, and told me not a word. Reginald, was this 
 kind ?" she said, struggling with the tears that nearly suffo- 
 cated her. 
 
 " You were in grief already, Annie ; how might I ask 
 your sympathy in mine ? I know it never was refused me. 
 I know it would not be, even in your own sorrow ; but oh, 
 Annie, I felt if I waited to look on you again, I should fail 
 in courage to leave England. Yet why should I linger ? 
 Changed as your prospects are, loved as you will be by those 
 so much more deserving, what could I be to you ?" 
 
 " Reginald !" murmured poor Annie, wholly unconscious 
 of the nature of her own feelings, yet unable to utter another 
 word. 
 
 "I know you will not forget me, Annie, dearest Annie, 
 your nature is too good, too kind, too truthful for such 
 change ; but, fated as I am, how dare I ask for, hope for 
 more than a sister's love ? Say you will sometimes think of 
 me, love me as — as a brother, Annie, darling ! and life will not 
 be so wholly desolate." 
 
 Her reply was almost inarticulate, and passionate words 
 rose to Reginald's lips, but they were not spoken. He led 
 her to the door of her apartment without another word, 
 "wrung both her hands in his, bade " God bless her !" and 
 was gone. Annie stood for a few minutes as if stunned ; 
 mechanically she loosed the wreath of white rosebuds from 
 her hair, the fastening of her dress, which seemed to stifle 
 her very breath, and then she sunk on her knees beside the 
 bed, and the hot tears gushed forth ; and long, long 
 she wept, as that young guileless girl had never wept 
 before. 
 
 Reginald de Vere was the youngest son of a private gen- 
 tleman of moderate fortune, residing in a populous city in 
 the north of Yorkshire. It is not necessary to dilate on feel- 
 ings which Reginald's own words but too painfully por- 
 trayed ; the " iron rule" of tyranny is best described in the 
 effect which it produces. The Calvinistic principles of the 
 elder De Vere found no softening of their natural austerity in 
 the acidity and moroseness of his temper ; the evil had been 
 increased by his union with a young Spaniard — lively, frivo- 
 lous, and a Roman Catholic. How this marriage had ever 
 come about, nobody succeeded in discovering. Strange 
 .unions there are, but seldom between such antipodes in
 
 326 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 character and feeling as were Mr. and Mrs. De Vere. Their 
 large family grew up amidst all the evils of domestic dis- 
 sension, and its subsequent misery — a father's unjustifiable 
 tyranny, and a mother's as blamable weakness. Basil de 
 Vere sought to instil his peculiarly stem doctrines in the 
 minds of his children ; his wife prayed, in their bearing, 
 that they might be saved from such cold, comfortless belief ; 
 they shrunk from the one, and learned no religion from the 
 other. To shield them from the father's tyranny, the mother 
 taught them deceit, lavished on them weak indulgences, 
 which were to be forfeited if ever revealed. Ever witnessing 
 and suffering the effects of dissension, what affection, what 
 harmony could exist between themselves ? The ill effects of 
 this training were more discernible in some of their matured 
 characters than in others ; some pursued an honest course, as 
 soon as their departure from their father's house permitted 
 the influence of their better qualities, but these were mostly 
 dwelling in foreign lands ; some had married with, some 
 without his consent ; and in his old age Basil de Vere found 
 himself master of a deserted hearth, with none of his once 
 blooming family beside him but one, and that one was 
 Reginald. The weak indulgence of his mother had never 
 softened for Reginald the tyranny of his father. She died in 
 giving him birth, and he had to battle through his unhappy 
 childhood alone. Shrinking almost in agony from his father's 
 voice, yearning, with all the clinging confidence of child- 
 hood, for love, but finding none, he turned in loathing from 
 the continued scenes of discord which characterised his 
 home. He spurned with contemptuous indignation offers of 
 indulgence and concealment, to act as he saw others do, and 
 thus constantly drew upon himself the enmity of his 
 more wily brothers and sisters. He shrunk, in consequence, 
 more and more within himself, striving to keep peace with 
 his father, but in vain ; for De Vere often raged at his 
 children without knowing wherefore, and the calm, dignified 
 bearing of his youngest son would chafe him into greater 
 fury than palpable offence. But there were seeds of virtue, 
 aye, of the "nobility of genius," in the disposition of Reginald, 
 that bloomed and flourished despite the unhealthy soil and 
 blighting atmosphere in which he moved ; perhaps the kindly 
 notice of Sir Edward Grey assisted their development. The 
 pale, silent, suffering boy had appealed irresistibly to his
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 327 
 
 kind heart, and for Reginald's sake he condescended to make 
 acquaintance with his father. 
 
 As long as they remained in Yorkshire, Sir Edward per- 
 mitted Reginald to share much of the instruction which he 
 himself bestowed upon his Annie ; a kindness so delicately 
 and feelingly bestowed, that Reginald by slow degrees per- 
 mitted his whole character to display itself to Sir Edward, 
 and allowed himself to feel that, with so kind a friend and 
 so sweet a companion, he was not utterly alone. Even when 
 Sir Edward removed to Windermere their intercourse con- 
 tinued ; for there was ever a room prepared and a warm 
 welcome for Reginald, who turned to that cottage as a very 
 Eden of peace and love. 
 
 As Reginald increased in years, felt more fully his own 
 powers, and through Sir Edward's friendly introductions 
 associated with other families, his morbid feelings did not, 
 as the baronet had fondly hoped, decrease, but rather 
 strengthened, in the supposition that his fate alone was 
 desolate. He saw happy homes and kindly hearts ; no 
 exertion, no effort, no sacrifice could make such his, and 
 he believed an iron chain of fate was round him, dooming 
 him to misery. The kindness of Sir Edward, of Lord 
 Ennerdale, and others, only deepened the vain, wild yearn- 
 ings for home affections — the peace, the confidence of home 
 A peculiarly fine organization of mind and an acute per- 
 ception of character caused him to shrink with pain from 
 general notice. The talented and gifted he admired at a 
 distance, feeling intuitively that such would be his chosen 
 friends ; yet, from a sense of inferiority, refusing to come 
 forward and permit his fine talents to be known ; at the same 
 time shrinking from the common herd, convinced that 
 amongst them he should meet with neither sympathy nor 
 appreciation. A happy home would have been all in all for 
 Reginald ; there the incipient stirrings of genius would have 
 been fostered into bloom, and the morbid feelings too often 
 their accompaniment regulated into peace. 
 
 The death of Sir Edward Grey and the future destination 
 of his daughter were, however, the final cause of his deter- 
 mination to leave England. He knew it not himself ; and if 
 a light did flash upon the darkness, it only deepened the 
 gloom around him, by the conviction that his doom was ever 
 to love alone. More and more earnestly he sought to soften
 
 328 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 his father's temper, even to conquer his own repugnance to 
 the path of life his parent might assign him ; but in vain. 
 To enumerate all the petty miseries this struggle cost him 
 would be impossible. The mind rises purified and spiritual- 
 ized from great sorrows ; but there is no relief from the 
 trial of an unhappy home, no cure for the wounds of words. 
 If domestic love and peace be ours, we can go forth with a 
 firm heart and serene mind to meet the trials of the world ; 
 alas ! alas ! for those who have no such haven, no such 
 stay ! 
 
 Never did Reginald De Vere make a greater mistake 
 than in the supposition that a military life would bring him 
 the happiness for which his parched soul so thirsted. He 
 could not associate the favourite pastime of his childhood, 
 carving in wood, stone, or whatever material came first to 
 hand, with the feverish yearning for exertion and excitement, 
 which possessed his whole being. He could not feel that 
 the one sprang from the other, or rather that the power which 
 urged the former was secretly working in his mind, and 
 causing an utter distaste for all mechanical employment. 
 He was too unhappy to examine the source of his restless- 
 ness, and knew no one who could explain it for him. 
 
 Lord Ennerdale and his sons were all men of worth and 
 talent, and firm encouragers of art and literature ; but not 
 themselves children of genius, they failed in the subtle pene- 
 tration which could discover its embryo existence. Had Sir 
 Edward lived he would have seen further ; but still all his 
 friends had dissuaded Reginald from entering on a military 
 career, but he was firm ; and in less than a week after his 
 agitated parting with Annie, a fair wind was rapidly bearing 
 him to the shores of Spain. 
 
 Days and weeks passed, and Annie Grey sought with per- 
 servering effort to regain her former calm and happy tem- 
 perament ; and she succeeded so far as to conceal from her 
 relatives the secret of her heart. The agony of that parting 
 moment had transformed her, as by some incomprehensible 
 spell, from the child to the woman ; and so sudden had been 
 the transition, that she felt for days a stranger to herself. 
 Reginald had always been dear to her, but she knew not, ima- 
 gined not how dear, until that never-to-be-forgotten evening ; 
 his words returned to her again and again, and sad, despond- 
 ing as they were, she would not have lost one of them. She :
 
 THE GROUP OjT SCULPTURE. 329 
 
 who had been so constantly active, flitting like a spirit from 
 one favourite employment to another, now seemed to live 
 but on one feeling ; but her mind was too well regulated to 
 permit its unrestrained indulgence. Young as she was, 
 dependent on herself alone for guidance in this new and 
 absorbing state of being, thrown in quite a new position for 
 luxury and wealth, as a cherished member of her uncle's 
 family, yet her character, instead of deteriorating, matured, 
 uniting all the outward playfulness of the child with the 
 inward graces of the woman. 
 
 Lord Ennerdale's domestic circle formed a happy contrast 
 to that of the ascetic Basil De Vere. His children were all 
 married except his eldest son, Lord St. Clair, and eldest 
 daughter, Lady Emily; but the ties of family had never been 
 broken, and happy youth and blooming childhood were 
 almost always round the earl. With all these Annie was 
 speedily a favourite ; and easily susceptible of kindness and 
 affection, Clair Abbey soon became endeared to her as 
 home. 
 
 By a strange contradiction, Annie's interest and affection 
 were, however, excited the strongest towards the only member 
 of Lord Ennerdale's family who retained reserve towards her. 
 What there was in Lady Emily St. Clair to attract a young 
 and lively girl, Annie herself might have found it difficult to 
 define ; for not only her appearance, but her manners were 
 against her. Stiff, cold, even severe, she usually appeared ; 
 and when she would at times relax, and seem about to enter 
 with warmth and kindness into Annie's studies or pursuits, 
 she would suddenly relapse into coldness and reserve. Some- 
 times, when eagerly conversing with Lord St. Clair, on the 
 exquisite beauty of nature, or of some favourite poem, when 
 the spirit of poetry breathed alike from her eyes and from 
 her lips, Annie would catch the eye of Lady Emily fixed 
 upon her sadly and pityingly; or if she smiled, the smile 
 was peculiar, it might be even satirical ; yet she was never 
 satirical in words, nor did it seem in character — too feelingly 
 alive to the dictates of kindness ever willingly to inflict a 
 wound. To discover her real character was difficult ; Annie 
 judged more by her habits than her words. Lady Emily 
 never said that her love of flowers amounted to a passion, 
 that to have them around her in their freshness, to seek them 
 alike from the garden and the wild, to collect, dry, and
 
 330 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 arrange them in such tasteful groups and such brilliancy of 
 colouring, that the choicest paintings looked dim beside 
 them, was her favourite pleasure, but Annie was ever ready 
 with some newly discovered plant, or the moss and weed she 
 needed — ever the first to remove the dying buds, and supply 
 their place around her boudoir with the freshest and fairest 
 she could select. Lady Emily never spoke of poetry, never 
 acknowledged that she could either admire or enter into it ; 
 but there were extracts in her writing, attached sometimes to 
 drawings, sometimes to her books of flowers, that betrayed 
 such a refinement of taste, and acute perception of the pure, 
 the beautiful, and the spiritual, in nature and in man, that 
 Annie suspected she was herself a poet ; but yet how could 
 she reconcile the un impassioned coldness of her usual mood 
 with the light and life of poetry ? Yet though fairly puzzled, 
 Annie so judiciously assisted her researches, that Lady Emily 
 often wondered how a mark could come so exactly in the 
 place she wished, when the thought, for whose echo she 
 looked, had been breathed to none ; but even had these 
 attentions escaped her notice, it must indeed have been an 
 icy heart to withstand the sweetness of Annie's manner ; 
 whenever her cousin's mood was irritable, her temper some- 
 what ruffled, there seemed a magic around Annie not only 
 to bear with irritation, but to reconcile the subject of that 
 irritation to herself and all around her ; and when so languid 
 and weak as really to be ill, though she would never allow it, 
 who so active as Annie to prevent all annoyance to the invalid, 
 or interfere with the only pursuits she could enjoy ? Yet no 
 show of affection acknowledged these attentions ; but by 
 very slow degrees the Miss Grey changed into Anne, and 
 finally into the pretty denomination by which she was always 
 addressed ; and the smile and tone with which she spoke 
 to her, satisfied the orphan that she had not worked in 
 vain. 
 
 Even if Annie's conduct had failed to rivet the notice of 
 Lady Emily, it had gained for her the interest and sincere 
 affection of another. Lord St. Clair wss devotedly attached 
 to his sister, and all who had the good sense to appreciate 
 her were sure to obtain his esteem ; then in the prime of 
 life, he foresaw no danger in his intimate association with and 
 admiration of his young cousin, a girl but just seventeen ; 
 and it was a pleasure to him to draw her out, and repay by
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 331 
 
 every kindness on his part her attention to his sister. A dis- 
 appointment when very young had caused him to remain 
 single. " I do not say I shall never marry," he often said, in 
 answer to his father's solicitations on the subject ; " for then 
 I should consider myself bound not to do so, however my 
 heart might dictate ; but it is unlikely." 
 
 Annie Grey had not, however, been domiciled many months 
 in Clair Abbey, before Lord St. Clair's sentiments on this 
 subject underwent some change. 
 
 From the time of Reginald's departure the public journals 
 became suddenly endowed with an interest to Annie, equal 
 to that of the most ardent politician. The disturbed state of 
 Spain, the constant marchings and counter-marchings of 
 General Mina's army, prevented any regular communication 
 from Reginald ; once or twice she had heard from him direct, 
 and treasured indeed were those letters, honourably as the 
 young man kept to his resolution, never by one word to draw 
 Annie into an engagement, or even an avowal that she re- 
 turned his love. In the papers she often read his name 
 among the bravest and most daring of the British soldiers. 
 One anecdote, officially reported and communicated to Lord 
 Ennerdale, afforded her still dearer food for fancy. The 
 service in which he was engaged was exposed to all the 
 horrors of civil warfare ; slaughter and desolation followed 
 in the train of both armies. Young De Vere, at the head oi 
 a picked band, had thrown himself in the very midst of a 
 imlee, determined on saving the unoffending women and 
 children, and aged peasants of the opposing party, all of 
 whom were about to be sacrificed to the misguided rage of 
 the royal troops ; the village was in flames, and the peasants, 
 neutral before, swore to be avenged. The exertions of the 
 young Englishman, however, worked on both parties ; he 
 calmed the excited spirits of his own men, and promised pro- 
 tection and safety to the oppressed. One group particularly 
 attracted him ; a young mother, clasping an infant tightly to 
 her breast, and two fine boys, twining their arms round her, 
 as to protect her with their own lives. Reginald did not 
 know that it was her infant he had saved from a brutal death, 
 but his look was arrested by the intense feeling glistening in 
 her large dark eyes, and by the impotent passion of her eldest 
 boy, who, clenching a huge stick, vowed he would join his 
 father, who was a Carli.it soldier, and revenge the insults
 
 332 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 offered to his mother. De Vere jestingly laid his hand on 
 the stripling's shoulder, declaring he was a young rebel and 
 his prisoner. The agonized scream of the poor mother 
 changing on the instant into the wildest accents of gratitude, 
 as she recognized in Reginald her baby's preserver, and to 
 the earnest supplication that he would send them on in safety, 
 removed all feelings of mere jest. Reginald soothed her 
 fears, and selecting a guard of his own countrymen, on whom 
 he could depend, sent her and her children under their care 
 to the outposts of the Carlist camp. General Mina smiled 
 sadly when this anecdote was told him. " The age of chivalry 
 is over, my young friend," he said, mournfully. " Your act 
 was kind and generous, but I fear of little service. The 
 Carlists are not likely to check their career of devastating 
 warfare because we have spared one insignificant village ; 
 nor will 3 r ou have any demand upon their favour should you 
 unfortunately fall into their hands." 
 
 " Chivalry and its romance may be over," thought Annie, 
 as again and again her mind reverted to its one fond theme. 
 " But my father once told me ' a deed can never die ;' and, 
 even if indeed it were to do no good, surely his motives will 
 meet with the appreciation and admiration they deserve ; 
 there must be some among the good and noble to do him 
 justice." 
 
 How the young heart revels in every proof, however 
 trifling, 01 the worth of him it loves. The restlessness of a 
 scarcely acknowledged passion merged into a species of 
 glowing happiness, the basis of which Annie might have 
 found it difficult to define. In its indulgence she forgot the 
 distance between them, the darkening aspect of his future, 
 the despondency breathing in his last farewell — forgot all 
 but the passionate words, "Who will be to me as you have 
 been ?" And what will so elevate the character and purify 
 the heart, and shed such sweet rosy flowers over every 
 thought, and act, and feeling, as the first fresh feelings of 
 all-hoping, all-believing love ? Annie's beauty, matured 
 beneath the magic of such dreams, excited universal admira- 
 tion ; but the young girl knew it not. 
 
 " No breakfast for loiterers !" exclaimed Lord St. Clair, 
 playfully holding up his hand, as Annie sprang through an 
 open French window into the breakfast-room one lovely 
 summer morning, her cottage bonnet thrown back, her
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 333 
 
 luxuriant hair somewhat disordered, her cheek and eye 
 bright with health and animation, and laughing gaily at 
 Lord St. Clair's threat. 
 
 " Here has Emily been looking starch and prim for the 
 last half-hour, thinking unutterable things of the folly and 
 romance which can be the only reason of young ladies' early 
 wanderings in the lonely districts about Keswick Lake. 
 Ah, you little fox, prepared with a bribe to ward off the 
 weight of her displeasure," he said, as Annie laid the fruit 
 of her researches, a rare and exquisite plant, on the table by 
 her cousin, and Lady Emily half smiled. 
 
 " And there's my father in a complete fever fearing that his 
 blooming little niece had been carried off, or eaten up by one 
 of the wild men or monsters of the mountains, and threaten- 
 ing to search for her himself, directly after breakfast." 
 
 "Thank you, my dear, kind uncle," replied Annie, gaily, 
 bending over Lord Ennerdale to kiss his forehead. " Never 
 be anxious about me. I have suffered no further incon- 
 venience than extreme hunger, which I satisfied at Nanny's 
 cottage, by a slice of her brown bread and a cup of warm 
 milk. No romance in that, Lord St. Clair, at least." 
 
 " A fortunate occurrence for 3^011, as it may save you from 
 a lecture on the impropriety of indulging love-lorn dreams in 
 solitude. Why, Annie, you are actually blushing ; if it 
 were not an utter impossibility for romantic young ladies to 
 feel hungry, I should say your very looks pleaded guilty. 
 Look at her, Emily — you had better begin." 
 
 " No, I thank you, Henry ; I never give lectures, even 
 when deserved, in public," was his sister's quiet reply. 
 
 "Well, the offence brings with it its own punishment, for 
 here come the contents of the postman's bag, and so a truce 
 to our sage converse ; and you, Miss Annie, must eat your 
 breakfast in meditative silence." 
 
 "Or in perusing what she likes better. Here, my little 
 politician; your eyes are pleading, though your lips are silent," 
 said Lord Ennerdale, gaily throwing to her a packet of news- 
 papers without opening them. 
 
 " You are much too young to be a politician ; besides, I 
 hate women to dabble in politics, so give me a better reason 
 for being the first reader of all the papers, or you shall not 
 have them," interposed Lord St. Clair, keeping firm hold of 
 the packet, which he had caught.
 
 334 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 " On my honour, I never read a word of politics/' replied 
 Annie, half playfully, half eagerly, but blushing deeply as 
 she met Lord St. Clair's penetrative glance. He relinquished 
 them with a half sigh, and bent over his despatches. Silence 
 ensued for several minutes, each seemingly engrossed with 
 his occupation. Lady Emily was the first to move, and after 
 carefully sorting and arranging the flowers Annie had brought 
 her, was about to leave the room. 
 
 " Annie, my dear child ! what is the matter ?" she ex- 
 claimed, in a tone which electrified her lather and brother, so 
 utterly was it unlike her usually measured accents; and 
 startled out of all stiffness and dignity, she was at the poor 
 girl's side in an instant. Annie's cheek, lips, and brow were 
 cold and colourless as marble, and there was such rigid agony 
 imprinted on every feature, that Lady Emily well-nigh shud- 
 dered as she gazed. " Speak to me, Annie, love ! What is 
 it ? Try and speak, dearest ; do not look at me with such a 
 gaze," she continued, as Annie slowly raised her eyes, which 
 were bloodshot and distended, and fixed them on her face ; 
 she evidently tried to speak, but only a gasping cry escaped, 
 and that terrible agony was lost for a time in an unconscious- 
 ness so deep that it almost seemed of death. 
 
 Lord St. Clair stood paralysed, but then he matched up 
 the fatal paper, and one glance sufficed to tell him all, all 
 that he had suspected, all that for his own happiness he had 
 feared ; but he could only think of Annie then, and perceiv- 
 ing how ineffectual were all the usual efforts to restore anima- 
 tion, he threw himself on horseback, and never rested till he 
 had found and dragged back with him the medical attendant 
 of the family, whose skill was finally successful. Annie woke 
 from that blessed relief of insensibility to a consciousness of 
 such fearful suffering, that as she lay in the perfect stillness 
 enjoined by the physician, she felt as if her brain must reel, 
 and fail beneath it. It was not alone the death of him she 
 loved, that the idol of her young affections was lost to her 
 for ever, but it was the horrid nature of his fate which had 
 so appalled her. In the gallant defence of a royal fort he had 
 been left almost alone, all his companions falling around 
 him ; severely wounded, and overpowered by numbers, he 
 w r as taken by the Carlists, dragged to their camp, and twenty- 
 four hours afterwards shot, with other ill-fated men, literally 
 murdered in cold blood. Three times Annie's eyes had glared
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 335 
 
 on the paragraph, reading again and again the list of the unfor- 
 tunate men who had thus perished, as if Reginald's name 
 could not be amongst them ; alas ! it was there, pre-eminent, 
 from the courage, the youth, and the official rank of 
 the hearer. And in that dreadful stillness the whole scene 
 rose before her, vivid as reality — ghastly figures flitted before 
 her ; and then she saw Reginald as they parted ; and then 
 full of life and excitement in the field ; and then covered with 
 blood and wounds. She seemed to see him bound and kneel- 
 ing for the fatal stroke, and the shot rung in her ears, clear, 
 sharp, and strangely loud, till she could have shrieked from 
 the bewildering agony : she tried to banish the vision, to 
 escape its influence, but it gained strength, and force, and 
 colouring, and before midnight Lady 'Emily watched in 
 grief and awe beside the couch where her young cousin lay, 
 and raved in the fearful delirium of a brain fever. 
 
 Many weeks elapsed ere Annie could again take her place 
 amongst her family ; alternate fever and exhaustion had so 
 prostrated her that her life was more than once despaired of. 
 Had she been aware who it was so constantly and gently 
 tended her, teaching her voice to forget its coldness, her 
 manners its reserve, to soothe and comfort those hours of agony, 
 she would have felt that some simple " deeds indeed could 
 never die ; " and that to her own sweetness of temper, and 
 forbearing and active kindness, she owed the blessings of a 
 sympathy and tenderness almost equalling a mother's. But 
 it was long before she was conscious of anything, or even 
 capable of rousing herself from the lethargic stupor which 
 still lingered even when sense and strength returned. That 
 she sought earnestly to appear the same as usual — to evince 
 how gratefully she felt the kindness lavished on her — 
 to return to her employments, was very evident ; but 
 it seemed as if bodily weakness prevented all mental 
 exertion. She shrunk in anguish from the thought that 
 she had betrayed her love, though by neither word nor hint 
 did her companions ever allude to the immediate occasion 
 of her illness. 
 
 "Would she but shed tears — but speak her grief," ex- 
 claimed Lord St. Clair to his sister, one day, after vainly en- 
 deavouring to excite a smile, " she would suffer less then ; 
 "but she has never wept since ; and before, the most trifling 
 emotion, even of pleasure, would draw tears. Could you but
 
 336 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 draw forth, her confidence — but make her weep. Is there no 
 possible way?" 
 
 " I fear none : she shrinks from the slightest approach to 
 the subject. I feel as if I dared not speak poor Reginald's 
 name." 
 
 Chance, however, did that for which even Lady Emily's 
 courage failed. Annie was reclining, one morning, in a 
 favourite boudoir, her eyes languidly wandering over the beau- 
 tiful landscape, which stretched from the window. When 
 last she had noticed it, the trees were bending beneath the 
 weight of their glorious summer dress, and the gayest and 
 brightest flowers were flinging their lavish beauties on the 
 banks of the small but picturesque lake. The scene was 
 still lovely, but it had changed ; the trees which still retained 
 foliage were all in the "sere and yellow leaf," the ground 
 was strewed with fallen leaves, the flowers were all gone, and 
 Nature herself seemed emblematical of the change in Annie's 
 heart. Lady Emily watched her some time in silence, and 
 then gently drew her attention to some beautiful groups of 
 flowers which she had lately arranged. Annie turned from 
 the window with a heavy sigh, and bent over the flowers ; 
 while Lady Emily continued her employments without further 
 notice. She forgot that amongst those groups there was the 
 plant, to find which Annie had rambled over hill and dale 
 that fatal morning. From its extreme rarity and beauty she 
 had placed it alone upon the page ; and as Annie gazed upon 
 it, a rush of feeling of the bright, sweet memories which had 
 thronged her mind during that solitary ramble came back 
 upon her — the dreams of hope, and joy, and love — with the 
 force, the intensity of actual presence ; as if they might still 
 be realized, and the intervening time had been but a dark and 
 troubled blank. She pushed the flower from her, and her 
 head sunk on her clasped hands. 
 
 " My poor child, I forgot that flower was amongst them !" 
 exclaimed Lady Emily, in a tone at once of such self-reproach 
 and earnest sympathy, that Annie, with an uncontrollable im- 
 pulse, suddenly sprung up, and folding her arms round her 
 neck, burst into a passion of tears. All her cousin's previous 
 kindness she had attributed to pity for bodily suffering. That 
 she could sympathise in her mental affliction, she had fancied 
 — as the young are too prone to do of the colder and more ex- 
 perienced — was impossible ; but the tone, the allusion to that
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 337 
 
 little flower, betrayed that she, too, could believe in and un- 
 derstand the association of the material with the immaterial 
 world; and Aunie now wept upon her bosom, in the con- 
 soling consciousness that, cold as that heart seemed, it could 
 yet feel and weep for her. 
 
 Lady Emily trembled ; for the deep emotion she beheld 
 recalled passages of equal suffering in her own life, which 
 she had thought buried and at rest for ever. She trembled, 
 lest in this appeal to her inmost soul her long striven-for 
 en harness should fail, and her weakness should increase rather 
 than soothe Annie's anguish. Her hand shook, and her lip 
 .so quivered, that it was some minutes ere she could speak. 
 We need not linger on the words which followed. The ice, 
 which had seemed to close round Annie's heart, dissolved — 
 Reginald's name was spoken — the fond secret of her life re- 
 vealed ; and from that day she found more strength to 
 struggle with depression — to leave no effort untried to regain 
 serenity, and conquer that worse foe to happiness, indifference, 
 which the human heart contains. Once convinced, by the 
 representations of affection and experience, that it was her 
 duty actively to do, as well as passively to endure — to prove 
 her resignation to the blow, which, though heavy, was still 
 dealt by a Father's hand, she did not fail. A yet more earnest 
 desire to seek the happiness of others, and complete disregard 
 of self — a calm and still serenity of word and look, were now 
 her outward characteristics ; while, within, though her spirit 
 had gained new strength in its upward flight — new clinging 
 love for that world where all is peace, the thought of the de- 
 parted yet remained, gaining, it seemed, increase of power 
 with every passing month. It had lost its absorbing anguish ; 
 but not its memories. Too truly did she feel, with that swee* 
 chronicler of woman's heart — 
 
 "We dream not. of Love's might, 
 Till Death has robed, with soft and solemn light, 
 The image we enshrine. Before that hour 
 We have but glimpses of the overmastering power 
 Within us laid." 
 
 There were times when the thought would come, and so 
 vividly, she could scarcely believe it only a thought, that 
 Reginald might yet live, the public records be deceivers. 
 But Lady Emily's assurances that her father and brothers 
 had made every inquiry, but that all the information obtained 
 
 z
 
 338 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 only confirmed the first statement, proved the utter fallacy of 
 the dream. 
 
 II. 
 
 "Ah ! let the heart that worships thee 
 By uv'ry change be proved." 
 
 L. E. L. 
 
 "I could forgive the miserable hours 
 His falsehood, and his only, taught my heart ; 
 Eut I can not forgive that for his sake 
 My faith in good is shaken, and my hopes 
 Are pale and cold, for they have looked on death. 
 Why should I love him 1 he no longer is 
 That which I loved." 
 
 L. E. L. 
 
 " Thou livest ! thou livest ! 
 I knew thou couldst not die !" 
 
 Be Ckatillon — Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 Nearly two years had elapsed since the death of Reginald 
 De Vere ere any event of sufficient importance occurred in 
 Annie's life for us to resume the thread of our narrative. A 
 shock like that, and on such a disposition, could never he for- 
 gotten, though time, the softener of all ills, had restored her to 
 some degree of her wonted animation, and though the elastic 
 spirits of the young girl had given way, the woman had he- 
 come yet more attractive and lovable. The first London 
 season after Reginald's death she had not accompanied her 
 uncle's family to the great metropolis, but spent the period of 
 their absence quietly in Scotland. The second, she did not 
 refuse to join them ; but scenes of festivity were so evidentry 
 distasteful, that her friends did not urge her entering more 
 into society than her own inclinations prompted. But in her 
 uncle's house she was seen and known only to be admired 
 and loved, receiving, to her extreme astonishment, an 
 unexceptionable offer of marriage before she had been two 
 months in LondoD. It was declined gratefully, but so 
 decidedly as to give no hope. Some weeks afterwards, Lord 
 St. Clair one morning entered Annie's room. She was alone, 
 so intently engaged in drawing as not to observe the very 
 peculiar expression of countenance with which he regarded 
 her some minutes without speaking.
 
 ti riv. 
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 339 
 
 "I would give something to read your thoughts, cousin 
 mine," she said, playfully, at length raising her eyes to his 
 face, which instantly resitmed its usual kind and open ex- 
 pression. " I could hardly believe you were in the room, you 
 were so silent." 
 
 " I was thinking how very wise the world is, Annie. It 
 knows and vouches for so many things concerning indivi- 
 duals, of which they are utterly ignorant themselves/' 
 " Why, what is the report now ? " . 
 
 " Only — " he paused for a second, then rallied so quickly, 
 
 that the huskiness of his first words was unperceived, " that 
 
 nd I are engaged in marriage, and that I only wait till 
 
 you are of age, that the disparity of years may seem 
 
 less." 
 
 " The world must think much too highly of me for such a 
 report to gain credence," replied Annie, simply, yet gravely, 
 though she did start at the intelligence. 
 What can you mean ?" 
 
 That they must hold me in much greater respect than 
 I deserve to unite my name, even in thought, with yours." 
 
 " My dear Annie, can you mean that you are undeserving 
 of the regard of any man, however high his worth ? How 
 little do you know yourself ! Believe me, it is I* who should 
 feel proud that the world should believe this so strongly that 
 not even the disparity of years between us is considered an 
 objection." 
 
 "Do not talk so, dear Henry, or I shall fear I am losing 
 
 one of the friends I have. You have always treated 
 
 me with such regard as never to natter me; pray do not 
 
 now." 
 
 " Indeed you do me injustice, Annie ; might I not return 
 
 the charge, and accuse you of flattering me ? " 
 
 " No, dear cousin. How can I do otherwise than look up 
 to, and venerate your worth, associating with you at home, as 
 I have done for nearly three years, and receiving such con- 
 stant kindness, that had I been your own young sister you 
 could not have shown more ? Do I not see you as a son and 
 brother? and if I did not venerate you, should I not be 
 the only one, either at home or in the world, who did not do 
 you the justice you deserve ? " 
 
 " And may I not equally have learnt to know and love 
 you ? "
 
 340 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 " Yes, as a child, a sister, but not as the wife you need." 
 
 " Is the disparity of years, then, in your mind so great an 
 obstacle ? Do you thing it quite impossible a man of eight- 
 and-thirty can love a girl of twenty ? " 
 
 " No, not impossible." 
 
 " But impossible that a girl of twenty could love a man of 
 eight-and-thirty ; is that it ? " 
 
 " Far less unlikely than the other case," replied Annie, 
 half smiling, for her complete unconsciousness caused her to 
 be amused at her companion's pertinacity. 
 
 " Then why should the world's report be so utterly with- 
 out foundation, dearest Annie ? " inquired Lord St. Clair, 
 with such a sudden change of countenance and tone that it 
 startled her almost into consciousness. The arch and playful 
 look vanished, her cheek paled, and the tears started to her 
 eyes, and laying her hand confidingly on his arm, she said, 
 with quivering lip — 
 
 " Dearest Henry, do not let me lose the kind brother, the 
 true friend I have so long believed you." 
 
 " You shall not, Annie," he answered fervently, " even if 
 to retain such appellatives makes me more miserable than 
 you imagine." 
 
 " Do not, do not say so ! my thoughts are all memories, 
 and were the world's report indeed true, would be faithless 
 every hour ; could this make your happiness ? " 
 
 " But must this always be ? Is devotion to the departed 
 a higher duty than giving happiness to the living ? So purely 
 unselfish as you are, would you not in time better secure 
 your own peace by giving inexpressible happiness as the 
 beloved and cherished wife of the living, who would never 
 expect you to love as you have loved, than by indulging in 
 the luxury of memory and devotedness to one who is in 
 heaven ? Is not this a question worth considering, Annie ? " 
 
 " Not now, not now ! oh, do not urge me now ! " she im- 
 plored, bursting into tears ; and her companion on the in- 
 stant banished every word and thought of self to soothe and 
 calm her. 
 
 A month or two afterwards Lord St. Clair, to the astonish- 
 ment of his friends, by whom he was regarded as a particularly 
 quiet sta} r -at-home sort of person, accepted a diplomatic em- 
 bassy to the courts of Germany and Russia, likely to detain 
 him twelve or eighteen months. He liad besought and re-
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 341 
 
 ceived Annie's permission to correspond with her. Letters 
 from a mind and heart like his could not be otherwise than 
 interesting. His words returned repeatedly to her thoughts ; 
 she loved him sufficiently to feel a degree of pleasure in the 
 idea of adding to his happiness, and six months after he had 
 left England, her answer to a letter from him, in which gene- 
 ralities had merged into personalities, contained the follow- 
 ing words : — 
 
 " If, dearest Henry, the gratitude and reverence of one 
 whose best affections still linger with the dead are indeed of 
 sufficient worth to give you the happiness which you tell me 
 rests with me, I will not refuse to become yours, if a 
 twelvemonth hence you still desire it. Give me that time. 
 The painful feelings with which I now look to marriage, as 
 almost faithlessness to one who, though the actual words 
 never passed his lips, I do believe loved me most truly, will 
 then perhaps, in some degree at least, have subsided, and I 
 may be able to give you all »that your wife should bestow. I 
 know and feel that time is the comforter as well as the de- 
 stroyer, and that though it is actual agony to think that m3 r 
 heart will ever so change as to feel less acutely the loss I have 
 sustained, I know it will and must, and that it is right and best 
 it should do so. Give me but time then, clearest Henry 
 — let the memories of the dead be so softened that I may do 
 my duty lovingly as well as faithfully to the living ; and till 
 that may be, let us continue as we have been to the world 
 and to each other." 
 
 Lord St. Clair did not hesitate to accede to this request. 
 Even his letters did not change their tone ; he was still the 
 friend more than the lover ; but he contrived to shorten the 
 period of his voluntary banishment, and eleven months after 
 he had quitted England beheld his return. 
 
 There was a change in Annie, however, which alarmed and 
 pained him ; she was pale and thin, and strangely and fever- 
 ishly restless. Lady Emily, from being constantly with her, 
 had not remarked the great alteration, but acknowledged, in 
 answer to St. Clair's anxious queries, that she had seemed 
 more unhappy the last four months, that the calm and 
 tranquil cheerfulness which had characterised her had given 
 place to alternations of fitful gaiety and more frequent de- 
 pression ; but what had occasioned it she could not tell ; 
 she thought it might be physical, as she had had a slight
 
 342 THE GROUP OP SCULPTURE. 
 
 cough hanging about her for weeks, which nothing she took 
 seemed to remove. Four months previous ! was it possible 
 that she might regret the promises she had so ingenuously 
 given ? Lord St. Clair more than once caught her glance 
 fixed with a degree of pleading earnestness upon him, as if 
 she failed in courage to speak ; and as he was not one to en- 
 courage painful doubts where a word might solve them, he 
 took an opportunity of kindly and affectionately inquiring 
 why she was so changed. 
 
 The cause was soon revealed. About ten days after she 
 had written to him, as we related, she had seen, amongst 
 other despatches directed to Lord St. Clair, which were lying 
 on the library table waiting to be arranged and forwarded, a 
 single letter, the writing of the direction of which had caused 
 such a sudden thrill and subsequent faintness, that it had 
 been with difficulty she refrained from involuntarily tearing 
 it open, to know from whom it came. She said that she had 
 endeavoured to conquer the strange fancy ; to reason with her- 
 self, that the resemblance to a writing she but too well re 
 membered was mere accident. Yet so powerful had been 
 its effect, that even when she recalled the superscription, 
 I ! te same feelings of heart-sickness returned as had over- 
 eel her when it first met her eye. It had been put up 
 with other public despatches — the family having before its 
 arrival closed and sent more private letters ; that as he had 
 never alluded to it, she had struggled to believe it could have 
 been nothing of interest to her, and yet the subject would not 
 leave her mind, allowing her neither sleep at night nor rest by 
 day. She knew it folly, she said, but conquer it she could not. 
 
 And that fearful state of internal restlessness was fated to 
 continue ; for, most unfortunately, the packet of despatches in 
 which that was had been lost, in the overflow of a river which 
 the messenger who bore it had to ford, and Lord St. Clair 
 had never alluded to it, for his letters to Annie had been 
 shorter than lie liked, from the annoyance and increase of 
 trouble which the loss of this very packet had occasioned him 
 in his political employment. That the post-mark seemed 
 Italian was all she could tell him, and his anxiety became as 
 great as hers, though that it could really be what it was 
 easy to discover Annie really imagined it, he believed im- 
 possible. 
 
 Meanwhile, the poor girl's health — under a suspicion which,
 
 THE GllOUP OF SCCLFiUHE. 313 
 
 however imaginary, was very fearful — did not improve, and 
 her relatives rested not till a skilful physician had been 
 julted ; his opinion instantly decided them, and, despite of 
 Annie's resistance, a tour on the Continent was resolved on, 
 Lord Ennerdale desiring her not to let him see her again, till 
 she could bring back her own rosy smiling self. 
 
 The party consisted of only Lord St. Clair, Lady Emily, 
 and Annie ; and, making only a brief stay at Paris, they 
 proceeded in a south-easterly direction, crossed the Jura, and 
 tixed their residence for some weeks in the vicinity of Geneva. 
 The complete change of air and scene seemed so to renovate 
 Annie, that physical strength gradually returned, and with it 
 more apparent calm of mind. Congeniality of taste in our 
 napanions is indispensable for the real enjoyment of travel- 
 ling, and this Annie fully possessed; those three years of 
 intimate association with the apparently cold and passionless 
 Lady Emily had deepened Annie's regard, but not altered 
 her cousin's chilling manner. But this delicious commune 
 with nature, uninterrupted by intercourse with the world, 
 used her more than once so to relax as to excite even 
 Annie's surprise, and convince her more than ever that Lady 
 ily had not always been what she then was. 
 They were sitting one evening under the projecting roof of 
 a jutting gallery belonging to a cottage in the beautiful valley 
 Chamouni ; Lord St. Clair had that day left them to join 
 a party of excursionists, in an expedition somewhat too 
 fatiguing for his companions. The cottage^ situated on a 
 projecting mount or cliff, commanded a more extensive view 
 than the parish of Prieure' itself permits. The rich luxuriance 
 of the vale stretched beneath them, intersected with cliffs 
 covered with foliage and large patches of emerald moss, and 
 variously-tinted lichen clothing the grey stones. Here 
 and there a true Alpine cottage peeped through dark woods 
 of fir and larch, and the blue and sparkling Arve glided 
 noiselessly along, still more lovely in the evening hour, as 
 the glowing rays of sunset are contrasted with the deep 
 shadows falling all around. Above them towered mountains 
 of every form, blending their separate charms in a whole so 
 sublime and extensive that height and breadth were lost in 
 distance ; misty vapours, or light fleecy clouds, were ever 
 wreathing their snow-capped brows, while Mont .Blanc itself 
 stood alone in its sublime grandeur, and in the unsullied
 
 344 THE GllOUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 purity of its snowy robe. The sun itself was invisible, but 
 its glowing rays were shed upon the mountain, dyeing it 
 with a deep, rosy flood of light peculiar to that locality, and 
 only to be described by its thrilling resemblance to that fear- 
 fully brilliant flush sometimes traced on the countenance of 
 mortal beauty, when life is fading imperceptibly away, and 
 the strange yet perfect loveliness rivets not alone the eye 
 but the imagination with a species of fascination which we 
 have no power to resist. The period of its continuance might 
 have been from fifteen to twenty minutes, when it suddenly 
 changed into a pale greyish tinge, of a shade and appearance 
 so peculiar that it affected the heart and mind with the same 
 species of awe as that with which we regard the sudden 
 change from brilliant life to the ashy hues of death. 
 
 An exclamation of admiration, even of delight, broke so 
 naturally from the lips of Lady Emily St. Clair, that 
 her young companion looked up in her face with astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 "Have I not surprised you, Annie ?" she said, with a quiet 
 smile. "Are you still amongst those who believe that one 
 so cold and silent as I am now can have no feeling for en- 
 joyment, can see no beauty in nature, no poetry in the 
 universe ?" 
 
 "No," replied Annie, earnestly ; "I know so much of you 
 that mere superficial observers can never know, that I can 
 well believe there is still more which my inexperienced eye 
 can never reach. I wish," she added, after a short pause, 
 and with some hesitation, "that I were worthy to know you 
 as you are, that j^ou loved me sufficiently to unveil sometimes, 
 that which is so studiously concealed." 
 
 "Do not do me such wrong, dearest Annie, as to doubt 
 that I love } 7 ou, because I am to you, in general, as to indif- 
 ferent persons. I cannot change the manner acquired by 
 months, nay, whole years of suffering, even to those whose 
 affections I would do much to win. There is little of interest 
 and much of suffering in my past life ; but you shall hear it 
 if you will." 
 
 " Not if it give you pain, my kind friend," said Annie ; 
 but she looked inquiringly as she seated herself on a cushion 
 at her companion's feet, and rested her arm on her knee. 
 Lady Emily paused, as if collecting firmness for the task,, 
 then briefly spoke as follows.
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 34i> 
 
 " Few, who have only known me the last fifteen or sixteen, 
 years, would believe that I was once, xVnnie, far more enthu- 
 siastic and dreamy, and what the world calls romantic, than 
 you were when I first knew you. An ardent love for the ex- 
 alted and the beautiful, alike in man and nature ; a restless 
 craving for the pure and spiritual ; an almost loathing for all 
 that was mean and earthly : these were the elements of my 
 romance, but carried to an excess, that instead of being 
 beneficial, as they might have been, became indeed the height 
 of fully, which is the world's meaning for such feelings. I 
 was a poet, a visionary, an enthusiast, feeding a naturally vivid 
 imagination on the burning dreams of minds whose wings 
 soared even higher than my own. By my family I was re- 
 garded with admiration and love, as one whose talents would 
 raise me far higher than my rank. I had the advantage of 
 association with the genius and the student ; and their opinion 
 of my powers, their sympathy, urged me on till I was astonished 
 at myself. But there was a blank in the midst of pleasure ; 
 I soared too high in the moments of excitement. My mind, 
 unable to sustain itself in the airy realms of an ill-regulated 
 imagination, was fraught, on its return to earth, with a gloom 
 and void even more exquisitely painful than its precious 
 mood had been joyful. Yet had poetry be'en my only gift, 
 its pains and pleasures might have been confined to my own 
 breast ; but the powers of satire, mine in no ordinary degree, 
 were far more dangerous to myself in their baneful influence 
 upon others. I indulged in the most cutting irony, careless- 
 whom I might wound, regardless of any feeling but my own 
 pleasure ; I knew religion only as a name, whose every ordi- 
 nance was fulfilled by attending public service once a week. I 
 heard and read that, to some minds, poetry vitalizes religion, 
 for every throb unanswered upon earth lifted up the whole 
 soul to that world where all was love and all was joy. I 
 laughed at such romance, as I termed it, for I could not under- 
 stand it. In the gloom and void occasionally felt, pride and 
 triumph at my own superiority to my fellows were the constant 
 occupants of my heart, urging me but too often to level the dart 
 of venomed satire on those whose more worldly sentiments and 
 coarser minds excited my contempt ; even the young and gentle 
 often bled beneath that cruel lash, if in the merest trifle of word 
 or manner they differed from my idea of excellence. My own 
 family loved me too indulgently to be aware of the dreadful
 
 34G THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 extent of tills vice ; Henry, the only one whose noble- nature 
 and judicious feeling would have guided me aright, was a stu- 
 dent in Germany, and I had no one whose counsels might have 
 spared me, in some measure at least, the bitter self-reproach 
 which heightened the chastisement preparing for me. 
 
 "But I am lingering. Amongst the numerous guests at 
 my father's was one, combining noble birth, genius, light and 
 ready wit, with all the fascination of sparkling features, grace- 
 ful form, and a manner whose elegance I have never yet seen 
 equalled. He courted my society ; he did not flatter, for 
 that I ever scorned, but he appreciated. His manner always 
 evinced respect for me, and pleasure at having found one to 
 whom he could converse on nobler subjects than the mere 
 chit-chat of a fashionable world. It needs not to enlarge 
 upon our intimacy, or the means he took to make me believe, 
 without in the least committing himself, that I was to him 
 the object not of esteem or admiration alone. 
 
 " Why should I hesitate to speak that which is now as if 
 it had never been? I loved him, Annie, how deeply and 
 passionately ! till my whole soul was wrapped in his image, 
 and my very nature so changed, that I looked on this world 
 with gentler feelings, and believed that the earth which contained 
 him could not be as little worth as I had deemed it. All this 
 would be useless to repeat ; the blank in my heart was filled 
 up ; my woman's soul, which neither fame nor talent could 
 satisfy, was at rest; the actual words had not passed his lips 
 indeed, but yet I did not, could not doubt him. That is not 
 love in which a doubt can enter. I was visiting a mutual 
 friend, and daily in expectation of his arrival; to relieve the. 
 yearning restlessness of anticipation, I had taken my tablets 
 to a concealed nook in the garden, and was pouring out my 
 whole soul in burning words, when his voice arrested me. 
 The remark preceding his words I had not heard, but all 
 which followed is written on my brain. 
 
 " ' Propose to Emily St. Clair ! ' he said, in a tone which, 
 while it retained its beautiful harmony, was so changed in 
 expression that I only knew it his by the agony thrilling 
 through my whole being at the words, 'Percy, you are 
 mocking me ! Marry a blue — a wit ! worse still, a poet. 
 Pray procure me an admission into a lunatic asylum the very 
 hour I make the proposal ; for, at least, were I sufficiently 
 mad to say, Will you have me ? certain as I am of being ac-
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. Si7 
 
 cepted, I should escape being rendered more so. No, my 
 good fellow, the lady is agreeable enough as long as I am un- 
 chained ; but once fettered, her folly and romance would send 
 me to heaven much sooner than I have the least inclination 
 for. Why, were I in such a predicament as marriage with her, 
 how do yon suppose I could live for ever the actor I am now, 
 when conversing with her, drawing her out as it were, to 
 afford me amusement afterwards ? The very idea is exhaus- 
 tion !" 
 
 " ' It is well her brothers have not seen the progress of 
 your attentions,' was the reply. ' You might have to answer 
 for such species of amusement.' 
 
 " ' Nonsense, man ! Were the Courts of Love in vogue 
 as they were once, she could allege nothing against me to 
 make me her prisoner for life. Why, it was the very effort to 
 keep up the liaison, and yet not say one word which her 
 romantic fancy could construe into an offer, that was so 
 fatiguing. Her delight in my society was so evident, that I 
 was obliged to be on my guard ; words meaningless to others 
 would have been seized upon by her, and then miseri- 
 cordia !' 
 
 " ' Out upon your consummate self-conceit ; she never 
 forgot her self-respect,' was the reply, and the voices faded 
 in the distance." 
 
 " And you heard this !" exclaimed Annie, indignation 
 compelling the interruption. "Gracious heaven! can there 
 be such men ?" 
 
 "Be thankful you can still ask such a question, dearest 
 Annie. I did hear — and more, remained outwardly calm ; 
 at that moment I believe I was conscious but of one feeling, 
 not indignation ; no, he might have spoken yet more cruelly, 
 more contemptuously. I heard but one, felt but one truth — ■ 
 that he did not love me — that the deep whelming passion he 
 had excited was unreturned — that he scorned those gifts 
 which I had lately only valued as I believed them valued by 
 him. My brain reeled for the moment ; but sense and energy 
 returned, as gradually, but with fearful distinctness, his 
 every word and tone resounded in my ear. Anguish, which 
 had been the first feeling, was as nothing, literally nothing, 
 to that chaos of misery which followed — to disrobe the idol 
 my heart had so madly worshipped of the bright colouring of 
 honour and worth, to teach myself he was unworthy, had
 
 348 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 deceived, wilfully deceived. What was the suffering of un- 
 requited love compared with this ? He had said, too, that my 
 preference was so evident, I would have grasped the faintest 
 whisper of an offer. I knew the charge was false as himself ; 
 but that he should have believed it, added its bitter pang. How 
 was I to act ? My brow was burning, my pulses throbbing, 
 yet return to my own home I would not ; I would not feign 
 illness, though God knows it would have been little feigned. 
 I would meet him, pass in his company the period I had 
 promised to my friend, and then I cared not." 
 
 " And you did this ?" asked Annie, clasping Lady Emily's- 
 hand in both hers, and almost startled at its coldness 
 — the only proof that the narrator told not her tale un- 
 moved. 
 
 " I did more, my child. Though poetry and satire were 
 now to me but fearful spectres, from which a tortured spirit 
 .shrank — though that very hour I burned every fragment of 
 composition once so precious, yet, during three long weary 
 weeks, I was to him and to all around me as I had always 
 been; perhaps even more sparkling, more animated, and far 
 more joyous. Without any visible effort, I so far changed 
 in bearing towards him, that instead of finding in his con- 
 versation as before an echo to my own, I questioned, I 
 doubted, and more than once I saw him quail beneath my 
 glance or tone, compelled, ere we parted, to doubt the in- 
 fluence which he had boasted he possessed. But what 
 availed all this ? It did not, could not quench the burning 
 fever within ; and when I returned to the quiet of my father's 
 roof, the tight-strung cord was snapped, and overwrought 
 energies so gave way, that for months, nay, years, the effects 
 of that straggle were visible in a state of health so pre- 
 carious, so exhausted, that I have seen my poor father pace 
 my chamber hour b) r hour in silent agony, without the power 
 to address him. For many months all was to me a blank ; yet 
 I believe I was not wholly insensible nor always under the in- 
 fluence of fever. Ere I recovered sufficiently again to mingle 
 with the world, he who had so deceived me became the husband 
 of another ; and that other, one who had been my dearest 
 friend, and who has shunned rue since as if she too had de- 
 ceived, and had courted me from policy, not love. I have 
 had no proof that this really was the case, but my faith in 
 all that was good, and beautiful, and true was so shaken, I
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 349 
 
 believed it as a tiling that must be, for such was human 
 nature. This marriage sufficiently accounted to my family 
 for my mysterious illness. Indignation was so generally felt, 
 that had I been awake to outward things, my mind might 
 'have been perfectly at rest that I had given him no undue 
 encouragement : and his manner had indeed been such as to 
 give, not alone to myself, but to all who had observed, no 
 doubt of his apparent meaning ; but I knew nothing of all this. 
 While chained to my couch by bodily exhaustion, memories of 
 my past life rose to appal me, and to add the bitter agony of 
 unmitigated self-reproach to that of unrequited affection. 
 Precious gifts had been intrusted to me, and what account 
 could I render of them at that awful throne, before which 
 daily, almost hourly, I expected to be summoned ? They 
 had estranged me from my God, and from His creatures. I 
 learned to feel His words were true. Unguided by either religion 
 or reason, what could I have been but the idle follower of 
 folly and romance. No throb of kindness or of gentle 
 feeling had interfered to check the contempt I felt for, and 
 breathed in cutting satire upon, others. I had wilfully 
 trampled on many a young kind heart, and it was but just 
 that I should have been thus trampled on myself. Pre- 
 sumption and self-conceit caused me to smile, to scorn the 
 censure of the world, and in all probability my manner had 
 been too unguarded. This bitter self-humiliation only in- 
 creased the struggle to forget that I had loved. In reproach- 
 ing myself I ceased to reproach him ; the pride that had 
 supported me was gone. These thoughts continually press- 
 ing on heart and brain were, I am well aware, the sole 
 sources of my long and incurable disease, but I had no 
 power to shake them off ; and, fearfully as I suffered, I have 
 never ceased to bless the gracious hand that sent the 
 chastening and recalled me, ere it was too late, unto Him- 
 self." 
 
 Lady Emily paused ; the quivering of her voice and lip 
 betraying emotion which she evidently struggled to suppress. 
 Annie's tears were falling on her hand, and ere she spoke 
 again, she bent down and kissed her forehead. 
 
 " You now know, dearest Annie, more of me than I ever 
 breathed to mortal ear," she resumed, in her usual calm and quiet 
 tone, " more than I ever thought could pass my lips. But 
 do not weep for me, my ch ild ; I am happier, safer now, than
 
 350 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 I could have been had the wild, misguided feelings of earlier 
 life continued. It was no small portion of my suffering so to 
 control myself as never to give vent to the satirical bitterness 
 that, when I rejoined the world, tinged my words and 
 thoughts more darkly than ever. The determination never to 
 use that dangerous gift, gave to my words and manner a stiff- 
 ness and cold reserve which have banished from me all those 
 whose regard I would have done much to win. Many young 
 loving hearts have shrunk from me, perceiving no sympathy 
 in their warm imaginations and glowing feelings ; and I 
 dared not undeceive them, for I felt no confidence in myself, 
 and feared again to avow sentiments I had buried so deeply 
 in my own heart. Others again shunned me, because terri- 
 fied at a semblance of austerity, which they could not know 
 was exercised only towards myself; and frequently have I 
 wept in secret at the loneliness which seemed to characterise 
 my path on earth. Even you, my Annie, gentle and for- 
 bearing as you were, till I could not but love you, have often 
 checked your animated words beneath the cold, withering 
 influence of my glance or smile." 
 
 "Do not call it cold and withering, my dear, kind friend," 
 replied Annie, warmly. " I learned to love you long before 
 I dared hope to win your regard ; but could I doubt you in 
 my hour of anguish ? Though even then I did you wrong ; 
 for I thought I was alone in my misery — and you had suf- 
 fered doubly more." 
 
 " You needed not such, awful chastisement, my love ; I 
 brought it on myself. But you are right ; fearful as is 
 the death of a beloved one, it is happiness compared to the 
 death of love, to the blasting of our belief in the good and 
 true ; the disrobing an idol, till we ask what it is we have 
 loved. My dearest Annie, bless God that this you have been 
 spared." 
 
 Annie was silent several minutes, and then raising her 
 head, she abruptly and strangely asked, "Aye, this ; but 
 there are other trials. Oh, Lady Emily, what must be the 
 agony of that heart, who, sacrificing for the sake of the 
 living the memories of the supposed dead, finds too late, 
 that circumstances, not death, have come between her and 
 the object of her first affections ; that they love each other 
 still, yet must be strangers, parted more completely than 
 by death. What must be her duty then ?"
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 351 
 
 "You ask me a difficult question, my dear child. If the 
 heart clings to such a thought, better never wed." 
 
 A bright gleam, as of relief, flitted over Annie's features ; 
 but, changing the subject as abruptly as she had entered 
 upon it, she asked, with hesitation, "And that poetic talent 
 to which you have alluded, do you never exercise it now ?" 
 
 " Never," replied Lady Emily, taking her companion's 
 arm, and entering the house. " On my first recovery I dared 
 not, for my sinful abuse of the power had been too recent ; 
 though I do believe, that as my taste had completely changed 
 in the poets which I read, so too would my writings have 
 done. But year after year passed ; gradually I destroyed 
 every memorial of my passed life, and found peace and happi- 
 ness in the employment which you have seen and aided, until 
 at length even the inclination to write passed away ; and 
 I forgot, even as you must, dear girl," she added, with a 
 smile, " that I had been a poet, and one of no mean grade." 
 
 The silent pressure of Annie's hand was sufficient guaran- 
 tee for Lady Emily that her confidence had not been mis- 
 placed ; and she was happier, for she no longer feared that, 
 misunderstanding, Annie would at length shrink from her. 
 
 We will not linger with our travellers while en route. They 
 visited all of interest in Naples and Rome, and resolved on 
 passing the winter at Florence. Many weeks had passed in 
 their delightful tour; Annie's health was decidedly reno- 
 vated ; but there were still times when her spirits seemed to 
 sink beneath a weight of depression for which neither of her 
 relatives could account. Each month that passed diminished 
 the time specified by Annie as the term of mourning, and yet 
 Lord St. Clair vainly tried to rejoice ; he saw that, instead of 
 decreasing, the memory of Reginald became stronger — that 
 the extraordinary impression made by the superscription of 
 the letter would remain — and ardently he wished that Annie 
 followed her impulse, and opened it ere it was sent on. 
 He never spoke of love, he never recalled her promise, and 
 Annie so blessed him for his forbearance that, ■ could she but 
 have realized the universal belief in the death of Reginald, 
 she would at once have given him her hand, glad to ex- 
 ;e. the torturing doubts which engrossed her for the 
 tranquil calm which must, she thought, attend devotion to 
 one who so nobly proved the love he bore herself. 
 
 The many interesting works of ancient art in Florence, so
 
 352 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 riveted the attention and occupied the time of our English 
 travellers, that the one subject engrossing the whole attention 
 of the Florentines was for some little time unheeded. The 
 town was full of the unrivalled success of a young sculptor, 
 who had burst into fame, no one knew how or where. He had 
 been studying the last two years, amidst the superb specimens 
 of art, in the galleries of Florence, but so silently, so unas- 
 sumingly, that he was only known as famous. II is copies of 
 Canova and other celebrated sculptors had been pronounced 
 perfect by able judges ; but it was not till he had completed 
 an original group that he at all seemed to sue for notice, and 
 when that did appear, the easily-excited Italians received it 
 with such universal admiration, that the unknown artist was 
 sought for on all sides, courted, flattered, and, better far, 
 appreciated by those whose opinions were of value. Italy is 
 indeed the country where talent may rise to eminence, 
 fostered and cherished by the encouragement for which it so 
 thirsts. In this case, however, the interest excited ori- 
 ginally by genius was heightened by the reserved manners 
 of the young sculptor, who rather shrunk from than courted 
 notice, except from the Italians themselves. It was rarely an 
 English soiree could obtain the favour of his presence. His 
 appearance and name declared him Spanish, a supposition 
 which, as he never contradicted it, gained universal belief. 
 That he spoke English, French, and Italian as fluently as 
 Spanish, and was intimately acquainted with their literature, 
 only proved that his mental capabilities were not confined 
 merely to his art. How he found time to execute all the 
 orders for busts, ornamental groups, etc., which he received, 
 was a mystery to the idler, and a 'wonder even to the 
 brethren of his craft, greatly heightened when his first 
 original group appeared. It was not alone the execution, but 
 the daring boldness of his subject which had occasioned 
 such universal notice. Boldly leaving the beaten path of 
 classic subjects, his group, though consisting only of three 
 figures, embodied a striking incident in the earliest stage of 
 the French revolution. A young and beautiful girl had flung 
 herself before an aged parent, clasping his neck with one 
 hand, and by the attitude of the other, combined with the ex- 
 pression of the face, was evidently imploring life for him, 
 even by the sacrifice of her own. On the touching and, to 
 the Italian eye, somewhat peculiar beauty of the lace, the
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 353 
 
 matchless grace of the attitude, and exquisitely modelled 
 limbs, the sculptor appeared to have lingered till he had out- 
 done himself. The countenance of the father breathed but 
 admiring love for the heroic being whom his arm encircled, 
 as if every thought centred in her, to the total exclusion of 
 •all terror for himself. Before them, in a crouching attitude, 
 as in the act of filling a goblet with the loathsome fluid which 
 deluged the streets, was a half-naked form, whose ruffian 
 features and muscular limbs contrasted well with the graceful 
 beauty and nobleness of form in the other figures. The head 
 was upraised, a withering sneer upon the lips, a combination 
 of triumph and barbarity on the whole countenance, which 
 so explained the tale it recorded, that, as an animated 
 Italian told Lord St. Clair, the heart of the gazers throbbed, 
 and the cheek paled, as if life itself were before them. It 
 -tood in an apartment of the Palazzo Vecchio, where he en- 
 treated his English friends to go and see it. " I will not only 
 see this wonderful group, but make acquaintance with, its 
 artist," he replied ; " for, after hearing all this, know him I 
 will." 
 
 " That you will find some difficulty in doing," was the re- 
 joinder. " He shrinks from all you English ; besides, he is, 
 I believe, now at Bologna, and his return is uncertain." 
 
 " Never mind, trust me for making acquaintance with this 
 lion, shy though he be." 
 
 " There is but one fault in his female figure," observed a 
 gentleman who had joined the group, and was greeted with 
 much warmth by Lord St. Glair, " a fault which we English 
 ought to consider a virtue, but yet is in contradiction to 
 Signor Castellan's apparent reserve towards our countrymen. 
 The beauty of the female is too English for a French incident 
 and purely French characters. It is very lovely, I grant, but 
 the loveliness is our own." 
 
 The observation naturally produced a warm discussion, 
 which .ended as most discussions do, in each party retaining 
 his own opinion, and Lord St. Clair taking his newly -found 
 old friend home with him, introduced him to Lady Emily and 
 Annie. 
 
 " And are you settled down at last, Kenrich, tired of wan- 
 derings and adventures ? though last time I heard of you, 
 you were actually enjoying the wars and cabals of Madrid.'' 
 
 " I am not very sober yet, St. Clair ; but I was fool 
 
 A A
 
 354 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 enough to join the Carlists three or four years ago, and their 
 barbarity to my own countrymen so sickened me of war, that 
 I threw up my commission, and have never drawn sword 
 since." 
 
 " What barbarity ?" asked Lord St. Clair, catching 
 almost by instinct more than look the expression of Annie's 
 face. 
 
 "Why, you must have heard — the English papers were 
 full of it — that fine fellow Captain De Vere was amongst 
 them. He and eight or ten others were taken prisoners, and 
 were all murdered — for it was nothing else." 
 
 "But are you sure he was amongst them? We all knew 
 and loved De Vere, and long hoped he might have escaped, 
 and only been re]3orted amongst the killed." 
 
 " Escaped, my dear fellow ! how was that possible ? 
 Besides, he was so terribly wounded, that he could not have 
 survived, even had they not so cruelly dealt with him. I 
 could not save him, but I saw him decently interred, and 
 from that moment loathed militar}' - service, and left 
 Spain." 
 
 " It was full time, I think," quietly rejoined Lady Emily. 
 "Annie, will you try if you can match this shade for me 
 among the chenilles in my room ? I cannot finish this leaf 
 without it, and your eyes are better than mine." 
 
 Annie took the chenille designated from the frame, over 
 which her cousin was bending so intently in seeming, that 
 she did not even look up as she addressed her, and quietly 
 left the room. The moment she did so, Edward Kenrich 
 burst into lavish praises of her beauty, declaring that was the 
 exact style of Castellan's figure, and therefore he was right, 
 and it must be too English for perfect art, so running on in 
 his usual wild strain, that Lord St. Clair had great difficulty 
 in bringing him back to the point from which he had started, 
 and gathering from him every particular of the death of 
 Reginald De Vere. 
 
 Annie did not reappear, and Lady Emily's great desire to 
 finish her leaf seemed to have subsided with her absence, for 
 she made no effort to recal her. Just before dinner, how- 
 ever, Lord St. Clair, noticing the flutter of her white dress 
 between the orange trees, which almost concealed the balcony 
 leading from the drawing-room, hastily rejoined her. She 
 looked up in his face without a word, but he answered her
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. oi,0 
 
 thoughts, tenderly and gently repeating all the information 
 he had gained. There could be no doubt, and for one brief 
 minute the poor girl's head sunk on his arm, with a sudden 
 burst of tears. 
 
 " I know it is all folly, Henry. I had no right to hope ; 
 forgive me, I do but distress you ; and yet that writing — 
 that strange writing, whom could it have been from ?" 
 
 " Not from Reginald, dearest, or it would have been to you, 
 not to me. Has that never struck you, Annie ?" 
 
 It had not till that moment, and it convinced her. She 
 remained alone that evening, in deep meditation and earnest 
 prayer ; and the result was a iirm conviction that nothing but 
 a new and solemn duty would restore her to the calm of mind 
 for which she yearned — that devotion to another well worthy 
 of it must draw her from herself. A sleepless night con- 
 firmed this resolution, and the very next day the promise 
 passed her lips to be the wife of Lord St. Clair, within a week 
 of their return to England. A few days afterwards they 
 went to the celebrated church of Santa Croce, during vesper 
 service. The magnificent interior, heightened in its effect 
 by the light and shadow flung by huge waxen tapers, the 
 superb monuments, the white-stoled monks and dark dresses 
 of the officiating priests, the kneeling and standing groups, 
 silent and motionless as the marble monuments around — the 
 deep-toned organ, and swelling voices of the choristers, com- 
 pletely enchained the imagination of our travellers. It was 
 strange, excited almost to pain as she was, that Annie at 
 length found her whole attention unconsciously fixed on a 
 single figure, who was leaning against the tomb of Michael 
 Angelo. His face was turned from her, but there was some- 
 thing in his bearing and his attitude which riveted her as by 
 a spell, and the longing to look on his face became strangely 
 and indefinably intense. The soft light of a taper burning 
 over the tomb brought out in good relief the stranger's un- 
 covered head, whose small and classic shape was shaded by 
 clustering hair of glossy black. 
 
 "There he is! there is our sculptor, Eenaud Castellan!" 
 whispered one of the Italians who had accompanied them, 
 directing Lord St. Clair's attention to the very figure on 
 whom Annie's gaze was so strangely fixed ; but even as he 
 spoke, the young man moved his position, and disappeared in 
 one of the aisles, leaving Annie's desire to see his face un-
 
 356 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 gratified, and only permitting Lord St. Clair to catch the out- 
 line of his figure. 
 
 "Was not Mrs. de Vere's maiden name Castellan?" St. 
 Clair asked of Annie, as they walked together from the church 
 to the house of their Italian friend, who had claimed them 
 for a petit souper, and some music. The answer was in the 
 affirmative, and Lord St. Clair remarked it would be strange 
 if this young Spaniard proved to be of the same family. " I 
 must seek him out," 
 
 "See his group first," was the rejoinder of one of 
 the party ; while to Annie the words seemed to dis- 
 perse the miserable doubts again thronging round her 
 — being of the same family might account for a casual re- 
 semblance. 
 
 It was with some little difficulty Annie was prevailed upon to 
 sing ; but when once seated at her harp, timidity gave place 
 to her real love of the art, and the simple purity, the touch- 
 ing pathos of her style charmed all who heard. The entrance 
 of a guest had not interrupted her, nor disturbed the listeners. 
 Lord St. Clair was amused at the look of admiring perplexity 
 with which he regarded Annie, not himself perceiving that, 
 where the Italian stood, the light fell upon her countenance, 
 so as to give it a different appearance and expression to that 
 which was generally perceivable. 
 
 Approaching her, as soon as the buzz of admiration had 
 somewhat subsided, he engaged her in animated conversa- 
 tion ; nor was Lord St. Clair's curiosity lessened b} r hearing 
 him inquire " if the signorina were not acquainted with the 
 young sculptor, of whom all Florence raved?" Much sur- 
 prised, she answered in the negative. 
 
 " But surely you have been introduced to him, have you 
 not ?" 
 
 "No," replied Annie, smiling at his earnestness. "I 
 never even heard of him till I came here ; and he has been at 
 Bologna, till this evening, ever since." 
 
 " Then he has seen you, signora, either in his sleeping or 
 waking dreams," was the rejoinder, in so animated a tone 
 that it arrested the attention of the whole party ; " for never 
 did marble and life so resemble each other as the beauty of 
 your face and of his creation. Surely you must all see it," 
 he continued, turning to his friends with the sparkling viva- 
 city peculiar to his countrymen when excited. " Why, it is
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 357 
 
 not feature alone, but the character, the grace, the similarity 
 is perfect ! " 
 
 " I told you so, but you would not believe me," bluntlv 
 answered Kenrich. "I told you it was an English face and 
 English character; but you all denied it. I am glad my 
 lovely countrywoman has opened your eyes." 
 
 " Why this is better and better, Annie ; do not blnsh so 
 prettily about it," whispered Lord St. Clair, as, attention once 
 aroused, the similarity was universally acknowledged. " If 
 the resemblance be chance, it is something to marvel at ; if 
 intentional, why I shall be jealous of the sculptor." 
 
 " You need not, Henry," was the reply, in a tone so sad 
 that it pained him. 
 
 "Well, well, we will go and see it at least, love, and judge 
 of its merit with our own eyes." 
 
 The next day accordingly they went, and (the most con- 
 vincing proof of the perfection of the work) were not disap- 
 pointed. Neither its beauty nor its eloquence had been 
 exaggerated, and the resemblance to Annie was so extraor- 
 dinary that the eyes of all the spectators within the room 
 were attracted towards her ; but the expression of the coun- 
 tenance of the father in the group riveted her attention far 
 more than the female figure. It was with a heavy sigh she 
 turned from it, and was pale and silent during their way 
 home ; but St. Clair was so engrossed by the beauty of the 
 work, the strange resemblance, and his resolution to leave no 
 stone unturned to gain the acquaintance of the young artist, 
 that it passed unnoticed even by him. 
 
 " Why, what ails you, Annie ? are you not well, dear ?" 
 kindly inquired Lady Emily, some hours later. Wondering 
 why her young companion did not join her as usual, she had 
 sought her in her own room, and found her with her face 
 buried in her hands, and her whole attitude denoting suffer- 
 ing. "Henry has gone to seek out this Signor Castellan, to 
 find out, if he can, in what this strange similarity originated, 
 and who and what he is." 
 
 "Shall I tell you?" answered Annie, in a tone so strange 
 that it startled almost as much as the whiteness of her face. 
 " Reginald Castellan de Vcre ! Was not his mother's name 
 Castellan ? and has he not often and often boasted his descent 
 from Spanish heroes, and from this feeling fought for Spain in 
 preference to any other country ? Did he not always love the
 
 358 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 art of sculpture? Can it be chance that has marked the 
 father and daughter of that group with the characteristics of 
 the revered friend and favourite companion of his youth ? 
 No, no, no ! Oh ! Lady Emily, you bade me once thank God 
 that I had never been deceived; teach me how to bear 
 this." 
 
 "Bear what, my poor child?" replied her companion, 
 soothingly, as Annie threw herself on her neck in fearful 
 agitation. " If this be indeed as you say, what can there be 
 but happiness for you ? It is for another we must 
 feel." 
 
 " Happiness for me ! and he has never even so far thought 
 of me as to tell me the report of his death was false, and he 
 still lived — never recalled himself to one whom, when he de- 
 parted, he so loved — loved ! how know I that ? he never 
 said it ; why should I believe him different to others V 
 
 " My dearest Annie, this is not like yourself. Why, if he 
 have ceased to love you, should the work of his hand — a work 
 which must have employed his mind and heart loug days and 
 nights — bear the impress of your face and form ?" 
 
 " Memory, association, mere casualty — the days of his boy- 
 hood may be dear to his mind ; but how can affection, even 
 a brother's, have inspired that group, when — when he has 
 allowed me so long to believe him dead ?" 
 
 " It is all a mystery, my dear child ; but I feel convinced 
 it will be solved, if we can really prove his identity. May 
 he not have written, and the letter miscarried ?" Annie 
 wildly raised her head. " May he not have been deceived ? 
 perhaps — for we can never trace rumours — but may he not 
 have heard that of you which, to a mind like his, would cause 
 him to shrink from recalling himself? He left you such a 
 child, how might he build on having so won your regard that 
 you would remain single for his sake ? Dearest Annie, if 
 this indeed be not all imagination, and Reginald really lives, 
 trust me you will be happy yet." 
 
 How will a few judicious words change the whole current 
 of thoughts and feeling ! Before Lady Emily ceased to speak, 
 Annie was weeping such blessed tears. The proud, cold mood 
 which, had her companion spoken as her own experience of 
 man's nature must have dictated, might have been retained, and 
 made her miserable for life, dissolved before returning trust and 
 hope. She dared not define what it was she hoped ; but it
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 359 
 
 was not till she heard Lord St. Clair's voice, and she tried to 
 spring forwards to meet him and know the truth, that a sudden 
 revulsion of feeling so completely overpowered her that she 
 sunk back upon the couch. How dared she rejoice, even if 
 Reginald lived ? what could he be to her who was the pro- 
 mised bride of another ? 
 
 " Emily ! " exclaimed Lord St. Clair, in utter astonishment, 
 as, on his entering the drawing-room, his cold and dignified 
 sister hastily met him, and taking both his hands, tried to 
 speak, but failed; and leaning her head against him, he felt 
 that she was in tears. " What is the matter, love ? some- 
 thing very dreadful for you to weep." 
 
 She controlled herself with a strong effort, and entered at 
 once into the recital of the scene between her and Annie. 
 " Could it possibly be as she supposed ? " 
 
 " It may be," was the reply, in a calm firm tone ; "there 
 is nothing impossible in it. I went to his lodgings, but, as I 
 supposed, he was either out or too much engaged to be seen ; 
 but I am to meet him to-night at the Contessa Corsini's, and 
 this strange mystery will be unravelled." 
 
 "And you, dear Henry — " she could saj^no more, so holy 
 seemed his feelings. 
 
 " And I, my dear sister, will act as that man should whose 
 aim is not the gratification of his own desires, but the hap- 
 piness of one far dearer than himself. I do not tell you I 
 shall not feel, and deeply ; but does the warrior shrink from 
 the battle before him because he may be wounded ? You 
 may love me more, my Emily, if you will," he continued, 
 fondly passing his arm round her, and kissing her cheek, "for 
 affection is always balm ; but I will have no tears — they are 
 only for the unworthy. Where is Annie ? poor child, she 
 must be overwrought, from many causes ; let me see her, she 
 will be calmer then." 
 
 He was right. What passed between them it needs not 
 to relate. Our readers can little enter into the high character 
 of Lord St. Clair, if they cannot satisfy themselves as to the 
 manner, as well the nature and extent, of the sacrifice he 
 made. He was not one to wring the gentle heart he so un- 
 selfishly resigned, by the betrayal of personal suffering; he 
 coveted the continuance, nay, the increase of her regard, and 
 nobly he earned it. 
 
 It was a brilliant scene on which, a few hours later, he
 
 360 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 entered, introduced by the same Italian, Signor Lanzi, wh<r 
 had been the first to trace the resemblance between Annie and 
 the female figure of the group. But neither loveliness nor 
 talent, both of which thronged the halls, had at that moment 
 attraction for Lord St. Clair ; his glance had singled out a 
 tall, slight form, leaning against a marble pillar, and half 
 shaded by the drapery of a curtain. His head was bent down ; 
 he seemed in the act of listening and replying to the smiling 
 jests of the countess, who was sitting near him ; the cheek 
 and brow were very pale, and the mouth, when still, some- 
 what stern in expression ; but it was a fine face, bearing the 
 stamp of genius too visibly ever to be passed unremarked. 
 
 " You may smile, and look incredulous, signor," were the 
 words that first met the ears of the English nobleman, fromr 
 the young countess, in Italy's sweetest tone ; but since you 
 deserted us for Bologna, a living likeness has appeared of 
 your beautiful Amele." 
 
 " Mademoiselle de Sombreuil herself, perhaps," he replied, 
 half smiling. " Fancy would indeed have served me well, 
 had such a chance occurred." 
 
 "You are quitg wrong. I doubt whether Mademoiselle 
 de Sombreuil would herself resemble your fancy statue, as 
 much as la bella Inglese does." 
 
 " La bella Inglese ! who may she be ? " inquired the young 
 sculptor, somewhat agitated. 
 
 " A lovely girl, who only appeared in Florence as you left 
 it. Lanzi informed me the resemblance was so perfect, he- 
 imagined she must know you ; but she had never even heard 
 of you till she came here." 
 
 " And what may be her name." 
 
 " As you seem so interested, I regret that I cannot tell 
 
 you. It is so truly English that it will bear no Italian 
 
 accent, therefore I cannot remember it ; but find Lanzi, I 
 
 expect him here to-night, and he will tell you all about 
 
 er." 
 
 The arrival of new guests, and the attention of the countess 
 called for from himself, the sculptor hastily turned, as in the 
 act of seeking the individual she had named. He had not 
 advanced many yards when he started violently, and with a 
 sudden impulse retreated into a small withdrawing room, 
 near which he had stood. 
 
 " Why shun me, Signor Castellan ? " inquired a frank
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 3GL 
 
 kind voice in English ; and Lord St. Clair's hand was ex- 
 tended, and, after a moment's visible hesitation, accepted and 
 almost convulsively pressed. " Why this long, mysterious 
 concealment, my young friend ? were there none, think you,, 
 to rejoice that you were still amongst the living? " 
 
 "Was not your lordship aware of my existence, insig- 
 nificant as it is, more than a twelvemonth since? My own 
 hand and signature were surely sufficient guarantee," he 
 answered, in a cold proud tone. 
 
 " Then you did write, and Annie was not deceived ! Little 
 did I know the precious intelligence contained in the packet, 
 lost on its way to me in Russia, and the want of which, in a 
 political view, caused me such annoyance. But why wait so 
 long, my dear fellow, to give us tidings so many would have 
 rejoiced to hear ? " 
 
 "So many! There Avere more, then, to mourn me dead, 
 than to love me living I But forgive me," he continued, 
 less bitterly ; " Your family would have been my friends, 
 and therefore was it I wrote to tell you that I lived." 
 
 " But was there not one, Reginald, who deserved an earlier 
 notice at your hands ? why leave her so long to mourn you 
 as dead, and then to learn such joyful tidings from others than 
 yourself? The ties of early youth, of fond associations, I 
 should have thought sufficient of themselves alone to prevent 
 such wrong." 
 
 Reginald's very lip grew white as he replied, "Was not 
 her husband the fittest person to give Lady St. Clair such 
 tidings ] " 
 
 " Her husband, Reginald ? You speak enigmas." 
 
 " How ! " gasped the young man, as he laid his cold and 
 trembling hand on his companion's arm. " Is not Annie Grey 
 your wife ? " 
 
 " No ! " replied Lord St. Clair, the peculiar expression 
 clouding his noble countenance for the moment passing un- 
 noticed ; " her heart was with the dead ! " 
 
 Reginald de Vere struggled with bursting emotion, but 
 his trembling limbs refused to support him ; and sinking 
 powerlessly on a sofa, he covered his face with his hands, 
 and wept such tears as only spring from manhood's unutterable 
 joy. 
 
 * •>:■ «• * * •» 
 
 It still wanted an hour to midnight, and Lady Emily was
 
 3G2 TUB GROUP OF SCULPTURB. 
 
 in vain endeavouring to prevail on Annie to retire to 
 rest. 
 
 " You are feverish and worn out already, Annie. How will 
 you be able to support the excitement of to-morrow without 
 rest to-night ? " 
 
 " It would be no rest if I lie down ; I cannot sleep. Only 
 let me know he lives ! " and she twined her arms round Lady 
 Emily's neck, and looked so appealingly, so mournfully, no 
 heart could have urged more. 
 
 There was a pause of several minutes, and then Annie 
 started up. 
 
 " It is Henry's step ! " she exclaimed and would have sprung 
 forward, but her feet felt rooted to the ground ; another 
 moment Lord St. Clair was at her side. 
 
 "Promise me to bear the shock of joy better than you did 
 the shock of grief, or I can tell you nothing," he said, gently ; 
 but there was no need for another word. Faint as she was, 
 every object in the room seeming to swim before her eyes, 
 every word to be indistinct, yet one figure was visible, one 
 voice calling her his own, own Annie — beseeching her to 
 forgive and bless him ! reached her heart, and loosed its icy 
 chains, till she could breathe again. She felt not that 
 strength had entirely deserted her, for she was clasped 
 to the heart of Reginald De Vere, and the deadly faint- 
 ness passed in the gushing tears that fell upon his bosom. 
 
 Mysterious as was Pteginald de Vere's silence, its causes 
 may be summed up in a few words. To his own generous 
 deed, recorded in the early part of our tale, he owed the 
 preservation of his life. When bleeding and exhausted ke 
 was led a prisoner to the Carlist camp, he was instantly 
 recognised by the poor woman whose child he had saved, 
 and whom he had sent on to her husband. The tale of his 
 kindness, his generosity, his bravery had been repeated 
 again and again by the happy wife, and created amongst the 
 common soldiery a complete sensation in his favour ; so that 
 very many were found eager and willing to aid Juan 
 Pacheco in his resolution to return the good conferred, 
 and save his wife's benefactor at the hazard of his own life. 
 He had already been disgusted with his life in the camp ; 
 the beauty of his young wife had exposed him and her to
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 3G3 
 
 insults which, as he had no power to veto Hate, urged him to 
 seize the first opportunity to desert. One by one the prisoners 
 had been led to execution, and one by one had fallen. 
 Reginald, unable to support himself from wounds and ex- 
 haustion, though quite conscious he was placed there to die, 
 was loosely bound to a post, as a better mark to the soldiers 
 who fronted him. They fired — the girthings which bound 
 him gave way, and a dead faint succeeded; but they had 
 fired with harmless weapons, and when Reginald awoke from 
 what he fancied death, he found himself in a covered cart, 
 carefully watched and tended by the young mother and her 
 boy, whom he recognized at once ; his captain's uniform 
 placed on the body of a young Spaniard who had fallen in 
 battle, and whose features were not unlike those of De Vere, 
 no doubt causing Edward Kenrich's belief in Ins being really 
 Reginald, and his having been in consecpience honourably 
 interred. Juan Pacheco's knowledge of the wilds and in- 
 tricate windings of his native country enabled him ably to 
 elude the pursuit to which, as a deserter, he was liable ; but 
 De Vere suffered so dreadfully from alternate fever and ex- 
 haustion, during the journey, that many times his kind pre- 
 servers feared their care would be in vain, and death would 
 release him ere earthly rest and shelter were obtained. But 
 at length the goal was gained — a small cottage belonging to 
 a monastery of Saint Iago, situated in so retired a pass of 
 the Pyrenees that none but mountaineers knew of its ex- 
 istence. Under the skilful medical aid of one of the fathers 
 Reginald slowly regained health ; but it was not till nearly 
 a year after his supposed death that he regained the elasticity 
 and entire use of his limbs, such as he had previously 
 enjoyed. The severity of monastic discipline did not cha- 
 racterise the monks of Saint Iago. The}* were but few in 
 number ; old and respectable men, who had turned from the 
 distracting turmoils of their unhappy country, and sought 
 peace in study and deeds of kindness. In one of these aged 
 men Reginald discovered an uncle of his mother — one who 
 had always mourned her departure to another land, and 
 union with a heretic, but who bad loved her to the end, and 
 was willing to receive with affection any oi' her children. 
 The fearful sufferings and deep melancholy of the young 
 Englishman had attracted him, even before the picture of his 
 mother, which Pieginald constantly wore discovered the re-
 
 364 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 lationship between them. For nearly two years De Vere 
 remained in this solitude ; the fear of drawing down ruin 
 and misery on his preservers prevented his writing to his 
 commanding officer, to state his escape — Padre Felipo alleging 
 the state of the country was such, that his letter might not 
 only be seized and himself retaken, but Pacheco exposed 
 to the danger of execution as a deserter and abettor of his 
 escape. After the first year he made many attempts to com- 
 municate with his friends in England — Annie Grey amongst 
 the number — but he never heard in return ; therefore con- 
 cluded, and with justice, that his letters had never reached a 
 post. 
 
 But the two years of solitude, instead of being a mental 
 blank, was the hinge of circumstances on which his whole 
 after-career turned. To amuse his confinement and please 
 the children, he resumed the favourite amusement of his boy- 
 hood, carving in wood and stone, and with such success as 
 to astonish himself. He found an admirer and instructor 
 where he little expected it, in one of the monks ; and under 
 his guidance, and emboldened by encouragement, made such 
 rapid progress, that his whole soul became wrapt in the 
 desire to visit Italy, and study there. His pantings for fame 
 were now defined — a flash of light seemed to have irradiated 
 his whole being, and to burst the chains of destiny, which 
 still cramped energy and life. It was the consciousness of 
 genius, the proud conviction that he might indeed win the 
 object of his love ; win, and be worthy of her, and give her 
 a name proud as those of the men of genius whose lives they 
 had read and venerated together. 
 
 The days when all the fortunes of the monks were devoted 
 to their abbeys or to a patron saint were over, and Padre 
 Felipo rejoiced at possessing the means effectually to aid his 
 young relative. He settled on him a sum more than suf- 
 ficient to gratify all his desires, and Reginald hesitated no 
 longer to concentrate all his energies on this one pursuit. 
 He went to Italy, adopting the name of his benefactor, which 
 was also that of his mother ; and the wisli not to be known 
 in England, until he had perfected himself in his art, caused 
 him to retain it, even when no danger was attached to the 
 acknowledgment oi his existence. 
 
 But once in Italy, the yearning to hear of his family and 
 friends became intense, while a strange feeling of dread with-
 
 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 3G5 
 
 lijld him from again .addressing Annie. It was two years 
 and a half since they had parted, two since he had been re- 
 ported de;id. What might not have occurred in that interval? 
 He had left her free, and so childlike, so simple in character, 
 that how could lie, how dared he indulge the hope that she 
 had so returned his love, as to remain single for his sake? 
 He had never spoken of love to her; his affection was so 
 pure and true, that it had withheld him from linking, by a 
 too impetuous avowal, her i'ate with one so gloomy as his 
 own. His genius seemed now to promise a fairer destiny, 
 hut his heart, still darkened by the fearful creed of fatalism, 
 believed that his very promise would be dashed with gloom, 
 and from the ascendency of this unhappy feeling, failing in 
 courage to address Annie herself, he wrote to one of his 
 sisters, beseeching a speedy reply, with information of his 
 father, and all she could learn of Miss Grey. The reply was 
 many weeks before it came, pleading the usual excuse for 
 unjustifiable silence — stress of occupation and dislike to 
 letter-writing. Basil Be Vere was in America, and Miss 
 Grey on the eve of marriage with Lord St. Clair ; the whole 
 London world was full of it, on account of the disparity of 
 years between the parties, and because Lord St. Clair had 
 never seemed a marrying man; but that it was a settled 
 affair there was not the smallest doubt. She wrote as if it 
 could concern Reginald but little ; but the pang was such as 
 to confirm his fearful creed of an inexorable fate, and plunge 
 him into a despondenc} r , that genius itself seemed unable to 
 remove. At first he worked at his art mechanically, but 
 gradually his mind became aroused, and he tried to forge! the 
 heart's anguish in such persevering labour, that though to 
 mere observers its effects were marvellous in so speedy a per- 
 fection, it was, in fact, but the natural consequence of un- 
 ceasing mental and manucipal work. He constantly re- 
 proached himself for the agony he felt; what right had he 
 to suppose he had had any hold upon her? Why could he 
 not rejoice in her happy prospects, and write to tell her so ' 
 But weeks merged into months eve he could do this, ami 
 then he could not address herself, but wrote to Lord St. 
 Clair, revealing his escape, his concealment, and finally the 
 promised success of his art, with a calm, affectionate message 
 to Annie. The letter cost him a bitter struggle, and with 
 feverish restlessness he awaited the reply ; but when none
 
 3G6 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 came, bitter thoughts possessed him. He believed himself 
 entirely forgotten and uncared for by his friends ; and every 
 energy cramped (save for his art) by his spiritless belief, he 
 determined to remain so, and shun alike England and her 
 sons. It was his fate, he inwardly declared, and he must 
 bend to it ; and thus, as is ever the case with these dark 
 dreamers, he created for himself the lonely doom he ima- 
 gined his destiny marked out. The death of his aged 
 relative, in the monastery of St. Iago, placed a moderate 
 fortune at his disposal, and enabled him still more suc- 
 cessfully and earnestly to pursue his art. For a time the ex- 
 citement attendant on the creation of his group roused him 
 from himself, but the reaction was plunging him still deeper 
 into the dark abyss of misanthropy and gloom when his dis- 
 covery, through his own beautiful work, the sudden and 
 almost overwhelming happiness bursting through the dark- 
 ness of his spirit, in the consciousness that Annie was 
 free, that she had ever loved him, completely changed the 
 current of his thoughts, and permitted him a realization of 
 joy, before which the dark creed of destiny fled for 
 ever. 
 
 It is in a cheerful sitting-room of a picturesque dwelling 
 on the banks of Keswick Lake that our readers may once 
 more look on Annie Grey, ere they bid her farewell — Annie 
 Grey indeed she was not ; but there was little change visible, 
 save that her fair cheek bore the rose, and her beautiful form 
 the roundness of more perfect health, than when we last 
 beheld her. The large French windows opened on a small 
 but beautiful garden, where the taste of England and Italy 
 was so combined, as to render its flowers and statues the 
 admiration of every beholder. The opposite window opened 
 on a conservatory of beautiful exotics, and exquisite specimens 
 of painting and sculpture adorned the room itself. An un- 
 covered harp filled one corner, on which the evening sun, 
 shining full from the stained glass of the western window, 
 flung tints as bright and changing as those of the 
 kaleidoscope. A hortus siccus, opened on a group half 
 arranged, was on a table, at which Lady Emily St. Clair 
 was seated, and Annie was standing at her side, with a 
 volume of poems in her hand. 
 
 " You idle girl ! you would have found what I wanted in 
 five minutes a few years ago. What are you thinking about ?
 
 THE GBOUP OF SCULPTURE. 3G7 
 
 All, lleginald, you are just in time, or Annie's restless- 
 ness would have invaded your sanctum, depend upon 
 it. 
 
 " And had I not cause ? A whole hour, nearly two, after 
 your promised time ; and your cheek pale, and your brow 
 burning ! Dearest, do not let your art be dearer than your 
 wife !" 
 
 "What! jealous of all my marble figures, love? For 
 shame !" replied her husband, playfully, twining his arm 
 round her, and kissing her cheek ; "but I will plead guilty 
 to fatigue to-night, and you shall cure me by my favourite 
 song." 
 
 Annie *flew to her harp, and De Vere, flinging himself on 
 an easy chair, drank in the sounds with an intensit) r of delight 
 which lie never believed that song could have had the power 
 to jiroduce. " Yes !" he exclaimed, as her sweet voice ceased, 
 " what are palaces and their pleasures compared to an hour 
 like this ? There is, indeed, ' no place like home ;' what, 
 <>h ! what would the artist and the student be without 
 it?" 
 
 " Why, how is this, Signor Binaldo ? what extraordinary 
 spell has been Hung over you, so to change your opinion of 
 a song that once you would not even hear ?" laughingly ex- 
 claimed Lord St. Clair, springing from the balcony into the 
 room. Good evening, Mrs. De Vere ; I have some inclination 
 to arrest you for using unlawful witchcraft on this gentle- 
 man, even as I once thought of seizing him for allowing you 
 to die of grief for his loss, when he was all the time in 
 life!" _ . 
 
 " Guilty, guilty ; we both plead guilty," replied Reginald, 
 in the same tone ; " but my guilt is of far deeper dye ; my 
 Annie's witchery has but thrown such a halo over my home, 
 that all which speaks of its charm is as sweet to my car as 
 to my heart. 1 am changed, St. Clair, and not merely in 
 loving a song I once despised," he added, with much feeling, 
 '■ but in being enabled to trace a hand of love, where once I 
 beheld but remorseless fate; and my wife has done this, so 
 gently, so silently, that I guessed not her influence until I 
 found myself joining her own lowly prayers, and believing in 
 the same sustaining faith." 
 
 "And has she explained its mystery?" inquired Lady 
 V. oily, with earnest interest.
 
 3G8 THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 
 
 " No, dear friend ; nor do I need it now. The belief that 
 a God of infinite love and compassion ordains all things, yet 
 leaves us the perfect exercise of our free will, and in that 
 freedom, and the acts thence ensuing, works out His divine 
 decrees, constraining no man, yet bringing our most adverse 
 wills to work out His heavenly rule — this is a belief that 
 must be felt, it cannot be explained, and thrice blessed are 
 they on whom its unspeakable comfort is bestowed !"
 
 ZOO 
 
 Zfo Spirit jrf Ifctrjjji 
 
 FOUNDED ON A IIEBREW APOLOGUE. 
 
 " Let tlierc be light !" the Omnific Word had sppken, and 
 light was. Over the newly-created world the pure element 
 rushed from the spiritual courts of the High Empyrean, 
 where it had reigned from everlasting. In its subtle essence, 
 its ethereal exhalations, fit only for the atmosphere of those 
 angelic spirits, who, at the word of the Highest, took their 
 appointed stations in the new-formed world. Radiance too 
 glorious, too resplendent for mortal view, tilled the illimitable 
 space, uniting earth with heaven as by a cloud of glory. 
 Where had been Chaos, circled with shapeless darkness, now 
 revolved, in its vast flood of irradiating lustre, the new work 
 of the Eternal. Thousands of radiant spirits floated to and 
 fro on the refulgent flood. The dazzling iris of their v. 
 the music of their movements, filling space with beauty and 
 with sound ; while up from the lowest Heaven to the 
 High Empyrean — from the young seraph to the mighty spirits 
 Highest the Invisible Throne, whose resplendent presence 
 dazzled even the purified orbs of their angelic brethren — up, 
 through every heaven and every rank, sounded the glad 
 hallelujahs of love and praise. 
 
 At every word of the Highest, creation sprung. Dark- 
 ness, borne back by the mighty torrent of effulgent light, 
 would have passed annihilated from the face of the new-born 
 world, but, shielded by angelic ministers, it lingered, in its 
 new-appointed sphere, to do its destined bidding. A firma- 
 ment of sapphire, stretched between the waters and the 
 waters, veiling the glory of the spiritual heavens from the 
 grosser earth. Land rose from the liquid deep. The rolling 
 waters rushed impetuously to their destined boundaries, held 
 thereby the Omnific will. And over the land the creating 
 Word went forth ; and, at once, the mountains raised their 
 stupendous forms, crowned with imperishable verdure ; the 
 valleys, and woods, and glens rose and sunk in their ap- 
 pointed rest; and flowers, and trees and streams, and 
 thousand other charms of sight, and sound, and sense, burst 
 
 d B
 
 370 THE SPIRIT OF NIGHT. 
 
 forth into perfected being. Myriads of angels hovered 
 round, visible then in their beauty ; but now heard only in 
 the sweet breath of the gentle flowers ; in the varied sounds 
 of the forest trees as the wind floats by ; in the summer 
 breeze, or the wintry storm ; in the musical gush of the 
 silvery rill ; aye, and in the deep hush and calm of the 
 evening hour, when nature herself, as conscious of their 
 ministering presence, sinks into deep and spiritual re- 
 pose. 
 
 But not for the abode of angelic spirits was this lovely 
 world. A new creation was to raise the voice of love and 
 adoration ! and for such, the spiritual light enveloping the 
 infant globe was too ethereal, too resplendent. Nought but 
 the purified orbs of the angelic and archangelic hosts could gaze 
 on its refined effulgence ; and therefore, from the council 
 of the Eternal went forth the decree: — 
 
 " Let there be two great lights to rule the earth, the one 
 by day, and the one by night, and they shall rule times and 
 seasons." And as He spake it was. Instantaneously the 
 minute particles of the ecliereal essence formed into an orb 
 of splendour, fraught with such power and glory, that the 
 lustrous flood rushed back into the Heavenly Fount — earth 
 needing it no more ; — circled by a diadem of many-coloured 
 light, extending in resplendent rays over the new-born 
 world, infusing its golden glory over the azure heavens ; 
 clouds, dyed with the brilliant tints of amethyst, and rose, 
 and ruby, formed before him and faded into glory as He 
 passed. Earth, through her ministering spirits of mount, 
 and wood, and stream, and flower, sent up her thrilling song 
 of thanksgiving, echoed and re-echoed by the myriads and 
 myriads of angels peopling the spiritual courts. Heaven 
 and Earth rejoiced. Increased and dazzling beauty enveloped 
 the new creation. Luscious fragrance issued from the 
 flowers ; their petals, adorned by their guardian seraphs, 
 expanded to the glorious orb, and shone in his rays like 
 gems. The Spirit of Day, selected from the highest and 
 purest order of angels, to renew and tend the beauteous 
 work, ascended his throne in the burning centre, whence the 
 effulgent rays emanate on earth, but on which no mortal eye 
 can look ; and proudly and rejoicingly as a bridegroom 
 coming forth from his chamber, as a youthful hero from his 
 victorious career, he guided the glorious luminary on its
 
 TIIE SPIRIT OF NIGIIT. 371 
 
 resplendent course, joining his voice to the hallelujahs 
 pealing around. 
 
 And in varied but equal beauty rose the second light ; but 
 its guardian spirit, selected from the same pure and exalted 
 rank-, looked on the effulgence of the Orb of Day, and 
 beheld his brother spirit circled by glory more dazzling than 
 his own. His invisible throne was within the silver radiance 
 of his orb. Light, ethereal and pure as the heavenly essence 
 of which both sun and moon had been formed, enriched 
 him ; less glittering but equally resplendent. But a deep 
 shadow stole over the exquisite colouring of the spirit's 
 wings. His voice of music refused to join the pealing 
 hallelujahs. 
 
 " Wherefore ?" he exclaimed ; and the troubled accents 
 sounded through spa se, strangely and darkly falling on the 
 full tide of song. " Wherefore do two monarchs occupy one 
 throne ? Wherefore to me is given less than to my brother ? 
 I have loved, I have served as faithfully as he. Why, 
 then, should I be second, and he the first \ Earth rejoices 
 when he comes. Heaven greets him with songs of love. 
 What need is there for me, unless to me the same is 
 
 The hallelujahs ceased. A sudden silence, awful in its 
 profoundness, sunk on the rejoicing myriads. The pure 
 founts of ever-living light became obscured. Thunder 
 rolled over the illimitable expanse. The superb radiance of 
 the effulgent moon vanished, and, spreading far into the 
 Empyrean, became the glorious host of stars, each with its 
 attendant spirit as it formed. Darkness clothed the com- 
 plaining angel ; the beautiful luminary given to his charge, 
 seemed quivering and fading into space ; while, still strong 
 and rejoicing, the Orb of Day held on his victorious 
 career. 
 
 Prostrate and convulsed with remorseful anguish, the spirit, 
 sunk before the celestial hosts. He who had been of that 
 favoured class to whom the ways as well as the works of the 
 Highest were revealed, had fallen lower in intellect and 
 than the youthful seraph, who irship 
 
 and adore. Where could he hide himself from their 
 searching orbs '■. Where fly from the Hashing ligl 
 as the thunder rolled, played round him, marking hi; . 
 
 I and criminal ? But Him whom he had offended,
 
 372 THE SPIRIT OF NIGHT. 
 
 he loved, as only angels love. And so lie welcomed that 
 remorseful agony, and prayed, "Have mercy, Father of all 
 Beings ! My Father, have mercy on me !" And out of that 
 awful stillness issued a thrilling strain of gushing music — 
 low, soft, spiritual — the murmured prayer, from countless 
 myriads, for pardon for an erring brother. The dimness 
 fled from the founts of light. The thunder ceased ; the 
 scorching lightnings blazed no longer. A mild effulgence 
 circled the sorrowing spirit as he lay, burying his refulgent 
 brow in the darkened iris of his wings. 
 
 From the invisible throne of the Highest, the mightiest,. 
 the best beloved, most favoured messenger of the Eternal, 
 the Spirit of Love, winged his downward flight, and on 
 the instant, space became irradiated. New lustre spread over 
 the vast courts of Heaven ; the richest harmonies attended 
 every movement of his wings. Angels and archangels, 
 seraphs and ministers, pressed forwards as he passed, to 
 bask in the wondrous beauty of his lustrous face, and raise 
 anew the irrepressible burst of song. 
 
 " Spirit of Night, arise !" he said, and the repentant angel 
 lifted up his brow once more in returning hope, so thrillingly 
 that voice of liquid music fell; " arise, and list the irrevocable 
 decree of the Eternal ! Because thou hast envied the re- 
 splendence of the Spirit of Day, the radiance of thine orb 
 will . henceforth be borrowed from His lustre ; and when 
 yonder earth passes thee thou wilt stand, as now thou dost,, 
 deprived of thy glory, and eclipsed, either wholly or in part. 
 Thou hast dared arraign the wisdom and the goodness of the 
 Highest ; and though He pardons, yet must He chastise, lest 
 others sin yet more. Yet weep not, repentant brother ! thy 
 repining is forgiven, and thou too shalt reign a monarch in 
 thy radiance ! Queen of the lovely night will thine orb be 
 hailed ; the tears of thy repentance shall be a reviving balm 
 to all that languish ; imparting consolation to the mourner, 
 rest to the weary, soothing to the careworn, strength to the 
 exhausted. Peace shall be thy whisper, aud in thy kingdom 
 of stillness and repose, breathe thrillingly the promise of 
 Heaven, and its rest. Go forth, then, on thy mild and vivify- 
 ing career. The Orb of Day will do his work, and be hailed 
 with rejoicing mirth ; but many a one .shall turn to thee 
 from him, and in the radiance of thy tears find con- 
 solation."
 
 THE SPIRIT OF NIGHT. o<3 
 
 He spake : and behold ! the pale but lovely lustre in 
 "which the Orb of Night still shines flowed round her. The 
 • Spirit of Night resumed his silvery throne, and in the pro- 
 found subniissiveness of most perfect love entered upon his 
 silent and beautiful career, circled by the glittering radiance 
 of the attendant stars. Soon was revealed the benignant 
 mercy of His sentence. Even ere sin darkened the lovely 
 earth, His beauteous orb was hailed by all creation with re- 
 joicing ; and when man fell, when labour and weariness, 
 .sickness and woe, obtained dominion, how soothing the 
 consolation whispered by the Spirit of Night ! Weeping 
 oft at the remembrance of his own fault, the Spirit com- 
 miserates the tears of others. Floating over the earth, 
 invisible, save through the exquisite beauty of his orb, and 
 the thrilling thoughts of Heaven and immortality awakening 
 in the soul, which, formed of kindred essence, becomes thus 
 conscious of his presence, the Spirit sends his soft rays, 
 formed from the liquid lustre of his tears, on all who need 
 his pity and repose. By the couch of the sufferer — the side 
 of the sorrowing — by the kneeling penitent — by the wakeful 
 mourner — by the careworn and the weary — to the hut of the 
 beggar as the palace of the king — he sends pity, and peace, 
 and consolation. Nor does he sympathise with sorrow alone : 
 the joy which, in the sunshine and midst the turmoil of the 
 world, has agitated the soul even to pain, he softens into 
 such deep calm, as to whisper of that Heaven whence alone 
 the full bliss comes. Love, shrinking from the garish day, 
 finds in his presence eloquence and voice. The poet, op- 
 pressed and suffering in the rich blaze of day, at night pours 
 out his full soul in stirring words ; for, conscious of a spirit's 
 presence, the pressure of infinity is then less painful to be 
 borne. The artist, docs he dream of giving life to the vacant 
 canvas, the senseless marble, or voice and sound to the rich 
 harmonies for ever breathing in his ear — labours in toil, often 
 in despondency, during the day, for Earth only is present 
 then ; but when alone with his own soul and the holy night ; 
 when the Spirit, visible either through his silvery tears, or in 
 the rich beauty of his starry zone, penetrates his whole 
 being with his heavenly presence, then life is strong once 
 more ! The dream of Immortality on Earth, even as in 
 Heaven, dashes down all earthly fears. The spark of the 
 Deity in every soul is rekindled by the touch of its kindred
 
 374 THE SPIKIT OF NIGHT. 
 
 essence, and Hope, and Truth, and Beauty start into enduring 
 glory beneath the vivifying flash. 
 
 Beautiful Spirit ! such hast been, and is, and will still be 
 thy task. Over the earth thou floatest, and man, be he in 
 gloom or gladness, aspiring or desponding, hails thee with 
 rejoicing ; and even as the pale flowers drooping beneath the 
 noontide heat, and the parched and languishing earth, so 
 does he turn to thee for coolness and repose. Beautiful 
 Spirit ! thou hast sinned and been forgiven — therefore we 
 rest on thee !
 
 1 
 
 ■c ,M 
 
 m., ^ 
 
 ffPCfww
 
 375 
 
 QtcoUtttiBm of a $amlfe. 
 
 It was on a beautiful morning, in quite the beginning of May, 
 it, leaving the Globe Hotel, on the Beacon Hill, Exmouth, 
 I strolled forth at a very early hour, determining to ramble 
 wherever chance might lead. There was no i'ear of my 
 missing any particularly lovely spot in following this 
 deb i in. The very watering-places combine all 
 
 of sea and country to an extent peculiar to 
 lovely county. Ten minutes suffice to bear the wanderer 
 to such seeming solitude of hill and dale, and glen and 
 wood — will scatter around him such a profusion of ever- 
 varying yet ever beautiful scenery, that it is difficult to believe 
 that all those artificial luxuries and pleasures necessary to 
 trifler and the fashionest, would we seek them, are close 
 at hand. 
 
 !/. ry on has its own charm in England. Even 
 
 winter, in its stern, rude aspect, its brawling voice of winds 
 and storms, has, in the deep, still haunts of nature, its i 
 peculiar beauty. Spring, with its young, fresh joyousm ;, 
 its glory of earth and sky — its gushing atmosphere; 
 
 for, as the hrceze comes laughing and dancing along, wo can 
 • it no other term. Summer, with its still and deeper 
 feeling, as if the dancing light and glittering love of the 
 youthful year had sobered into a being deeper, stronger, 
 more fervid and intense. Then autumn, decking decay with 
 Buch bright beauty, shedding a parting halo on the fading 
 year ; concentrating all of loveliness in that sweet, dreamy 
 pensiveness, which, while it lingers almost mournfully on 
 earth's parting glories, looks through their p lit into 
 
 their renovated being, reading in the death and resurrection of 
 nature the spirit's immortality. 
 
 One charm, indeed, spring poa <>nd those of the 
 
 other seasons; it is, that almost every hour of the day is 
 equally delicious; in the morning, noon, afternoon, or 
 evening, we may come forth and make acquaintance with 
 her in every variety of aspect, each one as lovely as the other. 
 Evening indeed is the hour of that delicious musing which,
 
 376 RECOLLECTIONS OF A RAMBLER. 
 
 in the very blessedness of the present, unconsciously recalls 
 the loveliest images of the past, and adumbrates the future, 
 by the thrilling whisper of our immortal goal. It is then 
 that, as Wordsworth says — 
 
 " We are laid asleep 
 In body, and become a living soul." 
 
 But these are not the sensations of the morning ; then 
 life is infused with the present alone. We can neither 
 recal, nor think, nor hope ; we do but believe, and love, and 
 feel, conscious only of the blessing of Existence, of the omni- 
 potence of Love! 
 
 It was with all the elastic joyousness of such sensations I 
 hastened up the Beacon Hill, pausing involuntarily on the 
 top to gaze beneath me. There lay Old Ocean, slumbering 
 in the early sunshine as a lake of molten gold, tinged here 
 and there with the shadow of overhanging rocks, and ever 
 and anon fringed with a snowy crest, as a passing breeze 
 rocked the waves into heavier swell. The broad and graceful 
 river, rushing boldly and proudly into its parent sea ; its 
 undulating course visible for miles up the land ; its shores 
 skirted with towns half buried in foliage ; churches, towers, 
 and villages coming forth in the glowing light from their 
 background of hills dark with verdure ; headlands, bold, 
 rugged, and broken into every diversity of form ; Powder- 
 ham's castellated mansion glancing through magnificent 
 plantations, with their glades and lawns of emerald issuing 
 from the deeper shadows as jewels of the sunshine. Mam- 
 head just visible through its dark, dense woods ; and farther 
 still in the distance, woody uplands and barren rocks tower- 
 ing above the broken summits of the headlands, taking 
 every grotesque form from the clouds lingering above them, 
 and at length fading into ether, changing like phantasmagoria 
 beneath the magic influence of light and shade, and mist 
 and sun. 
 
 My path now lay across one or two fields, inlaid with a 
 perfect mosaic of gold, and white and green, formed by the 
 [patches of grass, kingcup, and daisy, leading into those 
 narrow, luxuriant lanes, with their gurgling streamlets and 
 clustering flowers which mark at once the county of Devon. 
 
 The hedges rose high above my head, and from them 
 Bprung forth the oak, and elm, and beech, and ash, bearing 
 the weight of centuries on their lofty trunks and far-spread-
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF A RAMBLER. 377 
 
 mg brnnches ; the hawthorn, with its blossoms just tipping 
 its rich green as with a shower of snow ; and the holly 
 standing forth, dark and stern, amid the more tender foliage 
 of the early spring. Every field-gate or occasional break in 
 the hedge disclosed a complete mass of hill, and wood, and 
 orchard ; on one side bounded by sea and sky, on the other 
 stretching farther and farther inland, till hills met the sky, 
 and seemed to close around the landscape. Every shade of 
 green, from the darkest to the lightest, was visible in the 
 tender foliage — some as if already clothed in the intenser 
 hues of summer ; others so lightly, so delicately shaded, that 
 their exquisite tracery was distinctly marked against the 
 clear blue sky. The orchards already lay as patches of snow 
 in their verdant dells, and primroses and violets by thou- 
 sands clustered on the banks of the clear, trickling streamlet 
 which skirted the deep green hedge as a fringe of silver. 
 
 I do so love the primrose ; there is something so sad and 
 pensive in her meek, pale flowers, gleaming forth as silent 
 stars from their darkly-closing leaves, and bending over the 
 laughing waters, as if their very mirth were sad to her. And 
 the deep purple violet, shrouding itself in silence, yet seem- 
 ing in its very scent, to smile and whisper joy. And the 
 speedwell, with its full blue petals and delicate stems, which 
 literally bend beneath their weight of blossom, light and 
 fragile as they are ; the deep red campion, with its gorgeous 
 clusters, looking proudly down on its humbler brethren, 
 rejoicing in its lofty home, that it may fade unplucked upon 
 its stem ; these and countless other flowers gemmed the 
 hedge a very garniture of love. 
 
 There was no sound save the delicious music of the fresh 
 springy breeze, as it wantoned with the glistening leaves, 
 or played with the gushing waters, inciting them to break in 
 tiny waves against the hedge ; and the rich thrilling melody 
 of the happy birds, calling to each other from tree to tree, 
 or sending forth such a gush of song, such a trilling flow of 
 rapture, that their slender throats seemed quivering with the 
 effort ; then would come silence, as startled and hushed by 
 their own joy ; and then a low twittering, with perhaps the 
 distant call of the lonely cuckoo, and a burst of melody again. 
 
 After rambling amid such scenes and sounds for about 
 two miles, a thick grove of lofty trees, interspersed with 
 thatched roofs, ivy-clad and smoke-dyed walls, and chimneys
 
 378 RECOLLECTIONS OF A RAMBLER. 
 
 of every architecture, marked its termination. The lane 
 narrowed, and hastening onwards, a rustic gate opened into 
 an old churchyard, surrounding a village church of such 
 extreme old age, and so picturesque, that it sent me back in 
 fancy centuries at once. There was the low, square belfry, 
 indented and fractured, with lichen and moss, and flowering 
 weeds springing from every crevice ; the long and rambling 
 choir, roofed with copper ; the slender buttresses ; the small- 
 paned windows, some of Saxon, some of Tudor architecture ; 
 the large square porch or entrance, with its grotesque 
 carvings, that could only belong to the middle ages. The 
 very trees, massive alike in root, and trunk, and branch ; 
 yews so dark and thick, they seemed in the distance more as 
 solid masonry than trees — looked as if they had stood there 
 grim guardians of the holy dead for centuries ; and grassy 
 graves and quaint old tombs, so battered with age and 
 atmosphere as wholly to obliterate their inscriptions — though 
 some bore date as far back as 1500 — strewed the ground, so 
 closely congregated that there was no space for a foot between. 
 
 The very birds seemed imbued with the spirit of the place, 
 for they w r ere silent, either flying noiselessly over the graves, 
 or winging their way to less sacred groves. A sudden sound 
 awoke me from my musing, and transported me at once from 
 past to present ; a joyous peal burst forth from the old 
 belfry, and a kindly voice accosted me with — " Maybe, you'd 
 like to walk in, sir, and see the old place ? You'd ha' time 
 to look round ye afore the wedding party comes ; and if not, 
 there'll be time enow during the service." 
 
 The offer was accepted so eagerly as to delight my old 
 guide ; for if one place in the country be more interesting 
 to me than any other, it is an old village church, so buried 
 in its own beautiful site that the roar of the railroad can 
 never reach it ; where we can stand still and breathe, apart 
 from the rush and the turmoil, and the haste, still pressing 
 onward — onward, in the vain strife for man's intellect to 
 keep pace with the giant he has raised, which is now the 
 constant accompaniment of the neighbourhood of towns. 
 The interior betrayed still greater age than the exterior ; the 
 windows were painted rudely but gaudily, throwing streams 
 of coloured light where the early sunshine fell, and leaving 
 the remainder of the interior in that dim twilight so in 
 unison with holiness and age. An antique shrine, adorned
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF A RAMBLER. 379 
 
 •with most grotesque, and to me incomprehensible carvings, 
 ran between the nave and chancel. The nave, fitted up as a 
 Protestant place of worship, with pews and seats, looked 
 more modern than the chancel ; though the very black oak 
 of its furniture gave it a venerable appearance, and seemed 
 to mark its date as among the earliest of the reformed 
 churches, while the dilapidated pavement and crumbling 
 of the chancel spoke of an age still further back. The 
 i'.'iit was roughly hewn out of a single stone. I was intently 
 engaged in endeavouring to decipher the inscriptions and 
 dates on the stone flooring, which appeared entirely made 
 ri) of graves, when the entreaty of the old clerk that I would 
 withdraw into a pew, as the wedding party was approach- 
 ing, most abruptly scared away all my antiquarian lore, and 
 ported me, very unwillingly, if the truth must be told, 
 to the contemplation of that common, every-day occurrence, 
 a modern wedding. 
 
 But one glance at the group, consisting of only six or 
 seven persons, riveted my interest. In my whole London 
 career I had never seen such a face of intellect, and soul, 
 and beauty as that of the bride. Whether it was the con- 
 trast of such youthful grace and loveliness with the stern 
 old shrine around, or I sive agitation of the bride- 
 
 groom, and the almost extraordinary self-possession of the 
 bride, I know not; but no marriage ceremony ever affected 
 me as this. Self-possessed as she was, there was no absence 
 of feeling; her cheek was perfectly colourless, and at times 
 there seemed a slight tremulous motion of the lips, as if the 
 effort to retain her composure was too painful to be con- 
 tinued, and only persevered in for him. His responses were 
 wholly inaudible ; hers so distinct and thrilling, they affected 
 me almost to tears. The clergyman himself, though young, 
 and, by his gay careless face and manner, the only one who 
 did not well assimilate with the scene, became gradually 
 impressed with its unusual solemnity. The embrace with 
 which, at the conclusion of the ceremony, the bridegroom 
 folded the bride to his heart, was so full of passionate feel- 
 ing, of such suppressed yet intense emotion, even I could 
 scarcely witness it unmoved, and it completely checked the 
 customary joyous greetings of their companions. 
 
 I followed them almost unconsciously from the church, 
 saw them enter the two carriages waiting for them outside
 
 380 RECOLLECTIONS OF A RAMBLER-. 
 
 the little gate, and remained leaning on a tombstone over- 
 looking the road, long after they had disappeared. My 
 reverie was interrupted by a courteous address from the 
 young clergyman who, having noticed my attendance in 
 the church, volunteered the information which I so much 
 desired. 
 
 Pierre Laval, the only son of a very rich planter in Mar 
 tinique, having received the best education which an alter- 
 nate residence in France and England could bestow, returned 
 to his father only to feel that a residence in Martinique was 
 about the most miserable thing that could happen to him, 
 and so again made his appearance in England. He sought 
 no profession, because he had no need to do so, his father's 
 possessions being immense. Joining in the very best society, 
 in which a handsome face, elegant address, and highly cul- 
 tivated mind gave him many advantages, he became 
 acquainted with the reigning beauty of the season, Helen 
 Campbell. Now Pierre had a decided aversion to cried-up 
 beauties, and so he resolved that, however she might con- 
 quer others, she should never obtain any power over him. It 
 is one thing to make a wise resolution, and another to keep 
 it. It so happened that Helen Campbell possessed none of 
 the repulsive attributes of an acknowledged beauty. She was 
 in truth, much more lovely than he had anticipated, bat it was 
 the intellectuality of her sweet face which was its peculiar 
 charm. She was frank, truthful, gay — nay, almost wild in 
 her joyousness ; and, moreover, possessed the spell of one 
 of the sweetest voices, either in speech or song, which he 
 had ever heard. Pierre struggled a long time, but it would 
 not do ; he was fairly conquered : and then for the first time, 
 lie imagined himself wanting in every quality likely to make 
 that love reciprocal, and, by sudden silence and reserve, was 
 in a fair way of actually creating the evil he dreaded, had 
 not a mutual friend opened his eyes, and with sudden despe- 
 ration he urged his suit, and discovered, to his inexpressible 
 happiness, that his love was returned. 
 
 For a brief period all was joy. Pierre had written to his 
 father, and did not harbour a single doubt as to his resi- 
 dence being permanently fixed in England, although Helen 
 had made no such condition to his acceptance. Anxiously 
 the arrival of the packet was anticipated ; but instead 
 of the answer expected, it brought news so overwhelming,
 
 KECOLLECTIONS OF A RAMBLER. 381 
 
 that the unfortunate Pierre was at first verging on distrac- 
 tion. 
 
 Monsieur Laval was almost irretrievably ruined ; a revolt 
 in the slave population of the island had taken place, and 
 his extensive plantations were burnt to ashes. Other heavy- 
 losses had congregated round him ; and what with these 
 misfortunes, and having been severely wounded in the revolt, 
 his health appeared rapidly failing. Panic and confusion 
 still reigned ; but the friend who wrote, expressed the hope 
 that, when all was quiet again, the Laval losses might not 
 involve such utter ruin as at present appeared. Nothing 
 was so earnestly desired, in fact, so indispensable, as the 
 immediate presence of Pierre. 
 
 For some time the young man strove in vain to reduce his 
 thoughts to order; and at length, hardly knowing what he 
 did, he sought his betrothed, told her all, and with a despe- 
 rate effort, offered to resign all his pretensions to her hand ; 
 he was a ruined man — must labour for years in Mar- 
 tinique : how could he ask his Helen to leave her luxurious 
 home, country, friends, all, to bear with poverty and misery 
 in a distant colony, for him ? She heard him quietly to the 
 end, and then clasping his hand, vowed nothing should part 
 them. She was his by the most holy of all ties — mutual 
 love and truth ; and no persuasion, no effort, could turn her 
 from his side. In vain her mother and all her friends 
 seconded Laval's appeal, urging the madness of the sacri- 
 fice. Helen's only reply was, "Had the voice of man imited 
 us, would you thus persuade me ? Would you not bid me 
 follow my husband through weal and through woe? And 
 shall I do less now, because freedom is in my power? I 
 could desert him if I chose. No, no, mother, you have other 
 children, who will be to you all I have been. Pierre has 
 but me," and no subsequent persuasion had power to 
 shake her resolution. It was, however, thought advisable 
 that Pierre should seek Martinique alone ; and that when 
 affairs were a little quiet, he should either return for her, 
 or she should go to him. But how could she join him, an 
 unprotected girl in a strange land? She saw that he hesi- 
 tated to speak the only means, and so spoke them for him : 
 " Give me the sanctity, the protection of your name, my 
 Pierre, and then what tongue dare cast aspersions on a wife 
 who joins her husband ? If the day which unites us, must
 
 382 RECOLLECTIONS OF A RAMBLER. 
 
 also bid us part, let it be so; but save me, as your wife, 
 from attentions and notice, and persuasions which may be 
 forced upon me." 
 
 Pierre's first answer was a wild and passionate embrace ; his 
 next, as passionate a burst of sorrow, that it should be his 
 doom to banish her to a home so little congenial to her taste, 
 as the burning climate would be to her health. And it was 
 long ere she could soothe or chide him into composure ; for 
 the more brightly shone forth her unselfish love, the more 
 bitterly he felt the extent of sacrifice she made. 
 
 Helen had to endure a very tempest of opposition and 
 upbraiding as to her romantic far-fetched folly ; but hers was 
 not a mind to change or waver, when feeling and principle 
 had alike dictated her resolution. 
 
 Pierre was to join his ship at Falmouth ; and yearning 
 for the quiet only found amid the repose of nature, Helen 
 prevailed on her mother to reside for the next few months in 
 Devonshire. Their bridal I had witnessed ; and when I 
 heard that the afternoon of that same day Pierre Laval was 
 to part from his Helen for an indefinite period, that when 
 united by the holiest of ties, made one for ever, but a few 
 troubled hours were left them together, I no longer wondered 
 at the emotion I had beheld. 
 
 Often and often has the vision of that morning haunted 
 me with the vain longing to know if indeed that unworldly 
 love had been blessed as it deserved, and when those loving 
 and aching hearts did meet again. For years that olden 
 shrine returned to me, as a dream of the far past in itself, 
 blended with all the griefs and hopes of human hearts in 
 the present ; and never can I recal the old altar to my mind 
 without beholding in fancy the sweet shadowy form of 
 Helen Campbell, and the suppressed but terrible emotion of 
 her Pierre. *
 
 3S3 
 
 ** Cast ilrg $tmh wwon tbx ("Eaters ; II) an si) alt ftmr 
 it ate maitjj bags." 
 
 "Why, Willie, what is the matter?" inquired Edward 
 Langley, entering his father's office one evening after busi- 
 ness hours, and finding its sole tenant, a boy of fourteen or 
 i, leaning both arms on one of the high desks, and hiding 
 his face within them, whilst his slight figure shook with uncon- 
 trollable sobs. "And how came that drawer open ?" he con- 
 tinued, more sternly, perceiving a bureau drawer half open, 
 so as to display its glittering contents, which looked disturbed. 
 "I hope you have not been doing anything wrong, Willie." 
 
 " Oh, sir, indeed — indeed I have not ! Count the money, 
 Mr. Edward ; pray count it ; see that it is all right, or I can 
 never hold up my head again. The temptation was misery 
 enough," returned the boy, as well as his sobs would permit, 
 and -displaying such a countenance of suffering, as to enlist 
 all Edward's sympathy at once. 
 
 " But, my good boy, what could have tempted you ? You 
 seem so to feel the enormity of the sin, that I cannot imagine 
 what thought came into your head." 
 
 " I only thought of my poor father, sir. Oh, Mr. Edward, 
 he is in prison, and my mother is too ill to work ; and 
 she and my poor little sisters are starving," he replied, 
 bursting again into tears. " I did not know what to do to 
 help them ; I give them all I earn, but that is so very little 
 it only gives them a meal now and then ; and then, when I 
 saw that drawer accidently left open, and remembered 
 twelve pounds, only twelve pounds, would get my father 
 out of prison, and lie could work for us again, the horrid 
 thought came into my head to take them : they would never 
 lie missed out of so many; and I had them in my hand. 
 But then I thought what could I tell them at home? It 
 would break my poor mother's heart to think her Willie was 
 dishonest ; she could better I rief than that, 
 
 sir; and I knew I could net hide it from her; and so I 
 dashed them back ! They seemed to scorch me ! Oh, Mr. 
 Edward, indeed, indeed I speak the truth !"
 
 384 "cast thy bread upon the waters." 
 
 Edward did believe him, and he told him so. There was 
 little need to speak harshly; the boy's own conscience had 
 been his judge. To satisfy him, however, he counted the 
 money, found it correct, and after talking to him a little while, 
 kindly yet impressively, promised to do what he could for his 
 father, and left him, indelibly impressing that evening upon 
 Willie's mind, by never reverting to it again. 
 
 The tale, which his inquiries elicited, was a very common 
 one. Willie's father had been an artificer in one of the 
 manufacturing towns ; but too eager for advancement, he 
 imprudently threw up his situation and tried independent 
 business. Matters grew worse and worse ; his family in- 
 creased and his means diminished. Hearing of an excellent 
 opening at New York, for an artificer like himself, he 
 worked day and night to obtain sufficient means to transport 
 himself and family across the Atlantic, and support them till 
 a business could be established. His wife ably aided him, 
 when unhappily he was tempted to embark all his little savings 
 in one of the bubbles of the day, which he was confidently 
 assured would be so successful as to permit his embarking 
 for America at once, and so seize the opening offered. Few 
 speculators had, perhaps, a better excuse ; but fortune did 
 not favour him more than others ; it failed, and he was ruined. 
 Three months afterwards he was thrown into prison for the 
 only debt he had ever incurred, and though he had friends 
 to persuade him to his ruin, he had none to liquidate his 
 debt. His wife's health, already overworked, sunk under 
 privation and sorrow ; and though she toiled even from her 
 fevered pallet, her feeble earnings were not sufficient to give 
 her children bread. 
 
 Edward Langley was a creature of impulse ; but in him 
 impulse was the offspring of high principle, and, therefore, 
 though the following it often caused him unlooked-for annoy- 
 ance, it never led him wrong ; and Willie's tale called forth 
 sympathies impossible to be withstood. 
 
 "Edward," said one of his numerous sisters one evening, 
 about three weeks afterwards, as they were sitting at tea — a 
 meal which, bringing them all together, was universally 
 enjoyed, "what have you done with grandpapa's birthday 
 present ? You were to do so many tilings with that money ; 
 and I have not heard you speak of it since my return." 
 
 "Because wonderful things have occurred since you left,
 
 "cast thy bread upon the waters." 385 
 
 Fanny," said another slily. " He is going to accompany 
 Mr. Morison's family to Itafy and Paris ; and bring us such 
 splendid presents. His fair Julia cannot go without him, 
 and he has promised to join them." 
 
 " Wrong, Miss Ellen, I am not going," was the reply, with 
 rather more brusquerie than usual. 
 
 "Why, have you quarrelled ?" 
 
 " Not exactly." 
 
 " But she will be offended, Ned ; I am sure I should be." 
 
 " No, you would not, Annie, if you knew my reasons." 
 
 " What are they, Edward, dear ? Do tell me, I am so 
 curious." 
 
 " Of course, or you would not be a woman !" 
 
 Against this all his sisters expostulated at once ; and even 
 his mother expressed curiosit)^ adding, that he had talked of 
 this continental trip so long, and with so much glee, it must 
 be a disappointment to give it up. 
 
 " It is ; but I do not regret it." 
 
 " But you must have a reason." 
 
 " The very best of all reasons ; I cannot afford it." 
 
 " Come to me for the needful, Edward," said his father. 
 " I cannot give you luxuries ; but this is for your improve- 
 ment." 
 
 " Thank you most heartily, my dear father, but I am, rather 
 I was, richer than any of you know. I earned so much for 
 my last engraving." 
 
 "And you never told us," said his mother and sisters, re- 
 proachfully. 
 
 " I did not, because it was already appropriated. I wanted 
 exactly that sum to add to my grandfather's gift ; and that 
 was what I worked so hard for." 
 
 " To purchase some bridal gift," said Fanny, archly. 
 
 " No, ran, 1 never mean to purchase love." 
 
 " But if the lady requires to be so conciliated ?" 
 
 " Then she is not worth having." 
 
 "Of course not," rejoined Annie. "But come, Edward, 
 you have never kept anything from us before. What is this 
 mystery ? " 
 
 "Out with it," laughingly pursued Ellen. "Julia Morison 
 will not thank you for preferring anything to accompanying 
 her, I can tell you ; so, as Annie says, what is this 
 mystery ? " 
 
 CO
 
 386 "CAST THY BREAD UPON TIIE WATERS." 
 
 " No mystery at all, girls. You -will all be disappointed 
 when I tell you ; so you had better let it alone." 
 
 But beset on all sides, even by his father and mother, 
 Edward told the simple truth, which our readers no doubt 
 have already guessed. His money had been applied in re- 
 leasing Willie's father from prison; restoring his mother to 
 health, by giving her and her children nourishing food, 
 securing a passage for them all to New York, and investing 
 the trifling surplus for their use on their arrival. He told his 
 tale hurriedly, as if he feared to be accused of folly, and his 
 father did somewhat blame him. He was provoked that the 
 little scheme of pleasure and improvement, which Edward 
 had anticipated so many weeks, should be frustrated ; and 
 annoyed that he should be disappointed, though the disap- 
 pointment was perfectly voluntary. How could he tell that 
 the man's story was true ? How was he sure the money 
 would produce the good effect he hoped ? He must say he 
 thought it a pity, a very great pity ; a visit to Paris would 
 be so improving ; Mr. Morison's family such a desirable 
 connection — and other regrets, which, without being a very 
 worldly parent, were not perhaps unnatural. 
 
 " My dear father," was Edward's earnest and affectionate 
 rejoinder, " do not be vexed for my sake. A visit to the 
 Continent would no doubt have been improving ; but I will 
 work doubly hard in dear old England, and that, though it 
 may not be as much pleasure, will be just as serviceable. 
 With regard to Miss Morison," his cheek slightly flushed, 
 "if her affections are only to be secured by being constantly 
 at her side, and always playing the lover, there could be no 
 happiness in a nearer connection for either. A separation for 
 three or four months can surely have no effect on real regard, 
 and I am quite willing to subject both myself and Julia to 
 the ordeal. As to not being sure of doing the good I hope 
 — who can be ? I do believe that poor fellow's story, I con- 
 fess, and strongly believe he will do well ; but I do not mean 
 to give the subject another thought, except to work the 
 harder. The money is as much gone as freely given, and I 
 expect as little reward as if I had thrown it on the 
 waters — " 
 
 " Where thou shall find it after many days," continued his 
 mother, so affectionately and approvingly, that Edward threw 
 his arm round her and kissed her tenderly. " You have
 
 "CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS." 387 
 
 done right, my dear boy ; and if Julia Morison does not 
 think so, she is not worthy your love." 
 
 How quick is woman's, above all, a mother's penetration. 
 From the first allusion to Miss Morison in the preceding con- 
 versation, she knew that something had occurred between 
 them to. annoy, if it did not wound her son ; and the moment 
 she heard the story she guessed the actual fact. Perhaps 
 her penetration in this instance was aided by previous obser- 
 vation. She had never liked Miss Morison, desirable as 
 from worldly motives the connection might be. Edward, 
 youth-like, had been captivated by her beauty and vivacity, 
 and gratified by her very marked preference for himself. 
 His complete unconsciousness that he really was the hand- 
 somest and most engaging young man of the town of L , 
 
 by depriving him of all conceit, increased Miss Julia's fas- 
 cination. Mr. Morison was member for the county, and had 
 made himself universally popular ; and certainly took marked 
 
 notice of Edward. The good people of L were too 
 
 simple-minded to discover that their member's attractions were 
 merely graces of manner ; and that he noticed Edward only 
 because he was perfectly secure that his daughter would 
 never do such a foolish thing as to promise her hand to the 
 son of a country attorney, however agreeable he might be. 
 
 Edward's wish to accompany them to the Continent met 
 with decided approval. Mr. Morison thought the young 
 man would save him a great deal of trouble, as a kind of 
 gentleman valet, without a salary ; . and Miss Julia was de- 
 lighted at this unequivocal proof of his devotion, and at the 
 amusement she promised herself in playing off her country 
 beau on the Continent, his simplicity being the shield to cover 
 her manoeuvres ; besides, he would be such an excellent 
 pis aller, that she need never be without a worshipper. 
 
 That such a person could appreciate Edward's real cha- 
 racter, or enter into his motives for, and his disappointment 
 in, not accompanying her, was impossible. For regret, even 
 for anger, he had prepared himself, nay, might have been 
 disappointed had she evinced no emotion ; but for the cold 
 sneer, first of doubt, then of unequivocal contempt, which 
 was her sole rejoinder to his agitated confession, he was not 
 prepared, and it chilled his very heart. Still he tried to deceive 
 himself, and believe that all she said of benevolence, disin- 
 terestedness, and a long et-cetera, was the sympathy he yearned
 
 388 "cast thy bread upon the waters. 
 
 for ; but the tone and manner with which she informed her' 
 father in his presence of his change of purpose, and its' 
 praiseworthy cause, could not, even by a lover more infatu- 
 ated than Edward, have been misunderstood ; his spirit rose, 
 and with it his self-respect. He said very little, but that little 
 convinced both Julia and her father that he was not quite the 
 simpleton which they had supposed him. 
 
 He left them, wounded to the core ; to his warm, generous 
 nature, worldliness was abhorrent even in a man, and in a woman 
 it seemed to him something so unnatural, so revolting, that it 
 dispersed at once the bright creation of his enthusiastic fancy, 
 and displayed Miss Morison almost in her true character. 
 
 Still, notwithstanding all this pain and disappointment, 
 Edward never once regretted the impulse he had followed ; 
 and when, about six or seven months afterwards, he received 
 the most grateful letters from Willie and his father, informing 
 him that the opening offered, though attended with many 
 difficulties, promised fair, he felt the sacrifice was more than 
 recompensed, and from that hour never thought of it him- 
 self again. But his assertion, that he would work the harder 
 to make up for those continental advantages which he had 
 lost, was no idle boast ; he did so well, that even his father 
 forgot his vexation ; and his industry united with great per- 
 sonal economy, enabled him to give his sisters richer and more 
 useful presents than the bijouterie which he had laughingly 
 promised to bring them from France. 
 
 The marriage of Miss Julia Morison with some foreign 
 Count, before six months elapsed, had happily no effect 
 on Edward's equanimity ; it might, nay, it did cause a 
 transient pang, but he recovered it much sooner than his 
 father did the loss of so desirable a connection. 
 
 " Never mind it, sir," was Edward's laughing entreaty ; " I 
 would rather earn my own independence, and make a con- 
 nection through my own exertions than by the richest 
 marriage I could make." 
 
 " That's just like your mother, boy," said his father, some- 
 what pettishly, " as if all depended on one's self." 
 
 "' Thank you for the likeness, father. When I can bring 
 you a daughter to be to me what my mother is to you, I 
 shall have formed a desirable connection, though my wife be 
 not set in gold." 
 
 And this even his father acknowledged, when, two years
 
 "cast thy bread upon the 'WATERS." 389 
 
 •afterwards, Edward married the daughter of their vicar, who 
 proved in his own person that influence is not always insepa- 
 rable from wealth, but may be found with worth as well. 
 Time rolled on ; twenty, thirty years. In the multitude of 
 .great and trifling events, which make up the sum of human 
 life, during those years Edward Langley had so entirely for- 
 gotten the generous deed of his early youth, that he would 
 have found it difficult to recal even the name of Willie's 
 parents. His perseverance and talent had been crowned with 
 .such success, that when only cight-and-twenty he was taken 
 into partnership by one of the first engravers of the metro- 
 polis. For twenty more years the business so flourished as to 
 make all the principals very wealthy men; and Edward looked 
 forward in two or three more years to resign in favour of his 
 son and retire himself from active business. He had never 
 been ambitious, and a series of domestic trials in the loss of 
 six children out of nine, all of that most interesting age when 
 childhood is giving place to youth, caused him to turn with 
 clinging love to those who remained, longing more to enjoy 
 an Englishman's home than to continue amassing wealth. 
 
 Greatly against his wishes and advice, engagements and 
 speculations had been entered into by the firm to an immense 
 extent, more especially with establishments abroad. The 
 dishonesty of distant agents, and the careless supineness, if not 
 equal dishonour, of one of the principals at home, occasioned 
 ruin to all, of course including Langley, though he had been 
 most unjustifiably kept in ignorance of the real extent of 
 their speculating schemes. Yet his high integrity enabled 
 him to bear up against this sudden change of circumstances 
 with more fortitude than any of his companions. 
 
 His wife's little property had never been touched, and he 
 was therefore enabled to retire to a very small cottage in 
 Cheshire, which soon displayed the refined taste and artistic 
 skill of its gentle-minded inmates, to an extent that com- 
 pletely concealed their very humble means. Not that they 
 were ashamed of their poverty ; but the same self-respect that 
 prompted their horror of all pretension, and resolution to live 
 strictly within their means, threw a comfort and refinement 
 around and within their lowly home, which the wealthiest 
 might have envied. 
 
 For himself, Edward Langley would have been as' happy as 
 in the height of his prosperity ; but he could not help feeling
 
 390 "cast thy bread upon the waters." 
 
 a very pardonable pang at this sad change in the prospects of 
 his children. His son, emulating his firmness, sought and 
 obtained an excellent situation in a thriving engraving esta- 
 blishment in Edinburgh, where his father's name and character 
 spoke for him more forcibly than the highest premium. It 
 was on Helen Langley the blow had fallen heaviest ; the only 
 one of his daughters who had reached the age of nineteen 
 (for Fanny was still a child), frail, delicate in seeming as a 
 beautiful flower. She had been nursed in luxury and affec- 
 tion, and guarded from even the approach of a storm ; the 
 deserved darling of all who knew her, rich and poor, her 
 parents' love for her amounted almost to idolatry. Engaged 
 to the son of one of her father's partners, then studying as a 
 physician, a bright and happy future shone before them, 
 when the thunderbolt fell before either had seen a cloud. 
 George Ashley was summoned from Paris just as his diploma 
 was obtained, and he was weaving fairy dreams of a speedy 
 union with his Helen ; recalled, not as he believed, still to 
 study and gradually attain eminence, but to give up all 
 ambitious dreams, and work as a general practitioner for 
 actual subsistence. To marry before he had even the pro- 
 spect of a connection and employment was absolute madness ; 
 to live any distance from Helen he felt was quite as impos- 
 sible ; so he settled himself in the old town of Chester, about 
 three miles from her home, and for her sake exerted himself 
 more than he had once believed was in his nature. At first, 
 youth and excitement beheld only the brighter side ; but after 
 six months' trial, so endless and little remunerating seemed 
 his toil, that he sunk into the deepest despondency, which 
 neither Mr. and Mrs. Langley 's land advice, nor Helen's sweet 
 counsels could remove. 
 
 Fearfully would Mr. Langley look on his darling, dreading 
 that this constant pressure of anxiety and suspense would be 
 as fatal to her as disease had been to her sisters ; but though 
 more serious than had been her disposition before, it was not 
 the seriousness of gloom, but rather of a firm yet gentle 
 spirit, forming internally some resolution which required 
 thought and time for development. Her smile was as 
 joyous, her voice as gleeful, as in happier }^ears ; her pur- 
 suits continued with the same zeal, if not with deeper 
 earnestness. To persuade her to annul her engagement 
 never entered either parent's mind, but the long vista of
 
 "cast thy bread upon the waters." 391 
 
 dreary years which they believed must intervene ere it could 
 be fulfilled, was literally their only thought of anxious and 
 unmitigated gloom. 
 
 " Give me up, Helen ! I have no right to fetter your 
 young life with an engagement which heaven only knows 
 when we shall fulfil," passionately exclaimed young Ashley, 
 about seven months after their misfortunes. " Your sweet 
 face, and sweeter temper, and lovely mind must win you a posi- 
 tion in life far higher than I can ever offer. You were only 
 seen at the ball the other night to be admired." 
 
 " That unfortunate ball ! I only went to gratify papa ; 
 and you are jealous, George, that your poor Helen was ad- 
 mired." 
 
 " No, Helen, no ! I gloried in it ; for I knew you were 
 mine, mine in heart, faith, all but name. But then I thought 
 how selfish, how utterly selfish I was still to claim you ; to 
 behold you wearing out your young life in all the sickness of 
 hope deferred ; when, by resigning you, you might be rich, 
 admired, followed, occupy the station you deserve, and — " 
 
 " Be very happy, dearest George ? This is a strange 
 mood," she said, half reproachfully, half playfully. " Come, 
 send it away, for it is not like you. I am very sorry I can- 
 not oblige you ; but as I consider myself as much yours as if 
 the sacred words had actually been said, you may divorce me 
 if you will, but / will never give you up." 
 
 " Helen, darling Helen ! forgive me," he replied, his re- 
 pentance as impetuous as all his other feelings. " Oh ! if 
 you would but be mine at once, I am sure I should succeed ; 
 with such a comforter, such a cheerer, work would be wel- 
 come. I would never despond again, dearest ; loving 
 as we do, why should we not wed at once ? We must then 
 do well." 
 
 " Must do well because we love, George ? Yes, and so we 
 shall, but not if we wed now. Ah, now you look reproach- 
 fully again. Dearest, you know I would not shrink from 
 any hardship shared with you. I will work with you, work 
 for you, if needed ; but, young as we both are, is it not 
 better to work apart a few years, that we may rest together ? 
 Think what five years may do for both, it may be less ; I 
 put it only to the extent. You are succeeding, and will 
 succeed still more, the more you are known ; but had you a 
 wife and an establishment to support now, even with my \e\y
 
 392 " CAST THY BREAD L'PON THE WATERS." 
 
 hardest exertions, we could not keep free from debt ; and 
 love, potent as it is, could not then guard sorrow from our 
 dwelling. When wedded, if unlooked-for misfortunes come, 
 we will bear them, and comfort and strengthen each othec ; 
 but would it be right, would it be wise to invite them by a 
 too early marriage ? My own dear George, let us work 
 while we have youth and hope, and trust me we shall be 
 very happy yet." 
 
 It was scarcely possible to remain unconvinced by such 
 fond reasoning ; but still Ashlej* referred with deep de- 
 spondency to the long, long interval which must elapse ere 
 that happiness could be obtained. 
 
 " Not so long as you fancy, George. J never mean to be 
 a rich man's wife, though you invited me to be so just now. 
 I do not even intend to wait lor comforts, but only just for 
 that competency which will prevent those evil spirits, care 
 and irritation, from entering our home ; and to forward this, 
 listen to my plan, clearest George." And with some little 
 tremour, fo,r she dreaded his disapproval, she told him that 
 she had accepted an engagement as governess, in a family at 
 Manchester ; a Dr. Murray, who was a widower, with four 
 or five children : she had been mentioned by a mutual friend, 
 and the Doctor was so pleased with Mrs. Norton's account, 
 that he agreed even to give the high salary Helen required, 
 without seeing her. He had said that his mother, who lived 
 with him, was too infirm to bear his children much with her, 
 and he therefore wanted more from his governess than merely 
 to teach ; he was quite willing to pay for it, but a lady he 
 must have." 
 
 " To bear with all his whims and fancies ; to be tormented 
 with spoiled children ; put up with the old woman's infirmi- 
 ties ; be insulted by pampered servants. Helen, you shall 
 not go ! " exclaimed George. 
 
 " Now, George, don't be foolish. I do not expect one of 
 these evils ; and if I meet with them I can bear them, with 
 such a hope before me," she contined, fondfy looking in his 
 face. 
 
 " But governesses are so insulted, so degraded." 
 
 " Not insulted, if they respect themselves ; not degraded, 
 if those they love do not think so. But perhaps, George, 
 you are too proud to marry a governess." 
 
 A passionate reproach was his reply.
 
 " CAST THY BREAD UPON THE "WATERS." 393 
 
 " Well then, love, listen to me a little longer. Mamma 
 still means to allow me enough for my quiet dress, so that I 
 can put by every shilling that I earn ; and only think what 
 that may come to in a few years. Then I have a reason for 
 choosing Manchester as a temporary home ; you know I can 
 draw, but do you not know that I can design — William took 
 so much pleasure in teaching me — and, in a manufacturing 
 town like Manchester, I may not only be able to use this 
 knowledge, but perhaps gradually get introductions which 
 will allow my successful pursuit of the art even as — as your 
 wife, dearest George ; and then, what with our mutual eco- 
 nomy ami mutual savings beforehand, and mutual work after- 
 wards — oh, our future will shine as bright as it did before 
 this storm !" 
 
 " God for ever bless you, Helen, my own darling ! you are 
 indeed my best hope, my best comforter already," murmured 
 George, half choked with strong emotion, which he tried to 
 conceal by pressing her to his bosom, and kissing her 
 cheek. "How can your parents part with you, and what 
 will drive away my fits of gloom, when I cannot come to you 
 for comfort ? " 
 
 "Hope!" was her instant reply, in a tone so glad, so 
 thrilling, that it pervaded his whole being ever afterwards 
 like a spell. " Think, dearest George, of the hundreds who 
 have to labour on, through lonely years, uncheered by either 
 love or hope ; who must work, wearily and unceasingly, only 
 for means of existence. We have health and youth and love, 
 and, above all, mutual faith to sustain us ; and therefore we 
 must be happy. You do not know how powerful is a 
 woman's will." 
 
 " Not more so than man's," replied Ashley, more cheer- 
 fully than he had yet spoken. " Helen, you have shamed 
 me. I will become more worthy of such love." 
 
 Helen looked very much as if she thought that was im- 
 possible, but she did not say so. 
 
 It was no light task this gentle girl had undertaken. 
 Hopefully as she had spoken and felt, her resolution had 
 neither been formed nor matured without suffering, nor had 
 it been the least portion of the trial to win over her parent') 
 to her wishes ; but the wisdom of her plan was so evident, 
 that they conquered all selfish feeling for their child's sake, 
 and tried to be comforted by Mrs. Norton's assurance, that
 
 394 **CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS." 
 
 in Dr. Murray's family Helen would be as comfortable as 
 she could be away from home. 
 
 And so she was. In fact, so kindly was she welcomed and 
 treated, that she could scarcely understand it. Dr. Murray 
 was a man in reality under fifty, but looking much older, 
 from a life of some hardship and much labour, the fruits of 
 which he now enjoyed in the possession of a comfortable 
 income. His manner, in general blunt and rough, always 
 softened towards Helen, whom he ever addressed with such 
 respect, as well as kindness, that all George's terror of her 
 encountering insolence very speedily dispersed. Mrs. 
 Murray had evidently not been born a lady, but her regard 
 for Helen was shown in such a multiplicity of little kind- 
 nesses, that no feeling could be excited towards her but 
 gratitude and love. Constantly as she was occupied with 
 her pupils, Helen's careful economy of time yet enabled her 
 actually to accomplish the purpose she had in her mind when 
 she chose Manchester for her residence. The idle, nay even 
 the less energetic, would have declared it was impossible for 
 any one person to do what she did ; but not even the Doctor 
 or his mother knew how her moments of made leisure were 
 employed. 
 
 So nearly three years glided by ; Helen's health, instead 
 of failing, as her friends had feared, actually improved ; and 
 George declared there must have been some spell in her 
 words or her example, for his prospects were brightening 
 every year. Helen only smiled, and told him that the 
 spell was simply in his own more hopeful exertions. 
 
 Dr. Murray's house was the frequent resort not only 
 of men of talent from the higher ranks, but frequently of 
 clever manufacturers and artificers, in whose works the 
 Doctor and his mother were always particularly interested. 
 It happened that Helen was present one evening when one of 
 these gentlemen was regretting his inability to procure an 
 appropriate design for some window curtains, of a new 
 material, which he had invented ; being no artist himself, he 
 could not perhaps define his wishes with sufficient techni- 
 cality, but all which he had seen were either so small as to 
 have no effect, or so large as to look coarse and common. 
 Before he departed the conversation changed, and Dr. Murray 
 thought no more about it, until at a very early hour the next 
 morning Helen entered his study with a roll of paper, which
 
 "cast thy bread upon the waters. 395 
 
 she asked him to examine, and tell her if he thought it the 
 kind of thing Mr. Grey required. His astonishment that 
 she should remember any thing about it was only equalled by 
 his admiration of her work. So great was his delight, that 
 he declared he would convey it to Mr. Grey himself, and get 
 her something handsome for it. He was not disappointed. 
 Mr. Grey seized it with rapture, declared it was the very 
 thing he meant ; offered to pay any sum for it, and was 
 struck dumb with astonishment, when told it was designed 
 by the elegant young lady to whom he had been introduced 
 the previous night, and whom he had scarcely deigned to 
 notice, believing her the same as most young ladies — a very 
 pretty but a very useless piece of goods. One of his young 
 men, who had been eagerly examining it, said he was sine 
 it was by the same hand as several other elegant designs 
 which they had been in the habit of purchasing the last two 
 3'ears, but the name of whose inventor they had never been 
 able to discover. He brought some, aud compared them, 
 and even the Docter's unpractised eye could discern the 
 same hand throughout. But how could Miss Langley have 
 accomplished all this, and yet so done her duty to his 
 children ? It was incomprehensible ; and the good Doctor 
 hurried home to have the mystery solved. Helen speedily 
 explained it, adding ingenuously, that she had worked in 
 secret, only because she feared the Doctor or his friends 
 might think she must neglect her duty to her charge to 
 pursue this employment ; but since he had expressed such 
 perfect satisfaction, she had resolved on taking the first 
 opportunity to tell him all. 
 
 " But my good young lad)' - , you must have some very 
 strong incentive for all this exertion." Blushing deeply, 
 Helen acknowledged that she had. " Is it a secret, my dear 
 child ?" 
 
 For a minute she hesitated, then frankly told her story. 
 The Doctor was so much affected by it as to surprise her, 
 and expressed the most unfeigned regret that he had not 
 known it before. 
 
 Not a fortnight afterwards, Mr. Grey sought an interview 
 with Miss Langley : he wished, he said, to monopolize her 
 talents, and offered, in consequence, with sufficient liberality 
 as to tempt her to adhere to his employment, instead of 
 taking the chance of larger remuneration for occasional
 
 396 "cast thy bread upon the waters." 
 
 designs; It was for this Helen had worked and prayed and 
 hoped — this which she had looked to, to follow even as a 
 wife, and in her husband's house ; and therefore we leave to 
 our reader's imagination the gratitude with which it was 
 accepted, the joy with which she wrote to her parents, to 
 George, to whom her woman's heart so yearned in that 
 moment of rejoicing, that for the first time since she had 
 loved him she could scarcely write for tears. But the letters 
 she received in reply sadly alloyed this dawning happiness. 
 Her sister Fanny was dangerously ill ; the same age, the same 
 disease which had been so fatal to her family. All George's 
 skill, and it was great, had been ineffectual ; nothing could 
 save her, the distracted father wrote ; she was doomed like 
 all the rest. But to Helen there was no such word as doom. 
 She flew to the Doctor, repeated to him as well as she could 
 the symptoms, and the remedies applied, conjuring him to 
 think of something which would alleviate, if it could not 
 cure. What could she write ? 
 
 " Write, my dear child ! that will be of little use ; we 
 will go together." And though there were no railroads in 
 that direction, man's omnipotent will carried Helen and the 
 Doctor to Mr Langley's cottage in so short a space, that it 
 seemed to Helen like the transfigurations of a dream. 
 
 For four days fearful were the alternations of hope and 
 dread ; the fifth, hope predominated, and by the end of the 
 week, promptness and skill in the adoption of an entirely 
 new mode of treatment were so successful, that Dr. Murray 
 was blessed again and again by the enraptured parents as, 
 under heaven, the preserver of their child. But, though all 
 danger was over, the Doctor did not offer to quit the cottage 
 for another week, which time he spent mostly in his patient's 
 room, and in earnest conversation with young Ashley. 
 Helen had intended to remain in his family till he could meet 
 with some one to supply her place ; but this he now declared 
 should not be. She must be wanted at home, at least till 
 she could finish her preparations for entering another ; for, if 
 he were George, he would not wait another month ; she had 
 had her own will too long already, and the future was bright 
 enough now to permit him to have his. Helen's hand was 
 clasped in her j'oung sister's as the good Doctor spoke, but 
 George's arm was round her, and her reply seemed to satisfy 
 all parties.
 
 "cast thy bread upon the waters." 397 
 
 All Mr. Langley's attempts to obtain a private interview 
 with his guest were ineffectual until the clay of his intended 
 departure, when, with trembling hands and swimming eyes, 
 he tried to press a pocket-book into the Doctor's hand. " It 
 is inadequate, wholly inadequate," he said, with emotion. 
 "You have saved my child ; so restored her, that she is better 
 than she has been since her birth. You have given us your 
 time, your skill, and you shrink even from my thanks. 
 Were 1 a rich man, I should feel as I do now, that a fortune 
 could not repay you ; but, as a poor man, do not insult me by 
 refusing the fee I can bestow.'' 
 
 " Mr. Langley," was the reply, " I tell you truth, when I 
 assure you that you owe me nothing. I am in your debt far 
 more, far more than my professional skill ever could repay." 
 
 " In my debt, Doctor? Ah, you mean my Helen's services ; 
 but those you have so liberally remunerated, and treated 
 her with such kindness, that you have made me your debtor 
 even there. No, no, I cannot allow Helen, precious as she is, 
 to come between me and justice." 
 
 " I do not allude to Miss Langle} r , sir," a*nd the Doctor 
 spoke as if addressing a superior. " Her inestimable services 
 to me and mine, indeed nothing can repay ; but it was not 
 for her sake I came to you. The debt I allude to is of more 
 than thirty years' standing, and is due to j 7 ou alone. On my 
 first return to England, your position was higher, your fortune 
 far superior to mine ; and had I then sought you, it might 
 still have been to receive benefits at your hand. In your 
 noble endurance of misfortune, it would have been an insult 
 to have discharged my debt, and therefore I waited and 
 prayed for some opportunity not only to do justice, but to 
 evince gratitude. If I have made your child happy, and 
 shortened the term of her heroic exertions, ) r ou owe it to 
 yourself. I could not take from you even the full amount of 
 this visit, regarding it merely as professional, for I owe you 
 in actual money more than that." Mr. Langley looked and 
 expressed bewilderment ; the Doctor's manner was too earnest 
 to permit a doubt; but he tried in vain to recal to what he 
 could allude. 
 
 " Have you so completely forgotten Willie Murray, 
 Mr. Edward ?." continued his companion, much agitated. 
 " Willie Murray, the poor boy you not only saved from sin, 
 but made so happy by your generous kindness to his family.
 
 303 "cast thy bread upon the waters." 
 
 Mr. Langley, I am that boy ; my character, my success I owe 
 How can such a debt ever be repaid ?" 
 
 Mr. Langley's astonishment was so great, as literally to 
 ?e liim for the moment of words. He only remembered 
 Willie Murray as a pale, thin, intellectual boy of fifteen. 
 To recognise him in the tall, stout, somewhat aged-looking 
 man before him, required more imagination than be chanced 
 to possess ; but to doubt the identity was impossible. He 
 1 his hand warmly, and insisted on his giving him that 
 very hour the history of his life. Our readers, however, must 
 be contented with a very brief sketch of these details. Suf- 
 fice it, that neither Willie nor his father rose to indepen- 
 dence without constant toil and unwearying perseverance. 
 Profiting by the trials of earlier years, the elder Murray 
 laboured with an energy and skill which, until his timely re- 
 l( ■ from prison, had appeared foreign to his character. 
 Many difficulties he had to encounter ; but once the manufac- 
 tory established, competence was secured ; and as his labour 
 rather increased than slackened, fortune followed. His son's 
 marked preference for the medical profession grieved him at 
 first, but he lived long enough to see that he had chosen 
 , and at his death left all his children comfortably pro- 
 vided for, each possessing a share in the manufactory which 
 his energy had established. Willie had always yearned to re- 
 turn to England, and did so directly he became a widower, 
 his mother gladly accompanying him. He had finished his 
 d education in France, had a large practice in America, 
 and, from his general intelligence, proved skill, and wide- 
 handed benevolence, very speedily became popular in 
 England. But amid all the chances and changes of his busy 
 life, neither the fearful temptation of his boyhood nor Edward 
 Langley 's generous kindness had ever been forgotten. 
 
 Joyous indeed, and full of hope, was Helen Langley 's bridal 
 morn, though neither pomp nor fashion attended it, such as 
 might have been the case some few years before. On retiring 
 to change her dress, Helen found a heavy packet, directed to 
 Mrs. George Ashley, on her table. It was a purse, containing 
 three hundred sovereigns, with the following brief lines : — 
 
 "This is your father's gift, though it comes through me. I do but 
 return a sum lent by him to me and mine, with the accumulated interest 
 of three-and-tbirty years. It is now added to the store earned by Helen 
 Langley's meritorious exertions. " William Mup.uay."
 
 "cast thy bread upon the waters." 399 
 
 " Mother ! " exclaimed Mr. Langley, after perusing th'u 
 iiote, and turning to his now aged parent with some emotion,, 
 " do you remember your words, when I told you the money 
 was as freely given, and I expected as little reward as if I 
 had thrown it on the waters, 'that I should find it after 
 many days V You were right, I have found it indeed !"
 
 400 
 
 ^{j£ fettmnli 0f Sofa. 
 
 Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth, 
 Unseen, both when we sleejj, and when we wake. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 I. 
 
 It was a scene of unrivalled beauty ; yet might some marvel 
 wherefore it Avas thus created, so far removed from mortal 
 ken, so severed from the habitations of sin and death, that 
 foot of man had never sullied the pure fresh green of the 
 velvet grass ; mortal hand had never culled the brilliant 
 flowers, gemming each silvery stream ; corporeal sense had 
 never been regaled by their fragrant breath, or lulled by the 
 sweet music of the waters. The leafy branches of the 
 ancient trees stretched forth their deep green shadows, and 
 hill, and stream, and valley, each clothed in its own peculiar 
 beauty, derived fresh charms, as the seasons softly and 
 silently sped by, leaving bright tokens as they sped. The 
 stars still smiled at their own sparkling rays gleaming up 
 from the gushing water ; the pensive moon still touched the 
 glossy leaves with her diamond pencil, still lingered on the 
 verdant mount, leaving rich shadows on the luxuriant vales ; 
 the sun still sent forth its bright beams, to revive and cherish 
 the glistening flowers, to whisper of his unfailing love ; still 
 did he bid them drink up the dewdrops, which, trembling 
 beneath his earnest gaze, yet sprung up from their homes at 
 'his first call, eager to lose themselves in him. Day, in his 
 mirth and light, gave place to silent and shadowy night ; and 
 night again to day. Yet man was not there, and wherefore 
 had such loveliness birth ? — wherefore was it so continually 
 renewed ? 
 
 Man would joy in the contemplation of beauty, such as 
 this scene presented; yet his imperfect vision would see no 
 further than mount and vale, and trees and shrubs, and 
 streams and flowers ; he would hear nought but the rustle of 
 the leaf, the murmur of the breeze, the music of the brook, 
 the luscious scents floating on the breeze, would be but indis- 
 tinctly distinguished, and his fancy perchance yearn towards
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 401 
 
 them, and long for perfume more defined, even as we some- 
 times seek to unite into sweet melody the thrilling notes, 
 which, one by one, at dreamy intervals, linger on the distant 
 air ; and these things he would hear, and feel, and see, and 
 dream not there were sights and sounds hovering around him 
 too pure, too spiritual for earthly sense. 
 
 There were glorious spirits — angelic beings floating on 
 the ambient air, and lingering beside the waters, and 
 sporting with the jewelled buds. There were rich tones 
 lingering on the breeze — sweet thrilling voices mingling 
 wit! i golden harps and silvery flutes; there were luscious 
 scents ascending to the arching heaven ; even as if, guided 
 by ministering spirits, each floweret sent up her grateful 
 incense to the throne of her Creator. As the dazzling flash 
 of the diamond, the softer gleam of the emerald, the radiant 
 beam of the sapphire, the intense rays of the ruby, so shone 
 these beautiful beings, as they fleeted to and fro on their 
 respective tasks. Some replenishing the brooks with living 
 waters from vases which seemed moulded from precious 
 gems. Some tending the flowers, inhaling and bestowing 
 fragrance, or whispering those sweet memories, with which 
 man ever finds the flowers of the desert rilled. Some linger- 
 ing in groups upon the mount, crowning its flowery brow as 
 with a circlet of living rays. Some flying downwards, 
 agitating the valley with soft delicious winds, and others 
 freshening the rich tints of the far-spreading foliage ; and 
 far and near their voices sounded in one rich hymn of praise, 
 whose theme was love ; and the golden harps prolonged the 
 hallelujahs, sounding up through the blue realms of space, 
 till they mingled with the deeper, mightier harmonies around 
 the Eternal's throne, bearing along its thrilling echo, joined 
 by innumerable voices till the whole air seemed filled with 
 song, and still that song was Love ! 
 
 Beautiful as were these celestial spirits — beautiful and 
 blessed above all conception of finite man — yet they were not 
 of the highest class of angels. 
 
 Incapable of sin, unconscious of pain or sorrow, but not 
 yet admitted to hover over the dwelling of man, to minister 
 unto the afflicted, to tend the couch of the dying, to whisper 
 of rest to the weary, hope to the desponding, joy to the 
 mourner. 
 
 Sensible of the Eternal's presence, their bliss made perfect 
 
 DD
 
 402 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 
 
 in His glory, their task was to watch and tend inanimate 
 creation ; — to sing His praises amidst the glorious shrines of 
 nature, till His works proclaimed Him unto man. 
 
 Activity and obedience were the sole virtues demanded of 
 these celestial beings in the tasks above enumerated, and 
 when these had been sufficiently exercised, they graduated 
 to a higher order of angels, nearer the Eternal's throne, who 
 were permitted to receive His will and make it known to 
 man. The desire to obtain this privilege was lively in all, 
 but far removed from that grosser passion known to man as 
 ambition. In them it did but add zest to enjoyment ; give 
 energy to love, inspiration to obedience. Faith they needed 
 not ; for to them the Eternal was revealed. Anticipation was 
 lost in fulfilment — hope in completion. Their nature was 
 not susceptible of a deeper sense of bliss ; but as they 
 ascended higher and higher in the scale of angels, the 
 deeper, fuller, more glor ous blessedness was met by a nature 
 yet more purified, spiritualized, exalted, fitted for its reception, 
 and strengthened to retain it. 
 
 II. 
 
 Reposing on a sunbeam lingering on the brow of a hill, a 
 spirit lay, apart from his fellows. His brow was wreathed 
 with the opal, emerald, and ruby ; so blending their several 
 rays that they seemed but as a circlet of ever-changing 
 light. His long flowing hair shone as if each clustering 
 ringlet had been bathed in the liquid diamond. His downy 
 wings, woven of every shade, gently waved in air, wafting 
 the richest perfume, and dyeing the sunbeam on which he 
 lay in every brilliant tint. A light mist enveloped his 
 angelic form — softening, not lessening, his resplendent love- 
 liness. His eye shone as the midnight star ; a bloom, 
 softer, lovelier, purer than the earliest rose, played on his 
 cheek ; sparkling smiles wreathed his lips. He spoke, and 
 his voice was music, though his golden harp lay silent by his 
 side. 
 
 " Love ! love ; " he murmured. " Hallelujah to the Lord 
 of love ! Let the full choirs of heaven chant forth the 
 immortal theme ; proclaim, proclaim Him Love ! Earth ! 
 air ! ocean ! shout with your hundred tongues, send up your 
 echo to the voice of heaven ! Man. art thou insensible ? —
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 40?> 
 
 Hearest thou not these living tones ? — Can doubt be thine, 
 as I have heard whispered in the celestial courts ? Created 
 by Love — placed in a world of Love — distant as thou art, yet 
 cherished and beloved by Love, destined for immortal union 
 with the Love that gave thee being ! — canst thou be faith- 
 less, canst thou be senseless ? — when above, below, around, 
 Avithin, soundeth the deep eternal voice of Love ! Oh, in- 
 sensates, if such things be ! Immortal glory, bliss unfading, 
 can it be for } r e ! " 
 
 Awhile he paused. A slight shadow passed athwart the 
 brilliant rays with which he was encircled. He folded hisi 
 wings around him, and laid his brow upon them. 
 
 " My thought has been rebuked," he said ; " I have done 
 ill. Enough for me the consciousness of love. Wherefore 
 should I condemn, as yet unworthy to look on man ? Let 
 the hallelujahs sound forth again. Glory to the Eternal! — 
 His works are wisdom, His thoughts are love ! " 
 
 He swept his hand across his harp — the shadow had 
 departed from his wings ; — his chaplet shot forth again its 
 living light. Celestial music flowed forth from his voice'and 
 hand : — the spirit smiled once more. Suddenly the halle- 
 lujahs ceased. To the eye of man twilight had descended ; 
 the stars began to light up the dark blue heavens. Mortal 
 virion might trace the semblance of a falling meteor of un- 
 wonted brilliance, dropping into space. The purified orbs of 
 the seraph crowd knew that one of the highest class of 
 angels was departing from his resplendent seat, and winging 
 his flight towards them. Instantly they rose up from their 
 several resting-places, forming in files of unutterable brilliance. 
 Increased happiness shed a new lustre on their brows, and 
 heightened the glowing iris of their wings. One alone felt 
 penetrated with an awe, which slightly lessened the feelings 
 of joy which the visit of an angel ever caused. He feared 
 it was to him the celestial mission came : that his con- 
 demnation of beings, whose nature and whose trials he knew 
 not, had exposed him to censure, perhaps to a longer banish- 
 ment from the higher spheres of glory ; and while his 
 brother spirits thronged round the favoured minister, to bask 
 in the resplendent brightness of his smiles, to list to the 
 words of melody flowing from his lip.;, to gaze on the mild 
 yet thrilling softness of his celestial features, Zephon stood 
 aloof, for the first time shrinkiug from the glance and voice
 
 404 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 
 
 he loved. He saw not that the glittering helm and dazzling 
 sword were laid aside, that his brow was wreathed with the 
 softly gleaming pearl, his shining wings glistening through 
 silvery radiance, bespeaking tenderness and mercy, and not 
 now the wrath and chastisement of which, at his Maker's 
 will, he was at times the minister. 
 
 His voice, melodious and thrilling as the silver trumpets 
 of the empyreal heavens, sounded through space, as it called 
 " Zephon ! " The seraph paused not a moment, but darting 
 through the incensed air, prostrated himself at the archangel's 
 feet. 
 
 "Arise! and fear not, youthful brother," spake the mes- 
 senger of the Eternal, departing not from the grave majesty 
 of his demeanour, but smiling with such ineffable sweetness, 
 the seraph felt its reviving influence, and spread forth his 
 silken pinions rejoicingly again. " I come, the harbinger of 
 peace and love. Thine impassioned zeal was checked ere it 
 became a fault — checked ere it led thee to desire forbidden 
 knowledge. Charged with a message of love and mercy 
 from the Most High, I have besought and obtained per- 
 mission to take thee as my companion. To thine imperfect 
 vision it seemeth strange that man, so especially the beloved, 
 the cherished of the Eternal, framed to display, to uphold 
 His stupendous power, to proclaim His might — His love — 
 should ever fail either in obedience or adoration. Thou hast 
 heard that such has been ; for where sin hath so fearfully 
 prevailed that an immortal spirit has been excluded from 
 these glorious realms, a dim shadow hath spread over 
 Heaven's resplendent courts, and the celestial spirits of 
 every rank have prostrated themselves before the invisible 
 yet terrible Presence, adoring justice, while they supplicated 
 mercy. Zephon ! not yet may be revealed to thee the 
 glorious mystery of the Eternal's secret ways. Thou mayst 
 gaze with me on the earthly beings I have charge to tend ; 
 but it is forbidden thee to ask or seek the wherefore of what 
 thou seest. Thou wilt behold, even in this limited glance, 
 enough to prove, that even if the human heart refuseth to 
 send up its thrilling echo to the theme of Love, which thy 
 zeal demandeth, the unfathomable love of its benignant 
 Creator will receive and bless its faintest sigh ; for to Him, 
 and to Him alone is known the extent of its trial — the 
 bitterness of its grief— the difficulty of its belief in an ever-
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 405 
 
 acting love. Zephon ! if still thou wilt, thou shalt look on 
 the human heart : yet pause awhile ; — is thy love sufficiently 
 strong to uphold thee in the contemplation of decrees, whose 
 motives thou art not yet permitted to conceive? In thy 
 blissful dwelling, thou hast no need of Faith ; thou knowest 
 not even its name ; but if with me thou goest, Faith must 
 be thy safeguard. Here thine eye seeth, thine ear heareth, 
 nought but love ; there it may be darkly hidden from thee. 
 Yet if thy faith or thy love should fail, if thou demandest the 
 wherefore of what thou seest, it is of our Father's will, that 
 thou shalt be banished unto earth — banished from this 
 glorious abode, condemned to struggle with the ills and 
 sorrows of mortality, till pure and perfect faith shine forth, 
 and fit thee once again for heaven. Speak then, my brother ; 
 wilt thou depart with me, or still linger here ? The choice 
 is now thine own." 
 
 Awhile the seraph paused ; the face of the archangel 
 beamed on him with compassionating tenderness and re- 
 doubled love. The looks of his brother spirits,* the soft 
 fluttering of their wings, seemed to woo him to remain, to 
 entreat him not to tempt the fate threatened if his love should 
 fail, and therefore did he pause. 
 
 " No, no ! wherefore should I fear ?" he cried ; " I will go 
 with thee, minister of love. I will look upon my Father's 
 dearest work, and despite of mystery and gloom — of sorrow 
 — of pain, I will love and bless Him still ! " 
 
 A fuller, richer burst of melody filled the realms of air ; 
 thousands and thousands of voices swelled forth in tri- 
 umphant harmony. A starry cloud descended, and, folded 
 in its spangled robe, the departing spirits vanished into 
 space. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Thy wish is fulfilled ; the peculiar treasure of our Father 
 is revealed. Zephon, behold !" the angel spake, as the 
 shrouding cloud rolled away towards the fields of ether, and 
 the celestial spirits hovered over the abode of man. A 
 sudden, an indescribable consciousness of increased powers, 
 of heightened intellect, shot from the starry eyes of the 
 youthful seraph. Man in his majesty, his beauty — bearing 
 in his every movement, his exquisitely-formed frame, his
 
 -106 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 
 
 complicated economy of being, yet more impressive, more 
 startling evidence of the might, the wisdom, the benevolence 
 of his glorious Maker, than even the source of the river, 
 the structure of the flower, the growth of the tree, over 
 which the seraph had presided, finding even in such things 
 ample scope for the soaring intellect which characterised his 
 race. Man, proceeding from, destined for, immortality — the 
 beloved, the peculiar care and treasure of the Eternal — man, 
 beautiful man, stood revealed before him. Yet amidst the 
 thronging multitude on which he gazed, but one heart, in 
 all its varied impulses, its hidden throbs and incongruous 
 thoughts and ever-changing fancies — but one beautiful in- 
 tellect, in all its secret powers and extent, was open to his 
 inspection ; and lovely, even to the eyes of a spirit, was the 
 being in whom such glorious things were shrined. 
 
 She was a j'oung and noble maiden, perfect in form and 
 face ; her virtues scarce sullied by a stain of earth, although, 
 from the spirit of Poetry, the living fount of Genius, dwelling 
 within, open to grief and trial, even from the faintest breath 
 too rudely jarring on 'the heavenly-strung chords with which 
 her heart was filled. A deep, lowly, clinging piety was ever 
 ready to check the first impulse of impatience, to turn to the 
 sweet joys of sympathy and universal love the too vivid 
 sense of sorrow either for herself or others. Humility was 
 there, to lift up that young spirit in thankfulness to its 
 Creator, and to devote that powerful intellect, ever seeming 
 to bear all difficulties before it, to His service in the good of 
 her fellow-creatures. 
 
 Zephon saw that the praise of man was a source of pure, 
 inspiring pleasure _; but instead of filling her soul with pride, 
 it ever bore it up in increased devotion to its God. He marked 
 her graceful form, sporting to and fro amid the stately 
 domains of her lordly ancestors. He marked the love of 
 parents, brothers, friends, that ever thronged around her, and 
 the fulness of joy that love bestowed. He saw, too, the im- 
 passionate longings for yet stronger love, the yearnings for 
 fame ; appreciation, not alone from the noble and the gay, but 
 from the gifted and the good : the desire to awake, by the 
 magic touch of genius, the same thrilling chords in other 
 hearts, as the spell of others had revealed in hers. 
 
 The seraph looked long and earnestly. Suddenly he 
 saw her standing in the centre of a lordly room, and
 
 THE TRIUMPH OP LOVE. 407 
 
 loving and admiring friends around her ; her lip, her eye, 
 her heart breathed joy, well-nigh as full and shadow- 
 less as the blessedness of heaven. After awhile the angel 
 spake. 
 
 " There is nought here to call for Faith," he said. " Yon 
 favourite child of genius but awakens deeper yet more 
 adoring love. Her lot is blessedness ; her heart so pure, 
 earth hath scarce power to stain that bliss. But now look 
 yonder, Zephon. Seest thou amidst the multitude a being 
 equally, though differently lovely — equally powerful in in- 
 tellect, equally the child of genius, as richly gifted, alike in 
 wisdom as in virtue, as fully susceptible of joy and sorrow ; 
 the same feelings, the same desires, the same deep yearnings 
 for love on which to rest, for appreciation, fame ; the same 
 strung heart, thrilling to melody as keenly as to neglect. 
 Mark well, young brother, and thou wilt trace these 
 things." 
 
 Anxiously the seraph gazed, and again he was conscious 
 of sufficient power to read the human heart. Again, amidst 
 the multitude, one gentle being stood unveiled before him ; 
 and, save for the difference in form and face, he had thought 
 perchance it was the same on whom he had gazed before, so 
 .similar were their virtues, powers, temperament, and genius ; 
 — similar in all things, save that the sense of bliss in the one 
 already appeared more chastened, more timid than in the 
 other. He looked, then turned inquiringly towards his com- 
 panion. 
 
 "The will of the Eternal," he said, in answer, "produced 
 at the same instant these lovely beings, and breathed into 
 both the spirit which thou seest. Their souls are twin- 
 BORN — twin-born in sensation, in power, in beauty, formed 
 of the highest, most ethereal essence, and thus creating that 
 which earth terms genius ; destined at the .same moment to 
 animate the beautiful habitation formed for each, and at the 
 same moment depart from it. Until now, their fate hath been, 
 with little variation, the same, differing only according to 
 their station ; the one standing amidst the highest and 
 noblest of her land, findeth fit companions for that noble- 
 ness and refinement indivisible from genius ; the other 
 already feeleth there is that within her incomprehensible 
 to those around her ; yet is the consciousness of little 
 moment, for freely and joyously she roams aniM the varied
 
 408 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 
 
 scenes of nature. She mingles but with those eager and 
 anxious to enhance her innocent pleasures — to give to her 
 exalted mind and gentle virtues the homage naturally their 
 due. She looks on the world from a distance, and hath 
 peopled it with all things fond, and bright, and beautiful, 
 which take their exquisite colouring from her own lovely and 
 loving mind. She yearns for appreciation, as thou seest — 
 for the praise of the multitude won by her talents, but she 
 asks not to mingle with them. She seeks but the love of 
 one, and the proud consciousness of doing good to many. 
 She demands not a statelier home, a prouder station. Thus, 
 then, thou seest the earthly fate of these twin-born spirits 
 hath rolled on the same ; but now it is the will of the All- 
 wise, All-merciful, All-just, that a shadowy change should pass 
 over the one, and bliss, fuller, dearer, perfect as earth may feel, 
 be dawning for the other. Thou hast marked the quick throb of 
 joy now playing on the heart of the noble child of genius. She 
 beholds her first triumph in the book she clasps. The 
 thoughts that breathe, the words that burn, have found their 
 echo in the multitude, and loving friends throng around to 
 proclaim her dawning fame. There are tears in those lovely 
 eyes ; but 'tis a mother's voice of love, of tenderness, that 
 calls them there. See, clasped to a parent's bosom, the 
 swelling fulness of the spirit finds vent in tears, for joy, that 
 pure, stainless joy, which is sent as the dim whisperings of 
 heaven, ever turns to pain on earth, and had it not relief in 
 tears, would bear the soul away to that world of which it 
 speaks. She hath flown from the detaining throng, and 
 hark ! — hearest thou not the hymn of thanksgiving ascending 
 upon high, till the tumultuous joy subsides, and peace is 
 gained once more ?" 
 
 He ceased ; a brighter radiance passed over his benignant 
 brow, and the voice of the seraph spontaneously flowed forth 
 in kindred harmony with the hymn of earth, bearing it oru 
 the wings of melody to the realms of song. 'Twas hushed,, 
 and the Hierarch again spake. 
 
 "Behold!" he said, the music of his voice subdued and ; 
 softened, "behold, yet murmur not! It is the will of the- 
 Eternal, and therefore it is well." 
 
 The seraph gazed on a changed and darkened scene. — As 
 deep, as full as was the bliss from which his eye had that 
 moment turned, so deep, so intense was the anguish he now
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 40 9' 
 
 beheld. The gentle being in -whom that twin-born spirit 
 breathed, knelt beside the couch of the dead. He marked 
 the wrung and bleeding heart; he read its utter loneliness, 
 its agonized despair ; he read it was a mother's loss she 
 mourned — a more than mother, for by her, by her alone, 
 her child's ethereal soul, her fond imaginings, her strong 
 affections had been known, and loved, and fostered ; to her, 
 her beautiful had ever come, to seek and find that sympathy 
 which she found not in another — and she was gone, and the 
 dark troubled strivings of that desolate heart not yet could 
 deem it love. 
 
 " She weeps, and shall we condemn, young brother, that 
 not yet her voice may join in the universal hymn ? She 
 weeps, yet knows not all her woe. The stability, the honour, 
 the strength of her father were derived from the mild 
 counsels, the gentle unobtrusive virtues of her mother ; in 
 him they have no stay. That moral evil, too darkly preva- 
 lent on earth, once more will gain dominion, and the joys of 
 the innocent, the helpless, are blighted 'neath its poison. On 
 earth she stands alone — yet hark ! What means that burst 
 of triumph in the skies ? " 
 
 Ineffably brilliant was the smile on the countenance of the 
 angel ; and Zephon, startled, yet entranced, looked again on 
 that bleeding heart. The dark and troubled waves within 
 were stilled ; there was no voice — no sign ; but the lamp of 
 faith was lit ; her soul had murmured Love! and bowed, 
 adoring and resigned. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Again did the youthful spirit gaze clown on earthly joy, 
 chastened in its fulness, yet ecstatic in its nature. Love, 
 pure, perfect, faithful love, had twined around that fair and 
 gifted child of earth, and filled the blank which yet remained ; 
 though fame, appreciation, triumph, sympath}', affection, all 
 were hers. She had found a kindred soul, round which to 
 weave the clinging tendrils of her own ; virtues to revere, 
 piety to support, uphold, and cherish the soarings of her 
 own. She had found one whose praise might still those 
 passionate yearnings, the which to satisfy she had vainly 
 looked to fame ; — one, from whose lips how sweet became 
 the praise of the world ; — one to give new zest to hei jxalted
 
 410 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 
 
 genius ; for by him it was most valued, most beloved ; 
 Zephon looked on the beautiful blossoming of genius, the 
 expansion of intellect, the flowering of every budding hope ; 
 and he saw, too, the chastened humility, the unwavering love, 
 which traced these rich gifts to their source, and lifted up her 
 heart in universal love and grateful adoration ; and again his 
 voice joined hers in thanksgiving. 
 
 Once more, at the voice of the archangel, he sought and 
 found the kindred essence, and love was on that heart, deep 
 mighty, whelming love, bearing before it for awhile even the 
 sere and withered leaves, with which its depths were 
 strewed. He looked on the wreck of that which he had 
 seen so lovely — the wreck of all save the gentle virtues, the 
 meek submission which had characterised her youth ; the 
 rosy dreams, the glowing visions presented but a crushed and 
 broken mass ; their bright fragments seeking ever to unite, 
 but ever rudely severed. Genius, in its deep, wild burnings, 
 its impassioned breathing, feeding as a smothered fire upon 
 her own young heart, seeking ever to find a vent, an echo — 
 to be known, acknowledged, loved ; but falling back with 
 every effort, till even genius seemed increase of sorrow — and 
 hope yet glimmered there, pale, sickly, shadowy, in its faint 
 rays emitting but increase of light, to be immersed in deeper 
 gloom. And love was there, intense, all-mighty, yet it 
 brought no joy. 
 
 " &he loves — she was beloved," again spake the angelic 
 voice ; but the sin of the father is visited upon the child. 
 A little while he appeared devoted unto her, and to the 
 memory of the departed ; and though he led her from the 
 scenes she loved, to mingle more closely with the world, his 
 affection soothed, his hopes inspired ; but he knew not the 
 ethereal nature of that soul, and the scenes which earth terms 
 gay and joyous touched no answering chord in her, and led 
 him once again astray. Yet, for a brief while, happiness was 
 hers, banishing those vain yearnings, ever proceeding from a 
 soul too sensitive for earth ; but the same hour which awoke 
 her to a consciousness of love, given and returned, turned 
 back that fountain of bliss upon her seared and withered 
 heart, and changed it into gall. The child of a dishonoured 
 parent was no tit mate for nobleness and honour, and earth 
 is lone once more." 
 
 Tears, the sweet bright tears that angels weep, bedewed
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 411 
 
 the eyes of the seraph ; yet riveted their gaze on that one sad 
 child of earth, as if in its dark and troubled chaos there 
 was yet more to read. He saw, too, the slight and beautiful 
 shell in which that spirit was enshrined quivering beneath 
 the tempest till at length it lay prostrate and unhinged, and 
 intense bodily suffering heightened mental ill. 
 
 " 'Tis the struggle for submission and resignation that 
 hath done this," continued the angel. " Seest thou no 
 dream of unbelief, no murmur of complaint hath entered 
 that heart ; anguish may wither up the swelling hymn, may 
 check the voice of love, but faith is there ! And mark ! 
 though, in His unquestionable wisdom, the Eternal's will is 
 to atilict, though in impenetrable darkness, save to those 
 beside His throne, He hideth the secret wherefore of that 
 will, invisibly His ministers are charged to hover round 
 His favoured child, to comfort and sustain, though lone and 
 desolate on earth! Behold ? " 
 
 Bright, beautiful spirits, robed in light and glory, hovered 
 round the couch of sorrow ; yet earth hid them from their 
 kindred essence. She saw them not ; felt not the mild 
 reviving influence of their spiritual presence, save that 
 gradually and slowly the chains which bound those beauti- 
 ful limbs were loosed. The whirlwind sweeping over that 
 heart subsided into partial calm ; and strength was given 
 her to struggle on and live. 
 
 Zephon looked on the child of sorrow, and a faint shadow 
 stole over the brilliant iris of his wings ; the living rays on 
 his brow grew dim. 
 
 V. 
 
 Again did the seraph look down on earth, again did he 
 gaze on the favoured child of joy. The ecstatic sense of 
 bliss he had marked before had subsided into happiness as 
 full, as pure, as thrilling, yet chastened in its fulness. There 
 were young and lovely forms around her; a mother's love 
 has added its unutterable sweetness to her lot. He looked 
 on her heart, and marked how sweetly and beautifully its 
 every dream, its every hope, had bloomed to full maturity. 
 How softly its light cares were soothed by sympathy and 
 love on earth, and trust and hope in heaven ; how earnestly 
 it sought to pour back its every gift into the gracious hand
 
 412 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 
 
 from which ib sprung, and lead her children as herself, to 
 the threshold of Eternal joy. He looked on that unveiled 
 heart, as, wandering with those she loved amid the glorious- 
 shrines of nature, she found in every leaf, and stream, and 
 bird, and flower somewhat to bid her children love, and add 
 to the inexhaustible spring of poesie and genius which rested 
 still within, and gave new zest, new brightness to her 
 simplest joy. 
 
 He gazed on her alone, amidst the books she loved, the 
 studies her genius craved ; he read the deep, pure, shadow- 
 less joy it was to feel that gift had done its work, and sent 
 its pure and lucid flame amidst the unthinking crowd, and 
 carried blessings with it ; that its rich music had left its im- 
 pression on many a thoughtless heart ; had shed sweet balm 
 over hours of sad, lonely sickness ; had spoken its soft sym- 
 pathy to the diseased and sorrowing mind, and sent new, 
 brighter, purer joyance to the } 7 oung, eager, and imaginative 
 soul. It had clone these things, and was it marvel she re- 
 joiced ? 
 
 Zephon gazed ; but the shadow passed not from his wings, 
 and hastily and silently he turned once more to seek the 
 kindred essence. The whelming woe had given place to a 
 strangely complicated mass of cross and twisted strings, 
 which tightly fettered down each glorious gift, each cherished 
 hope, each fond aspiring, yet gave them space to throb, and 
 live, and whisper still. The bright undying flame of genius 
 never seemed to burn with mere o'er-sweeping power ; yet 
 the flashes that it sent but scorched the heart that held them. 
 Hope still was there, sending forth her lovely blossoms ; but 
 to be nipped and blighted 'neath the close and icy strings 
 that stretched above them. There were chains upon that 
 spirit, binding it to earth, when most it longed to spring on 
 high ; and the shell, the lovely shell which held it was 
 dwindling 'neath its withering spell. The seraph marked 
 the tension of each vein and nerve, and pulse, till it seemed 
 as if the very next breath of emotion, however faint, would 
 snap them in twain ; the painful effort to restrain the irrita- 
 tion of bodily and mental suffering, the agony of remorse- 
 which the slightest ebullition of impatience caused. 
 
 He beheld her hour by hour, the centre of a noisy group 
 of children, possessing not one attribute to call forth that 
 torrent of love and tenderness with which her soul was filled.
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 413 
 
 He marked the starting of each nerve, the hounding of each 
 pulse, at every shout of rude and noisy revelry, the inward 
 lever attending every effort to restrain and instruct. He saw 
 her, when midnight enwrapped the earth, alone for a brief 
 space, in a poor and comfortless room ; the bright visions of 
 genius thronging tumultuously on mind and brain ; incon- 
 gruous and wild, from there having been so long pent up in 
 darkness and woe. He beheld the effort to give the burning 
 fancies vent ; the utter failing of the mortal frame ; the 
 prostration of all power, save that which yet would lift up 
 heart and hands in the low cry : " Father, it is thy will ; I 
 know not wherefore ; yet, oh ! yet, if Thou wiliest it, it is, it 
 must be well !" and he heard unnumbered harps bear up 
 that voice of Faith, in melody overpowering in its deep rich 
 tones. He marked the spirits of light and loveliness still 
 hovering around, moulding those burning tears into precious 
 gems, changing each quivering sigh to songs of glory ; yet 
 still his sight seemed strangly dim, the shadow passed not 
 from his wings. 
 
 " And man, her brother man, hath he no love, no tender- 
 ness, no thoughts for sorrow such as hers ?" the seraph 
 asked ; " knows he not of the precious gifts, the gentle 
 virtues that frail shell enfolds ? Wherefore is she thus 
 lone ? — hath man no answering chord ?" 
 
 " Man sees not the interior of that heart, as thou dost," 
 rejoined the Hierarch. " When through disobedience sin 
 entered yon beautiful world, man's eyes became darkened 
 towards his fellows, and but too often his rebellious and per- 
 verted mind wilfully refuses knowledge of his brother, lest 
 sympathy should bid him share the griefs of others. In some 
 envy, foul envy, the base passions which first darkened earth 
 with death, wilfully blinds, lest the genius and the virtue of the 
 poor should be exalted above the rich ; in others it is igno- 
 rance, contempt, neglect, spring from that rank poison 
 selfishness, or the loathsome weed indifference, which flings 
 a thick veil over others' woe, and so confines the gaze — it sees 
 no farther than itself. To mortal vision yon gentle being is 
 composed and calm. Man marks but the outward frame ; 
 love alone might trace the decline of strength, the failing of 
 bodily power ; but there is none near to love. Poverty hath 
 flung those chains upon the heart, confining the ethereal 
 spirit, dragging it down to earth, yet deadening not iti
 
 414 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 
 
 power. Poverty, privation, have thrown her amongst those 
 whose grosser, more material natures are incapable of ap- 
 preciating the heavenly rays of genius ; of comprehending 
 its effect upon the temperament and the frame. They deem 
 her lot a happy one, for they cannot know how much more 
 she needs — what cause she has for sorrow. They would 
 laugh in bitter scorn at those griefs which have their birth 
 in feeling, whose intensity, whose depth of suffering are to 
 them utterly unknown. No ! man may not alleviate woes 
 like hers. In the dark circle her fate is fixed ; earth, mortal 
 fading earth, is all ; they have no time for dreams and thoughts 
 of heaven. A spirit like to hers, bearing on its brow a 
 stamp of glory not its own. Alas ! my brother, man 
 will not mark such things. Sin, foul sin, hath dimmed its 
 gaze." 
 
 The seraph folded his beautiful wings around him. There 
 was a strange dim sense of pain upon him, undefined yet 
 sad, as the first clouding of mortal visions unto man, ere sight 
 departs for ever. When he looked forth again, the scene 
 was changed, and it was bright and beautiful, though death 
 was there. 
 
 The blessed, the loved, the cherished ! — she lay there, calm, 
 yet rejoicing, — though the loved around her wept. Recalled 
 to its native home, ere age or sorrow dimmed the spirit's glory, 
 joyfully, willingly, she heard the call, for death had no pang 
 for her. She knew she parted from her beloved to meet 
 again, " where never sounds farewell." She knew she was 
 departing to that blissful bourne, whose glorious light had 
 beamed so softly and beautifully on her earthly course, 
 gilding mortal happiness with immortal glory ; to that 
 goal, where each bright gift would be made perfect, her finite 
 wisdom find completion in infinity. Still, still the comfort of 
 her voice consoled the hearts that wept around ; her lip yet 
 sent forth gentle words to soothe and bless when she was 
 gone ; the mind, the beautiful mind, yet shone in all 
 its living light — death had no power to dim its lustre. 
 Brighter and brighter gleamed the departing soul ; and 
 thoughts, sweet thoughts, came thronging on that heart, of 
 duties done, of life that sought but good, of universal love, 
 benevolence, and peace ; and blessings of the poor, the needy, 
 and the sorrowing hovered round her as angels robed in 
 light. Joy ! joy ! oh, still was that gentle spirit wreathed
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 415 
 
 in joy, — the grave had lost it? sting, and death was swallowed 
 np in victory ! 
 
 Irresistibly and rapidly the seraph sought the twin-born 
 spirit, — which, at the same hour, was to wing her flight from 
 earth. There were none to weep around her couch of lone- 
 liness and pain ; but one, a kind and lowly hireling, was near 
 to mark that spirit's parting pang, — to smooth the pillow, 
 and whisper of repose. No sign of luxury was there, no 
 gentle hand, with luscious fruit or cooling draught, to tempt 
 the fevered ' lip, the parched and tasteless tongue. Dark, 
 close, confined, the chamber of the dying — but a few pale 
 flowers, children of field and brook, alone stood beside her, to 
 whisper 'twas a poet's dying home. Save that, perchance, 
 the treasured volumes still around, disclosed that the mind 
 was bright, and strong, and lovely still. Her thin hand still 
 clasped a book, her eyes lit up as they gazed upon the page, 
 and for a brief space her cheek shone with a bloom that 
 scarce could seem of death. Zephon looked within the 
 heart and started. Hope gleamed up amidst its crushed and 
 broken chords ; hope, aye, and one bright flash of joy, dart- 
 ing forth as a sunbeam midst the shrouding mass of clouds, 
 and momentary, coeval with that joy, the wish, fond wish t* 
 live. 
 
 " Start not, my brother ! " the thrilling accents of the 
 angel once more spake. " She gazes on her own fond 
 dreams, her own pure visions ; she clasps their record in the 
 volume that she holds. Acknowledged, sought, appreciated ; 
 her genius hast burst through the veil of obscurity and woe, 
 and fame, undying fame, hath wreathed his laurels to adorn 
 the dead. Man will weep upon her grave, will wreath her 
 name with glory, will reverence too late the genius that bath 
 gone, and therefore would she live. It is the last struggle, 
 the last pang, — the spirit is too pure, too free, to fold too 
 long the chain which earth holds forth, even though its links 
 are joy. Behold ! " 
 
 The seraph looked once more. There had been a struggle 
 — a brief and anguished pang; joy and hope lay cm 
 for ever, beneath the sic consciousness; 'twas all 
 
 too late, and she must die ! There came one murmuring 
 doubt, one painful question — wherefore she was thus 
 called away, when earth gave promise of such sweet re- 
 viving flowers ? And darkness spread forth her pall, and
 
 416 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 
 
 shrouded up that heart, but speedily it passed ; a soft 
 and mellowed light gleamed up ; the blackened shade 
 rolled up and fled ; the ruin and its chains were gone, 
 and peace, and faith, and jot twined hand in hand 
 together. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Zephon looked not on the abodes of man. The Hierarch 
 alone stood before him, surrounded by a blaze of glory. 
 Ineffable brilliance shone forth from his brow and wings, 
 3^et softened into compassionating tenderness was his 
 radiant look, his thrilling voice. A trembling awe 
 spread over the seraph, and involuntarily he bowed before 
 him. 
 
 " Thy will is accomplished, youthful brother, thou hast 
 glanced on man," spake the angelic voice ; " yet know, that 
 which thou hast seen is but as a single grain amid the 
 spreading sands of the boundless desert ; as a single spark 
 of earthly fire amid the countless stars and blazing suns ot 
 heaven, compared with the scenes of woe yon world of beauty 
 holds. When Sin entered, Joy fled trembling up to the 
 heaven whence he came. Twined as he was with purity 
 and innocence, without them earth could have for him no 
 stay, no resting ; — man reaps the fruit he sows, — for not in a 
 guilty world may the Eternal mark the distinction between 
 the righteous and the wicked. In that which thou hast seen 
 there was no guilt, no sin. Twin-born iu purity, as in their 
 high ethereal essence, yet, from the imperfection of earth, so 
 widely severed their mortal fates, so strangely parted, if such 
 things are, is't marvel that the hymn of love, of praise, from 
 lips of man should be so faint and weak? Zephon, thou 
 hast looked on earth ; thou hast marked the dealings 
 of our Father with His children. Speak then, my 
 brother, oh, speak ! will the song of joy, of adoration, 
 still flow from thy lips — still, still canst thou proclaim Him 
 Love ? " 
 
 The harps of heaven were stilled. The invisible choirs 
 hushed their full tide of song. Darker and darker, for a 
 brief space, became the shadow around the youthful seraph, 
 and his radiant brow was buried ia its shrouding folds. 
 Deep, awful was that momentary pause, for it seemed as if
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 417 
 
 the hosts of heaven themselves were hushed in sympathy and 
 dread. 
 
 A sudden flood of dazzling effulgence burst through the 
 gloomy shade, dispersing it as a thin vapour on either side. 
 Beams of living lustre illumined that glorious brow, and in 
 liquid music his voice flowed forth. 
 
 "Shall I be less than mortal — I, who serve my Father 
 amidst His chosen choirs, who knew Him, unobstructed by 
 the veil of earth ? Let the full song burst forth ; let the briglrt 
 seraphim strike the bold harps again ; let the rich hymn swell 
 out in deeper glory ; hallelujah to our Father and our King ! 
 His ways are dark, but His will is love ! Praise Him, ye 
 myriads of angels ; praise Him, ye Heaven of Heavens ; pro- 
 claim, proclaim Him Love ! His ways are pleasantness, His 
 paths are peace. — Praise Him, ye glorious hosts — hallelujah, 
 He is Love ! " 
 
 VII. 
 
 There was rejoicing amidst the heavenly choirs, rejoicing 
 amidst the seraph band ; for a bright and beautiful spirit, 
 whose lot, even on earth, was joy, released from mortal 
 chains, had joined their glittering files. Wafted from earth 
 amidst strains of glory, lifting up her voice with theirs in 
 thanksgiving, and consummating, in the centre of that 
 glorious band, the hymn of beauty and of love commenced 
 on earth. • 
 
 There was rejoicing amid the angelic choirs, beside the 
 shrouding veil, which softened even from their purified orbs 
 the transcendent glory of their Father's throne — rejoicing 
 amidst the archangelic choirs ; for a bright and beautiful 
 spirit, whose earthly doom had been shrouded in the impe- 
 netrable mists of darkness and woe, was wafted towards 
 them" on a golden cloud, amid a rich burst of glad triumphant 
 harmony, rejoicing ! — for mystery and gloom were removed 
 from a child of God, and unsealed for her the secret of his 
 *vays. 
 
 There was rejoicing in the angelic hosts, — rejoicing 
 through the central choirs, — for a youthful seraph, springing 
 up on the bright wings of faitli and love, had joined their 
 gl'tt.ring files, and songs of joy and melody encircled him, 
 rejoicing ! — above, below, within, till each resplendent court 
 
 E E
 
 41S THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 
 
 of heaven darted forth rays of inexpressible brilliance, and 
 the whole universe of space, peopled with its myriads of 
 angelic and archangelic spirits, sent forth its mighty depths 
 of harmony, its thrilling voice of song ; and still, oh still, 
 its theme was Love! — Eternal, changeless, unfathomable 
 Love ! 
 
 Tin: end.
 
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 the furnishing of the house and the treatment of its contents, but also to the construc- 
 tion of the building, and to all the appliances needful for the preservation and proper 
 cultivation of the plants. It is a work which no amateur, at least, should fail to 
 i insult." — Art Journal. 
 
 " This book is well adapted for amateurs, being plain and not prolix. It points out, 
 in its earlier chapters, the main considerations which affect the construction and heat- 
 ing of conservatories and greenhouses, this part of the volume containing many illus- 
 trations. In the fourth chapter the amateur is initiated in the routine of greenhouse 
 work— potting, composts, propagation, &c, being discussed. Then follows a series of 
 
 goniums ; Fuchsias ; Greenhouse Hard-wooded Plants ; Ericas and Epaerises ; Camellias, 
 Azaleas, and Rhododendrons; Greenhouse and Conservatory Climbers ; Oranges, &c. 
 Hard-leaved Plants, as Agaves, Draceenas, &e. ; Succulent-leaved Plants ; Orchid and 
 Pitcher Plants ; Greenhouse Roses, &c. One chapter is devoted to naming a general 
 selection of Greenhouse Plants ; another to summer Cucumbers and Seedling Pelar- 
 goniums ; while others treat of Hardy Plants in a greenhouse, or afford reminders of 
 monthly work. The volume is nicely printed and elegantly bound ; and, so far as we 
 have had the opportunity of testing it, seems to be sound as to its practical recom- 
 mendations." — Gardeners' Chronicle. 
 
 " Mr. Hibberd has put together a series of hints on greenhouses and conservatories, 
 ami the fittest tenants for them, which wc do not hesitate to pronounce more practical 
 and practicable than those of his bulkier contemporaries. The value of this volume to 
 amateurs of moderate means and appliances, cannot fail to be great." — Saturday 
 Review. 
 
 GROOMBRIDGE & SONS, 5, Paternoster Row, London.
 
 Cr. Svo, cl. gilt, price 6s., Illustrated with Coloured riatcs and Wood Engravings. 
 
 The Amateur's 
 
 ROSE BOOK, 
 
 COMPRISING THE 
 
 Cultivation of the Rose 
 
 In the Open Ground and under Glass: the Formation of the Solarium: 
 
 the Characters of Wild and Garden Eoses: the Preparation of the Flowers 
 
 for Exhibition: the Raising of New Varieties: and the Work of the 
 
 Eose Garden in every Season of tho Year. 
 
 By SHIRLEY HIBBERD, F.R.II.S. 
 
 Contents : Wild Ptoses — Forming a Rosarium — Dwarf Roses — Tha 
 Propagation of Poses by Buds and Grafts- Stocks for Roses — Garden 
 Roses — Exhibition Roses — Tho Characters of Poses — Climbing Roses — 
 Pillar Poses —Roses under Glass — Seedling Poses — Poses in Town 
 Gardens — The Fairy Rose — Yellow Ro?es - Hedgerow and Wilderness 
 Roses — Roses for Decorations — The Enemies of the Hose — Sending 
 Roses by Rail and Post — On Buying New Roses — Curiosities of Rose 
 Growing — Reminders of Monthly Work — Tho Rose Show— Selections 
 of Roses — Roses and their Raisers. 
 
 " One of the readiest and most complete manuals published on the cultiva- 
 tion of the rose."— Standard. 
 
 "We have great pleasure in thoroughly recommending to our readers 
 Mr. Hibberd's ' Rose Book.' It is written by one who has fully mastered the 
 subject, and the directions he gives are of that practical utility so much 
 needed." — Journal of Horticulture. 
 
 "Mr. Hibberd writes in such a clear, practical, common sense way, that we 
 do not hesitate to affirm that it is the amateur's own fault if he fail to profit 
 largely by his study of the rose book. Every rose grower should possess it. It is 
 an elegant volume. The coloured illustrations are beautiful." — Literary World. 
 
 " The work is eminently clear, earnest, and instructive, tveiy idea, plan, 
 and notion of propagation and growing roses appears to be touched upon. A 
 perusal of Mr. Hibberd's pages will not only assist the amateur grower, but 
 will also prevent many disappointments." — Lloyd's Weekly News. 
 
 " It is a sound practical work, brimful of excellent advice,and possesses the merit 
 of being as useful to the amateur of small as of large means." — Leeds Mercury. 
 
 Cr. Svo, cl. gilt, price Zs. Ud. , Illustrated with Woodcuts and Coloured i'lates. 
 
 The FERN GARDEN 
 
 HOW TO MAKE, KEEP, AND ENJOY IT; 
 
 OR, 
 
 Fern Culture Made Easy. 
 By SHIRLEY HIBBERD, F.R.II.S. 
 
 Contents: Ferns in General— Fern Collecting— How to Form an 
 Out-door Fernery — Rock Ferns — Marsh Ferns-Ferns in Pots— The 
 Fern House— Fern Cases — The Art of Multiplying Ferns— British 
 Ferns— Greenhouse and Stove Ferns— Treo Ferns'— Fern Allies. 
 
 " Mr. Hibberd's books are always worth possessing, and this one is an excel- 
 lent specimen of his work. All who love ferns, or who start a glass ease or a 
 rockery, should buy it."— Publishers' Circular. 
 
 " A charming treatise. Ladies interested in the beautiful art of fern culture 
 will find Mr. Hibberd's book a pleasant and useful companion." — Daily News. 
 
 GROOMBRIDGE & SONS, 5, Paternoster Eow, London.
 
 Crown Svo, cloth, gilt edges, Illustrated with Coloured Plates and 
 numerous Wood Engravings, price 6s. 
 
 THE AMATEUR'S FLOWER GARDEN 
 
 a 33rartt'cal QSuftre to tfjc i'Hanagrmcnt of ttjc GariJrn antr tTje 
 ©ulttbatton of yopular jTIolDrrs. 
 
 By SHIRLEY HIBBERD, F.R.H.S., 
 
 Author of " Rustic Adornments for Homes of Taste," "The Rose Book," " Profitable 
 ( iardening," " The Fern Garden," " Field Flowers," "The Town Garden," etc., etc. 
 
 CONTENTS: 
 
 BAP. I. Forming the Flower Garden. 
 ,, II. The Parterre. 
 ,, III. The Bedding System, and the 
 
 Plants required for it. 
 ., TV. Cultivation of BeddingPlants. 
 „ V. A Selection of Bedding Plants. 
 ., VI. Hardy Border I' lowers. 
 „ VII. A Selection of Hardy Her- 
 baceous Plants. 
 ,,VITI. Tender Border Flowers. 
 ,, IX. HardyAnnuals and Biennials. 
 ,, X. The Rose Garden. 
 ,, XI. The American Garden. 
 
 CHAP. XII. The Subtropical Garden. 
 
 ,, XIII. The Perpetual Flower 
 Garden. 
 
 ,, XIV. The Rockery and Alpine 
 Garden 
 
 ,, XV. Flowers for Winter Bou- 
 quets. 
 
 „ XVI. The Making and Manage- 
 ment of the Lawn. 
 
 ,, XVII. Garden Vermin. 
 
 ,, XVIII. Additional Selection. 
 
 ,, XIX. Reminders of Monthly 
 Work. 
 
 I he following Critical Notices have appeared of this Book. 
 
 "II is practical throughout ; the book will be useful and acceptable." — Gardeners' 
 Chronicle. 
 
 '■ l-Dr any one with tastes and opportunities for gardening, it may be recommended 
 as of more enduring value than books of greater interest for the superficial reader." — 
 Standard. 
 
 " An elegant and charmingly illustrated volume. It is intended for those who possess 
 what may be called ' homely' gardens as distinguished from great and grand gardens ; 
 and it is wonderful to find under the author's guidance how much may be made of ever 
 so small a piece of garden ground."- Leeds Mercury. 
 
 " Ladies fond of gardening will find an immense amount of useful information in this 
 and reliable work." — Treasury of Literature. 
 
 " ffo amateur should be without a copy. In fact he had better have two ; one for 
 use, and one for the drawing-room table." — Fun. 
 
 "No amateur can be at a loss, whatever exigency may arise, with Mr. Hibberd'sbook 
 ;., hand." -Scottman. 
 
 " We have here one of the most useful works to the amateur that has ever bceu 
 published." — Sunday Times. 
 
 "'The Amateuh's Flower Garden' will be hailed with delight by the multitudes 
 who find intense delight in their flower gardens. The beautiful illustrations enhance 
 immensely the value of the book."— John Bull. 
 
 " A first-rate present for all who, of any age or either sex, take pleasure in garden- 
 ing." — Daily JS'eios. 
 
 " A charming gift-hook for a lady, full of sound practical information, and liberally 
 illustrated with beautifully coloured plates." — Lady's Own Paper. 
 
 GROOMBRIDGE & SONS, 5, Paternoster Row, London.
 
 GROOMBBIDGE & SONS' 
 
 SEEIES OF 
 
 COLOURED PRINTS 
 
 SUITABLE FOR 
 
 Screens, £cnrp=$3ooSs, antr General Seeorsitbe purposes, 
 
 EMBRACING 
 
 BIRDS, FIGURES, FLOWERS, FERNS, FRUITS, ANIMALS, INSECTS, 
 SCENES, AND ARTICLES OF VERTU. 
 
 Price 3d. each, or 2s. Qd. per Dozen. Post Free for Stamps to 
 amount of Order. Or may be procured by order of any Book- 
 seller. 
 
 A P2INTED LIST WILL BE FOEWAEDED POST-FEEE UPON 
 
 APPLICATION. 
 
 In ordering from this List, it is only necessary to state the numbers prefixed 
 to the Prints, and the quantities of each required. 
 
 This large and unique Collection of Prints at present 
 comprises : — 
 
 31 Separate Prints of FLOWERS, PERNS, ORCHIDS, and 
 LEAVES. 
 
 FRUITS and VEGETABLES. 
 
 BIRDS (some of thern groups of several). 
 
 FIGURE SCENES. 
 
 INSECTS (some of them croups of several). 
 
 SCENES and LANDSCAPES. 
 
 ASTRONOMY. 
 
 NATURAL HISTORY (embracing Ani- 
 mals, Fishes, Reptiles, Seaweed, etc.). 
 14 Ditto ARTICLES OF VERTU, etc. 
 
 10 
 
 Ditto 
 
 43 
 
 Ditto 
 
 18 
 
 Ditto 
 
 27 
 
 Ditto 
 
 38 
 
 Ditto 
 
 8 
 
 Ditto 
 
 48 
 
 Ditto 
 
 Complete List Post-free. 
 
 GROOMBRIDGE & SONS, 5, Paternoster Row, London.
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
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