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CONTARINI FLEMING 
 
 AND 
 
 THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 
 
BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 
CONTARINI FLEMING 
 
 A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 
 
 THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 
 
 BY THE 
 
 EARL OF BEACONSFIELD, K.G. 
 
 NEW EDITION 
 
 
 LOl^DOK: 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO 
 
 CONTAEINI FLEMING. 
 
 The authoe proposed to himself, in writing tliis work, 
 a subject that has ever been held one of the most 
 difficult and refined, and which is virgin in the 
 imaginative literature of every country — namely, the 
 development and formation of the poetic character. 
 It has, indeed, been sometimes incidentally treated, and 
 partially illustrated by writers of the highest class, 
 as for instance Gothe in his ' Wilhelm Meister,' where 
 are expounded, with so much felicity, the mysteries 
 of predisposition ; and the same illustrious author has, 
 in his capricious memoirs, favoured us with much of his 
 individual experience of self-formation ; in this resem- 
 bling preceding poets, none more conspicuously than 
 Count Alfieri. But an ideal and complete picture of 
 the development of the poet had not been produced, 
 nor had any one entirely grappled with the thorough 
 formation of that mysterious character with which, 
 though unlike all of us, we all of us so strangely 
 sympathise. 
 
vi PREFACE. 
 
 Wlien the author meditated over the entireness of 
 the subject, it appeared to him that the auto-biogra- 
 phical form was a necessaiy condition of a successful 
 fulfilment. It seemed the only instrument that could 
 penetrate the innermost secrets of the brain and heart 
 in a being, whose thought and passion were so much 
 cherished in loneliness, and revealed often only in 
 solitude. In the earlier stages of the theme the self- 
 discoverer seemed an indispensable agent. What 
 naiTative by a third person could sufficiently paint 
 the melancholy and brooding childhood, the first in- 
 dications of the predisposition, the growing conscious- 
 ness of power, the reveries, the loneliness, the doubts, 
 the moody misery, the ignorance of art, the failures, 
 the despair? 
 
 Having adopted this conclusion, the author then 
 endeavoured to conceive a character whose position in 
 life should be at variance, and, as it were, in constant 
 conflict with his temperament; and the accidents 
 of whose birth, nevertheless, tended to develop his 
 psychology. The combination that connected in one 
 being Scandinavia and the South, and made the image 
 of a distant and most romantic city continually act 
 upon a nervous temperament, surrounded by the snows 
 and forests of the North, though novel, it is believed, 
 in literatm'e, was by no means an impossible or even 
 improbable one. 
 
 Pursuing an analogous construction, it was resolved, 
 that the first great passion of the poet, the one that 
 would give a colom' to the life of such an indi^ddual. 
 
PREFACE. ■ vii 
 
 should arise out of the same circumstance ; and in 
 harmony, it is thought, with an organisation of a 
 susceptibility so peculiar, this critical passage in his 
 life is founded upon the extreme mysteries of sym- 
 pathy, and carried on by the influences of animal 
 magnetism. 
 
 This book, written with great care, after deep medi- 
 tation, and in a beautiful and distant land favourable 
 to composition, with nothing in it to attract the 
 passions of the hour, was published anonymously in tlie 
 midst of a revolution (1831-2); and it seemed that 
 it must die. But gradually it has gained the sympathy 
 of the thoughtful and the refined, and it has had the 
 rare fortune of being cherished by great men. Now 
 it is oifered to a new generation, and bears the name 
 of its author, because, on critically examining it, he 
 finds that, though written in early youth, it lias 
 accomplished his idea. Were he equal to his subject, 
 the book would last, for that subject is eternal. 
 
 GRoavENOR Gate: 
 Juhj, 1845. 
 
CONTARINI FLEMING. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Wandering in those deserts of Africa that border the Eiy- 
 throean Sea, I came to the river Nile, to that ancient, and 
 mighty, and famons stream, whose waters yielded ns our 
 earliest civilisation, and which, after having witnessed the 
 formation of so many states and the invention of so many 
 creeds, still flow on with the same serene beneficence, like 
 all that we can conceive of Deity ; in form sublime, in action 
 systematic, in nature bountiful, in source unknown. 
 
 My sohtary step sounded in the halls of the Pharaohs. 
 i moved through those imperial chambers supported by a 
 thousand columns, and guarded by colossal forms seated on 
 mysterious thrones. I passed under glittering gates meet 
 to receive the triumphant chariot of a Titan : I gazed on 
 sublime obeHsks jDointing to the skies, whose secrets theii 
 mystic characters affected to conceal. Wherever I threw 
 my sight I beheld vast avenues of solemn sphinxes reposing 
 in supernatui^al beauty, and melancholy groups of lion- 
 visaged kings ; Luge walls vividly pictured with the sacred 
 rites and the domestic offices of remote antiquity, or sculp- 
 tured with the breathing forms of heroic warfare. 
 
 And all this might, all this magnificence, all this mystery, 
 all this beauty, all this labour, all this high invention, 
 where were their originators ? I fell into deep musing, 
 
 B 
 
3 ,CaA>Tili?/N/ FLEMING: 
 
 And the kiar^c'oiiis of the eartli passed before me, from the 
 thrones of the Pharaohs to those enormous dominations 
 that sprang out of the feudal chaos, the unlawful children 
 of ignorance and expediency. And I surveyed the genera- 
 tions of man from Rameses the great, and Memnon the 
 beautiful, to the soHtary pilgrim, whose presence now 
 violated the sanctity of their gorgeous sepulchres. And I 
 found that the history of my race was but one tale of i*apid 
 destruction or gradual decay. 
 
 And in the anguish of my heart I lifted up my hands to 
 the blue aether, and I said, ' Is there no hope ! What is 
 knowledge, and what is truth ? How shall I gain wisdom r ' 
 
 The wind arose, the bosom of the desert heaved, pillars 
 of sand sprang from the earth and whirled across the plain ; 
 sounds more awful than thunder came rushing from tho 
 south ; the fane and the palace, the portal and the obelisk, 
 the altar and the throne, the picture and the frieze, disap- 
 peared from my sight, and darkness brooded over the land. 
 I knelt down and hid my face in the moveable and burning 
 soil, and as the wind of the desert passed over me, me- 
 thought it whispered, * Child of Nature, learn to unlearn! ' 
 
 We are the slaves of false knowledge. Our memories are 
 filled with ideas that have no origin in truth. We learn 
 nothing from ourselves. The sum of our experience is but 
 a dim dream of the conduct of past generations, generations 
 that lived in a total ignorance of their nature. Our in- 
 structors are the unknowing and the dead. We study 
 human nature in a charnel-house, and, like the nations of 
 the East, we pay divine honours to the maniac and ths 
 fool. A series of systems have mystified existence. We 
 believe what our fathers credited, because they were con- 
 vinced without a cause. The faculty of thought has been 
 destroyed. Yet our emasculated minds, without the power 
 of fruition, still pant for the charms of wisdom. It is this 
 that makes us fly with rapture to false knowledge, to 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 3 
 
 tradition, to prejudice, to custom. Delusive tradition, 
 destructive prejudice, degenerating custom ! It is this that 
 makes us prostrate ourselves with reverence before the 
 wisdom of bygone ages, in no one of which has man been 
 the master of his own reason. 
 
 I am desirous of writing a book which shall be all truth: 
 a work of which the passion, the thought, the action, and 
 even the style, should spring from my own experience of 
 feeling, from the meditations of my own intellect, from my 
 own observation of incident, from my own study of the 
 genius of expression. 
 
 When I turn over the pages of the metaphysician, I 
 perceive a science that deals in words instead of facts. 
 Arbitrary axioms lead to results that violate reason ; ima- 
 ginary principles establish systems that contradict the 
 common sense of mankind. All is dogma, no part demon- 
 stration. Wearied, perplexed, doubtful, I throw down the 
 volume in disgust. 
 
 When I search into my own breast, and trace the 
 development of my own intellect, and the formation of my 
 own character, all is light and order. The luminous succeeds 
 to the obscure, the certain to the doubtful, the intelligent 
 to the illogical, the practical to the impossible, and I 
 experience all that refined and ennobling satisfaction that 
 we derive from the discovery of truth, and the contempla- 
 tion of nature. 
 
 I have resolved, therefore, to write the history of my 
 own life, because it is the subject of which I have the truest 
 knowledge. 
 
 At an age when some have scarcely entered upon their 
 career, I can loc^ back upon past years spent in versatile 
 adventure and long meditation. My thought has been the 
 consequence of my organisation : my action the -result of a 
 necessity not less imperious. My fortune and my intelli- 
 gCHCe have blended together, and fonned my character. 
 
4. CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 I am desirous of executing tliis purpose wLile my brain 
 is still fed by the ardent, though tempered, flame of youth ; 
 while I can recall the past with accuracy, and record it 
 with vividness ; while my memory is stiU faithful, and 
 while the dewy freshness of youthful fancy still lingers on 
 iny mind. 
 
 I would bring to this work the illumination of an intellect 
 emancipated from the fatal prejudices of an irrational 
 education. This may be denied me. Yet some exemption 
 from the sectarian prejudices that embitter life may surely 
 be expected from one who, by a curious combination of 
 circumstances, finds himself without country, without 
 kindred, and without friends ; nor will he be suspected of 
 indulging in the delusion of worldly vanity, who, having 
 acted in the world, has retired to meditate in an inviolate 
 solitude, and seeks relief from the overwhelming vitality of 
 thought in the flowing spirit of poetic creation. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 When I can first recall existence, I remember myself a 
 melancholy child. My father. Baron Fleming, was a Saxon 
 nobleman of ancient family, who, being opposed to the 
 French interest, qnitted his country at the commencement 
 of this century, and after leading for some years a wander- 
 ing life, entered into the service of a northern court. At 
 Venice, yet a youth, he married a daughter of the noble 
 house of Contarini, and of that marriage I was the only 
 ofi*spruig. My entrance into this world was marked with 
 evil, for my mother yielded up her life while investing me 
 with mine. I was christened with the name of her illus- 
 trious race. Thus much during the first years of my 
 childhood I casually learnt, but I know not how. I feel I 
 was early conscious that my bu'th was a subject on which 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 5 
 
 it was proper that I should not speak, and one, the mention 
 of -which, it was early instilled into me, would only occa- 
 sion my remaining parent bitter sorrow. Therefore upon 
 this topic I was ever silent, and with me, from my earliest 
 recollection, Venice was a name to be shunned 
 
 My father again married. His new bride was a daughter 
 of the country which had adopted him. She was of high 
 blood, and very wealthy, and beautiful in the fashion of her 
 land. This union produced two children, both males. As 
 a child, I viewed them with passive antipathy. They were 
 called my brothers, but Nature gave the lie to the reiterated 
 assertion. There was no similitude between us. Their 
 blue eyes, their flaxen hair, and their white visages claimed 
 no kindi^ed with my Venetian countenance. Wherever I 
 moved I looked around me, and beheld a race different 
 from myself. There was no sympathy between my frame 
 and the rigid clime whither I had been brought to live. I 
 knew not why, but I was unhappy. Had I found in one of 
 my father's new children a sister, all might have been 
 changed. In that sweet and singular tie I might havo 
 discovered solace, and the variance of constitution would 
 perhaps between different sexes have fostered, rather than 
 discouraged, affection. But this blessing was denied me. 
 I was alone. 
 
 I loved my father dearly and deeply, but I seldom saw 
 him. He was buried in the depth of affairs. A hurried 
 kiss and a passing smile were the fleeting gifts of his 
 affection. Scrupulous care, however, was taken that I 
 should never be, and should never feel, neglected. I was 
 overloaded with attentions, even as an infant. My step- 
 mother, swayed by my father, and perhaps by a well- 
 regulated mind, was vigilant in not violating the etiquette 
 01 maternal duty. No favour was shown to my white 
 brethren which was not extended also to me. To me also, 
 as bne eldest, the preference, it necessary, was ever yielded. 
 
6 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 But for the rest, she -was cold and I was repulsive, and 
 she stole from the saloon, which I rendered interesting by 
 no infantile graces, to the nursery, where she could lavish 
 her love upon her troublesome but sympathising offspring, 
 and listen to the wondrous chronicle, which their attendants 
 daily supplied, of their marvellous deeds and almost oracular 
 prattle. 
 
 Because I was unhappy I was sedentary and silent, for 
 the lively sounds and the wild gambols of children are but 
 the unconscious outpouring of joy. They make their gay 
 noises, and burst into their gay freaks, as young birds in 
 spring chant in the free air, and flutter in the fresh boughs. 
 But I could not revel in the rushing flow of my new blood, 
 nor yield up my frame to its dashing and voluptuous 
 course. I could not yet analyse my feelings ; I could not, 
 indeed, yet think ; but I had an instinct that I was diffe- 
 rent from my fellow-creatures, and the feeling was not 
 triumph, but horror. 
 
 My quiet inaction gained mo the reputation of stupidity. 
 In vain they endeavoured to conceal fi.'om me their impres- 
 sion. I read it in their looks, in their glances of pity full 
 of learned discernment, in their telegraphic exchanges of 
 mutual conviction. At last, in a moment of irritation, the 
 secret broke from one of my white brothers. I felt that the 
 urchin spoke truth, but I cut him to the ground. He ran 
 howling and yelping to his dam. I was surrounded by the 
 indignant mother and the domestic police. I Hstened to 
 their agitated accusations and palpitating threats of punish- 
 ment with sullen indifference. I offered no defence. I 
 courted their vengeance ; it came in the shape of imprison- 
 ment. I was conducted to my room, and my door was 
 locked on the outside. I answered the malignant sound by 
 bolting it in the interior. I remained there the whole day, 
 deaf to all their entreaties, without sustenance, feeding 
 only upon my vengeance. Each fresh visit was an addi- 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 7 
 
 tional triumph. I never answered ; I never moved. De- 
 mands of apology were exchanged for promises of pardon ; 
 promises of pardon were in turn succeeded by offers of 
 reward. I gave no sign. I heard them stealing on tiptoe 
 to the portal, full of alarm, and even doubtful of my life. 
 Scarcely would I breathe. At length the door was burst 
 open, and in rushed the half-fainting Baroness and a posse 
 of servants, with the children clinging to their nurses' 
 gowns. Planted in a distant corner, I received them with 
 a grim smile. I was invited away. I refused to move. A 
 man-servant advanced and touched me. I stamped; I 
 gnashed my teeth ; I gave a savage growl that made him 
 recoil with dread. The Baroness lost her remaining pre- 
 sence of mind, withdrew with her train, and was obliged to 
 call in my father, to whom all was for the first time 
 communicated. 
 
 I heard his well-known step upon the stair. I beheld the 
 face that never looked upon me without a smile ; if in care- 
 lessness, still, still a smile. Now it was grave, but sad, 
 not harsh. 
 
 * Contarini,' he said, in a serious but not angered voice, 
 * what is all this ? ' 
 
 I burst into a wild cry; I rushed to his arms. He 
 pressed me to his bosom. He tried to kiss away the 
 flooding tears that each embrace called forth more plen- 
 teously. For the first time in my life I felt happy, because, 
 for the first time in my life, I felt loved. 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 It was a beautiful garden, full of terraces and arched walks 
 of bowery trees. A tall fountain sprang up from a marblo 
 basin, and its glittering column broke in its fall into a 
 thousand coloured drops, and woke the gleamy fish that 
 
8 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 wonld have slept in the dim water. And I wanderctl 
 about, and the enchanted region seemed illimitable, and at 
 each turn more magical and more bright. ^N'ow a white 
 vase shining in the light, now a dim statne shadowed in a 
 cool grot. I would have lingered a moment at the mossy 
 hermitage, but the distant bridge seemed to invite me to 
 new adventures. 
 
 It was onlj three miles from the city, and belonged to 
 the aunt of the Baroness. I was brought hither to play. 
 When the women met there was much kissing, and I also 
 was kissed, but it gave me no pleasure, for I felt even then 
 that it was a form, and I early imbibed a hatred of all this 
 mechanical domestic love. And they sat together, and 
 took out their work, and talked without ceasing, chiefly 
 about the children. The Baroness retold all the wonderful 
 stories of the nurses, many of which I knew to be false. 
 I did not say this, but the conviction gave me, thus early, a 
 contempt for the chatter of women. So soon as I was 
 unobserved I stole away to the garden. 
 
 Even then it was ravishing to be alone ; and although I 
 could not think, and knew not the cause of the change, I 
 felt serene, and the darkness of my humour seemed to leave 
 me, all was so new and all so beautiful. The bright 
 sweet flowers, and the rich shrubs, and the tall trees, and 
 the flitting birds, and the golden bees, and the gay butter- 
 flies, and that constant and soothing hum broken only ever 
 and anon by a strange shrill call, and that wonderful 
 blending of brilliancy, and freshness, and perfume, and 
 warmth, that strong sense of the loveliness and vitality cf 
 Nature which we feel amid the growing life of a fair 
 garden, entered into my soul, and diffused themselves over 
 my frame, softened my heart, and charmed my senses. 
 
 But all this was not alone the cause of my happiness ; 
 for to me the garden was not a piece of earth belonging to 
 my aunt, but a fine world. I wandered about in quest of 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 9 
 
 soirte strange adventure, which I would fain believe, in so 
 fair a region, must quickly occur. The terrace was a vast 
 desert, over which I travelled for many days ; and the 
 mazy walks, so mysterious and unworldly, were an un- 
 explored forest fit for a true knight. And in the hermitage 
 I sought the simple hospitality of a mild and aged host, 
 who pointed to the far bridge as surely leading to a great 
 fulfilment ; and my companion was a faithful esquire, whose 
 fidelity was never wanting, and we conversed much, but 
 most respecting a mighty ogre who was to fall beneath my 
 puissant arm. Thus glided many a day in unconscious and 
 creative reverie ; but sometimes, when I had explored over 
 and over again each nook and corner, and the illimitable 
 feeling had worn off, the power of imagination grew weak ; 
 I found myself alone amid the sweets and sunshine, and 
 fell sad. 
 
 But I would not quit this delicious world without an 
 effort, and I invented a new mode of mingling in its life. 
 I reclined beneath a shady tree, and I covered my eyes 
 with my little hand, and I tried to shut out the garish light 
 that seemed to destroy the visions which were ever flitting 
 before me. They came in their beauty, obedient to my 
 call ; and I wandered in strange countries, and achieved 
 many noble acts, and said many noble words ; and the 
 beings with whom I acted were palpable as myself, with 
 beautiful faces and graceful forms. And there was a brave 
 young knight, who was my friend, and his life I ever saved ; 
 and a lovely princess, who spoke not, but smiled ever and 
 ever upon me. And we were lost in vast forests, and 
 shared hard food ; and as the evening drew on we came to 
 the gates of a castle. 
 
 ' Contarini ! Contarini ! ' a voice sounded from the house, 
 and all the sweet visions rushed away like singing-birds 
 scared out of a tree. I was no longer a brave knight ; I 
 was a child. I rose miserable and exhausted, and, in spite 
 
lo CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 of a repeated cry, I returned with a slow step and a sullou 
 face. 
 
 I saw that there was an unusual bustle in the hou-se. 
 Servants were running to and fro doing nothing, doors 
 were slammed, and there was much calling. I stole into 
 the room un perceived. It was a new comer. They were 
 all standing around a beautiful girl expanding into prime 
 womanhood, and all talking at the same time. There was 
 also much kissing. 
 
 It appeared to me that there could not be a more lovely- 
 being than the visitor. She was dressed in a blue liding- 
 coat, with a black hat which had fallen off her forehead. 
 Her full chestnut curls had broken loose ; her rich cheek 
 glowed with the excitement of the meeting, and her laugh- 
 ing eyes sparkled with social love. 
 
 I gazed upon her unperceived. She must have been at 
 least eight years my senior. This idea crossed me not 
 then. I gazed upon her unperceived, and it was fortunate, 
 for I was entranced. I could not move or speak. My 
 whole system changed ; my breath left me. I panted with 
 great difficulty ; the colour fled from my cheek, and I was 
 sick from the blood rushing to my heart. 
 
 I was seen, I was seized, I was pulled forward. I bent 
 down my head ; they lifted it up, drawing back my cui4s ; 
 they lifted it up covered with blushes. She leant down ; 
 she kissed me. Oh ! how unlike the dull kisses of the 
 morning ! But I could not return her embrace ; I nearly 
 swooned upon her bosom. She praised, in her good-nature, 
 the pretty boy, and the tone in which she spoke made me 
 doubly feel my wretched insignificance. 
 
 The bustle subsided ; eating succeeded to talking. Our 
 good aunt was a great priestess in the mysteries of plum- 
 cake and sweet wine. I had no appetite. This was the 
 fruitful themo of much discussion. I could not eat; I 
 thought only of the fair stranger. They wearied me witJi 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. ii 
 
 their wonderment and their inquiries. I was irritated, and 
 I was irritable. The Baroness schooled me in that dull 
 tedious way which always induces obstinacy. At another 
 time I should have been sullen, but my heart was full and 
 softened, and I wept. My stepmother was alarmed lest, in 
 an unguarded moment, she should have passed the cold, 
 strict line of maternal impartiality which she had laid down 
 for her constant regulation. She would have soothed me 
 with commonplace consolation. I was miserable and dis- 
 gusted. I fled again to the garden. 
 
 I regained with hurrying feet my favourite haunt. Again 
 I sat under my favourite tree ; but not now to build castles 
 of joy and hope, not now to commune with my beautiful 
 creation, and revel in the warm flow of my excited fancy. 
 All, all had fled ; all, all had changed. I shivered under 
 the cold horror of my reality. 
 
 I thought I heard beautiful music, but it was only tho 
 voice of a woman. 
 
 * Contarini,' said the voice, * why do you weep ? ' 
 
 I looked up; it was the stranger, it was Christiana. 
 
 * Because,' I answered, sobbing, ' I am miserable.* 
 
 * Sweet boy,' she said, as she knelt down beside me, 
 ' dry, dry your tears, for we all love you. Mamma meant 
 not to be cross.' 
 
 ' Mamma ! She is not my mamma.' 
 ' But she loves you like a mother.' 
 
 * No one loves me.' 
 
 * All love you dearest ! I love you ; ' and she kissed m© 
 with a thousand kisses. 
 
 ' 0, Chiistiana ! ' I exclaimed, in a low tremulous voice, 
 
 * love me, love me always ! If you do not love me, I shall die I ' 
 
 I threw my arms around her neck, and a gleam of 
 rapture seemed to burst through the dark storm of my 
 grief. She pressed me to her heart a thousand times, and 
 eucli time I clung with a more ardent grasp ; and, by 
 
12 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 degrees, the fierceness of my passion died away, and heavj 
 sobs succeeded to my torrents of tears, and light sighs at 
 last came flying after, like clouds in a clearing heaven. 
 Our sfrief dies awav Hke a thunder-storm. 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 The visit of Christiana was the first great incident of my 
 life. No day passed without my seeing her, either at the 
 Garden-house, or at our own, and each day I grew happier. 
 Her presence, the sound of her voice, one bright smile, and 
 I was a different being ; but her caresses, her single society, 
 the possession of her soft hand, all this was maddening. 
 When I was with her in the company of others I was 
 happy, but I indicated my happiness by no exterior sign. 
 I sat by her side, with my hand locked in hers, and I fed 
 in silence upon my tranquil joy. But when we were alone, 
 then it was that her influence over me broke forth. All the 
 feelings of my heart were hers. I concealed nothing. I 
 told her each moment that I loved her, and that until I 
 knew her I was unhappy. Then I would communicate 
 to her in confidence all my secret sources of enjoyment, and 
 explained how I had turned common places into enchanted 
 regions, where I could always fly for refuge. She listened 
 with fondness and delight, and was the heroine of all my 
 sports. Now I had indeed a princess. Strolling with her, 
 the berceau was still more like a forest, and the solace of 
 the hermit's cell still more refreshing. 
 
 Her influence over me was all-powerful, for she seemed 
 to change my habits and my temper. In kindness she 
 entered into my solitary joys ; in kindness she joined in 
 my fantastic amusements ; for her own temper was social, 
 and her own delight in pastimes that were common to all. 
 Sho tried to rouse me from my inaction, she counselled m© 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 13 
 
 to mingle witli my companions. How graceful was this 
 gii'l ! Grace was indeed lier cliaracteristic, her charm. 
 Sometimes she would run away swifter than an arrow, and 
 then, as she was skimming along, suddenly stop, and turn 
 her head with an expression so fascinating, that she appeared 
 to me always like a young sunny fawn. 
 
 * Contarini ! ' she would cry in a clear flute-liko voice. 
 How I rushed to her ! 
 
 I became more amiable to my brothers. I courted more 
 the members of my little society. I even joined in their 
 sports. It was whispered that Contarini was much im- 
 proved, and the Baroness glanced at me with a kind 
 patronising air, that seemed to hint to the initiated not 
 to press me too heavily with their regulations, or exercise 
 towards one so unpractised, perhaps so incapable, all the 
 severity of their childish legislation. 
 
 The visit of Christiana drew to a close. There was a 
 children's ball at our house, and she condescended to be its 
 mistress. Among my new companions there was a boy, 
 who was two years my senior. He had more knowledge of 
 the world than most of us, for he had been some time at 
 school. He was gay, vivacious, talkative. He was the 
 leader in all our diversions. We all envied him his 
 superiority, and all called him conceited. He was over 
 with Christiana. I disliked him. 
 
 I hated dancing, but to-night I had determined to dance, 
 for the honour of our fair president. When the ball opened, 
 I walked up to claim her hand as a matter of course. She 
 was engaged ; she was engaged to this youthful hero. 
 Engaged ! Was it true ! Engaged ! Horrible jargon ! 
 Were the hollow forms of mature society to interfere with 
 our play of love ? She expressed her regret, and promised 
 to dance with me afterwards. She promised what I did 
 not require. Pale and agitated I stole to a corner, and fed 
 upon my mortified heart. 
 
14 CONTARINl FLEMING: 
 
 I watched her in the dance. Never had she looked 
 more beautifal ; what was worse, never more happy. 
 Every smile pierced me through. Each pressure of my 
 rival's hand touched my brain. I grew sick and dizzy. 
 It was a terrible effort not to give way to my passion. 
 But I succeeded, and escaped from the chamber with all its 
 glaring lights and jarring sounds. 
 
 I stopped one moment on the staircase for breath. A 
 servant came up and asked if I wanted anything. I could 
 not answer. He asked if I were unwell. I struggled wit?i 
 my choking voice, and said I was very well. I stole up to 
 my bed-room. I had no hght, but a dim moon just revealed 
 my bed. I* threw myself upon it, and wished to die. 
 
 My forehead was burning hot, my feet were icy cold. 
 My heart seemed in my throat. I felt quite sick. I could 
 not speak ; I could not weep ; I could not think. Every- 
 thing seemed blended in one terrible sensation of desolate 
 and desolating \\Tetchedness. 
 
 ^luch time perhaps, had not elapsed, although it seemed 
 to me an age, but there was a sound in the room, light and 
 gentle. I looked around ; I thought that a shadowy form 
 passed between me and the window. A feeling of terror 
 crossed me. I nearly cried out ; but as my lips moved, a 
 warm mouth sealed them with sweetness. 
 
 * Contarini,' said a voice I could not mistake, ' are you 
 unwell ? ' 
 
 I would not answer. 
 
 ' Contarini, my love, speak to Christiafia ! ' 
 
 But the demon prevailed, and I would not speak. 
 
 ' Contarini, you are not asleep.* 
 
 Still I was silent. 
 
 ' Contarini, you do not love me.* 
 
 I would have been silent, but I sighed. 
 
 * Contarini, what has happened ? Tell me, toll mt\ 
 dearest. Tell your Christiana. You know you always 
 tell her everything.' 
 
A PSYCHOLOc}/CAL ROMANCE. 
 
 15 
 
 I seized hev hand ; I bathed it with my fast-flowing tears. 
 
 She knelt down as she did on onr first meeting in tho 
 garden, and clasped me in her arms ; and each moment the 
 madness of my mind grew greater. I was convulsed with 
 passion. 
 
 And when I grew more calm she again spoke, and asked 
 me what made me so unhappy ; and I said, between my 
 wild sobs, '0! Christiana, you too have turned against 
 me!' 
 
 ' Dear, sensitive child,' she said, as she pressed me to 
 her bosom, * if you feel so keenly you will never be happy. 
 Turn against you ! ! Contarini, who is your friend if 
 not Christiana ! Do I not love you better than all the 
 world ? Do I not do all I can to make you happy and 
 good ? And why should I turn against Contarini, when ho 
 is the best and dearest of boys, and loves his Christiana 
 with all his heart and soul ? ' 
 
 She raised me from the bed and placed me in her lap. 
 My head reposed upon her fond and faithful heart. She 
 was silent, for I was exhausted, and I felt her sweet breath 
 descending upon my cheek. 
 
 * Go,' I said, after some little time, and in a feeble voice, 
 * go, Christiana. They want you.' 
 
 * Not without you, dearest. I came to fetch yon.' 
 
 * I cannot go. It is impossible : I am so tired.' 
 
 ' Oh ! come. I shall be so unhappy if you do not come. 
 You would not have me unhappy the whole evening, this 
 evening that we were to be so gay. See ! I will run and 
 fetch a light, and be with you in a moment.' And she 
 kissed me and ran away, and in a moment returned. 
 
 * Dearest Chi'istiana I I cannot go. What will they think 
 of me ?' 
 
 ' Nobody knows even that you are away • all are busy.' 
 ' What will they think of me ? Really J cannot go ; and 
 my eyes are so red.' 
 
i6 CONTARTNI FLEMING : 
 
 * Nonsense ! They are the blackest and most beautifa\ 
 eyes I ever saw.' 
 
 * Oh ! they are horridly red,' I answered, looking \i\ tlie 
 glass. * I cannot go, Chi'istiana.' 
 
 ' They are not in the least red. I will wash them with 
 some Eau de Cologne and water.' 
 
 * ! Christiana, do you really love me ? Have you really 
 made it up ? ' 
 
 * I love you more than ever. There, let me brush your 
 curls. Is this your brush ? Wliat a funny little brush ! 
 Dear Contarini, how pretty you look ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 When I was eight years of age a tutor was introduced into 
 the house, and I was finally and formally emancipated from 
 the police of the nursery and the government of women. 
 My tutor was well quaHfied for his office, according to the 
 existing ideas respecting education, which substitute for 
 the noblest of sciences the ^dle art of teaching words. He 
 was learned in his acquirements, and literaiy in his tasto, 
 with a calm mind, a bland manner, and a mild voice. The 
 Baroness, who fancied herself a great judge of character, 
 favoured him, before the commencement of his labours, 
 with an epitome of mine. After a j^ear's experience of his 
 pupil, he ventured to express his opinion that I was by no 
 means so slow as was supposed ; that, although I had no 
 great power of application, I was not averse to acquiiing 
 knowledge ; and that if I were not endowed with any 
 remai^kable or shining qualities, my friends might be con- 
 soled for the absence of these high powers by my being 
 equally destitute of those violent passions and that un- 
 ^i^overaable volition usually attendant upon genius, an(} 
 >shich too often rendered the most gifted miserable. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 17 
 
 I was always a bad learner, and althougli I loved know- 
 ledge from my cradle I liked to acquire it my own way. I 
 think that I was born with a detestation of grammars. 
 Nature seemed to whisper me the folly of learning words 
 instead of ideas, and my mind would have grown sterile 
 for want of manure if I had not taken its culture into my 
 own hands, and compensated by my own tillage for my 
 tutor's bad husbandry. I therefore in a quiet way read 
 every book that I could get hold of, and studied as little as 
 possible in my instructor's museum of verbiage, whether 
 his specimens appeared in the anatomy of a substantive, or 
 .the still more disgusting form of a dissected verb. 
 
 This period of my life, too, was memorable for a more 
 interesting incident than the introduction of my tutor. 
 For the first time I visited the theatre. Never shall 1 
 forget the impression. At length I perceived human 
 beings conducting themselves as I wished. I was mad 
 '.for the playhouse, and I had the means of gratifying my 
 mania. I so seldom fixed my heart upon anything, I 
 showed, in general, such little relish for what is called 
 amusement, that my father accorded me his permission 
 •with pleasure and facility, and, as an attendant to this 
 magical haunt, I now began to find my tutor of great use. 
 . I had now a .pursuit, for when I was not a spectator at 
 the theatre, at home I was an actor. I required no 
 audience ; I was happier alone. . My chivalric reveries 
 had been long gradually leaving me : now they entirely 
 vanished. As I learnt more of life and nature, I re- 
 quired for my private world something which, while it 
 v/as beautiful and uncommon, was nevertheless natural 
 and could live. Books more real than fairy tales and 
 feudal romances had already made me muse over a more 
 real creation. The theatre at once fally introduced me to 
 this new existence, and there arose accordingly in my mind 
 new characters. Heroes succeeded to knights, tyrants to 
 
 c 
 
i8 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 ogres, and bonndlefaj empire to enchanted castles. My 
 character also changed -with my companions. Before, all 
 was beautiful and bright, but stiU and mystical. The 
 forms that surrounded me were splendid, the scenes 
 through which I passed glittering, but the changes took 
 place without my agency, or if I acted, I fulfilled only the 
 system of another, for the foundation was the supernatural. 
 Now, if everything were less beautiful, everything was 
 more earnest. I mingled with the warlike and the wise, 
 the crafty, the sufiering, the pious ; all depended upon our 
 own exertions, and each result could only be brought about 
 by our own simple and human energies, for the foundation 
 was the natural. 
 
 Yet at times even this fertile source of enjoyment faned, 
 and the dark spirit which haunted me in my first years 
 would still occasionally descend upon my mind. I knew 
 not how it was, but the fit came upon me in an instant, and 
 often when least counted on. A star, a sunset, a tree, a 
 note of music, the sound of the wind, a fair face flitting by 
 me in unknown beauty, and I was lost. AH seemed vapid, 
 dull, spiritless, and flat. Life had no object and no beauty; 
 and I slunk to some solitary corner, where I was content to 
 lie down and die. These were moments of agony, these 
 were moments in which, if I were spoken to, I had no 
 respect for persons. Once I remember my father found me 
 before the demon had yet flown, and, for the first time, he 
 spoke without being honoured. 
 
 At last I had such a lengthened fit that it attracted uni- 
 versal attention. I would scarcely move, or speak, or eat 
 for days. There was a general alarm. The Baroness fell 
 into a flutter, lest my father should think that I had been 
 starved to death, or ill-used, or poisoned, and overwhelmed 
 me with inquiries, each of which severely procrastinated 
 my convalescence. For doubtless, now that I can analyse 
 my past feelingB, *,hese dark humours arose only from the 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 19 
 
 want of being loved. Physicians were called in. There 
 were immense consultations. They were all puzzled, and 
 all had recourse to arrogant dogmas. I would not, nay, I 
 could not, assist them. Lying upon the sofa, with my eyes 
 shut, as if asleep, I listened to their conferences. It was 
 settled that I was suffering from a want of nervous energy. 
 Strange jargon, of whicli their fellow- creatures are the 
 victims ! Although young, I looked upon these men with 
 suspicion, if not contempt, and my after life has both in- 
 creased my experience of their character, and confirmed my 
 juvenile impression. 
 
 Change of air and scene were naturally prescribed for an 
 effect by men who were ignorant of the cause. It was 
 settled that I should leave town, accompanied by my tutor, 
 and that we should reside for a season at my father's castle. 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 * And I, too, will fly to Egeria ! ' 
 
 We were discoursing of PompiHus when the thought 
 flashed across me. I no longer listened to his remarks, and 
 I ceased also to answer. My eyes were indeed fixed upon 
 the page, but I perceived nothing, and as it was not yet 
 my hour of liberty, I remained in a soft state of dreamy 
 abstraction. 
 
 When I was again free I wandered forth into the park, 
 and I hastened, with a rushing, agitated step, to the spot 
 on which I had fixed. 
 
 It was a small dell, and round it grew tall trees with thin 
 and light-coloured leaves. And the earth was everywhere 
 covered with thick fern and many wild flowers. And the. 
 dell was surrounded at a slight distance by a deep wood, 
 out of which white glancing hares each instant darted 
 to play upon the green sunny turf. It was not indeed a 
 
 c 2 
 
20 COXTARINI FLEMING : 
 
 5j)arry grot cool in the sparkling splendour of a soutLem 
 scene, it was not indeed a spot formed in tlie indefinite bat 
 lovelj- mould of the regions of my dreams, but it was green, 
 and sweet, and wondrous still. 
 
 I threw myself upon the soft yielding fern, and covered 
 my eyes. And a shadowy purple tint was all that I per- 
 ceived ; and as my abstraction grew more intense, the purple 
 lightened into a dusky white, and this new curtain again 
 into a glittering veil, and the veil mystically disappeared, 
 and I beheld a beautiful and female face. 
 
 It was not unlike Christiana, but more dazzling and very 
 pousive. And the eyes met mine, and they were full of 
 serious lustre, and my heart beat, and I seemed to whisper 
 with a low, but almost ecstatic voice, ' Egeria ! ' Yet, in- 
 deed, my lips did not move. And the vision beamed with 
 a melancholy smile. And suddenly I found myself in a 
 spacious cave, and I looked up into the face of a beautiful 
 woman, and her countenance was the countenance of the 
 \4sion. And we were in deep shade, but far out I could 
 perceive a shining and azure land. And the sky was of a 
 i-adiant purple, and the earth was streaming with a golden 
 light. And there were blue mountains, and bright fields, 
 and glittering vineyards. 
 
 And I said nothing, but I looked upon her face, and dwelt 
 upon her beauty. And the hours flew, and the sun set, and 
 the dew descended. And as the sky became less warm the 
 vision gradually died away; and I arose in the long twilight, 
 and returned home pensive and grave, but full of a soft 
 and palpitating joy. 
 
 When I returned I could not eat. Mj tutor made many 
 observations, many iaquiries ; bat he was a simple man. 
 and I could always quiet him. I sat at the table, full of 
 happiness and almost without motion ; and in the evening 
 I stole into a comer, and thought of the coming day with 
 aM its rich sti-ange joys. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 21 
 
 My life was now one long stream of full felicity. It was, 
 indeed, but one idea, but that idea was as beautiful as it 
 was engrossing. Each day I hastened to the enchanted 
 dell, each day I returned with renewed rapture. I had no 
 thought for anything but my mystic mistress. . My studies, 
 always an effort, would now have been insupportable, had 
 I not invented a system by which I rendered even their 
 restraint a new source of enjoyment. I had now so com- 
 plete a command of my system of abstraction, that, w^hile 
 my eye apparently was employed and interested with my 
 allotted page, I, in fact, perceived nothing but my visionary 
 nymph. My tutor, who observed me always engrossed, 
 could not conceive that I was otherwise than a student, and, 
 when I could remember, I would turn over a leaf, or affect 
 with much anxiety to look out a word in the lexicon, so that 
 his deception was perfect. Then, at the end of the day, I 
 w^ould snatch some hasty five minutes to gain an imperfect 
 acquaintance with my task, imperfect enough to make him 
 at length convinced that the Baroness' opinion of my in- 
 tellect was not so erroneous as he had once imagined. 
 
 A short spring and a long summer had passed away thus 
 delightfully, and I was now to leave the castle and, return 
 to the capital. The idea of being torn away from Egeria 
 was harrowing. I became again melancholy, but my gi'ief 
 was tender, not savage. I did not recur to my ancient 
 gloom, for I was prevented by the consoling conviction that 
 I was loved. Yet to her the sad secret must be confided. 
 I could not quit her without preparation. How often in 
 solitary possession of the dreadful fact, have I gazed upon 
 her incomparable face ; how often have I fancied that she 
 was conscious of the terrible truth, and glanced reproach- 
 fully even amid her looks of love ! 
 
 It was told : in broken accents of passionate woe, with 
 streaming eyes, and amid embraces of maddening rapture, 
 it was told. I clung to her, I would have clung to her for 
 
22 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 ever, but a dark and irresistible destiny doomed ns to part, 
 and I was left to my nninspired loneliness. 
 
 Retnming home from my last visit to tbe dell I met my 
 tutor. He came upon me suddenly, otherwise I would have 
 avoided him, as at this moment I would have avoided any- 
 thing else human. My swollen cheeks, my eyes dim with 
 weeping, my wild and broken walk, attracted even his 
 attention. He inquired what ailed me. His appearance, 
 so different from the radiant being from whom I had lately 
 parted, his voice so strange after the music which yet lin- 
 gered in my ear, his salutation so varying in style from the 
 one that ever welcomed me, and ever and alone was wel- 
 come, the horrible contrast that my situation formed with 
 the condition I had that instant quitted, all this overcame 
 me. I expressed my horror by my extended anns and my 
 averted head. I shuddered and swooned. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Although I have delineated with some detail the feelings 
 of my first boyhood, I have been indebted for this record to 
 the power of a faithful and analytic memory, and not to an 
 early indulgence in the habits of introspection. For indeed, 
 in these young years, I never thought about myself, or if 
 some extraordinary circumstance impelled me to idiosyn- 
 cratic contemplation, the result was not cheering. For I 
 well remember that when, on the completion of my eleventh 
 year, being about to repair to a College, where I was to 
 pass some years preparatory to the University, I meditated 
 on this great and coming change, I was impressed with a 
 keen conviction of inferiority. It had sometimes, indeed, 
 crossed my mind that I was of a different order from those 
 around me, but never that the difference was in my favour ; 
 and, brooding over the mortifying contrast, which my 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 23 
 
 exploits exhibited in my private and my public world, and 
 the general opinion which they entertained of me at home, 
 I was at times strongly tempted to consider myself even 
 half a fool. 
 
 Though change was ever agreeable, I thought of the 
 vicissitude that was about to occur with the same appre- 
 hension that men look forward to the indefinite horror of a 
 terrible operation. And the strong pride that supported 
 me under the fear, and forbade me to demonstrate it, was 
 indeed the cause of my sad forebodings. For I could not 
 tolerate the thought that I should become a general jest 
 and a common agent. And when I perceived the state pre- 
 paring for me, and thought of Egeria, I blushed. And that 
 beautiful vision, which had brought me such delicious solace, 
 was now only a source of depressing mortification. And for 
 the first time in my life, in my infinite tribulation, and in 
 the agony of my fancy, I mused why there should be such 
 a devilish and tormenting variance between my thought 
 and my action. 
 
 The hour came, and I was placed in the heart of a little 
 and busy world. For the first time in my life I was sur- 
 rounded by struggling and excited beings. Joy, hope, 
 sorrow, ambition, craft, courage, wit, dulness, cowardice, 
 beneficence, awkwardness, grace, avarice, generosity, 
 wealth, poverty, beauty, hideousness, tyranny, sufiering, 
 hypocrisy, tmth, love, hatred, energy, inertness ; they were 
 all there, and all sounded, and moved, and acted, about mo. 
 Light laughs, and bitter cries, and deep imprecations, and 
 the deeds of the friendly, the prodigal, and the tyrant, and 
 the exploits of the brave, the graceful, and the gay, and the 
 flying words of native wit, and the pompous sentences of ac- 
 quired knowledge ; how new, how exciting, how wonderful ! 
 
 Did I tremble? Did I sink into my innermost self? 
 Did I fly? Never. As I gazed upon them, a new principle 
 rose up in my breast, and I perceived only beings whom I 
 
24 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 was deicniiined to control. Tbej came up to me witli a 
 curious glance of half-suppressed glee, breathless and 
 mocking. Thej asked me questions of gay nonsense with 
 a serious voice and solemn look. I answered in their kind. 
 On a sudden I seemed endowed with new powers, and 
 blessed with the gift of tongues. I spoke to them with 
 a levity which was quite strange to me, a most unnatural 
 ease. I even, in my turn, presented to them questions, to 
 which they found it difiScult to respond. Some run away 
 to communicate their impression to their comrades, some 
 stayed behind, but these became more serious and more 
 natural. When they found that I was endowed with a 
 pregnant and decided character, their eyes silently pro- 
 nounced mo a good fellow; they ^'ied with each other in 
 Idndness, and the most important led me away to initiate 
 rae in their mysteries. 
 
 Weeks flew away, and I was intoxicated with my new 
 life and my new reputation. I was in a state of ceaseless 
 excitement. It seemed that my tongue never paused : yet 
 each word brought forth a new laugh, each sentence of 
 gay nonsense fresh plaudits. All was rattle, frolic, and 
 wild mirth. My companions caught my unusual manner, 
 they adopted my new phrases, they repeated my extra- 
 ordinary apophthegms. Everything was viewed and done 
 according to the new tone wliich I had introduced. It 
 was decided that I was the wittiest, the most original, the 
 most diverting of their society. A coterie of the congenial 
 insensibly formed around me, and my example gradually 
 ruled the choice spirits of our world. I even mingled in 
 their games although I disHked the exertion, and in those 
 in which the emulation was very strong I even excelled. 
 My ambition conquered my nature. It seemed that I was 
 the soul of the school. Wherever I went my name sounded, 
 whatever was done my opinion was quoted. I was caressed, 
 adored, idolised. In a word, I was popular. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 25 
 
 Yet sometimes I cauglit a flying moment to turn aside 
 and contrast my present situation with my past one. Wliat 
 was all this ? Was I the same being ? But my head was 
 in a whirl, and I had not time or calmness to solve the 
 perplexing inquiry. 
 
 There was a boy and his name was ]\Iusseus. He was 
 somewhat my elder. Of a kind, calm, docile, mellow nature, 
 moderate in everything, universally liked, but without the 
 least influence, he was the serene favourite of the school. 
 It seemed to me that I never beheld so lovely and so pen- 
 sive a countenance. His face was quite oval, liis eyes deep 
 blue : his rich brown curls clustered in hyacin thine grace 
 upon the delicate rose of his downy cheek, and shaded the 
 light blue veins of his clear white forehead. 
 
 I beheld him : I loved him. My friendship was a passion. 
 Of all our society he alone crowded not around me. He 
 was of a cold temperament, shy and timid. He looked 
 upon me as a being whom he could not comprehend, and 
 rather feared. I was unacquainted with his motives, ant\ 
 piqued with his conduct. I gave up my mind to the acquisi- 
 tion of his acquaintance, and of course I succeeded. In 
 vain he endeavoured to escape. Wliercver he moved, I 
 seemed unintentionally to hover around him ; whatever he 
 wanted, I seemed providentially to supply. In the few 
 words that this shght intercourse called forth, I addressed 
 him in a tone strange to our rough life ; I treated him with 
 a courtesy which seemed to elevate our somewhat coarse 
 condition. He answered nothing, was confused, thankful, 
 agitated. He yielded to the unaccustomed tenderness of 
 my manner, to the unwonted refinement of my address. 
 He could not but feel the strange conviction that my con- 
 duct to him was difierent from my behaviour to others, for 
 in truth his presence ever subdued my spirit, and repressed 
 my artificial and excited manner. 
 
 Musceus was lowly born, and I was noble ; ho poor, and 
 
26 CONTARINI FLEMING: . 
 
 I wealtliy ; I had a dazzling repntatlon, he but good report. 
 To find himself an object of interest, of quiet and tender 
 regard, to one to whose notice all aspired, and who seemed 
 to exist only in a blaze of cold hearted raillery and reckless 
 repartee, developed even his dormant vanity. He looked 
 upon me with interest, and this feeling soon matured into 
 fondness. 
 
 Oh ! days of rare and pure felicity, when Musseus and 
 myself, with our arms around each other's neck, wandered 
 together amid the meads and shady woods that formed our 
 limits ! I lavished upon him all the fanciful love that I had 
 long stored up ; and the mighty passions that yet lay dor- 
 mant in my obscure soul now first began to stir in their 
 glimmering abyss. And, indeed, in conversing with this 
 dear companion it was that I first began to catch some 
 glimpses of my yet hidden nature : for the days of futurity 
 were our usual topic, and in parcelling out their fortunes I 
 unconsciously discovered my own desires. I was to be 
 something great, and glorious, and dazzling ; but what, we 
 could not determine. The camp and the senate, the sword 
 and the scroll, that had raised and had destroyed so many 
 states ; these were infinitely discussed. And then a life of 
 adventure was examined, full of daring delight. One might 
 be a corsair or a bandit. Foreign travel was what we could 
 surely command, and must lead to much. I spoke to him, 
 in the fulness of our sweet confidence, of the strangeness 
 of my birth, and we marvelled together over mysterious 
 Venice. And this led us to conspiracies, for which I fancied 
 that I had a predisposition. But in all these scenes Musoeua 
 was to be never absent. He was to be my heart's friend 
 from the beginning to the death. And I mourned that 
 nature had given me no sister, with whom I could bind 
 him to me by a still stronger and sweeter tie. And then, 
 with a shy, hesitating voice, for he delighted not in talking 
 of his home, he revealed to me that he was more blessed ; 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 27 
 
 and Caroline Musaeus rose up at once to me like a star, and 
 withont having seen her I was indeed her betrothed. 
 
 Thus, during these bright days did I pour forth all the 
 feelings I had long treasured up ; and in endeavouring to 
 communicate my desires to another, I learnt to think. I 
 ascended from indefinite reverie to palpable cogitation. 
 
 I was now seldom alone. To be the companion of Museeus 
 I participated in many pastimes, which otherwise I should 
 have avoided, and in return he, although addicted to sports, 
 was content, for my sake, to forego much former occupation. 
 With what eagerness I rushed when the hour of study 
 ceased, with what wild eagerness I rushed to resume our 
 delicious converse ! Nor indeed was his image ever absent 
 from me ; and when in the hour of school we passed each 
 other, or our countenances chanced to meet, there was ever 
 a sweet, faint smile, that, unmarked by others, interchanged 
 our love. 
 
 A love that I thought must last for ever, and for ever 
 flow like a clear bright stream ; yet at times my irritable 
 passions would disturb even these sweet waters. The tem- 
 perament of Musaeus was cold and slow. I was at first 
 proud of having interested his affection, but as our friend- 
 ship grew apace, I was not contented with this calm sym- 
 pathy and quiet regard. I required that he should respond 
 to my affection with feelings not less ardent and energetic 
 tlian mine own. I was sensitive, I was jealous. I found a 
 savage joy in harrowing his heart ; I triumphed when I 
 could draw a tear from his beautiful eye ; when I could 
 urge him to unaccustomed emotion ; when I forced him to 
 assure me, in a voice of agitation, that he loved me alone, 
 and pray me to be pacified. 
 
 From sublims torture to ridiculous teasing, too often 
 Musaeus was my victim. One day I detected an incipient 
 dishke to myself, or a growing affection for another ; then 
 I passed him in gloomy silence, because his indispensable 
 
28 CONTARINI FLEMING : 
 
 eiigagemeuts liad obliged liim to refase my invitation to 
 our walk. But the letters with which I overwhelmed him 
 under some of these contingencies ; these were the most 
 violont infliction. Wliat pages of mad eloquence ! solemn 
 appeals, bitter sarcasms, infinite ebullitions of frantic sensi- 
 bihtj. For the first time in my life I composed. I grew 
 intoxicated with my own eloquence. A new desire arose 
 in my mind, novel aspirations which threw light upon old 
 and often-experienced feelings. I began to ponder over the 
 music of language ; I studied the collocation of sweet words, 
 and constructed elaborate sentences in lonely walks. Poor 
 Musasus quite sunk under the receipt of my efiusions. He 
 could not write a line; and had he indeed been able, it 
 would have been often difficult for him to have discovered 
 the cause of our separations. The brevity, the simpHcity 
 of his answers were irresistible and heartrending. Yet 
 these distractions brought with them one charm, a charm 
 to me so captivating, that I fear it was sometimes a cause ; 
 reconcihation was, indeed, a love-feast. 
 
 The sessions of our College closed. The time came that 
 Musoeus and myself must for a moment part ; but for a 
 moment, for I intended that he should visit me in our 
 vacation, and we were also to write to each other every 
 week. Yet, even under these paUiating circumstances, 
 parting was anguish. 
 
 On the eve of the fatal day we took our last stroll in our 
 favourite meads. The whole way I wept, and leant upon 
 his shoulder. With what jealous care I watched to see if 
 he too shed a tear ! One clear drop at length came quiver- 
 ing down his cheek, like dew upon a rose. I pardoned 
 him for its beauty. The bell sounded. I embraced Lira, as 
 if it sounded for my execution, and we parted. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 29 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 I ^VAS once more at home, * once more silent, once more 
 alone. I found myself clianged. My obscure aspirations 
 after some indefinite happiness, my vague dreams of beauty, 
 or palpable personifications of some violent fantastic idea, 
 no longer inspired, no longer soothed, no longer haunted 
 me. I thought only of one subject, which was full of earnest 
 novelty, and abounded in interest, curious, serious, and en- 
 grossing I speculated upon my own nature. My new life 
 had developed many qualities, and had filled me with self- 
 confidence. The clouds seemed to clear ofi' from the dark 
 landscape of my mind, and vast ambition might be distin- 
 guished on the far horizon, rearing its head like a mighty 
 column. My energies stirred within me, and seemed to 
 pant for the struggle and the strife. A deed was to be 
 done, but what ? I entertained at this time a deep con- 
 viction that life must be intolerable unless I were the 
 greatest of men. It seemed that I felt within me the power 
 that could influence my kind. I longed to wave my inspir- 
 ing sword at the head of armies, or dash into the very heat 
 and blaze of eloquent faction. 
 
 When I contrasted my feelings and my situation I grew 
 mad. The constant jar between my conduct and my con- 
 ceptions was intolerable. In imagination a hero, I was in 
 reality a boy. I returned from a victorious field to be cri- 
 ticised by a woman : in the very heart of a deep conspiracy, 
 which was to change the fate of nations, to destroy Home 
 or to free Venice, I was myself the victim of each petty 
 domestic regulation. I cannot describe the insane irrita- 
 bility which all this produced. Infinite were the complaints 
 of my rudeness, my violence, my insufi*erable impertinence, 
 incessant the threats of pains and penalties. It was uni- 
 versally agreed that college had ruined me. A dull, slow 
 
30 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 boj I had always been ; but, at leastj I was tolei-ably kind 
 and docile. Now, as my tutor's report correctly certified, 
 I was not improved in intellect, and all witnessed the hor- 
 rible deterioration of my maimers and my morals. 
 
 The Baroness was in despair. After several smart skir- 
 mishes, we at length had a regular pitched battle. 
 
 She began our dehghtful colloquy in the true style of 
 domestic reprimand ; duU, drony nonsense, adapted, as I 
 should hope, to no state in which human intellect can ever 
 be found, even if it have received the fall benefit of the 
 infernal tuition of nurses, which would be only ridiculous, 
 if its effects were not so fatally and permanently injurious. 
 She told me that whenever I spoke I should speak in a low 
 voice, and that I should never think for myself; that if 
 anything were refused I should be contented, and never 
 ask the reason why, because it was not proper ever to ask 
 questions, particularly when we were sure that everything 
 was done for our good ; that I should do everything that 
 was bidden, and always be ready to conform to everybody's 
 desires, because at my age no one should have a will of his 
 own ; that I should never, on any account, presume to give 
 my opinion, because it was quite impossible that one so 
 young could have one ; that on no account, also, should I 
 ever be irritable, which never could be permitted : but she 
 never considered that every efiect has a cause, and never 
 attempted to discover what might occasion this irritability. 
 In this silly, superficial way she went on for some time, 
 repeating dull axioms by rote, and offering to me the same 
 useless advice that had been equally thrown away upon the 
 tender minds of her generation. 
 
 She said all this, all this to me, all this to one who a 
 moment before was a Caasar, an Alcibiades. IN'ow I had 
 long brooded over the connexion that subsisted between 
 myself and this lady. I had long formed in my mind, and 
 caught up from books, a conception of the relations which 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 31 
 
 iQUst exist between a step-mother and her unwelcome son. 
 I was therefore prepared. She grew pale as I described in 
 mad heroics our exact situation. She had no idea that any 
 people, under any circumstances, could be influenced by 
 such violent, such wicked, such insane sentiments. She 
 stared in stupid astonishment at my terrible and unex- 
 pected fluency. She entirely lost her presence of mind 
 and burst into tears, tears not of afiection, but of absolute 
 fright, the hysteric ofispring of a cold, alarmed, puzzled 
 mind. 
 
 She vowed she would tell my father. I inquired with 
 a malignant sneer, of what ? She protested she certainly 
 would tell. I dilated on the probability of a stepdame's 
 tale. Most certainly she would tell. I burst into a dark, 
 foaming rage. I declared that I would leave the house, 
 that I would leave the country, that I would submit no 
 longer to my intolerable Hfe, that suicide (and here I kicked 
 down a chair) should bring me immediate relief. The 
 Baroness was terrified out of her life. The fall of the chair 
 was the perfection of fear. She was one of those women 
 who have the highest respect for furniture. She could not 
 conceive a human being, much less a boy, voluntarily kick- 
 ing down a chair,, if his feelings were not very keen indeed. 
 It was becoming too serious. She tried to soothe me. She 
 would not speak to my father. All should be right, all 
 should be forgotten, if I only would not commit suicide, 
 and not kick down the chairs. "■■ 
 
 After some weeks Musseus paid his long-meditated visit. 
 I had never, until I invited him, answered his solitary letter. 
 I received him with a coldness whicU astonished me, and 
 must have been apparent to any one but himself. I was 
 distressed by the want of unction in my manner, and tried 
 to compensate by a laboured hospitality which, like ice, 
 was dazzling but frigid. Many causes perhaps conduced 
 to occasion this change, then inscrutable to me. Since we 
 
32 COX.TARINI FLEMING: 
 
 had parted I had indnlged in loftj ideas of self, and some- 
 times remembered, with a feeling approaching to disgustful 
 mortification, the influence which liad been exercised over 
 me by a fellow child. The reminiscence savoured too much 
 of boyish weakness, and painfully belied my proud theory 
 of universal superiority. At home, too, when the permis- 
 sion for the invitation was accorded, there, was much dis- 
 cussion as to the quahty of the invited. They wished to 
 know who he was, and when informed looked rather grave. 
 Some caution was muttered about the choice of my. com- 
 panions. Even my father, who seldom spoke to me, seemed 
 alarmed at the prospect of a bad connexion. His intense 
 worldliness was shocked. He talked to me for an unusual 
 time upon the subject of school friendships, and his con- 
 versation, which was rare, made an impression. All this 
 influenced me, for at that age I was of course the victim of 
 every prejudice. Must I add to all this, what is perhaps 
 the sad and dreary truth, that in loving all this time 
 ilusajus with such devotion, I was in truth rather ena- 
 moured of the creature of my imagination than the com- 
 panion of my presence. Upon the foundation which he 
 had suppHed I had built a beautiful and enchanted palace. 
 Unceasing intercourse was a necessary ingredient to the 
 spell. We parted, and the fairy fabric dissolved into the 
 clouds. 
 
 Certain it is that his visit was a failure. Musaeus was 
 too little sensitive to feel the change of my manner, and my 
 duty as his host impelled me to conceal it. But the change 
 was great. He appeared to me to have fallen off very 
 much in his beauty. The Baroness thought him a little 
 coarse, and praised the complexion of her own children, 
 which was like chalk. Then he wanted constant attention, 
 for.it was evident that he had no resources of his own and 
 cortainly he was not very refined. But he was pleased, for 
 he was in a new world. For the first time in his Hfe he 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 33 
 
 moved in tlieatres and saloons, and mingled in the splen- 
 dour of high civilisation. I took him everywhere ; in fact 
 I could bear everything but to be alone with him. So 
 he passed a very pleasant fortnight and then quitted us. 
 How different from our last parting ! Cheerfal indeed it 
 was, and, in a degree, cordial. I extended him my hand 
 with a patronising air, and mimicking the hollow courtesy 
 of maturer beings, I expressed, in a flimsy voice of affected 
 regard, a wish that he might visit us again. And six weeks 
 before I had loved this boy better than myself, would have 
 perilled for him my life, and shared with him my fortune ! 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I RETURNED to College gloomy and depressed. Not that I 
 cared for quitting home : I hated home. I returned in the 
 fulness of one of my dark humours, and which promised to 
 be one of the most terrible visitations that had ever fallen 
 upon me. Indeed, existence was intolerable, and I should 
 have killed myself had I not been supported by my ambition, 
 which now each day became more quickening, so that the 
 desire of distinction and of astounding action raged in my 
 soul ; and when I recollected that, at the soonest, many years 
 must elapse before I could reahse my ideas, I gnashed my 
 teeth in silent rage, and cursed my existence. 
 
 I cannot picture the astonishment that pervaded our 
 httle society, when they found the former hero of their 
 gaiety avoiding all contact and conversation, and always 
 moving about in gloomy silence. It was at first supposed 
 that some great misfortune had happened to me, and en- 
 quiries were soon afloat, but notliing could be discovered. 
 At length one of my former prime companions, I should 
 say, perhaps, patrons, expostulated with mo upon the 
 
34 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 subject : I assured him, witli grim courtesy, that nothing 
 had hajDpeTied, and wished him good morning. As for 
 Musasus, I just contrived to greet him the first day with a 
 faint, agonising smile, and ever after I shunned him. No- " 
 thing could annoy Musasus long, and he would soon have 
 forgotten his pain, as he had already, perhaps, freed his 
 memory from any vi\'id recollection of the former pleasure 
 which our friendship had undoubtedly brought him. He 
 welcomed enjoyment with a smile, and was almost as cheer- 
 ful when he should have been much less pleased. 
 
 But although Musaeus was content to be thus quiet, the 
 world in which he lived determined that he should be less 
 phlegmatic. As they had nothing better to do, they took 
 his quarrel upon themselves. * He certainly has behaved 
 infamously to Musaeus. You know they were always 
 together. I "wronder what it can be ! As for the rest of the 
 school, that is in comparison nothing ; but Musaeus, you 
 know they were decided cronies. I never knew fellows 
 more together. ] wonder what it can be ! If I were Mu- 
 saeus I certainly would come to an explanation. We must 
 put him up to it. If Musaeus asks him he cannot refuse, 
 and then wo shall know what it is all about.' 
 
 They at length succeeded in beating it into poor Musaeus' 
 head, that he had been very ill-treated and must be very 
 unhappy, and they urged him to insist upon an explanation. 
 But Musaeus was no hand at demanding explanation ; and 
 he deputed the task to a friend. 
 
 I was alone, sitting on a gate, in a part of the grounds 
 which was generally least frequented, when I heard a shout 
 which, although I could not guess its cause, sounded in my 
 ear with something of a menacing and malignant expression. 
 The whole school, headed by the deputy, were finding me 
 out, in order that the important question might be urged, 
 that the honour of Musaeus might be supported, and their 
 own curiosity gratified. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 35 
 
 Now at that age, whatever I may be now, I could not be 
 driven. A soft word, and I was an Abel ; an appearance of 
 force, and I scowled a Cain. Had Mnsa3us, instead of 
 being a most common-place character, which assuredly he 
 was, had it been in his nature to have struck out a single 
 spark of ardent feeling, to have indulged in a single sigh of 
 sentiment, he might perhaps yet have been my friend. His 
 appeal might have freed me from the domination of the 
 black spirit, and in weeping over our reconciliation upon 
 his sensitive bosom, I might have been emancipated from 
 its horrid thrall. But the moment that Musibus sought to 
 influence my private feelings by the agency of public 
 opinion, he became to me, instead of an object of indiffer- 
 once, an object of disgust ; and only not of hatred, because 
 of contempt. 
 
 I did not like the shout ; and when, at a considerable 
 distance, I saw them advancing towards the gate with an 
 eager run, I was almost tempted to retire : but I had never 
 yet flinched in the course of my life, and the shame which 
 I now felt at the contemplation of such an act impelled me 
 to stay. 
 
 They arrived, and gathered round me ; they did not 
 know how to commence tlieir great business : breathless 
 and agitated, they looked first at their embarrassed leader 
 and then at me. 
 
 When I had waited a sufficient time for my dignity, I 
 rose to quit the place. 
 
 ' We want you, Fleming,' said the chief. 
 
 ' Well ! ' and I turned round and faced the speaker. 
 
 ' I tell you what, Fleming,' said he, in a rapid, nervous 
 style, ' you may think yourself a very great man ; but we do 
 not exactly understand the way you are going on. There 
 is Musa3us ; you and he were the greatest friends last half, 
 and now you do not speak to him, nor to any one else. 
 And we all think that you should give an explanation of 
 
 D 2 
 
36 CONTARIXI FLEMING: 
 
 your conduct. And, in short, we come here to know what 
 you have got to say for yourself.* 
 
 * Do you ! ' I answered with a sneer. 
 
 * Well, what have you got to say ? ' he continued, in a 
 firmer voice and more peremptory tone. 
 
 * Say ! say that either you or I must leave this gate. I 
 was here first, but as you are the largest number, I suppose 
 I must yield.' 
 
 I turned my heel upon him, and moved. Some one 
 hissed. I returned, and enquired in a calm, mild voice, 
 ' AYho hissed ? ' 
 
 IsTow the person who hissed was a boy, who was indeed 
 my match in years, and perhaps in force, but a great 
 coward. I knew it was he, because he was just the fellow 
 w4io would hiss, and looked quite pale when I asked the 
 question. Besides, no one answered it, and he was almost 
 the only boy wlio, under such circumstances, would have 
 been silent. 
 
 ' Are you afraid to o^vn it ? ' I asked, in a contemptuous 
 tone, but still subdued. 
 
 This great mob of nearly two hundred boys were very 
 much ashamed at the predicament in which their officious 
 and cowardly member had placed them. So their leader, 
 proud in a fine frame, a great and renovnied courage, un- 
 rivalled achievements in combat, and two years of su- 
 periority in age over myself, advanced a little, and said, 
 * Suppose I hissed, what then ? ' 
 
 * What then ! ' I exclaimed, in a voice of thunder, and 
 with an eye of Hghtning, ' What then ! Why, then, I 
 would thrash you.' 
 
 There was an instantaneous flutter and agitation, and 
 panting monosyllabic whisper in the crowd ; they were 
 hke birds, w^hen the hawk is first detected in airy distance. 
 Unconsciously, they withdrew like waves, and, the arena 
 being cleared, my opponent and I were left in opposition. 
 Apparently there never Avas a more unequal match ; but 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 37 
 
 indeed he was not fighting with Contarini Elemiiig, but 
 with a demon that had usurped his shape. 
 
 ' Come on, then,' he replied, with brisk confidence. 
 
 And I came, as the hail upon the tall corn. I flew at him 
 like a wild beast ; I felt not his best blow, I beat down his 
 fine guard, and I sent him to the ground, stunned and giddy. 
 
 He was up again in a moment ; and indeed I would not 
 have waited for their silly rules of mock combat, but have 
 destroyed him in his prostration. But he was up again in a 
 moment. Again I flew upon him. He fought with subtle 
 energy, but he was like a serpent with a tiger. I fixed 
 upon him: my blows told with the rapid precision of 
 machinery. His bloody visage was not to be distinguished. 
 I believe he was terrified by my frantic air. 
 
 I would never wait between the rounds. I cried out in 
 a voice of madness for him to come on. There was breath- 
 less silence. They were thunderstruck. They were too 
 generous to cheer their leader. They could not refrain from 
 sympathising with inferior force and unsupported courage. 
 Each time that he came forward I made the same dreadful 
 spring, beat down his guard, and never ceased working 
 upon his head, until at length my fist seemed to enter his 
 very brain ; and after ten rounds he fell down quite blind. 
 I never felt his blows ; I never lost my breath. 
 
 He could not come to time ; I rushed forward ; I placed 
 my knee upon his chest. ' I fight no more,' he faintly cried. 
 
 * Apologise,' I exclaimed ; ' apologise.' He did not speak. 
 
 * By heavens, apologise,' I said, ' or I know not what I 
 shall do.' 
 
 * Never ! ' he replied. 
 
 I lifted up my arm. Some advanced to interfere. ' Off",' 
 I shouted ; * Ofi", off.' I seized the fallen chief, rushed 
 through the gate, and dragged him like Achilles through 
 the mead. At the bottom there was a dunghill. Upon it 
 I flung the half inanimate body. 
 
CONTARINI FLEMING 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 I STROLLED away to one of my fkvonrite liaunts ; I was 
 calm and exhausted : my face and hands were smeared with 
 gore. I knelt down by the side of the stream, and drank 
 the most deliciona draught that I had ever quaffed. I 
 thought that I should never have ceased. I felt invigorated, 
 and a plunge in the river completed my renovation. 
 
 I recUned under a branching oak, and moralised on the 
 past. For the first time in my hfe I had acted. Hitherto 
 I had been a creature of dreams ; but within the last montli 
 unconsciously I found myself a stirrer in existence. I per- 
 ceived that I had suddenly become a responsible agent. 
 There were many passions, many characters, many incidents. 
 Love, hatred, faction, vengeance,Musa3us, myself, my anta- 
 gonist, his followers, who were indeed a world ; our soft 
 walks, the hollow visit, the open breach, the organised party, 
 the great and triumphant struggle. 
 
 And as I mused, all these beings flitted across my vision, 
 and all that had passed was again present, and again per- 
 fonned, except indeed that my part in the drama was of a 
 more studied and perfect cast ; for I was conscious of much 
 that had been omitted both in conversation and in conduct, 
 of much that might have been finely expressed and dexte- 
 rously achieved. And to introduce all this I indulged in 
 imaginary scenes. There was a long interview between 
 myself and Musseus, harrowing; a logomachy between 
 myself and the chief of the faction, pungent. I became so 
 excited that I could no longer restrain the outward ex- 
 pression of my feeling. My voice broke into impassioned 
 tones ; I audibly uttered the scornful jest. My countenance 
 was in harmony with my speech ; my action lent a more 
 powerfal meaning to my words. 
 
 And suddenly there was a great change^ the order of 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 39 
 
 wliicli I cannot trace ; for Musseus, though he looked upon 
 me, was not Mnsseus, but a youth in a distant land ; and 1 
 was there in a sumptuous dress, with a brilliant star ; and 
 we were friends. And a beautiful woman rose up, a blend- 
 ing of Christiana and Egeria. Both of us loved her, and 
 she yielded herself to me, and Musasus fled for aid. And 
 there came a king with a great power, and as I looked upon 
 his dazzling crown, lo ! it encircled the brow of my late 
 antagonist. 
 
 And I beheld and felt all this growing and expanding 
 life with a bliss so keen, so ravishing, that I can compare 
 it to nothing but to joys which I was then too young even 
 to anticipate. My brain seemed to melt into a liquid, rush- 
 ing stream ; my blood quickened into action, too quick even 
 to recognise pulsation ; fiery and fleet, yet delicate and soft. 
 "With difficulty I breathed, yet the oppression was delicious. 
 But in vain I endeavour to paint the refined excitement of 
 this first struggle of my young creation. 
 
 The drama went on, nor was it now in my power to 
 restrain it. At length, oppressed with the vitality of the 
 beings I had formed, dazzled with the shifting briPiancy of 
 the scenes in which they moved, exhausted with the mar- 
 vellous action of my shadowy self, who figured before me 
 in endless exploit, now struggling, now triumphing, now 
 pouring forth his soul in sentences of burning love, now 
 breathing a withering blast of proud defiance, I sought for 
 means to lay the wild ghosts that I had unconsciously 
 raised. 
 
 I lifted my hand to my face, that had been gazing all this 
 time in. fixed abstraction upon a crimson cloud. There was 
 a violent struggle which I did not comprehend. Everything 
 was chaos ; but soon, as it were, a mystic music came rising 
 out of the incongruous mass ; a mighty secret was revealed 
 to me, all was harmony, and order, and repose, and beauty. 
 The whirling scene no longer changed; there was universal 
 
40 CONTARINI FLEMIXG: 
 
 stillness ; and tlie wild beings ceased tlieii' fierce action, and, 
 bending down before me in bnniility, proffered their homage 
 ro their creator. 
 
 ' Am I, then/ I exclaimed, looking around with an asto- 
 nished and vacant air, ' Am I then, after all, a poet ? ' 
 
 I sprang np, I paced np and down before the tree, but 
 not in thought. The perspiration ran down my forehead, 
 1 trembled, I panted, I was lost. I was not conscious of 
 niy existence. My memory deserted me, the rudder of my 
 mind broke away. 
 
 My thought came back ; I threw myself on the ground. 
 'Yes,' I exclaimed, 'beautiful beings, I will release you from 
 tJie prison-house of my brain ! I will give you to freedom 
 and to light ! You shall exist not only for me, you shall 
 go forth to the world to dehght and to conquer.' 
 
 And this was the first time in my life that the idea of 
 literary creation occurred to me ; for I disHked poetry, of 
 which indeed I had read little, except plays ; and although 
 I took infinite delight in prose fiction, it was only because 
 the romance or the novel offered to me a life more congenial 
 to my feelings than the world in which I lived. But the 
 conviction of this day threw light upon my past existence. 
 My imaginary deeds of conquest, my heroic aspirations, my 
 long, dazzHng dreams of fanciful adventure, were, perhaps, 
 but sources of ideal action ; that stream of eloquent and 
 choice expression which seemed ever flowing in my ear, 
 was probably intended to be directed in a different channel 
 from human assemblies, and might melt or kindle the pas- 
 sions of mankind in silence. And the visions of beauty and 
 ihe vows of love; were thoy, too, to glitter and to glow 
 Duly in imagination ? 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 41 
 
 CHAPTER XT. 
 
 I EEPAIEED the next day to my favomite tree, armed with a 
 pencil and a paper book. My mind was, as I thought, 
 teeming with ideas. I had composed the first sentence of 
 my work in school-time ; it seemed to me fall of music. 1 
 had repeated it a thousand times ; I was enchanted with 
 its euphony. It was now written, fairly written. With 
 rapture I perceived it placed in its destined position. But 
 what followed ? Nothing. In vain I rubbed my forehead ; 
 in vain I summoned my fancies. The traitors would not 
 listen. My mind seemed full to the very brink, but not a 
 drop of the rich stream overflowed. I became anxious, 
 nervous, fretful, I walked about ; I reseated myself. Again 
 I threw down the pencil, and was like a man disenchanted. 
 I could scarcely recall the visions of yesterday, and if with 
 an effort I succeeded, they appeared cold, tame, dull, life- 
 less. Nothing can describe my blank despair. 
 
 They know not, they cannot tell, the cold, dull world ; 
 they cannot even remotely conceive the agony of dotrbt and 
 despair which is the doom of youthful genius. To sigh for 
 fame in obscurity is like sighing in a dungeon for light ; 
 yet the votary and the captive share an equal hope. But, 
 to feel the strong necessity of fame, and to be conscious that 
 without intellectual excellence life must be insupportable, 
 to feel all this with no simultaneous faith in your own 
 power, these are moments of despondency for which no im- 
 mortality can compensate. 
 
 As for myself, repeated experiments only brought repeated 
 fixilures. I would not die without a straggle, but I strug- 
 gled only to be vanquished. One day was too hot ; another 
 I fancied too cold. Then, again, I w^as not well, or perhaps 
 I was too anxious ; I would try only a sentence each day, 
 The trial was most mortifying, for I found, when it came 
 
42 CONTARIKI FLEMING: 
 
 to this practical test, that iu fact I had nothing to write 
 about. Yet my mind had been so full ; and even now a 
 spark, and it would again light np ; but the flame never 
 kindled, or, if ever I fanned an appearance of heat, I was 
 sure only to extinguish it. Why could I not express what 
 I seemed to feel ? AH was a mystery. 
 
 I was most wretched. I wandered about in great distress, 
 for my pride was deeply wounded, and I could no longer 
 repose on my mind with confident solace. My spirit was 
 quite broken. Had T fought my great battle now I should 
 certainly have been beaten. I was distracted with dis- 
 quietude ; I had no point of refuge, hope utterly vanished. 
 It was impossible that I could be anything ; I must always 
 fail. I hated to think of myself; the veriest dunce in the 
 school seemed my superior. I grew meek and dull. I learnt 
 my dry lessons ; I looked upon a grammar with a feeling of 
 reverence. My lexicon was constantly before me; but I 
 made little advance. I no longer ascribed my ill progress 
 to the uninteresting task, but to my ovra incapacity. I 
 thought myself, once more, half a fool. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Had I now been blessed with a philosophic friend, I might 
 have found consolation and assistance ; but my instructors, 
 to whom I had a right to look up for this aid, were, of eonrse, 
 wanting. The system which they pnrsued taught them to 
 consider their pupils as machines, which were to fulfil a 
 certain operation, and this operation was word-learning. 
 They attempted not to discover, or to develop, or to form 
 character. Predisposition was to them a dark oracle ; or- 
 ganisation a mystery in which they were not initiated. 
 The human mind was with them always the same soil, and 
 one to which they brought ever the same tillage. And mine 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 43 
 
 ^vas considered a sterile one, for they found that their thistles 
 did not flourish where they should have planted roses. 
 
 I was ever considered a lazy, idle boy, because I required 
 ideas instead of words. I never would make any further 
 exertion than would save me from their punishments: their 
 rewards I did not covet. Yet I was ever reading, and in 
 general knowledge was immeasurably superior to all the 
 students; for aught I know, to all the tutors; for indeed, 
 in any chance observations in which they might indulge, I 
 could even then perceive that they were individuals of 
 limited intelligence. They spoke sometimes of great men, 
 I suppose for our emulation ; but their great men were 
 always commentators. They sometimes burst into an eu- 
 logium of a great work ; you might be sure it was ever a 
 huge bunch of annotations. An unrivalled exploit turned 
 out to be a happy conjecture ; a marvellous deed was the 
 lion's skin that covered the ears of a new reading. I was 
 confounded to hear the same epithets apphed to their 
 obscure demigods that I associated with the names of Csosar 
 and Socrates, and Pericles, and Cicero. It was perplexing 
 to find that Pharsalia or a Philippic, the groves of Aoade- 
 mus or the fanes of the Acropolis, could receive no higher 
 admiration than was lavished upon the unknown exploits 
 of a hunter after syllables. 
 
 After my battle I was never annoyed by my former friends. 
 As time advanced I slightly relaxed in my behaviour, and 
 when it was necessary we interchanged words ; but I never 
 associated with any one. I was, however, no longer mo- 
 lested. An idea got afloat tiiat I was not exactly in my 
 perfect senses ; and, on the whole, I was rather feared than 
 disliked. 
 
 Reading was my only resource. I seldom indulged in 
 reverie. The moment that I perceived my mind wandering, 
 I checked it with a mixed feeling of disgust and terror, I 
 made, however, during this period, more than one attempt 
 
44 COXTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 to write, and always with signal discomfiture. Neltlier of 
 the projected subjects in any way grew out of my own 
 character, however they might have led to its delineation 
 had I proceeded. The first was a theme of heroic life, in 
 which I wished to indulge in the gorgeousness of remote 
 antiquity. I began vrith a fine description, which again 
 elevated my hopes, but when the scene was fairly painted 
 my actors would not come on. I flung the sheet into the 
 river, and cursed my repeated idiocy. 
 
 After an exposure of this kind I always instantaneously 
 became practical, and grave, and stupid ; as a man, when 
 he recovers from intoxication, vows that he will never again 
 taste wine. Nevertheless, during the vacation, a pretty 
 little German lady unfortunately one night took it into her 
 head to nan-ate some of the traditions of her country. 
 Among these I heard, for the first time, the story of the 
 Wild Huntsman of Ilodenstcin. It was unlucky. The 
 Baroness, who was a fine instrumental musician, but who 
 would never play when I requested her, chanced this night 
 to be indulging us. The mystery and the music combined 
 their seductive spells, and I was again enchanted. Infinite 
 characters and ideas seemed rushing in my mind. I recoi- 
 lected that I had never yet given my vein a ti*ial at home. 
 Here I could command silence, solitude, hours unbroken 
 and undisturbed. I walked up and down the room, once 
 more myself. The music was playful, gay, and joyous. A 
 village dance was before my vision ; I marked with delight 
 the smiHng peasantry bounding under the clustering vines, 
 the girls crowned with roses, the youth adorned with floAving 
 ribbons. Just as a venerable elder advanced the sounds 
 became melancholy, wild, and ominous. I was in a deep 
 forest, full of doubt and terror ; the wind moaned, the big 
 branches heaved ; in the distance I heard the baying of a 
 hound. It did not appear, for suddenly the trumpet an- 
 nounced a coming triumph ; I felt that a magnificent 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 45 
 
 procession was approaching, that each moment it would 
 appear ; each moment the music became louder, and already 
 an advanced and splendid guard appeared in the distance. 
 I caught a flashing glimpse of a sea of waving plumes and 
 glistening arms. The music ceased, the procession vanished, 
 I fell from the clouds ; I found myself in a dull drawing- 
 room, a silly boy, very exhausted. 
 
 I felt so excessively stupid that I instantly gave up all 
 thoughts of the Hunter of Rodenstein, and went to bed 
 gloomy and without hope. But in the morning, when I 
 rose, the sun was shiniug so softly, the misty trees and the 
 dewy grass were so tender and so bright, the air was so 
 fresh and fragrant, that my first feeling was the desire of 
 composition, and I walked forth into the park cheerful, 
 and moved by a rising faith. 
 
 The exciting feelings of the evening seemed to return, 
 and, when I had sufficiently warmed my mind with reverie, 
 I sat down to my table surrounded by every literary luxury 
 that I could remember. Ink enclosed in an ormulu Cupid, 
 clear and brilliant, quires of the softest cream-coloured 
 paper, richly gilt, and a perfect magazine of the finest pens. 
 I was exceedingly nervous, but on the whole not unsuc- 
 cessful. I described a young traveller arriving at night at 
 a small inn on the borders of a Bohemian forest. I did not 
 allow a single portion of his dress to escape, and even his 
 steed and saddle-bags duly figured. The hostess was 
 founded on our housekeeper, therefore I was master of my 
 subject. Erom her ear-rings to her shoe-buckles all was 
 perfect. I managed to supply my hero with a supper, and 
 at length I got him, not to bed, but to his bed-room, for 
 heroes do not get into bed, even when wearied, with the 
 expedition of more commonplace characters. On the con- 
 trary, he first opened the window (it was a lattice-window) 
 and looked at the moon. I had a fine moonlight scene. 
 I well remember that fho trees were tipped with silver, but 
 
46 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 oh ! triumpli of art, for the first time in my hfe I achieved 
 a simile, and the evening breeze came sounding in his ear 
 soft as a lover's sigh ! 
 
 This last master-touch was too much for me. Breathless, 
 and indeed exhausted, I read over the chapter. I could 
 scarcely believe its existence possible. I rushed into the 
 park, and hun'ied to some solitude where, undistui*bed by 
 the sight of a human being, I could enjoy my intense 
 existence. 
 
 I was so agitated, I was in such a tumult of felicity, that 
 for the rest of the day I could not even think. I could not 
 find even time to determine on my hero's name, or to ascer- 
 tain the reason for which I had brought him to such a 
 wild scene, and placed him in such exceedingly uncomfort- 
 able lodgings. The next morning I had recovered my 
 self-possession. Calm and critical, I reviewed the warm 
 product of my brain which had the preceding day so fasci- 
 nated me. It appeared to me that it had never been my 
 unfortunate fate to read more crude, rugged, silly stufi" in 
 the whole course of my experience. The description of 
 costume, which I had considered so perfect, sounded like 
 a catalogue of old clothes. As for the supper, it was 
 evident that so lifeless a personage could never have an 
 appetite. What he opened the window for I know not; 
 but certainly, if only to look at the moon he must have 
 been disappointed, for in spite of all my asseverations, it was 
 very dim indeed ; and as for the lover's sigh, at the same 
 time so tame and so forced, it was absolutely sickening. 
 
 I threw away the wretched effusion ; the beautiful ink- 
 stand, the cream-coloured paper, the fine pens, away they 
 were all crammed in a drawer, which I was ever after 
 ashamed to open. I looked out of the window, and saw the 
 liuntsman going out. I called to him, and joined him. 1 
 hated field-sports, indeed every bodily exertion, except 
 riding, which is scarcely one ; but now anything that 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 47 
 
 wa.s bodily, that was practical, pleased, and I was soon 
 slaughtering birds in the very bowers in which I had loved 
 Egeria. 
 
 On the whole, this was a miserable and wretched year. I 
 was almost always depressed, often felt heart-broken. I 
 entirely lost any confidence in my own energies, and while 
 I was deprived of the sources of pleasure which I had been 
 used to derive from reverie, I could acquire no new ones in 
 the pursuits of those around me. 
 
 It was in this state of mind that, after a long and solitary 
 walk, I found myself at a village which I had never before 
 visited. On the skirts was a small Gothic building, beau^ 
 tiful and ancient. It was evening. The building was illu^ 
 minated ; the door open. I entered, and found mj^self in a 
 Catholic church. A Lutheran in a Lutheran country, for a 
 moment I trembled ; but the indifference of my father on 
 the subject of religion had prevented me at least from being 
 educated a bigot ; and, in my Venetian meditations, I would 
 sometimes recollect that my mother must have professed 
 the old faith. 
 
 The church was not very full ; groups were kneeling in 
 several parts. All was dusk except at the liigh altar. 
 There, a priest in a flaming vest officiated, and ever and 
 anon a kneeling boy, in a scarlet dress, rang a small and 
 musical silver bell. Many tall white candles, in golden 
 sticks, illuminated the sacred table, redolent of perfumes 
 and adorned with flowers. Six large burnished lamps were 
 suspended above, and threw a magical Hght upon a magical 
 picture. It was a Magdalen kneeling and weeping in a 
 garden. Her long golden hair was drawn off her ivory 
 forehead, and reached to the ground. Her large blue eyes, 
 full of ecstatic melancholy, pierced to heaven, while the 
 heavy tears studded like pearls her wan but delicate cheek. 
 Her clasped hands embraced a crucifix. 
 
 I gazed upon this pictured form with a strange fasci- 
 
48 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 nation. I came forward, and placed myself near the altar. 
 At that moment the organ burst forth, as if heaven were 
 opening ; clouds of incense rose and wreathed around the 
 rich and vaulted roof; the priest advanced, and revealed a 
 God, which I fell dovra and worshipped. From that moment 
 I became a Catholic. 
 
 CHAPTER Xin. 
 
 Theeb was a mystery in the secret creed full of delight. 
 Another link, too, seemed broken in the chain that bound 
 me to the couutiy which each day I more detested. Adora- 
 tion also was ever a resource teeming with rapture, for a 
 creed is imagination. The Magdalen succeeded to Chris- 
 tiana and to Egeria. Each year my mistress seemed to 
 grow more spiritual, first reaUty, then fancy, now pure 
 spirit : a beautiful woman, a mystical nymph, a canonised 
 soul. How was this to end ? Perhaps I was ultimately 
 designed for angeHc intercourse, perhaps I might mount 
 the skies with the presiding essence of a star. 
 
 My great occupations were devout meditation and solitary 
 prayer. I inflicted upon myself many penances. I scru- 
 pulously observed every fast. My creative power was 
 exercised in the production of celestial visitants ; my thirst 
 for expression gratified in infinite invocation. Wherever 
 I moved I perceived the flashing of a white wing, the 
 streaming of radiant hair ; however I might apparently bo 
 employed, I was, in fact, pondering over the music of my 
 next supplication. 
 
 One mundane desire alone mingled with these celestial 
 aspirations, and in a degree sprang out of their indulgence. 
 Each day I languished more for Italy. It was a strong 
 longing. Nothing but the liveliness of my faith could 
 have solaced and supported me under the want of its 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 49 
 
 gratification. I pined for the land where the true religion 
 flourished in becoming glory, the land where I should be- 
 hold temples worthy of the beautiful mysteries which were 
 celebrated within their sumptuous walls, the land which 
 the Vicar of God and the Ruler of Kings honoured and 
 sanctified by his everlasting presence. A pilgrimage to 
 ilomc occupied my thoughts. 
 
 My favourite retreat now, when at the college, was to 
 the ruins of a Gothic abbey, whither an hour's stroll easily 
 carried me. It pleased me much to sit among these beau- 
 tiful relics, and call back the days when their sanctity was 
 undefiled, and theii' loveliness unimpaired. As I looked 
 upon the rich framework of the eastern window, my fancy 
 lent perfection to its shattered splendour. I beheld it once 
 more beaming with its saints and martyrs, and radiant with 
 <^hivalric blazonry. My eye wandered down the moulder- 
 ing cloisters. I pictured a procession of priests solemnly 
 advancing to the high altar, and blending in sacred melody, 
 with their dark garments and their shining heads, elevating 
 a golden and gigantic crosier, and waving on high a 
 standard of Madonna. 
 
 One day as I was indulging in these soothing visions I 
 heard a shout, and looking round, I observed a man seated 
 at no great distance, who by his action had evidently 
 called to me. I arose, and coming out of the ruins ad- 
 vanced to him. He was seated on a mass of ancient brick- 
 work, and appeared to be sketchiog. He was a tall man, 
 fair and blue-eyed, but sun-burnt. Ho was hawk-nosed, 
 with a quick glancing vision, and there was an air of acute- 
 ness in his countenance which was striking. His dress 
 was not the dress of our country, but I was particularly 
 pleased with his cap, which was of crimson cloth, with a 
 broad border of fur, and fell on one side of his head like a 
 cap in a picburo. 
 
 ' Mj- little man/ said he, in a brisk clear voice, ' I am 
 
5<5 COXTARIXI FLEMING: 
 
 EOTTj to disturb you, but as probably you know tliis place 
 better than I, you can, perhaps, tell me wlietber there be a 
 spring at hand.' 
 
 ' Indeed, sir, a famous one, for I have often drank its 
 water, which is most sweet, and clear, and coldj and if 
 you will permit me, I will lead you to it.' 
 
 * With all my heart, and many thanks, my little friend.' 
 So saying, he rose, and placing his portfolio under one 
 arm, lifted up a knapsack, which I offered to carry. 
 
 'By no means, kind sir,' said he in a cheerful voice, 'I 
 am ever my own servant.' 
 
 So leading him on round the other side of the abbey, 
 and thence through a small but fragrant mead, I brought 
 him to the spring of which I had spoken. Over it was 
 built a small but fair arch, the key-stone being formed 
 of a mitred escutcheon, and many parts covered with 
 thick ivy. 
 
 The eye of the stranger kindled with pleasui'e when he 
 looked upon the arch ; and then, sitting down upon the 
 bank and opening his knapsack, he took out a large loaf 
 and broke it, and as I was retiring he said, ' Prithee do 
 not go, my little friend, but stop and share my meal. It 
 is rough, but there is plenty. IS'ay, refuse not, little gentle- 
 man, for I wish to prolong our acquaintance. In not more 
 than as many minutes you have confen-ed upon me two 
 favours. In this world such characters are rare. You 
 have given me that which I love better than wine, and you 
 have furnished me with a divine sketch, for indeed this 
 arch is of a finer style than any part of the great building, 
 and must have been erected by an abbot of grand taste, 
 I wari*ant you. Come, little gentleman, eat, prithee eat.' 
 
 ' Indeed, sii*, I am not hungry ; but if you would let me 
 look at your drawing of the abbey, I should be delighted.' 
 
 •SVhat, dost love art Y What! have I stumbled upon a 
 little artist ! ' 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. $% 
 
 * Ko, sir, I cannot draw, nor indeed do I understand art^ 
 but I love everything which is beautifal.' 
 
 ' All I a comprehensive taste,' and he p^ave me the port- 
 folio. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' I exclaimed, ' how beautiful ! ' for the drawing 
 turned out, not as I had anticipated, a lean skeleton pencil 
 sketch, but one rapidly and richly coloured. The abbey 
 rose as in reality, only more beautiful, being suffused with 
 a warm light, for he had dashed in it a sunset full of 
 sentiment. 
 
 * Oh ! sir, how beautiful ! I could look at it for ever. 
 It seems to me that some one must come forth from the 
 pass of those blue mountains. Cannot you fancy some 
 bright cavalier, sir, with a flowing plume, or even a string 
 of mules, even that would be delicious ? ' 
 
 * Bravo ! bravo ! my little man,' exclaimed the stranger 
 shooting a sharp scrutinising side glance. ' You deserve 
 to see sketches. There ! undo that strap and open the 
 folio, for there are many others, and some which may please 
 you more.' 
 
 I opened it as if I were about to enter a sanctuary. It 
 was very full, I culled a drawing which appeared the 
 most richly coloured, as one picks the most glowing fruit. 
 There seemed a rivei*, and many marble palaces on each 
 side, and long, thin, gliding boats shooting in every part, 
 and over the stream there sprang a bridge, a bridge with a 
 single arch, an ancient and solemn bridge, covered with 
 buildings. I gazed upon the scene for a moment with 
 breathless interest, a tear of agitating pleasure stole down 
 my cheek, and then I shouted, ' Venice ! Venice ! ' 
 
 ' Little man,' said the stranger, ' what is the matter ? ' 
 
 * ! sir, I beg your pardon, you mu-st think me very 
 foohsh indeed. I am sure I did not mean to call out, but 
 I have been longing all my life to go to Venice, and when 
 I see anything connected with it, I feel, sir, quite agitated. 
 
 B 2 
 
52 CONTARINI FLEMING : 
 
 Your drawing, sir, is so beautiful, that I know not how, I 
 thought for a moment that I was really looking upon 
 these beautiful palaces, and crossing this famous Rialto.* 
 
 * Never apologise for showing feeling, my friend. Re- 
 member that when you do so you apologise for truth. I, 
 too, am fond of Venice ; nor is there any city where I have 
 made more drawings.* 
 
 * What, sir, have you been at Venice ? ' 
 
 ' Is that so strange a deed ? I have been in stranger 
 places.' 
 
 * O sir, how happy you must be ! To see Venice, and to 
 travel in distant countries, I think I could die as the con- 
 dition of such enjoyment.' 
 
 ' You know as yet too little of life to think of death,' said 
 the stranger. 
 
 *Alas, sir,' I mournfully sighed, 'I have often wished to 
 die.' 
 
 * But can one so young be unhappy ? ' asked the stranger 
 ' O sir, most, most unhappy. I am alone supported in 
 
 this world by a fervent persuasion, that the holy Magdalen 
 has condescended to take me under her especial protection.' 
 
 * The holy Magdalen ! ' exclaimed the stranger with an 
 air of great astonishment ; ' indeed ! and what made you 
 unhappy before the holy Magdalen condescended to take 
 you under her especial protection ? Do you think, or has 
 anybody told you that you have committed any sia ? ' 
 
 * No ! sir, my life has been, I hope, innocent ; nor do I 
 see indeed, how I could commit any sin, for I have never 
 been subject to any temptation. But I have ever been 
 unhappy, because I am perplexed about myself. I feel 
 that I am not like other persons, and that which makes 
 them happy is to me a source of no enjoyment.' 
 
 * But you have, perhaps, some sources of enjoyment 
 which are peculiar to yourself, and not open to them. 
 Come, tell me how you have passed your Hfe. Indeed, you 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 53' 
 
 Tiavc excited my curiosity ; foi* I observed to-day, wliile I 
 was drawing, that you were a gooil four hours reclining in 
 the same position.' 
 
 ' Four hours, sir ! I thought that I had been there but a 
 few minutes.' 
 
 * Four hours by the sun, as well as by this watch. What 
 were you doing ? Were you thinking of the blessed 
 Magdalen ? ' 
 
 * No, sir ! ' I gravely replied, * not to-day.' 
 
 * How then?' 
 
 * Indeed, sir/ I answered, reddening, * if I tell you, I am 
 afraid you will think me very foolish.' 
 
 ' Speak out, little man. We are all very foolish ; and I 
 have a suspicion, that if we understood each other better 
 you might perhaps turn out the least fooHsh of the two. 
 Open then your mind and fear nothing. For believe me, it 
 ;s dishonourable to blush when you speak the truth, even 
 If it be to your shame.' 
 
 Til ere was something in the, appearance and mannei* of 
 the stranger that greatly attracted me. I sought him with 
 the same eagerness with which I always avoided my fellow 
 creatures. From the first, conversation with him was no 
 shock. His presence seemed to sanctify, instead of out- 
 raging my solitude. His voice subdued my sullen spirit, 
 and called out my hidden nature. He inspired me not only 
 with confidence, but even with a degree of fascinating 
 curiosity. 
 
 * Indeed, sir,' I began, still with a hesitating voice but a 
 more assured manner, ' indeed, sir, I have never spoken of 
 these things to any one, for I feel they could not believe or 
 comprehend what I would wish to express, nor, indeed, is 
 it delightful to be laughed at. But know that I ever like to 
 be alone, and it is this, that when I am alone, I can indulge 
 in thouglit, which gives me great pleasure. For I would wish 
 you to comprehend, sir, that I have ever lived in, as it were, 
 
54 COXTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 two worlds, a public world and a private world. But I should 
 not be unhappy in the private world but for one reason, 
 which is nothing, butlwas ever most happy ; but in the pub- 
 lic world I am indeed miserable. For you must know, sir, 
 that when I am alone, my mind is full of what seem to me 
 beautiful thoughts ; nor indeed are they thoughts alone 
 that make me so happy, but in truth, I perform many 
 strange and noble acts, and these, too, in distant countries 
 and in unknown places, and other persons appear and they 
 also act. And we all speak in language more beautiful 
 than common words. And, sir, many other things occur 
 which it would take long to recount, but which, indeed, I 
 am sure, that is, I think, would make any one very happy.' 
 
 * But all this is a source of happiness, not of unhappiness,' 
 said the stranger. ' Am I to comprehend j then, that the 
 source has dried up ? ' 
 
 * Oh. ! no, sir, for only this morning I had many visions, 
 but I checked them.' 
 
 * But why check them ? ' 
 
 ' Ah ! sir,' I answered, heaving a deep sigh, ' it is this 
 which makes me unhappy, for when I enter into this private 
 world, there arises in the end a desire to express what has 
 taken place in it which indeed I cannot gratify.' 
 
 The stranger for a moment mused. Then he suddenly 
 said, ' And when you looked upon my sketch of the abbey, 
 tliere seemed to you a cavalier advancing, I think you 
 said?' 
 
 ' From the pass of the blue mountains, sir. Whenever I 
 look upon pictures it is thus.' 
 
 * And when you beheld the Rialto, tell me what occurred 
 then?' 
 
 ' There was a rush, sir, in my mind ; and when my eye 
 caught that tall young signer, who is stepping off the staii-s 
 of a palace into a gondola, I wished to -write a tale of wliich 
 he should be the hero.' 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 55 
 
 * It appears to me, my young friend,' said the stranger 
 in a serious tone, and looking at me keenly, * it appears to 
 me, my young friend, that you are a poet.' 
 
 * Alas, sir,' I exclaimed, extremely agitated and nearly 
 seizing his hand, ' alas ! alas ! sir, I am not. For I onco 
 thought so myself and have often tried to write ; and either 
 I have not produced a line, or something so wretchedly flat 
 and dull that even I have felt it intolerable. It is this that 
 makes me so miserable, so miserable that, were it not for 
 feeling in the most marked manner that I am under the 
 especial protection of the blessed Magdaleti, I think I 
 should kill myself.' 
 
 A gentle smile played upon the lip of the stranger, but 
 it was in an instant suppressed. Then turning to me, he 
 said, ' Supposing a man were born with a predisposition 
 for painting, as I might have been myself, and that he were 
 enabled to fancy pictures in his eye, do you think that if 
 he took up a brush for the first time he could transfer these 
 pictures to the canvass ? ' 
 
 ' By no means, sirj for the artist must learn his art.' 
 
 * And is not a poet an artist, and is not writing an art 
 equally with painting ? Words are but chalk and colour. 
 The painter and the poet must follow the same course. 
 Both must alike study before they execute. Both must 
 alike consult ^Nature and invent the beautiful. Those who 
 delineate inanimate Nature, and those who describe her, 
 must equally study her, if they wish to excel in her own 
 creations ; and for man, if the painter study the outward 
 form of the animal, the inward must be equally investigated 
 by the poet. Thus far for the natural ; and for the ideal, 
 which is an improvement upon nature, and which you will 
 some day more clearly comprehend, remember this, that 
 the painter and the poet, however assisted by their own 
 organization, must alike perfect their style by the same 
 process, I mean by studying the works thelnselves of great 
 
5 6 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 painters and great poets. See then, my young friend, how 
 imreasonable yon are, that, because you cannot bo a great 
 artist without studying your art, you are unhappy.* 
 
 * 0, sir, indeed, indeed, I am not ! There is no appKca- 
 tion, there is no exertion, I feel, I feel it strongly, of which 
 I am not capable, to gain knowledge. Indeed, sir, you 
 speak to me of great things, and my mind opens to your 
 T;\a8dom, but how am I to study ?* 
 
 * Be not too rapid. Before we part, which will be in a 
 moment, I will write you some talismanic rules which have 
 been of great service to myself. I copied them off an 
 obelisk amid the ruins of Thebes. They will teach you all 
 that is now necessary.' 
 
 * sir, how good, how kind you are ! How different 
 would have been my life had I been taught by somebody 
 like you.' 
 
 ' Where, then, were yon educated ?' 
 ' I am a student of the college about two miles off. Per- 
 haps you may have passed it ? ' 
 
 * What, the large house upon the hill, where they learn 
 words ? ' said the stranger with a smile. 
 
 * Indeed, sir, it is too true. For though it never occurred 
 to me before, I see now why, with an ardent love of know- 
 ledge, I have indeed there gained nothing but an ill name.' 
 
 * And now, said the stranger rising, ' I must away, for 
 the sun will in a few minutes sink, and I have to reach 
 a village, which is some miles off, for my night's encamp- 
 ment.* 
 
 With a feeling of deep regret I beheld him prepare to 
 depart. I dropped for a moment into profound abstraction ; 
 then, rushing to him, I seized his hand, and exclaimed, 
 0, sir, I am noble, and I am rich, yet let me follow you ! * 
 
 * By no means,' said the stranger, good-naturedly, * for 
 our professions are different.' 
 
 ' Yet a poet should see all things,* 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 57 
 
 * Assuredly. And you, too, will wander, but your hour 
 is not yet come.* 
 
 * And stall I ever see Yenice ? ' 
 
 * I doubt not ; for when a mind like yours thinks often of 
 a thing, it will happen.' 
 
 * You speak to me of mysteries.* 
 
 * There is little mystery ; there is much ignorance. Some 
 day you will study metaphysics, and you will then under- 
 stand the nature of volition.' 
 
 He opened his knapsack and took out two small volumes, 
 in one of which he wrote some lines. ' This is the only 
 book,' he said, 'I have with me, and as, like myself, you are 
 such a strong Venetian, I will give it you, becauso you love 
 art, and artists, and are a good boy. When we meet again 
 I hope I may call you a great man. 
 
 * Here,' he said, giving them to me, ' they are full of 
 Yenice. Here, you see, is a view of the Rial to. This will 
 delight you. And in the blank leaf I have written all the 
 advice you at present require. Promise me, however, not 
 to read it till you return to your college. And so farewell, 
 ray little man, farewell ! ' 
 
 He extended me his hand. I took it ; and although it is 
 an awkward thing at all times, and chiefly for a boy, I 
 began telling him my name and condition, but he checked 
 me. ' I never wish to know anybody's name. Were I to 
 become acquainted with every being who flits across me 
 in life, the callousness of my heart would be endangered. 
 If your acquaintance be worth preserving, fate or fortune 
 will some day bring us again together.' 
 
 He departed. I watched his figure until it melted in 
 the rising haze of evening. It was strange the ascendancy 
 that this man exercised over me. When he spoke I seemed 
 listening to an oracle, and now that he had departed, I felt 
 as if some supernatural visitant had disappeared. 
 
 I quickened my walk home from the intense anxietr to 
 
58 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 open the volume in which I was to find the tallsnianic 
 counsel. When I had arrived, I read written in pencil 
 these words : 
 
 * Be patient : cherish hope. Read more : ponder less. 
 Nature is more powerful than education : time will de- 
 velop EVERY THING. TeUST NOT OVERMUCH IN THE BLESSED 
 
 Magdalen : learn to protect yourself.' 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Indeed I could think of nothinj^r but the stranofer. All 
 night his image was before my eyes, and his voice sounded 
 in my ear. I recalled each look, I repeated each expres- 
 sion. When I woke in the morning, the first thing I did 
 was to pronounce from memory his oracular advice. I 
 determined to be patient; I resolved never to despair. 
 Reverie was no longer to be endured, and a book was to ho 
 ever in my hand. 
 
 He had himself enabled me to comply with this last 
 rule. I seized the first opportunity to examine his present 
 It was the History of Venice, in French, by Amelot de la 
 Houssaye ; a real history of Venice, not one written years 
 after the extinction of the Republic by some solemn 
 sage, full of first principles and dull dissertations upon 
 the vicious constitution, a prophet of the past, trying to 
 shuflle oS" his commonplace deductions for authentic inspi- 
 ration, but a history of Venice written by one who had 
 witnessed the Doge sitting on his golden throne, and 
 receiving awestruck ambassadors in his painted halls. 
 
 I read it with an avidity with which I had never devoui-ed 
 any book ; some parts of it, indeed, with absolute rapture. 
 When I came to the chapter upon the nobility, a dimness 
 came over my sight : for a moment I could not pi*oceed. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 5) 
 
 I saw tliem all ; I marked all the divisions ; the great 
 magnificoes, who ranked with crowned heads, the nobles of 
 the war of Candia, and the third and still inferior class. 
 T was so excited, that for a moment I did not observe that 
 the name of Cohtarini did not appear. I looked for it with 
 anxiety. But when I read that there were yet four families 
 of suck pre-eminent ancestry that they were placed even 
 above the magnificoes, being reputed descendants of Koman 
 Consular houses, and that of these the unrivalled race of 
 Contarini was the chief, I dashed down the book in a 
 paroxysm of nervous exultation, and rushed into the woods. 
 
 I ran about Hke a madman for some time, cutting down 
 with a sharp stick the underwood that opposed my way, 
 leaping trenches, hallooing, spouting, shouting, dashing 
 through pools of water. At length I arrived at a more 
 open part of the wOod. At a sHght distance was a hill. I 
 rushed on up the hill, and never stopped till I had gained 
 the summit. That steep ascent a little tamed me. I found 
 myself upon a great ridge, and a vast savage view opened 
 upon all sides. I felt now more at ease, for the extent of 
 the prospect harmonised with the largeness and swell of 
 my soul. 
 
 ' Ha ha ! ' I cried like a wild horse. I snorted in the air, 
 my eye sparkled, my crest rose. I waved my proud arm. 
 * Ha ha ! have I found it out at last ? I knew there was 
 something. Nature whispered it to me, and time has 
 revealed it. He said truly, time has developed everything. 
 But shall these feelings subside into poetry ? Away ! give 
 me a sword. My consular blood demands a sword. Give 
 me a sword, ye wiuds, ye trees, ye mighty hills, ye deep 
 cold waters, give me a sword. I will fight ! by heavens, I 
 will fight. I will conquer. Why am I not a Doge ? A 
 curse upon the tyranny of man, why is our Venice not free? 
 By the God of heaven I will be a Doge ! 0, thou fair and 
 melancholy saint ! ' 1 continued, falling on my knees, ' who 
 
6o COXTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 in thy infinite goodness condescendedst, as it were, to come 
 down Ircm. heaven to call me back to the true and holy 
 faith of Venice, and to take me under thy especial protec- 
 tion, blessed and beautiful Mary Magdalen, look down 
 from thy glorious seat above, and smile upon thy elected 
 and favourite child ! ' 
 
 I rose up refreshed by this short prayer, calmer and 
 cooler, and began to meditate upon what was now fitting to 
 be done. That Contarini Fleming must with all possible 
 despatch cease to be a schoolboy was indeed evident, neces- 
 sary, and indispensable. The very idea of the great house 
 upon the hill, where they teach words, was ludicrous. 
 Nor, indeed, would it become me ever again, under any 
 pretence whatever, to acknowledge a master, or, as it 
 would appear, to be subject to any laws, save the old laws 
 of Venice, for I claimed for myself the rights and attributes 
 of a Venetian noble of the highest class, and they were 
 those pertaining to blood royal. But when I called to my 
 recollection the cold, worldly, pi'actical cliaracter of my 
 fiither, the vast quantity of dull, lowering, entangling ties 
 that formed the great domestic mesh, and bound me to a 
 country which I detested, covered me with a cHraate which 
 killed me, surrounded me with manners with which I 
 could not sympathise, and duties which Nature impelled 
 me not to fulfil ; I felt that, to ensure my emancipation, it 
 was necessary at once to dissolve all ties of blood and 
 aflection, and to break away from those Hnks which 
 chained me as a citizen to a country which I abhorred. I 
 resolved, therefore, immediately to set out for Venice. 
 I was for the moment, I conceived, sufficiently well 
 supplied with money, for I possessed one hundred rix- 
 dollars, more than any five of my fellow- students toge- 
 ther. This, with careful husbandry, I counted would carry 
 me to the nearest sea-port, perhaps even secure me a 
 passage. And for the rest, I had a lively conviction that 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. Ci 
 
 fWmething must always turn up to assist me in any difficul- 
 ties, for I was convinced that I was a hero, and heroes are 
 never long forlorn. 
 
 On the next morning, therefore, long ere the sun had 
 risen, I commenced my adventures. I did not steal away. 
 First I kissed a cross three times which I carried next to 
 my breast, and then recommending myself to the blessed 
 Magdalen, I walked off proudly and slowly, in a manner 
 becoming Coriolanus or Csssar, who, after some removes, 
 were both of them, for aught I knew, my great-grand- 
 fathers. I carried in a knapsack, which we used for our 
 rambles, a few shirts, my money, a pair of pocket pistols, 
 arid some ammunition. Nor did I forget a loaf of bread ; 
 not very heroic food, but classical in my sight, from being 
 the victual of the mysterious stranger. Like him, also, I 
 determined in future only to drink water. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 I JOURNEYED for some hours without stopping, along a road 
 about which all I knew was, that it was opposite to the one 
 which had first carried me to the college, and consequently, 
 I supposed, did not lead home. I never was so delighted 
 in my life. I had never been up so early in my life. It 
 was like living in a new world. Everj^thing was still, 
 fresh, fragrant. I Avondered how long it would last, how 
 long it would be before the vulgar day, to which I had 
 been used, would begin. At last a soft luminous appear- 
 ance commenced in the horizon, and gradually gathered in 
 strength and brightness. Then it shivered into brilliant 
 ■streaks, the clouds were dappled with rich flaming tints, 
 !and the sun rose. I felt grateful when his mild but 
 vivifying warmth fell upon my face, and it seemed to mo 
 
62 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 that I heard the sound of tnmipets when he came forth, 
 like a royal hero, ont of his pavilion. 
 
 All the birds began singing, and the cocks crowed with 
 renewed pride. I felt as if I myself could sing, my heart 
 was so full of joy and exultation. And now I heard many 
 pleasant rural sounds. A horse neighed, and a whip 
 smacked; there was a whistle, and the sound of a cart 
 wheel. I came to a large farm-house. I felt as if I were 
 indeed traveUing, and seeing the world and its wonders. 
 When I had rainbled about before I had never observed 
 anything, for I was fcdl of nonsensical ideas. But now I 
 was a practical man, and felt capable, as the stranger said, 
 of protecting myself. Never was I so cheerful. 
 
 There was a great barking, and several dogs rushed out 
 at me, all very fierce, but I hit the largest over the nose 
 with my stick, and it retreated yelping into the yard, 
 where it again barked most furiously behind the gate ; the 
 smaller dogs were so fi'ightened that they slunk away 
 immediately, through diffrrent hedges, nor did they bark 
 again till I passed the gate, but I heard them then, though 
 very feeble, and rather snappish than fierce. 
 
 The farmer was coming out of the gate, and saluted me. 
 I returned him the salute with a firm voice and a manly 
 air. He spoke then of the weather, and I differed from 
 him, to show that I was a thinking being, and capable of 
 protecting myself. I made some inquiries respecting the 
 distance of certain places, and I acquired from him much 
 information. The nearest town was fifteen miles off. Tliis 
 I wished to reach by night, as there was no great village, 
 and this I doubted not to do. 
 
 "When the heat increased, and I felt a little fatigued, 1 
 stopped at a beautiful spring, and taking my loaf out of my 
 knapsack hke the stranger, I ate with a keen relish, and 
 slaked my sHght thirst in the running water. It was the 
 coldest and the purest water that I had ever tested. I felt 
 
' A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 63 
 
 quite happy, and was full of coufideuce and self-gratulation 
 at my prosperous progress. I reposed here till noon, and 
 as the day, though near midsummer, became cloudy, I then 
 recommenced my journey without dread of the heat. 
 
 On I went, full of hope. The remembrance of the cut 
 that I had given the great dog over the nose had wonder- 
 fully inflamed my courage. I longed to knock down a 
 man. Every step was charming. Every flower, evbry 
 tree, gave me delight, which they had not before yielded. 
 Sometimes, yet seldom, for it was an unfrequented road, I 
 met a traveller, and always prepared myself for an adven- 
 ture. It did not come, but there was yet time. Every 
 person I saw, and every place I observed, seemed strange 
 and new : I felt in a far land. And for adventures, my 
 own consciousness was surely a sufficient one, for was I not 
 a nobleman incognito, going on a pilgrimage to Venice ? 
 To say nothing of the adventures that might then occur ; 
 here were materials for the novelist! Pah! my accursed, 
 fancy was again wandering. I forgot that I was no longer 
 a poet, but something which, though difficult to ascertain, 
 I doubted not in the end all would agree to be infinitely 
 greater. 
 
 As the afternoon advanced the thin grey clouds melted 
 away, the sun mildly shone in the warm light blue sky. 
 This was again fortunate, and instead of losing my gay 
 heart with the decline of day, I felt inspired with fresh 
 vigour, and shot on joyous and full of cheerfulness. The 
 road now ran through the skirts of a forest. It was still 
 less like a common-place journey. On each side was a 
 large plot of turf, green and sweet. Seated on this, at some 
 little distance, I perceived a group of men and women. My 
 heart beat at the prospect of an incident. I soon observed 
 them with more advantage. Two young women were 
 seated together repairing a bright garment, which, greatly 
 excited my wonder. It seemed of very fine stuff, and 
 
64 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 richly embroidered with, gold and silver. Greatly it con- 
 trasted with their own attire and that of their companions, 
 which was plain and, indeed, shabby. As they worked one 
 of them burst into repeated fits of laughter, but the other 
 was more sedulous, and, looking grave, seemed to reprove 
 her. A man was feeding with sticks a fire, over which 
 boiled a great pot ; a middle-aged woman was stirring its 
 contents. A young man was lying asleep upon the grass ; 
 an older one was furbishing up a sword. A lightly built 
 but large waggon was on the other side of the road, the 
 unharnessed horses feeding on the grass. 
 
 A little dog shrilly barked when I came up, but I was 
 not afraid of dogs ; I flourished my stick, and the laugliing 
 girl called out ' Harlequin,' and the cur ran to her. I 
 stopped and enquired of the fire-lighter the distance to the 
 town where I hoped to sleep. Kot only did he not answer 
 me, but he did not even raise up his head. It was the first 
 time in my life that I had not obtained an answer. I wao 
 astonished at his insolence. ' Sir,' I said, in a tone of 
 offended dignity, ' how long is it since you have learnt not 
 to answer the inquiry of a gentleman ? ' 
 
 The laughing gii'l bui'st into a renewed fit. All stopped 
 their pursuits. The fire-lighter looked up with a puzzled 
 sour face, the old woman stared -with her mouth open, and 
 the furbisher ran up to us with his naked weapon. He had 
 the oddest and most comical face that I had ever seen. It 
 was like that of a seal, but full of ludicrous mobility. He 
 came rushing up, saying with an air and voice of mock 
 heroism, ' To arms, to arms ! ' 
 
 I was astonished, and caught the eye of the laughing 
 girl. She was very fair, with a small nose, and round 
 cheeks breaking into charming dimples. When I caught 
 ber eye she made a wild grimace at -me, and I also laughed. 
 Although I was trudging along with a knapsack my dress 
 did not befit my assumed character, and, in a moment of 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 65 
 
 surprise, I had given way to a manner whicli still less 
 became my situation. Women are quicker than men in 
 judging of strangers. The two girls were evidently my 
 friends from the first, and the fair laugher beckoned me to 
 come and sit down by her. This gay wench had wonder- 
 fully touched my fancy. I complied with her courteous 
 offer without hesitation. I threw away my knapsack and 
 my stick, and stretched my legs with the air of a fine 
 gentleman. I was already ashamed of my appearance, and 
 forgot everything in the desire to figure to the best 
 advantage to my new friend. ' Tliis is the first time,' I 
 drawled out with a languid air, and looking in her face, 
 * this is the first time in my life that I ever walked, and I 
 am heartily sick of it.' 
 
 * And why have you walked, and where have you come 
 from, and where are you going to ? ' she eagerly demanded. 
 
 ' I was tired to death of riding every day of my life,' I 
 rejoined, with the tone of a man who had exhausted 
 pleasure. ' I am not going anywhere, and I forget where 
 I came from.' 
 
 ' Oh, you odd thing ! ' said the wench, and she gave me 
 a pinch. 
 
 The other girl, who was handsome, but dark, and of a 
 more serious beauty, at this moment rose, and went and 
 spoke to the crusty fire-lighter. When she returned she 
 seated herself on my other side ; so I was now b«cween the 
 two : but as she seated herself, though doubtless uncon- 
 sciously, she pressed my hand in a sentimental manner. 
 
 * And what is your name ? ' asked the laughing girl. 
 
 * Theodora ! how can you be so rude ? ' remarked the 
 serious beauty. 
 
 * Do you know,' said the laughing girl, whispering in my 
 ear, ' I think you must be a little count.' -'^^ H^'-^ '-^'J^^ ^^ 
 
 I only smiled in answer, but it was a smifdi^hiA't»o>^- 
 ph'mented her penetration. 
 
 F 
 
C6 COXTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 * And now may I ask wlio you may be, and whither you 
 may be going ? ' 
 
 *We are going to the next to\yn,' replied the serious 
 beauty, ' where, if we find the pubHc taste not disinclined, 
 we hope to entertain them with some representations.' 
 
 * You are actors then. What a charming profession ! 
 How I love the theatre ! When I am at home I go in my 
 father's box every night. I have often wished to be an 
 actor.' 
 
 ' Be one,' said the serious beauty, pressing my hand. 
 
 * Join us,' said the laughing girl, pinching my elbow. 
 
 * Why not ? ' I replied, and almost thought. ' Youth 
 must be passed in adventure.' 
 
 The fair nymph produced a box of sugar-plums, and 
 taking out a white almond, kissed it, and pushed it into my 
 mouth. While I laughed at her wild kitten-Hke action, the 
 dark girl drew a deep-coloured rose from her bosom, and 
 pressed it to my nose. I was nearly stifled v/ith their joint 
 sweets and kindness. Neither of them would take away 
 their hands. The dark girl pressed her rose vdth increased 
 force ; the sugar-plum melted away ; but I found in my 
 mouth the tip of a little finger scarcely larger, and as white 
 and sweet. There was giggling without end ; I sank down 
 upon my back. The dark girl snatched a hasty embrace ; 
 her companion fell dowTi by my side, and bit my cheek. 
 
 ' You funny httle count ! ' said the fail* beauty. 
 
 * I shall keep these in remembrance of a happy moment,* 
 said her friend, with a sentimental air ; and she glanced at 
 me with her flashing eye. So saying, she picked up the 
 scattered leaves of the rose. 
 
 ' And I ! am I to have nothing ? ' exclaimed the blue-eyed 
 girl, %\itli an air of mock sadness ; and she crossed her arms 
 npon her lap with a drooping head. 
 
 I took a light iron chain from my neck, and threw it over 
 hers. ' There,' I said, ' Miss Sus;ar-pliim, th^t is for yori.' 
 
 s 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 67 
 
 She jumped up from the ground, and bounded about as 
 if she were the happiest of creatures, laughing without end, 
 and kissing the slight gift. The dark girl rose and began 
 to dance, full of grace and expression ; Sugar-plum joined 
 her, and they fell into one of their stage figures. The 
 serious beauty strove to excel, and indeed was the greater 
 artist of the two ; but there was a wild grace about her 
 companion which pleased me most. 
 
 * Can you dance, little count ? ' she cried. 
 
 * I am too tired,' I answered. 
 
 * I^ay, then, another day ; for it is pleasant to look forward 
 to frohc' 
 
 The man with the odd face now advanced towards me. 
 He fell into ridiculous attitudes. I thought that he would 
 never have finished his multiplied reverences. Every time 
 he bowed he saluted me with a new form of visage ; it was 
 the most ludicrous medley of pomposity, and awkwardness, 
 and humour. I thought that I had never seen such a droll 
 person, and was myself a little impregnated with his oddity. 
 I also made him a bow with assumed dignity, and then he 
 became more subdued. 
 
 'Sir,' said he, placing his huge hand upon his breast, 
 and bowing nearly to the ground ; ' I assure you, sir, indeed, 
 sir, the greatest honour, sir, your company ; a very great 
 honour indeed.' 
 
 ' I am equally sensible of the honour,' I replied, * and 
 think myself most fortunate to have found so many and 
 such agreeable friends.' 
 
 ' The greatest honour indeed, sir ; very sensible, sir ; 
 always sensible, sir.' 
 
 He stopped, and I again returned his reverence, but this 
 time without speaking. 
 
 ' The greatest Hberty, sir ; never take liberties ; but fear 
 you will consider it a very great Hberty; a very great 
 liberty indeed, sir.' 
 
 V 2 
 
68 COMA RIM fLEMIXG: 
 
 * Indeed I shall consider myself very fortunate to comply 
 witii any wish that yon can express.' 
 
 * Oh, sir, you are too kind ! always are kind, have no 
 doubt ; no doubt at all, sir ; but our meal, sir, our humble 
 meaJ, very humble indeed ; we venture to request the 
 honour, your company, sir;' and he pronounced the last 
 and often-repeated monosyllable with a renewed reverence. 
 
 ' Indeed I fear that I have already too much and too long 
 intruded.' 
 
 * Oh come ! pray come ! ' and each girl seized an arm, and 
 led me to their banquet. 
 
 I sat down between my two friends. The fire-lighter, 
 who was the manager, and indeed proprietor of the whole 
 concern, now received mo with courtesy. When they were 
 all seated, they called several times, * Frederick ! Frederick ! ' 
 and then the young man who was on the ground jumped up 
 and seated himself. He was not ill-looking, but I did not 
 like the expression of his face. His countenance and his 
 manner seemed to me vulgar. I took rather a prejudice 
 against him. Nor, indeed, did my appearance seem much 
 to please him, for he stared at me not very courteously ; 
 and when the manager mentioned that I was a young gen- 
 tleman travelling, who had done them the honour to join 
 their repast, he said nothing. 
 
 The repast was not very humble. There was plenty 
 to eat. While the manager helped the soup they sat 
 quiet and demure ; perhaps my presence slightly restrained 
 them ; even the laughing girl was for a moment calm. I 
 had a keen appetite, and, though I at first from shame 
 restrained it, I played my part well. The droll carved a 
 great joint of boiled meat. I thought I should have died ; 
 he seldom spoke, but his look made us all full of merri- 
 ment ; even the young man sometimes smiled. 
 
 * We prefer living in this way to sojourning in dhAy 
 inns/ said the manager, vnth an air of dignity. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 69 
 
 * You are quite right,' I replied ; ' I desire notliing better 
 than to Hve always so.' 
 
 ' Inns are indeed wretched things,' said the old mother. 
 ' How extravagantly they charge for what costs them in a 
 manner nothing ! ' 
 
 Wine was now produced. The manager filled a cup and 
 handed it to me. I was just going to observe that I drank 
 only water, when Sugar-plum, first touching it with her lips, 
 placed it in my hand, and, pledging them all, I drank it 
 off. 
 
 * You are eating rough fare,' said the old mother ; ' but 
 you are welcome.' 
 
 ' I never enjoyed anything so much in my life,' I truly 
 replied. * How I envy you all the happy life you lead ! ' 
 
 ' Before you style it happy you should have experienced 
 it,' remarked Frederick. 
 
 ' What you say is in part true ; but if a person have ima- 
 gination, experience appears to me of little use, since both 
 are means by which we can equally arrive at knowledge.' 
 
 * I know nothing about imagination,' said the young man ; 
 ' but what I know I owe to experience. It may not have 
 taught me as much as imagination has taught you.' 
 
 ' Experience is everything,' said the old mother, shaking 
 her head. 
 
 * It sometimes costs dear,' said the manager. 
 
 ' Terrible, terrible,' observed the droll, with a most sad 
 and solemn shake of the head, and lifting up his hands. I 
 burst into a fit of laughter, and poured down another 
 draught of wine. 
 
 Conversation now became more brisk, and I took more 
 than my share of it ; but I being new, they all wished me 
 to talk. I got very much excited by my elocution, as well 
 as by the wine. I discoursed upon acting, which I pro- 
 nounced to be one of the first and finest of arts. I treated 
 this subject, indeed, deeply, and in a spirit of sBsthe- 
 
JO CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 tical crltioisTii with wliicli they seemed nnacqualiited, and a 
 little sui'prised. 
 
 * Shonld we place it,' I asked, * before painting ?* 
 
 * Before scene-painting certainly,* said the droll, in a 
 hoarse, thick voice ; * for it naturally takes its place there.' 
 
 * I never knew bnt one painter,' said the old mother, * and 
 therefore I cannot give an opinion.' 
 
 The manager was quite silent. 
 
 * All employments are equally disgusting,' said the young 
 man. 
 
 *0n further reflection,' I continued, 'it appears to mo 
 
 that if we examine ' But here the white girl pinched 
 
 me so severely under the table that I could not contain 
 myself, and I was obliged to caU out. All stared, and she 
 looked quite demure, as if nothing had happened. 
 
 After this all was merriment, fun, and frolic. The girls 
 pelted the droll with plums, and he unfurled an umbrella to 
 protect himself. I assisted them in the attack. The young 
 man lighted his pipe and walked off. The old mother in 
 vain proclaimed silence. I had taken too much wine, and 
 for the first time in my life. All of a sudden I felt the trees 
 dancing and whirling round. I took another bumper to set 
 myself right. In a few minutes I fell do^^^l quite flat, and 
 remember nothing more. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 * I MUST get out. I am so hot.' 
 ' You shall not,' said Thalia. 
 
 * I must, I must. I am so very hot.* 
 
 * Will you desert me ! ' exclaimed Melpomene. 
 
 * Oh ! how hot I am. Pray let me out.' 
 
 *No one can get out at night,' said the dark girl cam- 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 71 
 
 estly, and in a significant voice, wliicli intimated to her 
 companion to take up tlie parable. 
 
 * No, indeed,' said her friend. 
 ' Why not ? ' I asked. 
 
 * Because it is a rule. The manager will not permit it.' 
 
 * Confound the manager ! What is he to me ? I will 
 get out.' 
 
 * Oh ! what a regular little count,' said Thalia. 
 
 * Let me out, let me out. I never was so hot in my life.' 
 
 * Hush ! hush ! or you will wake them.' 
 
 * If you do not let me out I will scream.' 
 
 The manager and the droll were in the fore part of the 
 wagon affecting to drive, but they were both asleep. The 
 old mother was snoring behind them. They had put me 
 in the back part of the wagon with my two friends. 
 
 * Let him out, Theodora,' for the other was afraid of a 
 contention. 
 
 ' N'ever,' said Theodora., and she embraced me with in- 
 creased energy. My legs were in the other girl's lap. I 
 began to kick and struggle. 
 
 ' Oh ! you naughty little count,' said one. 
 
 * Is this the return for all our love ? ' exclaimed the 
 other. 
 
 * I will get out, and there is an end of it. I must have 
 some air. I must stretch my legs. Let me out at once, or 
 I will wake them all.' 
 
 * Let him out, Theodora.' 
 
 * He is certainly the wickedest little count ; but promise 
 you will come back in five minutes.' 
 
 * Anything, I wiU promise anything: only let me out.' 
 They unbolted the back of the wagon; the fresh air camo 
 
 in. They shivered, but I felt it delightful. 
 
 'Farewell, dearest,' exclaimed Melpomene, 'one parting 
 embrace. How heavily will the moments roll until we 
 aj?ain meet 1 ' 
 
72 COXTARINI FLEMIXG: ■ 
 
 ' Adieu, connt,' said Thalia ; * and remember you ai'e to 
 come back in five minutes.' 
 
 I jumped into the road. It was a clear, sharp night, 
 the stars shining brightly. The young man -was walking 
 behind, wrapped up in a great cloak, and smoking his pipe. 
 He came up and, with more courtesy than he had hitherto 
 shown, assisted me in shutting the door and asked if I 
 would try a cigar. 
 
 I declined his ofier, and for some little way we walked 
 on in silence. I felt unwell ; my head ached ; my mouth 
 was parched. I was conscious that I had exposed myself. 
 I had commenced the morning by vowing that I would 
 only drink water, and for the fii*st time in my life I had 
 got tipsy with wine. I had committed many other folHes, 
 and altogether felt much less like a hero. I recalled all 
 my petty vanity and childish weaknesses witii remorse. 
 Imagination was certainly not such a sure guide as expe- 
 rience. Was it possible that one, who had abeady got into 
 such scrapes, could really achieve his great purpose ? My 
 conduct and my situation were assuredly neither of them 
 Roman. 
 
 As I walked on the fresh air did its kind office. My head 
 was revived by my improved circulation, my companion 
 furnished me with an excellent draught of water. Hope 
 did not quite desert my invigorated frame. I began to 
 turn in my mind how I might yet prosper. 
 
 * I feel better,' I said to my companion, with a feeling of 
 gratitude. 
 
 *Ay ! ay! that wagon is enough to make any one ill, at 
 least any one accustomed to a more decent conveyance. I 
 never enter it. To say nothing of their wine, which is 
 indeed intolerable to those who may have tasted a fair glass 
 in the course of this sad life.' 
 
 * You find life, then, sad ? ' I inquired with a mised feel- 
 ing of curiosity and sympathy. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 73 
 
 * He who knows life will hardly style it joyous/ 
 
 *Ah, ah ! ' I thought to myself, ' here is some chance of 
 philosophical conversation. Perhaps I have found another 
 stranger, who can assist me in self-knowledge.' I began 
 to think that I was exceedingly wrong in entertaining a 
 prejudice against this young man ; and in a few minutes I 
 had settled that his sullen conduct was the mark of a 
 superior mind, and that he himself must be an interesting 
 personage. 
 
 ' I have found life very gloomy myself,' I rejoined ; ' but 
 I think it arises from our faulty education. We are taught 
 words and not ideas.' 
 
 ' There is something in that,' said the young man 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 ' After all, perhaps, it is best to be patient, and cherish 
 hope.' 
 
 ' Doubtless,' said the young man. 
 
 ' And I think it equally true, that we should read more 
 and ponder less.' 
 
 ' Oh ! curse reading,' said my friend ; * I never could 
 read.' 
 
 *You have like myself, then, indulged in your own 
 tlioughts ? ' 
 
 * Always,' he affirmed. 
 
 * Ah ! indeed, my dear friend, there is after all nothing 
 like it. Let them say what they will, but give me the 
 glorious pleasures of my private world, and all the jarring 
 horrors of a public one I leave without regret to those more 
 fitted to struggle with them.' 
 
 * I believe that most public men are scoundrels,' said the 
 young man. 
 
 'It is their education,' I rejoined, although I did not 
 clearly detect the connexion of his remark. ' What can 
 we expect ? ' 
 
 * No, sir, it is corruption,' he replied, in a firm tone. 
 
74 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 * Pray,' said I, leading back the conversation to a point 
 wliicli I more folly comprehended, * is it your opinion that 
 nature is stronger than education ? ' 
 
 ' Wliy,' said my friend, taking a good many whiffs of 
 his pipe, * there is a great deal to be said on both sides.' 
 
 * One of the wisest and most extraordinary men I ever 
 knew, however, was of a decided opinion that nature would 
 ultimately prevail.' 
 
 * Who might he be ? ' asked my companion. 
 
 ' Why really his name ; but it is a most extraordinary 
 adventure, and to this hour I cannot help half believing 
 that he was a supernatural being; but the truth is I do 
 not know his name, for I met him casually and under 
 peculiar circumstances ; and though we conversed much, 
 and of very high matters, he did not, unfortunately, favour 
 me with his name.' 
 
 ' That certainly looks odd,' said Mr. Frederick ; * for 
 when a man sheers off witkout giving his name, I, for one, 
 never think him better than he should be.' 
 
 * Had he not spoken of the blessed Magdalen in a way 
 which I can scarcely reconcile with his other sentiments, I 
 should certainly have considered him a messenger from 
 that holy personage, for I have the best reasons for believ- 
 ing that I am under her especial protection.' 
 
 *K he abused her, that could scarcely be,' remarket! 
 Frederick. 
 
 * No. Certainly I think he must have been only a man ; 
 for he presented me with a gift before his departure ' 
 
 * That was handsome.' 
 
 * And I can hardly beheve that he was really deputed, 
 though I really do not know. Everything seems mysterious; 
 although I believe, after all, there is little mystery, but, on 
 the contraiy, much ignorance.' 
 
 'N'o doubt: though they are opening schools now in 
 every parish/ 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 75 
 
 * And liow imich did he give you ? ' continned Frederick. 
 
 * How m-acli ! I do not understand yon.' 
 
 * I mean, what did he give yon ? ' 
 
 * A most delightful book, to me particularly interesting.' 
 ' A book ! ' 
 
 ' A book which I shall no doubt find of great use in my 
 travels.' 
 
 * I have myself some thoughts of travelling/ said Fred- 
 erick ; * for I am sick of this life, which is ill-suited to my 
 former habits, but one gets into scraj)es without thinking 
 of it.' 
 
 * One does in a most surprising manner.' I never made 
 an observation in a tone of greater sincerity. 
 
 * You have led a difierent sort of life then ? ' I asked. 
 *To tell you the truth, I thought so. You could not 
 disguise from me that you were superior to your appear- 
 ance. I suppose, like myself, you are incog. ? ' 
 
 ' That is the exact truth.' 
 
 * Good heavens ! how lucky it is that we have met ! Do 
 not you think that we could contrive to travel together ? 
 What are your plans ? ' 
 
 *"Why, to say truth, I care little where I go. It is ne- 
 cessary that I should travel about for some time, and see 
 the world, until my father, the count, is reconciled.' 
 
 * You have quarrelled with your father ? ' 
 
 * Do not speak of it. It is a sad affair. But I hope that 
 it will end well. Time will show.' 
 
 * Time, indeed, develops everything.' 
 
 * I hope everything from my mother the countess' influ- 
 ence ; but I cannot bear speaking about it. I am supported 
 now by my sister Lady Caroline, out of her own allowance, 
 too, poor creature. There is nothing like those sisters.* 
 And he raised his hand to his face, and would have brushed 
 away the tear that nearly started from his manly eye. 
 
 I was quite affected. I respected his griefs, and would 
 
r'J CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 not press him for details. I exhorted him to take cour- 
 age. 
 
 ' Ay ! ay ! it is very easy talking ; but when a man, acens- 
 tomed to the society and enjoyments I have been, finds him- 
 self wandering about the world in this manner, it is very 
 easy to talk ; but curse it, do not let us speak of it. And 
 now where do you intend to go ? ' 
 
 * I am thinking of Venice.' 
 
 ' Venice ! just the place I should like to see. But that 
 requires funds. You are welcome to share mine as far as 
 they will last ; but have you anything yourself?' 
 
 * I have one hundred rix-dollars,' I replied ; * not too 
 much certainly, but I quitted home without notice. You 
 understand.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ! I have done these things myself. At your 
 age I was just such a fellow as you are. A hundred rix- 
 dollars ! not too much to be sure, but with what I have got 
 it will do. I scorn to leave a companion in distress like 
 you. Let me be shivered if I would not share the last 
 farthing with the fellow I liked.' 
 
 ' You shall never repent, sir, your kindness to me ; of 
 that feel assured. The time may como when I may be 
 enabled to yield you assistance, nor shall it be wanting.' 
 
 We now began seriously to consult over our plans. He 
 recommended an immediate departure even that night, or 
 else, as he justly remarked, I should get perhaps entangled 
 with these girls. I objected to quitting so unceremoni- 
 ously, and without thanking my kind friends for their 
 hospitality, and making some little present to the worthy 
 manager, but he said that that worthy manager already 
 owed him a year's salary, and therefore I need not be 
 anxious on his account. Hamburg, according to him, was 
 the port to which we must work our way, and, indeed, our 
 departure must not be postponed an hour, for, luckily for 
 us, the next turning was the route to Hamburg. I was 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 77 
 
 delighted to find for a friend such a complete man of the 
 world, and doubted not, under his auspices, most prosper- 
 ously to achieve my great object. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 * Hebe is your knapsack. I woke the girls getting it. They 
 thought it was you, and would have given me more kind 
 words and kisses than I care for. Theodora laughed heartily 
 when she found out her mistake, but w(3l]milia was in a great 
 rage.' 
 
 ' Good-natured lasses ! I think I must give them a part- 
 ing embrace.' 
 
 * Pooh ! pooh ! that will spoil all. Think of Venice. I 
 cannot get at my portmanteau. Never mind, it matters 
 little. I always carry my money about me. We must make 
 some sacrifices, and we shall get on the better for it, for I 
 can now carry our provisions ; and yet my ribbon of the 
 order of the Fox is there — pah ! I will not think of it. 
 See ! here runs the Hamburg road. Cheerily, boy, and 
 good-bye to the old waggon.' 
 
 He hurried me along. I had no time to speak. 
 
 We pushed on with great spirit, the road again entering 
 the forest, on the sku'ts of which I had been the whole day 
 journeying. 
 
 I know this country well,' »aid Frederick, ' for in old days 
 I have often hunted here with my father's hounds. I can 
 make many a short cut that will save us much. Come 
 along down this glade. We are making fine way.* 
 
 We continued m this forest several hours, walking with 
 great speed. I was full of hope, and confidence, and self- 
 congratulation, that I had found such a friend. He took 
 the whole management upon himself, always decided upon 
 our course, never lost his readiness. I had no care, the 
 
78 . CONTARIXI FLEMING: 
 
 brisk exercise prevented me from feeling wearied. Wo 
 never stopped. 
 
 The morning broke, and gave me fresli courage. Tho 
 sun rose, and it vras agreeable to think that I was still 
 nearer Venice. We came to a pleasant piece of turf, fresh 
 from the course of a sparkling rivulet. 
 
 ' We have gone as good as thirty miles,' said Frederick. 
 'Had we kept to the common road we should have got 
 through barely half.* 
 
 * Have we, indeed ! ' I said. ' This is indeed progress ; 
 but there is nothing like -vNdlling hearts. May we get on as 
 well each day ! ' 
 
 *Here I propose to rest awhile,' said my companion: *a 
 few hours' repose will bring us quite round. You must not 
 forget that you rather debauched yesterday.' 
 
 Now that I had stopped I indeed felt wearied and ex- 
 ceedingly sleepy. My companion kindly plucked some fera, 
 and made me an excellent bed under a branching tree, 
 
 ' This is, indeed, a life of adventure,' I said. ' How very 
 kind you are ! Such a bed in such a scene would alono 
 repay for all our fatigue.' 
 
 He produced some bread and a bottle, and gathered some 
 cresses ; but I felt no desire to eat or drink, and before ho 
 had finished his meal I had sunk into a deep slumber. 
 
 I must have slept many houi-s, for when I woke it wa& 
 much past noon. I arose wonderfully refreshed. I looked 
 round for Frederick, but, to my surprise, he was not there. 
 I jumped up, and called his name. Ko answer. I became 
 alarmed, and ran about the vicinity of our encampment, 
 shouting 'Frederick!' There was still no answer. Sud- 
 denly I observed that my knapsack also was gone. A ter- 
 rible feeling of doubt, or rather dismay, came over me. I 
 sank down and buried my face in my hands, and it was 
 some minutes before I could even think. 
 
 * Can it be ! It is impossible ! Infamous knave, or rather 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 79 
 
 miserable asa ! Have I been deceived, entrapped, plun- 
 dered ! 0, Contarini, Contarini, you are at length punisbed 
 for all your foolery ! Frederick, Frederick ! be cannot surely 
 have left me. He is joking, be is trying to frighten me. I 
 will not believe that I have been deceived. He must be 
 trying to frighten me. I will not appear frightened. I -vvill 
 not shout in the least. Ah ! I think I see him behind that 
 tree.' I jumped up again and ran to the tree, but there 
 was no Frederick. I ran about, in turn shouting his name, 
 execrating my idiocy, confiding in his good faith, proclaim- 
 ing him a knave. An hour, a heavy but agitating hour, 
 rolled away before I was convinced of the triumph of expe- 
 rience over imagination. 
 
 I was hungry, I was destitute, I was in a wild and un- 
 known solitude ; I might be starved, I might be murdered, 
 I might die. I could think of nothing but horrible events. 
 I felt for the first time in my life like a victim. I could 
 not bear to recall my old feehngs. They were at once mad- 
 dening and mortifying. I felt myself, at the same time, 
 tlie most miserable and the most contemptible of beings. I 
 entirely lost all my energy. I believed that all men were 
 villains. I sank upon the ground and gave myself up to 
 despair. In a word, I was fairly frightened. 
 
 I heard a rustling in a neighbouring copse and darted 
 up. I thought it was Frederick. It was not Frederick, 
 but it was a human being. An ancient woodman came 
 forth from a grove of oaks, a comely and venerable man. 
 His white hair, his fresh, hale face, his still, keen eye, and 
 the placid, benignant expression of his countenance, gave 
 me hope. I saluted him, and told him my story. My ap- 
 pearance, my streaming eyes, my visible emotion, were not 
 lost upon him. Sharply he scrutinised me, many were the 
 questions he asked, but he finally credited my tale. I learnt 
 from him that during the night I had advanced into the 
 interior of the forest, that he himself lived in a cottage on 
 
So CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 its skirts some miles off, that lie was about to return from 
 his daily labour, and that I should accompany him. As for 
 the road to Hamburg, that -was a complete invention. I 
 also collected that home as well as the college were very 
 distant. 
 
 We proceeded together along a turf road, with his donkey 
 laden -^-ith the day's spoils. I regained my cheerfulness, 
 and was much interested by my new companion. Never 
 had I seen any one so land, and calm, and so truly vene- 
 rable. We talked a great deal about trees. He appeared 
 to be entirely master of his calling. I began to long to be 
 a woodman, to pass a quiet, and contemplative, and virtuous 
 life, amid the deep silence and beautiful scenery of forests, 
 exercising all the j^rimitive virtues which became so unso- 
 phisticated a career. 
 
 His dog darted on before us with joyfal speed. We had 
 arrived at his cottage, which Avas ancient, and neat, and 
 well ordered as himself. His wife, attentive to the welcome 
 bark, was already at the gate. She saluted me ; and her 
 husband, shortl}'" telling my tale, spoke of me in kind terms. 
 Never had I been treated with greater kindness, never was 
 I more grateful for it. The twilight was dying away, the 
 door was locked, the lamp lighted, a blazing log thrown 
 upon the fire, and the round table covered with a plenteous 
 and pleasant meal. I felt quite happy ; and, indeed, to be 
 happy yourself you must live among the happy. 
 
 The good woman did not join us in our meal, but sat by 
 the fireside under the lamp, watching us with a fond smile. 
 Her appearance delighted me, and seemed like a picture. 
 
 *Now does not the young gentleman remind you of 
 Peter ? ' said the dame ; ' for that is just where he used to 
 sit, God bless him. I wonder when we shall hear of him 
 again ? ' 
 
 * She speaks of our son, young master,' said my host, 
 turning to me in explanation. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 8r 
 
 * A boy such as has been seldom seen among people of 
 our condition, sir, I can well say,' continued the old woman, 
 speaking with great animation. * Oh! why should he have 
 ever left home? Young people are ever full of fancies, but 
 will they ever find friends in the world they think so much 
 of, like the father who gives them bread, and the mother 
 who gave them milk ? ' 
 
 ' My father brought me up at home, and I have ever Hved 
 at home,' observed the old man. ' I have ever lived in this 
 forest, many is the tree that is my foster-brother ; and that 
 is sixty-eight years come Martinmas. I saw my father 
 happy, and wished no more. Nor had I ever a heavy hour 
 till Peter began to take these fancies in his head, and that, 
 indeed, was from a boy this high, for he was ever full of 
 them, and never would do anything with the axe. I am 
 sure I do not know how they got there. The day will come 
 he will wish he had never left home, and perhaps we may 
 yet see him.' 
 
 ' Too late, too late ! ' said the old woman. * He might 
 have been the prop of our old age. Many is the girl that 
 would have given her eyes for Peter. Our grandchildren 
 raight have been running this moment about the room. 
 God bless them, whom we shall never bless. And the old 
 man now must work for his old woman as if it were his 
 wedding year.' 
 
 'Pooh! pooh! as for that, say nothing,' rejoined Peter ; 
 ' for I praise God my arms and legs are hearty yet. And 
 indeed, were they not, we cannot say that our poor boy has 
 ever forgotten us.' 
 
 * Indeed it is true. He is our own son. But where does 
 the money come from ? that is the question. I am sure I 
 often think what I dare not say, and pray God to forgive 
 me. How can a poor woodman's son who never works 
 gain wherewith to support himself, much more to give 
 
 G 
 
82 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 away? I fear that if all had their rights, we should have 
 better means to succour Peter than Peter us.* 
 
 * Nay, nay, say not that, dear Mary,' said her husband, 
 reprovingly, * for it is in a manner tempting the devil.' 
 
 * The devil perhaps sent the thought, but it often comes,' 
 answered the old woman, firmly. 
 
 * And where is your son, sir ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' God, who knows all, can tell, not I,* said the old man ; 
 * but wherever he be I pray God to bless him.' 
 
 * Has he left you long, sir ? ' 
 
 * Fifteen years come September ; but he ran away onco 
 before, when he was barely your height, but that was not 
 for long.' 
 
 ' Indeed,' I said, reddening. 
 
 * I beheve he is a good lad,' said the father, ' and will 
 never beUeve harm against him till I hear it. He was a 
 kind boy, though strong-tempered, and even now every 
 year he sends us something, and sometimes writes a line, 
 but never tells us where he is, only that he is very happy, 
 if we are. But for my part I rather think he is in foreign 
 
 ' That is certain,' interrupted Dame Mary. ' I dai'e say 
 he is got among the French.' 
 
 * He was ever a wrong-headed queer chap,' continued the 
 father in an undertone to me ; * sometimes he wanted to be 
 a soldier, then a painter, then he was all for travelling 
 about ; and I used to say, " Peter, my boy, do you know 
 what you are?" And when I sent him in the woods to 
 work, when he came home at night, I found that he had 
 been a painting the trees ! ' 
 
 The conversation had taken a turn, which induced medita- 
 tion. I was silent and thoughtful ; the dame busied her- 
 self with work, the old man resumed his unfinished meal. 
 Suddenly there was a shouting at the garden gate. All 
 stared and started. The dog jumped up and barked. The 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. '83 
 
 eliouiing was repeated, and was evidently addressed to the 
 inmates of the cottage. The old woodman seized his rifle, 
 and opened the casement. 
 
 ' Who calls? ' he demanded, * and what want yon?* 
 ' Dwelleth Peter Winter here? ' was inquired. 
 
 * He speaks to you,' was the reply. 
 
 ' Open the door, then,' said the shouter. 
 
 * Tell me first who you are.' 
 
 * My name has been already mentioned,' answered the 
 shouter, with a laugh. 
 
 ' What mean you? ' 
 
 ' Why, that my name is Peter Winter.' 
 
 The old woman screamed ; a strange feeling also was my 
 lot ; the woodman dropped the loaded rifle. I prevented it 
 from going ofi"; neither of them could move. At last I 
 opened the door, and the stranger of the Abbey entered. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 There was some embracing, much blessing, the old woman 
 never ceased crying, and the eyes of the father wei'e full of 
 tears. The son alone was calm, and imperturbable, and 
 smiliwg. 
 
 ' Are you indeed Peter ? ' exclaimed the old woman, 
 gobbing mth joy. 
 
 'I never heard so from any one but you, '^answered the 
 son. ': iam-Jfiyf i ,!=Jonod bio oAnui. iUff an 
 
 * And am I blessed with the sight oF JrOu before my 
 death?' continued the mother. 
 
 'Death! why you look ten years younger than when'! 
 last saw you?' •'■■''» 
 
 * Oh ! dear no, Peter. And why did not you tell as 
 where you were ? ' she continued. 
 
 * Because I never knew.' 
 
 o 2 
 
84 CONTARINI FLEMING: ' 
 
 * ! my dear, dear son, how tall you have grown ! and 
 pray how have you managed to live ? honestly, I am sure ; 
 your face says so.' 
 
 * As for that, it does not become me to pi-aise myself; 
 but you see I have saved my neck.' 
 
 * And what would you like to eat? * 
 
 * Anything.' 
 
 The father could not speak for silent joy. I had retii-ed 
 to the remotest corner of the room. 
 
 * The old cottage pretty as ever. I have got a drawing 
 of it in my portfolio : always kept it, and your portrait too, 
 mother, and my father cutting down Schinkel's oak ; do 
 you remember ? ' 
 
 ' Do I remember ! Why, what a memory the child has 
 got, and only think of its keeping its poor old mother's 
 head in its pocket-book, and the picture of the cottage, 
 and father cutting do^vn Schinkel's oak. Do I remember ! 
 "SVTiy I remember ' 
 
 ' Come, my dear old lady, give me something to eat, and 
 father, your hand again. You flourish like one of your 
 foster brothers. A shower of blessings on you both.' 
 
 * Ah ! what do we want more than to see our dear Peter? * 
 said the old woman bustling about the supper. * And as 
 for working, I warrant you, you shall be plagued no more 
 about working ; shall be as idle as it pleases, that's for it. 
 For old Peter was only saying this evening, that he could 
 do more work now, and more easily than when he first 
 mai'i-ied ; ay! he will make old bones, I warrant him.' 
 
 * I said, Mary ' 
 
 ' Pooh ! pooh ! never mind what you said, but get the 
 brandy bottle, and give our dear Peter a sup. He shall bo 
 plagued no more about working, and that's for it. But, 
 Lord bless us, where is the young master all the time, for 
 I want him to help me get the things.' 
 
 I stepped forward and caught the eye of the son. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. €5 
 
 • What,* he exclaimed, * my little embryo poet, and how 
 came yon here, in the name of the holy Magdalen?* 
 
 * It is a long story,' I said. 
 
 * Oh ! then pray do not tell it,' he replied. 
 
 Supper soon appeared. He ate heartily, talldng between 
 each mouthful, and full of jests. The father could not 
 speak, but the mother was never silent. He asked many 
 questions about old acquaintances, and I fancied he asked 
 them with little real interest, and only to gratify liis 
 mother, who, at each query, burst into fresh admiration of 
 his memory and his kind-heartedness. At length, after 
 much talk, he said, * Come, old people, to bed ! to bed ! 
 these hours are not for grey hairs. We shall have you all 
 knocked up to-morrow, instead of fresh and joyful.' 
 
 * I am sure I cannot sleep,' said the dame, * I am in such 
 a taking.* 
 
 * Pooh ! you must sleep, mother : good night to you, good 
 night,' and embracing her he pushed her into the next 
 room ; good night, dear father,' he added in a soft and 
 serious tone, as he pressed the honest woodman's hand. 
 
 ' And now, little man, you may tell me your story, and 
 we will try to talk each other to sleep.* So saying, he 
 flung a fresh log on the fire, and stretched his legs in his 
 father's ancient seat. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 It was settled that I should remain at the cottage for a few 
 days, and then that, accompanying Winter, I should repair 
 to tlie capital. Thither he was bound ; and for myself, 
 both from his advice and my own impulse, I had resolved 
 to return home. 
 
 On the next morning the woodman went not to his usual 
 I&bour, but remained with his son. They strolled out to- 
 
36 CONTARINI FLEMING : 
 
 gether, but in a short time returned. The mother bustled 
 about preparing a good dinner. For her this was full 
 employment, but time hung heavy on the old man. At 
 last he took his axe and fairly set to work at an old tree 
 near his dwelling, which he had long condemned, and never 
 found time to execute. His son and he had few ideas to ex- 
 change, and he enjoyed his happiness more while he was em- 
 ployed. Winter proposed a ramble to me, and I joined him. 
 
 He was gay, but would not talk about himself, which 
 T wished. I longed to know what he exactly was, but 
 deemed a direct inquiry indelicate. He delighted to find 
 out places he had known when young, and langhed at mo 
 very much about my adventures. 
 
 ' Yon see what it is to impart knowledge to youth like 
 you. In eight-and-forty hours all these valuable secrets 
 are given to Master Frederick, who will perhaps now turn 
 out a great poet.* 
 
 I bore his rallying as good-humoui'edly as he could wish, 
 and tried to lead our conversation to subjects which in- 
 terested me. ' Ask me no more questions,* he said, * about 
 yourself, I have told you eveiything. All that I can 
 recommend you now is to practise self-forgetfulness.* 
 
 Wc rested ourselves on a bank and talked about foreign 
 countries, of which, though he himself never figured in his 
 tales, he spoke without reserve. My keen attention 
 proved with what curiosity and delight I caught each 
 word. Whenever he paused, I led him by a question to 
 a fresh narrative. I could not withstand expressing how I 
 was chaiTued by such conversation. ' All that I tell you,* 
 he said, * and much more, may be found in books. Those 
 that cannot themselves observe, can at least acquire tlie 
 observation of others. These are indeed shadows, but by 
 watching these shadows we leara that there are substances. 
 Little man, you should read more. At your time of life you 
 can do nothing better than read good books of travels.' 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 87 
 
 * But is it not better myself to travel ? ' 
 
 * Have I not told you that your vrandering days have not 
 yet come ? Do you wish to meet another Mr. Frederick ? 
 You are much too young. Travel is the great source of 
 true wisdom, but to travel with profit you must have such 
 a thing as previous knowledge. Do you comprehend ?' 
 
 * Ah ! sir, I fear me much that I am doomed to be 
 unhappy.' 
 
 ' Poh ! Poll ! Clear your head of all such nonsense. 
 There is no such thing as unhappiness.' 
 
 ' No such thing as unhappiness, sir ? How may this be, 
 for all men beheve .' 
 
 * All men believe many things which are not true ; but 
 I'emember what I say, and when you have lived as long as 
 I have, you will perhaps discover that it is not a paradox. 
 In the meantime it is nonsense talking about it, and I have 
 got an enormous appetite. A fine dinner to-day for us, I 
 warrant you.' 
 
 So we returned home at a brisk pace. The old Avoman 
 looked out at the door when she heard our steps, and, 
 nodding to her son with a smile of fondness, 'You must 
 walk in the garden awhile, Peter,* she said, ' for I am busy- 
 getting the room ready. 'Now, I dare say you are thinking 
 of the dinner, but you cannot tell me what there is for 
 Peter, that you cannot. But I'll tell you, for if you fret 
 yourself with guessing, mayhap it will hurt your relish. 
 Do you remember crying once for a pig, Peter, and father 
 saying a woodman's boy must not expect to live like the 
 forest farmer's son ? Well, he may say what he likes ; 
 Peter, there is a pig.' 
 
 The father joined us, cleanly shaved, and in his Sunday 
 raiment. I never saw any one look so truly respectable as 
 did this worthy old peasant in his long blue coat with large 
 silver buttons, deep waistcoat covered vsdth huge pink 
 flowers and small green leaves, blue stockings, and massy- 
 buckles. 
 
S8 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 Tlie three days at tlie woodman's cottage flew awaj most 
 pleasantly. I was grieved when they were gone, and, in 
 Bpite of my natural courage, which was confirmed by 
 meditation, and strengthened by my constantly trying it 
 in ideal conjunctures, I thought of my appearance at home 
 with a little anxiety. 
 
 We were to perform our journey on foot. The morning 
 of the third day was to light us into the city. All was 
 prepared. I parted from my kind friends with many good 
 wishes, hearty shakes of the hand, and frequent promises 
 of another visit. Peter was coming to them again very 
 shortly. They hoped I might again be his companion. 
 The father walked on with us some little way. The 
 mother stood at the cottage door until we were out of 
 sight, smiling through her tears, and waving her hand 
 ^yith many blessings. 
 
 * I must take care of my knapsack,* said the younger 
 Winter, * evil habits are catching.' 
 
 * Nevertheless, I hope you will sometimes let me carry it. 
 At any rate give me your portfolio.' 
 
 * No, no, you are not to be trusted, and so come on.' 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 * But, my dear friend, you have lodged, you have fed, you 
 have befriended, you have supported me. If my father 
 were to know that we parted thus he would never forgive 
 me. Pray, pray, tell me.' 
 
 ' Prithee, no more. You have told me your name, which 
 is against my rules ; you know mine, no one of my fellow- 
 travellers ever did before ; and yet you are not con- 
 tented. You grow unreasonable. Did I not say that, 
 if our acquaintance were worth maintaining, we should 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 89 
 
 meet again ? Well ! I say the same thing now, and bo 
 good b3^e.' 
 
 * Dear sir, pray, pray ' 
 
 * This is my direction ; your course lies over that bridge ; 
 look sharp about you, and do not enter into your private 
 world, for the odds are you may find your friend Count 
 Frederick picking a pocket. Good morning, little man.' 
 
 We parted, and I crossed the bridge. The stir, of man 
 seemed sti'ange after the silence of the woods. I did not 
 feel quite at my ease ; my heart a little misgave me. I 
 soon reached the street in which my father resided. I 
 thought of the woodman's cottage, and the careless days 
 I had spent under that simple roof. I wished myself once 
 more by Schinkel's oak, talking of Araby the Blest with 
 that strange man, with whom my acquaintance, although 
 so recent, seemed now only a dream. Did he really exist ; 
 were they all real beings with whom I seemed lately to have 
 consorted ? Or had I indeed been all this time plunged in 
 one of my incurable reveries ? I thought of the laughing 
 girl, and her dark sentimental friend. I felt for the chain 
 which I always wore round my neck. It was gone. No 
 doubt, then, it must all be true. 
 
 I had reached the gate. I uttered an involuntary sigh 
 and took up the knocker. It was for a moment suspended. 
 I thought of the Contarinis, and my feeble knock hurried 
 into a sharp rap. ' 'Tis a nervous business,' thought I, 
 * there is no concealing it. 'Tis flat rebellion, 'tis desertion, 
 'tis an outrage of all parental orders, 'tis a violation of the 
 law of nature and nations.' I sighed again. * Yet these 
 are all bugbears ; for what can they do to me ? Is there 
 any punishment that they can inflict that I care for ? 
 Certainly not, and 'tis likely it will all blow over. Yet 
 the explanations, and the vile excuses, and the petty 
 examinations, there is something pitifal, and contemptible, 
 and undignified, in the whole process. What is it that so 
 
90 CONTARim FLEMING: 
 
 aunojs me ? 'Tis not fear. I think ifc is the disgugt of 
 being accountable to any human being.' 
 
 I -went upstairs. My father, I felt sure, was away. I 
 found the Baroness alone. She staiiied when I entered, 
 and looked sullen. Her countenance, she flattered herself, 
 was a happy mixture of the anxiety which became both a 
 spouse and a mother, pity for my father, pity for me, and 
 decided indignation at my very improper conduct. 
 
 ' How do you do, Madam ? ' I enquired in as quiet a tone 
 as I could command. * My father is, I suppose, at his 
 office.' 
 
 ' I am sure I cannot tell,' she replied, speaking in a sub- 
 dued serious tone, as if there were death in the house. 
 * I believe he has gone out to-day. He has been veiy 
 agitated indeed, and I think is extremely unwell. We 
 have all been extremely agitated and alarmed. I have 
 kept myself as quiet as I could, but can bear no noise 
 whatever. The Baron has received a fine letter from your 
 tutor,' she continued in a brisker, and rather malignant 
 tone, ' but your father will speak to you. I know nothing 
 about these things. I wished to have said something to 
 soothe him, but I know I never interfere for any good.' 
 
 * Well,' I observed, with a dogged, desperate tone, speak- 
 ing through my teeth, * well ! all I can say is, that if my 
 father has been prejudiced against me by a parcel of in- 
 famous falsehoods, as it appears by your account, I know 
 how to protect myself. I see how the ground lies ; I see 
 that I have already been judged, and am now to be punished, 
 without a trial. But I will not submit any longer to such 
 persecution. Kindness in this house I never expect, but 
 justice is a right enjoyed by a common woodman and denied 
 only to me.' 
 
 * Dear me, Contarini, hew violent you are ! I never said 
 your father was even angry. I only said I thought he was 
 a little unwell, a little bilious, I think. My dear Contarini, 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 9 J 
 
 you are always so very violent. I am sure I said I was con. 
 fidenfc you would never liave left college without a very good 
 cause indeed. I have no doubt you will explain everything in 
 the most satisfactory manner possible. I do not know what 
 you mean always by talking of not expecting kindness in 
 this house. I am sui^e I never interfere with you. I make 
 it a rule always, when your interest is in the least con- 
 cerned, never to give an opinion. I am sure I wish you 
 were more happy and less violent. As for judging and 
 punishing without a trial, you know your father never 
 punishes any one, nor has he decided anything, for all ho 
 knows is from the letter of your tutor, and that is but a 
 Unc, merely saying you had quitted the college without 
 leave, and, as they supposed, had gone home. They said, 
 too, that they were the more surprised, as your general 
 behaviour was quite unexceptionable. I^ot at all against 
 you the letter was, not at all, I assure you. I pointed out 
 to your father more than once that the letter was, if any- 
 thing, rather in your favour, because I had no doubt that 
 you would explain the step in a satisfactory manner ; and 
 they said, you see, that your conduct, otherwise, was per- 
 fectly unexceptionable. 
 
 ' Well, my dear Madam, I am sorry if I have offended you. 
 How are my brothers ? ' 
 
 'I am willing to forget it. You may say and think 
 what you please, Contarini, as long as you are not violent. 
 The children are pretty well. Ernest is quite ready to go 
 to college, and now there is no one to take care of him. I 
 always thought of your being there witli quite a feeling of 
 satisfaction, for I was sure that you would not refuse to do 
 what you could for him among the boys. As it is, I have 
 no doubt he will be killed the first half-year, or, at least, 
 have a limb broken, for, poor dear boy, he is so delicate, he 
 cannot fight.' 
 
 * Well, my dear Madam, if I be not there, I can recom- 
 
^- COXTARINI FLEMIXG: 
 
 mend In'm to some one who will take care of him. Make 
 yourself easj. A little rough life will do him no harm, 
 and I wiU answer he is not killed, and even have not a 
 limb bjoken. Now what do you recommend me to do 
 about my father ? Shall I walk down to him ? ' 
 
 * I certainly think not. You know that he will certainly 
 be at home this afternoon, though, to be sure, he will be 
 engaged ; but to-morrow, or the day after, I have no doubt 
 he vdW find half an hour to speak to you. You know he is 
 so very busy.' 
 
 I immediately resolved to walk down to him. I had no 
 idea of having a scene impending over me in this manner 
 for days. My father at this time filled the ofiBce of Secretary 
 of State for Foreign AiOfairs. He had been appointed to 
 this post recently, and I had never yet visited him at his 
 new ojBfice. I repaired to it immediately. It was at some 
 distance from his house. His horses were waiting at the 
 door ; therefore I was sure that he was to be found. When 
 I entered, I found myself in a hall where a porter was 
 loitering in a large chair. I asked him for Baron Fleming. 
 He did not deign to answer me, but pointed to a mahogany 
 door. I entered, and found myself in a large well-furnished 
 room, fitted up with desks. At the end two young men 
 were fencing. Another, seated at a round table, covered 
 with papers, was copying music, and occasionally trying a 
 note on his guitar. A fourth was throwing himself into 
 attitudes before a pier-glass ; and the fifth, who was the 
 only one whose employment was in any degree of a political 
 nature, was seated at his desk, reading the newspaper. 
 
 No one noticed my entrance. I looked in vain for my 
 father, and with some astonishment at those I found in his 
 place. Then I enquired for Baron Fleming, and, for the 
 second time in one day, I did not receive any answer. I 
 repeated my query in a more audible tone, and the young 
 gentleman who was reading the newspajier, without taking 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 93 
 
 his eyes off the columns, demanded in a cnrt voice what I 
 wanted with him. 
 
 ' What is that to you ? ' I ingenuously asked. 
 
 This unusual reply excited attention. They all looked at 
 me ; and when they had looked at me, they looked at each 
 other and smiled. My appearance, indeed, of which till I 
 had seen myself in the pier-glass I was not sensible, was 
 well calculated to excite a smile and to attract a stare. My 
 clothes were not untattered, and were very much soiled, 
 being covered with shreds of moss and blades of grass, and 
 stuck over with thistle-tops ; my boots had not been cleaned 
 for a week ; my shirt-frill, which fell over my shoulders, 
 was torn and dirtied ; my dishevelled and unbrushed locks 
 reached my neck, and could scarcely be said to be covered 
 by the small forester's cap which I always wore at school, 
 and in which I had decamped. Animate the countenance 
 of this strange figure with that glow of health which can 
 only be obtained by the pedestrian, and which seemed to 
 shock the nerves of this company of dapper youths. 
 
 ' If you want Baron Fleming, then, you must go upstairs,* 
 said the student of the newspaper in a peevish voice. 
 
 As I shut the door I heard the burst of laughter. I mounted 
 up the great staircase and came into an antechamber. 
 
 ' What do you want, sir ? what do you want, sir ? You 
 must not come here,' said a couple of pompous messengers 
 nearly pushing me out. 
 
 ' I shall not go away,' I replied. ' I want Baron Fleming.' 
 
 * Engaged, young gentleman, engaged ; can't see any one, 
 impossible.' 
 
 ' I shall wait, then.' 
 
 ' No use waiting, young gentleman, better go.' 
 
 * It is not such an easy matter, I perceive, to see one's 
 father,' I thought to myself. 
 
 I did not know which was his room, otherwise I would 
 
94 ' CONTARINI FLEMING : 
 
 have gone in ; but turning round, I detected written on a 
 door, ' Under Secretary's Office/ and I ran to it. 
 
 * Stop, sir, stop,' said the messengers. 
 
 But I had hold of the lock. Thej pulled me, I kicked 
 the door, and out came the private secretary of the under 
 secretary. 
 
 * What is all this ? ' asked the private secretary. He was 
 a fit companion for the young gentleman I had left down- 
 stairs. 
 
 ' I want Baron Fleming,' I replied, * and these men will 
 not tell me where he is, and therefore I come to the under 
 secretary to ask.' So saying, I indignantly freed my arm 
 from the capture of one of the messengers, and kicked the 
 shin of the other. 
 
 * May I ask who you are ? ' demanded the private secretaiy, 
 
 * I am Baron Contarini Fleming,' I replied. 
 
 * Pray sit down,' said the private secretary, * I will be 
 with you in a moment.' 
 
 The two messengers darted back, and continued bowing 
 without turning their backs until they unexpectedly reached 
 the end of the room. 
 
 The private secretary returned with the under secretarj'. 
 The under secretary told me that my father was engaged 
 with the chancellor, and that his door was locked, but that 
 the moment the door was unlocked, and the chancellor 
 departed, he would take care that he was informed of my 
 arrival. In the meantime, as he himself had a deputation 
 to receive in his room, who were to come to day to complain 
 in form of what they had for months been complaining 
 informally, he begged that I would have the kindness to 
 accompany his private secretary to the room do^vnstairs. 
 
 The room downstairs I again entered. The private secre- 
 tary introduced me. All looked very confused, and the 
 young gentleman who was still reading the newspaper 
 immediatelv handed it to me« I had never read a news- 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 9S 
 
 paper m my life, but I accepted liis offer to show my im- 
 portance. As I did not understand politics I turned to the 
 back of the sheet, where there is generally an article on the 
 fine arts, or a review of a new book. My wandering eye 
 fixed upon a memoir of the Chevalier de Winter. I was 
 equally agitated and astonished. My eye quivered over the 
 page. I saw in an instant enough to convince me it was 
 my friend, and that my friend was styled ' a great ornament 
 to the country,' and the Northmen were congratulated on 
 at length producing an artist whom the Italians themselves 
 acknowledged unrivalled among the living. I learnt that 
 he was the son of a peasant ; how his genius for painting 
 early developed itself; how he had led for years an eccentric 
 and wandering life ; how he had returned to Rome, and at 
 once produced a master-piece ; how he had gained prizes in 
 academies ; how he was esteemed and honoured by foreign 
 princes ; how his own illustrious monarch, ever alive to the 
 patronage of the fine arts, had honoured him with two 
 commissions ; how he had returned to his native country 
 mth these magnificent pictures, which were daily exhibit- 
 ing in the Royal Academy of Arts ; how the king had con- 
 ferred on him the collar of a high order, and oflTered him a 
 great pension; how he had refused the pension, and re- 
 quested only that a competence might be settled on his 
 parents. 
 
 I was bewildered; I fell into a deep reverie, the paper 
 dropped from - my hand, the door opened, and the jDrivate 
 secretary summoned me to the presence of my father. 
 
 CHAPTER £XL. 
 
 It is time that you should know something of my father. 
 5f ou must remember that he was little more than a score of 
 years my senior. Imagine, then, a man of about four and 
 
96 CONTARINI FLEMING* 
 
 tliirfcy years of age, tall and fcliin, handsome and elegant, 
 pensive and pale. His clear, broad brow; bis aquiline, bnt 
 delicately-cliiselled nose ; his grey, deep-set, and penetra- 
 ting eye ; and his compressed lips ; altogether formed a 
 countenance which enchanted women and awed men. 
 
 His character is more difficult to delineate. It was per- 
 haps inscrutable. I will attempt to sketch it, as it might 
 then have appeared to those who considered themselves 
 qualified to speculate upon human nature. 
 
 His talents were of high order, and their exercise alone 
 had occasioned his rise in a country in which he had no 
 interest and no connexions. He had succeeded in everything 
 he had undertaken. As an orator, as a negotiator, and in 
 all the details of domestic administration, he was alike 
 eminent ; and his luminous interpretation of national law 
 had elevated the chai-acter of his monarch in the opinion of 
 Europe, and had converted a second-rate power into the 
 mediator between the highest. 
 
 The minister of a free people, he was the personal as 
 well as the political pupil of Metternich. Yet he respected 
 the institutions of his country, because they existed, and 
 because experience proved that under their influence the 
 natives had become more powerful machines. 
 
 His practice of politics was compressed in two words, 
 bubtilty and force. The minister of an emperor, he would 
 have maintained his system by armies ; in the cabinet of a 
 small kingdom, he compensated for his deficiency by 
 intrigue. 
 
 His perfection of human nature was a practical man. 
 He looked upon a theorist either with alarm or with con- 
 tempt. Proud in his own energies, and conscious that he 
 owed everything to his own dexterity, he believed all to 
 depend upon the influence of individual character. He' 
 required men not to think but to act, not to examine but 
 to obey ; and, animating their brute force with his own. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 97 
 
 Intelligence, lie found the success, which he believed could 
 never be attained by the rational conduct of an enlightened 
 people. 
 
 Out of the cabinet the change of his manner might 
 perplex the superficial. The moment that he entered society 
 his thoughtful face would break into a fascinating smile, 
 and he listened with interest to the tales of levity, and 
 joined with readiness in each frivolous pursuit. He was 
 sumptuous in his habits, and was said to be even voluptuous. 
 Perhaps he affected gallantry, because he was deeply im- 
 pressed with the influence of women both upon public and 
 upon private opinion. With them he was a universal 
 favourite ; and as you beheld him assenting with convic- 
 tion to their gay or serious nonsense, and gracefully waving 
 liis handkerchief in his delicate and jewelled hand, you 
 might have supposed him for a moment a consummate lord 
 chamberlain ; but only for a moment, for had you caught 
 his eye, you would have withdrawn your gaze with pre- 
 cipitation, and perhaps with awe. For the rest, he spoke 
 all languages, never lost his self-possession, and never, in 
 my recollection, had displayed a spark of strong feeling. 
 
 I loved my father deeply, but my love was mixed with 
 more than reverence ; it was blended with fear. He was 
 the only person before whom I ever quailed. To me he 
 had been universally kind. I could not recall, in the whole 
 period of my existence, a single harsh word directed to 
 myself that had ever escaped him. Wlienever he saw me 
 he smiled and nodded ; and sometimes, in early days, when 
 I requested an embrace, he had pressed my lips. As 1 
 grew in years everything was arranged that could conduce 
 to my happiness. Whatever I desired was granted ; what- 
 ever wish I expressed was gratified. Yet with all this, by 
 some means or other which I could not comprehend, the 
 intercourse between my father and myself seemed never to 
 advacce. I was still to him as much an infant as if I wero 
 
98 COSTA RI XI FLEMIXG : 
 
 yet a subject of tlie nursery; and the impending and im- 
 portant intei'view might be considered the first time that it 
 was ever my fortune to engage with him in serious con- 
 verse. 
 
 The door was opened ; my heart palpitated ; the private 
 secretary withdrew ; I entered the lofty room. My father 
 was writing. He did not look up as I came in. I stood at 
 his table a second ; he raised his eyes, stared at my odd 
 appearance, and then, pointing to a chair, he said, ' How 
 do you do, Contarini ? I have been expecting you some 
 days/ Then he resumed his writing. 
 
 I was rather surprised, but my entrance had so agitated 
 me that I was not sony to gain time. A clock was opposite 
 to me, and I employed myself in watching the hands. 
 They advanced over one, two, tlu'ee minutes slowly and 
 Bolemnly; still my father wrote; even five minutes dis- 
 appeared, and my father continued writing. I thought 
 five minutes had never gone so slowly ; I began to think of 
 what I should say, and to wann up my courage by an 
 imaginary conversation. Suddenly I observed that ten 
 minutes had floAvn, and these last five had scudded in a 
 surprising manner. Still my father was employed. At 
 length he rang his bell ; one of my friends, the messengers, 
 entered. My father sent for Mr. Strelamb, and before Mr. 
 Strelamb, who was his private secretary, appeared, he had 
 finished his letter, and given it to the other messenger. 
 Then ]Mr. Strelamb came in, and seated himself opposite 
 to my father, and took many notes with an attention and 
 quickness which appeared to me quite marvellous ; and 
 then my father, looking at the clock, said he had an ap- 
 pointment with the Prussian ambassador, at his palace : 
 but, while Mr. Strelamb was getting some papers in order 
 for him, he sent for the under secretary, and gave him so 
 many directions that I thought the under secretary must 
 have the most wonderful memory in the world. At length 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 99 
 
 my fatlier left the room, saying as lie quitted it, * Rest you 
 liere, Coiitariui.' 
 
 I was consoled for tlils neglect by the consciousness thafc 
 my father was a very great man indeed. I had no idea of 
 such a great man. I was filled with awe. I looked out of 
 window to see him mount his horse ; but, just as he had 
 got one foot in the stirrup, a carriage dashed up to the 
 door ; my father withdrew his foot, and, saluting the person 
 in tlie carriage, entered it. It was the Austrian ambassador. 
 In ten minutes he came out ; but just as the steps were 
 rattled up, and the chasseur had closed the door with his 
 best air, my father returned to the carriage ; but he re- 
 mained only a minute, and then, mounting his horse, gal- 
 loped ofi". 
 
 ' This is, indeed, a gi-eat man,' I thought, ' and I am his 
 son.' I began to muse upon this idea of political greatness. 
 The simple woodman, and his decorous cottage, and hia 
 free forest life recurred to my mind, unaccompanied by that 
 feehng of satisfaction which I had hitherto associated with 
 them, and were pictured in faded and rather insipid colourai 
 Poetry and philosophy, and the delights of solitude, and 
 the beauty of truth, and the rapture of creation, I know 
 not how it was, they certainly did not figure in such para- 
 mount beauty and colossal importance as I had j)reviously 
 viewed them. I thouglit of my harassing hours of doubt 
 and diffidence with disgust ; I sickened at the time wasted 
 over imperfect efibrts at what, when perfect, seemed some- 
 how of questionable importance. I was dissatisfied with 
 my past life. Ambassadors and chancellors, under secre- 
 taries and private secretaries and public messengers flitted 
 across my vision. I was sensibly struck at the contrast 
 between all this greatness achieved, and moving before me 
 in its quick and proud reaHty, and my weak meditations of 
 unexecuted purposes, and dreamy visions of imaginary 
 grandeur. I threw myself in my father's chair, took up a 
 
 h2 
 
lOo COXTA RIXI FLEMIXG : 
 
 pen, and insensibly to myself while I indulged in these 
 reflections, scribbled Contarini Fleming over every paper 
 that offered itself for my signature. 
 
 My father was a long while away. I fell into a profound 
 reverie ; he entered the room ; I did not observe him ; I 
 was entirely lost. I was engaged in a conversation with 
 both the Prussian and Austrian ambassadors together. My 
 father called me ; I did not hear him. My eyes were fixed 
 on vacancy, but I was listening with the greatest attention 
 to their Excellencies. My father approached, lifted me 
 gently from his seat, and placed me in my original chair. 
 I stared, looked up, and shook myself like a man awakened. 
 He slightly smiled, and then seating himself, shrugging up 
 I lis shoulders at my laboui's, and arranging his papers, he 
 said at the same time — 
 
 * Now, Contarini, I wish you to tell me why you have 
 left your college ? ' 
 
 This was a home query, and entirely brought me to my- 
 self. With the greatest astonishment I found that I had 
 no answer. I did not speak, and my father conmienced 
 writing. In two or three instants he said, ' Well, can you 
 answer my question ? * 
 
 * Yes, sir,' I replied to gain time. 
 
 * Well ! teU me.' 
 
 ' Because, sir, because it was no use staying there.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' 
 
 ' Because I learned nothing.* 
 
 * Were you the first boy in the school, or the last ? 
 Had you learnt everything that they could teach you, or 
 nothing ? ' 
 
 * I was neither first nor last ; not that I should be 
 ashamed of being last where I consider it no honour to 
 be first.' 
 
 'Why not?' 
 
 * Because I do not think it an enviable situation to be 
 ^e first among the learners of words.' 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, loi 
 
 My father gave me a sharp glance, and then said, * Did 
 you leave college because you considered that they taught 
 you only words ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir ; and because I wish to learn ideas.' 
 
 * Some silly book has filled your head, Contarini, with 
 these ridiculous notions about the respective importance of 
 words and ideas. Few ideas are correct ones, and what 
 are correct no one can ascertain ; but with words we govern 
 men.' 
 
 This observation completely knocked up all my philo- 
 sophy, and I was without an answer. 
 
 ' I tell you what, Contarini : I suspect that there must 
 be some other reason for this step of yours. I wish you to tell 
 it to me. If you were not making there that progress which 
 every intelligent youth desires, such a circumstance might 
 be a very good reason for your representing your state to 
 your parent, and submitting it to his consideration ; but 
 you, you have never complained to me upon the subject. 
 You. said nothing of the kind when you were last with me ; 
 you never communicated it by letter. I never heard of a 
 boy running away from school because they did not teach 
 him sufficient, or sufficiently well. Your instructors do 
 not complain of your conduct, except with regard to this 
 step. There must be some other reason which induced you 
 to adopt a measure which, I flatter myself, you have already 
 learnt to consider as both extremely unauthorised and very 
 injudicious.' 
 
 I had a good mind to pour it all out. I had a good 
 mind to dash Venice in his teeth, and let him chew it as 
 he could. I was on the point of asking a thousand ques- 
 tions, for a solution of which I had been burning all my 
 life, but the force of early impressions was too strong. I 
 shunned the fatal word, and remained silent, with a clouded 
 brow, and my eyes fixed upon the ground. 
 
 'Answer me, Contarini,' he continued ; 'you know that 
 
I03 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 all I ask is only for your good. Answer me, Contarini ; I 
 request that you answer mc. Were you uncomfortable? 
 Were you unhappy ? ' 
 
 ' I am always unhappy,' I replied, in a gloomy tone. 
 
 My father moyed round his chair. ' You astonish me, 
 Contarini ! Unhappy ! always unhappy ! Why are you 
 nnhappy ? I should have thought 3^ou the happiest boy of 
 my acquaintance. I am sure I cannot conceive what makes 
 you unhappy. Pray tell me. Is there anything you want ? 
 Have I done, has anybody done anytliing to annoy you ? 
 Have you anything upon your mind ? ' 
 
 I did not answer; my eyes were still fixed upon the 
 gi'ound, the tears stealing down my cheek, tears not of 
 tenderness but rage. 
 
 * My dear Contarini,' continued my father, * I must in- 
 deed earaestly request you to answer mo. Throughout life 
 yon have never disobeyed me. Do not let to-day bo an 
 epoch of rebellion. Speak to me frankh' ; tell me why you 
 arc unhappy. 
 
 * Because I have no one I love, because there is no one 
 who loves me, because I hate this country, because 1 hate 
 everything and everybody, because I hate myself.* I rose 
 from my seat and stamped about the room. 
 
 My father was perfectly astounded. He had thought 
 that I might possibly have got into debt, or had a silly 
 quarrel ; but he did not lose his self-command. 
 
 * Sit down, Contarini,' he said, calmly. * Never give 
 way to your feelings. Explain to me quietly what all this 
 means. What book have you been reading to fill your 
 head with all tliis nonsense ? What could have so suddenly 
 altered your character ? ' 
 
 * I have read no book ; my character is what it always 
 yy^Sf and I have only expressed to-day, for the first time, 
 what I have ever felt. Life is intolerable to me, and I 
 wish to die.' 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 103 
 
 * Wliat can you mean by persons not loving yon ? ' re* 
 sumed my father ; ' I am sure the Baroness ' 
 
 ' The Baroness ! ' I interrupted him in a sharp tone — ■ 
 * what is the Baroness to me ? Always this wretched 
 nursery view of life, always considered an insignificant, 
 unmeaning child ! What is the Baroness and her petty 
 persecutions to me ? Pah ! ' 
 
 I grew bold. The truth is my vanity was flattered by 
 finding the man who was insensible to all, and before whom 
 all trembled, yield his sympathy and his time to me. I 
 began to get interested in the interview. I was excited by 
 this first conversation with a parent. My suppressed 
 character began unconsciously to develop itself, and I un- 
 intentionally gave way to my mind, as if I were in one of 
 my own scenes. 
 
 ' I should be sorry if there were even petty persecutions,' 
 said my father, * and equally so if you were insensible to 
 them ; but I hope that you speak only under excited feel* 
 ings. For your father, Contarini, I can at least answer 
 that his conscience cannot accuse him of a deficiency in 
 love for one who has such strong claims upon a father's 
 affection. I can indeed say that I have taken no important 
 step in life which had not for its ulterior purpose your 
 benefit ; and Avhat, think you, can sweeten this all-engross- 
 ing and perhaps fatal labour, to which I am devoted, but 
 tlie thought that I am toiling for the future happiness of 
 my child ? You are young, Contarini. Some day you will 
 become acquainted with the feelings of a father, and you 
 will then blush with shame and remorse that you ever 
 accused me of insensibility.' 
 
 While he spoke I was greatly softened. The tears stole 
 down my cheek. I leant my arm upon the table, and tried 
 to shade my face with my hand. My father rose from 
 his seat, turned the key of the door, and resumed his place, 
 
 * Occupied with affairs,' he resumed, ' which do not 
 
I04 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 always allow me sleep, I have never found time for tlioso 
 slight parental offices which I do not think less delightful 
 because it has been my misfortune not to fulfil or to enjoy 
 them. But you, Contarini, have never been absent from 
 my thoughts, and I had considered that I had made such 
 arrangements as must secure you the gi-atification of every 
 innocent desire. But to-day I find, for the first time, that 
 I have been mistaken for years. I regret it ; I wish, if 
 possible, to compensate for my unhappy neglect, or rather 
 unfortunate ignorance. Tell me, Contarini, what do you 
 wish me to do ? * 
 
 * Nothing, nothing,' I sobbed and sighed. 
 
 * But if necessity have hitherto brought us less together 
 than I conld wish, you are now, Contarini, fast advancing 
 to that period of life to which I looked forward as a con- 
 solatory recompense for this deplorable estrangement- I 
 hoped to find in you a companion. I hoped that I might 
 have the high gratification of forming you into a great and 
 a good man, that I might find in my son not merely a being 
 to be cherished, but a friend, a counsellor, a colleague, yes ! 
 Contarini, perhaps a successor.' 
 
 I clasped my hands in agony, but resti*ained a cry. 
 
 * And now,' he continued, * I am suddenly told, and by 
 himself, that I have never loved him ; but still more painful, 
 still more heartrending, is the accompanying declaration, 
 which, indeed, is what I could not be prepared for. Mis- 
 conception on his part, however improbable, might have 
 accounted for his crediting my coldness ; but alas ! I have 
 no room for hope or doubt. His plain avowal can never be 
 misconstrued. I must then yield to the terrible conviction 
 that I am an object of abhorrence to my child.' 
 
 I flung myself at his feet, I seized his hand, I kissed it, 
 and bathed it with my tears. 
 
 ' Spare me, oh ! spare me ! ' I faintly muttered. * Hence- 
 forth I will be all you wish 1 ' I clung upon his hand, I 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 105 
 
 would not rise till lie pardoned me. * Pardon me,' 1 said, 
 * pardon me, I beseech yon, father, for I spoke in madness. 
 Pardon me, pardon me, dear father ! It was in madness, 
 for indeed there is something which comes over me some- 
 times like madness, but now it will never come, because 
 you love me. Only tell me that you love me, and I will 
 always do everything. I am most grieved for what I said 
 about the Baroness. She is too good ! I will never give 
 you again an uneasy moment, not a single uneasy moment. 
 Now that I know that you love me, you may depend upon 
 me, you may indeed. You may depend upon me for ever ! ' 
 
 He smiled, and raised me from the ground, and kissed my 
 forehead. * Compose yourself, dearest boy. Strelamb must 
 soon come in. Try more to repress your feelings. There, 
 sit down, and calm yourself.' 
 
 He resumed his writing directly, and I sat sobbing my- 
 self into composure. In about a quarter of an hour, he 
 said, *I must send for Strelamb now, Contarini. If you 
 go into the next room, you can wash your face.' 
 
 When I returned, my father said, ' Come ! come ! yon 
 look quite blooming. By the bye, you are aware what a 
 very strange figure you are, Contarini? After being 
 closeted aU the morning with me, they will think, from 
 your costume, that you are a foreign ambassador. Now go 
 home and dress, for I have a large dinner party to-day, 
 and I wish you to dine with me. There are several persons 
 whom you should know. And, if you like, you may take 
 my horses, for I had rather walk home.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 I WAS so very happy that, for some time, I did not think of 
 the appalling efibrt that awaited me. It was not till I had 
 fairly commenced dressing that I remembered that in the 
 
io6 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 course of an hour, for the first time in my life, I was to 
 enter a room full of strangers, conducting themselves with 
 ease, in all that etiquette of society in which I was entirely 
 unpractised. M}-- heart misgave me. I wished myself again 
 in the forest. I jjrocrastinated my toilet to the last possible 
 moment. Ignorant of the art of dress, I found myself 
 making a thousand experiments, all of which failed. The 
 more I consulted my glass the less favourable was the im- 
 pression. I brushed my hair out of curl. I confined my 
 neck for the first time in a cravat. Each instant my 
 appearance became more awkward, more formal, and more 
 ineffective. At last I was obHged to go down ; and, less at 
 my ease, and conscious of appearing worse than ever I did 
 in my life, at the only moment of that life in which appear- 
 ance had been of the slightest consequence, and had ever 
 occupied my thoughts, I entered the room at a side door. 
 It was very full, as I had expected. I stole in without 
 being observed, which a little re-animated my courage. 1 
 looked round in vain for a person I knew ; I crept to a 
 corner. All seemed at their ease. All were smiUng ; all 
 exchanging words, if not ideas. The women all appeared 
 beautiful, the men all elegant. I painfully felt my wretched 
 inferiority. I watched the Baroness, magnificently attired 
 and sparkling with diamonds, wreathed with smiles, and 
 scattering without effort phrases which seemed to diffuse 
 universal pleasure. This woman, whom I had presumed to 
 despise and dared to insult, became to me an object of 
 admiration and of envy. She even seemed to me beautifuL 
 I was bewildered. 
 
 Suddenly a gentleman approached me. It was the under 
 secretary. I was delighted by his notice. I answered his 
 many uninteresting questions about every school pastime, 
 which I detested, as if I felt the greatest interest in their 
 recollection. All that I desired was that he would not 
 leave me, that I might at least appear to be doing what the 
 others were, and might be supposed to be charmed, although 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL RO\LiNCE. 107 
 
 I w'as in torture. At length he walked off to another 
 group, and I found myself once more alone, apparently 
 without a single chance of keeping up the hall; I felt as if 
 every one were watching with wonder the strange, awkward, 
 ugly, silent boy. I coined my cheek into a base smile, but 
 I found that it would not pass. I caught the eye of the 
 Baroness ; she beckoned me to come to her. I joined her 
 without delay. She introduced me to a lady who was 
 sitting at her side. This lady had a son at the college, and 
 asked me many questions. I answered in a nervous, rapid 
 manner, as if her son were my most intimate friend, gave 
 the anxious mother a complete detail of all his occupations, 
 and praised the institution up to the seventh heaven. I 
 was astonished at the tone of affection with which the 
 Baroness addressed me, at the interest which she took in 
 everything which concerned me. It was ever ' Contarini, 
 dear,' ' Contarini, my love,' ' You have been riding to-day. 
 Where have you been? I have hardly had time to speak to 
 you. He only came home to-day. He is looking vastly 
 well.' 'Very well, indeed.' 'Very much grown.' 'Oh! 
 amazingly.' ' Quite a beau for you, Baroness.' * Oh! yes, 
 quite delightful.' 
 
 What amiable people ! I thought, and what would I give 
 to be once more in old Winter's cottage ! 
 
 The door opened ; the Chevalier de Winter was an- 
 nounced. My fellow-traveller entered the room, though I 
 could scarcely recognise him in his rich and even fanciful 
 dress, and adorned with his brilliant order. I was struck 
 with his fine person, his noble carriage, and his highly- 
 pohshed manner. Except my father, I had never seen so 
 true a nobleman. The Baron went forward to receive him 
 with his most courteous air and most fascinating smile. 
 I withdrew as he led him to my mother. I watched the 
 Baroness as she rose to greet him. I was surprised at the 
 warmth of her welcome, and the tone of consideration with 
 which she received him Somo oP the guests, who were the 
 
loS CONTARINI FLEMIXG: 
 
 highest nobles in the country, requested my father to prt3- 
 Bent them to him : with others Winter was ah'eady ac- 
 quainted, and they seemed honoured by his recognition. 
 
 ' This also is a great man,' I exclaimed, ' but of a diffe- 
 rent order.' Old feelings began to boil up from the abyss 
 in wliich I had plunged them. I sympathised with this 
 great and triumphant artist. In a few days it seemed that 
 the history of genius had been acted before me for my 
 instruction, and for my encoui'agement. A combination of 
 circumstances had allowed me to trace this man from his 
 first hopeless obscurity. I had seen all ; the strong predis- 
 position, the stubborn opposition of fortune, the first efforts, 
 the first doubts, the paramount conviction, the long 
 struggle, the violated ties, the repeated flights, the deep 
 studies, the sharp discipline, the great creation, and the 
 glorious triumph. 
 
 My father, crossing the room, saw me. * Contarini,' he 
 said, ' where have you been all this time ? I have been 
 often looking for you. Come with me, and I will introduce 
 you to the Chevalier de Winter, one of the first painters in 
 the world, and who has just come from Rome. You must 
 go and see his pictures ; every one is talking of them. 
 Always know eminent men, and always be master of the 
 subject of the day. Chevalier,' for we had now come up 
 to him, * my son desires your acquaintance.' 
 
 * Ah ! fellow-traveller, welcome, welcome ; I told you we 
 should soon meet again,' and he pressed my hand with 
 warmth. 
 
 ' Sir, I had a prescience that I had been the companion 
 of a great man.' 
 
 This was pretty well said for a bashful youth, but it was 
 really not a compliment. The moment I addressed Winter, 
 I resumed unconsciously my natural tone, and reminded 
 by his presence that higher accomplishments and qualities 
 existed than a mere acquaintance with etiquette, and the 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 109 
 
 vivacity wliich could enliven the passages of ordinary con- 
 versation, I began to feel a little more at my ease. 
 
 Dinner was announced. The table was round. I sat 
 between the under secretary and the lady to whom I had 
 been introduced. The scene was a novel one, and I was 
 astonished at observing a magnificent repast^ which all 
 seemed to pique themselves upon tasting as little as 
 possible. They evidently assemble here, then, I thought, 
 for the sake of conversation ; yet how many are silent, and 
 what is said might be omitted. But I was then ignorant 
 of the purposes for which human beings are brought 
 together. My female companion, who was a little wearied 
 by a great general, who, although a hero and a strategist, 
 was soon beaten and bewildered in a campaign of repartee, 
 turned round to amuse herself with her other supporter. 
 Her terrific child was again introduced. I had drunk a 
 glass or two of wine, and altogether had, in a great degree, 
 recovered my self-possession. I could support her tattle 
 no longer. I assured the astonished mother that I had 
 never even heard of her son ; that, if really at college, he 
 must be in a different part of the establishment, and that I 
 had never met him ; that I did not even know the name ; 
 that the college was a very bad college indeed, that nobody 
 learnt anything there, that I abhorred it, and hoped that I 
 should never return ; and then I asked her to do me the 
 honour of takinof wine. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIIT. 
 
 TuE day after the party, I went with the Baroness to see 
 the great pictures of Winter in the Royal Academy of Arts. 
 Both of them seemed to be magnificent ; but one, which 
 was a national subject, and depicted the emancipating 
 exploits of one of the heroic monarchs, was the most 
 
I lo COXTA RIXI FLEMING : 
 
 popular. I did not feel so mucli interested witli tliis. 1 
 did not sympathise with the gloomy savage scene, the 
 black pine forests, the rough mountains, the feudal fonna 
 and dresses ; but the other, which was of a different 
 chai'acter, afforded me exquisite dehght. It represented a 
 procession goiug up to sacrifice at a temple in a Grecian 
 isle. The brilliant colouring, the beautiful and beautifully- 
 clad forms, the dehcate Ionian fane, seated on a soft 
 acclivity covered with sunny trees, the classical and lovely 
 back-ground, the deep-blue sea, broken by a tall white 
 scudding-sail, and backed by undulating and azure moun- 
 tains; I stood before it in a trance; a crowd of ideas 
 swiftly gathered in my mind. It was a poem. 
 
 After this I called upon Winter and found him in liis 
 studio. Many persons were there, and of high degree. It 
 was the first time I had ever been in the studio of an 
 artist. I was charmed with all I saw ; the infinite sketches, 
 the i*ough studies, the unfinished pictures, the lay figure, 
 the beautiful cast, and here and there some choice relic of 
 antiquity, a torso, a bust, or a gem. I remained here the 
 whole morning examining his Venetian sketches, and a day 
 seldom passed over that I did not di-op in to pay my 
 devotions at this delightful temple. 
 
 I was indeed so much at home, that if he were engaged, 
 I resumed my portfolio without notice, so that in time I 
 knew perhaps more about Venice than many persons who 
 had passed their whole lives there. 
 
 When I had been at home a fortnight, my father one 
 day invited me to take a ride with him, and began con- 
 versing with me on my plans. He said that he did not 
 wish me to return to college, but tjaat he thought me at 
 least a year too young to repair to the university, whither 
 on every account he desii'ed me to go. ' We should con- 
 sider then,' he continued, ' how this interval can be turned 
 to the greatest advantage. I wish you to mix as mucli as ia 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. iir 
 
 convenient with society. I apprehend that you have, perhaps, 
 hitherto indulged a Httle too much in lonely habits. Young 
 men are apt to get a little abstracted, and occasionally to 
 think that there is something singular iu their nature, 
 when the fact is, if they were better acquainted with their 
 fellow creatures, they would find they were mistaken. 
 This is a common error, indeed the commonest. I am not 
 at all surprised that you have fallen into it. All have. 
 The most practical, business-like men that exist have, many 
 of them, when children, conceived themselves totally dis- 
 quahfied to struggle in the world. You may rest assured 
 of this. I could mention many remarkable instances. All 
 persons, when young, are fond of solitude, and when they 
 are beginning to think, are sometimes surprised at theii* 
 own thoughts. There is nothing to be deplored, scarcely 
 to be feared, in this. It almost always wears off; but 
 sometimes it happens that they have not judicious friends 
 by them to explain, that the habits which they think 
 peculiar are universal, and, if unreasonably indulged, can 
 ultimately only turn them into indolent, insignificant mem- 
 bers of society, and occasion them lasting unhappiness.' 
 
 I made no reply, but gave up all idea of writing a tale, 
 which was to embrace both Venice and Greece, and which 
 I had been for some days meditating. 
 
 * But to enter society with pleasure, Contarini, you must 
 be quahfied for it. I think it quite time for you to make 
 yourself master of some accomplishments. Decidedly you 
 should make yourself a good dancer. Without dancing you 
 can never attain a perfectly graceful caniage, which is of 
 the highest importance in life, and should be every man's 
 ambition. You are yet too young fully to comprehend 
 how much in life depends upon manner. Whenever you 
 see a man who is successful in society, try to discover what 
 makes him pleasing, and if possible adopt his system. You 
 should learn to fence. For languages, at present, French 
 
112 COXTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 will be sufficient. You speak it fairly; try to speak it 
 elegantly. Read French autliors. E-ead Rocliefoucault. 
 The French writers are the finest in the world, for they 
 clear our heads of all ridiculous ideas. Study precision. 
 
 * Do not talk too much at present ; do not try to talk. 
 But whenever you speak, speak with self-possession. Speak 
 in a subdued tone, and always look at the person whom you 
 are addressing. Before one can engage in general conver- 
 sation with any effect, there is a certain acquaintance with 
 trifling but amusing subjects which must be first attained. 
 "Sou will soon pick up sufficient by listening and observing. 
 Never argue. In society nothing must be discussed ; give 
 only results. If any person differ from you, bow and tui-n 
 the conversation. In society never think ; always be on 
 the watch, or you will miss many opportunities and say 
 many disagreeable things. 
 
 * Talk to women, talk to women as much as you can. 
 Tliis is the best school. This is the way to gain fluencyj 
 because you need not care what you say, and had better 
 not be sensible. They, too, "svill rally you on man}'' points, 
 and as they are women you will not be offended. Nothing 
 is of so much importance and of so much use to a young 
 man entering life as to be well criticised by women. It is 
 impossible to get rid of those thousand bad habits which we 
 pick up in boyhood, without this supervision. Unfortu- 
 nately you have no sisters. But never be offended if a 
 woman rally you ; encourage her, otherwise you will never 
 be free from your awkwardness or any httle oddities, and 
 certainly never learn to dress. 
 
 ' You ride pretty well, but you had better go through 
 the manege. Every gentleman should be a perfect cavalier. 
 You shall have your own groom and horses, and I wish you 
 to ride regularly every day. 
 
 * As you are to be at home for so shoiH} a tune, and for 
 other reasons, I think it better that you should not have a 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 113 
 
 tutor in the house. Parcel out your morning then for your 
 separate masters. Rise early and regularly and read for 
 three hours. Read the Memoirs of the Cardinal de Retz, 
 the Life of Richelieu, everything about Napoleon: read 
 works of that kind. Strelamb shall prepare you a list. 
 Read no history, nothing but biography, for that is life 
 without theory. Then fence. Talk an hour with your 
 French master, but do not throw the burden of the conver- 
 sation upon him. Give him an account of something. 
 Describe to him the events of yesterday, or give him a 
 detailed account of the constitution. You will have then 
 sufficiently rested yourself for your dancing. And after 
 that ride and amuse yourself as much as you can. Amuse- 
 ment to an observing mind is study.' 
 
 I pursued the system which my father had pointed out 
 with exactness, and soon with pleasure. I sacredly ob- 
 served my hours of reading, and devoted myself to the 
 study of the lives of what my father considered really great 
 men ; that is to say, men of great energies and violent vo- 
 htion, who look upon their fellow- creatures as mere tools, 
 with which they can build up a pedestal for their solitary 
 statue, and who sacrifice every feeling which should sway 
 humanity, and every high work which genius should really 
 achieve, to the short-sighted gratification of an irrational 
 and outrageous selfism. As for my manners, I flattered 
 myself that they advanced in measure with my mind, al- 
 though I already emulated Napoleon. I soon overcame the 
 fear which attended my first experiments in society, and by 
 scrupulously observing the paternal maxims, I soon became 
 very self-satisfied. I listened to men with a delightfal 
 mixture of deference and self-confidence : were they old, 
 and did I difier from them, I contented myself by positively 
 Btating my opinion in a subdued voice, and then either 
 turning the subject or turning upon jny heel. But as for 
 women, it is astonishing how well I got on. The nervous 
 
 I 
 
1 14 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 rapidity of my fii'st rattle soon subsided into a continuous 
 flow of easy nonsense. Impertinent and flippant, I was 
 universally hailed an original and a wit. But the most 
 remarkable incident was, that the Baroness and myself 
 became the greatest friends. I was her constant attendant 
 and rehearsed to her flattered ear all my evening perform- 
 ance. She was the person with whom I pi*actised, and as 
 she had a taste in dress I encouraged her opinions. Un- 
 conscious that she was at once my lay figure and my mirror, 
 she loaded me with presents, and announced to all her 
 coterie that I was the most delightful young man of her 
 acquaintance. 
 
 From all this it may easily be suspected that at the age 
 of fifteen I had unexpectedly become one of the most 
 afiected, conceited, and intolerable atoms that ever peopled 
 the sunbeam of society. 
 
 A few days before I quitted home for the university, I 
 paid a farewell visit to "Winter, who was himself on the 
 point of returning to Rome. 
 
 ' Well, my dear ChevaHer,' I said, seizing his hand, and 
 Bpeaking in a voice of affected interest, ' I could not think 
 of leaving town without seeing yon. I am off" to-morrow, 
 and you ; you, too, are going. But what a difference ; a 
 Gothic university and immortal Rome ! Pity rae, my dear 
 Chevalier,' and I shmgged my shoulders. 
 
 ' Oh! yes, certainly ; I think you are to be pitied.' 
 
 * And how does the great work go on ? Your name is 
 everywhere. I assure you, Prince Besborodko was speaking 
 to me last night of nothing else. By-the-bye, shall you be 
 at the Opera to-night ? ' 
 
 * I do not know.* 
 
 * Oh ! you must go. I am sorry I have not a box to 
 offer you. But the Baroness's, T am sure, is always at your 
 service.' 
 
 * You ai'c vastly kind,' 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. X15 
 
 * 'TIs the most charming opera. I think his masterpiece. 
 That divine air ; I hum it all day. I do indeed. What a 
 genius ! I can bear no one else. Decidedly the greatest 
 composer that ever existed.' 
 
 ' He is certamly very great, and you are no doubt an 
 excellent judge of his style ; but the air you meant to hum 
 is an introduction, and by Pacini.' 
 
 * Is it, indeed ? Ah ! Italy is the land of music. We men 
 of the north must not speak of it.' 
 
 * Why is Italy the land of music ? Why not Germany ? ' 
 
 * Perhaps music is more cultivated in Germany at present, 
 but do not you think that it is, as it were, more indigenous 
 in Italy?' 
 
 'Ko.' 
 
 As I never argued, I twirled my cane, and asked his 
 opinion of a new casino. 
 
 * Ah! by-the-bj'-e, is it true. Chevalier, that you have at 
 last agreed to paint the Princess Royal ? I tell you what 
 I recommend you seriously to do, most seriously, I assure 
 you most decidedly it is my opinion ; most important thing, 
 indeed, should not be neglected a day. Certainly I should 
 not think of going to Italy without doing it.' 
 
 ' Well. Well ! ' 
 
 ' Countess Arnfeldt, Chevalier. By heavens she is divine ! 
 What a neck, and what a hand ! A perfect study.' 
 *Poh!' 
 
 * Do not you really think so ? Well, I see I am terribly 
 breaking into your morning. Adieu ! Let us hope we 
 may soon meet again. Perhaps at Rome ; who knows ? 
 An revoir.' 
 
 I kissed my hand, and tripped out of the room in all tho 
 charming falness of a perfectly graceful manner. 
 
 END OF PAET THE FIRST. 
 
 I 2 
 
ri^ COXTARIN/ FLEMING 
 
 rAKT THE SECOND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Our schoolboy days are looked back to by all with fond- 
 ness. Oppressed with the cares of life, we contrast our 
 worn and harrassed existence with that sweet prime, free 
 from anxiety and fragrant with innocence. I cannot share 
 these feelings. I was a most miserable child ; and school 
 I detested more than ever I abhon^ed the world in the 
 darkest moments of my experienced manhood. But the 
 fjniversity, this new life yielded me different feelings, and 
 still commands a grateful reminiscence. 
 
 My father, who studied to foster in me every worldly 
 feehng, sought all means which might tend to make me 
 enamoured of that world to which he was devoted. An 
 extravagant allowance, a lavish establishment, many ser- 
 vants, numerous horses, were forced upon rather than soli- 
 cited by me. According to his system he acted dexterously. 
 My youthful brain could not be insensible to the brilliant 
 position in which I was placed. I was now, indeed, my 
 own master, and everything around me announced that I 
 could command a career flattering to the rising passions of 
 my youth. I well remember the extreme self-complacency 
 with which I surveyed my new apartments ; how instan- 
 taneously I was wrapped up in all the mysteries of furni- 
 ture, and how I seemed to have no other purpose in life 
 than to play the honoured and honourable part of an 
 elegant and accomplished host. 
 
 My bii*th, my fortune, my convivial habits rallied around 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. '117 
 
 me the noblo and the gay, the flower of our society. 
 Joyously flew our careless hours, while we mimicked the 
 magnificence of men. I had no thought but for the present 
 moment. I discoursed only of dogs and horses, of fanciful 
 habiliments, and curious repasts. I astonished them by a 
 new fashion, and decided upon the exaggerated charms of 
 some ordinary female. How long the novelty of my life 
 would have been productive of interest I know not. An 
 incident occurred which changed my habits. 
 
 A new Professor arrived at the university. He was by 
 birth a German. I attended, by accident, his preliminary 
 lecture on Grecian history. I had been hunting, and had 
 suddenly returned home. Throwing my gown over my 
 forest frock, I strolled, for the sake of change, into the 
 theatre. I nodded with a smile to some of my acquaintance ; 
 I glanced with listlessness at their instructor. His ab- 
 stracted look, the massiness of his skull, his large luminous 
 eye, his long grey hair, his earnest and impassioned manner, 
 struck me. He discoursed on that early portion of Grecian 
 history which is entirely unknown. I was astonished at the 
 fulness of his knowledge. That which to a common student 
 appears but an inexplicable or barren tradition, became, in 
 his magical mould, a record teeming with deep knowledge 
 and picturesque interest. Hordes, who hitherto were only 
 dimly distinguished wandering over the deserts of antiquity, 
 now figured as great nations, multiplying in beautiful 
 cities, and moving in the grand and progressive march of 
 civilisation ; and I listened to animated narratives of their 
 creeds, their customs, their manners, their philosophy, and 
 their arts. I was deeply impressed with this mystical 
 creation of a critical spirit. I was charmed with the blended 
 profundity and imagination. I revelled in the sagacious 
 audacity of his revolutionary theories. I yielded to the 
 full spell of his archaic eloquence. The curtain was removed 
 from the sacred shrine of antique ages, and an inspired 
 
XtS CONTARIXI FLEMING: 
 
 prophet, ministermg in the sanctuary, expounded the 
 mysteries which had perplexed the imperfect intelHgence 
 of their remote posterity. 
 
 The lectui*e ceased ; I was the first who broke into 
 plaudits ; I advanced ; I oftered to our master my con- 
 gratulations and my homage. Now that his office had 
 finished I found him the meekest, the most modest and 
 nervous heing that ever trembled in society. With difficulty 
 he would receive the respectful compHments of his pupils. 
 He bowed, and blushed, and disappeared. His reserve only 
 interested me the more. I returned to my rooms, musing 
 over the high matters of his discourse. Upon my table was 
 a letter from one of my companions, full of ribald jests. I 
 glanced at its uncongenial lines, and tossed it away unread. 
 I fell into a reverie of Arcadian loveliness. A beautiful 
 temple rose up in my mind like the temple in the picture 
 of Winter. The door opened ; a band of loose revellers 
 burst into their accustomed gathering room. I was silent, 
 reserved, cold, moody. Their inane observations amazed 
 me. I shrunk from their hollow tattle and the gibberish 
 of their foul slang. Their unmeaning, idiotic shouts of 
 laughter tortured me. I knew not how to rid myself of 
 their infernal presence. At length one offered me a bet, 
 and I rushed out of the chamber. 
 
 I did not stop until I reached the room of the Professor. 
 I found him buried in his books. He stared at my entrance. 
 I apologised ; I told him all I felt, all I wanted ; the 
 wretched hfe I was leading, my deep sympathy with his 
 character, my infinite disgust at my o^vn career, my un- 
 bounded love of knowledge, and my admiration of himself. 
 
 The simplicity of the Professor's character was not 
 shocked by my frank enthusiasm. Had he been a man of 
 the world he would have been alarmed, lest my strong feel- 
 ing and unusual conduct should have placed us both in a 
 ridiculous position. On the contrary, without a moment's 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 119 
 
 hesitation, he threw aside his papers and opened his heart 
 to all my wants. My imperfect knowledge of the Greek 
 language was too apparent. Nothing conld be done until 
 I mastered it. He explained to mo a novel and philoso- 
 phical mode of acquiring a full acquaintance with it. As 
 we proceeded in our conversation, he occasionally indicated 
 the outlines of his grand system. of metaphysics. I was 
 fascinated by the gorgeous prospect of comprehending the 
 unintelligible. Tlie Professor was gratified by the effect 
 that his first effusion had produced, and was interested by 
 the ardour of my mind. He was flattered in finding an 
 enthusiastic votary in one whose mode of life had hitherto 
 promised anything but study, and whose position in society 
 was perhaps an apology, if not a reason, for an irrational 
 career. 
 
 I announced to my companions that I was going to read. 
 They stared, they pitied me. Some deemed the avowal 
 affectation, and trusted that increased frolic would repay 
 them for the abstinence of a week of application. Fleming 
 with his books only exhibited a fresh instance of his studied 
 eccentricity. But they were disappointed. I worked at 
 Greek for twelve hours a day, and at the end of a month I 
 had gained an ample acquaintance with tbo construction of 
 the language, and a fuller one of its signification : so much 
 can be done by an ardent and willing spirit. I had been 
 for six or seven years nominally a Greek student, and had 
 learnt nothing ; and how many persons waste even six or 
 seven more and only find themselves in the same position ! 
 
 I was amply rewarded for my toilsome effort. I felt the 
 ennobling pride of learning. It is a fine thing to know that 
 which is unknown to others ; it is still moi-e dijrnified to 
 remember that we have gained it by our own energies. 
 The struggle after knowledge too is fall of delight. The 
 intellectual chase, not less than the material one, brings 
 fresh vigour to our pulses, and infinite palpitations of 
 
I20 COXTARIXI FLEMIXG: 
 
 Btrange and s-weet suspense. The idea that is gained with 
 effort affords far greater satisfaction than that which is 
 acqnired with dangerous facilitj. We dwell with more 
 fondness on the perfume of the flower which we have our- 
 selves tended, than on the odour of that which we cull with 
 carelessness, and cast away without remorse. The strength 
 and sweetness of our knowledge depend upon the impression 
 which it makes upon our own minds. It is the liveliness 
 of the ideas that it affords which renders research so 
 fascinating, so that a trifling fact or deduction, when dis- 
 covered or worked out by our own brain, affords us 
 infinitely greater pleasure than a more important truth 
 obtained by the exertions of another. 
 
 I thought only of my books, and was happy. I was 
 emancipated from my painful selfism. My days passed in 
 unremitting study. My love of composition unconsciously 
 developed itself. My note-books speedily filled, and my 
 annotations soon swelled into treatises. Insensibly I had 
 become an author. I wrote with facility, for I was master 
 of my subject. I was fascinated with the expanding of my 
 own mind. I resolved to become a great historical writer. 
 Without intention I fixed upon subjects in which imagina- 
 tion might assist erudition. I formed gigantic schemes 
 which many lives could not have accomplished : yet was I 
 sanguine that I should achieve all. I mused over an 
 original style, which was to blend profound philosophy 
 and deep learning and brilliant eloquence. The nature of 
 man and the origin of nations were to be expounded in 
 glowing sentences of oracular majesty. 
 
 Suddenly the University announced a gold medal for 
 the writer of the ablest treatise upon the Dorian people. 
 The subject delighted me; for similar ones had already 
 engaged my notice, and I determined to be a candidate. 
 
 I shut myself up from all human beings ; I collected all 
 the variety of information tha+ I could glean from the most 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 121 
 
 ancient authors, and the rarest modern treatises. I moulded 
 the crude matter into luminous order. A theory sprang 
 out of the confused mass, Hke light out of chaos. The 
 moment of composition commenced. I wrote the first 
 sentence while in chapel, and under the influence of music. 
 It sounded like the organ that inspired it. The whole was 
 composed in my head before I committed it to paper ; 
 composed in my daily rides, and while pacing my chamber 
 at midnight. The action of my body seemed to lend vitality 
 to my mind. 
 
 Never shall I forget the moment when I finished the last 
 sentence of my fair copy, and, sealing it, consigned it with 
 a motto to the Principal. It was finished, and at the very 
 instant my mind seemed exhausted, my power vanished. 
 The excitement had ceased. I dashed into the forest, and^ 
 throwing myself under a tree, passed the first of many days 
 that flew away in perfect indolence and vague and un- 
 meaning reverie. 
 
 In spite of my great plans, which demanded the devotion 
 of a life, and were to command the admiration of a grateful 
 and enlightened world, I was so anxious about the fate of 
 my prize essay that all my occupations suddenly ceased« 
 I could do nothing. I could only think of sentences whick 
 might have been more musical, and deductions which 
 might have been more logically true. I^Tow that it was 
 finished I felt its imperfectness. Week after week I grew 
 more desponding, and on the very morning of the decision 
 I had entirely discarded all hope. 
 
 It was announced : the medal was awarded, and to me. 
 Amid the plaudits of a crowded theatre, I recited my 
 triumphant essay. Full of victory, my confident voice lent 
 additional euphony to the flowing sentence, and my bright 
 firm eye added to the acuteness of my reasoning, and 
 enforced the justice of my theory. I was entirely satisfied. 
 No passage seemed weak. Noble, wealthy, the son of the 
 
122 CONTARIXI FLEMING: 
 
 niiuister, congratulations came tliick npon me. The seniors 
 complimented each other on such an example to the students. 
 I was the idol of the university. The essay was printed, 
 lavishly praised in all the journals, and its author, full of 
 youth and promise, hailed as the future ornament of his 
 country. I returned to my father in a blaze of glory. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I ADDRESSED him with ihe confidence that I was now a 
 man, and a distinguished man. My awe of his character 
 had greatly worn off. I was most cordial to the Baroness, 
 but a shght strain of condescension was infused into my 
 courtesy. I had long ceased tovview her with dislike ; on 
 the contrary, I had even become her protege. That was 
 now over. We were not less warm, but I was now the 
 protector ; and if there were a sHght indication of pique or 
 a chance ebulHtion of temper, instead of their calHng forth 
 any similar sentiments on my side, I only bowed with 
 deference to her charms, or mildly smiled on the engaging 
 weaknesses of the inferior sex. I was not less self-conceited 
 or less affected than before, but my self-conceit and my 
 affectation were of a nobler nature. I did not consider 
 myself a less finished member of society, but I was also 
 equally proud of being the historiographer of the Dorians. 
 I was never gloomy ; I was never in repose. Self-satisfac- 
 tion sparkled on my countenance, and my carriage was 
 a^tated with the earnestness and the excitement with 
 which I busied myself with the trivial and the trite. My 
 father smiled, half with delight and half with humour, 
 npon my growing consciousness of importance, and intro- 
 duced me to his friends with increased satisfaction. He 
 even listened to me while, one day after dinner, I disserted 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 123 
 
 upon the Pelasgi ; but wlien lie found that I believed in 
 innate ideas, he thought that my self-delusion began to 
 grow serious. 
 
 As he was one of those men who believed that directly 
 to oppose a person in his opinions is a certain mode of 
 confirming him in his error, he attacked me by a masked 
 battery. Affecting no want of interest in my pursuits, he 
 said to me one day in a careless tone, ' Contarini, I am no 
 great friend to reading, but as you have a taste that way, 
 if I were you, during the vacation, I would turn over 
 Voltaire.' 
 
 Now I had never read any work of Voltaire's. The 
 truth is, I had no great opinion of the philosopher of 
 Ferney ; for my friend, the Professor, had assured me that 
 Voltaire knew nothing of the Dorians, that his Hebrew 
 also was invariably incorrect, and that he was altogether a 
 superficial person : but I chanced to follow my father's 
 counsel. 
 
 I stood before the hundred volumes ; I glanced with 
 indifference upon the wondrous and witching shelf. His- 
 tory, poetry, philosophy, the lucid narrative, and the wild 
 invention, and the unimpassioned truth, they were all 
 before mo, and with my ancient weakness for romance I 
 drew out Zadig. Never shall I forget the effect this work 
 produced on me. What I had been long seeking offered 
 itself. This strange mixture of brilliant fantasy and poignant 
 truth, this unrivalled blending of ideal creation and worldly 
 wisdom, it all seemed to speak to my two natures. I 
 wandered a poet in the streets of Babylon, or on the banks 
 of the Tigris. A philosopher and a statesman, I moralised 
 over the condition of man and the nature of government. 
 The style enchanted me. I delivered myself up to the full 
 abandonment of its wild and brilliant grace. 
 
 I devoured them all, volume after volume. !Morning, and 
 night, and noon, a volume was ever my companion. I ran 
 
124 COXTARIXI FLEMING: 
 
 to it after my meals, it reposed under mv pillo\v^. As I 
 read I roared, I laughed, I shouted with wonder and admi- 
 ration ; I trembled with indignation at the fortunes of my 
 race ; my bitter smile sympathised with the searching 
 ridicule and withering mockery. 
 
 Pedants, and priests, and tyrants ; the folios of dunces, 
 the fires of inquisitors, and the dungeons of kings ; and the 
 long, dull system of imposture and misrule that had sat 
 like a gloating incubus on the fair neck of Natui-e ; and all 
 our ignorance, and aU our weakness, and all our folly, and 
 all our infinite imperfection, I looked round, I thought 
 of the dissertation upon the Dorians, and I considered 
 myself the most contemptible of my wi-etched species. 
 
 I returned to the university. I rallied round me my old 
 companions, whom I had discarded in a fit of disgusting 
 pedantry, but not now merely to hold high revels. The 
 goblet indeed still circled, but a bust of the author of 
 ' Candide ' over the head of the president warned us, with 
 a smile of prophetic derision, not to debase ourselves ; and 
 if we drank deep, our potations were perhaps necessary to 
 refresh the inexperienced efi'orts of such novices in phi- 
 losophy. Yet we made way ; even the least literary read 
 the romances, or parts of the Philosophical Dictionary ; the 
 emancipation of our minds was rapidly effecting ; we en- 
 tirely disembarrassed ourselves of prejudice ; we tried every- 
 thing by the test of first principles, and finally we resolved 
 ourselves into a secret union for the amelioi'ation of society. 
 
 Of this institution I had the honour of being elected 
 president by acclamation. My rooms were the point of 
 meeting. The members were in number twelve, chiefly 
 my equals in rank and fortune. One or two of them were 
 youths of talent, and not wholly untinctured by letters ; 
 the rest were ardent, delighted with the novelty of what 
 they did and heard, and, adoj^ting our thoughts, arrived at 
 conclusions the truth of which they did not doubt. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 125 
 
 My great reputation at the university long prevented 
 tlicse meetings from being viewed with suspicion, and 
 when the revolutionary nature of our opinions occasionally 
 developed itself in a disregard for the authorities by some 
 of our society, who perhaps considered such licence as the 
 most delightful portion of the new philosophy, my interest 
 often succeeded in stifling a public explosion. In course of 
 time, however, the altered tenor of my own conduct could 
 no longer be concealed. My absence from lectures had 
 long been overlooked, from the conviction that the time 
 thus gained was devoted to the profundity of private 
 study ; but the systematic assembly at my rooms of tJiose 
 who were most eminent for their disregard of discipline 
 and their neglect of study could no longer be treated with 
 inattention, and after several intimations from inferior 
 officers, I was summoned to the presence of the High 
 Principal. 
 
 This great personage was a clear-headed, cold-minded, 
 unmanageable individual. I could not cloud his intellect or 
 control his purpose. My ever- successful sophistry and my 
 ever-fluent speech failed. At the end of every appeal he 
 recurred to his determination to maintain the discipline of 
 of the university, and repeated with finnness that this was 
 the last time our violation of it should be privately noticed. 
 I returned to my rooms in a dark rage. My natural im- 
 patience of control and hatred of responsibility, which had 
 been kept off" of late years by the fondness for society 
 which developed itself with my growing passions, came 
 back upon me. I cursed authority ; I paced my room like 
 Catiline. 
 
 At this moment my accustomed companions assembled. 
 They were ignorant of what had passed, but they seemed 
 to me to look like conspirators. Moody and ferocious, I 
 headed the table, and filling a bumper, I drank confusion 
 to all government. They were surprised at such a novel 
 
125 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 commencement, for in general we only arrived at this great 
 result by the growing and triumphant truths of a long 
 evening ; but they received my proposition, as indeed they 
 ever did, with a shout. 
 
 The wine warmed me. I told them all. I even exag- 
 gerated in my rage the annoying intelligence. I described 
 our pleasant meetings about to cease for ever. I denounced 
 the iniquitous system, which would tear us from the pur- 
 suit of real knowledge and ennobhng truths, knowledge 
 that illuminated, and truths that should support the des- 
 tinies of existing man, to the deplorable and disgusting 
 study of a small collection of imperfect volumes, written by 
 Greeks and preserved by Goths. It was bitter to think 
 that we must part. Surely society, cruel society, would 
 too soon sever the sweet and agreeable ties that bound our 
 youth. Why should we ever be parted ? Why, in pur- 
 suance of an unnatural system, abhorred by all of us, why 
 were we to be dispersed, and sent forth to delude the world 
 in monstrous disguises of priests, and soldiers, and states- 
 men ? Out upon such hypocrisy ! A curse light upon the 
 craven loiave who would not struggle for his salvation 
 from such a monotonous and degrading doom ! The world 
 was before us. Let us seize it in our prime. Let us hasten 
 away; let us form in some inviolate solitude a society 
 founded upon the eternal principles of truth and justice. 
 Let us fly from the feudal system. Nobles and wealthy, 
 let us cast our titles to the winds, and our dross to the 
 earth which produced it. Let us pride ourselves only on 
 the gifts of nature, and exist only on her beneficence, 
 
 I ceased, and three loud rounds of cheering announced 
 to the High Principal and all his slaves that we had not 
 yielded. 
 
 We drank deep. A proposition came forth with the 
 wine of every glass. We all talked of America. Already 
 wc viewed ourselves in a primaeval forest, existing by the 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE 127 
 
 cliase, to whicli many of us were devoted. The very ne- 
 cessary toil of life seemed, in such an existence, to consist 
 of what in this worn-out world was considered the choicest 
 pastime and the highest pleasure. And the rich climate, 
 and the simple manners, and the intelligible laws, and the 
 fair aborigines who must be attracted by such interesting 
 strangers, all hearts responded to the glowing vision. I 
 alone was grave and thoughtful. The remembrance of 
 Master Frederick and the Venetian expedition, although 
 now looked back to as a childish scrape, rendered me 
 nevertheless the most practical of the party. I saw imme- 
 diately the invincible difficulty of our reaching with success 
 such a distant land. I lamented the glorious times when 
 the forests of our own northern land could afford an asylum 
 to the brave and free. 
 
 The young Count de Pahlen was a great hunter. Wild 
 in his life and daring in his temper, he possessed at the 
 same time a lively and not uncultivated intellect. He had 
 a taste for poetry, and, among other accomplishments, was 
 an excellent actor. He rose up as I spoke, like a volcano 
 out of the sea. ' I have it, Fleming, I have it ! ' he shouted, 
 with a dancing eye and exulting voice. ' Yon know the 
 great forest of Jonsterna. Often have I hunted in it. The 
 forest near us is but, as it were, a huge root of that vast 
 woodland. Nearly in its centre is an ancient and crumb- 
 ling castle, which, like all old ruins, is of course haunted. 
 No peasant dare approach it. At its very mention the 
 face of the forest farmer will grow grave and serious. Let 
 us fly to it. Let us become the scaring ghosts whom all 
 avoid. We shall be free from man, we shall live only for 
 
 ourselves, we ' but his proposition was drowned in our 
 
 excited cheers, and rising together, we all pledged a sacred 
 vow to stand or fall by each other in this great struggle 
 for freedom and for nature. 
 
 The night passed in canvassing plans to render this 
 
1 28 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 miglity scheme practicable. The first point was to baffle 
 all inquiries after our place of refuge, and to throw all 
 pursuers ofi* the scent. We agreed that on a certain day 
 we should take our way, in small and separate parties, by 
 different routes to the old castle, which we calculated was 
 about sixty miles distant. Each man was to bear with 
 him a rifle, a sword, and pistols, a travelling cloak, his 
 knapsack, and as much ammunition as he could himself 
 carry. Our usual hunting dress afforded an excellent 
 uniform, and those who were without it were immediately 
 to supply themselves. We were to quit the university 
 without notice, and each of us on the same day was to 
 write to his friends to notify his sudden departure on a 
 pedestrian tour in Norway. Thus we calculated to gain 
 time and effectually to baffle pursuit. 
 
 Jn spite of our lavish allowances, as it ever happens 
 among young men, money was wanting. All that we 
 possessed was instantly voted a common stock, but several 
 men required rifles, and fands were deficient. I called for 
 a crucible: I opened a cabinet: I drew out my famous 
 gold medal. I gazed at it for a moment, and the classic 
 cheers amid which it had been awarded seemed to rise 
 upon my ear. I dashed away the recollection, and in a 
 few minutes the splendid reward of my profound researches 
 was melting over the fire, and affording the means of our 
 full equipment. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 It was the fourth morning of our journey. My companion 
 was Ulric de Brahe. He was my only junior among the 
 band, delicate of frame and affectionate in disposition, 
 though hasty if excited, but my enthusiastic admirer. He 
 was my great friend, and I was almost as intent to support 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 129 
 
 him under tlie fatigue, as about the success ot our enter- 
 prise. In our progress I had bought a donkey of a farmer, 
 and loaded it with a couple of kegs of the brandy of the 
 country. We had travelled the last two days entirely in 
 the forest, passing many farm-houses and several villages, 
 and as we believed were now near our point of rendezvous. 
 I kicked on the donkey before me, and smiled on Ulric. 
 I would have carried his rifle as well as my own, but hia 
 ardent temper and devoted love supported him ; and when 
 I expressed my anxiety about his toil, he only laughed and 
 redoubled his pace. 
 
 We were pushing along on an old turf road cut through 
 the thick woods, when suddenly, at the end of a side vista, 
 I beheld the tower of a castle. * Jonsterna ! ' I shouted, and 
 I ran forward without the donkey. It was more distant 
 than it appeared ; but at length we came to a large piece 
 of clear land, and at the other side of it we beheld the long 
 dreamt-of building. It was a vast structure, rather dilapi- 
 dated than ruined. With delight I observed a human 
 being moving upon the keep, whom I recognised by his 
 uniform to be one of us, and as we approached nearer we 
 distinguished two or three of our co-mates stretched upon 
 the^turf. They all jumped up and ran forward to welcome 
 us. How heartily we shook hands, and congratulated each 
 other on our re- union ! More than half were already 
 assembled. All had contrived, besides their own equip- 
 ments, to bring something for the common stock. There 
 was plenty of bread, and brandy, and game. Some were 
 already out collecting wood. Before noon the rest arrived, 
 except Pahlen and his comrade. And they came at last, 
 and we received them with a cheer, for the provident vice- 
 president, like an ancient warrior, was seated in a cart. 
 * Do not suppose that I am done up, my boys,' said the gay 
 dog ; ' I have brought gunpowder.' 
 
 When we had all assembled we rushed into the castlo, 
 
I30 CONTARIXI FLEMING: 
 
 and in tlie true spirit of boyhood examined cverytning. 
 There was a large knightg' hall, covered with tapestry and 
 tattered banners. It was settled that this should be our 
 chief apartment. We even found a huge oak-table and 
 some other rude and ancient furniture. We appointed 
 committees of examination. Some surveyed the cellars and 
 dungeons, some the out-buildings. We were not afraid of 
 ghosts, but marvellously fearful that we might have been 
 anticipated by some human beings, as wild and less philo- 
 sophical than ourselves. It was a perfect solitude. We 
 cleared and cleaned out the hall, lighted an immense fire, 
 arranged our stores, appointed their keeper, made beds 
 with our cloaks, piled our arms, and cooked our dinner. 
 An hour after sunset our first meal was prepared, and the 
 Secret Union for the Amelioration of Society resumed their 
 sittings almost in a savage state. 
 
 I shall never forget the scene and the proud exultation 
 with which I beheld it : the vast and antique hall, the 
 mystic tapestry moving and moaning with every gust of 
 the windy night, the deep shades of the distant corners, the 
 flickering light flung by the blazing hearth and the huge 
 pine torches, the shining arms, the rude but plenteous 
 banquet, the picturesque revellers, and I, their president, 
 with my sword pressing on a frame ready to dare all things. 
 * This, this is existence 1 ' I exclaimed. ' Oh ! let us live by 
 our own right arms, and let no law be stronger than our 
 swords ! ' 
 
 I was even surprised by the savage yell of exultation with 
 which my almost unconscious exclamation was received. 
 But we were like young tigers, who, for a moment tamed, 
 had now for the first time tasted blood, and rushed back to 
 their own nature. A band of philosophers, we had insen- 
 sibly placed ourselves in the most anti-philosophical posi- 
 tion. Flying from the feudal system, we had unawares 
 taken refuge in its favourite haunt. All our artificial 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. T31 
 
 theories of universal benevolence vanished. We deter- 
 mined to be "vvbat fortune bad suddenly made us. We 
 discarded tbo abstract truths which had in no age of the 
 world ever been practised, and were of course therefore 
 impracticable. We smiled at our ignorance of human na- 
 ture and ourselves. The Secret Union for the Amelioration 
 of Society suddenly turned into a corps of bandits, and 
 their philosophical president was voted their captain. 
 
 CHAPTEE, ly. 
 
 It was midnight. They threw themselves upon their rough 
 touches, that they might wake fresh with the morning. 
 Fatigue and brandy in a few minutes made them deep 
 slumber ers ; but I could not sleep. I flung a log upon the 
 fire, and paced the hall in deep communion with my own 
 thoughts. The Rubicon was passed. Farewell, my father, 
 farewell, my step- country ; farewell, literary invention, 
 maudlin substitute for a poetic life ; farewell, effeminate 
 arts of morbid civilisation! From this moment I ceased to 
 be a boy. I was surrounded by human beings, bold and 
 trusty, who looked only to my command, and I was to 
 direct them to danger and guide them through peril. Ko 
 child's game was this, no ideal play. We were at war, and 
 at war with mankind. 
 
 I formed my plans ; I organised the whole syst/cm. 
 Action must be founded on knowledge. I would have no 
 crude abortive efforts. Our colossal thoughts should not 
 degenerate into a frolic. Before we commenced our career 
 of violence, I was determined that I would have a thorough 
 acquaintance with the country. Every castle and every 
 farm-house should be catalogued. I longed for a map, -hat 
 
 K 2 
 
132 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 1 might muse over ifc like a general. I looked upon onr 
 good arms with complacency. I rejoiced that most of ua 
 were cunning of fence. I determined that they should 
 daily exercise with the broadsword, and that each should 
 become a dead shot with his rifle. In the perfection of our 
 warlike accomplishments I sought a substitute for the 
 weakness of our numbers. 
 
 The morning at length broke. I was not in the least 
 fatigued. I longed to commence my arrangements. It 
 grew very cold. I slept for an hour. I was the first 
 awake. I determined in future to have a constant guard. 
 I roused Pahlen. He looked fierce in his sleep. I rejoiced 
 in his determined visage. I appointed him my lieutenant. 
 I impressed upon him how much I depended upon hia 
 energy. We lighted a large fire, arranged the chamber, 
 and prepared their meal before any woke. I was deter- 
 mined that their resolution should be supported by the 
 comfort which they found around them ; I felt that cold 
 and hunger are great sources of cowardice. 
 
 They rose in high spirits : everything seemed delightfal. 
 Tlie morn appeared only a continuation of the enjoyment 
 of the evening. When they were emboldened by a good 
 meal, I developed to them my plans. I ordered Ulric de 
 Brahe to be first on guard, a duty from which no one was 
 to be exempt but Pahlen and myself. The post was the 
 tower which had given me the first earnest of their fealty in 
 assembling. 'No one could now approach the castle without 
 being perceived, and we took measures that the guard should 
 be perfectly concealed. Parties were then ordered out in 
 different directions, who were all to bring their report by 
 the evening banquet ; Pahlen alone was to repair to a more 
 distant town, and to be absent four days. He took his cart, 
 and we contrived to dress him as like a peasant as our ward- 
 robe would permit. His purpose was to obtain difierent 
 coatumes which were necessary for our enterprise. I j-e- 
 
/] PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 133 
 
 mained with two of my men, and worked at the interior 
 arrangements of our dwelling. 
 
 Thus passed a week, and each day the courage of my 
 band became more inflamed ; they panted for action. We 
 were in want of meal : I determined to attack a farmer's 
 grange on the ensuing eve, and I resolved to head the 
 enterprise myself. I took with me Ulric and three others. 
 We arrived an hour before sunset at the devoted settlenient ; 
 it had been already well reconnoitred. Robberies in this 
 country were unknown ; we had to encounter no precau- 
 tions. We passed the door of the granary, rifled it, stored 
 our cart, and escaped without a dog barking. We returned 
 two hours before midnight; and the excitement of this 
 evening I shall never forget. All were bursting with mad 
 enthusiasm ; I alone looked grave, as if everything de- 
 pended upon my mind. It was astonishing what an influ- 
 ence this assumption of seriousness, in the midst of their 
 wild mirth, already exercised upon my companions. I was, 
 indeed, their chief; they placed in me unbounded con- 
 fidence, and almost viewed me as a being of another 
 order. 
 
 I sent off Pahlen the next day, in the disguise of a pedlar, 
 tp a neighbouring village. The robbery was the topic of 
 general conversation ; everybody was astounded, and no 
 one was suspected. I determined, however, not to hazard 
 in a hurry another enterprise in the neighbourhood. Wo 
 wanted nothing except wine. Our guns each day procured 
 us meat, and the farmer's meal was a plentiful source of 
 bread. Necessity developes much talent : already one of 
 our party was pronounced an excellent cook ; and the last 
 fellow in the world we should ever have suspected put 
 an old oven into perfect order, and turned out an ingenious 
 mechanic. 
 
 It was necessary to make a diversion in a distant part of 
 the forest. I sent out my lieutenant with a strong party ; 
 
134 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 ihoj succeeded in driving home from a ricli farm four 
 cows in milk. This was a great addition to our luxuries ; 
 and Palilen, remaining bcliind, paid in disguise an observa- 
 tory visit to another village in the vicinity, and brought us 
 home the gratifying intelligence that it was settled that 
 the robbers were a party from a town far away, on the 
 other side of the forest. 
 
 These cases of petty plundering prepared my band for the 
 deeper deeds which I always contemplated. Parties were 
 now out for days together. We began to be familiar witli 
 every square mile of country. Through this vast forest 
 land, but a great distance from the castle, ran a high-road, 
 on which there was much traffic. One evening, as Ulric 
 and myself were prowling in this neighbourhood, we per- 
 ceived a band of horsemen approaching ; they were cloth- 
 merchants returning from a great fair, eight in number, 
 but only one or two armed, and merely \\dth pistols. A 
 cloth-merchant's pistol, that had been probably loaded for 
 years, and was borne, in all likelihood, by a man who would 
 tremble at his own fire, did not appear a very formidable 
 weapon. The idea occurred to both of us simultaneously. 
 We put on our masks, and one of us ran out from each side 
 of tlie road, and seized the bridle of the foremost horseman. 
 I never saw a man so astonished in my life ; he was perhaps 
 even more astonished than afraid ; but we gave them no 
 time. I can scarcely describe the scene. There was dis- 
 mounting, and the opening of saddle-bags, and the clinking 
 of coin. I remember wishing them good night in the civilest 
 tone possible, and then we were alone. 
 
 I stared at Ulric, Ulric stared at me, and then Tve burst 
 into a loud laugh and danced about the road. I quite lost 
 my presence of m.ind, and rejoiced that no one but my 
 favourite friend was present to witness my unheroic con- 
 duct. We had a couple of forest ponies, that we had driven 
 home one day from a, friendly farmer, tied up in an adjoin- 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 135 
 
 ing Tvood. Wo ran to them, jumped on, and scampered 
 away without stopping for five or six hours; at least I 
 think so, for it was an hour after sunset before the robbery 
 was committed, and it was the last hour of the moon before 
 we reached our haunt. 
 
 * The captain has come ! the captain has come ! ' was a 
 sound that always summoned my band. Fresh, faggots 
 were tliroAvn on the fire ; beakers of wine and brandy placed 
 on the table. I called for Pahlen and my pipe, flung my- 
 self on my seat, and, dashing the purses upon the board, 
 ' Here,' said I, ' my boys ! here is our first gold ! * 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 This afiliir of the cloth-merchants made us quite mad ; four 
 parties were stopped in as manj'- days. For any of our com- 
 panions to return without booiy, or, what was much more 
 prized, without an adventure, was considered flat treason. 
 Our whole band was now seldom assembled. The travellers 
 to the fair w^ere a never-failing source of profit. Each day 
 v,'e. meditated bolder exploits ; and, understanding that a 
 wedding w^as about to take place in a neighbouring castle, 
 I resolved to sui'prise the revellers in their glory, and cap- 
 ture the bride. 
 
 One evening as, seated in an obscure corner of the hall, 
 I was maturing my plans for this great achievement, and 
 most of my companions were assembled at their meal, 
 Pahlen unexpectedly returned. He was evidently much 
 fatigued ; he panted for breath ; he was covered with sweat 
 and dirt ; his dress was torn and soiled ; he reached the 
 table with staggering steps ; and, seizing a mighty flask of 
 Rhenish, emptied it at a draught. 
 
 * Where is the captain ?' he anxiously inquired. 
 
136 : CONTARIXI FLEMING: 
 
 I advanced ; lie seized me by the arm, and led me out of 
 the chamber. 
 
 ' A strong party of police and military have entered the 
 forest ; they have taken up their quarters at a town not ten 
 miles off ; their orders to discover our band are peremptory ; 
 every spot is to be searched, and the castle will be the first. 
 I have fought my way through the uncut woods. Yon 
 must decide to-night. What will you do ?' 
 
 ' Their strength ?' 
 
 ' A company of infantry, a party of rangers, and a suffi- 
 ciently stout body of police. Resistance is impossible.' 
 
 ' It seems so.' 
 
 * And escape, unless we fly at once. To-morrow we shall 
 be surrounded.' 
 
 * The devil!' 
 
 ' I wish to Heaven we were once more in your rooms, 
 Fleming ! * 
 
 ' Why, it would be as well. But, for heaven's sake, be 
 calm ! If we waver, what wiU the rest do ? Let us sum- 
 mon our energies. Is concealment impossible ? The dun- 
 geons ?' 
 
 * Every hole will most assuredly be searched.' 
 
 * An ambush might destroy them. We must fight, if they 
 run us to bay.' 
 
 * Poh ! ' 
 
 * Blow up the castle, then ?' 
 
 * And ourselves ?' 
 
 * WeU ?' 
 
 * Heavens ! what a madman you are ! It was all you, 
 Fleming, that got us into this infernal scrape. Why the 
 devil should we become robbers, w^hom society has evidently 
 intended only to be robbed ?' 
 
 * You are poignant, Pahlen. Come, let us to our friends.* 
 I took him by the arm, and we entered the hall together. 
 
 * Gentlemen,' I said, ' my lieutenant brings important iiw 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 137 
 
 telligence. A strong party of military and police have 
 entered the forest to discover and secure ns; they are 
 twenty to one, and therefore too strong for an open combat. 
 The castle cannot stand an hour's siege, and an ambush, 
 although it might prove successful, and gain us time, will 
 eventually only render our escape more difficult, and our 
 stay here impossible. I propose, therefore, that we should 
 disperse for a few days, and, before our departure, take heed 
 that no traces of recent residence are left in this building. 
 If we succeed in baffling their researches, we can again as- 
 semble here ; or, which I conceive will be more prudent 
 and more practicable, meet once more only to arrange our 
 plans for our departure to another and a more distant coun- 
 try. We have ample funds ; we can purchase a ship. Ming- 
 ling with the crew as amateurs, we shall soon gain sufficient 
 science. A new career is before us. The Baltic leads to the 
 Mediterranean. Think of its blue waters and beaming skies ; 
 its archipelagoes and picturesque inhabitants. We have 
 been bandits in a northern forest ; let us now become pirates 
 on a southern sea ! ' 
 
 No sympathetic cheer followed this eloquent appeal ; 
 there was a deep, dull, dead, dismal silence. I watched 
 them narrowly ; all looked with fixed eyes upon the table. 
 I stood with folded arms ; the foot of Pahlen nervously pat- 
 ting against the ground was the only sound. At length, 
 one by one, each dared to gaze upon another, and tried to 
 read his fellow's thoughts ; they could, without difficulty, 
 detect the lurking but terrible alarm. 
 
 * Well, gentlemen,' I said, ' time presses ; I still trust I 
 am your captain ? ' 
 
 ' Fleming, Fleming,' exclaimed the cook, with a broken 
 voice and most piteous aspect, and dropping my title, which 
 hitherto had been scrupulously observed ; ' how can you go 
 on so ! It is quite dreadful ! ' 
 
 There was an assentinij murmur. 
 
138 COXTAKLM FLEMING: 
 
 * I am sure,' continued the artist, wbom I always knew 
 to be the great<3st coward of the set ; ' I am sure I never 
 thought it would come to this. I thought it was only a fro- 
 lic. I have got led on I am sure I do not know how. But 
 you have such a Avay. What will our fathers think ? Rob- 
 bers ! How horrible ! And then suppose we are shot ! O 
 Lord ! what will our mothers say ! And after all we aro 
 only a parcel of boys, and did it out of fun. Oh ! what shall 
 
 I do ?: 
 
 The grave looks with which this comic ebulHtion was re- 
 ceived, proved that the sentiments, however undignified in 
 their delivery, were congenial to the band. The orator was 
 emboldened by not being lauglied at for the first time in his 
 life, and proceeded : 
 
 * I am sure I think we had better give ourselves up, and 
 then our famiHes might get us through : we can tell the 
 timth ; wc can say we only did it for fun, and can give up 
 the money, and as much more as they like. I do not think 
 they would hang ns. Do you ? Oh ! ' 
 
 'The devil take the hindmost,' said the young Count 
 Bornholm, rising, ' I am off. It will go hard if they arrest 
 me, because I am out sporting with my gun, and if they do 
 I will give them my name and then I should Hke to see them 
 stop me.' 
 
 * That will be best,' all eagerly exclaimed and rose. * Let 
 ns all disperse, each alone with his gun.' 
 
 * Let us put out the fire,* said the cook ; * they may see 
 the light.' 
 
 * What, without windows ?' said Bornholm. 
 
 * Oh ! these police see everytliing. What shall I do witli 
 the kettles ? We shall all get detected. To think it should 
 come to this ! Shot, perhaps hung ! Oh !' 
 
 ' Throw everytliing down the well,* said Pahlen ; * money 
 and all.' 
 
 Now I knew it was over. I had waited to hear Pahlen's 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 139 
 
 voice, and I now saw it was all np. I was not sorrj. I felt 
 tlio inextricable difficulties in which we were involved, and 
 what annoyed me most was, that I had hitherto seen no 
 mode of closing my part with dignity. 
 
 ' Gentlemen,' I said, * so long as yon are within theso 
 walls I am still your captain. You desert me, but I will 
 not disgi-ace you. Fly then ; fly to your schools and homes, 
 to your affectionate parents and your dutifal tutors. I 
 should have known with whom I leagued myself. I at 
 least am not a boy, and although now a leader without fol- 
 lowers, I will still, for the honour of my race and the w^orld 
 in which we breathe, I will still believe that I may find 
 trustier bosoms, and pursue a more eminent career.' 
 
 Ulric de Brahe rushed forward and placed himself by my 
 side : ' Fleming,' he said, * I will never desert you ! ' 
 
 I pressed his hand with the warmth it deserved, but tlie 
 feehng of solitude had come over me. I wished to be alone. 
 ' ISTo, Ulric,' I replied, 'we must part. I will tie no one to 
 my broken fortunes. And, my friends all, let us not part 
 in bitterness. Excuse mo, if in a moment of imtation I 
 mid aught that was unkind to those I love, depreciating to 
 those whose conduct I have ever had cause to admire. 
 Some splendid hours we have passed together, some brief 
 moments of gay revel, and glorious daring, and sublime 
 peril. We must part. I will believe that our destiny, and 
 not our will, separates us. My good sword,' I exclaimed, 
 and I drew it from the scabbard, ' in future you shall belong 
 to the bravest of the brave,' and kissing it, I presented it 
 to Pahlen. 'And now one brimming cup to the past. 
 Pledge me all, and in spite of every danger, with a merry 
 face.' 
 
 Each man quaffed the goblet till it was dry, and performed 
 the supernaculum, and then I walked to a distant part of 
 the hall, whispering as I passed Pahlen, * See that every- 
 thing necessary is done.' 
 
I40 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 The castle well was the general receptacle for all our 
 goods and plunder. In a few mimites the old hall presented 
 almost the same appearance as on our arrival. The fire was 
 extinguished. Everything disappeared. By the light of a 
 solitary torch, each man took his rifle, and his knapsack, 
 and his cloak, and then we were about to disperse. I shook 
 hands with each. Uhic de Brahe lingered behind, and once 
 more whispered his earnest desire to accompany me. But 
 I forbade him, and he quitted me rather irritated. 
 
 I was alone. In a few minutes, when I believed that all 
 had gone forth, I came out. Ere I departed, I stopped before 
 the old castle, and gazed upon it, grey in the moonlight. 
 The mighty pines rose tall and black into the dark blue air. 
 All was silent. The beauty and the stillness blended with 
 my tumultuous emotions, and in a moment I dashed intrj 
 poetry. Forgetting the imminent danger in which my 
 presence on this spot, even my voice, might involve me, I 
 poured forth my passionate farewell to the wild scene of my 
 wilder life. I found a fierce solace in this expression of my 
 heart. I discovered a substitute for the excitement of action 
 in the excitement of thought. Deprived of my castle and 
 my followers, I fled to my ideal world for refuge. There I 
 found them, a forest far wilder and more extensive, a castle 
 far more picturesque and awful, a band infinitely more 
 courageous and more true. My imagination supported me 
 under my whelming mortification. Crowds of characters, 
 and incidents, and passionate scenes, clustered into my 
 brain. Again I acted, again I gave the prompt decision, 
 again I supplied the never-failing expedient, again we 
 revelled, fought, and plundered. 
 
 It was midnight, when, wrapping himself in his cloak, 
 and making a bed of fern, the late lord of Jonstema betook 
 himself to his solitary slumber beneath the wide canopy of 
 heaven. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 141 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 I ROSE with the sun, and the first thought that occurred to 
 me was to write a traged}^ The castle in the forest, the 
 l*rotean Pahlen, the tender-hearted Ulric, the craven cook, 
 who was to be the traitor to betray the all-interesting and 
 marvellous hero, myself, here was material. What solilo- 
 quies, what action, what variety of character! I threw 
 away my cloak, it wearied me, and walked on, waving my 
 arm, and spouting a scene. I longed for the moment that 
 I could deliver to an imperishable scroll these vivid creations 
 of my fancy. I determined to make my way to the nearest 
 town and record these strong conceptions, ere the fire of 
 my feelings died away. I was suddenly challenged by the 
 advance guard of a party of soldiers. They had orders to 
 stop all travellers, and bring them to their commanding 
 officer. I accordingly repaired to their chief. 
 
 I had no fear as to the result. I should afiect to be a 
 travelling student, and, in case of any difficulty, I had de- 
 termined to confide my name to the officer. But this was 
 unnecessary. I went through my examination with such a 
 confident air, that nothing was suspected, and I was per- 
 mitted to proceed. This was the groundwork for a new in- 
 cident, and in the third act I instantly introduced a visit in 
 disguise to the camp of the enemy. 
 
 I refreshed myself at a farm-house, where I found some 
 soldiers billeted. I was amused with being the subject of 
 their conversation, and felt my importance. As I thought, 
 however, it was but prudent to extricate myself from the 
 forest without any unnecessary loss of time, I took my way 
 towards its skirts, and continued advancing in that direction 
 for Bevevai days, until I found myself in a disti'ict with 
 
142 COSTA RIKI FLEMING: 
 
 "wliioli I was unacquainted. I had now gained tlie open 
 country. Emerging from the straggling woodland one 
 afternoon about an hour before sunset, I found myself in a 
 highly cultivated and beautiful l,and. A small but finely- 
 formed lake spread before me covered with wild fowl. On 
 its opposite side rose a gentle acclivity richly wooded and 
 crowned by a magnificent castle. The declining stm shed a 
 beautifal warm light over the proud building, and its parks 
 and gardens, and the surrounding land, which was covered 
 with orchards and small fields of tall golden gi-ain. 
 
 The contrast of all this civilisation and beauty with the 
 recent scene of my savage existence was very striking. I 
 leant in thought upon my rifle, and it occurred to me that, 
 in my dark work, although indeed its characteristic was the 
 terrible, there too should be something sunny, and fresh, and 
 fair. For if in nature and in life man finds these changes 
 so delightful, so also should it be in the ideal and the poetic. 
 And the thought of a lieroine came into my mind. And 
 while my heart was softened by the remembrance of woman, 
 and the long-repressed waters of my passionate afiections 
 came gushing through the stem rocks that had so long beat 
 them away, a fanciful and sparkling equipage appeared ad- 
 vancing at a rapid pace to the castle. A light and brilliant 
 carnage, drawn by four beautiful grey horses, and the chas- 
 seur in an hussar dress, and the caracoling outi-iders, an- 
 nounced a personage of distinction. They advanced ; the 
 road i-an by my feet. As they approached I perceived 
 that there was only a lady in the carriage. I could not dis- 
 tinguish much, but my heart was prophetic of her charms. 
 Tlie cai'riage was within five yards of me. Never had I 
 beheld so beautiful and sumptuous a creature. A strange 
 feeling came over me, the carnage and the riders suddenly 
 stopped, and its mistress, stai'ting from her seat, exclaimed^ 
 almost shouted ' Gontarini ! surely, Contarini ! ' 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 143 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 I BUSHED forward ; I seized her extended hand ; the voice 
 called back the sweetness of the past ; my memory strug- 
 gled through the mist of many years — ' Christiana ! ' 
 
 I had seen her once or twice since the golden age of our 
 early loves, but not of late. I had heard, too, that she had 
 raai-ried, and heard it with a pang. Her husband, Count 
 Norberg, I now learnt, was the lord of the castle before us. 
 I gave a hurried explanation of my presence, a walking 
 tour, a sporting excursion, anything did, while I held her 
 sweet hand, and gazed upon her sparkling face. 
 
 I gave my gun and knapsack to an attendant, and jumped 
 into the carriage. So many questions uttered in so kind a 
 voice ; I never felt happier. Our drive lasted only a few 
 minutes, yet it was long enough for Christiana to tell me a 
 thousand times how rejoiced she was to meet me, and how 
 determined that I should be her guest. 
 
 We dashed through the castle gates. Alighting, I led her 
 through the hall, up the lofty staircase, and into a suite of 
 saloons. No one was there. She ran with me upstairs, 
 would herself point out to me my room, and was wild with 
 glee. ' I have not time to talk now, Contarini. We dine 
 in an hour. I will dress as fast as I can, and then we sliall 
 meet in the drawing-room.' 
 
 I was alone, and throwing myself into a chair, uttered a 
 deep sigh. It even surprised we, for I felt at this moment, 
 very happy. The servant entered with my limited wardrobe. 
 I tried to make myself look as much Hke a man of the world 
 and as little hke a bandit as possible ; but I was certainly 
 more picturesque than splendid. When I had dressed I for- 
 
144 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 got to descend, and leant over the mantel-piece, gazing on 
 the empty stove. The remembrance of my boyhood over- 
 powered me. I thought of the garden in which we had 
 first met, of her visit to me in the dark to solace my despair; 
 I asked myself why in her presence everything seemed beau- 
 tiful, and I felt happy ? 
 
 Some one tapped at the door. * Are you ready ? * said 
 the voice of voices. I opened the door, and taking her 
 hand, we exchanged looks of joyful love, and descended 
 together. 
 
 We entered the saloon. She led me up to a middle-aged 
 but graceful personage ; she introduced me to her husband 
 as the oldest and dearest of her friends. There were several 
 other gentlemen in the room who had come to enjoy the 
 chase with their host, but no ladies. We dined at a round 
 toble, and I was seated by Christiana. The conversation 
 ran almost entirely on the robbers, of whom I heard roman- 
 tic and ridiculous accounts. I asked the Countess how she 
 should like to be the wife of a bandit chief ? 
 
 * I hardly know what I should do,' she answered play- 
 ftdly, ' were I to meet with some of those interesting ruffians 
 of whom we occasionally read ; but I fear, in this age of 
 reality, these sentimental heroes would be difficult to dis- 
 cover.* 
 
 'Yes ; I have no doubt,' said a young nobleman opposite, 
 * that if we could detect this very captain, of whom we have 
 daily heard such interesting details, we should find him to 
 be nothing better than a decayed innkeeper, or a broken 
 subaltern at the best.' 
 
 ' You think so ? ' I replied. * In this age we are as prone 
 to disbelieve in the extraordinary as we were once eager to 
 credit it. I differ from you about the subject of our present 
 discussion, nor do I believe him to be by any means a com- 
 mon character.* 
 
 My remark attracted general observation. I spoke m si 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 145 
 
 confident but slow and serious tone. I wished to impress 
 on Christiana that 1 was no longer a child. 
 
 ' But may I ask on what grounds you have formed your 
 opinion ? ' said the Count. 
 
 * Principally upon my own observation,' I replied. 
 
 * Your own observation ! ' exclaimed mine host. * What, 
 have you seen him ? ' 
 
 *Yes.' 
 
 They would have thought me joking had I not looked so 
 grave, but my serious air ill accorded with their smiles. 
 
 ' I was with him in the forest,' I continued, * and held 
 considerable conversation with him. I even accompanied 
 hira to his haunt, and witnessed his assembled band.' 
 
 * Are you serious ! ' all exclaimed. The Countess was 
 visibly interested. 
 
 * But were you not very frightened ? ' she inquired. 
 
 * Why should I be frightened ? ' I answered ; ' a solitary 
 student offered but poor prey. He would have passed me 
 unnoticed had I not sought his acquaintance, and he was a 
 sufficiently good judge of human nature speedily to discover 
 that I was not likely to betray him.' 
 
 * And what sort of a man is he ? ' asked the young noble. 
 * Is he ypung ? ' 
 
 *Very.' 
 
 ' Well, I think this is the most extraordinary incident 
 that ever happened ! ' observed the Count. 
 
 ' It is most interesting,' added the Countess. 
 
 ' Whatever may be his rank or appearance, it is all up 
 with him by this time,' remarked an old gentleman. 
 
 ' I doubt it,' I replied, mildly, but firmly. 
 
 * Doubt it ! I tell you what, if you were a little older, 
 and knew this forest as well as I do, you would see that 
 his escape is impossible. Never were such arrangements. 
 There is not a square foot of ground that will not be 
 scoured, and stations left on every cross road. I wa« 
 
 L 
 
146 . CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 witli tlie commanding officer only yesterday. He cannot 
 escape.* 
 
 ' He cannot escape,' echoed a hitlierto silent gnest, who 
 was a great sportsman. ' I will bet any sum he is taken 
 before the week is over.' 
 
 ' If it wonld not shock onr fair hostess, Count Prater,' I 
 rejoined, *rest assured you should forfeit your stake.' 
 
 My host and his guests exchanged looks, as if to ask each 
 other who was this veiy young man who talked with such 
 coolness on such extraordinary subjects. But they were 
 not cognisant of the secret cause of this exhibition. I wished 
 to introduce myself as a man to the Countess. I wished 
 her to associate my name with something of a more exalted 
 nature than our nursery romance. I did not, indeed, desire 
 that she should conceive that I was less sensible to her in- 
 fluence, but I was determined she should feel that her 
 influence was exercised over no ordinary being. I felt that 
 my bold move had already in part succeeded. I more than 
 once caught her eye, and read the blended feeling of astonish- 
 ment and interest with which she listened to me. 
 
 * Well, perhaps he may not be taken in a week,' said the 
 betting Count Prater ; * it would be annoying to lose my 
 wager by an hour.' 
 
 * Say a fortnight then,* said the young nobleman. 
 
 *A fortnight, a year, an age, what you please,' I ob- 
 served. 
 
 * You will bet, then, that he will not be taken ? ' said 
 Count Prater, eagerly. 
 
 ' I will bet that the expedition retires in despair,' I re- 
 plied. 
 
 ' Well, what shall it be ? ' asked the Count, feeling that 
 he had an excellent bet, and yet fearful, from my youthful 
 appearance, that our host might deem it but delicate to 
 insure its being a light one. 
 
 * What you please,' I replied ; * I seldom bet, but when I 
 do, I caro idoI. how high the stake may be.* 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 147 
 
 * Five or fifty, or, if you please, five hundred dollars,* 
 suggested tlie Count. 
 
 * Five thousand, if you like.' 
 
 ' We are very moderate here, baron,' said our host, with 
 a smile. 'You university heroes frighten us.' 
 
 ' Well, then,* I exclaimed, pointing to the Countess' left 
 arm, ' you see this ruby bracelet ? the loser shall supply its 
 fellow.' 
 
 * Bravo ! ' said the young nobleman ; and Prater was 
 forced to consent. 
 
 Many questions were now asked about the robbers, as to 
 the nature and situation of their haunt ; their numbers ; 
 their conduct. To all these queries I repHed with as much 
 detail as was safe, but with the air of one who was resolved 
 not in any way to compromise the wild outlaw, who had 
 established his claim to be considered a man of honour. 
 
 In the evening the count and his friends sat down to 
 cards, and I walked up and down the saloon in conversation 
 with Christiana. I found her manner to me greatly changed 
 since the morning. She was evidently more constrained ; 
 evidently she felt that in her previous burst of cordiality 
 she had forgotten that time might have changed me more 
 than it had her. I spoke to her little of home. I did not 
 indulge in the details of domestic tattle ; I surprised her 
 by the wild and gloomy tone in which I mentioned m^^self 
 and my fortunes. I mingled with my reckless prospect of 
 the future the bitterest sarcasms on my present lot ; and, 
 when I had almost alarmed her by my malignant misan- 
 thropy, I darted into a train of gay nonsense or tender 
 reminiscences, and piqued her by the easy and rapid mode 
 in which my temper seemed to shift from morbid sensibility 
 to callous mockery. 
 
 1st 
 
148 CONTARINI FLEMIXG 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 I RETIRED to my room, and wrote a letter to my servant at 
 the university, directing him to repair to Norberg Castle 
 with my horses and wardrobe. The jQre blazed brightly ; 
 the pen was fresh and brisk ; the idea rushed into my head 
 in a moment, and I commenced my tragedy. I had already 
 composed the first scene in my head. The plot was simple, 
 and had been finally arranged while walking up and down 
 the saloon with the Countess. A bandit chief falls in love 
 with the wife of a rich noble, the governor of the province 
 which is the scene of his ravages. I sat up nearly all night 
 in fervid composition. I wrote with greater facility than 
 before, because my experience of life was so much increased 
 that I had no difficulty in making my chai'acters think and 
 act. There was, indeed, Httle art in my creation, but there 
 was much vitality. 
 
 I rose very late, and found that the chace had long ago 
 called forth my fellow guests. I could always find amuse- 
 ment in musing over my next scene, and I sauntered forth, 
 almost unconscious of what I did. I found Christiana in a 
 fanciful flower garden. She was bending down tending a 
 favourite plant. My heart beat, my spirit seemed lighter ; 
 she heard my step, she raised her smiling face, and gave me 
 a flower. 
 
 ' Ah ! does not this remind you,' I said, * of a spot of early 
 days ? I should grieve if you had forgotten the scene of 
 our first acquaintance.* 
 
 ' The dear garden house,' exclaimed Christiana, with an 
 arch smile. ' Never shaU I forget it. Contarini, what a 
 little boy you were then ! ' 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 149 
 
 We wandered about togetlier till the noon had long 
 passed, talking of old times, and then we entered the castle 
 for rest. She was as gay as a young creature in spring, 
 but I was grave, though not gloomy. I listened to her 
 musical voice. I watched the thousand ebullitions of her 
 beaming grace. I could not talk. I could only assent to 
 her cheerful observations, and repose in peaceful silence, 
 full of tranqciil joy. The morning died away ; the hunters 
 returned ; we reassembled to talk over their day's exploits, 
 and speculate on the result of my bet with Count Prater. 
 
 No tidings were heard of the robbers ; nearly every ob- 
 servation of yesterday was repeated. It was a fine specimen 
 of rural conversation. They ate keenly, they drank freely, 
 and I rejoiced when they were fairly seated again at their 
 card-table, and I was once more with Christiana. 
 
 I was deHghted when she quitted the harp and seated 
 herself at the piano. I care little for a melodious voice, as 
 it gives me no ideas, but instrumental music is a true source 
 of inspiration ; and as Christiana executed the magnificent 
 overture of a great German master, I moulded my feelings 
 of the morning into a scene, and, when I again found my- 
 self in my room, I recorded it with facility, or only with 
 a degree of difficulty with which it was exhilarating to 
 contend'. 
 
 At the end of three days my servant arrived, and gave 
 me the first intimation that myself and my recent com- 
 panions were expelled, for which I cared as little as for 
 their gold medal. 
 
 Three weeks flew away, distinguished by no particular 
 incident, excepting the loss of his gage by Count Prater, 
 and my manifold care that he should redeem it. The 
 robbers could not in any manner be traced, although Jon- 
 sterna afforded some indications. The wonder increased 
 and was universal, and my exploits afforded a subject for 
 a pamphlet, the cheapness of whose price, the publisher 
 
tSO CONTARINI FLEMIXG: 
 
 earnestly impressed upon as, could only be justified by its 
 extensive circulation. 
 
 Three weeks had flown away, three sweet weeks, and 
 flown away in the almost constant presence of Christiana, 
 or in scarcely less delightful composition. j\Iy tragedy was 
 finished. I resolved to return home ; I longed to bring my 
 reputation to the test ; yet I lingered about Christiana. 
 
 I lingered about her, as the young bird about the first 
 sunny fruit his inexj^erieuced love dare not touch. I was 
 ever with her, and each day grew more silent. I joined her, 
 exhausted by composition. In her presence I sought refresh- 
 ing solace, renewed inspiration. I spoke little, for one feeling 
 alone occupied my being, and even of that I was not cog- 
 nisant, for its nature to me was indefinite and indistinct, 
 although its power was constant and irresistible. But I 
 avenged myself for this strange silence when I was once 
 more alone, and my fervid page teemed with the imaginary 
 passion, of whose reality my unpractised nature was not 
 even yet convinced. 
 
 One evening, as we were walking together in the saloon, 
 and she was expressing her wish that I would remain, and 
 her wonder as to the necessity of my retorning, which I 
 described as so imperative, suddenly, and in the most un- 
 premeditated manner, I made her the confidant of my 
 literary secret. I was charmed with the temper in which 
 she received it, and the deep and serious interest which 
 she expressed in my success. 'Do you know,' she added, 
 * Contarini, you will think it very odd, but I have always 
 beheved that you were intended for a poet.' 
 
 My sparkling eye, sparkling with hope and aSection, 
 thanked her for her sympathy, and it was agreed that, on 
 the morrow, I should read to her my production. 
 
 I was very nervous when I commenced. This was the first 
 time that my composition had been submitted to a human 
 being, and now this submission was to take place in the 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 151 
 
 presence of the author, and through the medium of his 
 voice. As I proceeded, I grew ratht3r more assured. The 
 interest which Christiana really found, or affected to find, 
 encoui-aged me. If I hesitated, she said, ' Beautiful ! ' when- 
 ever I paused, she exclaimed, ' Interesting 1 ' My voice 
 grew firmer ; the interest which I myself took banished my 
 false shame ; I grew excited ; my modulated voice impressed 
 my sentiments, and my action sometimes explained them. 
 The robber scene was considered wonderful and full of life 
 and nature. Christiana marvelled how I could have in- 
 vented such extraordinary things and characters. At 
 length I came to my heroine. Her beauty was described 
 in an elaborate and far too poetic passage. It was a perfect 
 fac-simile of the Countess. It was ridiculous. She herself 
 folt it, and, looking up, smiled with a faint blush. 
 
 I had now advanced into the very heart of the play, and 
 the scenes of sentiment had commenced. I had long since 
 lost my irresolution. The encouragement of Christiana, and 
 the delight which I really felt in my writing, made me 
 more than bold. I really acted before her. She was sus- 
 ceptible. All know how easy it is for a very indifierent 
 drama, if well performed, to soften even the callous. Her 
 eyes were suffused with tears ; my emotion was also visible. 
 I felt like a man brought out of a dungeon, and groping his 
 way in the Hght. How could I have been so blind when all 
 was so evident ? It was not until I had recited to Chris- 
 tiana my fictitious passion, that I had become conscious of 
 my real feelings. I had been ignorant all this time that I 
 had been long fatally in love with her. I threw away my 
 manuscript, and, seizing her hand, ' 0, Christiana ! ' I ex- 
 claimed, ' what mockery is it thus to veil trath ? Before 
 you is the leader of the band of whom you have heard so 
 much. He adores you.' 
 
 She started : I cannot describe the beautiful consternation 
 of her countenance. 
 
1 5 2 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 * Contarini,' she exclaimed, ' are you mad ! what can yoi; 
 mean ? ' 
 
 ' Mean ! ' i poured forth ; ' is it doubtful ? Yes ! I repeat 
 I am the leader of that band, whose exploits have so recently 
 alarmed you. Cannot you now comprehend the stoiy of 
 my visiting their haunt ? Was it probable, was it possible, 
 that I should have been permitted to gain their secret and 
 to retire ? The robbers were youths like myself, weary of 
 the dull monotony of our false and wretched life. We have 
 yielded to overwhelming force, but we have baffled all pur- 
 suit. For myself, I quit for ever a country I abhor. Ere 
 a year has passed I shall roam a pirate on the far waves of 
 the ^gean. One tie only binds me to this rigid clime. In 
 my life I have loved only one being. I look upon her. 
 Yes ! yes ! it is you, Christiana. On the very brink of my 
 exile Destiny has brought us once more together. Oh ! let 
 us never part ! Be mine, be mine ! Share with me my 
 glory, my liberty, and my love ! ' 
 
 I poured forth this rhapsody with impassioned haste. 
 The Countess stared with blank astonishment. She ap- 
 peared even alarmed. Suddenly she sprang up and ran 
 out of the room. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 1 WAS enraged, and I was confused. I do not know whether 
 I felt more shame or more irritation. My vanity impelled 
 me to remain some time with the hope that she would 
 return. She did not, and seizing my tragedy, I rushed 
 into the park. I met my servant exercising a horse. I 
 sent him back to the castle alone, jumped on my steed, and 
 in a few minutes was galloping along the high road to the 
 metropolis. 
 
 It was about one hundred miles distant. When I reached 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 153 
 
 home, I found that my father and the Baroness were in the 
 conntry. I was not sorry to be alone, as I really had re- 
 turned without any object, and had not, in any degree, 
 prepared myself to meet my father. After some considera- 
 tion, I enclosed my tragedy to an eminent publisher, and I 
 sent it him from a quarter whence he could gain no clue 
 as to its source. I pressed him for a reply without unneces- 
 sary loss of time, and he, unhke these gentry, who really 
 think themselves far more important personages than those 
 by whose wits they live, was punctual. In the course of a 
 week he returned me my manuscript, with his compliments, 
 and an extract from the letter of his principal critic, in which 
 my effusion was described as a laboured exaggeration of the 
 most unnatural features of the German school. On the day 
 I received it my father also arrived. 
 
 He was alone, and had merely come up to town to transact 
 business. He was surprised to see me, but said nothing of 
 my expulsion, although I felt confident that he must be 
 aware of it. We dined together alone. He talked to me 
 at dinner of indifferent subjects : of alterations at his castle, 
 and the state of Europe. As I wished to conciliate him, I 
 affected to take great interest in this latter topic, and I 
 thought he seemed pleased with the earnest readiness with 
 which I interfered in the discussion. After dinner he re- 
 marked very quietly, filling his glass, * Had you communi- 
 cated with me, Contarini, I could perhaps have saved you 
 the disgrace of expulsion.' 
 
 I was quite taken by surprise, and looked very confused. 
 At last I said, ' I fear, sir, I have occasioned you too often 
 great mortification ; but I sometimes cannot refrain from 
 believing that I may yet make a return to you for all your 
 goodness.' 
 
 ' Everything depends upon yourself, Contarini. You 
 have elected to be your own master. You must take the 
 consequences of your courage or your rashness. What are 
 
i 54 COST A RINI FLEMING : 
 
 your plans ? I do not know whetlior you mean to honooi 
 me with your confidence as a friend. I do not even aspire 
 to the authority of a father.' 
 
 * Oh ! pray, sir, do not say so. I place myself entirely 
 at your disposal. I desire nothing more ardently than to 
 act under your command. I assure you that you will find 
 me a very different person from what you imagine. I am 
 impressed with a most earnest and determined resolution 
 to become a practical man. You must not judge of me by 
 my boyish career. The veiy feelings that made me revolt 
 at the discipline of schools will insure my subordination in 
 the world. I took no interest in their petty pursuits, and 
 their minute legislation interfered with my more extended 
 views.' 
 
 *What views ?' asked my lather, with a smile. 
 
 I was somewhat puzzled, but I answered, * I wish, sir, to 
 influence men.* 
 
 ' But before you influence others you must leara to influ- 
 ence yourself. Now those who would judge, perhaps im- 
 perfectly, of your temperament, Contarini, would suppose 
 that its characteristic was a nature so headstrong and im- 
 prudent, that it could not fail of involving its possessor in 
 many dangerous and sometimes even in very ridiculous 
 positions.' 
 
 I was silent, with my eyes fixed on the ground. 
 
 * I think you have suflicient talents for all that I could 
 reasonably desire, Contarini,* continued my father ; ' I think 
 you have talents indeed for anything ; anything, I mean, 
 that a rational being can desire to attain; but you sadly 
 lack judgment. I think that you are the most imprudent 
 person with whom I ever was acquainted. You have a 
 great enemy, Contarini, a great enemy in yourself. You 
 have a great enemy in your imagination. I think if you 
 could control your imagination you might be a gi'eat 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. t55 
 
 ' It is a fatal gift, Contarini ; for wlien possessed in ita 
 highest quality and strength what has it ever done for its 
 votaries ? What were all those great poets of whom we 
 now talk so much, what were they in their lifetime ? The 
 most miserable of their species. Depressed, doubtful, ob- 
 scure, or involved in petty quarrels and petty persecutions ; 
 often unappreciated, utterly uninfluential, beggars, flatterers 
 of men unworthy even of their recognition ; what a train of 
 disgustful incidents, what a record of degrading circum- 
 stances, is the life of a great poet ! A man of great energies 
 aspires that they should be felt in his lifetime, that his 
 existence should be rendered more intensely vital by the 
 constant consciousness of his multiplied and multiplying 
 power. Is posthumous fame a substitute for all this ? 
 Viewed in every light, and under every feeling, it is alike 
 a mockery. Nay, even try the greatest by this test, and 
 what is the result ? Would you rather have been Homer 
 or Julius Ca3sar, Shakspeare or Napoleon ? No one doubis. 
 Morahsts may cloud truth with every possible adumbration 
 of cant, but the nature of our being gives the lie to all their 
 assertions. We are active beings, and our sympathy, above 
 all other sympathies, is with great action. 
 
 * Remember, Contarini, that all this time I am taking for 
 granted that you may be a Homer. Let us now recollect 
 that it is perhaps the most improbable incident that can 
 occur. The high poetic talent ( as if to prove that a poet is 
 only, at the best, a wild although beautiful error of nature), 
 the high poetic talent is the rarest in creation. What you 
 have felt is what I have felt myself, is what all men have 
 felt: it is the consequence of our native and inviolate 
 susceptibility. As you advance in hfe and become more 
 callous, more acquainted with man and with yourself, you 
 will find it even daily decrease. Mix in society and I will 
 answer that you lose your poetic feeling ; for in you, as in 
 the great majority, it is not a. creative faculty originatincj 
 
I ;6 CONTARIXI FLEMING : 
 
 in a peculiar organisation, but simply the consequence of a 
 nervous susceptibility that is common to all.' 
 
 I suspected very much that my father had stumbled on 
 the unhappy romance of the Wild Hunter of Rodenstein, 
 which 1 had left lying about my drawers, but I said nothing. 
 He proceeded : 
 
 * The time has now arrived which may be considered a 
 crisis in your life. You have, although very young, resolved 
 that society should consider you a man. No preparatory 
 situation can now veil your indiscretions. A youth at the 
 University may commit outrages with impunity, which will 
 affix a lasting prejudice on a person of the same age who 
 has quitted the University. I must ask you again, what 
 are your plans ? ' 
 
 * I have none, sir, except your wishes. I feel acutely the 
 truth of all you have observed. I assure you I am as com- 
 pletely and radically cured of any predisposition that, I 
 confess, I once conceived I possessed for literary invention, 
 as even you could desire. I will own to you that my ambition 
 is great. I do not think that I should find life tolerable, 
 unless I were in an eminent position, and conscious that I 
 deserved it. Fame, although not posthumous fame, is, I 
 feel, necessary to my felicity. In a word, I wish to devote 
 myself to affiiirs ! I attend only your commands.' 
 
 ' If it meet your wishes, I will appoint you my private 
 secretary. The post, particularly when confirmed by the 
 confidence which must subsist between individuals con- 
 nected as we are, is the best school for public affairs. It 
 will prepare you for any office.' 
 
 ' I can conceive nothing more delightful. You could 
 not have fixed upon an appointment more congenial to my 
 feelings. To be your constant companion, in the slightest 
 degree to alleviate the burden of your labours, to be con- 
 sidered worthy of your confidence ; this is all that I could 
 desire. I only fear that my ignorance of routine may at 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. i^f 
 
 first inconvenience yon, bnt tmst Lie, dear father, that, if 
 devotion and the constant exertion of any talents I may 
 possess can aid you, they will not be wanting. Indeed, 
 indeed, sir, you never shall repent your goodness.' 
 
 This same evening I consigned my tragedy to the flames. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 I DEVOTED myself to my new pursuits with as much fervour 
 as I had done to the study of Greek. The former secretary 
 initiated me in the mysteries of routine business. My 
 father, although he made no remark, was evidently pleased 
 at the facility and quickness with which I attained this 
 formal but necessary information. Yattel and Martens 
 were my private studies. I was greatly interested with my 
 novel labours. Foreign policy opened a dazzling vista of 
 splendid incident. It was enchanting to be acquainted with 
 the secrets of European cabinets, and to control or influence 
 their fortunes. A year passed with more satisfaction than 
 any period of my former life. I had become of essential 
 service to my father. My talent for composition found full 
 exercise, 'and afforded him great aid in drawing up state 
 papers and manifestoes, despatches and decrees. We were 
 always together. I shared his entire confidence. He in- 
 structed me in the characters of the public men who sur- 
 rounded us, and of those who were more distant. I was 
 astonished at the scene of intrigue that opened on me. I 
 found that in some even of his colleagues I was only to 
 perceive secret enemies, and in others but necessary tools 
 and tolerated incumbrances. I delighted in the danger, the 
 management, the negotiation, the suspense, the difficult 
 gratification of his high ambition. 
 
 Intent as he was to make me a great statesman, he was 
 
I5S CONTARLM FLEMING: 
 
 scarcely less anxious that I should become a finished man 
 of the world. He constantly impressed npon me that society 
 was a politician's chief tool, and the paramount necessity 
 of cultivating . its good graces He afforded me an ample 
 allowance. He encouraged me in a lavish expenditure. 
 Above all, he was ever ready to dilate upon the character 
 of women ; and, while he astonished me by the tone of 
 depreciation in which he habitually spoke of them, he 
 would even magnify their influence, and the necessity of 
 securing it. 
 
 I modelled my character upon that of my father. I 
 imbibed his deep worldliness. With my usual impetuosity 
 I even exaggerated it. I recognised self-interest as the 
 spring of all action. I received it as a truth, that no man 
 was to be trusted, and no woman to be loved. I gloried in 
 secretly believing myself the most callous of men, and tha6 
 nothing could tempt me to compromise my absorbing 
 seltism. I laid it down as a principle, that all considerations 
 must yield to the gi'atification of my ambition. The ardour 
 and assiduity with which I fulfilled my duties and prose- 
 cuted my studies had rendered me, at the end of two years, 
 a very skilful politician. My chief fault, as a man of affairs, 
 was, that I was too fond of patronising charlatans, and too 
 ready to give every adventurer credit for talents. The 
 moment a man started a new idea my active fancy conjured 
 up all the great results, and conceived that his was equally 
 prophetic. But here my father's severe judgment and 
 sharp experience alwa\'S interfered for my benefit, and my 
 cure was assisted by hearing a few of my black swans 
 cackle instead of chant. As a member of society I was 
 entirely exempt from the unskilful affectation of my boy- 
 hood. I was assured, arrogant, and bitter, but easy, and 
 .dot ungraceful. The men trembled at my sarcasms, and 
 the women repeated with wonderment my fantastic raillery. 
 My position in life, and the exaggerated halo with wliich, in 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 159 
 
 my case as in all others, the talents of emlneut youth were 
 injudiciously invested, made me courted by all, especially 
 by the daughters of Eve. I was sometimes nearly the 
 victim of hackneyed experience ; sometimes I trifled with 
 affections, which my parental instructions taught me never 
 to respect. On the whole, I considered myself as one of 
 the important personages of the country, possessing great 
 talents, profound knowledge of men and affairs, and a 
 perfect acquaintance with society. When I look back upon 
 myself at this period, I have difiiculty in conceiving a more 
 unamiable character. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 In the third year of my pohtical life the prime minister 
 suddenly died. Here was a catastrophe ! Who was to be 
 his successor ? Here was a fruitful theme for speculation 
 and intrigue ! Public opinion pointed to my father, who 
 indeed, if qualification for the post were only considered, 
 had no competitor ; but Baron Fleming was looked upon 
 by his brother nobles with a jealous eye, and, although not 
 unwilHng to profit by his labours, they were chary of 
 allowing them too uncontrolled a scope. He was talked of 
 as a new man : he was treated as scarcely national. The 
 state was not to be placed at the disposal of an adventurer. 
 He was not one of themselves. It was a fatal precedent, 
 that the veins of the prime minister should be filled with 
 any other blood but that of their ancient order. Even 
 many of his colleagues did not afiect to conceal their 
 hostility to his appointment, and the Count de Moltke, who 
 was supposed to possess every quality that should adorn 
 the character of a first minister, was openly announced as 
 the certain successor to the vacant office. The Count de 
 
i6o CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 Moltke was a frivolous old courtier, who had gained his 
 little experience in long service in the household, and even 
 were he appointed, could only anticipate the practicability 
 of carrying on affairs by implicit confidence in his rival. 
 The Count de Moltke was a tool. 
 
 Skilful as my father was in controlling and veiling his 
 emotion, the occasion was too powerful even for his firmness. 
 For the first time in his life he sought a confidant, and finn 
 in the affection of a son, he confessed to me, with an agita- 
 tion which was alone sufficient to express his meaning, how 
 entirely he had staked his felicity on this cast. He could 
 not refrain from bitterly dilating on the state of society, in 
 which secret influence and the prejudices of a bigoted class 
 should for a moment permit one, who had devoted all the 
 resources of a high intellect to the welfare of his countiy, 
 to be placed in momentary competition, still more in per- 
 manent inferiority, with such an ineffable nonentity as the 
 Count de Moltke. 
 
 Every feeling in my nature prompted me to energy. I 
 »?0Tinselled my father to the most active exertions; but 
 although subtle, he was too cautious, and where he was him- 
 self concerned, even timid. I had no compunction and no 
 fear. I would scruple at no means which could ensure our 
 end. The feeling of society was in general in our favour. 
 Even among the highest class, the women were usually on 
 the side of my father. Baroness Engel, who was the evening 
 star that beamed unrivalled in all our assemblies, and who 
 fancied herself a little Duchess de Longueville, delighted in 
 a political intrigue. I affected to make her our confidante. 
 We resolved together that the only mode was to render our 
 rival ridiculous. I wrote an anonymous pamphlet in favour of 
 the appointment of the Count de Moltke. It took in every- 
 body, until in the last page they read my panegyric of his 
 cream cheeses. It was in vain that the Count de Moltke 
 and all his friends protested that his excellency had never 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. i6i 
 
 iTiade a cream cheese in the whole course of his life. The 
 story was too probable not to be true. He was just the old 
 fool who would make a cream cheese. I secured the chan- 
 nel of our principal journals. Each morning teemed with 
 a diatribe against back-staii's' influence, the prejudices of a 
 nobility who were behind their age, and indignant histories 
 of the maladministration of court favourites. The evening, 
 by way of change, brought only an epigram, sometimes a 
 song. The fashion took : all the youth were on our side. 
 One day, in imitation of the Tre Giuli, we published a whole 
 volume of epigrams, all on cream cheeses. The Baroness 
 was moreover an inimitable caricaturist. The shops were 
 filled with infinite scenes, in which a ludicrous old fribble, 
 such as we might fancy a French marquis before the Revo- 
 lution, was ever committing something irresistibly ridiculous. 
 In addition to all this, I hired ballad-singers, who were always 
 chanting in the public walks, and even under the windows 
 of the palace, the achievements of the unrivalled manufac- 
 turer of cream cheeses. 
 
 In the meantime my father was not idle. He had disco- 
 vered that the Count de Bragnaes, one of the most influential 
 nobles in the country, and the great supporter of De Moltke, 
 was ambitious of becoming secretary for foreign affairs,- and 
 that De Moltke had hesitated in pledging himself to this 
 arrangement, as he could not perceive how affairs could be 
 carried on if my father were entirely dismissed. My father 
 opened a secret negotiation with De Bragnaes, and shook 
 before his eye-s the glittering seals he coveted. De Bragnaes 
 was a dolt, but my father required only tools, and felt him- 
 self capable of fulfilling the duties of the whole ministry. 
 This great secret was not concealed from me. I opposed 
 the arrangement, not only because De Bragnaes was abso- 
 lutely inefficient, but because I wished to introduce Baron 
 Engel into the cabinet. 
 
 The post of chief minister had now been three weeks 
 
1 62 - CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 vacant, and the delay was accounted for by tlie illness o£ 
 the sovereign, who was nevertheless in perfect health. All 
 this excitement took place at the very season we were all 
 assembled in the capital for the pm-poses of society. My 
 father was everywhere, and each night visible. I contrasted 
 the smiling indifference of his pubHc appearance with the 
 agonies of ambition which it was my doom alone to witness. 
 
 I was alone with my father in his cabinet, when a royal 
 messenger summoned him to the presence. The King was at 
 a palace about ten miles from the city. It did not in any way 
 follow from the invitation that my father was successful : 
 all that we felt assured of was that the crisis had arrived. 
 We exchanged looks but not words. Intense as was the 
 suspense, business prevented me from attending my father, 
 and waiting in the royal antechamber to hear the great 
 result. He departed. 
 
 I had to receive an important deputation, the discussion 
 of whose wishes employed the whole morning. It was with 
 extreme difficulty that I could command my attention. 
 Never in my life had I felt so nervous. Each moment a 
 messenger entered, I believed that he was the important one. 
 No carriage rolled into the court-yard that did not to my 
 fancy bear my father. At last the deputation retired, and 
 then came private interviews and urgent correspondence* 
 
 It was twilight. The servant had Ht one burner of the 
 lamp when the door opened, and my father stood before mo. 
 I could scarcely refrain from crying out. I pushed out the 
 astonished waiting-man, and locked the door. 
 
 My father looked grave, serious ; I thought a little de- 
 pressed. 'AH is over,' thought I ; an(i in an instant I began 
 speculating on the future, and had created much, when ray 
 father's voice called me back to the present scene. 
 
 'His Majesty, Contarini,' said my father, in a dry, formal 
 manner, as if he were speaking to one who had never wit- 
 nessed his weakness, 'his Majesty has been graciously pleased 
 to appoint me to the supreme office of president of hia 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 163 
 
 council ; and as a further mark of his entire confidence and 
 full approbation of my past services, he has thought fit to 
 advance me to the dignity of Count.' 
 
 Was this frigid form that stood unmoved before me the 
 being whom, but four-aiid-twenty hours ago, I had watched 
 trembling with his high passions ? Was this curt, unim- 
 passioned tone the voice in which he should have notified 
 the crowning glory of his fortunes to one who had so strug- 
 gled in their behalf? I could scarcely speak. I hardly 
 congratulated him. 
 
 ' And your late post, sir ? ' I at length inquired. 
 
 'The seals of this office will be held by the Baron i}LQ 
 Bragnaes.' 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders in silence. 
 
 ' The King is not less aware than mj^^self that his excel- 
 lency can bring but a shght portion of intellectual strength 
 to the new cabinet; that he is indeed to be placed in a 
 position to discharge duties of which he is little capable, but 
 his Majesty, as well as myself, has unbounded confidence in 
 the perfect knowledge, the energetic assiduity, and the dis- 
 tinguished talents of the individual who will fulfil the duties 
 of under secretary. He will be the virtual head of this 
 great department. Allow me to be the first to congratulate 
 Count Contarini Fleming on his new dignity, and his en- 
 trance into the service of his sovereign.' 
 
 I rushed forward, I pressed his hand. ' My dear father,' 
 I said, ' I am overwhelmed. I dreamt not of this. I never 
 thought of myself ; I thought only of you.' 
 
 He pressed my hand, but did not lose his composure. 
 *We dine together to-day alone,' he said. *I must now 
 see De Bragnaes. At dinner I will toll you all. Nothing 
 will be announced till to-morrow. Your friend Engel is 
 not forgotten.' 
 
 He quitted the chamber. The moment he disappeared I 
 could no longer refrain from glancing in the mirror. Never 
 
1 64 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 had I marked so victorious a visage. An uDnatural splendour 
 sparkled in my eye, my lip "was impressed with energy, my 
 nostril dilated with triumph. I stood before the tall mir- 
 ror, and planted my foot, and waved my arm. So much 
 more impressive is reality than imagination! Often in 
 reverie had I been an Alberoni, a Bipperda, a Richelieu ; 
 but never had I felt, when moulding the destinies of the 
 ■v\dde globe, a tithe of the triumphant exultation, which was 
 afforded by the consciousness of the simple fact that T was 
 an under secretary of state. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 1 HAD achieved by this time what is called a great reputation. 
 I do not know that there was any one more talked of and 
 more considered in the countiy than myself. I was my 
 father's only confidant, and secretly his only counsellor. I 
 managed De Bragnaes admirably, and always suggested to 
 him the opinion, which I at the same time requested. He 
 was a mere cipher. As for the Count de Moltke, he was 
 very rich, with an only daughter, and my father had already 
 hinted at what I had even turned in my o^vn mind, a union 
 with the wealthy, although not very pleasing, offspring of. 
 the maker of cream cheeses. 
 
 At this moment, in the zenith of my popularity and 
 power, the Norbergs returned to the capital. I had never 
 seen them since the mad morning which, with all my 
 boasted callousness, I ever blushed to remember; for the 
 Count had, immediately after my departure, been appointed 
 to an important although distant government. Nor had 
 I ever heard of them. I never wished to. I drove their 
 memory from my mind, but Christiana, who had many 
 correspondents, and among them the Baroness, had of 
 course heard much of me. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 165 
 
 Oai family was the first they called upon, and in spito 
 of the mortifying awkwardness of the meeting, it was im- 
 possible to avoid it, and therefore I determined to pay my 
 respects to them immediately. I was careful to call when 
 I knew I could not be admitted, and the first inter- 
 view finally took place at our own house. Christiana re- 
 ceived me with great kindness, although with increased 
 reserve, which might be accounted for by the time that had 
 elapsed since we last met, and the alteration that had since 
 taken place both in my age and station. In all probability 
 she looked upon my present career as a sufficient guarantee 
 that n'-y head was cleared of the wild fancies of my im- 
 petuous boyhood, and rejoicing in this accomplishment, and 
 anticipating our future and agi*eeable acquaintance, she 
 might fairly congratulate herself on the excellent j'idgment 
 which had prompted her to pass over in silence my un- 
 pardonable indiscretion. 
 
 Her manner put me so completely at my ease that, a 
 moment after my salute, I wondered I could have been so 
 foolish as to have brooded over it. The Countess was 
 unaltered, except that she looked perhaps more beauti- 
 ful. She was a rare creation that Time loved to spare. 
 That sweet, and blooming, and radiant face, and that tall, 
 and shapely, and beaming form, not a single bad passion 
 had ever marred their light and grace ; all the freshness of 
 an innoceht heart had embalmed their perennial loveliness. 
 
 The party seemed dull. I, who was usually a great 
 talker, could not speak. I dared not attempt to be alone 
 with Christiana. I watched her only at a distance, and in- 
 dicated my absorbing mood to others only by my curt and 
 discouraging answers. When all was over I retired to my 
 own rooms exceedingly gloomy and dispirited. ' 
 
 I was in these days but a wild beast, who thought him- 
 self a civihsed and human being. I was profoundly ignorant 
 of all that is true and excellent. An unnatural system, lika 
 
i66 . CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 some grand violence of nature, had transformed tlie teeming 
 and beneficent ocean of my mind into a sandy and arid 
 desert. I had not then discovered even a faint adumbra* 
 tion of the philosophy of our existence. Blessed by nature 
 ■with a heart that is the veiy shrine of sensibihty, my in- 
 famous education had succeeded in rendering me the most 
 selfish of my species. 
 
 But nature, as the pliilosophic Winter impressed upon 
 me,* is stronger than education ; and the presence of this 
 woman, this sudden appearance, amid my corrupt and 
 heartless and artificial life, of so much innocence, and so 
 much love, and so much simplicity, they fell upon my cal- 
 lous heart lilve the first rains upon a Syrian soil, and the 
 refreshed earth responded to the kindly influence, by an 
 instant recurrence to its nature. 
 
 I recoiled with disgust from the thonght of luy present 
 life ; I flew back with rapture to my old aspirations. And 
 the beautiful, for which I had so often and so early sighed, 
 and the love that I felt indispensable to my panting frame, 
 and the deep sympathy for all creation that seemed my 
 being, and all the dazzling and extending glory that had 
 liovered hke a halo round my youthful visions, they re- 
 turned, they returned in their might and their splendour, 
 and when I remembered what I was, I buried my face in 
 my hands and wept. 
 
 I retired to my bed, but I could not sleep. I saw no 
 hope, yet I was not miserable. Christiana could never be 
 mine. I did not wish her to be. I could not contemplate 
 such an incident. I had prided myself on my profligacy, 
 but this night avenged my innate purity. I threw ofi" my 
 factitious passions. It was the innocence of Christiana 
 that exercised over me a spell so potent. Her unsophisti- 
 cated heart awoke in me a passion for the natural and the 
 pure. She was not made to be the heroine of a hackneyed 
 adventure. To me she was rot an individual, but a per- 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 1^7 
 
 aonification of nature. I gazed upon her only as I would 
 upon a beautiful landscape, witli an admiring sympathy 
 which ennobles my feelings, invigorates my intellect, and 
 calls forth the latent poetry of my being. 
 
 The thought darted into mj mind in a moment. I can- 
 not tell how it came. It seemed inspiration, but I re- 
 sponded to it with an eager and even fierce sympathy. 
 Said I that the thought darted into my mind ? Let me 
 recall the weak phrase, let me rather say, that a form rose 
 before me in the depth of the dull night, and that form was 
 myself. That form was myself, yet also another. I beheld 
 a youth, who, like me, had stifled the breathing forms of 
 his creation, who, like me, in the cold wilderness of the 
 world, looked back with a mournful glance at the bright 
 gates of the sweet garden of fancy he had forfeited. I felt 
 the deep and agonising struggle of his genius and his fate, 
 and my prophetic mind bursting through all the thousand 
 fetters that had been forged so cunningly to bind it in its 
 coll, the inspiration of my nature, that beneficent demon 
 who will not desert those who struggle to be wise and good, 
 tore back the curtain of the future ; and I beheld, seated 
 upon a glorious throne on a proud Acropolis, one to whom 
 a surrounding and enthusiastic people ofiered a laurel crown. 
 I laboured to catch the fleeting features and the.changing 
 countenance of him who sat upon the throne. Was it the 
 strange yoilth or was it, indeed, myself ? 
 
 I jumped out of bed. I endeavoured to be calm. I asked 
 myself soberly whether I had indeed seen a vision, or 
 whether it were but the invisible phantasm of an ecstatic 
 reverie ? I looked round me ; there was nothing. The 
 moonbeam was stationary on the wall. I opened the win- 
 dow and looked out upon the vast, and cold, and silent 
 street. The bitterness of the night cooled me. The pulsa- 
 tions of my throbbing head subsided. I regained my be4> 
 and instantly sank into a sweet sleep. 
 
i6S CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 The aunt of the Countess Fleming had died, and left ta 
 my step-dame the old garden-house, which is not perhaps 
 forgotten. As I had always continued on the best possible 
 terms with the Countess, and, indeed, was in all points 
 quite her st^andard of perfection, she had, with great cour- 
 tesy, permitted me to make her recently-acquired mansion 
 ray habitation, when important business occasionally made 
 me desire for its transaction a spot less subject to constant 
 interruption than my office and my home. 
 
 To the garden-house I repaired the next morning at an 
 early hour. I was so eager, that I ordered, as I dismounted, 
 my rapid breakfast, and in a few minutes, this being 
 despatched, I locked myself up in my room, giving ordeis 
 not to be disturbed, unless for a message from my father. 
 
 I took up a pen. I held it in the light. I thought to 
 myself what will be its doom, but I said nothing. I began 
 writing some hours before noon, nor did I ever cease. My 
 thoughts, my passion, the rush of my invention, were too 
 quick for my pen. Page followed page ; as a sheet was 
 finished I threw it on the floor ; I was amazed at the rapid 
 and prolific production, yet I could not stop to wonder. In 
 half a dozen hours I sank back exhausted, with an aching 
 frame. I rang the bell, ordered some refreshment, and 
 walked about the room. The wine invigorated me and 
 warmed up my sinking fancy, which, however, required 
 little fuel. I set to again, and it was midnight before I 
 retired to my bed. 
 
 The next day I again rose early, and with a bottle of 
 wine at my side, for I was determined not to be disturbed, 
 I dashed at it again. I was not less successful. This day 
 I finished my first volume. 
 
 The third morning I had less inclination to write. I 
 read over and corrected what I had composed. This warmed 
 tip my fancy, and in the afternoon I executed several chap- 
 ters of my second volume. 
 
 Each day, although I had not in the least lost my desire 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 169 
 
 of writing, I wrote slower. It was necessarj'- for me each 
 day to read my work from, the beginning, before I felt the 
 existence of the characters sufficiently real to invent their 
 actions. Nevertheless, on the morning of the seventh day, 
 the second and last volume was finished. 
 
 My book was a rapid sketch of the development of the 
 poetic character. My hero was a youth whose mind was 
 ever combating with his situation. Gifted with a highly 
 poetic temperament, it was the office of his education to 
 counteract all its ennobling tendencies. I traced the first 
 indication of his predisposition, the growing consciousness 
 of his powers, his reveries, his loneliness, his doubts, his 
 moody misery, his ignorance of his art, his failures, his 
 despair. I painted his agonising and inefiectual habits to 
 exist like those around him. I poured forth my own pas- 
 sion, when I described the fervour of his love. 
 
 All this was serious enough, and the most singular thing 
 is, that, all this time it never struck me that I was deli- 
 neating my own character. But now comes the curious 
 part. In depicting the scenes of society in which my hero 
 was forced to move, I suddenly dashed, not only into slash- 
 ing satire, but even into malignant personality. All the 
 bitterness of my heart, occasioned by my wretched exist- 
 ence among their false circles, found its full vent. Never 
 was anythiiag so imprudent. Everybody figured, and all 
 parties and opinions alike suffered. The same hand that 
 immortalised the cream cheeses of poor Count de Moltke 
 now avenged his wrongs. 
 
 For the work itself, it was altogether a most crude per- 
 formance, teeming with innumerable faults. It was entirely 
 deficient in art. The principal character, although forcibly 
 conceived, for it was founded on truth, was not sufficiently 
 developed. Of course the others were much less so. The 
 incidents were unnatural, the serious characters exaggera- 
 tions, the comic ones caricatures; the wit was too often 
 flippant, the philosophy too often forced; yet the vigour 
 
I70 COynrARINI FLE^fING: 
 
 vas remarkable, the licence of an uncurbed imagination not 
 without charms and on, the whole, there breathed a fresh- 
 ness which is rarely found, and which, perhaps, with all 
 my art and knowledge, I may never again afford : and, in- 
 deed, when I recall the heat with which this Uttle work was 
 written, I am convinced that, with all its errors, the spark 
 of true, creation animated its fiery page. 
 
 Such is the history of * Manstein,* a work which exercised 
 a strange influence on my destiny. 
 
 CHAPTER Xm. 
 
 I PERSONALLY entrusted my novel to the same bookseller to 
 whom I liad anonymously submitted my tragedy. He re- 
 quired no persuasion to have the honour of introducing it 
 to the world ; and, had he hesitated, I would myself have 
 ^villingly undertaken the charge, for I was resolved to 
 undei^o the ordeal. I swore him to the closest secresy, 
 and, as mystery is part of the craft, I had confidence that 
 his interest would prompt him to maintain his honour. 
 
 All now being finished, I suddenly and naturally re- 
 assumed my obvious and usual character. The pouring 
 forth had relieved my mind, and the strong feelings that 
 had prompted it having subsided, I felt a little of the 
 lassitude which succeeds exertion. That reaction to which 
 ardent and inexperienced minds are subject, now also 
 occurred. I lost my confidence in my effusion. It seemed 
 impossible that anything I had written could succeed, and 
 £ felt that nothing but decided success could justify a per. 
 son in my position to be an author. I half detennined tc 
 recall the rash deposit, but a mixture of false shame and 
 lingering hope that I yet might be happily mistaken, dis* 
 suaded me. I resolved to think no more of it. It was an 
 inconsiderate venture, but secresy would preserve me from 
 public shame, and, as for my private mortification, I should 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 171 
 
 at least derive from failure a beneficial conviction of my 
 literary incompetency, and increased energy to follow np 
 the path which fortune seemed to destine for my pursuit. 
 Official circumstances occun^ed also at this moment, whicl. 
 imperatively demanded all my attention, and which, in- 
 deed, interested my feelings in no ordinary degree. 
 
 The throne of my royal master had been guaranteed to 
 him by those famous treaties which, at the breaking up of 
 that brilliant vision, the French empire, had been vainly 
 considered by the great European powers as insuring the 
 permanent settlement of Europe. A change of dynasty 
 had placed the king in a delicate position ; but, by his sage 
 counsels and discreet conduct, the last burst of the revo- 
 lutionary storm passed over without striking his diadem. 
 One of the most distinguished instances of the ministerial 
 dexterity of my father was the discovery of a latent inclina- 
 tion in certain of our powerful allies to favour the interests 
 of the abdicated dynasty, and ultimately to dispute the 
 succession, which, at the moment, distracted by the multi- 
 plicity of important and engrossing interests, they deemed 
 themselves too hastily to have recognised. In this con- 
 juncture, an appeal to arms on our part was idle, and all to 
 which we could trust in bringing about a satisfactory 
 adjustment of this parajnount question was diplomatic 
 ingenuity. Eor more than three years secret but active 
 negotiations liad been on foot to attain our end, and cir- 
 cumstances had now occurred which induced us to believe 
 that, by certain combinations, the result might be realised. 
 
 I took a gi'eat interest in these negotiations, and was the 
 only person out of the cabinet to whom they were confided. 
 The situation of the prince royal, himself a very accom- 
 plished personage, but whose unjust unpopularity offered 
 no obstacle to the views of his enemies, extremely com- 
 manded my sympathy ; the secresy, importance, and refined 
 difficulty of the transactions called forth all the play of my 
 invention. Although an affiair which, according to etiquette, 
 
172 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 should have found its place in the Foreign-office, my father, 
 on his promotion, did not think it fitting to transfer a 
 business of so delicate a nature to another functionary, and 
 he contrived to correspond upon it with foreign courts in 
 his character of first minister. As his secretary I had been 
 privy to all the details, and I continued therefore to assist 
 him in the subsequent proceedings. 
 
 My father and myself materially difiered as to the course 
 expedient to be pursued. He flattered himself that every- 
 thing might be brought about by negotiation, in which he 
 was, indeed, unrivalled ; and he often expatiated to me on 
 the evident impossibility of the king having recourse to 
 any other measures. For myself, when I remembered the 
 time that had already passed without in any way advancing 
 our desires, and believed, which I did firmly, that the con- 
 duct of the great Continental Powers in this comparatively 
 unimportant affair, was only an indication of their resolution 
 to promote the system on which they had based all the 
 European relations, I myself could not refrain from ex. 
 pressing a wish to adopt a very different and far more 
 earnest conduct. 
 
 In this state of affairs I was one day desired by my 
 father to attend him at a secret conference with the ambas- 
 sadors of the great Powers. My father flattered himself 
 that he might this day obtain his long-desired end ; and so 
 interested was the monarch in the progress, as well as the 
 result of our consultations, that he resolved to be present 
 himself, although incognito. 
 
 The scene of the conference was the same palace whither 
 my father had been summoned to receive the notification of 
 his appointment as first minister. I can well recall the 
 feelings with which, on the morning of the conference, I 
 repaired to the palace with my father. We were muffled 
 up in our pehsses, for the air was very sharp, but the sun 
 was not without influence, and shone with great brilliancy. 
 There are times when I am influenced by a species of what 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 173 
 
 I maj fcerm nappy audacity, for it is a mixture of reckless- 
 ness and self-confidence wJiich has a very felicitous effect 
 upon the animal spirits. At these moments I never calculate 
 consecpences, yet everything seems to go right. I feel in 
 good fortune; the ludicrous side of everything occurs to 
 me ; I thing of nothing but grotesque images ; I astonish 
 people by bursting into laughter, apparently without a 
 cause. AVhatever is submitted to me I turn into ridicule. 
 I slu'ug my shoulders, and speak epigrams. 
 
 I was in one of those moods on that day. My father 
 could not comprehend me. He was very serious ; but, 
 instead of sympathising with his grave hopes and dull fears, 
 1 did nothing but ridicule their Excellencies whom we were 
 going to meet, and perform to him an imaginary conference, 
 in which he also figiu-ed. 
 
 We aiTived at the palace. I became a little sobered. 
 My father went to the king. I entered a hall, where the 
 conference was to take place. It was a fine room, hung 
 with trophies, and principally lighted by a large Gothic 
 window. At the farther end near the fire, and portioned 
 olT by an Indian screen, was a round table, covered with 
 green cloth, and surrounded by seats. The Austrian mi- 
 nister arrived. I walked up and down the hall with him 
 for some minutes, ridiculing diplomacy. He was one of 
 those persons who believe you have a direct object in every- 
 thing you say, and my contradictory opinions upon all 
 subjects were to him a fruitful source of puzzling medita- 
 tion. He thought that I was one whose words ought to be 
 marked, and I believe that my nonsense has often occasioned 
 hira a sleepless night. The other ministers soon assembled, 
 and in a few minutes a small door opened at the top of the 
 hall, and the king and my father appeai^ed. We bowed, and 
 took our seats. I, being the secretary, seated myself at the 
 desk to take notes for the drawing up of the protocols. 
 
 We believed that the original idea of considering the 
 great treaties as a guarantee to the individual only, and 
 
174 CONTARIXI FLEMIXG : 
 
 not to liis successors, originated at Yienna. Indeed, it was 
 the earlj acquaintance of my father -with the Austrian 
 minister that first assisted him in ascertaining this inten- 
 tion. We believed that the Russian Cabinet had heartily- 
 entered into this new reading ; that Prussia supported it 
 only in deference to the Court of St. Petersburg ; and that 
 France was scarcely reconciled to the proposed derange- 
 ment by the impression that it materially assisted those 
 pnnciples of government, by a recurrence to which the 
 Cabinet of Versailles then began to be convinced they 
 would alone maintain themselves. 
 
 Such had been our usual view of the state of opinion 
 ^vith respect to this question. It had been the object of my 
 father to induce the French Com*t to join with that of 
 St. James' in a strong demonstration in favour of the pi*e- 
 sent system, and to indicate, in the event of that demons- 
 tration being fruitless, the possibility of their entering with 
 the king into a tripartite treaty framed in pursuance of tlie 
 spirit of the invaHdated one. He tmsted that to-day this 
 demonstration might be made. 
 
 We entered into business. The object of our opponents 
 was to deny that the tendency of certain acts of which we 
 complaiaed was inimical to the present dynasty, but to 
 refrain from proving their sincerity by assenting to a new 
 guarantee, on the plea that it was unnecessary, since the 
 treaties must express all that was intended. Hours were 
 wasted in multipHed discussions as to the meaning of par- 
 ticular clauses in particular treaties, and as to precedents 
 to justify particular acts. Hours were wasted, for we did 
 not advance. At length my father recurred to the spirit, 
 rather than the letter of the affair ; and in urging the 
 necessity, for the peace of Europe and otlier high causes, 
 that this affair should be settled without delay, he gave an 
 excellent opportunity for the friends he had anticipated to 
 come forward. They spoke, indeed, but in a very vague 
 and unsatisfactory manner. I marked the lip of the Aus- 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. i73 
 
 trian minister curl, as if in derision, and the Russian 
 arranged his papers as if all were now finished. 
 
 I knew my father well enough by this time to be con- 
 vinced that, in spite of his apparently unaltered mien, he 
 was bitterly disappointed and annoyed. The king looked 
 gloomy. There was a perfect silence. It was so awkward 
 that the Austrian minister inquired of me the date of a 
 particular treaty, merely to break the dead pause. I did 
 not immediately answer him. 
 
 The whole morning my fancy had been busied with gro- 
 tesque images. I had never been a moment impressed 
 with the gravity of the proceedings. The presence of the 
 king alone prevented me from constant raillery. When I 
 recollected the exact nature of the business on which we 
 were assembled, and then called to mind the characters 
 who took part in tho discussion, I could scarcely refrain 
 from laughter. * Yoltaire would soon settle this,' I thought, 
 ' and send Messieurs the Austrian, and the Russian, and 
 the Prussian, with their moustaches, and hussar jackets, and 
 furs, to their own country. What business have they to 
 interfere with ours ? ' I was strongly impressed with tho 
 tyrannical injustice and wicked folly of the whole transac- 
 tion. The great diplomatists appeared to me so many vnld 
 beasts ready to devour our innocent lamb of a sovereign, 
 parleying only from jealousy who should first attack him. 
 
 The Austrian minister repeated his question as to the 
 treaty, ' It matters not,' I replied; 'let us now proceed to 
 business.' He looked a Httle surprised. ' Gentlemen,' I 
 continued, ' you must be quite aware that this is the last 
 conference his majesty can permit us to hold upon a subject 
 which ought never to have been discussed. The case is 
 simple, and demands but little consideration. If tho guar- 
 antee we justly require be not granted, his majesty must 
 have recourse to a popular appeal. We have no fear about 
 the result. We are prepared for it. His majesty will 
 acquire a new, and if possible, a stronger title to his crown* 
 
1 76 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 and see what you will occasion by your squeamisliness to 
 authenticate the right of a sovereign, who, although not the 
 offspring of a dynasty, acquired his throne not by the voice 
 of the people, and has been constantly recognised by all 
 your courts ; you will be the direct cause of a decided de- 
 mocratic demonstration in the election of a king by the 
 people alone. For us, the result has no terrors. Your 
 Excellencies are the best judges, whether your royal masters 
 possess any territories in our vicinity which may be in- 
 oculated -^rith our dangerous example.' 
 
 I was astounded by my audacity. Not till I had ceased 
 speaking had I been aware of what I had dared to do. 
 Once I shot a rapid glance at my father. His eyes were 
 fixed on the ground, and I thought he looked a little pale. 
 As I withdrew my glance, I caught the king's fiery eye, but 
 its expression did not discourage me. 
 
 It is difficult to convey an idea of the success of my 
 boldness. It could not enter the imagination of the diplo- 
 matists that any one could dare to speak, and particularly 
 under such circumstances, without instructions and without 
 authority. They looked upon me only as the mouthpiece of 
 the royal intentions. They were alarmed at our great, and 
 unwonted, and unexpected resolution ; at the extreme 
 danger and invisible results of our purposes. The Enghsh 
 and French ministers, who watched every turn, made a vehe- 
 ment representation in our favour, and the conference broke 
 up with an expression of irresolution and surprise in the 
 countenances of our antagonists, quite unusual with them, 
 and which promised the speedy attainment of the satisfac- 
 tory arrangement which shortly afterwards took place. 
 
 The conference broke up, my father retired with the 
 king, and desu-ed me to wait for him in the hall. I was 
 alone. I was excited. I felt the triumph of success. 1 
 felt that I had done a great action. I felt all my energies. 
 I walked up and down the haU in a frenzy of ambition, and 
 I thirsted for action. There seemed to me no achievement 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 177 
 
 of wliich. I was not capable, and of which I was not am- 
 bitious. In imagination I shook thrones and founded 
 empires. I felt myself a being born to breathe in an atmos- 
 phere of revolution. 
 
 My father came not. Time wore away, and the day died. 
 It was one of those stem, sublime sunsets, which is almost 
 the only appearance in the north in which natui'e enchanted 
 me. I stood at the window, gazing on the burnished 
 masses that for a moment were suspended in their fleeting 
 and capricious beauty on the far horizon. I turned aside 
 and looked at the rich trees suffused with the crimson light, 
 and ever and anon irradiated by the dying shoots of a 
 golden ray. The deer were stealing home to their bowers, 
 and I watched them till their glancing forms gradually lost 
 their lustre in the declining twilight. The glory had now 
 departed, and all grew dim. A solitary star alone was 
 shining in the grey sky, a bright and solitary star. 
 
 And as I gazed upon the sunset, and the star, and the 
 dim beauties of the coming eve, my mind grew calm, and 
 all the bravery of my late reverie passed away. And I felt 
 indeed a disgust for all the worldliness on which I had 
 been late pondering. And there arose in my mind a desire 
 to create things beautiful as that golden sun and that 
 "•littering star. 
 
 I heard my name. The hall was now darkened. In the 
 distance stood my father. I joined him. He j.]?iced his 
 arm affectionately in mine, and said to mo, *My son, you 
 will be Prime Minister of . . . . ; perhaps something 
 greater.* 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 As we drove home, everything seemed changed since the 
 morning. My father was in high spirits ; for him, even 
 elated : I, on the contrary, was silent and thoughtful. Thij 
 
 n 
 
?7" CONTARIKI FLEMING: 
 
 evening tliere was a ball at the palace, whicli, althougli 
 little inclined, I felt obliged to attend. 
 
 I arrived late : the king was surrounded by a brilliant 
 circle, and conversing with his usual felicitous afTability. T 
 would have withdrawn when I bad made my obeisance, but 
 his majesty advanced a step and immediately addressed me. 
 He conversed with me for some time. Few men possess a 
 more captivating address than this sovereign. It was 
 difficult at all times not to feel charmed, and now I was 
 conscious that this mark of his favour recognised no ordinary 
 claims to his confidence. I was the object of admiring envy. 
 That night there were few in those saloons, crowded wdtli 
 the flower of the land, who did not covet my position. I 
 alone was insensible to it. A vision of high mountains 
 and deep blue lakes mingled with all the artificial splendour 
 that dazzled around. I longed to roam amid the solitude 
 of nature, and disburden a mind teeming with creative 
 sympathy. 
 
 I drew near a group which the pretty Baroness Entrel 
 was addressing with more than her usual animation. When 
 she caught my eye, she beckoned me to join her, and said, 
 * O ! Count Contarini, have you read " Manstein ?" ' 
 
 * " Manstein," ' I said in a careless tone. * What is it ? ' 
 
 * Oh ! you must get it directly. The oddest book that 
 ever was written. We are all in it.* 
 
 * I hope not.' 
 
 * Oh, yes ! all of us. I have not had time to make out 
 the characters, I read it so quickly. My man only sent it 
 to me this morning. I must get a key. Now, you who are 
 so clever, make me one.' 
 
 * I will look at it, if you really recommend me.' 
 
 * You must look at it. It is the oddest book that was 
 ever written. Immensely clever, I assure you. I cannot 
 exactly make it out.* 
 
 * This is certainly much in its favour. The obscure, as 
 you kcow, is a principle ingredient of the sublime.' 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 179 
 
 ' How odd you aro ! but really now, Count Contarini, 
 get "Manstein." Every one must read it. As for your 
 illustrious principal, Baron de Bragnaes, he is really hit off 
 to the life.' 
 
 * Indeed,' I said, with concealed consternation. 
 
 ' Oh ! no one can mistake it. I thought I should have 
 died with laughing. But we are all there. I am sure I 
 know the author.' 
 
 ' Who is it ? who is it ? ' eagerly inqcdred the group. 
 
 * I do not Jcnoiv, mind,' observed the Baroness. ' It is a 
 conjecture, merely a conjecture. But I always find out 
 everybody.' 
 
 ' Oh ! that you do,' said the group. 
 
 * Yes, I find them out by the style.' 
 
 * How clever you are ! ' exclaimed the group ; * but who 
 is it?' 
 
 ' Oh, I shall not betray him ! Only I am quite convinced 
 I know who it is.' 
 
 * Pray, pray tell us,' entreated the group. 
 
 * Ton need not look around, Matilda, ho is not here. A 
 friend of yours, Contarini. I thought that young Mosk- 
 offslvy was in a great hurry to run off to St. Petersburg. 
 And he has left us a legacy. We are all in it, I assure 
 you,' she exclaimed to the one nearest, in an under but 
 decisive tone. 
 
 I breathed again. * Young Moskoffsky ! To be sure it 
 is,' I observed with an air of thoughtful conviction. 'With- 
 out reading a line, I have no doubt of it. I suspected 
 that he meditated something. I must get "Manstein'* 
 directly, if it be by young Moskoffsky. Anything that 
 young Moskoffsky writes must be worth reading. What an 
 excellent letter he writes! You are my oracle. Baroness 
 Engel ; I have no doubt of your discrimination ; but I 
 suspect that a certain correspondence with a brilliant yoimg 
 Muscovite has assisted you in your discovery.' 
 
1 8o COXTA RIXI FLEMING : 
 
 * Be contented,' rejoined the Baroness, with a smite of 
 affected mystery and pique, ' that there is one who can en- 
 lighten you, and be not curions as to the source. Ah, there 
 is Countess Norberg ! how well she looks to-night ! 
 
 I walked away to salute Christiana. As I moved through 
 the elegant crowd, my nervous ear constantly caught half 
 phrases, which often made me linger: 'Very satirical; 
 very odd ; very personal ; very odd, indeed ; what can it 
 all be about ? Do you know ? No, I do not ; do you ? 
 Baroness Engel ; all in it ; must get it ; very witty ; very 
 flippant. Who can it be ? Young Moskoffsky. Read it 
 at once without stopping ; never read anything so odd ; ran 
 off to St. Petersburg ; always thought him very clever. 
 Who can the Duke of Twaddle mean ? Ah ! to be sure ; I 
 wonder it did not occur to me.' 
 
 I joined Christiana. I waltzed with her. I was on the 
 point, once or twice, of asking her if she had read * Man- 
 stein,' but did not dare. After the dance we walked away. 
 Mademoiselle de Moltke, who, although young, was not 
 charming, but intellectual, and who affected to think me 
 a great genius because I had pasquinaded her father, 
 stopped me. 
 
 * My dear Countess, how do you do ? You look most 
 delightfully to-night. Count Contarini, have you read 
 "Manstein?" Yon never read anything ! How can you 
 say so ! but you always say such things. You must read 
 " Manstein." Everybody is reading it. It is full of imagi- 
 nation, and very personal ; very personal indeed. Baroness 
 Engel says we are all in it. You are there. You are 
 Horace de Beaufort, who thinks everything, and every- 
 body a bore ; exactly like you. Count ; what I have always 
 said of you. Adieu ! Mind you get " Manstein," and 
 then come and talk it over with me. Now do, that's a 
 good creature ! ' And this talkative Titania tripped away. 
 
 * You are wearied, Christiana, and these rooms are in- 
 sufferably hot. You had better sit down.' 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. i8i 
 
 We seated ourselves in a retired part of the room. I 
 observed an unusual smile upon the face of Christiana. 
 Suddenly she said, with a slight flush, and not without 
 emotion, * I shall not betray you, Contarini, but 1 am con- 
 vinced that you are the author of "Manstein." ' 
 
 I was agitated ; I could not immediately speak. I was 
 ever different to Christiana from what I was to other 
 people. I could not feign to her. I could not dissemble. 
 My heart always opened to her ; and it seemed to me almost 
 blasphemy to address her in any other language than truth. 
 
 * You know me better than all others, Christiana. In- 
 deed, you alone know mc. But I would sooner hear that 
 any one was considered the author of " Manstein " than 
 myself.' 
 
 * You need not fear that I shall be indiscreet ; but rest 
 assured it cannot long be a secret.' 
 
 ' Indeed,' I said. ' Why not ? ' 
 
 * Oh ! Contarini, it is too like.* 
 ' Like whom ? ' 
 
 * Nay ! you affect ignorance.' 
 
 * Upon my honour, Christiana, I do not. Have the kind- 
 ness to beHeve that there is at least one person in the 
 world to whom I am not affected. If you mean that " Man- 
 stein " is a picture of myself, I can assure you solemnly 
 that I never less thought of myself than when I drew it. 
 Z thought it was an ideal character.' 
 
 * It is that very circumstance that occasions the resem- 
 blance ; for you, Contarini, whatever you may appear in 
 tJiis room, you are an ideal character.' 
 
 * You have read it ? ' I asked. 
 
 * I have read it,' she answered, seriously. 
 
 * And you do not admire it ? I feel you do not. Nay ! 
 conceal nothing from me, Christiana, I can bear truth.' 
 
 * I admire its genius, Contarini. I wish that I could 
 speak with equal approbation of its judgment. It will, I 
 fear, make jeu many enemies.* 
 
183 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 *Tou astonish me, Christiana. I do not caro for 
 enemies. I care for nobody, but for yon. But vihy 
 shonld it make me enemies ? ' 
 
 * I hope I am mistaken. It is very possible I am mis- 
 taken. I know not why I talk upon snch subjects. It is 
 foolish, it is impertinent ; but the deep interest I have 
 always taken in you, Contarini, occasions this conversation, 
 and must excuse it.' 
 
 ' Dear Christiana, how good, how very good you are ! ' 
 ' And all these people whom you have ridiculed, surely, 
 
 Contarini, you have enough already who envy you, surely, 
 
 Contarini, it was most imprudent.' 
 
 * People ridiculed ! I never meant to ridicule any person 
 in particular. I wrote with rapidity. I wrote of what 
 I had seen and what I felt. There is nothing but truth 
 in it.' 
 
 ' You arc not in a position, Contarini, to speak truth.* 
 ' Then I must bo in a miserable position, Christiana.' 
 
 * You are what you are, Contarini. All must admire }'ou. 
 You are in a very envied, I will hope a very enviable, 
 position.' 
 
 * Alas ! Christiana, I am the most miserable fellow that 
 breathes upon this broad earth.' 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 ' Dearest Christiana,' I continued, * I speak to jon as I 
 would speak to no other person. Think not that I am one 
 of those who deem it interesting to be considered unhappy. 
 Such trifling I despise. "What I say to you I would not 
 confess to another human being. Among these people my 
 vanity would be injured to be considered miserable. But 
 I am unhappy, really unhappy, most desolately wretched. 
 Enviable position ! But an hour since I was meditating 
 how I could extricate myself from it ! Alas ! Christiana, 
 I cannot ask you for counsel, for I know not what I desire, 
 what I could wish ; but I feel, each hour I feel more keenly, 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 1S3 
 
 and never more keenly than wlien I am with yon, that I 
 was not made for this life, nor this life for me.' 
 
 * I cannot advise you, Contarini. What can I advise ? 
 But I am unhappy to find that you are. I grieve deeply 
 that one, apparently with all that can make him happy, 
 should still miss felicity. You are yet very young, Con- 
 tarini, and I cannot but beheve that you will still attain 
 all you desire, and all that you deserve.' 
 
 ' I desire nothing. I know not what I want. All I 
 know is that what I possess I abhor.' 
 
 * Ah ! Contarini, beware of your imagination.' 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 The storm, that had been apprehended by the prescient 
 affection of Christiana, surely burst. I do not conceive- 
 that my publisher betrayed me. I believe that internal 
 evidence settled the affair. In a fortnight it was acknow- 
 ledged by all that I was the author of ' Manstein,' and al?. 
 were surprised that this authorship could, for a moment, 
 have been a question. I can give no idea of the outcry. 
 ]<]verybody was in a passion, or affected to be painfally 
 sensitive of their neighbours' wrongs. The very per- 
 sonality was ludicrously exaggerated. Everybody took a 
 delight in detecting the originals of my portraits. Various 
 keys Avero handed about, all different ; and not content 
 with recognising the very few decided sketches from life 
 which there really were, and which were sufficiently 
 obvious and not very malignant, they mischievously 
 insisted that not a human shadow glided over my pages 
 which might not be traced to its substance, and pro- 
 tested that the Austrian minister was the model of an old 
 woman. 
 
 Those who were ridiculed insisted that the ridicule called 
 
i84 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 in qnestioii the very first principles of society. They talked 
 of confidence violated, which never had been shared ; and 
 faith broken which never had been pledged. Never was so 
 much nonsense talked abont nothing since the days of the 
 schoolmen. But nonsense, when earnest, is impressive, 
 and sometimes takes you in. If you are in a hurry, you 
 occasionally mistake it for sense. All the people who had 
 read ' Manstein,' and been very much amused with it, began 
 to think they were quite wrong, and that it was a very im- 
 proper and wicked book, because this was daily reiterated 
 in their ears by half-fi-dozen bores, who had gained an im- 
 mortality which they did not deserve. Such conduct, it 
 was universally agreed, must not be encouraged. Wliere 
 would it end ? Everybody was alarmed. Men passed me 
 in the street without notice ; I received anonymous letters, 
 and even many of my intimates grew cold. As I abhor ex- 
 . jplanations, I said nothing ; and, although I was disgusted 
 with the folly of much that I had heard, I contradicted 
 nothing, however ridiculously false, and felt confident that, 
 in time, the world would discover that they had been gulled 
 into fighting the battle of a few individuals whom they 
 despised. I found even a savage delight in being an object, 
 for a moment, of pubhc astonishment, and fear, and indigna- 
 tion. But the afiair getting at last troublesome, I fought 
 young De Bragnaes with swords in the Deer Park, and, 
 having succeeded in pinking him, it was discovered that I 
 was more amiable. For the rest, out of my immediate circle, 
 the work had been from the first decidedly successful. 
 
 In all this not very agreeable afiair, I was delighted by 
 the conduct of Christiana. Although she seriously dis- 
 approved of what was really objectionable in ' Manstein,' 
 and although she was of so modest and quiet a temper that 
 she unwillingly exercised that influence in society to which 
 her rank and fortune and rare accomplishments entitled 
 her, she suddenly became my active aiid even violent 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 185 
 
 parfcisan, ridiculed the pretended wrongs and mock pro- 
 priety that echoed around her, and, declaring that the 
 author of ' Manstein ' had only been bold enough to print 
 that which all repeated, ralhed them on their hypocrisy. 
 Baroness Engel also was faithful, although a little jealous 
 of the zeal of Christiana ; and, between them, they laughed 
 do^Yn the cabal, and so entirely turned the public feeling 
 that, in less than a month, it was universally agreed that 
 • Manstein ' was a most delightful book, and the satire, as 
 thoy daintily phrased it, * perfectly allowable.' 
 
 Amid all this tumult my father was silent. From no 
 look, from no expression of his, could I gain a hint either 
 of his approval or his disapprobation. I could not ascertain 
 even if he had seen the book. The Countess Fleming of 
 course read it immediately, and had not the slightest con- 
 ception of what it was about. When she heard it was by 
 Eie, she read it again, and was still more puzzled, but told 
 me she was delighted. When the uproar took place, instead 
 of repeating, which she often did, all the opinions she had 
 caught, she became quite silent, and the volumes disappeared 
 from her table. The storm blew over, and no bolt had 
 shivered me, and the volumes crept forth from their myste- 
 rious retirement. 
 
 About two months after the publication of * Manstein ' 
 appeared a new number of the great critical journal of the 
 Korth of Europe. One of the works reviewed was my 
 notorious production. I tore open the leaves with a blended 
 feeling of desire and fear, which I can yet remember. I 
 felt prepared for the worst. I felt that such grave censors, 
 however impossible it was to deny the decided genius of 
 the work, and however eager they might be to hail the 
 advent of an original mind, I felt that it was but reasonable 
 and just, that they should disapprove the temper of the 
 less elevated portions, and somewhat dispute the moral 
 tendency of the more exalted. 
 
iS6 CONTARINI FLEMIXG: 
 
 With what horror, with whp.t blank despair, with what 
 enpreme, appalling astonishment, did I find myself, for the 
 first time in my life, a subject of the most reckless, the 
 most mah'gnant, and the most adroit ridicule. I was sacri- 
 ficed, I was scalped. They scarcely condescended to notico 
 my dreadful satire ; except to remark, in passing, that, by- 
 the bye, I appeared to be as ill-tempered as I was imbecile. 
 But all my eloquence, and all my fancy, and all the strong 
 expression of my secret feelings ! these ushers of the court 
 of Apollo fairly laughed me off Parnassus, and held me up 
 to pubHc scorn, as exhibiting a lamentable instance of 
 mingled pretension and weakness, and the most ludicrous 
 specimen of literary delusion that it had ever been their 
 unhappy office to castigate, and, as they hoped, to cure. 
 
 The criticism fell from my hand. A film floated over 
 my vision ; my knees trembled. I felt that sickness of 
 heart, that we experience in our first serious scrape. I 
 was ridiculous. It was time to die. 
 
 What did it signify ? Wliat was authorship to me ? What 
 did I care for their flimsy fame ; I, who, not yet of age, was 
 an important functionary of the state, and who might look 
 to its highest confidence and honours. It was really too 
 ludicrous. I tried to laugh. I did smile very bitterly. The 
 insolence of these fellows ! Wliy ! if I could not write, 
 Burely I was not a fool. I had done something. Nobody 
 thought me a fool. On the contrary, everybody thought 
 me a rather extraordinary person. What would they think 
 now ? I felt a qualm. 
 
 I bui'ied my face in my hands ; I summoned my thoughts 
 to their last struggle ; I penetrated into my very bouI ; and 
 I felt the conviction, that literaiy creation was necessary to 
 my existence, and that for it I was foi-med. And all the 
 beautiful and dazzling forms that had figured in my youth- 
 ful visions, rose up before me, crowned monarchs, and 
 radiant heroes, and women brighter than day ; but their 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 187- 
 
 lookg were mournftil, and tliey extended tlieir arms with 
 deprecating anguish, as if to entreat me not to desert them. 
 And, in the magnificence of my emotions, and the beauty 
 of my visions, the worldly sarcasms that had lately so 
 shaken me seemed something of another and a lower exist- 
 ence ; and I marvelled that for a moment this thin tran- 
 sient cloud could have shadowed the sunshine of my soul. 
 And I arose, and lifted up my arm to heaven, and waved it 
 like a banner, and I swore by the Nature that I adored, 
 that, in spite of all opposition, I would be an author ; ay ! 
 the greatest of authors ; and that far climes and distant ages 
 should respond to the magic of my sympathetic page. 
 
 The agony was passed. I mused in calmness over the 
 plans that I should pursue. I determined to ride down to 
 my father's castle, and there mature them in solitude. 
 Haunt of my early boyhood, fragrant bower of Egeria, 
 •sweet spot where I first scented the bud of my spring-like 
 fancy, willingly would I linger in thy green retreats, no 
 more to be wandered over by one who now feels that he 
 was ungrateful to thy beauty ! 
 
 Now that I had resolved at all costs to quit my country, 
 and to rescue myself from the fatal society in which I was 
 placed, my impartial intelligence, no longer swayed by the 
 conscious impossibility of emancipation, keenly examined 
 and ascertained the precise nature and condition of my 
 character. I perceived myself a being educated in syste- 
 matic prejudice. I observed that I was the slave of custom, 
 and never viewed any incident in relation to man in gene- 
 ral, but only with reference to the particular and limited 
 class of society of which I was a member. I recognised 
 myself as selfish and afiected. I was entirely ignorant of 
 the principles of genuine morality, and I deeply felt that 
 there was a total want of nature in everything connected 
 with me. I had been educated without any regard to my 
 particular or to my general nature ; I had nothing to assist 
 
1 88 COXTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 me in my knowledge of myself, and nothing to guide me in 
 my conduct to others. The consequence of my unphiloso- 
 phical education was my utter wretchedness. 
 
 I determined to re-educate myself. Conceiving myself a 
 poet, I resolved to pursue a course which should develop 
 and perfect my poetic power ; and, never forgetting that I 
 was a man, I was equally earnest, in a study of human 
 nature, to discover a code of laws which should regulate 
 my intercourse with my fellow-creatures. For both these 
 subhme purposes it was necessary that I should form a 
 comprehensive acquaintance with nature in all its varieties 
 and conditions ; and I resolved therefore to travel. I in- 
 tended to detail all these feelings to my father, to conceal 
 nothing from him, and request his approbation and assist- 
 ance. In the event of his opposition, I should depart with- 
 out his sanction, for to depart I was resolved. 
 
 I remained a week at the castle musing over these pro-, 
 jects, aud entirely neglecting my duties, in the fulfilment 
 of which, ever since the publication of *Manstein,' I had 
 been very remiss. Suddenly I received a summons from 
 my father to repair to him without a moment's delay. 
 
 I hurried up to town, and hastened to his office. He 
 was not there, but expecting me at home. I found him 
 busied with his private secretary, and apparently very much 
 engaged. He dismissed his secretary immediately, and 
 then said, ' Contarini, they are rather troublesome in Nor- 
 way. I leave town instantly for Bergen with the king. I 
 regret it, because we shall not see each other for some little 
 time. His majesty has had the goodness, Contarini, to 
 appoint you Secretary of Legation at the Court of London. 
 Your appointment takes place at once, but I have obtained 
 you leave of absence for a year. You will spend this at- 
 tached to the Legation at Paris. I wish you to be well ac- 
 quainted with the French people before you join their 
 neighbours. In France and England you will see two great 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 189 
 
 practical nations. It will do you good. I am sorry that I 
 ain so deeply engaged now. My diasseiir, Lausanne, will 
 ti'Evel with you. He is the best travelling servant in the 
 world. He served me when I was your age. He is one of 
 the few people in whom I have unlimited confidence. Ho 
 is not only clever, but he is judicious. You will write to 
 me as often as you can. Strelamb,' and here he rang the 
 bell, ' Strelamb has prepared all necessary letters and bills 
 for you.' Here the functionary entered. * Mr. Strelamb,* 
 said my father, ' while you explain those papers to Count 
 Contarini, I will write to the Duke of Montfort.' 
 
 I did not listen to the private secretary, I was so asto- 
 nislied. My father, in two minutes, had finished his letter. 
 ' This may be useful to you, Contarini. It is to an old 
 friend, and a powerful man. I would not lose time about 
 your departure, Contarini. Mr. Strelamb, is there no 
 answer from Baron Engel ? ' 
 
 * My lord, the carriage waits,' announced a servant. 
 
 ' I must go. Adieu ! Contarini. Write when you arrive 
 at Paris. Mr. Strelamb, see Baron Engel to-night, and 
 send me a courier with his answer. Adieu ! Contarini.' 
 
 He extended me his hand. I touched it slightly. I 
 never spoke. I was thunderstruck. 
 
 Suddenly I started up and rang the bell. ' Send mo 
 Lausanne ! ' I told the servant. 
 
 Lausanne appeared. Had my astonishment not been 
 excited by a greater cause, I might have felt considerable 
 surprise at my father delegating to me his confidential 
 domestic. Lausanne was a Swiss, about my father's age, 
 with a frame of iron, and all the virtues of his mountains. 
 Ho was, I believe, the only person in whom my father 
 placed implicit trust. But I thought not of this then. 
 '' Lausanne, I understand you are now in my service.* 
 
 He bowed. 
 
 ■* I have no doubt I shall find cause to confirm the con- 
 
1 90 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 fidence wliich 3'ou have enjoyed in our honse for more tban 
 twenty years. Is everything ready for my departure ? * 
 
 * I had no idea that your Excellency had any immediate 
 intention to depart.* 
 
 * I should like to be off to-night, good Lausanne. Ay ! 
 this very hour. When can I go ? ' 
 
 * Your Excellency's wardrobe must be prepared. Your 
 Excellency has not given Carl any directions.* 
 
 * None. I do not mean to take him. I shall travel with 
 you only.* 
 
 ' Your Excellency's wardrobe ' 
 
 'May be sufficiently prepared in an hour, and Paris must 
 supply the rest. In a word, Lausanne, can I leave this 
 place by daybreak to-morrow ? Think only of what is 
 necessary. Show some of your old energy.' 
 
 ' Your Excellency may rest assured,' said Lausanne, after 
 some reflection, * that everything will be prepared by that 
 time.* 
 
 * It is well. Is the Countess at home ? ' 
 
 * The Countess quitted town yesterday on a visit to the 
 Countess de Norberg.' 
 
 ' The Countess de Norberg ! I should have seen her too. 
 Go, Lausanne, and be punctual. Carl will give you the 
 keys. The Countess de Norberg, Christiana ! Yes I I 
 should have seen her. Ah ! it is as well. I have no friends, 
 and my adieus are brief; let them not be bitter. Farewell 
 to the father that has no feeling ! And thou, too, Scan- 
 dinavia, stern soil in which I have too long lingered ; think 
 of me hereafter as of some exotic bird, which for a moment 
 lost its way in thy cold heaven, but now has regained its 
 course, and wings its flight to a more brilliant earth and a 
 brighter sky ! ' 
 
 EKD OF PAET THE SECOND. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 191 
 
 l^AET THE THTRT). 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 On the eighteenth day of August, one thousand eight 
 hundred and twenty-six, I praise the Ahnighty Giver of 
 all goodness, that, standing upon the height of Mount Jura, 
 I beheld the whole range of the High Alps, with Mont 
 Blanc in the centre, without a cloud ; a mighty spectacle 
 rarely beheld ; for, on otherwise cloudless days, these sub- 
 lime elevations are usually veiled. 
 
 I accepted this majestic vision as a good omen. It seemed 
 that nature received me in her fallest channs. I was for 
 some time so entranced that I did not observe the spreading 
 and shining scene which opened far beneath me. The 
 mountains, in ranges gradually diminishing-, terminated in 
 isolated masses, whose enormous forms, in deep shade, 
 beautifully contrasted with the glittering glaciers of the 
 higher peaks, and rose out of a plain covere'd with fair 
 towns and bright chateaux, embowered in woods of chestnut, 
 and vines festooning in orchards and cornfields. Through 
 the centre of the plain, a deep blue lake wound its As^ay, 
 which, viewed from the height of Jura, seemed like a 
 purple girdle carelessly thrown upon some imperial robe. 
 
 I had remained in Paris only a few da^^s, and, without 
 offering any explanation to our minister, or even signifying 
 my intention to Lausanne, had quitted that city with the 
 determination of reaching Venice without delay. Now that 
 it is probable I may never again cross the mountains, I 
 often regret that I neglected this opportunity of becomiug 
 
19^ COXTARIXI FLEMIXG: 
 
 more acquainted with the French people. Mj head was 
 then full of fantasies, and I looked upon the French as an 
 anti-poetical nation ; but I have since often regretted that 
 I omitted this occasion of hecomiag acquainted with a 
 race who exercise so powerful an influence over civilisation. 
 I had thought of Switzerland only as of a rude barrier 
 between me and the far object of my desires. The impression 
 that this extraordinary country made upon me was perhaps 
 increased by ray previous thoughts having so little brooded 
 over the idea of it. It was in Switzerland that I first felt 
 how the constant contemplation of subHme creation develops 
 the poetic power. It was here that I first began to study 
 nature. Those forests of black gigantic pines, rising out of 
 the deep snows ; those tall white cataracts, leaping like 
 headstrong youth into the world, and dashing from theii- 
 precipices, as if allured by the beautiful delusion of their 
 own rainbow mist ; those mighty clouds sailing beneath my 
 feet, or clinging to the bosoms of the dark green mountains, 
 or boiling up like a spell from the invisible and unfathom- 
 able depths; the fell avalanche, fleet as a spirit of evil, 
 teiTific when its sound suddenly breaks upon the almighty 
 silence, scarcely less temble when we gaze upon its crum- 
 bling and pallid frame, varied only by the presence of one 
 or two blasted firs ; the head of a mountain loosening from 
 its brother peak, rooting up, in the roar of its rapid rush, 
 a whole forest of pines, and covering the earth for miles 
 with elephantine masses ; the supernatural extent of land- 
 scape that opens to us new worlds ; the strong eagles, and 
 the strange wild birds that suddenly cross you in your path, 
 and stare, and shrieking fly; and all the soft sights of joy 
 and loveliness that mingle with these sublime and savage 
 spectacles, the rich pastures, and the numerous flocks, and 
 the golden bees, and the wild flowers, and the carved and 
 painted cottages, and the simple manners and the primeval 
 grace, wherever I moved I was in turn appalled or enchanted. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 193 
 
 but, whatever I beheld, new images ever sprang up in my 
 mind, and new feelings ever crowded on my fancy. 
 
 There is something magical in the mountain air. There 
 my heart is light, my spirits cheerful, everything is exhila- 
 rating ; there I am in every respect a different being from 
 Avhat I am in lowlands. I cannot even think ; I dissolve 
 into a delicious revei'ie, in which everything occurs to me 
 without effort. Whatever passes before me gives birth in 
 my mind to a new character, a new image, a new train of 
 fancies. I sing, I shout, I compose aloud, bat without 
 premeditation, without any attempt to guide my imagi- 
 nation by my reason. How often, after journeying along 
 the wild muletrack, how often, on a sunny day, have I 
 suddenly thrown myself upon the turf, revelled in my 
 existence, and then as hastily jumped up and raised the 
 wild birds with a wilder scream. I think that these in- 
 voluntary bursts must have been occasioned by the uncon- 
 Bcious influence of extreme health. As for myself, when I 
 succeed in faintly recalling the rapture which I have ex- 
 perienced in these solitary rambles, and muse over the flood 
 of fancy which then seemed to pour itself over my whole 
 being, and gush out of every feeling and every object, I 
 contrast, with mortification, those warm and pregnant hours 
 with this cold record of my maturer age. 
 
 I remember that, Avhen I first attempted to write, I had 
 a great desire to indulge in simile, and that I never could 
 succeed in gratifying my wish. This inability, more than 
 any other circumstance, convinced me that I was not a poet. 
 Even in ' Manstein,' which was written in a storm, and 
 without any reflection, there are, I believe, few images, and 
 those, probably, are all copied from books. That which 
 surprised and gratified me most, when roving about Switz- 
 erland, was the sudden development of the faculty of illus- 
 trating my thoughts and feelings which took place. Every 
 object that crossed me in some way associated itself wiUi 
 
 o 
 
194 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 my moral emotions. Not a mountain, or lake, or river, not 
 a tree, or flower, or bird, that did not blend with some 
 thought, or fancy, or passion, and become the lively per- 
 sonification of conceptions that lie sleeping in abstraction. 
 
 It is singular that, with all this, I never felt any desire 
 to write. I never thought of writing. I never thought of 
 the future, or of man, or fame. I was content to exist. I 
 began from this moment to suspect, what I have since learnt 
 firmly to believe, that the sense of existence is the greatest 
 happiness ; and that, deprived of every worldly advantage 
 which is supposed so necessary to our felicity, life, provided 
 a man be not immured in a dungeon, must nevertheless be 
 inexpressibly delightful. If, in striking the balance of 
 sensation, misery were found to predominate, no human 
 being would endure the curse of existence ; but, however 
 vast may be the wi'etchedness occasioned to us by the acci- 
 dents of life, the certain sum of happiness, which is always 
 supphed by our admirably- contrived being, ever supports 
 us under the burden. Those who are sufficiently interested 
 with my biography to proceed mth it, will find, as they 
 advance, that this is a subject on which I am qualified to 
 offer an opinion. 
 
 I returned from these glowing rambles to my head- 
 quarters, which was usually Geneva. I returned like the 
 bees, laden with treasure. I mused over all the beautiful 
 images that had occurred to me, and all the new characters 
 that had risen in my mind, and all the observations of Nature 
 which hereafter would perhaps permit me to delineate what 
 was beautiful. For, the moment that I mingled again with 
 men, I wished to influence them. But I had no immediate 
 or definite intention of appealing to their sympathies. Each 
 hour 1 was more conscious of the long apprenticeship that 
 was necessary in the cunning craft for which, as I con- 
 ceived, I possessed a predisposition. I thought of ' Manstein * 
 as of a picture painted by a madman in the dark; and^ 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 195 
 
 when I remembered that crude performance, and gazed 
 upon the beauty, and the harmony, and the fitting parts of 
 the great creations around me, my cheek has often burned, 
 even in solitude. 
 
 In these moments, rather of humility than despondence, 
 1 would fly for consolation to the blue waters of that beauti- 
 ful lake, whose shores have ever been the favourite haunt 
 of genius, the fair and gentle Leman. 
 
 Nor is there indeed in nature a sight more lovely than to 
 watch, at decline of day, the last embrace of the sun lin- 
 gering on the rosy glaciers of the White Mountain. Soon, 
 too soon, the great luminary dies ; the warm peaks subside 
 into purple and then die into a ghostly white ; but soon, ah ! 
 not too soon, the moon springs up from behind a mountain, 
 flings over the lake a stream of light, and the sharp glaciers 
 glitter hke silver. 
 
 I have often passed the whole night upon these enchanted 
 waters, contemplating their beautiful variety ; and, indeed, 
 if anything can console one for the absence of the moon and 
 stars, it would be to watch the lightning, on a dark night, 
 on this superb lake. It is incessant, and sometimes in four 
 or five different places at the same time. In the morning 
 Leman loses its ultramarine tint, and is covered with the 
 shadows of mountains and chateaux. 
 
 In mountain valleys it is beautiful to watch the efiect of 
 the rising and setting of the sun. The high peaks are first 
 illumined, the soft yellow light then tips the lower eleva- 
 tions, and the bright golden showers soon bathe the whole 
 valley, excepting a dark streak at the bottom, which is 
 often not visited by sunlight. The efiect of sunset is perhaps 
 still more lovely. The highest peaks are those which the 
 sun loves most. One by one the mountains, according to 
 their elevation, steal into darkness, and the rosy tint is offcen 
 sufi'used over the peaks and glaciers of Mont Blanc, while 
 the whole world below is enveloped in the darkest twilight. 
 
 o 2 
 
196 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 What is it tliat makes me dwell upon these scenes, 
 which, with all their loveHness, I have never again visited ? 
 Is it, indeed, the memory of their extreme beauty, or of the 
 happy hours they afforded me ; or is it because I am ap- 
 proaching a period of my life which I sometimes feel I shall 
 never have courage to delineate ? 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The thunder roared, the flashing hghtning revealed only 
 one universal mist, the wind tore up the pines by their 
 roots, and flung them down into the valley, the rain de- 
 scended in inundating gusts. 
 
 When once I had resolved to quit Geneva, my desire to 
 i*each Venice returned upon me in all its original force. I 
 had travelled to the foot of the Simplon without a moment's 
 delay, and now I had the mortification to be detained there 
 in a Avretchcd mountain village, intersected by a torrent 
 whose roar was deafening, and with large white clouds 
 sailing about the streets. 
 
 The storm had lasted three days ; no one had ever heard 
 of such a storm at this time of the year ; it was quite im- 
 possible to pass; it was quite impossible to say when it 
 would end, or what would happen. The poor people only 
 hoped that no evil was impending over the village of Brieg. 
 As for myself, when, day after day, I awoke only to find 
 the thunder more awful, the lightning more vivid, and the 
 mist more gloomy, I began to believe that my two angels 
 were combating on the height of Simplon, and that some 
 supernatural and perhaps beneficent power would willingly 
 prevent me from entering Italy. 
 
 I retired to bed, I flung my cloak upon a chair opposite 
 to a blazing wood fire, and I soon fell asleep. I di-eamt 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 197 
 
 that I was in the vast hall of a palace, and that it was fall 
 of reverend and bearded men in rich dresses. They were 
 seated at a conncil table, npon which their eyes were fixed, 
 and I, who had recently entered, stood aside. And snddenly 
 the President raised his head, and observed me, and beck- 
 oned to me with much dignity. And I advanced to him, 
 and he extended to me his hand, and said, with a gracious 
 smile, * You have been long expected.'' 
 
 The council broke up^ the members dispersed, and by his 
 desire I followed the President. And we entered another 
 chamber, which was smaller, but covered with pictures, 
 and on one side of the door was a portrait of Julius Caesar, 
 and on the other one of myself. And my guide turned hia 
 head, and pointing to the paintings, said, ' You see you have 
 been long ex])ected. There is a great resemblance between 
 you and your uncle.'* 
 
 And my companion suddenly disappeared, and being 
 alone I walked up to a large window, but I could distin- 
 guish nothing, except when the lightning revealed the thick 
 gloom. And the thunder rolled over the palace. And I knelt 
 down and prayed, and suddenly the window was irradiated, 
 and the bright form of a female appeared. Her fair hair 
 i-eached beneath her waist, her countenance was melancholy 
 yet seraphic. In her hand she held a crucifix. And I said, 
 ' 0, blessed Magdalen, have you at last returned ? I have 
 been long wandering in the wilderness, and methought you 
 had forgotten me. And indeed I am about again to go 
 forth, but Heaven frowns upon my pilgrimage.' And she 
 smiled and said, * Sunshine succeeds storm. You have been 
 long exjoected.' And, as she spoke, she vanished, and I 
 looked again through the window, and beheld a beautiful 
 city very fair in the sun. Its marble palaces rose on each 
 side of a broad canal, and a multitude of boats skimmed 
 over the blue water. And I knew where I was. And I 
 descended from the palace to the brink of the canal, and 
 
198 CONTARINI FLEMING : 
 
 my orlgiiial guide saluted me, and in his company 1 
 entered a gondola. 
 
 A clap of thunder broke over the very house and woke 
 me. I jumped up in my bed, and stared. I beheld sitting 
 in my room the same venerable personage, in whose pre- 
 sence I had the moment before found myself. The embers 
 of the fire shot forth a faint and flickering light. I felt 
 that I had been asleep and had dreamed. I even remem- 
 bered where I was. I was not in any way confused. Yet 
 before me was this mysterious companion, gazing upon me 
 with the same gracious dignity with which he had at first 
 beheld me in the palace. I remained sitting up in my bed, 
 staring with starting eyes and opened mouth. Gradually 
 his image became fainter and fainter. His features melted 
 a,way, his form also soon dissolved, and I discovered only 
 the empty chaii' and hanging cloak. 
 
 I jumped out of bed. The storm still raged. A bell 
 was tolling. Few things are more awful than a bell tolling 
 in a storm. It was about three hours past midnight. I 
 called Lausanne. 
 
 * Lausanne,' I said, ' I am resolved to cross the mountain 
 by sunrise, come what come may. Ofier any rewards, 
 make what promises you please, but I am resolved to cross, 
 even in the teeth of an avalanche.' Although I am a person 
 easily managed in httle matters, and especially by servants, 
 I spoke in a tone which Lausanne sufficiently knew me to 
 feel to be decisive. He was not one of those men who 
 make or imagine difficulties, but on the contrary, fruitful 
 in discovering expedients, yet he seemed not a little sur- 
 prised, and slightly hesitated. 
 
 * Lausanne,' I said, ' if you think it too dangerous to ven- 
 ture, I release you from your duty. But cross the mountain 
 I shall, and in two or three hours, even if I cross it alone.' 
 
 He quitted the room. I threw a fresh log upon the fire^ 
 and repeated to myself, * I have been long exj)ected,^ 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 199 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Before si? o'clock all was prepared. Besides the pes tilions, 
 Lausanne engaged several guides. I think we niust have 
 been about six hours ascending, certainly not more, and 
 this does not much exceed the usual course. I had 
 occasion on this, as I have since in many other conjunc- 
 tures, to observe what an admirable animal is man when 
 tlirown upon his own resources in danger. The coolness, 
 the courage, the perseverance, the acuteness, and the 
 kindness with which my companions deported them- 
 selves, were as remarkable as they were delightful. As for 
 myself, I could do nothing but lean back in the carriage 
 aud trust to their experience and euergy. It was indeed 
 awful. We were almost always enveloped in mist, and if 
 a violent gust for a moment dissipated the vapour, it was 
 only to afford a glimpse of the precipices on whose very 
 brink we were making our way. Nothing is more terrific 
 than the near roar of a cataract in the dark. It is horrible. 
 As for myself, I will confess that I was more than once 
 fairly frightened, and when the ag'itated shouts of my com- 
 panions indicated the imminence of the impending danger, 
 I felt very much like a man who had raised a devil that he 
 cannot lay. 
 
 The storm was only on the lower part 01 the mountain. 
 As we ascended, it became clearer. The scene was absolute 
 desolation. At length we arrived at a small table-land, 
 surrounded by slight elevations, the whole covered with 
 eternal snow. Cataracts were coursing down these hills in 
 all directions, and the plain was covered with the chaotic 
 forms of crumbled avalanches. The sky was a thick dingy 
 white. My men gave a loud shout of exultation and wel- 
 comed me to the summit of Simplon. 
 
 Here I shook hands and parted with my faithful guides. 
 
2O0 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 As I was enveloping myself in my furs, the clouds Ijroke 
 towards Italy, and a beantiful streak of blue sky seemed 
 the harbinger of the Ausonian heaven. I felt in high 
 spirits, and we dashed down the descent with an ease and 
 rapidity that pleasantly reminded me, by the contrast, of 
 ou.r late labour. 
 
 A descent down one of the high Alps is a fine thing. It 
 is very exciting to scamper throngh one of those sublime 
 tunnels, cut through solid rocks six thousand feet above 
 the ocean ; to whirl along those splendid galleries over pre- 
 cipices whose terminations are invisible ; to gallop through 
 passes, as if you were flying from the companions of the 
 avalanches which are dissolving at your feet ; to spin over 
 bridges spanning a roaring and rushing torrent, and to 
 dash through narrow gorges backed with eternal snows 
 peeping over the nearer and blacker background. 
 
 It was a sudden turn. Never shall I forget it. I called 
 to Lausanne to stop, and notwithstanding the difficulty, 
 they clogged the wheels with stones. It was a sudden turn 
 of the road. It came upon me like a spii'it. The quick 
 change of scenery around me had disturbed my mind, and 
 prevented me from dwelling upon the idea. So it came 
 upon me unexpectedly, most, most unexpectedly. Ah, why 
 did I not then die ? I was too happy. I stood up to gazo 
 for the first time upon Italy, and the tears stole down my 
 cheek. 
 
 Yes ! yes ! I at length gazed upon those beautiful and 
 glittering plains. Yes! yes! I at length beheld those purple 
 mountains, and drank the balmy breath of that fragrant 
 and liquid air. After such longing, after all the dull misery 
 of my melancholy life, was this great boon indeed accorded 
 me ! Why, why did I not then die ? I was indeed, indeed, 
 too happy ! 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 201 
 
 CHAPTER. IV. 
 
 I AWOKE. I asked myself, * Am I indeed in Italy ? ' I could 
 scarcely refrain from shouting with joy. While dressing, I 
 asked many questions of Lausanne, that his answers might 
 assure me of this incredible happiness. When he left tha 
 room, I danced about the chamber like a madman. 
 
 ' Am I indeed in Italy ? ' My morning's journey was the 
 most satisfactory answer. Although, of late, the business of 
 my life had been only to admire Nature, my progress was 
 nevertheless one uninterrupted gaze. 
 
 Those azure mountains, those shining lakes, those gar- 
 dens, and palaces, and statues, those cupolaed convents 
 crowning luxuriant wooded hills, and flanked by a single 
 but most graceful tree, the undulation of shore, the project- 
 ing headland, the receding bay, the roadside unin closed, yet 
 bounded with walnut, and vine, and fig, and acacia, and 
 almond trees, bending down under their bursting fruit, the 
 wonderful effect of light and shade, the trunks of all the 
 trees, looking black as ebony, and their thick foliage, from 
 the excessive light, quite thin and transparent in the sun- 
 shine, the white sparkling villages, each with a church with 
 a tall slender tower, and large melons trailing over the 
 marble wall ; and, above all, the extended prospect, so 
 striking after the gloom of Alpine passes, and so different 
 in its sunny light, from the reflected, unearthly glare of 
 eternal snows ; yes, yes, this indeed was Italy ! I could 
 not doubt my felicity, even if I had not marked, with curious 
 admiration, the black eyes and picturesque forms, that were 
 flashing and glancing about me in all directions. 
 
 Milan, with its poetic opera, and Yerona, gay amid the 
 mingling relics of two thousand years, and Vicenza, with its 
 Palladian palaces and gates of triumph, and pensive Padua, 
 with its studious colonnades, I tore myself from their 
 
202 CONTARJNI FLEMING: 
 
 attractions. Their choicest memorials only accelerated my 
 progress, only made me more anxious to gain the chief seat 
 of the wonderful and romantic people who had planted in 
 all their market-places the winged lion of St. Mark, and 
 raised their wild and Saracenic piles between Roman 
 amphitheatres and feudal castles. 
 
 I was upon the Brenta, upon that river over which I had 
 so often mused beneath the rigour of a Scandinavian heaven ; 
 the Brenta was before me, with all those villas, which, in 
 theii* number, their variety, and their splendour, form the 
 only modern creation that can be ranked with the Baise of 
 imperial Rome. I had quitted Padua at an early hour to 
 reach Yenice before sunset. Half way, the horses jibbed on 
 the sandy road, and a spring of the carriage was broken. 
 To pass the time, while this accident was repairing, Lau- 
 sanne suggested to me to visit a villa at hand, which was 
 celebrated for the beauty of its architecture and gardens. 
 It was inhabited only by an old domestic, who attended me 
 over the building. The vast suite of chambers, and their 
 splendid although ancient decorations, were the first evi- 
 dence that I had yet encountered of that domestic magni- 
 ficence of the Venetians of which I had heard so much. I 
 walked forth into the gardens alone, to rid myself of the 
 gannilous domestic. I proceeded along a majestic terrace, 
 covered with orange trees, at the end of which was a beau- 
 tiful chapel. The door was unlocked, and I entered. A 
 large crucifix of ebony was placed upon the altar, and 
 partly concealed a picture placed over the Holy Table. Yet 
 the picture could not escape me. Oh ! no ; it could not 
 escape me, for it was the original of that famous Magdalen 
 which had, so many years before, and in so difierent a place, 
 produced so great a revolution in my feelings. I remained 
 before it some time ; and as I gazed upon it, the history of 
 myHfe.was again acted before me. I quitted the chapel, 
 revolving in ray mind this strange coincidence, and crossing 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 203 
 
 the lawn, I came to a temple which a fanciful possessor had 
 dedicated to his friends. Over the portal was an inscrip- 
 tion. I raised my sight and read, * Enter ; you have heen 
 long expected ! ' 
 
 I started, and looked around, but all was silent. I turned 
 pale, and hesitated to go in. I examined the inscription 
 again. My courage rallied, and I found myself in a small, 
 but elegant banqueting house, furnished, but apparently 
 long disused. I threw myself into a seat at the head of 
 the table, and, full of a rising superstition, I almost ex- 
 pected that some of the venerable personages of my dream 
 would enter to share my feast. They came not ; half an 
 hour passed away ; I rose, and, without premeditation, I 
 wrote upon the wall, ' If I have heen long expected^ I have at 
 length arrived. Be you also ohedient to the call,* 
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 
 An hour before sunset, I arrived at Fusiua, and beheld, four 
 or five miles out at sea, the towers and cupolas of Venice 
 suffused with a rich golden light, and rising out of the 
 bright blue waters. Not an exclamation escaped me. I 
 felt like man who has achieved a great object. I was full 
 of calm exultation, but the strange incident of the morning 
 made me serious and pensive. 
 
 As our gondolas glided over the great Lagune, the ex- 
 citement of the spectacle reanimated me. The buildings 
 that I had so fondly studied in books and pictures rose up 
 before me. I knew them all ; I required no Cicerone. One 
 by one, I caught the hooded cupolas of St. Mark, the tall 
 Campanile red in the sun, the Morescoe Palace of the Doges, 
 the deadly Bridge of Sighs, and the dark structure to which 
 it leads. Here my gondola quitted the Lagune, and, turn- 
 
204 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 ing up a small canal, and passing under a bridge Tvhich 
 connected the quays, stopped at the steps of a palace. 
 
 I ascended a staircase of marble, I passed through a gal- 
 lery crowded with statues, I was ushered into spacious 
 apartments, the floors of which were marble, and the hang- 
 ings satin. The ceilings were painted by Tintoretto and his 
 scholars, and were full of Turkish trophies and triumphs 
 over the Ottomite. The famiture was of the same rich 
 material as the hangings, and the gilding, although of two 
 hundred years' duration, as bright and burnished as the 
 costly equipment of a modern palace. From my balcony 
 of blinds, I looked upon the great Lagune. It was one of 
 those glorious sunsets which render Venice, in spite of her 
 degradation, still famous. The sky and sea vied in the bril- 
 Uant multiplicity of their blended tints. The tall shadows 
 of her Palladian churches flung themselves over the glow- 
 ing and transparent wave out of which they sprang. The 
 quays were crowded with joyous groups, and the black 
 gondolas flitted like sea-serpents, over the red and rippling 
 waters. 
 
 I hastened to the Place of St. Mark. It was crowded and 
 illuminated. Three gorgeous flags waved on the mighty 
 stafis, which are opposite to the church in all the old draw- 
 ings, and which once bore the standards of Candia, and 
 Cyprus, and the Morea. The cofiee-houses were full, and 
 gay parties, seated on chairs in the open air, listened to the 
 music of military bands, while they refreshed themselves 
 with confectionery so rich and fanciful that it excites the 
 admiration of all travellers, but which I since discovered 
 in Turkey to be Oriental. The variety of costume was also 
 great. The dress of the lower orders in Venice is still 
 unchanged ; many of the middle classes yet wear the cap 
 and cloak. The Hungarian and the German military, and 
 the bearded Jew, with his black velvet cap and flowing 
 robes, are observed with curiosity. A few days also before 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 205 
 
 mj arnval, t"he Austrian squadron had carried into Venice 
 a Turkish ship and two Greek vessels, which had violated 
 the neutrality. Their crews now mingled with the crowd. 
 I beheld, for the first time, the haughty and turbaned 
 Ottoman, sitting cross-legged on liis carpet under a colon- 
 nade, sipping his coffee and smoking a long chibouque, and 
 the Greeks, with their small red caps, their high foreheads, 
 and arched eyebrows. 
 
 Can this be modem Venice, I thought? Can this be 
 the silent, and gloomy, and decaying city, over whose dis- 
 honourable misery I have so often wept ? Could it ever 
 have been more enchanting ? Are not these indeed still 
 subjects of a Doge, and still the bridegrooms of the ocean ? 
 Alas, the brilliant scene was as unusual as unexpected, and 
 was accounted for by its being the feast day of a favourite 
 Saint. Nevertheless, I rejoiced at the unaccustomed appear- 
 ance of the city at my entrance, and still I recall with plea- 
 sure the delusive moments, when, strolling about the Place 
 of St. Mark, the first evening that I was in Venice, I 
 mingled for a moment in a scene that reminded me of her 
 lost light heartedness, and of that unrivalled gaiety which 
 so long captivated polished Europe. 
 
 The moon was now in her pride. I wandered once more 
 to the quay, and heard for the first time a serenade. A 
 juggler was conjuring in a circle under the walls of my 
 hotel, and an itinerant opera was performing on the bridge. 
 It is by moonlight that Venice is indeed an enchanted city. 
 The effect of the floods of silver light upon the twinkling 
 fretwork of the Moresco architecture, the total absence of all 
 harsh sounds, the never-ceasing music on the waters, pro- 
 duce an effect upon the mind which cannot be experienced 
 in any other city. As I stood gazing upon the broad track 
 of brilliant light that quivered over the Lagune, a gondoher 
 saluted me. T entered his boat, and desired him to row me 
 to the Grand Canal. 
 
2o6 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 TI18 marble palaces of my ancestors rose on eacli side, 
 like a series of vast and solemn temples. How sublime 
 were their broad fronts bathed in the mystic light, whose 
 softened tints concealed the ravages of Time, and made us 
 dream only of their eternity ! And could these great crea- 
 tions ever die ! I viewed them with a devotion which I 
 cannot beheve to have been surpassed in the most patriotic 
 period of the RepubHc. How willingly would I have 
 given my life to have once more filled their mighty 
 halls with the proud retainers of their free and victorious 
 nobles ! 
 
 As I proceeded along the canal, and retired from the 
 quarter of St. Mark, the sounds of merriment gradually died 
 away. The light string of a guitar alone tinkled ia the 
 distance, and the lamp of a gondola, swiftly shooting by, 
 indicated some gay, perhaps anxious, youth, hastening to 
 the general rendezvous of festivity and love. The course 
 of the canal bent, and the moon was hid behind a broad, 
 thick arch, which black, yet sharply defined, spanned the 
 breadth of the water. I beheld the famous E,ialto. 
 
 Was it possible ? was it true ? was I not all this time in 
 a reverie gazing upon a drawing in Winter's studio ! Was' 
 it not some dehcious dream? some dehcious di-eam from 
 which perhaps this moment I was about to be roused to 
 cold, dull life? I struggled not to wake, yet, from a 
 nervous desire to move and put the vision to the test, I 
 ordered the gondolier to row to the side of the canal, 
 jumped out, and hurried to the bridge. Each moment, I 
 expected that the arch would tremble and part, and that 
 the surrounding palaces would dissolve into mist, that the 
 lights would be extinguished and the music cease, and that I 
 should find myself in my old chamber in my father's house. 
 
 I hurried along ; I was anxious to reach the centre of the 
 bridge before I woke. It seemed hke the crowning incident 
 of a dream, which, it is remarkable, never occurs, and 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 207 
 
 whicn, from the very anxiety it occasions, only succeeds in 
 breaking our magical slumbers. 
 
 I stood upon Rialto ; I belield on each side of me, rising 
 out of the waters, which they shadowed with their solemn 
 image, those colossal and gorgeous structures raised from 
 the spoils of the teeming Orient, with their pillars of rare 
 marbles, and their costly portals of jasper, and porphyry, 
 and agate ; I beheld them ranged in majestic order, and 
 streaming with the liquid moonlight. Within these walls 
 my fathers revelled ! 
 
 I bowed my head, and covered my face with my hands. I 
 could gaze no more upon that fair but melancholy vision. 
 
 A loud but melodious Chorus broke upon the air. 1 
 looked up, and marked the tumultuous waving of many 
 torches, and heard the trampling of an approaching multi- 
 tude. They were at the foot of the bridge. They advanced, 
 they approached. A choir of priests, bearing in triumph the 
 figure of a Saint, and followed by a vast crowd carrying 
 lights, and garlands, and banners, and joining in a joyful 
 hymn, swept by me. As they passed they sung — 
 
 * WAVE TOUR BANNERS ! SOUND, SOUND YOUR VOICES ! FOR 
 HE HAS COME, HE HAS COME ! OUR SAINT AND OUR LORD ! HE 
 HAS COME, IN PRIDE AND IN GLORT, TO GREET WITH LOVE HIS 
 ADRIAN BRIDE.' 
 
 It is singular, but these words struck me as applicable to 
 myself. The dream at the foot of thd Alps, and the inscrip- 
 tion in the garden on the Brenta, and the picture in the 
 chapel, there was a connection in all these strange inci- 
 dents, which indeed harmonised with my early life and 
 feelings. I fully beheved myself the object of an omnipo- 
 tent Destiny, over which I had no control. I delivered 
 myself up without a struggle to the eventful course of time. 
 I returned home pensive, yet prepared for a great career, 
 imd when the drum of the Hungarian guard sounded as I 
 
2o8 COXTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 entered tlie Lagmie, I could not help fancying that its 
 hurried note "was ominous of surprise and consternation. I 
 remembered that, when a boy, sauntering with Musasus, I 
 believed that I had a predisposition for conspiracies, and I 
 could not forget that, of all places in the world, Yenice was 
 the one in which I should most desire to find myself a 
 conspirator. 
 
 I returned to the hotel, but, as I was little inclined to 
 slumber, I remained walking up and down the gallery, 
 which, on my aiTival, amid the excitement of so many 
 distracting objects, I had but slightly noticed. I was struck 
 by its size and its magnificence, and, as I looked upon the 
 long row of statues gleaming in the white moonlight, I 
 could not refi-ain from pondei-ing over the melancholy for- 
 tunes of the high race who had lost this sumptuous inheri- 
 tance commemorating, even in its present base uses, their 
 noble exploits, magnificent tastes, and costly habits. 
 
 Lausanne entered. I inquired, if he knew to what family 
 of the Republic this building had originally belonged ? 
 
 ' Tliis was the Palazzo Contarini, Sir.' 
 
 I was glad that he could not mark my agitation. 
 
 * I thought,' I rejoined after a moment's hesitation, ' I 
 thought the Palazzo Contarini was on the Grand Canal.' 
 
 * There is a Palazzo Contarini on the Grand Canal, Sir, 
 but this is the original palace of the House. When I 
 travelled with my lord, twenty-five years ago, and was 
 at Venice, the Contarini family still maintained both estab- 
 lishments.' 
 
 ' And now ? ' I inquired. This was the first time that 1 
 had ever held any conversation with Lausanne, for, al- 
 though I was greatly pleased with his talents, and could 
 not be insensible to his ever watchful care, I had from the 
 first suspected that he was a secret agent of my father's, 
 and although I thought fit to avail myself of his abilities, I 
 I had studiously withheld from him my confidence. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 200 
 
 * The family of Contarini is, I believe, extinct,' replied 
 Lausanne. 
 
 * AH ! ' Then thinking that something should be said to 
 account for my ignorance of that with which, apparently, I 
 ought to have been well acquainted, I added in a careless 
 voice, * We have never kept up any intercourse with our 
 Italian connections, which I do not regret, for I shall not 
 enter into society here.' 
 
 The moment that I uttered this I felt the weakness of 
 attempting to mystify Lausanne, who probably knew much 
 more of the reasons of this non-intercourse than myself. 
 He was moving away, when I called him back with the 
 intention of speaking to him fully upon the subject of my 
 early speculations. I longed to converse with him about 
 my mother, and my father's youth, about everything that 
 had happened. 
 
 * Lausanne,' I said. 
 
 He returned. The moon shone brightly upon his imper- 
 turbable and inscrutable countenance. I saw only my 
 father's spy. A feeling of false shame prevented me from 
 speaking. I did not like frankly to confess my ignorance 
 upon such delicate subjects to one who would probably 
 affirm his inability to enlighten me, and I knew enough of 
 him to be convinced that I could not acquire by stratagem 
 that which he would not willingly communicate. 
 
 * Lausanne,' I said, ' take lights into my room. I am 
 going to bed.' 
 
 CHAPTER YL 
 
 Another sun rose upon Venice, and presented to me the 
 city, whose image I had so early acquired. In the heart 
 of a multitude, there was stillness. I looked out from the 
 balcony on the crowded quays of yesterday; one or two 
 idle porters were stretched in sleep on the scorching pave- 
 
 P 
 
2IO CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 ment, and a solitary gondola stole over the gleaming waters. 
 This -was all. 
 
 It was the Yilleggiatura, and the absence of the nobility 
 from the city invested it with an aspect even more deserted 
 than it would otherwise have exhibited. I cared not for 
 this. For me, indeed, Venice, silent and desolate, owned a 
 greater charm than it could have commanded with all its 
 feeble imitation of the worthless bustle of a modern metro- 
 polis. I congratulated myself on the choice season of the 
 year in which I had arrived at this enchanting city. I do 
 not think that I could have endured to be disturbed by the 
 frivolous sights and sounds of society, before I had formed 
 a full acquaintance with all those marvels of art that 
 command our constant admiration while gliding about the 
 lost capital of the Doges, and before I had yielded a free 
 flow to those feelings of poetic melancholy which swell up 
 in the soul as we contemplate this memorable theatre of 
 human action, wherein have been performed so many of 
 man's most famous and most graceful deeds. 
 
 If I were to assign the particular quality which conduces 
 to that dreamy and voluptuous existence which men of 
 high imagination experience in Venice, I should describe it 
 as the feeling of abstraction which is remarkable in that 
 city and peculiar to it. Venice is the only city which can 
 yield the magical delights of solitude. All is stiU and 
 silent. No rude sound disturbs your reveries; Fancy, 
 therefore, is not put to flight. ISTo rude sound distracts 
 your self-consciousness. This renders existence intense. 
 We feel everything. And we feel thus keenly in a city not 
 only eminently beautifal, not only abounding in wonderful 
 creations of art, but each step of which is hallowed ground, 
 quick with associations that, in their more various nature, 
 their nearer relation to ourselves, and perhaps their more 
 picturesque character, exercise a greater influence over the 
 imagination than the more antique story of Greece and 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 211 
 
 Rome. We feel all this in a city, too, which although her 
 lustre be indeed dimmed, can still count among her daugh- 
 ters maidens fairer than the orient pearls with which her 
 warriors once loved to deck them. Poetry, Tradition, and 
 Love, these are the graces that have invested with an ever 
 charming cestus this Aphi'odite of cities. 
 
 As for myself, ere the year di'ew to a close, I was so cap- 
 tivated with the life of blended contemplation and pleasure 
 which I led in this charming city, that I entirely forgot my 
 great plan of comprehensive travel that was to induce such 
 important results ; and, not conceiving that earth could 
 yield me a spot where time could flow on in a more beau- 
 tiful and tranquil measure, more exempt from worldly 
 anxiety, and more free from vulgar thoughts, I determined 
 to become a Venetian resident. So I quitted the house of 
 my fathers, which its proprietor would not give up to me, 
 and in which, under its present fortune, I could not bear to 
 live, converted Lausanne into a major-domo, and engaged a 
 palace on the Grand Canal. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Thei^e is in Venice a very ancient church, situate in an 
 obscure quarter of the city, whither I was in the habit of 
 often resorting. It is full of the tombs of Contarinis. Two 
 doges under their fretwork canopies, with their hands 
 crossed over their breasts and their heads covered with 
 their caps of state, and reposing on pillows, lie on each side 
 of the altar. On the platform before the church, as you 
 ascend the steps from your gondola, is a colossal statue of a 
 Contarini who defeated the Genoese. It is a small church, 
 built and endowed by the family. Masses are there to this 
 day sung for their souls. 
 
 One sunshiny afternoon I entered this church, and ro- 
 
212 CONTARmi FLEMING : 
 
 paired, as was my cnstom, to the altar, wliicli, with its 
 tombs, was partially screened from the body of the build- 
 ing, being lighted by the large window in front, which con- 
 siderably overtopped the screen. They were singing a mass 
 in the nave, and I placed myself at the extreme side of the 
 altar, in the shade of one of the tombs, and gazed npon the 
 other. The sun was nearly setting ; the opposite tomb was 
 bathed with the soft, warm light which streamed in from 
 the window. I remained watching the placid and heroic 
 countenance of the old doge, the sunlight playing on it till 
 it seemed to smile. The melodious voices of the choir, 
 praying for Contarini, came flowing along the roof with so 
 much sentiment and sweetness that I was soon wrapped in 
 self-oblivion ; and although my eye was apparently fixed 
 nr>on the tomb, my mind wandered in delightful abstrac- 
 tion. 
 
 A temporary cessation of the music called me to myself. 
 I looked around, and, to my surprise, I beheld a female 
 figure kneeling before the altar. At this moment the music 
 recommenced. She evidently did not observe me. She 
 threw over her shoulders the black veil, with which her 
 face had hitherto been covered. Her eyes were fixed upon 
 the ground, her hands raised, and pressed together in 
 prayer. I had never beheld so beautiful a being. She was 
 very young, and her countenance perfectly fair, but without 
 colour, or tinted only with the tra-nsient flush of devotion. 
 Her features were delicate, yet sharply defined. I could 
 mark her long eyelashes touching her cheek ; and her dark 
 hair, parted on her white brow, fell on each side of her face 
 in tresses of uncommon length and lustre. Altogether she 
 was what I had sometimes fancied as the ideal of Venetian 
 beauty. As I watched her, her invocation ceased, and she 
 raised her large dark eyes with an expression of melancholy 
 that I never shall forget. 
 
 And as I gazed upon her. instead of feeling agitated and 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 2\y 
 
 ey.cited, a heaviness crept over my frame, and a drowsiness 
 stole over my senses. Enraptured by her presence, anxiously 
 desirous to ascertain who she might be, I felt, to my con- 
 sternation, each moment more difficulty in moving, even in 
 seeing. The tombs, the altar, the kneeling suppliant, 
 moved confusedly together and mingled into mist, and 
 sinking back on the tomb which supported me, I fell, as I 
 supposed, into a deep slumber. 
 
 I dreamed that a long line of Venetian nobles, two by 
 two, passed before me, and as they passed they saluted me ; 
 and the two doges were there, and as they went by they 
 smiled and waved their bonnets. And suddenly there ap- 
 peared my father alone, and he was dressed in a northern 
 dress, the hunting-dress I wore in the forest of Jonsterna, 
 and he stopped and looked upon me with great severity, 
 and I withdrew my eye, for I could not bear his glance, 
 and when I looked up again he was not there, but the lady 
 of the altar. She stood before me, clinging to a large cru- 
 cifix, a large crucifix of ebony, the same that I had beheld 
 in the chapel in the gardens on the Brenta. The tears 
 hung quivering on her agitated face. I would have rushed 
 forward to console her, but I awoke. 
 
 I awoke, looked round, and remembered everything. She 
 was not there. It was twilight, and the tombs were barely 
 perceptible. All was silent. I stepped forth fi-om the altar 
 into the body of the church, where a single acolyte was 
 folding up the surplices and placing them in a trunk. I 
 inquired if he had seen any lady go out ; but he had seen 
 nothing. He stared at my puzzled look, which was the look 
 of a man roused from a vivid dream. I went forth ; one 
 of my gondoliers was lying on the steps. I asked him also 
 if he had seen any lady go out. He assured me that no 
 person had come forth, except the priests. Was there any 
 other way? They beheved not. I endeavoured to re-enter 
 the church to examine, but it was locked. 
 
214 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 CHAPTER Vin. 
 
 If ever the science of metaphysics ceases to be a frivoloua 
 assemblage of immeamng phrases, and we attempt to acquire 
 that knowledge of our nature which is, doubtless, open to 
 us, bj the assistance of facts instead of words ; if ever, in 
 short, the philosophy of the human mind shall be based on 
 demonstration instead of dogma, the strange incident just 
 related will, perhaps, not be considered the wild delusion of 
 a crack-brained visionary. For myself, I have no doubt 
 that the effect produced upon me by the lady in the church 
 Was a magnetic influence, and that the slumber, which at 
 the moment occasioned me so much annoyance and so much 
 astonisbment, was nothing less than a luminous trance. 
 
 I knew nothing of these high matters then, and I re- 
 turned to my palace in a state of absolute confusion. It 
 was so reasonable to beUeve that I had fallen asleep, and 
 that the whole was a dream. Everything was thus satis- 
 factorily accounted for. Nevertheless, I could not overcome 
 my strong conviction that the slumber, which I could not 
 deny, was only a secondary incident, and that I had posi- 
 tively, really, absolutely, beheld kneeling before the altar 
 that identical and transcendent form which, in my dream or 
 vision, I had marked clinging to the cross. 
 
 I examined the gondoliers on my return home, but eli- 
 cited nothing. I examined myself the whole evening, and 
 resolved that I had absolutely seen her. I attended at the 
 church the next day; but nothing occurred. I spoke to 
 the priests, and engaged one to keep a constant observation ; 
 still nothing ever transpired. 
 
 The ViUeggiatura was over ; the gi'eat families returned ; 
 the carnival commenced ; Venice was fuU and gay. There 
 were assemblies every evening. The news that a young 
 foreign nobleman had come to reside at Venice, of coursesj 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 215 
 
 qaickly spread. My establishment, my quality, and, above 
 all, my name, insured me an hospitable reception, although 
 I knew not a single individual, and, of course, had not a 
 single letter. I did not encourage their attentions, and 
 went nowhere, except to the opera, which opened with the 
 carnival. I have a passion for instrumental music, but I 
 admire little the human voice, which appears to me, with 
 all our exertions, a poor instrument. Sense and sentiment, 
 too, are always saciificed to dexterity and caprice. A grand 
 orchestra fills my mind with ideas ; I forget everything in 
 the stream of invention. A prima donna is very ravishing ; 
 but while I listen I am a mere man of the world, or hardly 
 sufficiently well bred to conceal my weariness. 
 
 The effect of music upon the faculty of invention is a 
 subject on which I have long curiously observed and deeply 
 meditated. It is a finer prelude to creation than to execu- 
 tion. It is well to meditate upon a subject under the in- 
 fluence of music, but to execute we should be alone, and 
 supported only by our essential and internal strength. Were 
 I writing, music would produce the same efiect upon me as 
 wine. I should for a moment feel an unnatural energy and 
 fire, but, in a few minutes, I should discover that I sha- 
 dowed forth only phantoms ; my power of expression would 
 die away, and my pen would fall upon the insipid and life- 
 less page. The greatest advantage that a writer can derive 
 from music is, that it teaches most exquisitely the art of 
 development. It is in remarking the varying recurrence of 
 a great composer to the same theme, that a, poet may learn 
 how to dwell upon the phases of a passion, how to exhibit 
 a mood of mind under all its alternations, and gradually to 
 pour forth the full tide of feehng. 
 
 The last week of the carnival arrived, in which they 
 attempt to compress all the froHc that should be diffused 
 over the rest of the forty days, which, it must be confessed, 
 are dull enough. At Yenice the beauty and the wildnesa 
 
2 1 6 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 of the carnival still linger. St. Mark's Place was crowded 
 with masques. It was even more humorous to observe 
 these gi-otesque foims in repose than in action ; to watch a 
 monster, with a nose a foot long and asses' ears, eating an 
 ice ; or a mysterious being, with a face like a dolphin, re- 
 freshing herself with a fan as huge as a parasol. The houses 
 were clothed with carpets and tapestry; every place was il- 
 luminated, and everybody pelted with sweetmeats and sugar- 
 plums. No one ever seemed to go to bed ; the water was 
 covered with gondolas, and everybody strummed a guitar. 
 
 During the last nights of the carnival it is the practice 
 to convert the opera house into a ball-room, and, on these 
 occasions, the highest orders are masqued. The scene is 
 very gay and amusing. In some boxes, a supper is always 
 ready, at which all guests are welcome. But masqued you 
 must be. It is even strict etiquette on these occasions for 
 ladies to ramble about the theatre unattended, and the great 
 diversion of course is the extreme piquancy of the incognito 
 conversations ; since, in a limited circle, in which few are 
 unknowTi to each other, it is not difficult to impregnate this 
 slight parley with a sufficient quantity of Venetian salt. 
 
 I went to one of these balls, as I thought something 
 amusing might occur. I went in a domino, and was careful 
 not to enter my box, lest I should be discovered. As I was 
 sauntering along one of the rooms near the stage, a female 
 masque saluted me. 
 
 * We did not expect you,' she said. 
 *I only came to meet you,' I replied. 
 
 ' You are more gallant than we supposed you to be.* 
 ' The world is seldom charitable,' I said. 
 
 * They say you are in love.* 
 
 * You are the last person to consider that wonderful.' 
 
 * Really quite chivalric. Why ! they said you are quite a 
 wild man.' 
 
 ' But you, Signora, have tamed me.' 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 217 
 
 * But do you know tliey say you arc in love ? * 
 
 * Well, doubtless with a charming person.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, a very charming person. Do you know they 
 say you are Count Narcissus, and in love with yourself ? ' 
 
 * Do they indeed ! They seem to say vastly agreeable 
 things, I think. Yery witty upon my honour.' 
 
 ' Oh ! very witty, no doubt of that, and you should be a 
 judge of wit, you know, because you are a poet.' 
 
 * You seem to know me well.' 
 
 ' I think I do. You are the young gentleman, are you 
 not, who has quarrelled with his papa ? ' 
 ' That is a very vague description.' 
 'I can give you some further details.' 
 ' Pi-ay spare me and yourself.' 
 
 * Do you know I have written your character ? ' 
 
 * Indeed ! It is doubtless as accurate as most others.' 
 
 ' Oh ! it is founded upon the best authorities. There is 
 only one part imperfect. I Avish to give an account of your 
 works. Will you give me a list ? ' 
 
 ' I must have an equivalent, and something more inter- 
 esting than my own character.' 
 
 * Meet me to-night at the Countess Malbrizzi's.' 
 
 * I cannot, I do not know her.' 
 
 *Do not you know that, in carnival time, a mask may 
 enter any house ? After the ball, all will be there. Will 
 you meet me ? I am now engaged.' 
 
 This seemed the opening of an adventure, which youth 
 is not inchned to shun. I assented, and the mask glided 
 away, leaving me in great confusion and amazement, at her 
 evident familiarity with my history. 
 
2 1 8 CONTA RINI FLEMING . 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 I ARRIVED at the steps of the Malbrizzi Palace amid a crowd 
 of gondolas. I ascended Tvithont any announcement into 
 the saloons, which were full of guests. I found, to my great 
 annoyance, that I was the only mask present. I felt that I 
 liad been fairly taken in, and perceiving that I was an object 
 of universal attention, I had a great inclination to make a 
 precipitate retreat. But, on reflection, I determined to take 
 a rapid survey before my departure, and then retire with 
 dignity. Leaning against a pillar, I flattered myself that I 
 appeared quite at my ease. 
 
 A lady, whom I had already conjectured to be the mistress 
 of the mansion, advanced and addressed me. Time had not 
 yet flown away with her charms. 
 
 ' Signer Mask,' she said, ' ever welcome, and doubly wel- 
 come, if a friend.' 
 
 * I fear I have no title to admission within these walls, 
 except the privilege of the season.* 
 
 ' I should have thought otherwise,' said the lady, ' if you 
 be one iot whom many have inquired.' 
 
 ' You must mistake me for another. It is not probable 
 that any one would inquire after me J* 
 
 * Shall I tell you your name ? ' 
 
 * Some one has pretended to give mo that uimecessary 
 information already to-night.' 
 
 * Well ! I will not betray you, but I am silent in the hope 
 that you will, ere midnight, reward me for my discretion 
 by rendering it unnecessary. We trust that the ice of tho 
 north will melt beneath our Venetian sun. You understand 
 me ? ' So saying, she glided away. 
 
 I could not doubt that this lady was the Countess Mal- 
 brizzi, and that she was the female mask who had addressed 
 me in tho opera house. She evidently knew me. I had 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 2ig^ 
 
 not long to acck for the source whence she attained this 
 knowledge. The son. of the Austrian Minister at our court, 
 and who had himself been attached to the legation, passed 
 by me. His uncle was governor of Venice. Everything 
 was explained. 
 
 I moved away, intending to retire. A group in the room 
 I entered attracted my attention. Several men were 
 standing round a lady, apparently entreating her, with the 
 usual compliments and gesticulations, to play upon the 
 guitar. Her face was concealed from me ; one of her suite 
 turned aside, and, notwithstanding the difference of her 
 rich dress, I instantly recognised the kneeling lady of the 
 church. I was extremely agitated. I felt the inexplicable 
 sensation that I had experienced on the tomb, and was 
 fearful that it might end in as mortifying a catastrophe. I 
 struggled against the feeling, and struggled successfully. 
 As I thus wrestled with my mind, I could not refrain from 
 gazing intently upon the cause of my emotion. I felt an 
 overwhelming desire to ascertain who she might be. I could 
 not take my eyes from her. She impressed me with so 
 deep an interest, that I entirely forgot that other human 
 beings were present. It was fortunate that I was masqued, 
 otherwise my fixed stare must have excited great curiosity. 
 
 As I stood thus gazing upon her, and as each moment 
 her image seemed more vividly impressed upon my brain, 
 a chain round her neck snapped in twain, and a diamond 
 cross susj)ended to it fell to the ground. The surrounding 
 cavaliers were instantly busied in seeking for the fallen 
 jewel. I beheld, for the first time, her tall and complete 
 figure. Our eyes met, and to my astonishment, she suddenly 
 grew pale, ceased convefsing, trembled, and sank into a 
 chair. A gentleman handed her the cross ; she received it, 
 her colour returned, a smile played upon her features, and 
 she rose from her seat. 
 
 The Countess passed mc. I saluted her. * I now v/ish 
 
220 CONTARINI FLEMING : 
 
 yoa to tell me,' I said, *iiot my own name, but tho name of 
 another person. Will yon be kind ? * 
 
 * Speak.' 
 
 * T'nat lady,' I said, pointing to the group, * I have a great 
 wish to know who that lady may be.' 
 
 * Indeed ! ' said the Countess, * I have a great wish also 
 that your curiosity should be gratified. That is Signora 
 Alceste Contarini.' 
 
 * Contai'ini ! ' I exclaimed ; * how wonderful ! I mean to 
 say how singular, that is, I did not know ' 
 
 * That there were any other Contarinis but your excel- 
 lency, I suppose.' 
 
 * It is idle to wear this disguise,' I said, taking off my 
 mask, and letting my domino shp to the ground. ' I have 
 ever heard that it was impossible to escape the penetration 
 of the Countess Malbrizzi.' 
 
 * My penetration has not been much exercised to-night, 
 Count ; but I assure you I feel gratified to have been the 
 means of inducing you to enter a society of which the 
 Baroness Fleming was once the brightest ornament. Your 
 mother was my fidend.' 
 
 ' You have, indeed, the strongest claim then to the respect 
 of her son. But this young lady ' 
 
 * Is your cousin, an orphan, and the last of the Contai-inis. 
 You should become acquainted. Permit me to present 
 you.' I accompanied her. * Alceste, my love,' continued 
 the Countess, ' those should not bo unknown to each other 
 whom Nature has intended to be friends. Your cousin, 
 Count Contarini Fleming, claims your acquaintance.' 
 
 * I have not so many relations that I know not how to 
 value them,' said Alceste, as she extended to me her hand. 
 The surrounding gentlemen moved away, and we were left 
 alone. ' I arrived so unexpectedly in Venice,' I said, ' that I 
 owe to a chance my introduction to one, whose acquaint- 
 ance I should have claimed in a more formal manner.* 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. ^21 
 
 * You are then merely a passing visitor ? We lieard tliat 
 it was your intention to become a resident.' 
 
 ' I have become one. It has been too difficult for me to 
 gain this long-desired haven again to quit it without a 
 strong cause. But when I departed from my country, 
 it was for the understood purpose of making a different 
 course. My father is not so violent a Venetian as myself, 
 and, for aught I know, conceives me to be now in France 
 or England, In short, I have played truant, but I hope 
 you will pardon me.' 
 
 * To love Yenice is with me so great a virtue,' she replied, 
 with a smile, ' that I fear, instead of feeling all the impro- 
 priety of your conduct, I sympathise too much with this 
 violation of duty.' 
 
 ' Of course, you could not know my father ; but you may 
 have heard of him. It has always been to me a source of 
 deep regret that he did not maintain his connection with 
 my mother's family. I inherit something even more Ye- 
 nefcian than her name. But the past is too painful for my 
 father to love to recall it. My mother, you know ' 
 
 ' I am an orphan, and can feel all your misfortune. I 
 think our house is doomed.' 
 
 ' I cannot think so when I see you.' 
 
 She faintly smiled, but her features settled again into 
 an expression of deep melancholy, that reminded me of her 
 countenance in the chui'ch. 
 
 * I think,' I observed, * this is not the first time I have 
 had the pleasure of seeing you.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! I am not aware of our having before met.' 
 ' I may be wrong ; and I dare say you will think me 
 very strange. But I cannot beheve it was a dream, though 
 
 certainly I was But really it is too ridiculous. You 
 
 know the church where are the tombs of our family ? ' 
 
 * Yes ! ' Her voice was low, but quick. I fancied she was 
 not quite at ease. 
 
222 CONTARINI FLEMING : 
 
 ' Well, I cannot help believing that we were once together 
 before that altar.' 
 
 * Indeed ! I have retnrned to Venice a week. I have 
 not visited the church since we came back.' 
 
 ' Oh ! this must have been a month ago. It certainly is 
 very strange. I suppose it miist have been a dream; I 
 have sometimes odd dreams, and yet it is in consequence 
 of that supposed meeting in the church that I recognised 
 you this evening, and immediately sought an introduction.' 
 
 * I know the church well. To me, I may say to us,' she 
 added, with a gentle inclination of the head, 'it is, of 
 course, a very interesting spot.' 
 
 * I am entirely Venetian, and have no thought for any 
 other country. This is not a new sentiment excited by the 
 genius of the place ; it was as strong amid the forests and 
 snows of the north ; as strong, I may truly say, when a 
 child, as at this moment, when I would peril my life and 
 fortunes in her service.' 
 
 ' You ai'e, indeed, enthusiastic. Alas ! entlnisiasm is Httle 
 considered here. We are, at least, still light-hearted ; but 
 what cause we have for gaity the smilers perhaps know ; it 
 is my misfortune not to be one of them. And yet resigna- 
 tion is all that is left us, and ' 
 
 * And what ? ' I asked, for she hesitated. 
 
 * Nothing,' she replied, ' nothing. I believe I was going 
 to add, " it is better to forget." ' 
 
 * Never ! The recollection of the past is still glory. 
 Rather would I be a Contarini amid our falling palaces 
 than the mightiest noble of the most flourishing of modem 
 empires.' 
 
 * What wiU your father say to such romance ? ' 
 
 ' I have no father. I have no friend, no relation in the 
 world, except yourself. I have disclaimed my parentage, 
 my country, my allotted career, and all their rights, and 
 honours, and privileges, and fame, and fortune. I have at 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 233 
 
 least sacrificed all tliese for Venice ; for, trifling as the cir- 
 cumstance may be, I can assure you that, merely to find 
 myself a visitant of this enchanting city, I have thrown to 
 the winds all the duties and connections of my past exist- 
 ence.* 
 
 * But why bind your lot to the fallen and the irredeem- 
 able ? I have no choice but to die where I was born, and 
 no wish to quit a country from which spring all my associa- 
 tions ; but you, you have a real country, full of real in- 
 terests, to engage your affections and exercise your duties. 
 In the north, you are a man ; your career may be active, 
 intelligent, and useful ; but tlie life of a Yenetian is a dream, 
 and you must pass your days like a ghost gliding about a 
 city fading in a vision.' 
 
 ' It is this very character that interests me. I have no 
 sympathy with reality. What vanity in all the empty 
 bustle of common life ! It brings to me no gratification ; 
 on the contrary, degrading annoyance. It developes all the 
 lowering attributes of my nature. In the world, I am never 
 happy but in solitude ; and in solitude so beautiful and so 
 pecuKar as that of Venice my days are indeed a dream, but 
 a dream of long delight. I gaze upon the beautifal, and my 
 mind responds to the inspiration, for my thoughts arc as 
 lovely as my visions.' 
 
 * Your imagination supports you. It is a choice gift. I 
 feel too keenly my reality. 
 
 ' I cannot imagine that you, at least, should either feel 
 or give rise to any other feelings but those that are enchant- 
 ing.' 
 
 * Nay ! a truce to compliments. Let me hear something 
 worthier from you.' 
 
 * Indeed,* I said seriously, ' I was not thinking of com- 
 pliments, nor am I in a mood for such frivoHties ; yet I 
 wish not to conceal that, in meeting you this evening, I 
 have experienced the most gratifying incident of mv life.' 
 
224, CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 ' I am happy to Lave met you, if, indeed, it be possible to 
 be happy about anything.' 
 
 * Dear Alceste, may I call you Alceste ? why should so 
 fair a brow be clouded ? ' 
 
 * It is not unusually gloomy ; my heaven is never serene. 
 But see ! the rooms are nearly empty, and I am waited for.* 
 
 * But we shall soon meet again ? ' 
 
 * I shall be here to-morrow. I reside with my maternal 
 uncle, Count Delfini. I go out very little, but to-morrow I 
 shall certainly be here.' 
 
 * I shall not exist until we again meet. 1 entreat you fail 
 not.' 
 
 * Oh ! I shall certainly be here ; and in the meantime, you 
 know,' she added, with a smile, ' jou can dream.' 
 
 * Farewell, dear Alceste ! Tou cannot imagine how it 
 pains me to part ! ' 
 
 * Adieu ! shall I say Contarini ? ' 
 
 CHAPTER X, 
 
 To say that I was in love, that I was in love at first sight, 
 these are weak, worldly phrases to describe the profound 
 and absorbing passion that filled my whole being. There 
 was a mystical fulfilment in our meeting, the consciousness 
 of which mingled with my adoration, and rendered it quite 
 supernatural. This was the Adrian bride that I had come 
 to greet ; this was the great and worthy object of so many 
 strange desires, and bewildering dreams, and dark coinci- 
 dences. I returned to my palace, threw myself into a chair, 
 and sat for hours in mute abstraction. At last the broad 
 light of morning broke into the chamber : I looked up, 
 glanced round at the ghastly chandeliers, thought of tho 
 coming eve, and retired. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 225 
 
 In the evening I hurried to the opera, but did not see 
 Alceste. I entered the box of the Countess. A young man 
 rose as I entered, and retired. * You see,' I said, ' your 
 magic has in a moment converted me into a man of the 
 world.' 
 
 * I am not the enchantress,' said the Countess, * although 
 I willingly believe you to be enchanted.' 
 
 * What an agreeable assembly you introduced me to last 
 night ! ' 
 
 * I hope that I shall find you a constant guest.' 
 
 * I fear that you will find me too faithful a votary. I 
 little imagined in the morning that I could lay claim to 
 relationship with so interesting a person as your charming 
 young friend.' 
 
 ' Alceste is a gi*eat favourite of mine.' 
 
 'She is not here, I believe, to-night?' 
 
 ' I think not : Count Delfini's box is opposite, and empty.' 
 
 ' Count Delfini is, I believe, some connection ? ' 
 
 ' Her uncle. They will soon be, as you are perhaps 
 aware, nearer connected.* 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' I said. 
 
 'You know that Alceste is betrothed to his son, Count 
 Grimani. By the bye, he quitted the box as you entered. 
 You know him ? ' 
 
 I sank back in my chair, and turned pale. 
 
 ' Do you admire this opera ? ' I inquired. r 
 
 * It is a pretty imitation.' ^ 
 ' Very pretty.' 
 
 ' We shall soon change it. They have an excellent opera 
 at St. Petersburg, I understand. You have been there ? * 
 
 ' Yes. No. I understand, very excellent. This house is 
 ho .' I rose up, bowed, and abruptly departed. 
 
 I instantly quitted the theatre, covered myself up in my 
 cloak, threw myself down in my gondola, and groaned. In 
 a few minutes I reached home, where I was quite unex.. 
 
 Q 
 
226 CONTA RIXI FLEMING : 
 
 pected. I ran np stairs. Lausanne was about to liglit the 
 candles, but I sent him away. I was alone in the large 
 dark chamber, which seemed only more vast and gloomy 
 for the bright moon. 
 
 * Thank God ! ' I exclaimed, * I am alone. Why do I not 
 die ? Betrothed ! It is false ! she cannot be another's ! 
 She is mine ! she is my Adrian bride ! Destiny has de- 
 livered her to me. Why did I pass the Alps ? Heaven 
 frowned upon my passage ; yet I was expected ; I was long 
 expected. Poh ! she is mine. I would cut her out from 
 the heart of a legion. Is she happy ? Her " heaven is 
 never serene." Mark that. I will be the luminary to dis- 
 pel these clouds. Betrothed ! Infamous jargon ! She 
 belongs to me. Why did I not stab him ? Is there no 
 bravo in Venice that will do the job ? Betrothed ! What 
 a word ! What an infamous, what a ridiculous word ! She 
 'is mine, and she is betrothed to another ! l^Lost assuredly, 
 if she be only to be attained by the destruction of the city, 
 she shall be mine. A host of Delfinis shall not balk me ! 
 
 ' Now this is no common affair. It shall be done, and it 
 shall be done quickly. I cannot doubt she loves me. It is 
 as necessary that she should love me as that I should adore 
 her. We are bound together by Fate. We belong to each 
 other; " I have been long expected." 
 
 'Ah! were these words a warning or a prophecy? Have 
 I arrived too late? Let it be settled at once, this very 
 evening. Suspense is madness. She is mine! most as- 
 suredly she is mine ! I will not admit for a moment that 
 she is not mine. That idea cannot exist in my thoughts ; 
 it is the end of the world, it is Doomsday for me. Most 
 assuredly she is my Adrian bride, my hride, not my hetrotlied 
 merely, but my hride. 
 
 * Let me be calm. I am calm. I never was calmer in 
 my life. Nothing shall ruffle, nothing shall discompose me, 
 I will have my rights. This difficulty will make our future 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 227. 
 
 lives more sweefc; we shall smile at it in each, other's arms. 
 Grimani Delfini ! if there be blood in that name, it shall 
 flow. Rather than another should possess her, she shjoW 
 herself be sacrificed ! a solemn sacrifice, a sweet and solemn 
 sacrifice, consecrated by my own doom ! I woidd lead her 
 to the altar like Iphigenia. I 
 
 ' inscrutable, inexorable Destiny, which must be ful- 
 filled ! doom that mortals must endure, and cannot direct ! 
 Lo ! I kneel before thee, and I pray. Let it end ! let it end ! 
 let it end at once ! This suspense is insanity. Is she not 
 mine ? Didst thou not whisper it in the solitude of the north ? 
 didst thou not confirm it amid the thunder of the Alps ? 
 didst thou not reanimate my drooping courage even amid 
 this fair city, which I so much love, tliis land of long and 
 frequent promise ? And shall it not be ? Do I exist ? do 
 I breathe, and think, and dare ? Am I a man, and a man 
 of strong passions and deep thoughts ? and shall I, like a vile 
 beggar, upon my knees crave the rich heritage that is my 
 own by right ? If she be not mine, there is no longer Venice, 
 no longer human existence, no longer a beautiful and ever- 
 lasting world. Let it all cease ; let tlie whole globe crack 
 and shiver ; let all nations and all human hopes expire at 
 once ; let chaos come again, if this girl be not my bride ! ' 
 
 I determined to go to the Malbrizzi Palace. My spirit 
 rose as I ascended the stairs. I felt confident she was there. 
 Her form was the first that occurred to me as I entered the 
 saloon. Several persons were around her, and among them 
 Grimani Delfini. I did not care. I had none of the jealousy 
 of petty loves. She was unhappy, that was suflicient ; and, 
 if there were no other way of disentangling the mesh, I had 
 a sword that should cut this Gordian knot in his best blood. 
 I saluted her. She presented me to her cousin, and I smiled 
 upon one who, at all events, should be my victim. 
 . * I hope we shall make Venice agreeable to you, Couat,* 
 said Grimani. 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 CONTA RIXI FLEMIXG : 
 
 * There is no donbt,' I replied. 
 
 We conyersed for some time on indifferent subjects. My 
 manner was elated, and I entered into the sparkling contest 
 of conversation with success. The presence of Alceste waa 
 my inspiration. I would not quit her side, and in time we 
 were once more alone. 
 
 'You are ever gay,' she remarked. 
 
 ' My face is most joyful when my heart is most gloomy. 
 Happiness is tranquil. Why were you not at the Opera?' 
 
 * I go out very little.* 
 
 * I went thither only to meet you. I detest those assem- 
 blies. You are always surrounded by a crowd of moths. 
 Will you dance ? ' 
 
 ' I have just refused Grimani.' 
 
 * I am glad of it. I abhor dancing ; and I only asked you 
 to monopolise your society.* 
 
 * And what have you been doing to-day? Have you seen 
 all our spectacles ? ' 
 
 * I have just risen. I did not go to bed last night ; but 
 sat up musing over our strange meeting.' 
 
 * Was it so strange ? ' 
 
 * It was stranger than you imagine.* 
 
 * You are mysterious.' 
 
 * Everything is mysterious, although I have been always 
 taught the reverse.' 
 
 * I believe, too,' she remarked, with a pensive air, and in 
 a serious tone, * that the courses of this world are not so 
 obvious as we imagine.' 
 
 * The more I look upon you, the more I am convinced 
 that yesterday was not our first meeting. We have been 
 long acquainted.' 
 
 'In dreams?' 
 
 * What you please. Dreams, visions, prophecies ; I be- 
 lieve in them all. You have often appeared to me, and I 
 have often heard of you.* 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 229 
 
 * Dreams are doubtless very singular.' 
 
 * They come from Heaven. I could tell you stories of 
 dreams tliat would indeed surprise you.' 
 
 'Toll me.' 
 
 * When I was about to pass tlie Alps but really it is 
 
 too serious a narrative for such a place. Do you know the 
 villa of the Temple on the Brenta ? ' 
 
 ' Assuredly, for it is ray own.' 
 
 ' Your own ! Then you are indeed mine.' 
 
 * What can you mean ? ' 
 
 ' The temple, the temple ! ' 
 
 ' And did you write upon the wall ? ' 
 ' Who else ? Who else ? But why I wrote, that I would 
 tell you.' 
 
 * Let US walk to the end of these rooms. There is a ter- 
 race, where we shall be less disturbed.' 
 
 * And where we have been long expected.' 
 *Ah!' 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 * It is wonderful, most wonderful ! ' and she leant' down, and 
 plucked a flower. 
 
 ' I wish I were that flower ! ' I said. 
 
 *It resembles me more than you, Contarini,' and she 
 threw it away. 
 
 ' I see no resemblance.* 
 
 * It is lost.' 
 
 [ picked it np, and placed it near my heart. 
 
 * It is found,' I replied, 'and cherished.' 
 
 'We are melancholy,' said Alceste, ' and yet we are not 
 happy. Your philosophy, is it quite correct ? ' 
 
 ' I am happy, and you should resemble me, because I 
 wish it.* 
 
230 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 ' Good wishes do not always bring good fortnnes.' 
 
 * Destiny bears to ns our lot, and Destiny is perhaps ctu 
 own will.' 
 
 ' Alas ! my will is brighter than my doom ! ' 
 
 * Both should be beautifiil, and shall * 
 
 * Oh ! talk not of the fntnre. Come, Contarini, come, come 
 away.' 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Shall I endeavour to recall the soft transport wliich this 
 night diffused itself over my being ? I existed only for one 
 object ; one idea only was impressed upon my brain. The 
 next day passed in a dehcious listlessncss and utter oblivion 
 of all cares and duties. In the evening I rose from the 
 couch, on wliich I had the whole day reclined musing on a 
 single thought, and flew to ascertain whether that wizard, 
 Imagination, had deceived me, whether she were, indeed, so 
 wondrous fair and sweet, and that this earth could indeed 
 be graced by such surpassing loveliness. 
 
 She was not there. I felt her absence as the greatest 
 misfortune that had ever fallen upon me. I could not anti- 
 cipate existing four- and- twenty hours without her presence, 
 and I hngered in expectation of her arrival. I could hear 
 nothing of her ; but each moment I fancied she must ap- 
 pear. It seemed impossible that so bitter a doom awaited 
 me, as that I should not gaze this night upon her beauty. 
 She did not come. I remained to the last, silent and anxious, 
 pjid returned home to a sleepless bed. 
 
 The next morning I called at the Delfini Palace, to which 
 I had received an invitation. Morning was an unusual 
 time to call, but for this I did not care. I saw the old 
 Count and Countess, and her ladyship's cavalier, a frivolous 
 and ancient Adonis. I talked with them all, aU of them, 
 with the greatest good humour, in the hope that Alcestc 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 231 
 
 would at length appear. She did not. I ventured to in- 
 quire after her, I feared she might be unwell. She was 
 quite well, but engaged with her confessor. I fell into one 
 of my silent rages, kicked the old lady's poodle, snubbed the 
 cavalier, and stalked away. 
 
 In the evening I was careful to be at the Malbrizzi Palace. 
 The Delfinis were there, but not Alceste. I was already full 
 of suspicions, and had been brooding the whole morning 
 over a conspiracy. 'Alceste is not here,' I observed to the 
 Countess, ' is she unwell ? ' 
 
 'Not at all. I saw her this morning. She was quite 
 well. I suppose Count Grimani is jealous.' 
 
 ' Hah ! ' thought I, ' has it already come to that ? Let 
 us begin, then. I feel desperate. This affair must be 
 settled. Fed by her constant presence and her smiles, the 
 flame of my passion could for a time burn with a calm and 
 steady blaze ; but I am getting mad again. I shall die if 
 this state of things lasts another day. I have half a mind 
 to invite him to the terrace, and settle it at once. Let me 
 see, cannot I do more ? ' 
 
 I mused a moment, quitted the saloon, called the gondola 
 and told them to row me to the Delfini Palace. 
 
 "We glided beneath that ancient pile. All was dark, save 
 one opened window, whence proceeded the voice of one 
 singing. I knew that voice. I motioned to the gondoliers 
 to rest upon their oars. 
 
 *'Tis the Signora Contarini,* whispered Tita, who was 
 acquainted with the family. 
 
 We floated silently beneath her window. Again she 
 sang. 
 
 *I MARKED A EOSE BEDEWED WITH TEAES, A WHITE AND 
 VIRGIN ROSE ; AND I SAID, " ! ROSE WHY DO YOU WEEP, YOU 
 ARE TOO BEAUTIFUL FOR SORROW?" AnD SHE ANSWERED, 
 
 "Lady, mourn not foe me, for my grief comes from 
 Heaven." ' 
 
232 CONTARINI FLEMING : 
 
 She was silent. I motioned to Tita, who, like many of 
 the gondoliers, was gifted with a fine voice to answer. He 
 immediately sang a verse from one of the favourite ballads 
 of his ciiy. While he sung I perceived her shadow, and 
 presently I observed her in the middle of the apartment. 
 I plucked from my breast a flower, which I had borne for 
 her to the Malbrizzi Palace, and I threw the rose into the 
 chamber. 
 
 It fell upon the table. She picked it up, she stared at it 
 for some moments, she smiled, she pressed it to her lips. 
 
 I could restrain myself no longer. I pushed the gondola 
 alongside the palace, clambered up the balcony, and entered 
 the room. 
 
 She started, she nearly shrieked, but restrained herself. 
 
 * You are surprised, Alceste, perliaps you are displeased. 
 They are endeavouring to separate us ; I cannot live with- 
 out you.* 
 
 She clasped her hands, and looked up to heaven with a 
 glance of anguish. 
 
 * Yes ! Alceste,' I exclaimed, advancing, * let me express 
 what my manner has never attempted to conceal, let me ex- 
 press to you my absolute adoration. I love you, my Alceste ; 
 I love you with a passion as powerful as it is pure, a passion 
 which I cannot control, a passion which ought not to be 
 controlled.' 
 
 She spoke not, she turned away her head, and deprecated 
 my advances with her extended arms. 
 
 * Alceste, I know all. I know the empty, the impious 
 ceremony, that has doomed you to be the bride of a being 
 whom you must abhor. My Alceste is not happy. She her- 
 self told me her heaven was not serene, the heaven in whose 
 L'ght I would for ever lie.' 
 
 I advanced, stole her hand, and pressed it to my lips. 
 Her face was hidden in her arm, and that reclined upon a 
 pillar. 
 
 There was silence for a moment. Suddenly she withdrew 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 233 
 
 her liand, and said, in a low but distinct voice, * Contarini, 
 this must end.' 
 
 * End ! Alceste, I adore you. You, you dare not say you 
 do not love me. Our will is not our own. Destiny has 
 linked us together, and Heaven has interposed to consecrate 
 our vows. And shall a form, a dull, infamous form, stand 
 between our ardent and hallowed loves ! ' 
 
 ' It is not that, Contarini, it is not that, though that were 
 much. No, Contarini, I am not yours.' 
 
 * Not mine, Alceste ! not mine ! Look upon me. Think 
 who I am, and dare to say you are not mine. Am I not 
 Contarini Fleming ? Are you not my Adrian bride ? 
 Heaven has deHvered you to me.' 
 
 * Alas ! alas ! Heaven keeps me from you.' 
 
 * Alceste, you see kneeling before you one who is indeed 
 nothing, if Fame be what some deem. I am young, Alceste ; 
 the shadow of my mind has not yet fallen over the earth. 
 Yet there is that within me, and at this moment I prophesy, 
 there is that within me, which may yet mould the mind and 
 fortunes of my race; and of this heart capable of these things, 
 the fountains are open, Alceste, and they flow for you. Dis- 
 dain them not, Alceste, pass them not by with carelessness. 
 In the desert of your life, they will refresh you, yes, yes, 
 they can indeed become to you a source of all felicity.' 
 
 * I love you with a love worthy of your being ; I love you 
 as none but men like me can love. Blend not the thought 
 of my passion with the common-place aifections of the 
 world. Is it nothing to be the divinity of that breathing 
 shrine of inspiration, my teeming mind ? ! Alceste, you 
 know not the world to which I can -lead you, the fair and 
 glorious garden, in which we may wander for ever.* 
 
 * I am lost ! ' she murmured. 
 
 I caught her in my arms ; yea ! I caught her in my arms, 
 that dark-eyed daughter of the land I loved. I sealed her 
 Bweet lips with passionate kisses. Her head rested on my 
 breast ; and I dried with em])races her fast-flowing tears. 
 
234 CONTAKINI FLEMING: 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 I HAD quii/ted Alceste so abruptly that I had made no ar- 
 rangements for onr future meeting. Nor, indeed, for some 
 time could I think of anything but my present and over- 
 flowing joy. So passionately was I entranced with all that 
 had happened ; so deeply did I muse over all that had been 
 said and done ; so sweetly did her voice linger in my ear ; and 
 so clearly did her fond form move before my vision, that 
 hours elapsed before I felt again the craving of again behold- 
 ing her. I doubted not that I should find her at the Mal- 
 brizzi Palace. I was disappointed, but my disappointment 
 was not bitter, like the preceding eve. I felt secure in our 
 secret love, and I soon quitted the assembly again to glide 
 under her -window. All was dark ; I waited. Tita agfain 
 sang. No hght appeared, no sound stirred. 
 
 I resolved to call at the palace, to which I had received 
 the usual general invitation. The family were out and at 
 the Pisani Palace. I returned to Madame Malbrizzi's, and 
 looked about for my young Austrian acquaintance. I ob- 
 served him ; and we fell into conversation. I inquired if he 
 knew Count Pisani, and on his answering in the affirmative, 
 I requested him to accompany me to his residence. We soon 
 arrived at the Pisani Palace. I met the Delfinis, but no Al- 
 ceste. I spoke to the Countess. I listened to several 
 gtories about her lapdog, I even anticipated her ancient 
 cavalier in picking up her glove. I ventured to inquire 
 after Alceste. They believed she was not quite well. I 
 quitted the palace, and repaired again to the magical win- 
 dow. Darkness and silence alone greeted me. I returned 
 liome, more gloomy than anxious. 
 
 In the morning Lausanne brought me a letter. I broke 
 the seal with a trembling hand, and with a faiiit blush. I 
 guessed the writer. The words seemed traced by love. I 
 read : — 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 235 
 
 * I renounce our vows ; I retract our sacred pledge ; I de- 
 liver to the Tvinds our fatal love. 
 
 * Pity me, Contarini, hate me, despise me, but forget mo. 
 ' Why do I write ? Why do I weep? I am nothing, oh ! 
 
 I am nothing. I am blotted out of this fair creation ; and 
 the world, that should bring me so many joys, brings me 
 only despair. 
 
 ' Do not hate me, Contarini, do not hate me. Do not 
 hate one who adores yon. Yes ! adores ; for even at this 
 dread moment, when I renounce your love, let me, let me 
 pour forth my adoration. 
 
 * Am I insensible ? am I unworthy of the felicity that for 
 an instant we thought might be mine ? ! Contarini, no 
 one is worthy of you, and yet I fondly believed my devotion 
 might compensate for my imperfectness. 
 
 ' To be the faithful companion of his life, to be the part- 
 ner of his joy and sorrow, to sympathise with his glory, 
 and to solace his grief, I ask no more. Thou Heaven ! wilt 
 thou not smile upon me ? Wilt thou, for whom I sacrificed 
 so much, wilt thou not pity me ? 
 
 ' All is silent. There is no sign. No heavenly messenger 
 tells me I may be happy. Alas! I ask too much. It is 
 too great a prize. I feel it, I believe it. My unwortliiness 
 is great, but I am its victim. 
 
 ' Contarini, let this console you. Heaven has declared I 
 am unworthy of you. Were I worthy of you, Heaven would 
 not be cruel. 0, Contarini, let this console you. You are 
 destined for higher joys. Think not of me, Contarini, 
 think not of me, and I, I will be silent. 
 
 ' Silent ! And where ? world, which I now feel that 
 I could love, beautiful, beautiful world, thou art not for me, 
 and Heaven, Heaven to whom I offer so much, surely, in 
 tills agony, it will support me. 
 
 * I must write, although my pen refuses to inscribe my 
 woe ; I must write, although my fast-flowing tears batho 
 
236 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 out the record of my misery. my God, for one moment 
 uphold me! Let the future at least purchase me one 
 moment of present calm ! Let me spare, at least, him ! 
 Let me, at least, in this last act of my love, testify my 
 devotion by concealing my despair. 
 
 *YoTi must know all, Contarini. You mnst know all, 
 that you may not hate me. Think me not light, think me 
 not capricious. It is my constancy that is fatal, it is my 
 duty that is my death. 
 
 ' You love our country, Contarini, you love our Italy. 
 Fatal Italy! Fly, fly away from us. Cross again those 
 Alps where Heaven frowned upon you as you passed. Un- 
 happy country! I who was bom to breathe amid thy 
 beauty, am the victim of thy usages. You know the cus- 
 toms of this land. The convent is our school, it leads to 
 the cloister, that is too often our doom. I was educated in 
 a Tuscan convent. I purchased my release from it, like 
 many of my friends, and the price was my happiness, which 
 I knew not then how to prize. The day that I quitted the 
 convent I was the betrothed bride of Grimani Delfini. I was 
 not then terrified by that, the memory of which now makes 
 me shudder. It is a common though an unhallowed incident. 
 
 ' I entered that world of which I had thought so much. 
 My mind expanded with my increased sphere of know- 
 ledge. Let me be brief. I soon could not contemplate 
 without horror the idea of being the bride of a man I could 
 not love. There was no refuge. I postponed our union 
 by a thousand excuses ; and had recourse to a thousand 
 expedients to dissolve it. Vain struggling of a slave ! In 
 my frenzy, the very day that you entered Italy I returned 
 to Florence on the excuse of visiting a friend, and secretly 
 devoted myself to the cloister. The Abbess, allured by the 
 prospect of acquiring my property for her institution, be- 
 came my confidante, and I returned to Venice only to make 
 in secret the necessary preparations for quitting it for ever. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. ^yr 
 
 * The Delfinis were on the Brenta. 1 repaired one day 
 to the villa which yon visited, and which, though unin- 
 habited, became, from having been the favourite residence 
 of my father, a frequent object of my visits. As I walked 
 along the terrace, I perceived for a moment, and at a dis- 
 tance, a stranger crossing the lawn. I retired into the 
 chapel, where I remained more than half an hour. I quit- 
 ted the chapel and walked to the temple. I was attracted 
 by some writing on the wall. I read it, and although I 
 could ascribe to it no definite meaning, I could not help 
 musing over it. I sat down in a chair at the head of the 
 table. Whether I were tired by the walk or overpowered 
 by the heat I know not, but an unaccustomed drowsiness 
 crept over my limbs, and I fell asleep. I not only fell 
 asleep, but I dreamed, and my dream was wonderful and 
 strange. 
 
 ' I found myself alone in the cloisters of a convent, and 1 
 heard afar the solemn chant of an advancing procession. It 
 became louder and louder, and soon I perceived the nuns 
 advancing with the abbess at their head. And the abbess 
 came forward to claim me, and, to my horror, her coun- 
 tenance was that of Grimani Delfini. And I struggled to 
 extricate myself from her grasp, and suddenly the stranger 
 of the morning rushed in, and caught me in his arms, and 
 the cloisters melted away, and I found myself in a beauti- 
 ful country, and I awoke. 
 
 * The sun had set. I returned home, pensive and way- 
 ward. Never had I thought of my unhappy situation with 
 more unhappiness. And each night the figure of the 
 stranger appeared to me in my dreams, and each day I 
 procrastinated my return to Florence. And in the agita- 
 tion which these strange dreams produced, I determined to 
 go and pray at the tombs of my fathers. I quitted the 
 Villa Delfini with a single female attendant, and returned 
 to it the same day. I entered the church through a private 
 
238 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 door from the adjoining building, wliicli was a hotise of 
 charity founded by our family. 
 
 ' You know the rest, Contarini. We met. The stranger 
 of my dreams stood before me. My heart, before that 
 meeting, was already yours, and, when you whispered to 
 me that you too 
 
 'Woe! woe! why are we not happy! You said that 
 heaven had brought us together. Alas ! Contarini, Heaven 
 has parted us. I avoided you, Contarini. I flew from the 
 spell which each instant grew stronger. You sought nxe. 
 I yielded. Yes! I yielded, but long vigils shall atone for 
 that fatal word. 
 
 * Go, Contarini, go forth in glory and in pride. I will 
 pi'ay for you, I will ever think of you ; I will ever think of 
 my best, my only beloved. All the prosperity human 
 imagination can devise and heavenly love can grant, hover 
 over you! You will be happy, you must be happy. For 
 my sake you will be happy, and I, I am alone, but I ara 
 alone with my Redeemer. ' Alceste.' 
 
 It was read. My spirit was never more hushed in my 
 life ; I was quite calm. She might be in a convent, and it 
 might be necessary to bum the convent down, and both of 
 us might probably perish in the flames. But what was 
 death to the threatened desolation ? I sent for Lausanne. 
 ' Lausanne,' I said, ' I have a high opinion of your talents 
 and energy. I have hitherto refrained from putting them 
 to the test for particular reasons. A circumstance has 
 occurred in which I require not only their greatest exer- 
 tion, but devotion and fidelity. If you accomphsh my 
 wish you are no longer my servant, you are my friend for 
 life. If you fail, it matters little, for I shall not survive. 
 
 But if you betray me, Lausanne ' and I looked through 
 
 his very soul. 
 
 *The consequences may be fatal to me, I understsjid 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 239 
 
 you. Wlien I entered your service, you are under a mis- 
 take if you consider my fidelity restricted.' 
 
 *It is well; I place implicit trust in you. Signora 
 Contarini lias quitted Venice suddenly. Her present abode 
 is a secret : I wisli to ascei'tain it.' 
 
 * There will be no difficulty, my lord,' said Lausanne, 
 with a smile. ' There are no secrets in Venice to the rich.' 
 
 ' It is well. I shall remain in this room until I hear 
 from you. I care not how much is expended. Away! and 
 for God's sake, Lausanne, bring me good news.' 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 I WALKED up and down tho room without stopping. Not 
 Hn idea crossed my mind. In two hours Lausanne returned. 
 
 'Well?' I exclaimed. 
 
 ' There is, I think, little doubt that the Signora departed 
 for the Villa Delfini. She may now have quitted it. I 
 sent Tita to the palace, as he is acquainted with the house- 
 hold. This is all he could elicit.' 
 
 ' The gondola ! Rest you here, Lausanne, and let me 
 know when I return what ships are about to leave the port. 
 Tell the banker I shall want money, a considerable sum ; 
 two thousand sequins ; and let the bills be ready for my 
 signature. And Lausanne,' I added in a low tone, ' I may 
 require a priest. Have your eye upon some fellow who 
 will run over the ceremony without asking questions. If I 
 bo any time absent say I am gone to Trieste.' 
 
 ]\Iy gondoliers skimmed along. We were soon at Fusina, 
 I shook my purse to tho postilion. The horses were ready 
 in an instant. I took Tita with me, as be knew the ser- 
 vants. We dashed off at a rate which is seldom achieved 
 on those dull sandy roads. 
 
240 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 "We huiTied on for three or four hours. I told Tita to 
 have his eye for any of the Delfini household. As we were 
 passing the gate of the Villa of the Temple, he turned 
 round on the box, and said, * By the blood of the Holy 
 Baptist, your Excellency, there is the little Maria, Signora 
 Alceste's attendant. She just now entered tliat side door. 
 I knew her by the rose-coloured ribbons which I gave her 
 last carnival.' 
 
 ' Did she see us ? * 
 
 * I think not, for the baggage would have smiled.' 
 
 * Drive back a hundred yards.' 
 
 It was sunset. I got out of the carriage, and stole into 
 the gardens of the villa unperceived. I could see no lighta 
 in the building. From this I inferred that Alceste was 
 perhaps only paying a farewell visit to her father's house. 
 I ran along the terrace, but obser^^ed no one. I gained the 
 chapel, and instinctively trod very lightly. I glanced in 
 at the window, and perceived a form kneeling before the 
 altar. There was a single taper. The kneeling figure 
 leant back with clasped hands. The light fell upon the 
 countenance. I beheld the face of Alceste Contarini. 
 
 I opened the door gently, but it roused her. I entered 
 
 * I come,' I said, ' to claim my bride.' 
 
 She screamed ; she leaped upon the altar, and clung to 
 the great ebony cross. It was the same figure and the 
 same attitude that I had beheld in my vision in the church. 
 
 * Alceste,' I said, *you are mine. There is no power in 
 heaven or on earth, there is no infernal influence that can 
 prevent you from being mine. You are as much part of 
 me as this arm with which I now embrace you.' I tore 
 her from the cross ; I carried her fainting form out of the 
 chapel. 
 
 The moon had risen. I rested on a bank, and watched' 
 with blended passion and anxiety her closed eyes. She 
 was motionless, and her white arms drooped down ap- 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 241 
 
 parently without life. Slie breathed, yes! she breathed. 
 That large eye opened, and darkened into light. She gazed 
 around with an air of vacancy. A smile, a faint, sweet 
 smile, played upon her face. She slightly stretched her 
 beautiful frame, as if again to feel her existence, and moved 
 her beautiful arms, as if to try whether she yet retained 
 power over her limbs. Again she smiled, and exclaiming, 
 * Contarini ! ' threw them round my neck. 
 
 * 0, my Alceste ! my long-promised Alceste, you are in- 
 deed mine.' 
 
 * I am yours, Contarini ! * 
 
 CHAPTER Xy. 
 
 We walked to the temple, in ordex- that she might compose 
 herself before her journey. I sat down in the same chair, 
 but not alone. Happiness is indeed tranquil ; for our joy was 
 full, and we were silent. At length I whispered to her 
 that we must go. We rose, and were about to leave the 
 temple, when she would go back and press her lips on my 
 inscription. 
 
 She remembered the maid, whom I had forgotten. I 
 sent Tita to tell his friend that a carriage had arrived from 
 Madame Malbrizzi's for Alceste, who was obliged suddenly 
 to return, and that she was to remain behind. I wrapped 
 Alceste in my cloak and placed her in the carriage, and 
 then returned to Venice. 
 
 The gondola glided swiftly to my palace. I carried 
 Alceste out, and bore her to her apartment. She entreated 
 that I would not quit her. I was obliged, therefore, to re- 
 ceive Lausanne's report at the door. There was no vessel 
 immediately about to depart, but a ship had quitted the 
 port that morning for Candia, and was still beating about 
 
 E 
 
242 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 in. the offing. He had himself seen the captain, who was 
 content to take passengers, provided they would come out 
 to him. This suited my plans. Lausanne had induced the 
 captain to lie- to tiU the morning. A priest, he told me, was 
 waiting. 
 
 I broke to Alceste, lying exhausted upon the sofa, the 
 necessity of our instant departure and our instant union. 
 She said it was well ; that she should never be at ease till 
 she had quitted Yenice ; and that she was ready. I post- 
 poned our marriage until the night, and wished her to take 
 some refreshment, but she could not eat. Directions were 
 given to Lausanne to prepare for our instant departure. I 
 resolved to take Tita with me, with whom I was well 
 pleased. 
 
 I was anxious about the marriage, because, although I 
 believed it invalid in a Cathohc country without a dispensa- 
 tion, it would, as I conceived, hold good in Protestant law. 
 I was careful of the honour of the Contarini, and at this 
 moment was not unmindful of the long line of northern 
 ancestry, of which I wished my child to be the heir. 
 
 The ingenuity of Lausanne was always remarkable at 
 conjunctures like the present. The magic of his character 
 was his patience. This made him quicker, and readier, and 
 more successful than all other men. He prepared everything, 
 and anticipated wants of which we could not think. 
 
 Two hours before midnight I was united by the forms of 
 the Catholic church to Alceste Contarini, the head of the 
 most illustrious house in Europe. Two servants were the 
 only witnesses of an act, to falfil which she imagined herself 
 perilling her eternal welfare, and which exercised a more 
 certain and injurious influence over her worldly fortunes 
 and reputation. 
 
 At daybreak Lausanne roused me, saying that the vrind 
 was favourable, and we must be off. He had already des- 
 patched Tita to the ship with all our baggage. I rose, wrote 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 243 
 
 to my banker, informing him that I should be absent some 
 time, and requesting him to manage everything for my 
 credit, and then I kissed my still sleeping wife. The morn- 
 ing light fell upon her soft face. A slight flush melted 
 away as I gazed upon her, and she opened her eyes, and 
 smiled. Never had she looked more beautiful. I would 
 have given half my fortune to have been permitted to re- 
 main at Venice in tranquillity and peace. 
 
 But doubly sweet is the love that is gained by danger 
 and guarded by secrecy. All was prepared. We stepped, 
 perhaps for the last time, into a gondola. The grey sea 
 was before us; we soon reached the ship. Tita and the 
 captain were standing at the ladder-head. The moment 
 that we embarked the sails were set, and a dashing breeze 
 bore us along out of the gulf. Long ere noon that Venice, 
 with its towers and cupolas, which I had forfeited so much 
 to visit, and all those pleasant palaces wherein I could have 
 lived for ever, had faded into the blue horizon. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The ship was an imperial merchant brig. The wife of the 
 captain was on board ; a great convenience for Alceste, who 
 was without female attendance, and, with the exception of 
 some clothes which the provident Lausanne had obtained 
 from Tita's sister, without a wardrobe. But these are light 
 hardships for love, and the wind was favourable, and the 
 vessel fleet. We were excellent sailors, and bore the voyage 
 without inconvenience ; and the novelty of the scene and 
 the beauty of the sea amused and interested us. 
 
 I imbibed from this voyage a taste for a sea life, which 
 future wanderings on the waters have only confirmed^ 
 I never find the sea monotonous. The variations of weather, 
 
 ? 2 
 
244 CONTARINI FLEMING : 
 
 the ingenious tactics, the righ sunsets, the huge, strange 
 fish, the casual meetings, and the original and racj character 
 of mariners, and perhaps also the frequent sight of land 
 which offers itself in the Mediterranean, afford me constant 
 amusement. I do not think that there is in the world a 
 kinder-hearted and more courteous person than a common 
 sailor. As to their attentions to Alceste, they were even 
 delicate ; and I am sure that, although a passionate lover, I 
 might have taken many a hint from their vigilant solicitude. 
 Whenever she was present their boisterous mirth was in- 
 stantly repressed. She never walked the deck that a ready 
 hand was not quick in clearing her path of any impediments, 
 and ere I could even discover that she was weary, their 
 watchful eyes anticipated her wants, and they proff'ered her 
 a rude but welcome seat. Ah ! what a charming voyage 
 was this, when my only occupation was to look upon an 
 ever-beaming face, and to be assured a thousand times each 
 hour that I was the cause of all this happiness ! 
 
 Lausanne called me one morning on deck. Our port was 
 in sight. I ran up ; I beheld the highlands of Candia ; a 
 rich, wild group of lofty blue mountains, and, in the centre, 
 the snowy peak of Mount Ida. As we approached, the plain 
 extending from the base of the mountains to the coast be- 
 came perceptible, and soon a town and harbour. 
 
 "We were surrounded by boats full of beings in bright and 
 strange costumes. A new world, a new language, a new 
 religion, were before us. Our deck was covered with bearded 
 and turbaned men. We stared at each other in all this 
 picturesque confusion; but Lausanne, and especially Tita, 
 who spoke Greek and knew Candia well, saved us from all 
 anxiety. We landed, and, thanks to being in a Turkish 
 province, there was no difficulty about passports, with which 
 we were unprovided, and a few sequins saved the captain 
 from explaining why his passengers were not included in 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 245 
 
 his ship's papers. We landed, and were lodged in the house 
 of* a Greek, who officiated as a European vice-consul. 
 
 The late extraordinary incidents of our lives had followed 
 each other with such rapidity that, when we woke in the 
 morning, we could scarcely believe that it was not all a 
 dream. We looked round our chamber with its strange 
 furniture, and stared at the divans, and small, high windows, 
 shadowed with painted glass, and smiled. Our room was 
 darkened, but at the end opened an arch bright in the sun. 
 Beautiful strange plants quivered in the light. The perfume 
 of orange-trees filled our chamber, and the bees were clus- 
 tering in the scarlet flowers of the pomegranate. Amid the 
 pleasing distraction of these sweet sounds and scents we 
 distinguished the fall of a fountain. 
 
 We stole forward to the arch, like a prince and princess 
 just disenchanted in a fairy tale. We stepped into a court 
 paved with marble, and full of rare shrubs. The fountain 
 was in the centre. Around it were delicate mats of Barbary, 
 and small bright Persian carpets ; and, crouching on a scarlet 
 cushion, was a white gazelle. 
 
 I stepped out, and found our kind host, who spoke Italian. 
 I sent his lovely daughter, Alexina, whose cheeks were like 
 a cleft pomegranate, to my wife. As for myself, by Lau- 
 sanne's advice, I took a Turkish bath, which is the most 
 delightful thing in the world ; and when I was reduced to 
 a jelly, I repaired to our host's divan, where his wife and 
 three other daughters, all equally beautifal, and dressed in 
 long flowing robes of difierent-coloured velvets, richly em- 
 broidered, and caps of the same material, with tassels of 
 gold, and covered with pearls, came forTvard. One gave 
 me a pipe seven feet long ; another fed me with sweetmeats ; 
 a third pressed her hand to her heart as she presented me 
 cofiee in a small cup of porcelain resting in a filagree frame ; 
 and a child, who sparkled like a fairy, bent her knee as sho 
 
.246 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 profiered me a vase of slierbet. I felt like a pasha, and the 
 good father translated my compliments. 
 
 I thought that Alceste would never appear, and I sent 
 Lausanne to her door fifty times. At length she came, and 
 in a Greek dress, which they had insisted upon her weai'ing. 
 I thought I had never even dreamed of anything so beautiful. 
 She smiled and blushed a little. We agreed that we were 
 perfectly happy. 
 
 This was all very delightful, but it was necessary to ar- 
 range our plans. I consulted Lausanne. I wished to engage 
 a residence in a retired part of the island. Our host had a 
 country-house which would exactly suit us, and desired a 
 tenant. I sent Lausanne immediately to examine it. It 
 was only fifteen miles away. BLis report was satisftictory, 
 and I at once closed with the consul's offer. 
 
 The house was a long low building, in the Eastern style, 
 with plenty of rooms. It was situate on a gentle green hiU, 
 the last undulation of a chaiQ of Mount Ida, and was com- 
 pletely embowered in gardens and plantations of olive and 
 orange. It was about two miles from the sea, which ap- 
 peared before us in a wild and rocky bay. A peasant who 
 cultivated the gardens, with his wife and children, two 
 daughters just breaking into womanhood and a young son, 
 were ofiered to us as servants. Nothing could be more con- 
 venient. Behold us at length at rest. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 I HAVE arrived at a period of my life which, although it 
 afforded me the highest happiness that was ever the lot of 
 man, of which the recollection is now my never-ceasing 
 solace, and to enjoy the memory of which is alone worth 
 existence, cannot prove very interesting to those who have 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 247 
 
 been sufficiently engaged by my history to follow me to my 
 retirement in ancient Crete. 
 
 My life was now monotonous, for my life was only love. 
 
 I know not the palling of passion of which some write. 1 
 have loved only once, and the recollection of the being to whom 
 I was devoted fills me at this moment with as much rapture 
 as when her virgin charms were first pelded to my embrace. 
 I cannot comprehend the sneers of witty rakes at what they 
 call constancy. If beings are united by any other considei'a- 
 tion than love, constancy is of course impossible, and, I think, 
 unnecessary. To a man who is in love, the thought of 
 another woman is uninteresting, if not repulsive. Constancy 
 is human nature. Instead of love being the occasion of all 
 the misery of this world, as is sung by fantastic bards, I 
 beheve that the misery of this world is occasioned by there 
 not being love enough. This opinion, at any rate, appears 
 more logical. Happiness is only to be found in a recurrence 
 to the principles of human nature, and these wdll prompt 
 very simple manners. For myself, I believe that permanent 
 unions of the sexes should be early encouraged ; nor do I 
 conceive that general happiness can ever flourish but in 
 societies where it is the custom for all males to marry at 
 eighteen. This custom, I am informed, is not unusual in 
 the United States of America, and its consequence is a 
 simphcity of manners and a purity of conduct which Euro- 
 peans cannot comprehend, but to which they must ulti- 
 mately have recourse. Primeval barbarism and extreme 
 civilisation must arrive at the same results. Men, under 
 these circumstances, are actuated by their structure ; in the 
 first instance, instinctively ; in the second, philosophically. 
 At present, we are all in the various gradations of the 
 intermediate state of corruption. 
 
 I could have Hved with Alceste Contarini in a solitude 
 for ever. I desired nothing more than to enjoy existence 
 with such a companion. I would have communicated to 
 
248 CONTARIXI FLEMIXG : 
 
 her all my thoughts and feelings. I would have devoted 
 to her solitary ear the poetry of my being. Such a life 
 might not suit others. Others, influenced by a passion not 
 less ardent, may find its flame fed by the cares of life, che- 
 rished by its duties and its pleasures, and flourishing amid 
 the travails of society. All is an afiair of organisation. 
 Ours would differ. Among all men there are some points 
 of similarity and sympathy. There are few alike ; there 
 are some totally unlike the mass. The various tribes that 
 people this globe, in all probability, spring from difierent 
 animals. Until we know more of ourselves, of what use 
 are our systems ? For myself, I can conceive nothing more 
 idle or more useless than what is styled moral philosophy. 
 "We speculate upon the character of man ; we divide and we 
 subdivide ; we have our generals, our sages, our statesmen. 
 There is not a modification of mind that is not mapped in 
 our great atlas of intelligence. "We cannot be wrong, be- 
 cause we have studied the past; and we are famous for 
 discovering the future when it has taken place. Napoleon 
 is First Consul, and would found a dynasty. There is no 
 doubt of it. Read my character of Cromwell. But what 
 use is the discovery, when the consul is already tearing off" 
 his republican robe, and snatching the imperial diadem ? 
 And suppose, which has happened, and may and will happen 
 again; suppose a being of a difi*erent organisation from 
 Napoleon or Cromwell placed in the same situation ; a 
 being gifted with a combination of intelligence hitherto 
 unknown ; where, then, is our moral philosophy, our nice 
 study of human nature ? How are we to speculate upon 
 results which are to be produced by unknown causes ? 
 "What we want is to discover the character of a man at his 
 birth, and found his education upon his nature. The whole 
 system of moral philosophy is a delusion, fit only for the 
 play of sophists in an age of physiological ignorance. 
 
 I leave these great Fpeculations for the dreariness of 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 249 
 
 fatnre hours. Alceste calls me to the golden sands, whither 
 it is our ■wont to take our sunset walk. 
 
 A Grecian sunset ! The skj is like the neck of a dove ; 
 the rocks and waters are bathed with a violet light. Each 
 moment it changes ; each moment it shifts into more grace- 
 ful and more gleaming shadows. And the thin white moon 
 is above all ; the thin white moon, followed by a single star, 
 like a lady by a page. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 We had no books, no single source of amusement but our 
 own society ; and yet the day always appeared a moment. 
 I did, indeed, contrive to obtain for Alceste what was called 
 a mandolin, and which, from its appearance, might have 
 been an ancient lyre. But it was quite unnecessary. My 
 tongue never stopped the whole day. I told Alceste every- 
 thing: all about my youthful scrapes and fancies, and 
 Musseus and my battle, and Winter, and Christiana, and 
 the confounded tragedy, and, of course, ' Manstein.' If I 
 ceased for a moment, she always said, ' Go on.' On I went, 
 and told the same stories over again, which she reheard 
 with the same interest. The present was so delightful to 
 me that I cared little to talk about the past, and always 
 avoided the future. But Alceste would sometimes turn the 
 conversation to what might happen ; and, as she now pro- 
 mised to heighten our happiness by bringing us a beautiful 
 stranger to share our delightful existence, the future began 
 to interest even me. 
 
 I had never written to my father since I arrived at Paris. 
 Every time I drew a bill I expected to find my credit re- 
 voked, but it was not so ; and I therefore willingly concluded 
 that Lausanne apprised him of everything, and that he 
 
250 CONTARIKI FLEMING: 
 
 thouglit fit not to interfere. I had never written to my father 
 becanse I cannot dissemble ; and, as my conduct ever since 
 I quitted France had been one continued violation of his 
 commands and wishes, why, correspondence was difficult, 
 and could not prove pleasing. But Alceste would talk 
 about my father, and it was therefore necessary to think of 
 him. She shuddered at the very name of Italy, and 
 willingly looked forward to a settlement in the north. For 
 myself, I was exceedingly happy, and my reminiscences of 
 my fatherland were so far from agreeable that I was care- 
 less as to the future ; and, although I already began to 
 entertain the possibility of a return, I still wished to pass 
 some considerable time of our youth inviolate by the vulgar 
 cares of hie, and under the influence of a glowing sky. 
 
 In the meantime we rambled about the mountains on our 
 little, stout Candiote horses, or amused om'selves in adorning 
 our residence. We made a new garden ; we collected every 
 choice flower, and rare bird, and beautiful animal that we 
 could assemble together. Alceste was wild for a white 
 gazelle ever since we had seen one in the consul's court. 
 They come from a particular part of Arabia, and are rai'e ; 
 yet one was obtained, and two of its fawn-coloured brethren. 
 I must confess that we found these elegant and poetical 
 companions extremely troublesome and stupid ; they are the 
 least sentimental and domestic of all creatures ; the most 
 sedulous attention wiU not attach them to you, and I do 
 not believe that they are ever fairly tame. I dislike them, 
 in spite of their liquid eyes and romantic reputation, and 
 infinitely prefer what are now my constant and ever- 
 dehghtful company, some fine, faithful, honest, intelligent, 
 thorough-bred English dogs. 
 
 "We had now passed nearly eight months in this island. 
 The end of the year was again advancing. Oh ! the happy, 
 the charming evenings, when, fearing for my Alceste that 
 it grew too cool to walk, we sat within the house, and the 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 251 
 
 lar^e lamp was lit, and the faitliful Lausanne brought me my 
 pipe, and the confounded gazelle kicked it over, and the 
 grinning Tita handed us our coffee, and my dear Alceste 
 sang me some delicious Venetian melody, and then I left off 
 smoking, and she left off singing, and we were happier and 
 happier every day. 
 
 Talk of fame and romance, all the glory and adventure in 
 the world are not worth one single hour of domestic bliss. 
 It sounds like a clap-trap, but the solitary splendour with 
 which I am now surrounded tells me too earnestly it ia 
 truth. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 The hour approached that was to increase my happiness, 
 ray incredible happiness. Blessed, infinitely blessed as 1 
 was, bountiful Heaven was about to shower upon me a new 
 and fruitful joy. In a few days I was to become a father. 
 We had obtained from the town all necessary attendance ; 
 an Italian physician, whose manner gave us confidence, 
 and a sage woman of great reputation, were at our house. 1 
 had myself been cautious that my treasure should commit 
 no imprudence. We were full of love and hope. My Alceste 
 was not quite well. The physician recommended great 
 quiet. She was taking her siesta, and I stole frnrn her 
 side, because my presence ever excited her, and she could 
 not slumber. 
 
 I strolled down to the bay and mused over the character 
 of a father. My imagination dwelt only upon this idea. I 
 discovered, as my reverie proceeded, the fine relations that 
 must subsist between a parent and a child. Such thoughts 
 had made no impression upon me before. I thought of my 
 own father, and the tears stole down my cheek. I vowed 
 to return to him immediately, and give ourselves up to hia 
 
25 2 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 happiness, i prayed to Heaven to grant me a man-cliild. 
 I felt a lively confidence that he would be choicely gifted. 
 I resolved to devote myself entirely to his education. My 
 imagination wandered in dreams of his perfect character, 
 of his high accomplishments, his noble virtues, his exalted 
 fame. I conceived a philosopher who might influence his 
 race, a being to whom the regeneration of his kind was 
 perhaps allotted. 
 
 My thoughts had rendered me unconscious of the hour ; 
 the sun had set without my observation ; the gro^ving 
 twilight called me to myself. I looked up ; I beheld in the 
 distance Alceste. I was surprised, displeased, alarmed. I 
 could not conceive anything more imprudent than her 
 coming forth in the evening, and in her situation. I ran 
 forward to reprimand her with a kiss, to fold her shawl 
 more closely round her, and bear her in my arms to the 
 house. I ran forward speaking at the same time. She 
 faintly smiled. I reached her. Lo ! she was not there ! 
 A moment before she was on the wide sands. There was 
 no cavern near which she could have entered. I stood 
 amazed, thunderstruck. I shouted * Alceste ! * 
 
 The shout was answered. I ran back. Another shout ; 
 Tita came to me running. His agitated face struck me 
 with awe. He could not speak. He seized my arm and 
 dragged me along. I ran to the house. I did not dare to 
 inquire the cause. Lausanne met me at the threshold. 
 His countenance was despair. I started like a bewildered 
 man ; I rushed to her room. Yet, I remember the group 
 leaning round her bed. They moved aside. I saw Alceste. 
 She did not see me. Her eyes were closed, her face pale 
 and changed, her mouth had fallen. 
 
 * What,' I said, * what is all this ? Doctor, doctor, how 
 is she?* 
 
 The physician shook his head. 
 
 I could not speak. I wrung my hands, more from the 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 253 
 
 inability of tliought and speech than grief, by which I was 
 not influenced. 
 
 * Speak ! ' I at length said ; * is she dead ? ' 
 *My lord ' 
 
 * Speak, speak, speak ! ' 
 
 * It appears to me to be desperate.* 
 
 ' It is impossible ! Dead ! She cannot be dead. Bleed 
 her, bleed her, sir, before me. Dead ! Did you say dead ? 
 It cannot be, Alceste ! Alceste ! speak to me. Say yon 
 are not dead, only say you are not dead. Bleed her, sir, 
 bleed her.' 
 
 To humour me he took up his lancet and opened another 
 vein. A few dull drops oozed out. 
 
 * Ah ! * I exclaimed, * see ! she bleeds ! She is not dead. 
 Alceste ! you are not dead ? Lausanne, do something, 
 Lausanne. For God's sake, Lausanne, save her. Do some- 
 thing, Lausanne. My good Lausanne, do something ! ' 
 
 He affected to feel her pulse. I staggered about the 
 room, wringing my hands. 
 
 * Is she better ? ' I inquired. 
 No one answered. 
 
 * Doctor, save her ! Tell me she is better, and I give 
 you half, my whole fortune.' 
 
 The poor physician shook his head. He attempted 
 nothing. I rushed to Lausanne and seized his arm. 
 
 * Lausanne, I can trust to you. Tell me the truth. Is 
 it all over ? ' 
 
 * It has too long been over.* 
 
 ' Ah ! ' I waved my hands and fell. 
 
254 CONTARINI FLEMING 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 WnEN my self-consciousness was restored, I found myself 
 in another room. I was lying in a divan in the arms of 
 Lausanne. I had forgotten everything. I called Alceste. 
 Then the remembrance rushed into my brain. 
 
 * Is it true ? ' I said ; ' Lausanne, is it true ? * 
 
 His silence was an answer. I rose and walked up and 
 down the room once or twice, and then said in a low voice, 
 ' Take me to her room, Lausanne.' 
 
 I leant upon his arm, and entered the chamber. Even 
 as I entered, I indulged the wild hope that I should find it 
 unoccupied. I could not believe it. 
 
 Tall candles were burning in the room ; the walls were 
 hung with solemn drapery. I advanced to the bedside, 
 and took her hand. I motioned to Lausanne to retire. We 
 were alone, alone once more. But how alone ? I doubted 
 of everything, even of my existence. I thought my heart 
 would burst. I wondered why anything still went on, 
 why was not all over ? I looked round with idiot eyes 
 and open mouth. A horrid contortion was chiselled on 
 my face. 
 
 Suddenly I seized the corpse in my arms and fiercely 
 embraced it. I thought I could re-animate it. I felt so 
 much, I thought I could re-animate it. I struggled with 
 death. Was she dead ? Was she really dead ? It had a 
 heavy, leaden feel. I let her drop from my arms. She 
 dropped like a lifeless trunk. I looked round with a silly 
 grin. 
 
 Tt was morning time. The flames of the candles looked 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 255 
 
 haggard. There was a Turkish dagger in the closet. I 
 remembered it, and ran to the closet. I cut off her long 
 tresses, and rolled them round my neck. I locked the 
 door, stole out of the window, and cunningly watched to 
 observe whether I were followed. No one was stirring, or 
 no one suspected me. I scudded away fleetly, and rushed 
 up the hills without ever stopping. For hours I could 
 never have stopped. I have a faint recollection of chasms, 
 and precipices, and falling waters. I leapt everything, and 
 found myself at lengtb on a peak of Mount Ida. 
 
 A wide view of the ocean opened before me. As I gazed 
 upon it, my mind became inflamed, the power of speech 
 was restored to me, the poetry of my grief prevailed. 
 
 ' Fatal ocean ! fatal ocean ! ' I exclaimed ; * a curse upon 
 thy waves, for thou waftedst us to death. Green hills ! 
 green valleys ! a blight upon your trees and pastures, for 
 she cannot gaze upon them ! And thou, red sun I her 
 blood is upon thy beams. Halt in thy coui'se, red sun ; 
 halt ! and receive my curse ! 
 
 * Our house has fallen, the glorious house has fallen ; and 
 the little ones may now rise. Eagle ! fly away, and tell 
 my father he is avenged. For lo ! Venice has been my 
 doom, and here, on this toppling ci-ag, I seal all things, 
 and thus devote Contarini Fleming to the infernal gods.' 
 
 I sprang forward. I felt myself in the air. My brain 
 span round. My sight deserted me. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 When I can again recall existence, I found myself in my 
 own house. I was reclining on the divan, propped up by 
 cushions. My left arm was in a sling : my head bandaged. 
 I looked around me without thought, and then I relapsed 
 
2-6 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 into apathy. Lausaiuie was in the room, and passed 
 before me. I observed him, but did not speak. He brought 
 me refreshment, which I took without notice. The room 
 was darkened. I knew nothing of the course of time, nor 
 did I care or inquire. Sometimes Lausanne quitted the 
 apartment, and then Tita took his place. Sometimes he 
 returned, and changed my bandages and my dress, and I 
 fell asleep. Awake I had no thought, and slumbering I 
 had no dreams. 
 
 I remained in this state, as I affcersvards learnt, six 
 weeks. One day, I looked up, and, seeing Tita, spoke in a 
 faiat voice, and asked for Lausanne. He ran immediately 
 for him, and, while he was a moment absent, I ix)se from 
 my couch, and tore the curtain from the window. Lau- 
 sanne entered, and came up to me, and would have again 
 led me to my seat, but I bade him ' lighten the room.' 
 
 I desired to walk forth into the air, and, leaning on his 
 arm, I came out of the house. It was early mom, and I 
 beheve the sense of the fresh air had attracted and revived 
 me. I stood for a moment vacantly gazing upon the dis- 
 tant bay, but I was so faint that I could not stand, and 
 Spiro, the little Greek boy, ran, and brought me a carpet 
 and a cushion, and I sat down. I asked for a mirror, 
 which was unwillingly afforded me ; but I insisted upon it. 
 I viewed, without emotion, my emaciated form, and my 
 pallid, sunken visage. My eyes were dead and hollow, my 
 cheekbones prominent and sharp, my head shaven, and 
 covered with a light turban. Nevertheless, the feeling of 
 the free, sweet air, was grateful ; and, from this moment, 
 1 began gradually to recover. 
 
 I never spoke, unless to express my wants ; but my 
 appetite returned, my strength increased, and each day, 
 with Lausanne's assistance, I walked for a short time in 
 the garden. My arm, which had been broken, resumed its 
 power : my head, which had been severely cut, healed. I 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 257 
 
 ventured to walk only with the aid of a stick. Gradually, 
 I extended my course, and, in time, I reached the sea-side. 
 There, in a slight recess formed by a small head-land, I 
 would sit with my back against a high rock, feel comforted 
 that earth was hidden from my sight, and gaze for hours 
 in vacancy upon the ocean and the sky. At sunset, I stole 
 home. I found Lausanne always about, evidently expect- 
 ing me. When he perceived me returning, he was soon 
 by my side, but by a way that I could not observe him, 
 and, without obtrusion or any appearance of ofiiciousness, 
 he led or rather carried me to my dwelling. 
 
 One morning, I bent my way to a small green valley, 
 which opened on the other side of our gardens. It had 
 been one of our favourite haunts. I know not why I 
 resorted to it this morning, for, as yet, her idea had never 
 crossed my mind any more than her name my lips. I had 
 an indefinite convictioi. that I was a lost and fallen man. 
 I knew that I had once been happy, that I had once 
 mingled in a glorious existence; but I felt, with regard 
 to the past, as if it were another system of being, aa if I 
 had suddenly fallen from a star and lighted on a degenerate 
 planet. 
 
 I was in our valley, our happy valley. I stood still, and 
 my memory seemed to return. The tears stole down my 
 face, I remembered the cluster of orange-trees under 
 which we often sat. I plucked some leaves, and I pressed 
 them to my lips. Yet I was doubtful, uncertain, incredulous. 
 1 scarcely knew who I was. Not indeed that I was unable 
 to feel my identity ; not indeed that my intelligence was 
 absolutely incapable of fulfilling its office ; but there seemed 
 a compact between my body and my mind that existence 
 should proceed without thought. 
 
 I descended into the vale. A new object attracted 
 my attention. I approached it without suspicion. A 
 
 s 
 
258 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 green mound supported a stone, on wliich was boldly, but 
 not rudely sculptured, 
 
 * Alcest^, Countess Contarini Fleming.' 
 
 A date recorded her decease. 
 
 ' It must have been many years ago,' was my first im- 
 pression ; * I am Contarini Fleming, and I remember her. 
 I remember Alceste well, but not in this country, sui'ely 
 not in this country. And yet those orange-trees 
 
 * My wife, my lost, my darling wife, oh ! why am I alive ? 
 I thought that I was dead ! I thought that I had flung 
 
 myself from the mountain top to join you and it was 
 
 all a dream ! * 
 
 I threw myself upon the tomb, and my tears poured forth 
 in torrents, and I tore up the flowers that flourished upon 
 the turf, and kissed them, and tossed them in the air. 
 
 There was a rose, a beautiful white rose, delicate and 
 fragrant; and I gathered it, and it seemed to me like 
 Alceste. And I sat gazing upon this fair flower, and, as 
 my vision was fixed upon it, the past grew up before me, 
 and each moment I more clearly comprehended it. The 
 bitterness of my grief overcame me. I threw away the 
 rose, and, a moment afterwards I was sorry to have lost it. 
 I looked for it. It was not at my feet. My desire for the 
 flower increased. I rose from the tomb, and looked around 
 for the lost treasure. My search led me to the other side 
 of the tablet, and I read the record of the death of my still- 
 born son. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 * We must leave this place, Lausanne, and at once.' 
 
 His eye brightened when I spoke. 
 
 * I have seen all that you have done, Lausanne. It is 
 well, very well. I owe you much. I would have given 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 259 
 
 mucli for ker hair, more than I can express. But you are 
 not to blame. You Lad much to do.' 
 
 He left the room for a moment, and returned ; returned 
 with the long, the beautiful tresses of my beloved. 
 
 'You have made me happy. I never thought that T 
 should again know what joy was. How considerate. How 
 very good ! ' 
 
 He broke to rac gently, that he had found tho tresses 
 around my neck. I rubbed my forehead, I summoned my 
 scattered thoughts, ' I remember something,'! replied, 'but 
 I thought it was a dream. I fancied that in a dream I had 
 quitted the house.' 
 
 Ho told me all. Ho told me that, after a long search, he 
 had found mo among the mountains, hanging to the rough 
 side of a precipice, shattered, stark, and senseless. The 
 bushes had caught my clothes, and prevented a fatal fall. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIH. 
 
 A SHIP was about to leave the port for Leghorn. And 
 why not go to Leghorn ? Anywhere but Venice. Our 
 arrangements were soon made. I determined to assent to 
 the request of his father, in taking little Spiro, who was 
 a favourite of Alceste's, and had charge of her gazelles. 
 A Greek father is willing to see his son anywhere but 
 among the Turks. I promised his family not only to charge 
 myself with his future fortunes, but also to remit them 
 an annual allowance through the consul, provided they 
 cherished the tomb of their late misti-ess ; and in a fortnight 
 I was again on board. 
 
 The mountains of Candia were long in sight, but I avoided 
 them. Our voyage was long, although not unpleasant. 
 We were often becalmed. The air and change of scene 
 
 8 2 
 
::6o CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 benefited me mncli. I wonderfully resumed my old habits 
 of reverie ; and, as I paced the deck, wliicli I did all day 
 without ceasing, I mused over the past with feelings of 
 o-reater solace than I ever expected to associate with it. I 
 was consoled by the remembrance of our perfect love. I 
 could not recall on either of our pai'ts a single fretful word, 
 a single occasion on which our conduct had afforded either 
 of us an anxious or even annoying moment. We never had 
 enjoyed those lovers' quarrels which are said to be so sweet. 
 Her sufferings had been intense, but they had been brief. 
 It would have been consolatory to have received her last 
 breath, yet my presence might have occasioned her greater 
 agony. The appearance of her spirit assured me that, at 
 the moment of departure her last thought was for me. The 
 conviction of her having enjoyed positive happiness sup- 
 ported me. I was confident that, had it been possible to 
 make the decision, she would not have yielded her brief 
 and beautiful career for length of days unillumined by the 
 presence of him, who remained to consecrate her memory 
 by his enduring love, perhaps by his enduring page. 
 
 Ah ! old feelings returned to me. I perceived that it 
 was impossible to exist without some object, and fame and 
 poetic creation offered themselves to my void heart. I re- 
 membered that the high calling to which I was devoted 
 had been silently neglected. I recollected the lofty education 
 and loftier results that travel was to afford, and for which 
 travel was to prepare me. I reminded myself, that I had 
 already proved many new passions, become acquainted with 
 many new modifications of feeling, and viewed many new 
 objects. My knowledge of man and nature was much in- 
 creased. My mind was fuU of new thoughts, and crowded 
 with new images. 
 
 As I thus mused, that separation of the mere individual 
 from the universal poet, which ever occurred in these high 
 communings, again took place. My own misfortunes seemed 
 
A PSYCHOLOQICAL ROMANCE. 261 
 
 but petty incidents to one who could exercise an illimitable 
 power over the passions of his kind. If, amid the common 
 losses of common life, the sympathy of a single friend can 
 bear its balm, could I find no solace, even for my great 
 bereavement, in the love of nations and the admiration of 
 ages ? 
 
 Thus reflecting, I suddenly dashed into invention ; and, 
 in my almost constant walks on deck, I poured forth a crowd 
 of characters, and incidents, and feelings, and images, and 
 moulded them into a coherent and, as I hoped, beautiful 
 form. I longed for the moment when I could record them 
 on a scroll more lasting than my memory ; and, upheld by 
 this great purpose, I entered, with a calm if not cheerful 
 countenance, the famous port of Leghorn. 
 
 END OF PxVRT III. 
 
263 
 
 PART THE FOURTH, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I WAS at length at Florence. The fair city, so much 
 Taunted by poets, at first greatly disapj)omted mc. I 
 coTild not reconcile myself to those nnfinished churches 
 like barns, and those gloomy palaces like prisons. The 
 muddy Arno was not poetical, and the site of the whole 
 place, and the appearance of the surrounding hills, in spite 
 of their white villas, seemed to me confined, monotonous, 
 and dull. Yet there is a charm in Florence, which, al- 
 though difficult precisely to define, is in its influence 
 great and growing, and I scarcely know a place that I 
 would prefer for a residence. I think it is the character of 
 Art which, both from ancient associations and its present 
 possessions, is forcibly impressed upon this city. It is full 
 of invention. You cannot stroll fifty yards, you cannot 
 enter a church or palace, without being favourably re- 
 minded of the power of human thought. It is a famous 
 memorial of the genius of the ItaHan middle ages, when 
 the mind of man was in one of its spring tides, and in 
 which we mark so frequently what at the present day we 
 too much underrate, the influence of individual character. 
 
 In Florence the monuments are not only of great men, 
 but of the greatest. You do not gaze upon the tomb of an 
 author who is merely a great master of composition, but of 
 one who formed the language. The illustrious astronomer 
 is not the discoverer of a planet, but the revcaler of the whole 
 celestial machinery. The artist and the politician are not 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 263 
 
 merely ihe firs; sculptors and statesmen of tlieir time, but 
 the inventors of the very art and the very craft in which 
 they excelled. 
 
 In the study of the Fine Arts they mutually assist each 
 otlier. In the formation of style I have been, perhaps, as 
 much indebted to music and to painting as to the great 
 masters of htorary composition. The contemplation of the 
 Venetian school had developed in mo a latent love of 
 gorgeous eloquence, dazzling incident, brilliant expression, 
 and voluptuous sentiment. These brought their attendant 
 imperfections: exaggeration, effeminacy, the obtrusion of 
 art, the painful want of nature. The severe simplicity of 
 the Tuscan masters chastened my mind. I mused over a 
 great effect produced almost by a single mean. The picture 
 that fixed my attention, by a single group illustrating a 
 single passion, was a fine and profitable study. I felt the 
 power of Nature delineated by a great master, and how far 
 from necessary to enforce her influence were the splendid 
 accessories vnth which my meditated compositions would 
 rather have encumbered than adorned her. I began to 
 think more of the individual than the species, rather of the 
 motives of man than of his conduct. I endeavoured to 
 make myself as perfect in the dissection of his mind as the 
 Florentine in the anatomy of his body. Attempting to 
 acquire the excellence of my models, I should probably 
 have imbibed their defects, their stifi", and sombre, and arid 
 manner, their want of variety and grace. The Roman 
 school saved me from this, and taught me that a chaste or 
 severe conception might bo treated in a glowing or genial 
 style. But, after all, I prefer the Spanish to the ItaHan 
 painters. I know no one to rival Murillo, I know no one 
 who lias blended with such felicity the high ideal with the 
 extreme simpHcity of nature. Later in life I found myself 
 in his native city, in that lovely Seville, more lovely from 
 his fine creations than even from the orange bowers that 
 
264 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 perfume its gales, and the silver stream tlia^, winds about 
 its plain. 
 
 I well remember the tumnlt of invention in which I 
 wandered day after day amid the halls and galleries of 
 Florence. Each beautiful face that flitted before me was a 
 heroine, each passion that breathed upon the canvass was 
 to be transferred to the page. I conceived at one time the 
 plan of writing a series of works in the style of each school. 
 The splendour of Titian, the grace of Raffaelle, the twilight 
 tints of that magician, Guercino, alternately threw my 
 mind into moods analogous to their creations. A portrait 
 in the Pitti palace of Ippolyto de' Medici, of whom I knew 
 nothing, haunted me like a ghost, and I could only lay the 
 spectre by resolving in time to delineate the spirit of Italian 
 Feodality. The seraphic Baptist in the wilderness recalled 
 the sohtude I loved. I would have poured forth a mono- 
 logue amid the mountains of Judoea, had not Endymion 
 caught my enraptured vision, and I could dream only of 
 the bright goddess of his shadowy love. 
 
 I thought only of art ; and sought the society of artists 
 and collectors. I unconsciously adopted their jargon ; anu 
 began to discourse of copies, and middle tints, and changes 
 of style. I was in great danger of degenerating into a 
 dilettante. Little objects, as well as great, now interested 
 me. I handled a bronze, and speculated upon its antiquity. 
 Yet even these slight pursuits exercised a beneficial ten- 
 dency upon a mind wild, irregular, and undisciplined ; nor 
 do I believe that any one can long observe even fine 
 carvings and choice medals without his taste becoming 
 more susceptible, and delicate, and refined. 
 
 My mind was overflowing with the accumulated medita- 
 tion and experience of two years, an important interval in 
 all lives, passed in mine in constant thought and action 
 and in a continual struggle wdth new ideas and novel 
 passions. The desire of composition becam - ln*esistible. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 265 
 
 I recurred to the feelings with which I had entered Leg- 
 horn, and from which I had been diverted amid the dis- 
 traction produced by the novelty, the beauty, and the 
 variety of surrounding objects. With these feelings I 
 quitted the city, and engaged the Villa Capponi, situate on 
 a green and gentle swell of the Apennines, near the tower 
 of Galileo. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 If there were anything in the world for which I now en- 
 tertained a sovereign contempt, it was my unfortunate 
 * Manstein.* My most maHgnant critic must have yielded 
 to me in the scorn which I lavished on that immature pro- 
 duction, and the shame with which I even recollected its 
 existence. No one could be more sensible of its glaring 
 defects, for no one thought more of them, and I was so 
 familiar with its less defective parts that they had lost all 
 their relish, and appeared to me as weak, and vapid, and 
 silly as the rest. I never labour to delude myself; and 
 never gloss over my own faults. I exaggerate them ; for I 
 can afford to face truth, because I feel capable of improve- 
 ment. And, indeed, I have never yet experienced that 
 complacency with which, it is said, some authors regard 
 their offspring ; nor do I think that this paternal fondness 
 will ever be my agreeable lot. I am never satisfied. No 
 sooner have I executed some conception than my mind 
 soars above its creation, and meditates a higher flight in a 
 purer atmosphere. The very exercise of power only teaches 
 me that it may be wielded for a greater purpose. 
 
 I prepared myself for composition in a very different 
 mood from that in which I had poured forth my fervid 
 crudities in the Garden-liouse. Calm and collected, I con- 
 structed characters on pliilosophical principles, and mused 
 
266 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 over a chain of action which should develop the system of 
 onr exist-ence. All was art. I studied contrasts and 
 grouping, and metaphysical analysis was substituted for 
 anatomical delineation. I was not satisfied that the con- 
 duct of my creations should be influenced merely by the 
 general principles of their being. I resolved that they 
 should be the very impersonations of the moods and passions 
 of our mind. One was ill-regulated will ; another offered 
 the formation of a moi'al being; materialism sparkled in the 
 wild gaiety and reckless caprice of one voluptuous gii-l, 
 while spirit was vindicated in the deep devotion of a con- 
 stant and enthusiastic heroine. Even the lighter tGmjjera- 
 ments were not forgotten. Frivohty smiled, and shrugged 
 his shoulders before us, and there was even a deep personifi- 
 cation of cynic humour. 
 
 Had I executed my work in strict unison with my plan, 
 it would, doubtless, have been a dull affair; for I did 
 not yet possess sufficient knowledge of human nature to 
 support me in such a creation : nor was I then habituated 
 to those metaphysical speculations which, in some degree, 
 might have compensated by their profundity for their want 
 of entertaimnent. But Nature avenged herself, and ex- 
 tricated me fi'om my dilemma. 
 
 I began to write ; my fancy fired, my brain inflamed ; 
 breathing forms rose up under my pen, and jostled aside 
 the cold abstractions, whose creation had cost such lonsr 
 musing. In vain I endeavoured to compose without en- 
 thusiasm ; in vain I endeavoured to delineate only what I 
 had preconceived ; in vain I struggled to restrain the flow 
 of unbidden invention. All that I had seen and pondered 
 passed before me, from the proud moment that I stood 
 upon Mount Jui^ to the present ravishing hour that I 
 returned to my long- estranged art. Every tree, every 
 cloud, every star and mountain, every fair lake and flowing 
 river, that had fed my fancy with their sweet suggestions 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 267 
 
 In my rambling hours, now retiirnecl and illumined my 
 pages with their brightness and their beauty. My mind 
 teemed with siniiles. Thought and passion came veiled in 
 metaphoric garb. I was delighted ; I was bewildered. The 
 clustering of their beauty seemed an evidence of poetic 
 power ; the management of these bright guests was an art 
 of which I was ignorant. I received them all ; and found 
 myself often writing only that they might be accommo- 
 dated. 
 
 I gave up to this work many long and unbroken hours ; 
 for I was determined that it should not suffer from a hurried 
 pen. I often stopped to meditate. It was in writing this 
 book that I first learnt my art. It was a series of experi- 
 ments. They were at length finished, and my volumes 
 consigned to their fate, and northern publisher. 
 
 The critics treated me with more courtesy. What seemed 
 to me odd enough then, although no puzzle now, was, that 
 they admired what had been written in haste and without 
 premeditation, and generally disapproved of what had cost 
 me much forethought, and been executed with great care. 
 It was universally declared a most unequal work, and they 
 were right, although they could not detect the causes of 
 tlie inequahty. My perpetual efforts at being imaginative 
 were highly reprobated. Now my efforts had been entirely 
 the other way. In short, I puzzled them, and no one offered 
 a prediction as to my futui-e career. My book, as a whole, 
 was rather unintelligible, but parts were favourites. It was 
 pronounced a remarkable compound of originality and dul- 
 ness. These critiques, whatever might be their tenor, 
 mattered little to me. A long interval elapsed before they 
 reached Florence, and during that period I had effectually 
 emancipated myself from the thraldom of criticism. 
 
 I have observed that, after wilting a book, my mind 
 always makes a great spring. I believe that the act of 
 composition produces the same invigorating effect upon the 
 
26S CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 mind which some exertion does upon the body. Even the 
 writing of * Manstein ' produced a revolution in my nature, 
 which cannot be ti'aced by any metaphysical analysis. In 
 the course of a few days, I w^as converted from a worldling 
 into a philosopher. I was indeed ignorant, but I had lost 
 the double ignorance of the Platonists; I was no longer 
 ignorant that I was ignorant. No one could bo influenced 
 by a greater desire of knowledge, a greater passion for the 
 beautiful, or a deeper regard for his fellow creatures. And 
 I well remember when, on the evening that I wrote the last 
 sentence of this more intellectual effort, I w^alked out upon 
 the terrace with that feeling of satisfaction which accompa- 
 nies the idea of a task completed. So far was I from being 
 excited by the hope of having written a great work, that I 
 even meditated its destruction ; for the moment it >vas ter- 
 minated, it seemed to me that I had become suddenly 
 acquainted with the long-concealed principles of my art, 
 which, without doubt, had been slenderly practised in this 
 production. My taste, as it were in an instant, became 
 formed; and I felt convinced I could now produce some 
 lasting creation. 
 
 I thought no more of criticism. The breath of man has 
 never influenced me much, for I depend more upon myself 
 than upon others. I want no false fame. It would be no 
 delight to me to be considered a prophet, were I conscious 
 of being an impostor. I ever wdsh to be undeceived ; but 
 if I possess the organisation of a poet, no one can prevent 
 me from exercising my faculty, any more than he can rob 
 the courser of his fleetness, or the nightingale of her song. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 After finislilng my work, I read more at Florence than 1 
 have at any period of my life. Having formed the princi- 
 ples on which, in future, I intended to proceed in composi- 
 tion, and considering myself now qualified to decide npon 
 other artists, I determined critically to examine the literary 
 fiction of all countries, to ascertain how far my intentions 
 had been anticipated, and in what degree my predecessors 
 might assist me. 
 
 It appears to me that the age of versification has passed. 
 The mode of composition must ever be greatly determined 
 by the manner in which the composition can be made pub- 
 lic. In ancient days the voice was the medium by which 
 we became acquainted with the inventions of a poet. In 
 such a method, where those who listened had no time to 
 pause, and no opportunity to think, it was necessary that 
 everything should be obvious. The audience who were 
 perplexed would soon become wearied. The spirit of 
 ancient poetry, therefore, is rather material than metaphy- 
 sical, superficial, not internal. There is much simplicity 
 and much nature, but little passion, and less philosophy. 
 To obviate the baldness, which is the consequence of a 
 style where the subject and the sentiments are rathei- 
 intimated than developed, the poem was enriched by music 
 and enforced by action. Occasionally were added the en- 
 chantment of scenery and the fascination of the dance. 
 But the poet did not depend merely upon these brilliant 
 accessories. He resolved that his thoughts should be ex- 
 pressed in a manner difierent from other modes of commu- 
 nicating ideas. He caught a suggestion from his sister art, 
 and invented metre, And in this modulation he introduced 
 
270 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 a new system of phi-aseology, wliicli marked him out from 
 the crowd, and which has obtained the title of 'poetio 
 diction.* 
 
 His object in this system of words was to heighten his 
 meaning by strange phrases and nnusnal constructions. In- 
 version was invented to clothe a common place with an air 
 of novelty ; vague epithets were introduced to prop up a 
 monotonous modulation. Were his meaning to be enforced, 
 he shrank from wearisome ratiocination and the agony of 
 precise conceptions, and sought refuge in a bold personifi- 
 cation, or a beautiful simiKtude. The art of poetry was, to 
 express natural feelings in unnatural language. 
 
 Institutions ever survive their purpose, and customs go- 
 vern us when their cause is extinct. And this mode of 
 communicating poetic invention still remained, when the 
 advanced civilisation of man, in multiplying manuscripts, 
 might have made many suspect that the time had arrived 
 when the poet was to cease to sing, and to learn to write. 
 Had the splendid refinement of Imperial Rome not been 
 doomed to such rapid decay, and such mortifying and de- 
 grading vicissitudes, I believe that versification would have 
 worn out. Unquestionably that empire, in its multifanous 
 population, scenery, creeds, and customs, offered the richest 
 materials for emancipated fiction ; materials, however, far 
 too vast and various for the limited capacity of metrical 
 celebration. 
 
 That beneficent Omnipotence, before which we must 
 bow down, has so ordered it, that imitation should be the 
 mental feature of modem Europe ; and has ordained that 
 we should adopt a Syrian religion, a Grecian Hterature, and 
 a Roman law. At the revival of letters, we beheld the por- 
 tentous spectacle of national poets communicating their in- 
 ventions in an exotic form. Conscious of the confined nature 
 of their method, yet unable to extricate themselves from its 
 fatal ties, they sought variety in increased artifice of diction, 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 271 
 
 and substituted tke barbaric clasli of rbyme for the melody 
 of tlie lyre. 
 
 A revolution took place in the mode of communicating 
 thought. ITow, at least, it was full time that we should 
 have emancipated ourselves for ever from sterile metre. 
 One would have supposed that the poet who could not only 
 write, but even print his inventions, would have felt that it 
 was both useless and unfit that they should be communi- 
 cated by a process invented when his only medium was 
 simple recitation. One would have supposed that the poet 
 would have rushed with desire to the new world before him, 
 that he would have seized the new means which permitted 
 him to revel in a universe of boundless invention ; to com- 
 bine the highest ideal creation with the infinite delineation 
 of teeming Nature ; to unravel all the dark mysteries of our 
 bosoms and all the bright purposes of our being ; to become 
 the great instructor and champion of his species ; and not 
 only delight their fancy, and charm their senses, and com- 
 mand their will, but demonstrate their rights, illustrate 
 their necessities, and expound the object of their existence ; 
 and all this too in a style charming and changing with its 
 universal theme, now tender, now sportive ; now earnest, 
 now profound ; now sublime, now pathetic ; and substituting 
 for the dull monotony of metre the most various, and exqui- 
 site, and inexhaustible melody. 
 
 When I remember the trammels to which the poet has 
 been doomed, and the splendour with which consummate 
 genius has invested him, and when, for a moment, I con- 
 ceive him bui'sting asunder his bonds, I fancy that I behold 
 the sacred bird snapping the goldeii chain that binds him 
 to Olympus, and soaring even above Jove ! 
 
272 COXTARIM FLEMIXG 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 I HAD arrived at Florence in a feeble and sliattered Btate of 
 health, of which, as I bad never been an habitual invalid, I 
 thought little. My confidence in my energy had never 
 deserted me. Composition, however, although I now wrote 
 wdth facility, proved a g^'eater efibrt than I had anticipated. 
 The desu'e I felt of completing my purpose had success- 
 fully sustained me throughout, but, during its progress, I 
 was too often conscious of an occasional but increasing 
 languor, which perplexed and alarmed me. Perfect as 
 might be my conception of my task, and easy as I ever 
 found its execution when I was excited, I invariably ex- 
 perienced, at the commencement, a feeling of inertness, 
 which was painful and mortifying. As I did not dream of 
 physical inabihty, I began to apprehend that, however de- 
 lightfol might be the process of meditation, that of execu- 
 tion was less delicious. Sometimes I even for a moment 
 feared that there might be a lurking weakness in my 
 nature, which might prevent me from ever effecting a 
 great performance. 
 
 I remember one evening as I was meditating in my 
 chamber, my watch lying on the table, and the hour nine, 
 I felt, as I fancied, distui-bed by the increased sound of 
 that instrument. I moved it to the other side of the table, 
 but the sound increased, and, assured that it was not 
 occasioned by the supposed cause, and greatly distui'bed, 
 I i^ng for Lausanne, and mentioned the inconvenience. 
 Lausanne jiersisted in hearing nothing, but, as the sound 
 became even more audible, and as I now believed that 
 some reptile might be in the room, lie examined it in all 
 parts. Nothing was perceived ; i\\G bum grew louder, and 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 273 
 
 it was not antil I jumped up from my seat to assist him in 
 his examination, that I discovered, by the increased sound 
 occasioned by my sudden rise, that the noise was merely 
 in my own ears. The circumstance occasioned me no 
 alarm. It inconvenienced me for the evening. I retired 
 at an earlier hour, passed, as usual, a restless and dreamy 
 night, but fell asleep towards the morning, and rose toler- 
 ably fresh. 
 
 I can write only in the morning. It is then I execute 
 with facility all that I have planned the preceding eve. 
 And this day, as usual, I resumed my pen, but it was not 
 obedient. I felt not only languid and indolent, but a 
 sensation of faintness, which I had before experienced and 
 disregarded, came over me, and the pen fell from my hand. 
 I rose and walked about the room. My extremities were 
 cold, as of late in the morning I had usually found them. 
 The sun was shining brightly over the sparkling hills. I 
 felt a great desire to warm myself in his beams. I ordered 
 my horse. 
 
 The ride entirely revived me. I fancied that I led 
 perhaps too sedentary a life. I determined that, as soon 
 as my book was finished, I would indulge in more relaxa- 
 tion. I returned home with a better appetite than usual, 
 for, since my return from Candia, I had almost entirely 
 lost my relish for food and my power of digestion. In the 
 evening I was again busied in musing over the scene which 
 was to be painted on the coming mom. Suddenly I heard 
 again the strange noise. I looked at my watch. It was 
 exactly nine o'clock. The noise increased rapidly. From 
 the tick of a watch it assumed the loud confused moaninjj 
 of a bell tolling in a storm, like the bell I had heard at the 
 foot of the Alps. It was impossible to think. I walked 
 about the room. It became louder and louder. It seemed 
 to be absolutely deafening. I could compare it to nothinjj 
 
274 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 but tlie continuous roar of a cataract. I sat down, and 
 looked around me in blank despair. 
 
 Night brought me no relief. My sleep, ever since the 
 death of Alcest<3, had been troubled and broken, and 
 of late had daily grown less certain and less refreshing. 
 Often have I lain awake the whole night, and usually have 
 risen exhausted and spiritless. So it was on this morning. 
 Cold, iaint, and feeble, the principle of life seemed to wax 
 fainter and fainter. I sent for my faithful companion. 
 * Lausanne,' I said, * I begin to think that I am very ill.' 
 
 Lausanne felt my pulse, and shook his head. ' There is 
 no wonder,' ho replied. * You have scarcely any circula- 
 tion. You want stimulants. You should diink more 
 \viiie, and givG up \vriting for a time. Shall I send for a 
 physician ? ' 
 
 I had no confidence in medicine. I resolved to exert 
 myself, Lausanne's advice, I fancied, sounded well. I 
 drank some wine, and felt better ; but as I never can writhe 
 under any inspiration but my own, I resolved to throw 
 aside my pen and visit Pisa for a foi'tnight, where I could 
 follow his prescription, with the additional advantage of 
 change of scene. 
 
 My visit to Pisa benefited me. I returned, and gave 
 the last finish to my work. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 All the Italian cities aa-e delightful ; but an elegant melan- 
 choly pervades Pisa that is enchanting. What a marble 
 group is formed by the Cathedral, the wonderful Baptisteiy, 
 the leaning Tower, and the Campo Santo ; and what an 
 indication of the ancient splendour of the RepubHc ! I 
 wish that the world consisted of a cluster of small States. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 275 
 
 There would bo ranch more genius, and, what is of more 
 importance, much more felicity. Federal Unions would 
 preserve us from the evil consequences of local jealousy, 
 and might combine in some general legislation of universal 
 benefit. Italy might then revive, and even England rtay 
 regret that she has lost he^ Heptarchy. 
 
 In the Campo Santo you trace the history of Art. 
 There, too, which has not been observed, you may discover 
 the origin of the arabesques of Raffaelle. The Leaning 
 Tower is a stumbling-block to architectural antiquarians. 
 An ancient fresco in the Campo proves the intention of the 
 artist. All are acquainted with the towers of Bologna: 
 few are aware that, in Saragossa, the Spaniards possess a 
 rival of the architectural caprice of the Pisans. 
 
 To this agreeable and silent city I again returned, and 
 wandered in meditation, amid the stillness of its palaces. I 
 consider this the period of my life in which whatever in- 
 tellectual power I possess became fully developed. All 
 that I can execute hereafter is but the performance of what 
 I then planned ; nor would a patriarchal term of life permit 
 me to achieve all that I then meditated. I looked forward 
 to the immediate fulfilment of my long hopes, to the 
 achievement of a work which might last with its language, 
 and the attainment of a great and permanent fame. 
 
 I was now meditating over this performance. It is my 
 habit to contrive in my head the complete work before I 
 have recourse to the pen which is to execute it. I do not 
 think that meditation can be too long, or execution too 
 rapid. It is not merely characters and the general conduct 
 of the story that I thus prepare, but the connection of 
 every incident, often whole conversations, sometimes even 
 shght phrases. A very tenacious memory, which I have 
 never weakened by having recourse to other modes of 
 reminiscence, supports me in this process ; which, however, 
 I should confess, is a painful and exhausting effort. 
 
 T 2 
 
276 CONTARIXI FLEMING: 
 
 1 revolved this work in my mind for several months 
 without ever having recourse to paper. It was never out 
 of my consciousness. I fell asleep musing over it : in the 
 morning my thoughts clustered immediately upon it, like 
 bees on a bed of unexhausted fl. vers. In my rides, during 
 my meals, in my conversations on common topics, I was 
 indeed, the whole time, musing over this creation. 
 
 The profound thinker always suspects that he is super- 
 ficial. Patience is a necessary ingredient of genius. No- 
 tliing is more fiital than to be seduced into composition by 
 the first flutter of the imagination. This is the cause of 
 so many weak and unequal works, of so many worthy ideas 
 thrown away, and so many good purposes marred. Yet 
 there is a bound to meditation ; there is a moment when 
 further judgment is useless. There is a moment when a 
 heavenly hght rises over the dim world you have been so 
 long creating, and bathes it with life and beauty. Accept 
 this omen that your work is good, and revel in the sun- 
 shine of composition. 
 
 I have sometimes half believed, although the suspicion is 
 mortifying, that there is only a step between his state who 
 deeply indulges in imaginative meditation, and insanity ; 
 for I well remember that at this period of my life, when I 
 indulged in meditation to a degree that would now be im- 
 possible, and I hope unnecessary, my senses sometimes 
 appeared to be wandering. I cannot describe the peculiar 
 feehng I then experienced, for I have failed in so doing to 
 several eminent surgeons and men of science with whom I 
 have conversed respecting it, and who were curious to 
 become acquainted %vith its nature ; but I think it was, 
 that I was not always assured of my identity, or even 
 existence ; for I sometimes found it necessary to shout 
 aloud to be sure that I lived ; and I was in the habit, very 
 often at night, of taking down a volume and looking into 
 it for my name, to be convinced that I had not been 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 277 
 
 droamiiig of myself. At these times there was an in- 
 credible acuteness, or intenseness, in my sensations ; every 
 object seemed animated, and, as it were, acting npon mo. 
 The only way that I can devise to express my general 
 feeling is, that I seemed to be sensible of the rapid whirl of 
 the globe. 
 
 All this time my health was again giving way, and all 
 my old symptoms were gradually returning. I set them at 
 defiance. The nocturnal demon having now come back in 
 all its falness, I was forced to confine my meditations to the 
 morning; and in the evening I fled for refuge and forgetful- 
 ness to wine. This gave me temporary rehef, but destroyed 
 my remaining power of digestion. In the morning I some- 
 times fainted as I dressed ; still I would not give in, and 
 only postponed the commencement of my work until my 
 return to Florence, wliich was to occur in a few days. 
 
 I rode the journey through the luxuriant Val d'Amo, 
 attended by Tita. Lausanne and Spiro had returned the 
 previous day. It was late in the evening when I arrived at 
 the villa. I thought, as I got off my horse, that the Falls 
 of Niagara could not overpower the infernal roaring that I 
 alone heard. I entered, and threw myself on a sofa. It 
 came at last. Wliat it was I knew not. It felt like a 
 rushing of blood into my brain. I moaned, tln-ew out my 
 arms, and wildly caught at the bell. Lausanne entered, and 
 I was lying apparently lifeless. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 During the whole course of my life my brain had been my 
 constant source of consolation. So long as I could work 
 that machine, I was never entirely without an object and a 
 pleasure. I had laughed at physical weaknesses while that 
 
278 CONTARINI FLEMIXG: 
 
 remainod nntouclied; and nnqnestionably I should have 
 sunk under the great calamity of my life, had it not been 
 for the sources of hope and solace which this faithful com- 
 panion opened to me. Now it was all over : I was little 
 better than an idiot. 
 
 Physician followed physician, and surgeon, surgeon, with- 
 out benefit. They all held different opinions ; yet none 
 were right. They satirised each other in private interviews, 
 and exchanged compliments in consultations. One told me 
 to be quiet ; another, to exert myself: one declared that I 
 must be stimulated ; another, that I must be soothed. I 
 was, in turn, to be ever on horseback, and ever on a sofa. 
 I was bled, blistered, boiled, starved, poisoned, electrified ; 
 galvanised ; and at the end of a year found myself with 
 exactly the same oppression on my brain, and the addi- 
 tional gratification of remembering that twelve months of 
 existence had worn away without producing a single idea. 
 Such are the inevitable consequences of consulting men who 
 decide by precedents which have no resemblance, and never 
 busy themselves about the idiosyncrfisy of their patients. 
 
 I had been bo overwhelmed by my malady, and so con- 
 scious that upon my cure my only chance of happiness de- 
 pended, that I had submitted myself to all this treatment 
 without a murmur, and religiously observed all their con- 
 tradictory directions. Being of a sanguine temperament, I 
 believed every assertion, and every week expected to find 
 myself cured. "When, however, a considerable period of 
 time had elapsed without any amelioration, I began to rebel 
 against these systems, which induced so much exertion and 
 privation, and were productive of no good. I was quite 
 desperate of cui*e ; and each day I felt more keenly that, if 
 I were not cui'ed, I could not live. I wished, therefore, to 
 die unmolested. I discharged all my medical attendants, 
 and laid myself down like a sick lion in his lair. 
 
 I never went out of the house, and barely out of a single 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 279 
 
 room. I scarcely ever spoke, and only for my wants. I liad 
 no acquaintance, and I took care that I should see no one. 
 I observed a strict diet, but fed every day. Although air, 
 and medicine, and exercise were to have been productive of 
 so much benefit to me, I found myself, without their assist- 
 ance, certainly not worse ; and the repose of my present 
 system, if possible, rendered my Avretchod existence less 
 burdensome. 
 
 Lausanne afterwards told me that he supposed I had 
 relapsed into the state in which I fell immediately after my 
 great calamity ; but this was not the case. I never lost my 
 mind or memory : I was conscious of everything ; I forgot 
 nothing ; but I had lost the desire of exercising them. I 
 sat in moody silence, revolving in reverie, without the labour 
 of thought, my past life and feelings. 
 
 I had no hopes of recovery. It was not death that terri- 
 fied me, but the idea that I might live, and for years, in 
 this helpless and unprofitable condition. When I contrasted 
 my recent lust of fame, and plans of glory, and indomitable 
 will, with my present woeful situation of mysterious im- 
 beciHty, I was appalled with the marvellous contrast ; and 
 I believed that I had been stricken by some celestial influ- 
 ence for my pride and wanton self-snfficiency. 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 I WAS in this gloomy state when, one morning, Lausanne 
 entered pay room ; I did not notice him, but continued 
 sitting, with my eyes fixed on the ground, and my chin 
 upon my breast. At last ho said, * My lord, I wish to speak 
 to you.' 
 
 'Well!* 
 
 * There is a stranger at the gate, a gentleman, who desires 
 to see you.' 
 
ogo CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 * You know I see no one/ I replied, ratLcr Larslily. 
 
 * I know it, and have so said ; but tliis gentleman ' 
 
 * Good Grod ! Lansanne. Is it my father ? ' 
 
 ' No ; but it is one who may perhaps come from him.' 
 
 * I will see him/ 
 
 The door opened, and there entered Winter. 
 
 Long years, long and active years, had passed since we 
 parted. 
 
 All had happened since. I thought of my boyhood, and 
 it seemed innocent and happy, compared with the misery of 
 the past and present. Nine years had not mnch altered 
 my friend ; but me 
 
 * I fear. Count,' said Winter, * that I am abusing the 
 privilege of an old friend in thus insisting upon an entrance ; 
 but I heard of youi' residence in this countiy, and your ill- 
 ness at the same time, and, being at Florence, I thought 
 you would perhaps pardon me.* 
 
 ' You are one of the few persons whom I am glad to see 
 under all circumstances, even under those in which I now 
 exist.' 
 
 * I have heard of your distressing state.' 
 
 ' Say my hopeless state. But let us not converse about 
 it. Let us speak of yourself. Let me hope you are as happy 
 OS you are celebrated.' 
 
 * As for that, well enough. But if we are to talk about 
 celebrity, let me claim the honours of a prophet, and con- 
 gratulate a poet whom I predicted.' 
 
 * Alas ! my dear Winter,' I said, with a faint smile, *talk 
 not of that, for I shalldie without doing yon honour.' 
 
 * There is no one of my acquaintance who has less chance 
 of dying.' 
 
 * How so ? ' I remarked, rather quickly ; for when a man 
 really believes he is dying, he does not like to lose the 
 interest which such a situation produces. * If you knew 
 all ' 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 281 
 
 * 1 know all ; much more, too, tlian your physician who 
 told me.' 
 
 * And you believe, then, that I cannot look forward even 
 to death to terminate this miserable existence ? ' 
 
 * I do not consider it miserable ; and therefore I should 
 be sorry if there were anything to warrant such an antici- 
 pation.* 
 
 * And I can assure you, Chevalier,* and I spoke sin- 
 cerely and solemnly, * that I consider existence, on the terms 
 I now possess it, an intolerable burden. And nothing bat 
 the chance, for I cannot call it hope, of amelioration, pre- 
 vents me from terminating it.' 
 
 ' If you remember right, you considered existence equally 
 an intolerable burden when, as a boy, you first experienced 
 feelings which you were unable to express.' 
 
 ' Well ! what inference do you draw ? ' 
 
 ' That it is not the first time you have quarrelled with 
 Nature ! ' 
 
 ' How so ? ' I eagerly replied, and I exerted myself to 
 answer him. * Is disease Nature ? ' 
 
 ' Is your state disease ? ' 
 
 ' I have no mind,' 
 
 ' You reason.' 
 
 ' My brain is affected.* 
 
 * You see.' 
 
 ' You believe, then, that I am an hypochondriac ? * 
 
 ' By no means ! I believe that your feelings are real and 
 
 peculiar; but it does not therefore follow that they are 
 
 evil.' 
 
 * Perhaps,* I said, with a dry smile, ' you believe them 
 beneficent ? ' 
 
 * I do certainly,' he replied. 
 
 * In what respect ? ' 
 
 * I beHeve that, as you would not give Nature a holiday 
 Pihe is giving herself one.* 
 
282 CONTARISI FLEMING: 
 
 I was silent, and mused, *Bnt this infernal brain,' I 
 replied. 
 
 ' Is the part of the machinery that you have worked 
 most ; and therefore the weakest.' 
 
 * Bat how is it to be strengthened ? ' 
 
 *Not by medicine. By following exactly a contmry 
 course to that which enfeebled it.* 
 
 ' For fifteen months an idea has not crossed my brain.' 
 ' Well ! you are all the better for it ; and fifteen mouths 
 
 more ' 
 
 ' Alas! what is life! At this age I hoped to be famous.' 
 ' Depend upon it you are in the right road ; but rest as- 
 sured you must go through every trial that is peculiar to 
 men of your organisation. There is no avoiding it. It is 
 just as necessary as that life should be the consequence of 
 your structure. To tell the truth, which is always best, I 
 only came here to please your father. When he wrote to me 
 of your illness, I mentioned to him that it must have its 
 course ; that there was nothing to be alaimed about, and 
 that it was just as much a part of your necessary education 
 as travel or study. But he wished me to see you, and so I 
 came.' 
 
 * My poor father ! Alas ! my conduct to him ' 
 
 * Has been just what it ought to be, just what it neces- 
 sarily must have been, just exactly what my own was to 
 my father. As long as human beings are unphilosophically 
 educated, these incidents will take place.' 
 
 *Ah! my dear Winter, I am a villain. I have never 
 even written to him.' 
 
 ' Of course you have not. Tour father tried to tjirn you 
 into a poHtician. Had he not forced you to write so many 
 letters then, you would not have omitted to write to him 
 now. The whole afiair is simple as day. Until men 
 are educated with reference to their nature, there will be 
 no end to domestic fracas.' 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 283 
 
 * You ever jest, my friend. I have not ventured on a 
 joke for many a long montli.' 
 
 ' Wliich is a pity ; for, to tell you the truth, although 
 your last work Is of the tender and sublime, and maketh 
 fair eyes weep, I think your forte is comic/ 
 
 * Do you indeed ? ' 
 
 * Ah ! my dear Contarini, those two little volumes of 
 "Manstein" ' 
 
 * Oh ! mention not the name. Infamous unadulterated 
 trash!' 
 
 'Ah! exactly as I thought of my first picture, which, 
 after all, has a freshness and a freedom I have never ex- 
 celled. But " Manstein," my dear Contarini, it certainly 
 was very impertinent. I read it at Bome. I thought I 
 should have died. All our friends. So very t|Tie.' 
 
 ' Will you stay with me ? I feel better since you have 
 been here ; and what you tell me of my father delights me. 
 Pray stay. Well ! you are indeed kind. And if I feel vei'j 
 ill, I will keep away.' 
 
 ' Oh! I should hke to see you in one of your fe.' 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ' Take a glass of wine,' said Winter, at dinner. 
 'My dear friend, I have taken one.' 
 
 * Take another. Here is your father's health.' 
 
 'Well then, here is yours. How is the finest of old 
 men ? ' 
 
 ' Flourishing and happy.* 
 
 * And your mother ? ' 
 'Capital!' 
 
 * And you have never returned ? ' 
 
 * No ! and never will, while there are such places ua 
 Rome and Naples.* 
 
'sJU 
 
 r OSTAtiiSi . 
 
 aiA-Kii. iiw v^wer. 
 
 joor 
 
 All! IfthallnevwMO 
 i*ooh! tbemxm&rjtm 
 xfj good frimi.il it 
 \Vhj wP Do M 
 
 pain. Obpitd! To« mm to km «i •nrfhH tpprtiu* 
 Doo*t bo MlmnMil to c^ I» mtm Kko jom» Iko oH i» 
 to aoevUin Um mooMBl to bmIeo OMrtte. I look «poo 
 yoonaofteMoofeoapltlo cdMHlioau If Ifcwo bo My. 
 thing mora «lMOitiivUMaWvo,iiio«rvovt oiidiflboro 
 bo •ayiUt^ MTO li MM lif Um mtov, ii io pootty. 
 Too bofo triid oU Ibim Tov bodj md fow arfad both 
 I ymmhm Ikil jov bodj hm 
 its ttiid is UGllw |«or joo 
 will find your adad oq— Ityeot ro««L* 
 
 I OQ OOBBOiO Hi^ HVi WOOiV MMII I gV r IMBV r 
 
 lij BO «mm; fM nqvift bwolj and MMUf. At 
 proooBi I wooM Mi go ofM Io tbo tooib of ibk 
 vHI rsBdod joo loo aneb of Ibo ptiLFc * To^f**' 
 V in o BOW world. Oo Io B^rpL .JlBfr p^rt t 
 look upon jtio oo oa Orioolol. If joc 
 
 Go Io Legbora, ood gil klo tbo dm il^ 
 A ooootij witb wbieb jroo ajt oi 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. :285 
 
 to return home in my present state, but this unwillingness 
 I concealed. 
 
 I received an answer from my father by a special courier, 
 an answer the most affectionate. He strongly recommen- 
 ded me to travel for some time ; expressed his hope and 
 confidence that I should entirely recover, and that I should 
 return and repay him for all his anxiety. All that he re- 
 quired was, that I should frequently correspond with him. 
 And, ever afterwards, I religiously respected his request. 
 
 A ship was about to sail from Leghorn to Cadiz. Spain 
 appeared an interesting country, and one of which I knew 
 nothing. It is the link between Europe and Africa. To 
 Spain, therefore, I resolved to repair ; and in a few days I 
 again quitted Italy, and once more cast my fortunes on the 
 watei-s ! 
 
 END OF PART IV. 
 
286 CONTARIXI FLEMING: 
 
 PART THE FIFTH, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Europe and Afric! I have "vrandercd amid the tombs of 
 Troj, and stood by the altar of Medea, vet the poetiy of 
 the Hellespont and the splendonr of the Symplegades must 
 yield to the majesty of the Straits of Calpe. 
 
 Like some lone Titan, Inrid and sublime, his throne tho 
 mountains, and the clouds his crown, the melancholy 
 !Mauritlania sits apart, and gazes on the mistress he has 
 lost. 
 
 And lo ! from out the waves, that kiss her feet, and bow 
 before her beauty, she softly rises with a wanton smile. 
 Would she call back her dark-eyed lover, and does the 
 memory of that bright embrace yet dwell within the hal- 
 lowed sanctuary of her heart ? 
 
 It was a glorious union. When were maidens fairer and 
 more faithful? when were men more gentle and more 
 brave? When did all that can adorn humanity more 
 brightly flourish, and more sweetly bloom ? Alas for their 
 fair cities, and fine gardens, and fresh fountains ! Alas for 
 their delicate palaces, and glowing bowers of perfumed 
 shade! 
 
 Will you fly with me from the dull toil of vulgar life ? 
 Will you wander for a moment amid the plains of Granada ? 
 Around us are those sno^y and purple mountains, which a 
 Caliph wept to quit. They surround a land still prodigal 
 of fruits, in spite of a Gothic government. You are gazing 
 on the rows of blooming aloes, ttat are the only enclosures, 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 287 
 
 with their flowery forms high in the warm air ; yon linger 
 among those groves of Indian fig ; you stare with strange 
 delight at the first sight of the sugar-cane. Come away, 
 come away, for on yon green and sunny hill, rises the ruby 
 gate of that precibttS pile, whose name is a spell and Whose 
 vision is romance. 
 
 Let us enter Alhambra ! 
 
 See ! here is the Court of Myrtles, and I gather you a 
 sprig. Mark hoW exquisitely everything is proportioned ; 
 mark how slight, and small, and delicate ! And now we 
 are in the Court of Columns, the far-famed Court of 
 Columns. Let us enter the chambers that open round this 
 quadmngle. HoW beautiful are their deeply-carved and 
 purple roofs, studded with gold, and the walls entirely 
 covered with the most fanciful fretwork, relieved with that 
 violet tint which must have been copied from their Anda- 
 lusian skies. Here you may sit in the coolest shade, re- 
 chning on your divan, with your beads or pipe, and view 
 the dazzling sunlight in the court, which assuredly must 
 scorch the flowers, if the faithful lions ever ceased from 
 pouring forth that element, which yoti must travel in Spain 
 or Africa to honour. How many chambers ! the Hall of 
 the Ambassadors ever the most sumptuous. How fanciful 
 its mosaic ceiling of ivory and tortoiseshell, mother-of- 
 pearl and gold ! And then the Hall of Justice with its 
 cedar roof, and the Harem, and the baths : all perfect. 
 Not a single roof has yielded, thanks to those elegant horse- 
 shoe arches and those crowds of marble columns, with their 
 oriental capitals. What a scene ! Is it beautiful ? Oh ! 
 conceive it in the time of the Boabdils ; conceive it with all 
 its costly decorations, all the gilding, all the imperial purple, 
 all the violet relief, all the scarlet borders, all the glittering 
 inscriptions and precious mosaics, burnished, bright, and 
 fresh. Conceive it full of still greater ornaments, the living 
 groups, with their splendid and vivid and picturesque cos- 
 
288 ■ CONTARINI FLEMING : 
 
 iuinc, and, above all, their rich and shining arms, some 
 standing in conversing groups, some smoking in sedate 
 silence, some telling their beads, some squatting round a 
 storier. Then the bustle and the rush, and the coming 
 horsemen, all in motion, and all glancing in the most bril- 
 Hant sun. 
 
 Enough of this ! I am alone. Yet there was one being 
 with whom I could have loved to roam in these imaginative 
 halls, and found no solitude in the sole presence of her most 
 sweet society. 
 
 Alhambra is a strong illustration of what I have long 
 thought, that however there may be a standard of taste, 
 there is no standard of style. I must place Alhambra with 
 the Parthenon, the Pantheon, the Cathedral of Seville, the 
 temple of Dendera. They are different combinations of 
 the same principles of taste. Thus we may equally admire 
 -^schylus, VirgO, Calderon, and Ferdousi. There never 
 could have been a controversy on such a point, if mankind 
 had not confased the ideas of taste and style. The Saracenic 
 architecture is the most inventive and fanciful, but at the 
 same time the most fitting and delicate that can be con- 
 ceived. There would be no doubt about its title to be 
 considered among the finest inventions of man, if it were 
 better known. It is only to be found, in any degree of 
 European perfection, in Spain. Some of the tombs of the 
 Mamlouk Sultans in the desert round Cairo, wrongly styled 
 by the French 'the tombs of the Caliphs, ' are equal, I 
 think, to Alhambra. When a person sneers at the Saracenic, 
 ask him what he has seen. Perhaps a barbarous, although 
 picturesque, building, called the Ducal Palace at Venice. 
 What should we think of a man who decided on the archi- 
 tecture of Agrippa by the buildings of Justinian, or judged 
 the age of Pericles by the restorations of Hadrian ? Yet he 
 would not commit so great a blunder. There is a Moorish 
 palace, the Alcazar, at Seville, a huge mosque at Cordova 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 289 
 
 turned into a Cathedral, with partial alteration, Alliambra 
 at Granada ; these are the great specimens in Europe, and 
 sufficient for all study. There is a shrine and a chapel o{ 
 a Moorish saint at Cordova, quite untouched, with the blue 
 mosaic and the golden honeycomb roof, as vivid and as 
 brilliant as when the Santon was worshipped. I have 
 never seen any work of art so exquisite. The materials are 
 the richest, the ornaments the most costly, and in detail 
 the most elegant and the most novel, the most fanciful and 
 the most flowing, that I ever contemplated. And yet 
 nothing at the same time can be conceived more just than 
 the proportion of the whole, and more mellowed than the 
 blending of the parts, which indeed Palladdo coiild not 
 excel. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A Spanish city sparkling in the sun, with its white walls 
 and verdant jalousies, is one of the most cheerful and most 
 brilhant of the works of man. Eigaro is in every street, 
 and Rosina in every balcony. 
 
 The Moorish remains, the Christian churches, the gay 
 national dress, a gorgeous priesthood, ever producing, in 
 their dazzling processions and sacred festivals, an effect 
 upon the business of the day ; the splendid pictures of a 
 school of which we know nothing ; theatres, alamedas, 
 tertullas, bull-fights, boleros ; here is matter enough for 
 amusement within the walls : and now let us see how they 
 pass theii' time out of them. 
 
 When I was in the south of Spain the whole of Andalusia 
 was overrun with robbers. These bands, unless irritated by 
 a rash resistance, have of late seldom committed personal 
 violence, but only lay you on the ground and clear out 
 your pockets. If, however, you have lc-£s than an ounce of 
 
 U 
 
!90 
 
 CONTARINI FLEMIXG: 
 
 gold, they slaoot you. That is their tariff, which they have 
 announced at all the principal towns, and, it must be con- 
 fessed, a light one. A weak government resolves society 
 into its original elements, and robbery in Spain has become 
 more honourable than war, inasmuch as the robber is 
 paid, and the soldier is in" arrear. The traveller must 
 defend himself. Some combine, some compromise. Mer- 
 chants travel in corsarios or caravans well-armed ; persons 
 of quahty take a mihtary escort, who, if cavalry, scamper 
 off the moment they are attacked, and, if infantry, remain 
 and participate in the plunder. The government is only 
 anxious about the post, and to secure that pay the brigands 
 black mail. 
 
 The country is thinly populated, with few villages or 
 farm-houses, but many towns and cities. It chiefly consists 
 of vast plains of pasture-land, which, sunburnt in the sum- 
 mer, were a good preparation for the desert, and intervening 
 mountainous districts, such as the Sierra Morena, famous 
 in Cervantes, the Sierra Nevada of Granada, and the Sierra 
 da Ronda, a country like the Abruzzi, entirely inhabited by 
 brigands and smugglers, and which I once explored. 1 
 must say that the wild beauty of the scenery entirely 
 repaid me for some peril and great hardship. Returning 
 from this district towards Cadiz you arrive at Oven, one of 
 the finest mountain-passes in the world. Its precipices and 
 cork woods would have afforded inexhaustible studies to 
 Salvator. All this part of the country is full of picture, 
 and of a pecuhar character. I recommend Casteliar to an 
 adventurous artist. 
 
 I travelled over Andalusia on horseback, and, in spite of 
 many warnings, without any escort, or any companions but 
 Lausanne and Tita, and little Spu'o and tbe muleteers, who 
 walk and occasionally increase the burden of a sumpter 
 steed. In general, like all the Spanish peasants, they are 
 tall, finely-made fellows, looking extremely martial, with 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 291. 
 
 their low, round, black velvet hats, and coloured sashes, 
 embroidered jackets, and brilliant buttons. We took caro 
 not to have too much money, and no baggage that we could 
 not Htow in our saddle-bags. I even followed the advice of 
 an experienced guide, and was as little ostentatious as 
 possible of my arms ; for to a Spanish bandit foreign pistols 
 are sometimes a temptation, instead of a terror. Such 
 prudent humility will not, however, answer in the East, 
 where you cannot be too well or too magnificently armed. 
 
 We were, in general, in our saddles at four o'clock, and 
 stopped, on account of the heat, from ten till five in the 
 evening, and then proceeded for three or four hours more. 
 I have travelled through three successive nights, and seen 
 the sun set and rise without quitting my saddle, which all 
 men cannot say. It is impossible to conceive anything 
 more brilliant than an Andalusian summer moon. You 
 lose nothing of the landscape, which is only softened, not 
 obscured ; and absolutely the beams are warm. Generally 
 speaking, we contrived to reach, for our night's bivouac,' 
 some village which usually boasts a posada. If this failed 
 there was sometimes a convent ; and were we unfortunate 
 in this expedient, we made pillows of our saddles and beds 
 of our cloaks. A posada is, in fact, a khan, and a very bad 
 one. The same room, holds the cattle, the kitchen, the 
 family, and boards and mats for travellers to sleep on. 
 Your host affords no provisions, and you must cater as you 
 proceed ; and, what is more, cook when you have catered. 
 Yet the posada, in spite of so many causes, is seldom 
 dirty; for the Spaniards, notwithstanding their reputation, 
 I claim the character of the most cleanly nation in Europe. 
 Nothing is more remarkable than the dehcacy of the lower 
 orders. All that frequent whitewash and constant ablution 
 can effect against a generating sun they employ. You 
 would think that a Spanish woman had no other occupa- 
 tion than to maintain the cleanliness of her chamber. T!icy 
 
 I' z 
 
293 
 
 CONTARINI FLEMING 
 
 have, indeed, too much, self-respect not to be clean. I once 
 remember Lausanne rating a muleteer, who was somewhat 
 tardy in his preparations. ' What ! ' exclaimed the peasant 
 reproachfully, * would you have me go without a clean 
 shirt ? ' Now, when we remember that this man only put 
 on his clean shirt to toil on foot for thirty or forty miles, 
 we may admire his high feeling, and doubt whether we 
 might match this incident even by that wonder, an Enghsh 
 postilion. 
 
 Certainly the Spaniards are a noble race. They are kind 
 and faithfal, courageous and honest, with a profound mind, 
 that will nevertheless break into rich humour, and a dignity 
 which, like their passion, is perhaps the legacy of their 
 oriental sires. 
 
 But see ! we have gained the summit of the hill. Behold ! 
 the noble range of the Morena mountains extends before us, 
 and at their base is a plain worthy of such a boundary. 
 Yon river, winding amid bowers of orange, is the beautiful 
 Guadalquivir ; and that city, with its many spires and 
 mighty mosque, is the famous Cordova ! 
 
 CHAPTER ni. 
 
 The court-yard was fall of mules, a body of infantry were 
 bivouacking under the colonnades. There were several 
 servants, all armed, and a crowd of muleteers ^Yith. blud- 
 geons. 
 
 * 'Tis a great lady from Madrid, sir,' observed Tita, who 
 was lounging in the coui't. 
 
 I had now been several days at Cordova, and intended to 
 depart at sunset for Granada. The country between these 
 two cities is more infested by brigands than any tract in 
 Spain. The town ranfi" with their daring exploits. Every 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 293 
 
 traveller during the last montli had been plundered ; and, 
 only the night before my arrival, they had, in revenge for 
 some attempt of the governor to interfere, burned down a 
 farm-house a few. miles without the gates. 
 
 When I entered the hotel, the landlord came up to me and 
 advised me to postpone my departure for a few hours, as a 
 great lady from Madrid was about to venture the journey, 
 and depart at midnight towards Malaga with a strong es- 
 cort. He doubted not that she would consent with pleasure 
 to my joining their party. I did not feel, I fear, as grateful 
 for his proposition as I ought to have been. I was tired of 
 Cordova ; I had made up my mind to depart at a particular 
 hour. I had hitherto escaped the brigands ; I began to sus- 
 pect that their activity was exaggerated. At the worst, I 
 apprehended no great evil. Some persons always escaped, 
 and I was confident in my fortune. 
 
 ' What is all this ? ' I inquired of Lausanne. 
 
 * 'Tis a great lady from Madrid,' replied Lausanne. 
 
 ' And have you seen her ? ' 
 
 ' I have not, sir ; but I have seen her husband.* 
 
 ' Oh ! she has a husband ; then I certainly will not stop. 
 At sunset we go.* 
 
 In half an hour's time the landlord again entered my 
 room, with an invitation from the great lady and her lord 
 to join them at dinner. Of course I could not refuse, al- 
 though I began to suspect that my worthy host, in his con- 
 siderate suggestions, had perhaps been influenced by other 
 views than merely my security. 
 
 I repaired to the saloon. It was truly a Gil Bias scene. 
 The grandee, in an ujidress uniform, and highly imposing 
 in appearance, greeted me with dignity. He was of middle 
 age, with a fine form and a strongly-marked, true Castilian 
 countenance, but handsome. The senora was exceedingly 
 young, and really very pretty, with infinite vivacity and 
 gmce. A French valet leant over the husband's chau' ; 
 
294 ' CONTARIKI FLEMIXG: 
 
 and a duenna, broad and supercilious, with beady jet eyes, 
 mahogany complexion, and cocked-np nose, stood by hei* 
 young mistress, refreshing her with a huge fan. 
 
 After some general and agreeable conversation, the senor 
 introduced the intended journey ; and, understanding that I 
 was about to proceed in the same direction, offered me the 
 advantage of his escort. The dama most energetically im- 
 pressed upon me the danger of travelling alone, and I was 
 brutal enough to suspect that she had more confidence in 
 foreign aid than in the courage of her countrymen. 
 
 I was in one of those ungallant fits that sometimes come 
 over men of shattered nerves. I had looked forward with 
 moody pleasure to a silent moonlit ride. I shrunk from the 
 constant effort of continued conversation. It did not ap- 
 pear that my chivalry would be grievously affected, if an 
 almost solitary cavalier were to desert a dame environed by 
 a military force and a band of armed retainers. In short, 
 I was not seduced by the prospect of security, and rash 
 enough to depart alone. 
 
 The moon rose. I confess our anxiety. The muleteer 
 prophesied an attack. * They will be out,* said he, * for the 
 great lady ; we cannot escape.' We passed two travelling 
 friars on their mules, who gave us their blessing, and I ob- 
 served to-night by the road side more crosses than usual, 
 and each of these is indicative of a violent death. We 
 crossed an immense plain, and entered a mule track through 
 uneven ground. We were challenged by a picquet, and I, 
 who was ahead, nearly got shot for answering. It was a 
 corsario of armed merchants returning from the fair of 
 Ronda. We stopped and made inquiries, but could learn 
 nothing, and we continued our journey for several houi's, 
 in silence, by the most brilliant moon. We began to hope 
 we had escaped, when suddenly a muleteer informed us that 
 he could distinguish a trampling of horse in the distance. 
 Ave, Maria ! A cold perspiration came over us. Decidedly 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 295 
 
 tlioy approached. Wo drew up out of pure fear. I had a 
 pistol in one hand and a purse in the other, to act according 
 to circumstances. The band were clearly in sight. I was 
 encouraged by finding that they were a rather uproarious 
 crew. They turned out to be a company of actors travel- 
 linir to Cordova. There were dresses and decorations, 
 scenery and machinery, all on mules and donkeys : the 
 singers rehearsing an opera, the principal tragedian riding 
 on an ass, and the buffo most serious, looking as grave as 
 night, with a cigar, and in greater agitation than all the 
 rest. The women were in side-saddles like sedans, and 
 there were whole panniers of children. Some of the 
 actresses were chanting an ave, while, in more than one 
 instance, their waists were encircled by the brawny arm 
 of a more robust devotee. AU this irresistibly reminded 
 me of Cervantes. 
 
 Night waned, and, instead of meeting robbers, we dis- 
 covered that we had only lost our way. At length we stum- 
 bled upon some peasants sleeping in the field amid the har- 
 vest, who told us that it was utterly impossible to regain our 
 road, and so, our steeds and ourselves being equally wearied, 
 we dismounted and turned our saddles into pillows. 
 
 I was roused, after a couple of hours' sound slumber, by 
 the rosario, a singing procession, in which the peasantry 
 cono-reg-ate to their labours. It is most effective, full of 
 noble chants, and melodious responses, that break upon the 
 still fresh air and your fresher feelings, in a manner truly 
 magical. This is the country for a national novelist. The 
 out-door life of the natives induces a variety of most pic- 
 turesque manners, while their semi-civilisation makes each 
 district retain, with barbarous jealousy, its peculiar customs. 
 
 I heard a shot at no great distance. It was repeated. To 
 horse, to horse ! I roused Lausaime and Tita. It struck 
 me immediately that shots were interchanged. "We galloped 
 in the direction of the sound, followed by several peasants, 
 
296 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 and firing our pistols. Two or three runaway soldiers met 
 us. ' Carraho ! Scoundrels turn back ! ' we cried. In a 
 few minutes we were in sight of combat. It was a most 
 unef^ual one, and nearly finished. A robber had hold of 
 the ai-m of the great lady of Madrid, who was dismounted, 
 and seated on a bank. Her husband was leaning on liis 
 sword, and evidently agreeing to a capitulation. The ser- 
 vant seemed stiU disposed to fight. Two or three wounded 
 men were lying on the field, soldiers, and mules, and mule- 
 teers, running about in all directions. 
 
 Tita, who was an admirable shot, fired the moment he was 
 in reach, and brought down his man. I ran up to the lady, 
 but not in time to despatch her assailant, who fled. The 
 robbers, surprised, disorderly, and plundering, made no 
 fight, and we permitted them to retreat with some severe 
 loss. 
 
 In the midst of exclamations and confusion, Lausanne 
 produced order. The infantry rallied, the mules re-assem- 
 bled, the baggage was again arranged. The travellers were 
 the Marquis and Marchioness of Santiago, who were about 
 to pay a visit to their relative, the Governor of Malaga. I 
 remained with them until we reached Granada, when the 
 most dangerous portion of this journey was completed, and 
 I parted from these charming persons Avith a promise to 
 visit them on my arrival at their place of destination. 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 There Is not a more beautiful and solemn temple in the 
 world than the great Cathedral of Seville. When you enter 
 from the glare of a Spanish sky, so deep is the staining of 
 the glass, and so small and few the windows, that, for a 
 momeut, you feel in darkness. Gradually, the vast design 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 297 
 
 of the Gothic artist unfolds itself to your vision : gradually 
 rises up before you the profuse sumptuousness of the high 
 altar, with its tall images, and velvet and gold hangings, 
 its gigantic railings of brass and massy candlesticks of 
 silver, all revealed by the dim and perpetual light of the 
 sacred and costly lamps. 
 
 You steal with a subdued spirit over the marble pavement. 
 All is still, save the hushed muttering of the gliding priests. 
 Around you are groups of kneeling worshippers, some 
 prostrate on the ground, some gazing upwards, with their 
 arms crossed, in mute devotion, some beating their breasts, 
 and counting their consoling beads. Lo ! the tinkling of a 
 bell. The mighty organ bursts forth. Involuntarily you 
 fall upon your knees, and listen to the rising chanting of the 
 solemn choir. A procession moves from an adjoining 
 chapel. A band of crimson acolytes advance waving 
 censers, and the melody of their distant voices responds to 
 the deep-toned invocations of the nearer canons. There 
 are a vast number of chapels in this Cathedral on each side 
 of the principal nave. Most of them are adorned with 
 masterpieces of the Spanish school. Let us approach one. 
 The light is good, and let us gaze through this iron railing 
 upon the picture it encloses. 
 
 I see a saint falling upon his knees, and extending his 
 enraptured arm to receive an infant God. What mingled 
 love, enthusiasm, devotion, reverence, blend in the counte- 
 nance of the holy man! But, oh! that glowing group of 
 seraphim, sailing and smiling in the sunny splendour of that 
 radiant sky, who has before gazed upon such grace, such 
 ineffable and charming beauty ! And in the back-ground 
 is an altar, whereon is a vase holding some lilies, that seem 
 as if they were just gathered. There is but one artist who 
 could have designed this picture ; there is but one man who 
 could have thus combined ideal grace with natural simpHcity ; 
 there is but one man who could have painted that diapha- 
 nous heaven, and those fresh lilies. Inimitable Murillo! 
 
298 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A Spanish bnll-fight tauglit me folly to coiuprelieiid the 
 rapturous exclamation of * Panem et Circenses ! ' The 
 amusement apart, there is something magnificent in the 
 assembled thousands of an amphitheatre. It is the trait 
 in modem manners, -which most effectually recalls the 
 nobility of antique pastimes. 
 
 The poetry of a bull-fight is much destroyed by the 
 appearance of the cavaliers. Instead of gay, gallant 
 knights bounding on caracoling steeds, three or four shape- 
 less, unwieldy beings, cased in armour of stuffed leather, 
 and looking more like Dutch burgomasters than Spanish 
 chivalry, enter the lists on limping rips. The bull is, in 
 fact, the executioner for the dogs ; and an approaching 
 bull-fight is a respite for any doomed stoed throughout all 
 Seville. 
 
 The tauridors, in their varying, fanciful, costly, and 
 splendid dresses, compensate in a great measure for your 
 disappointment. It is difficult to conceive a more brilliant 
 band. These are ten or a dozen footmen, who engage the 
 bull unarmed, distract him as he rushes at one of the cava- 
 liers by unfolding and dashing before his eyes a gHttering 
 scarf, and saving themselves from an occasional chase by 
 practised agility, which elicits great applause. The per- 
 formance of these tauridors is, without doubt, the most 
 graceful, the most exciting, and the most surprising portion 
 of the entertainment. 
 
 The ample theatre is nearly fuU. Be careful to sit on the 
 shady side. There is the suspense experienced at all public 
 entertainments, only here upon a great scale. Men are 
 gliding about selling fans and refreshments ; the governor 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 299 
 
 and liis suite enter tlieir box ; a trumpet sounds ! all is 
 silent. 
 
 The kniglits advance, poising their spears, and for a 
 moment trying to look graceful. The tauridors walk 
 behind them, two bj two. They proceed around and 
 across the lists; they bow to the vice-regal party, and 
 commend themselves to the Virgin, whose portrait is 
 suspended above. 
 
 Another trumpet ! A second and a third blast ! The 
 governor throws the signal ; the den opens, and the bull 
 bounds in. That first spring is very fine. The animal 
 stands for a moment still, staring, stupified. Gradually 
 liis hoof moves; he paws the ground; he dashes about the 
 sand. The knights face him with their extended lances at 
 due distance. The tauridors are still. One flies across 
 him, and waves his scarf. The enraged bull makes at the 
 nearest horseman ; he is frustrated in his attack. Again he 
 plants himself, lashes his tail, and rolls his eye. He makes 
 another charge, and this time the glance of the spear does 
 not drive him back. He gores the horse : rips up its body : 
 the steed staggers and falls. The bull rushes at the rider, 
 and his armour will not now preserve him ; but, just as his 
 awful horn is about to avenge his future fate, a skilful 
 tauridor skims before him, and flaps his nostrils with his 
 scarf. He 'flies after his new assailant, and immediately 
 finds another. Now you are delighted by all the evolutions 
 of this consummate band ; occasionally they can save 
 themselves only by leaping the barrier. The knight, in 
 the meantime, rises, escapes, and mounts another steed. 
 
 The bull now makes a rush at another horseman; the 
 iiorse dexterously veers aside. The bull rushes on, but 
 the knight wounds him severely in the flank with his 
 lance. The tauridors now appear, armed with darts. 
 They rush with extraordinary swiftness and dexterity at 
 the infuriated animaL plant their galling weapons in difie- 
 
300 COKTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 rent parts of Lis body, and scad away. To some of tlieir 
 darts are affixed fireworks, which ignite by the pressure of 
 the stab. The animal is then as bewildered as infuriate ; 
 the amphitheatre echoes to his roaring, and witnesses the 
 greatest efforts of his rage. He flies at all, staggering 
 and streaming with blood ; at length, breathless and ex- 
 hausted, he stands at bay, his black, swoUen tongue hang- 
 ing out, and his month covered with foam. 
 
 'Tis horrible ! Throughout, a stranger's feelings are for 
 the bull, although this even the fairest Spaniard cannot 
 comprehend. As it is now evident that the noble victim 
 can only amnse them by his death, there is a universal cry 
 for the matador ; and the matador, gaily dressed, appears 
 amid a loud cheer. The matador is a great artist. Strong 
 nei^es must combine with great quickness and great expe- 
 rience to foi-m an accomplished matador. It is a rare 
 character, highly prized ; their fame exists after their death, 
 and different cities pride themselves on producing or 
 possessing the eminent. 
 
 The matador plants himself before the bull, and shakes a 
 red cloak suspended over a drawn sword. This last insult 
 excites the lingering energy of the dying hero. He makes 
 a violent charge : the mantle falls over his face, the sword 
 enters his spine, and he falls amid thundering shouts. The 
 death is instantaneous, without a struggle and without a 
 groan. A car, decorated with flowers and ribbons, and 
 drawn by oxen, now appears, and bears off the body in 
 triumph. 
 
 I have seen eighteen horses killed in a bull-fight, and 
 eight bulls ; but the sport is not always in proportion to the 
 slaughter. Sometimes the bull is a craven, and then, if, 
 after recourse has been had to every mode of excitement, he 
 will not charge, he is kicked out of the arena amid the 
 jeers and hisses of the audience. Every act of skill on the 
 part, of the tanridors elicits applause ; nor do the spectators 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 301 
 
 hesitate, if necessary, to mark tlieir temper by a contrary 
 method. On the whole, it is a magnificent but barbarous 
 spectacle ; and, however disgusting the principal object, the 
 accessories of the entertainment are so brilliant and inter- 
 esting that, whatever may be their abstract disapprobation, 
 those who have witnessed a Spanish bull-fight will not be 
 surprised at the passionate attachment of the Spanish 
 people to their national pastime. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 There is a calm voluptuousness about Spanish life that 
 wonderfully accorded with the disposition in which I then 
 found myself; so that, had my intellect been at command, 
 I do not know any land where I would more AvilHngly have 
 indulged it. The imagination in such a country is ever at 
 work, and beauty and grace are not scared away by those 
 sounds and sights, those constant cares and changing feel- 
 ings that are the proud possession of lands which consider 
 themselves more blessed. 
 
 You rise early, and should breakfast lightly, although a 
 table covered with all fruits renders that rather 'difficult to 
 those who have a passion for the most delightful produc- 
 tions of nature, and would willingly linger over a medley 
 of grape, and melon, and gourd, and prickly pear. In the 
 morning you never quit the house; and these are hours 
 which might be delightfully employed, under the inspiration 
 of a climate which is itself poetry ; for it sheds over every- 
 thing a golden hue which does not exist in the illuminated 
 objects themselves. I could then indulge only in a calm 
 reverie, for I found the least exertion of mind instantly ag- 
 gravate all my symptoms. To exist, and to feel existence 
 more tolerable, to observe and to remember to record 8 
 
^o2 CONTARINI FLEMIXG : 
 
 thouglit that suddenly starts up, or to catcli a new image 
 wMcli glances over the surface of the mind, this was still 
 left me. But the moment that I attempted to meditate or 
 combine, to ascertain a question that was doubtful, or in 
 any way to call the higher powers of intellect into play, 
 that moment I found myself a lost man ; my brain seemed 
 to palpitate with frenzy ; an indescribable feeling of idiocy 
 came over me, and for hours I was plunged in a state of 
 the darkest despair. When the curse had subsided to its 
 usual dull degi'ee of hon'or, my sanguine temper called me 
 &gain to life and hope. My general health had never been 
 better, and this supported me under the hardships of 
 Spanish travelling. I never for a moment gave way to my 
 real feelings, unless under a paroxysm, and then I fled to 
 sohtude. But I resolved to pursue this life only for a year, 
 and if at the end of that period I found no relief, the con- 
 vent and the cloister should at least afford mo repose. 
 
 But 'tis thi-ee o'clock, and at this time we should be at 
 dinner. The Spanish kitchen is not much to my taste, 
 being rich and rather gross ; and yet, for a pleasant as 
 well as a picturesque dish, commend me to an olla podiidat 
 After dinner comes the famed siesta. I generally slept for 
 two hours. I think this practice conducive to health in 
 hot climes ; the aged, however, are apt to caiTy it to excess. 
 By the time you have risen and made your toilet, it is the 
 hour to steal forth, and call upon any agreeable family 
 whose tertulla you may choose to honoui*, which you do, 
 after the first time, uninvited, and with them you take your 
 chocolate. This is often in the air, under the colonnade of 
 the patio, or interior quadrangle of the mansion. Here you 
 while away the time with music and easy talk, until it is 
 cool enough for the Alameda, or public promenade. At 
 Cadiz and Malaga, and even at Seville, up the Guadalquivir, 
 you are sure of a delightful breeze from the water. The 
 Eca-breeze comes Hke a spirit ; the efTen* ^s quite magical. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 303 
 
 As yoa are lolling in listless languor in tlie hot and per- 
 famed air, an invisible gnest comes dancing into the party, 
 and touches all with an enchanting wand. All start ; all 
 smile. It has come ; it is the sea-breeze. There is much 
 discussion whether it be as strong as the night before or 
 whether weaker. The ladies furl their fans and seize their 
 mantillas ; the cavahers stretch their legs and give signs 
 of life. All arise. You offer your arm to Dolores or Cata- 
 ]ina, and in ten minutes you are on the Alameda. What a 
 change ! All is now life and animation. Such bowing, 
 such kissing, such fluttering of fans, such gentle criticisms 
 of gentle friends ! But the fan is the most wonderful part 
 of the whole scene. A Spanish lady, with her fan, might 
 shame the tactics of a troop of horse. K"ow she unfurls it 
 with the slow pomp and conscious elegance of the hird cf 
 Juno ; now she flutters it with all tiie langour of a listless 
 beauty, now with all the Hveliuess of a vivacious one. IN'ow, 
 in the midst of a very tornado, she closes it with a whirr, 
 which makes you start. In the midst of your confusion 
 Dolores taps you on your elbow ; you turn round to listen, 
 and CataHna pokes you in your side. Magical instrument ! 
 In this land it speaks a particular language, and gallantry 
 requires no other mode to express its most subtle conceits 
 or its most unreasonable demands than this delicate ma- 
 chine. Yet we should remember that here, as in the north, 
 it is not confined to the delightful sex. The cavalier also 
 has his fan ; and, that the habit may not be considered an 
 tudipation of effeminacy, learn that in this scorching clime 
 the soldier will not mount guard without tliis solace. 
 
 But night wears on. We seat ourselves, we take a final, 
 a fanciful refreshment, which also, like the confectionery of 
 Venice, I have since discovered to be oriental. Again we 
 stroll. Midnight clears the public walk, but few Spanish 
 families retire until a much later hour. A solitary bachelor, 
 like myself, still wanders, lingering where the dancers softly 
 
304 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 move in tlie warm moonliglit, and indicate, by the grace of 
 their eager gestures and the fcdness of their languid eyes, 
 the fierceness of their passion. At length the castanet ia 
 silent, the tinkling of the last guitar dies away, and the 
 Cathedral clock breaks up your reverie. You, too, seek 
 your couch, and, amid a sweet flow of loveliness, and light, 
 and music, and fresh air, thus dies a day in Spain ! 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 The Spanish women are very interesting. What we asso- 
 ciate with the idea of female beauty is not perhaps very 
 common in this country. There are seldom those seraphic 
 countenances which strike you dumb, or blind ; but faces 
 in abundance, which wiU never pass without commanding 
 admiration. Their charms consist in their sensibility. 
 Each incident, every person, every word, touches the fancy 
 of a Spanish lady, and her expressive features are constantly 
 confuting the creed of the Moslemim. But there is nothing 
 quick, harsh, or forced about her. She is unaffected, and 
 not at aU French. Her eyes gleam rather than sparkle ; 
 she speaks with vivacity, but in sweet tones, and there 
 is in all her carriage, particularly when she walks, a certain 
 dignified grace, which never deserts her, and which is re- 
 markable. 
 
 The general female dress in Spain is of black silk, a has- 
 quina, and a black silk shawl, a mantilla, with which they 
 usually envelop their heads. As they walk along in this 
 costume in an evening, with their soft dark eyes dangerously 
 conspicuous, you willingly believe in their universal charms. 
 They are remarkable for the beauty of their hair. Of 
 this they are proud, and indeed its luxuriance is equalled 
 only by the attention which they lavish on its culture. I 
 have seen a young girl of fourteen, whose hair reached bcr 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 505 
 
 feefc, and was as glossy as the cnrl of a Contessa. All day 
 long' even the lowest order are brushing, curling, and ar- 
 ranging it. A fruit- woman has her hair dressed with as 
 much care as the Duchess of Ossuna. In the summer they 
 do not wear their mantilla over their heads, but show their 
 combs, which are of great size. The fashion of these 
 combs varies constantly. Every two or three months you 
 may observe a new form. It is the part of the costume of 
 which a Spanish woman is most proud. The moment that 
 a new comb appears, even a servant wench will run to the 
 melter's with her old one, and thus, at the cost of a dollar 
 or two, appear the next holiday in the newest style. These 
 combs are worn at the back of the head. They are of tor- 
 toise-shell, and with the fashionable they are white. I sat 
 next to a lady of high distinction at a bull-fight at Seville. 
 She was the daughter-in-law of the captain-general of the 
 province, and the most beautiful Spaniard I ever met with. 
 Her comb was white, and she wore a mantilla of blonde, 
 without doubt extremely valuable, for it was very dirty. 
 The eflfect, however, was charming. Her hair was glossy 
 black, her eyes like an antelope's, and all her other features 
 deliciously soft. She was further adorned, which is rare 
 in Spain, with a rosy cheek, for in Spain our heroines aro 
 rather sallow. But they counteract this slight defect by 
 never appearing until twilight, which calls them from their 
 bowers, fresh, though languid, from the late siesta. 
 
 The only fault of the Spanish beauty is, that she too soon 
 indulges in the magnificence of embonpoint. There are, 
 however, many exceptions. At seventeen, a Spanish beauty 
 is poetical. Tall, lithe, and clear, and graceful as a jennet, 
 who can withstand the summer lig-htnins: of her soft and 
 languid glance ! As she advances, if she do not lose her 
 shape, she resembles Juno rather than Yenus. Majestic 
 she ever is ; and if her feet be less twinkhng than in her 
 first bolero, look on her hand, and you'll forgive them aU, 
 
 X 
 
3o6 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 CHAPTER Vin. 
 
 At ^Malaga, I again met the Santiagos, and, tlirougli thvir 
 medium, became acquainted witli a young French nobleman, 
 who had served in the expedition against Algiers, and retired 
 from the army in consequence of the recent revolution in 
 his native country. The rapturous tone in which he spoke 
 of the delights of oHental life, and of his intention to settle 
 permanently in Egypt, or some other part of the Ottoman 
 Empire, excited in me a great desire to visit those countries 
 for which my residence in a Grecian isle had somewhat 
 prepared me. And on inquiry at the quay, finding thai 
 there was a vessel then in harbour, bound for the Ionian 
 Isles, and about to sail, I secured our passage, and in a few 
 days quitted the Iberian Peninsula. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 In sight of the ancient Corcyra, I could not forget that thti 
 island I beheld had given rise to one of the longest, most 
 celebrated, and most fatal of ancient wars. The immortal 
 struggle of the Peloponnesus was precipitated, if not oc- 
 casioned, by a feeling of colonial jealousy. There is a great 
 difference between ancient and modem colonies. A modem 
 colony is a commercial enterprise, an ancient colony was a 
 political settlement. In the emigration of our citizens, 
 hitherto, wc have merely sought the means of acquiring 
 wealth ; the ancients, when their brethren quitted their 
 native shores, wept and sacrificed, and were reconciled to 
 the loss of their feUow-citizens solely by the constraint of 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 307 
 
 stern necessity, and the hope that they were about to find 
 easier subsistence, and to lead a more cheerfal and com-, 
 modious life. I believe that a great revolution is at hand 
 in our system of colonisation, and that Europe will recur 
 to the principles of the ancient pohty. 
 
 Old Corcyra is now the modem Corf a ; a lovely isle, with 
 all that you hope to meet with in a Grecian sea, gleamy 
 waters, woody bays, the cypress, the olive, and the vine, a 
 clear sky and a warm sun. I learnt here that a civil war 
 raged in Albania and the neighbouring provinces of Euro- 
 pean Turkey; and, in spite of all advice, I determined, 
 instead of advancing into Greece, to attempt to penetrate 
 to the Tuikish camp, and witness, if possible, a campaign. 
 With these views, I engaged a vessel to carry me to 
 Pi'evesa. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 I WAS now in the Ambracian Gulf, those famous waters 
 where the soft Triumvir gained greater glory by defeat 
 than attends the victory of harsher warriors. The site is 
 not unworthy of the beauty of Cleopatra. From the sinu- 
 osity of the land, this gulf appears like a vast lake, walled 
 in on all sides by mountains more or less distant. The 
 dying glory of a Grecian eve bathed with warm light a 
 thousand promontories and gentle bays, and infinite undu- 
 lations of purple outline. Before me was Olympus, whose 
 austere peak yet gUttered in the sun ; a bend of the shore 
 concealed from me the islands of Ulysses and of Sappho. 
 
 As I gazed upon this scene, I thought almost with dis- 
 gust of the savage splendour and turbulent existence in 
 which, perhaps, I was about to mingle. I recurred to the 
 feelings in the indulgence of which I could alone find 
 feHcity, and from which an inexorable destiny seemed 
 resolved to Bhnt me out. 
 
3oS ' COXTARLXI FLEMING t 
 
 Hark ! the clang of the barbaric horn, and the wild clash 
 of the cymbal ! A body of Turkish infantry marched along 
 the shore. I landed, and heard for the first time of the 
 massacre of the principal rebel Beys at !Monastir, at a 
 banquet given by the Gi'and Vizir, on pretence of arranging 
 all differences. My host, a Frank experienced in the 
 Tui'kish character, checked me, as I poured forth ray in- 
 dignation at this savage treachery. * Live a little longer in 
 these countries before you hazard an opinion as to their 
 conduct. Do you indeed tliink that the rebel Beys of 
 Albania were so simple as to pla^e the slightest trast in 
 the Vizir's pledge ? The practice of politics in the East 
 may be defined by one word, dissimulation. The most 
 waiy dissembler is the consummate statesman. The Alba- 
 nian chiefs went up to the divan in full array, and accom- 
 panied by a select body of their best troops. They resolved 
 to overawe the Vizir ; joerhaps they even meditated, with 
 regard to him, the very stroke which he put in execution 
 against themselves. He was the most skilful dissembler, 
 that is all. His manner threw them off their guard. With 
 their troops bivouacking in the court-yard, they did not 
 calculate that his highness could contrive to massacre tho 
 troops by an ambush, and would dare, at the same moment, 
 ta attack the leaders by their very attendants at tho 
 banquet. There is no feeling of indignation in the countiy 
 at the treachery of the conqueror, though a very strong 
 sentiment of rage, and mortification, and revenge.' 
 
 I learnt that the Grand Vizir had rejoined the main 
 anny, and was supposed to have advanced to Yanina, the 
 capital ; that, in the meantime, tho countiy between this 
 city and the coast was overrun with prowHng bands, the 
 remnants of the rebel army, who, infuriate and flying,- 
 massacred, burnt, and destroyed, all persons and all pro- 
 perty. This was an agreeable prospect. My friend dis- 
 suaded me from my plans ; but, as I was unwilling to 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 309 
 
 relinquish them, ho recommended me to sail up to Salora, 
 and thence journey to Arta, where I might seek assistance 
 from Kaho Bey, a Moslem chief, one of the most powerful 
 and wealthy of the Albanian nobles, and ever faithful to 
 the Porte. 
 
 To Salora I consequently repaired, and the next day 
 succeeded in reaching Arta: a town once as beautiful as its 
 site, and famous for its gardens, but now a mass of ruins. 
 The whole place was razed to the ground, the minaret of 
 the principal mosque alone untouched ; and I shall never 
 forget the effect of the Muezzin, with his rich, and solemn, 
 and sonorous voice, calhng us to adore God in the midst of 
 all this human havoc. 
 
 I found the Bey of Arta keeping his state, which, not- 
 withstanding the surrounding desolation, was not con- 
 temptible, in a tenement which was not much better than 
 y. large shed. He was a handsome, stately man, grave 
 but not dull, and remarkably mild and bland in his manner. 
 His polished courtesy might perhaps be ascribed to hia 
 recent imprisonment in Russia, where he was treated with 
 so much consideration that he mentioned it to mc. I had 
 lived in such complete solitude in Candia, and had there 
 been so absorbed by passion, that I really was much less 
 acquainted with Turkish manners than I ought to have 
 been. I must confess that it was with some awe that, for 
 the first time in my life, I entered the divan of a great 
 Turk, and found myself sitting cross-legged on the right 
 hand of a Bey, smoking an amber-mouthed chiboque, 
 sipping coffee, and paying him compliments through an in- 
 terpreter. 
 
 There were several guests in the room, chiefly his officers. 
 They were, as the Albanians in general, finely-shaped men, 
 with expressive countenances and spare forms. Their 
 picturesque dress is celebrated ; though, to view it with 
 full effect, it should be seen upon an Albanian. The long 
 
;io 
 
 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 hair, and the fflnall cap, the crimson velvet vest and jacket, 
 embroidered and embossed with golden patterns of the most 
 elegant and flowing forms, the white and ample kilt, the 
 ornamented bnskins, and the belt full of silver-sheathed 
 arms, it is difficult to find humanity in better plight. 
 
 There was a considerable appearance of affairs and of 
 ])atriarchal solicitude in the divan of Kalio Bey. It is pos- 
 sible that it was not always as busy, and that he was not 
 uninfluenced by the pardonable vanity of impressing a 
 stranger with his importance and beneficence. !Many per- 
 sons entered ; and, casting ofi" their sh'ppers at the door, 
 advanced and parleyed. To some was given money, to all 
 directions ; and the worthy bey doled out his piastres and 
 liis instructions with equal solemnity. At length I succeeded 
 in calling my host's attention to the purpoi-t of my visit, 
 and he readily granted me an escort of twenty of his 
 Albanians. He was even careful that they should be 
 picked men ; and calculating that I might reach the capital 
 in two days, he drew his writing materials horn, his belt, 
 and gave me a letter to a Turkish bimbashee, or colonel, 
 who was posted with his force in the mountains I was 
 about to pass, and under the only roof which probably 
 remained between Arta and Yanina. He pressed me to 
 remain his guest, though there was little, he confessed, to 
 interest me ; but I was anxious to advance, and so, after 
 many thanks, I parted from the kind Kaho Bey. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 By day-break we departed, and journeyed for many hours 
 over a wild range of the ancient Pindus, stopping only 
 once for a short rest at a beautiful fountain of marble. 
 Here we all dismounted and lighted a fii'e, boiled the coffee, 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 311 
 
 and smoked our pipes. There were many fine groups ; but 
 little Spiro was not so mucli delighted as I expected, at 
 finding himself once more among his countrymen. 
 
 An hour before sunset we found ourselves at a vast but 
 dilapidated khan, as big as a Gothic castle, situate on a 
 high range, and built, for the accommodation of travellers 
 from the capital to the coast, by the great Ali Pacha, when 
 liis long and unmolested reign permitted that sagacious 
 ruler to develop, in a country which combines the excel- 
 lences of Western Asia and Southern Europe, some of the 
 intended purposes of a beneficent Nature. This khan had 
 now been converted into a military post; and here we 
 found the Turkish commander, to whom Kalio Bey had 
 given me a letter. He was a young man of elegant and 
 pleasing exterior, but unluckily could not understand a 
 word of Greek, and we had no interpreter. What waa to 
 be done? Proceed we could not, for there was not an 
 inhabited place before Yanina; and here w^as I sitting 
 before sunset on the same divan with my host, who had 
 entered the place to receive me, and would not leave the 
 room while I was there, vdthout the power of communica- 
 ting an idea. I was in despair, and also very hungry, and 
 could not, therefore, in the course of an hour or tAvo, plead 
 fatigue as an excuse for sleep ; for I was ravenous, and 
 anxious to know what prospect of food existed in this wild 
 and desolate mansion. So Ave smoked. It is a great 
 resource. But this wore out; and it was so ludicrous, 
 smoking and looking at each other, and dying to talk, and 
 then exchanging pipes by way of compliment, and then 
 pressing our hands to our hearts by way of thanks. At 
 last it occurred to me that I had some brandy, and that I 
 would ofier my host a glass, whichi might serve as a hint 
 for what should follow so vehement a schnaps. Mashallah ! 
 the effect was, indeed, miraculous. My mild friend smacked 
 his lips, and instantly asked for another cup. We drank 
 
3 1 2 COXTA RIXI FLEMING : 
 
 it in coffee-cnps. A bottle of brandy was despatched in 
 quicker time and fairer proportions than had ever solem- 
 nised the decease of the same portion of Burgundy. We 
 were extremely gay. The bimbashee ordered some dried 
 figs, talking all the time, and indulging in graceful panto- 
 mime, examining my pistols, inquiring about percussion 
 locks, which greatly surprised him, handing his own, moro 
 ornamented although less effective, weapons for my in- 
 spection ; and finally making out Greek enough to misun- 
 derstand most ridiculously every observation communicated. 
 But all was taken in good part, and I never met with such 
 a jolly fellow. 
 
 In the meantime I became painfully ravenous ; for the 
 dry, round, unsugary fig of Albania is a great whetter. At 
 last I asked for bread. The bimbashee gi'avely bowed, and 
 said, ' Leave it to me, take no thought,' and nothing more 
 occurred. I prepared myself for hungry dreams, when, to 
 my great astonishment and delight, a capital supper was 
 brought in, accompanied, to my equal horror, by wine. "We 
 ate with our fingers. It was the first time I had performed 
 such an opei'ation. You soon get used to it, and dash, but 
 in turn, at the choice morsels with perfect coolness. One 
 with a basin and ewer is in attendance, and the whole pro- 
 cess is by no means so terrible as it would at first appear 
 to European habits. For diinking ; we really drank with a 
 rapidity which, with me, was unprecedented : the wine was 
 not bad ; but had it been poison, the forbidden juice was 
 such a compliment from a Moslem that I must quaff it all» 
 We quaffed it in rivers. The bimbashee called for brandy. 
 Unfortunately there was another bottle. We drank it all. 
 The room turned round ; the wild attendants, who sat at 
 our feet, seemed dancing in strange whirls ; the bimbashee 
 shook hands with me : he shouted Italian, I Turkisli. 
 * Buono, buono,* he had caught up ; * Pecche, pecche,' was 
 my rejoinder,* which, let me inform the reader, although I 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 313 
 
 do not even now know much more, is very good Turkish. 
 He shouted ; he would shake hands again. I remember no 
 more. 
 
 In the middle of the night I awoke. I found myself 
 sleeping on the divan, rolled up in its sacred carpet. The 
 bimbashee had wisely reeled to the fire. The thirst I felt 
 was like that of Dives. All were sleeping except two, who 
 kept up during the night the great wood fire. I rose, 
 lightly stepping over my sleeping companions, and the 
 shining arms which here and there informed me that the 
 dark mass wrapped up in a capote was a human being. I 
 found Abraham's bosom in a flagon of water. I think I 
 must have drunk a gallon at a draught. I looked at the 
 wood fire, and thought of the blazing blocks in the hall of 
 Jonsterna ; asked myself whether I were indeed in the 
 mountain fastness of a Turkish chief ; and, shrugging my 
 shoulders, went to sleep, and woke without a headache. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 I PARTED from my jovial host the next morning very cor- 
 dially, and gave him my pipe, as a memorial of our having 
 got tipsy together. 
 
 After crossing one more range of steep mountains we 
 descended into a vast plain, over which we journeyed for 
 some hours, the country presenting the same mournful 
 aspect which I had too long observed; villages in ruins, 
 and perfectly desolate ; khans deserted, and fortresses razed 
 to the ground; olive woods burnt up, and fruit trees cut 
 down. So complete had been the work of destruction, that 
 I often unexpectedly found my horse stumbling amid the 
 foundations of a village, and what at first appeared the dry 
 bed of a torrent often turned out to be the backbone of the 
 
3:4 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 skeleton of a ravaged town. At the end of the plain, im- 
 mediately backed by loffcy moimtains, and jutting into the 
 beautiful lake that bears its name, we suddenly came upon 
 the city of Yanina ; suddenly, for a long tract of gradually 
 rising ground had hitherto concealed it from our sight. At 
 the distance from which I first beheld it, this city, once, if 
 not the largest, one of the most thriving and brilliant in the 
 Turkish dominions, was stni imposing ; but when I entered, 
 I soon found that all preceding desolation had been only 
 preparative to the vast scene of destruction now before me. 
 We proceeded through a street winding in its course, but of 
 great length. Kuined houses, mosques with their tower 
 only standing, streets utterly razed : these are nothing. We 
 met with great patches of ruin a mile square, as if an army 
 of locusts had had the power of desolating the works of 
 man, as well as those of God. The great heart of the city 
 was a sea of rains : arches and pillars, isolated and shattered, 
 still here and there jutting forth, breaking the uniformity 
 of the annihilation, and turning the horable into the pic- 
 turesque. The great bazaar, itself a Httle town, had been 
 burnt down only a few days before my arrival by an infuriate 
 band of Albanian warriors, who heard of the destruction of 
 tlieir chiefs by the Grand Vizir. They revenged themselves 
 on tyranny by destroying civilisation. 
 
 But while the city itself presented this mournful appear- 
 ance, its other characteristics were anything but sad. At this 
 moment a swarming population, arrayed in every possible 
 and fanciful costume, buzzed and bustled in all directions. 
 As I passed on, and myself of course not unobserved, where 
 a Frank had not penetrated for nine years, a thousand 
 objects attracted my restless attention and roving eye. 
 Everything was so strange and splendid, that for a moment 
 I forgot that this was an extraordinary scene even for the 
 East, and gave up my fancy to a full creduUty in the no^v 
 almost obsolete magnificence of oriental life. I longed to 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 315 
 
 write an Eastern tale. Military chieftains, clothed in bril- 
 liant colours and surnptnons fiirs, and attended by a cortege 
 of officers equally splendid, continually passed us. Now, 
 for the first time, a dervish saluted me : and now a delhi, 
 Avith his high cap, reined in his desperate steed, as the suite 
 of some pacha blocked up some turning of the street. It 
 seemed to me that my first day in a Turkish city brought 
 before me all the popular characteristics of which I had 
 read, and which I expected occasionally to observe during 
 a prolonged residence. I remember, as I rode on this 
 day, I observed a Turkish sheik, in his entirely green 
 vestments ; a scribe, with his writing materials in his 
 girdle; an ambulatory physician and his boy. I gazed 
 about me with a mingled feehng of delight and wonder. 
 
 Suddenly a strange, wild, unearthly drum is heard, and 
 at the end of the street a huge camel, with a slave sitting 
 cross-legged on its neck, and beating a huge kettledrum, 
 appears, and is the first of an apparently interminable 
 procession of his Arabian brethren. The camels were 
 large ; they moved slowly, and were many in number, 
 '^j'here were not fewer than one hundred moving on one by 
 one. To me, who had till then never seen a caravan, it 
 was a novel and impressive spectacle. All immediately 
 hustled out of the way of the procession, and seemed to 
 shrink under the sound of the wild drum. The camels 
 bore corn for the Vizir's troops encamped without the 
 walls. 
 
 At length I reached the house of a Greek physician, to 
 whom I carried letters. My escort repaired to the quarters 
 of their chieftain's son, who was in the city in attendance on 
 the Grand Vizir, and for myself I was glad enough once 
 more to stretch my wearied limbs under a Christian roof. 
 
3i6 CONTARINI FLEMING : 
 
 CHAPTER Xm. 
 
 The next day I signified my arrival to the Kehaya Bey of 
 his highness, and delivered, according to custom, a letter, 
 with which I had been kindly provided by an eminent 
 foreign functionary. The ensuing morning was fixed for 
 my audience. I repaired at the appointed hour to the cele- 
 brated fortress palace of Ali Pacha, which, although greatly 
 battered by successive sieges, is still habitable, and still 
 affords a fair idea of its pristine magnificence. Having 
 passed through the gates of the fortress, I found myself in 
 a number of smaU dingy streets, like those in the liberties 
 of a royal castle. These were all fuU of life, stirring and 
 excited. At length I reached a grand square, in which, on 
 an ascent, stands the palace. I was hurried through courts 
 and corridors, full of guards, and pages, and attendant 
 chiefe, and, in short, every variety of Turkish population : 
 for among the Orientals all depends upon one brain ; and 
 we, with our subdivisions of duty, and intelligent and re- 
 sponsible deputies, can form no idea of the labour of a 
 Turkish premier. At length I came to a vast irregular 
 apartment, serving as the immediate antechamber of the 
 hall of audience. This was the finest thing of the kind I 
 had ever yet seen. I had never mingled in so picturesque 
 an assembly. Conceive a chamber of great dimensions, full 
 of the choicest groups of an oriental population, each indi- 
 vidual waiting by appointment for an audience, and pro- 
 bably about to wait for ever. It was a sea of turbans, and 
 crimson shawls, and golden scarfs, and ornamented arms. 
 I marked with curiosity the haughty Turk, stroking his 
 beard, and waving his beads ; the proud Albanian, strutting 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 317 
 
 witli Lis tarragan, or cloak, dependent on one sliouldcr, and 
 toucliiiig, with impatient fingers, liis silver- slieathed amis ; 
 tlie olive-visaged Asiatic, with his enormous turban and 
 flowing robes, gazing, half with wonder and half with con- 
 tempt, at some scarlet colonel of the newly disciplined 
 troops, in his gorgeous but awkward imitation of Frank 
 uniforms ; the Greek still servile, though no more a slave ; 
 the Nubian eunuch, and the Georgian page. 
 
 In this chamber, attended by the drogueman, who pre- 
 sented me, I remained about ten minutes ; too short a time. 
 T never thought I could have lived to wish to kick my heels 
 in a ministerial ante-chamber. Suddenly I was summoned 
 to the awful presence of the pillar of the Turkish Empire, 
 the man who has the reputation of being the mainspring of 
 the new system of regeneration, the renowned Redschid, 
 an approved waiTior, a consummate politician, unrivalled 
 as a dissembler in a country where dissimulation is the 
 principal portion of moral culture. The hall was vast, 
 entirely covered with gilding and arabesques, inlaid with 
 tortoiseshell and mother-of-pearl. Here I beheld, squatted 
 in a corner of the large divan, a little, ferocious-looking, 
 shrivelled, care-worn man, plainly dressed, with a brow 
 covered with wrinkles, and a countenance clouded with 
 anxiety and thought. I entered the shed-like divan of the 
 kind and comparatively insignificant Kalio Bey with a feel- 
 ing of awe ; I seated myself on the divan of the Grand 
 Vizir of the Ottoman Empire, who, as my attendant iri- 
 fom-ied me, had destroyed in the course of the last three 
 months, not in war, * upwards of four thousand of my 
 acquaintance,' with the self-possession of a morning visit. 
 At a distance from us, in a group on his left hand, were his 
 Becretary and his immediate suite. The end of the saloon 
 •was lined with tchawooshes, or lackeys in waiting, in 
 crimson dresses, with long silver canes. 
 
 Some complhnonts passed between us. I congratulated 
 
3 1 8 CONTA RIXI FLEMING : ' 
 
 lus higliness on the pacification of Albania ; and he rejoined 
 that the peace of the world was his only object, and the 
 happiness of his fellow- creatnres his only wish. Pipes and 
 coffee were brought, and then his highness waved his 
 band, and in an instant the chamber was cleared. 
 
 Ho then told me that he had read the letter : that the 
 writer was one whom he mnch loved, and that I shoiilJ 
 join the army, al though of course I was aware that, as a 
 Frank, I could hold no command. I told him that such 
 was not my desire, but that, as I intended to proceed to 
 Stamboul, it would be gratifying to me to feel that I had 
 co-operated, however humbly, in the cause of a sovereign 
 whom I greatly admired. A Tartar now arrived with des- 
 patches, and I rose to retire, for I could perceive that the 
 Vizir was overwhelmed with business, and, although cour- 
 teous, moody and anxious. He did not press me to remain, 
 but desired that I would go and visit his son, Amin Pacha, 
 to whose care ho consigned me. 
 
 Amin, Pacha of Yanina, was a youth of eighteen, but 
 apparently ten years older. He was the reverse of hi a 
 father : incapable in affairs, refined in manners, plunged in 
 debauchery, and magnificent in dress. I found him sur- 
 rounded by his favourites and flatterers, reclining on his 
 divan in a fanciful hussar uniform of blue cloth, covered 
 with gold and diamonds, and worn under a Damascus 
 pelisse of thick maroon silk, lined with white fox furs. I 
 have seldom met with a man of more easy address and 
 more polished breeding. He paid many compliments to 
 the Pranks, and expressed his wish to make a visit to the 
 English at Corfu. As I was dressed in regimentals, he 
 offered to show me his collection of military costumes, 
 which had been made for hJTn principally at Vienna. He 
 also ordered one of h^ attendants to bring his manuscript 
 book of cavalry tactics, which were unfortunately all ex- 
 plained to me. I mention these slight traits, to show how 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 319 
 
 eac^erly the modern Turks pique themselves on European 
 civilisation. After smoking and eating sweetmeats, a cus- 
 tom indicative of friendsliip, ho proposed that I should 
 accompany liim to the camp, where he was about to review 
 a division of the forces, I assented. We descended to- 
 gether, and I found a boy, with a barb magnificently 
 caparisoned, waiting at the portal: of both these Amin 
 begged my acceptance. Mounting, we proceeded to tho 
 camp ; nor do I think that the cortege of the young pacha 
 consisted of fewer than a hundred persons, who were all 
 officers, either of his household or of the cavalry regiment 
 v/hich he commanded. 
 
 OHAPTEK. XIV. 
 
 I GLADLY believe, that the increased efficiency of the 
 Turkish troops compensates for their shorn splendour and 
 sorry appearance. A shaven head, covered with a tight 
 red cloth cap, a small blue jacket of coarse cloth, huge 
 trousers of the same material, puckered out to the very 
 sfcretch of art, yet sitting tight to the knee and calf, mean 
 accoutrements, and a pair of dingy slippers, behold the 
 successor of the superb janissary ! Yet they perform their 
 manoeuvres with precision, and have struggled even with 
 the Russian infantry with success. The officer makes a 
 better appearance. His dress, although of the same 
 fashion, is of scarlet, and of fine cloth. It is richly em- 
 broidered, and the colonel wears upon his breast a star and 
 crescent of diamonds. At the camp of Yanina, however, I 
 witnessed a charge of delhis with their scimitars, and a 
 more efiective cavalry I never wish to lead. 
 
 We returned to the city, and I found that apartments 
 were allotted to me in the palace, whither Lausanne and 
 iihe rest had already repaired. In the evening the "Vizir 
 
320 COKTARIXI FLEMIXG: 
 
 sent to me the first singer in Tarkej, with several musi- 
 cians. The singer chanted for an hour, in a wild, piercing 
 \oice, deroid both of harmony and melody, a triumphant 
 ballad on tlie recent massacre of Yeli Bey and his rebel co- 
 adjutors. Nothing appears to me more frightful than Turkish 
 music ; yet it produces on those who are accustomed to it 
 a great effect, and my room was filled with strangers, 
 who hastened to listen to the enchanting and exciting 
 strain. The Turkish music is peculiar, and different from 
 that of other Eastern nations. I have seldom listened to 
 more simple and affecting melodies than those with which 
 the boatmen on the Nile are wont to soothe their labours . 
 
 The dancing girls followed, and were more amusing ; 
 but I had not then seen the Almeh of Egypt. 
 
 A week flew away at Yanina in receiving and returning 
 visits from pachas, agas, and selictars, in smoking pipes, 
 sipping coffee, and tasting sweetmeats. Each day the 
 Vizir, or his son, sent me provisions ready prepared from 
 their table, and indicated by some attention their con- 
 siderate kindness. There is no character in the world 
 higher bred than a Turk of rank. Some of these men, 
 too, I found intelligent, deeply interested in the politi- 
 cal amelioration of their country, and warm admirers of 
 Peter the Great. I remember with pleasure the agree- 
 able hours I have spent in the society of Mehemet Aga, 
 selictar of the Pacha of Lepanto, a warrior to whom the 
 obstinate resistance of Yama is mainly to be attributed, 
 and a remarkably enlightened man. Yet even he could not 
 emancipate himself from their fatalism. For I remember, 
 when once conversing with him on the equipments of the 
 cavalry, a subject in which he was much interested, I sug- 
 gested to him the propriety of a corps of cuirassiers. * A 
 cuirass cannot stop the ball that bears your fate,' he 
 replied, shrugging up his shoulders and exclaiming ' Ma- 
 shallah!' 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 321 
 
 While I was leading this novel and agreeable life, neAvs 
 arrived that the Pacha of Scutari, who had placed himself 
 at the head of the insurgent janissaries, and was the 
 champion of the old party, had entered Albania at the 
 head of sixty thousand men to avenge the massacre of the 
 beys. 
 
 CHAPTER Xy. 
 
 The Grand Vizir set off the same night with ten thousand 
 men, reached Ochrida by forced marches, attacked and 
 routed a division of the rebel troops before they supposed 
 him to be apprised of their movements, and again en- 
 camped at Monastir, sending urgent commands to Yanina 
 for his son to advance with the rest of the army. We met 
 his Tartar on our march, and the divisions soon joined. 
 After a day's rest, we advanced, and entered the Pachalik 
 of Scutari. 
 
 The enemy, to our surprise, avoided an engagement. The 
 fierce undisciplined warriors were frightened at our bayonets. 
 They destroyed all before us, and hung with their vigilant 
 cavalry on our exhausted rear. We had advanced on one 
 side to Scutari; on the other we had penetrated into 
 Romelia. We carried everything before us, but we were in 
 want of supplies, our soldiers were without food, and a skil- 
 ful general and discipHned troops might have cut off all 
 our communications. 
 
 Suddenly, the order was given to retreat. We retreated 
 slowly and in excellent order. Two regiments of the newly 
 organised cavalry, with whom I had the honour to act, 
 covered the rear, and were engaged in almost constant 
 skirmishing with the enemy. This skirmishing is exciting. 
 We concentrated, and again encamped at Ochrida. 
 
 We were in hopes of now drawing the enemy into nn 
 y 
 
3-2 COXTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 engagement, but he was wary. In this situation, the Vizir 
 directed that in the night a powerful di-vision under the 
 command of Mehemet Pacha of Lepanto (he who stabbed 
 Ah Pacha) should fall back to Monastir with the artillery, 
 and take up a position in the mountains. The ensuing 
 night, his highness, after having previously spiked some 
 useless guns, scattered about some tents and baggage wagons, 
 and given a general appearance of a huri'ied and disorderly 
 retreat, withdrew in the same direction. The enemy in- 
 stantly pursued, rushed on, and attacked us full of confidence. 
 "We contented ourselves by protecting our rear, but still 
 retreated, and appeared anxious to avoid an engagement. 
 In the evening, having entered the mountain passes, and 
 reached the post of the Pacha of Lepanto, we drew up in 
 battle array. 
 
 It was a cloudy morning among the mountains, and some 
 time before the mist cleared away. The enemy appeared 
 to be in great force, filling the gorge through which we had 
 retreated, and encamped on all the neighbouring eminences. 
 When they perceived us, a large body instantly charged 
 with the famous janissary shout, the terror of which I con- 
 fess. I was cold, somewhat exhausted, for I had scarcely 
 tasted food for two days, and for a moment my heart sank. 
 
 They were received, to their surprise, by a well-directed 
 discharge of artillery from our concealed batteries. They 
 seemed checked. Our ranks opened, and a body of five 
 thousand fresh troops instantly charged them with the 
 bayonet. This advance was sublime, and so exciting that, what 
 with the shouts and cannonading, I grew mad, and longed 
 to rush forward. The enemy gave way. Their great force 
 was in cavalry, which could not act among the mountains. 
 They were evidently astonished and perplexed. In a few 
 minutes they were routed. The Vizir gave orders for a 
 general charge and pursuit, and in a few minutes I was 
 dashing over the hills in rarid chase of all I could catch, 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 323 
 
 cnf/ting, firing, shouting, and quite persuaded tliat a battle 
 was, after all, tlie most deliglitful pastime in tlie world. 
 
 The masses still charging, the groups demanding quarter, 
 the single horseman bounding over the hills, the wild, scared 
 steeds without a rider, snorting and plunging, the dense 
 smoke clearing away, the bright arms and figures flashing 
 ever and anon in the moving obscurity, the wild shouts, the 
 strange and horrible spectacles, the solitary shots and shrieks 
 now heard in the decreasing uproar and the general feeling 
 of energy, and peril, and triumph, it was all wonderful, and 
 was a glorious moment in existence. 
 
 The enemy was scattered like chaff. To rally them was 
 impossible; and the chiefs, in desj^air, were foremost in 
 flight. They offered no resistance, and the very men who, 
 in the morning, would have been the first to attack a bat- 
 tery, sabre in hand, now yielded in numbers, without a 
 struggle, to an individual. There was a great slaughter, 
 a vast number of prisoners, and plunder without end. My 
 tent was filled with rich arms, and shawls, and stufi's, and 
 embroidered saddles. Lausanne and Tita were the next 
 day both clothed in splendid Albanian dresses, and little 
 Spiro plundered the dead as became a modern Greek. 
 
 I reached my tent, dismounted from my horse, and leant 
 upon it from exhaustion. An Albanian came forward, and 
 offered a flask of Zitza wine. I drank it at a draught, and 
 assuredly experienced the highest sensual pleasure. I took 
 up two Cachemere shawls, and a gun mounted in silver, and 
 gave them to the Albanian. Lucky is he who is courteous 
 in the hour of plunder. 
 
 The Vizir I understood to be at Ochrida, and I repaired 
 to that post over the field of battle. The moon had risen, 
 and tinged with its white light all the prominent objects of 
 the scene of destruction ; groups of bodies, and now and 
 then a pallid face, distinct and fierce ; steeds and standards, 
 and arms, and shattered wagons. Here and there a moving 
 
 T 2 
 
324 COXTARIXI FLEMING: 
 
 light slioT7ed that the plunderer was still at his work ; and, 
 occasionally, seated on the carcass of a horse, and sometimes 
 on the cor23se of a human being, were some of the fortunate 
 Burvivors, smoking with admirable coolness, as if there wero 
 not on earth such a fearfal mystery as death. 
 
 I found the victorious Redschid seated on a carpet in the 
 moonlight in a cypress gi'ove, and surrounded by attendants, 
 to whom he was delivering instructions and distributing 
 rewards. He appeared as calm and grave as usual. Per- 
 ceiving him thus engaged I mingled with the crowd, and 
 stood aside, leaning on my sword ; but, observing me, he 
 beckoned to me to advance, and pointing to his carpet, ho 
 gave me the pipe of honour from his own lips. As I seated 
 myself by his side, I could not help viewing this extra- 
 ordinary man with great interest and curiosity. A short 
 time back, at this very place, he had perpetrated an act 
 which would have rendered him infamous in a civilised land ; 
 the avengers meet him, as if by fate, on the very scene of 
 his bloody treachery, and — he is victorious. What is life ? 
 
 So much for the battle of Bitoglia or !Monastir, a very 
 pretty fray, although not as much talked of as Austerhtz or 
 Waterloo, and which probably would have remained un- 
 known to the great mass of European readers, had not a 
 young Frank gentleman mingled, from a silly fancy, in its 
 lively business. 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 The effect of the battle of Bitoglia was the complete paci- 
 fication of Albania, and the temporary suppression of the 
 conspiracies in the adjoining provinces. Had it been in the 
 power of the Porte to reinforce at this moment its able and 
 faithfcd servant, it is j^robable that the authority of the 
 Sultan would have been permanently consolidated in these 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 525 
 
 countries. As it is, tlie finest regions in Europe are still 
 the prey of civil war, in too many instances excited by 
 foreign powers for their miserable purposes against a prince 
 wlio is only inferior to Peter the Great because he has pro- 
 fited by his example. 
 
 For myself, perceiving that there was no immediate 
 prospect of active service, I determined to visit Greece, and 
 I parted from his highness with the hope that I might 
 cono-ratulate him at Stamboul. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 A COUNTRY of promontories, and gulfs, and islands clustering 
 in an azure sea ; a country of wooded vales and purple 
 mountains, wherein the cities are built on plains covered 
 with olive woods, and at the base of an Acropolis, crowned 
 with a temple or a tower. And there are quarries of white 
 marble, and vines, and much wild honey. And wherever 
 you move is some fair and elegant memorial of the poetic 
 past ; a lone pillar on the green and silent plain, once echo- 
 ing with the triumphant shouts of sacred games, the tomb 
 of a hero, or the fane of a god. Clear is the sky and fra- 
 grant is the air, and at all seasons the magical scenery of 
 this land is coloured with that mellow tint, and invested with 
 that pensive character, which in other countries we conceive 
 to be peculiar to autumn, and which beautifully associate 
 with the recollections of the past. Enchanting Greece ! 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 In the Argolic Gulf I found myself in the very heart of the 
 Greek tragedy : Nauplia and Sparta, the pleasant Argos and 
 the rich iMycene, the tomb of Agamemnon and the palace 
 
325' CONTARIXI FLEMING: 
 
 of Clytemnestra. Tiie fortunes of the house of Atreus form 
 the noblest of all legends. I believe in that Destiny before 
 which the ancients bowed. Modern philosophy, with its 
 superficial discoveries, has infused into the breast of man a 
 spirit of scepticism ; but I think that, ere long, science will 
 again become imaginative, and that, as we become more 
 profound, we may become also more credulous. Destiny is 
 our will, and our will is our nature. The son who inherits 
 the organisation of the father will be doomed to the same 
 fortunes as his sire ; and again the mysterious matter in 
 which his ancestors were moulded may, in other forms, by 
 a necessary attraction, act upon his fate. All is mystery ; 
 but he is a slave who will not struggle to penetrate the 
 dark veil. 
 
 I quitted the Morea without regret. It is covered with 
 Venetian memorials, no more to me a source of joy, and 
 bringing back to my memory a country on which I no 
 longer love to dweU. I cast anchor in a small but secure 
 harbour, and landed. I climbed a hill, from which I looked 
 over a plain, covered with olive woods, and skirted by 
 mountains. Some isolated hills, of picturesque form, rose 
 in the plain at a distance from the terminating range. 
 On one of these I beheld a magnificent temple bathed in 
 the sunset. At the foot of the craggy steep on which it 
 rested was a walled city of considerable dimensions, in front 
 of which rose a Doric fane of exquisite proportion, and 
 apparently uninjured. The violet sunset threw over this 
 scene a colouring becoming its loveliness, and if possible 
 increasing its refined character. Independently of all asso- 
 ciations, it was the most beautiful spectacle that had ever 
 passed before a vision always musing on sweet sights ; yet 
 I could not forget that it was the bright capital of my youth- 
 ful dreams, the fragrant city of the Violet Crown, the fair, 
 the sparkling, the delicate Athens I 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 327 
 
 CHAPTER XrX. 
 
 The illusion vanished when I entered Athens. I found it 
 in scarcely a less shattered condition than the towns of 
 Albania : ruined streets, and roofless houses, and a scanty 
 population. The women were at Egina in security : a few 
 males remained behind to watch the fortune of war. TJie 
 Acropolis had not been visited by travellers for nine years, 
 and was open to inspection for the first time the very day 
 I entered. It was still in the possession of the Turks, but 
 the Greek commission had arrived to receive the keys of 
 the fortress. The ancient remains have escaped better than 
 we could hope. The Parthenon and the other temples on the 
 Acropolis have necessarily suffered in the sieges, but the 
 injury is only in the detail; the general effect is not marred, 
 although I observed many hundred shells and cannon-balls 
 lying about. 
 
 The Theseum has not been touched, and looks, at a short 
 distance, as if it were just finished by Cimon. The sump- 
 tuous columns of the Olympium still rise from their stately 
 platform, but the Choragic monument is sadly maimed, as 
 I was assured, by English sailors and not Eastern barbarians ; 
 probably the same marine monsters who have commemo- 
 rated their fatal visit to Egypt and the name of the fell 
 craft that bore them thither, by covering the granite pillar 
 of Pompey with gigantic characters in black paint. 
 
 The durability of the Parthenon is wonderful. So far as 
 I could observe, had it not been for the repeated ravages of 
 man, it might at this day have been in as perfect condition 
 as in the age of Pericles. Abstract time it has defied. Gilt 
 and painted, with its pictures and votive statues, it must 
 have been one of the most brllUant creations of human 
 
328 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 genius. Yet we err if we consider this famous building 
 as an unparalleled effort of Grecian architecture. Compared 
 with the temples of Ionia and the Sicilian fanes, compared 
 even "with the Olvmpium at its feet, the Parthenon could 
 only rank as a cliurch -witli a cathedral. 
 
 In art the Greeks were the children of the Eg\7)tians. 
 The day may yet come when we shall do justice to the high 
 powers of that mysterious and imaginative people. Tho 
 origin of Doric and Ionic invention must be traced amid 
 the palaces of Carnac and the temples of Luxoor. For 
 myself, I confess I ever gaze upon the marvels of art with a 
 feeling of despair. With horror I remember that, through 
 some mysterious necessity, civilisation seems to have de- 
 serted the most favoured regions and the choicest intellects. 
 The Persian whose very being is poetry, the Arab whose 
 subtle mind could penetrate into the very secret shrine of 
 NaticTe, the Greek whose acute perceptions seemed granted 
 only for the creation of the beautiful, these are now un- 
 lettered slaves in barbarous lands. The arts are yielded to 
 the flat-nosed Pranks. And they toil, and study, and invent 
 theories to account for their own incompetence. Now it is 
 the chmate, now the religion, now the government ; every- 
 thing but the truth, everything but the mortifying suspicion 
 that their organisation may be different, and that they may 
 be as distinct a race from their models as they undoubtedly 
 are from the Kalmuck and the Negro. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Whatever may have been the faults of the ancient govern- 
 ments, they were in closer relation to the times, to tho 
 countries and to the governed, than ours. The ancients 
 invented their goveniments accoi*ding to their wants ; tho 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 329 
 
 moderns have adopted foreign policies, and tlien modelled 
 tlieir conduct upon this borrowed regulation. This circum- 
 stance has occasioned our manners and our customs to be 
 so confused, and absurd, and unphilosophical. What busi- 
 ness had we, for instance, to adopt the Roman law, a law 
 foreign to our manners, and consequently disadvantageous? 
 He who profoundly meditates upon the situation of Modern 
 Europe will also discover how productive of misery has 
 been the senseless adoption of oriental customs by northern 
 people. Whence came that divine right of kings, which 
 has deluged so many countries with blood ? that pastoral 
 and Syrian law of tithes, which may yet shake the founda- 
 tion of so many ancient institutions ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 Even as a child, I was struck by the absurdity of modern 
 education. The duty of education is to give ideas. When 
 our limited intelligence was confined to the literature of 
 two dead languages, it was necessary to acquire those 
 languages, in order to obtain the knowledge which they 
 embalmed. But now each nation has its literature, each 
 nation possesses, wiitten in its own tongue, a record of all 
 knowledge, and specimens of every modification of inven- 
 tion. Let education then be confined to that national 
 literature, and we should soon perceive the beneficial efiects 
 of this revolution upon the mind of the student. Study 
 would then be a profitable delight. I pity the poor Gothic 
 victim of the grammar and the lexicon. The Greeks, who 
 were masters of composition, were ignorant of all languages 
 but their own. They concentrated their study of the genius 
 of expression upon one tongue. To this they owe that 
 blended simplicity and strength of style which the imitative 
 Romans, with all their splendour, never attained. 
 
^^o CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 To the few, however, who have leisure or inclination to 
 study foreign literatures, I will not recommend to them the 
 English, the Italian, the German, since they may rightly 
 answer, that all these have been in great part founded upon 
 the classic tongues, and therefore it is wise to ascend to the 
 fountain-head ; but I will ask them for what reason they 
 would limit their experience to the immortal languages of 
 Greece and Rome ? Why not study the oriental? Surely 
 in the pages of the Persians and the Arabs we might dis- 
 cover new sources of emotion, new modes of expression, 
 new trains of ideas, new principles of invention, and new 
 bursts of fancy. 
 
 These are a few of my meditations amid tbo ruins of 
 Athens. They will disappoint those who might justly 
 expect an ebullition of classic rapture from one who has 
 gazed upon Marathon by moonlight and sailed upon the 
 free waters of Salamis. I regret their disappointment, but 
 I have arrived at an age when I can think only of the future. 
 A mighty era, prepared by the blunders of long centuries, 
 is at hand. Ardently I hope that the necessary change in 
 human existence may be effected by the voice of philosophy 
 alone : but I tremble, and I am silent. There is no bigotry 
 80 terrible as the bigotry of a country that flatters itself 
 that it is philosophical. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Understanding that the Turkish squadron I left at Prevesa 
 had arrived at Negropont, I passed over, and paid a visit 
 to its commander, Halil Pacha, with whom I was acquainted. 
 Halil informed me that all remained quiet in Albania, but 
 that Redsehid did not venture to return. He added that 
 he himself was about to sail for Stambonl immediately, and 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 33I 
 
 proposed that I should accompany him. His offer suited 
 me, and, as the wind was fair, in a few hours we were all 
 on board. 
 
 I had a splendid view of Sunium ; its columns against a 
 dark cloud looked like undriven snow, and we were soon 
 among the Cjclades. Sixteen islands were in sight, and 
 we were now making our course in the heart of them. An 
 archipelago by sunset is lovely : small isles of purple and 
 gold studding the glowing waters. The wind served well 
 through the night, but we were becalmed the next day off 
 Mitylene. In the afternoon a fresh breeze sprang up and 
 carried us to the Dardanelles. 
 
 "We were yet, I believe, upwards of a hundred miles from 
 Constantinople. What a road to a great city! narrower 
 and much longer than the strait of Gibraltar, but not with 
 such sublime shores. Asia and Europe looked more kindly 
 on each other than Europe and her more sultry sister. I 
 found myself the next morning becalmed off Troy : a vast, 
 hilly, uncultivated plain; a scanty rill, a huge tumulus, 
 some shepherds and their flocks ; behold the kingdom of 
 Priam, and the successors of Paris ! 
 
 A signal summoned us on board ; the wind was fair and 
 fresh. "We scudded along with great swiftness, passing 
 many towns and fortresses. Each, dome, each minaret, I 
 thought was Constantinople. At last it came ; we were in 
 full sight. Masses of habitations, grouped on gentle accli- 
 vities, rose on all sides out of the water, part in Asia, part 
 in Europe ; a gay and confused vision of red buildings, and 
 dark- green cypress groves, hooded domes, and millions of 
 minarets. As we approached the design became more 
 obvious. The groups formed themselves into three con- 
 siderable cities, intersected by arms of the sea. Down one 
 of these, rounding the Seraglio point, our vessel held her 
 course. We seemed to glide into the heart of the capital. 
 The water was covered with innumerable boats, as swift as 
 
332 CONTARIXI FLEMIXG: 
 
 gondolas and far more gay, cnriously carved and nclily 
 gilt. In all parts swarmed a showy popnlation. The 
 characteristic of the whole scene was biilliancy. The 
 houses glittered, the waters sparkled, and flocks of white 
 and sacred birds glanced in the golden air, and skimmed 
 over the blue wave. On one side of the harbour was 
 moored the Turkish fleet, dressed out in all their colours. 
 Oar coui'se was ended, and we cast our anchor in the 
 famous Golden Horn. 
 
 CHAPTER XXni. 
 
 No picture can ever convey a just idea of Constantinople. 
 1 have seen several that are faithful, as fai* as they extend ; 
 but the most comprehensive can exhibit only a small por- 
 tion of this extraordinary city. By land or by water, in 
 every direction, passing up the Golden Horn to the valley 
 of Fresh Waters, or proceeding, on the other hand, down 
 t\io famous Bosphorus to Buyukdere and Terapia, to the 
 Euxine, what infinite novelty! New kiosks, new hills, 
 new -windings, new groves of cypress, ar.d new forests of 
 chestnut, open on all sides. 
 
 The two most remarkable things at ConstantinoiDle are 
 the Bosphorus and the Bazaar. Conceive the ocean a 
 sti'eam not broader than the Rhine, with shores presenting 
 all the beauty and variety of that river, running between 
 gentle slopes covered with rich woods, gardens, and siubq- 
 mer-palaces, cemeteries and mosques, and villages, and 
 bounded by sublime mountains. The view of the Euxine 
 from the heights of Terapia, just seen through the end of 
 the Straits, is like gazing upon eternity. 
 
 The bazaar is of a different order, but not less remark- 
 able. I never could obtain ft^om a Turk any estimate of 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 332 
 
 the ground it covered. Several, in the habit of daily at- 
 tendance, have mentioned to me that they often find them- 
 selves in divisions they have not before visited. Fancy a 
 Parisian panorama passage, fancy perhaps a sqnare mile 
 covered with these arcades, intersecting each other in all 
 directions, and full of every product of the empire, from 
 diamonds to dates. This will give you some idea of the 
 Great Bazaar at Constantinople. The dealers, in every 
 possible costume, sit cross-legged in their stalls, and dealers 
 in the same article usually congregate together. The 
 armourers, the grocers, the pipe-makers, the jewellers, the 
 shawl- sellers, the librarians, all have their distinct quarter. 
 Now you walk along a range of stalls filled with fanciful 
 slippers of cloth and leather, of all colours, embroidered 
 with gold or powdered with pearls ; now you are in a street 
 of confectionery ; and now you are cheapening a Damascus 
 sabre in the bazaar of arms, or turning over a vividly illu- 
 minated copy of Hafiz in that last stronghold of Turkish 
 bigotry, the quarter of the vendors of the Koran. The 
 magnificence, novelty, and variety of the goods on sale, the 
 whole nation of shopkeepers, all in difierent dress, the 
 crowds of buyers from all parts of the world, I only hint at 
 these traits. Here every people has a characteristic cos- 
 tume. Turks, Greeks, Jews, and Armenians are the staple 
 population : the latter are numerous. The Armenians wear 
 round and very unbecoming black caps and floAving robes ; 
 the Jews, a black hat wreathed with a white handkerchief; 
 the Greeks, black turbans. The Turks are fond of dress, 
 and indulge in all combinations of costume. Of late, 
 among the young men in the capital, it has been the fashion 
 to discard the huge turban and the ample robes, and they 
 have formed an exceedingly ungTaceful dress upon the 
 Frank; but vast numbers cling to the national costume, 
 especially the Asiatics, renowned for the prodigious height 
 and multifarious folds of their head-gear. 
 
334 CONTA RINI FLEMING : 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Halil Pacha paid me a visit one day at my residence on 
 the Bosphorns, and told me that he had mentioned my 
 name to the Sultan, who had expressed a desire to see me. 
 As it is not etiquette for the Padishah to receive Franks, I 
 was, of course, as sensible to the high honour as I was 
 anxious to become acquainted with the extraordinary man 
 who was about to confer it. 
 
 The Sultan was at this moment at a palace on the Bos- 
 phorus, not far from Tophana. Hither on the appointed 
 day I repaired with Halil and the drogueman of the Porte. 
 We were ushered into a chamber, where a principal officer 
 of the household received us, and where I smoked out of a 
 pipe tipped with diamonds, and sipped coffee perfumed 
 with roses out of cups studded with precious stones. 
 
 When we had remained here for about half an hour, 
 ^lustapha, the private secretary and favourite of the Sultan 
 entered, and, after saluting us, desired us to follow liim. 
 We proceeded along a conidor, at the end of which stood 
 two or three eunuchs, richly dressed, and then the door 
 opened, and I found myself in an ajoartment of moderate 
 size, painted with indifferent arabesques in fresco, and sur- 
 rounded with a divan of crimson velvet and gold. Seated 
 upon this, with his feet on the floor, his arms folded, and 
 in an hussar dress, was the Grand Signer. 
 
 As we entered he slightly touched his heart, according 
 to the fashion of the Orientals ; and Mustapha, setting us 
 an example, desired us to seat ourselves. I fancied, and 1 
 was afterwards assured of the correctness of my observa- 
 tion, that the Sultan was very much constrained, and very 
 little at his ease. The trutli is, he is totally unused to in- 
 terviews with strangers ; and this was for him a more novel 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 335 
 
 sitaation tlian for me. His constraint wore off as conversation 
 proceeded. He asked a great many questions, and often 
 laughed, turning to Mustapha with a familar nod when my 
 replies pleased him. He inquired much about the Albanian 
 war. Without flattering my late commander, it was in 
 my power to do him service. He asked me what service I 
 had before seen, and was evidently surprised when I in- 
 formed him I was only an amateur. He then made many 
 inquiries as to the European forces, and in answering them 
 I introduced some opinions on politics, which interested 
 liim. He asked me who I was. I told him I was the son 
 
 of the Prime Minister of •, a power always friendly to 
 
 the Ottoman. His eyes sparkled, and he repeated several 
 times, ' It is well, it is well ; ' meaning, I suppose, that he 
 did not repent of the interview. He told me that in two 
 years' time he should have two hundred thousand regular 
 infantry ; that, if the Russian war could have been post- 
 poned another year, he should have beat the Muscovites ; 
 that the object of the war was to crush his schemes of 
 regeneration ; that he was betrayed at Adrian ople, as well 
 as at Varna. He added that he had only done what Peter 
 the Great had done before him, and that Peter was thwarted 
 by unsuccessful wars, yet at last succeeded. 
 
 I, of course, expressed my conviction that his highness 
 would bo as fortunate. 
 
 The Padishah then abruptly said that all his subjects 
 should have equal rights ; that there should be no difference 
 between Moslem and infidel ; that all who contributed to 
 the government had a right to the same protection. 
 
 Here Mustapha nodded to Halil, and we rose, and bow- 
 ing, quitted the presence of a really great man. 
 
 I found at the portal a fine Arabian steed, two Cachemire 
 shawls, a scarlet cloak of honour, with the collar embroi- 
 dered with gold and fastened with diamond clasps, a sabre, 
 and two superb pipes. This was my reward for charging 
 with the Turkish cavalry at Bitoglia. 
 
CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 One of the most curious things at Constantinople is tha 
 power you have in the Capital of the East, of placing your- 
 self in ten minntes in a lively Frank town. Such is Pera. 
 I passed there the winter months of December and Januaiy 
 in agreeable and intelligent society. My health improved, 
 but my desire of wandering increased. I began to think that 
 I should now never be able to settle in hfe. The desire of 
 fame did not revive. I felt no intellectual energy ; I required 
 nothing more than to be amused. And having now passed 
 four or five months at Stambonl, and seen all its wonders, 
 fi-om the interior of its mosques to the dancing dervishes, 
 I resolved to proceed. So, one cold morning in February, 
 I crossed over to Scutari, and pressed my wandering foot 
 !ir>cn Asia. 
 
 END OF PART V. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. ^37 
 
 PAET THE SIXTH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I WAS now in the great Peninsula of Asia Minor, a country 
 admirably fortified by Nature, abounding in vast, luxuriant, 
 and enchanting plains, from which a scanty population 
 derive a difficult subsistence, and watered by broad rivera 
 rolling through solitude. 
 
 As I journeyed along I could not refrain from contrast- 
 ing the desolation of the present with the refinement of the 
 past, and calling up a vision of the ancient splendour of this 
 famous country. I beheld those glorious Greek federations 
 that covered the provinces of the coast with their rich cul- 
 tivation and brilliant cities. Who has not heard of the 
 green and bland Ionia, and its still more fruitful, although 
 less picturesque, sister, the rich -^oHs ? Who has not 
 heard of the fane of Ephesus, and the Anacreontic Teios ; 
 Chios, with its rosy wine ; and Cnidos, with its rosy god- 
 dess; Colophon, Priene, Phocasa, Samos, Miletos, the 
 splendid Halicarnassus, and the sumptuous Cos, magnifi- 
 cent cities, abounding in genius and luxury, and alL the 
 polished refinement that ennobles life! Everywhere around, 
 these free and famous citizens disseminated their liberty 
 and their genius ; in the savage Tauris ; and on the wild 
 shores of Pontus ; on the banks of the Borysthenes, and by 
 the waters of the rapid Tyras. The islands in their vicinity 
 shared their splendour and their felicity ; the lyric Lesbos^ 
 and Tenedos with its woods and vines, and those glorious 
 gardens, the fortunate Cyprus, and the prolific Rhodes. 
 
 Under the empire of Rome the Peninsula of Asia enjoyed 
 
.^3 CONTARIXI FLEMLXG 
 
 a not less eminent prosperity. The inLerior provinces vied 
 in -wealtli and civilisation "witli tlie ancient colonies of tlie 
 coast. Then the cavalry of Cappadocia and Paphlagonia 
 were famous as tlie Lycian mariners, tlie soldiers of Pontus, 
 and tlie bowmen of Ai'menia ; tlien Galatia sent forth her 
 willing and welcome tribute of corn, and the fruitftil 
 Bitbynia rivalled the Pampbylian pastures, the vines of 
 Pbrygia, and the Pisidian olives. Tarsus, Ancp-a, Sardis, 
 Cossarea, Sinope, Amisus, were the great and opulent 
 capitals of these flourishing provinces. Alexandria rose 
 upon the ruins of Troy, and Nicasa and Kicomedia ranked 
 with the most celebrated cities. 
 
 And now the tinkling bell of the armed and wandering 
 caravan was the only indication of human existence ! 
 
 It is in such scenes as these, amid the mins of ancient 
 splendour and the recollections of vanished empire, that 
 philosophers have pondered on the nature of government, 
 and have discovered, as they fancied, in the consequences 
 of its various forms, the causes of duration or of decay, of 
 glory or of humihation. Freedom, says the sage, will lead 
 to prosperity, and despotism to destruction. 
 
 Yet has this land been regulated by every form of 
 government that the ingenuity of man has devised. The 
 federal repubhc, the military empire, the oriental despotism, 
 have in tui^n controlled its fortunes. The deputies of free 
 states have here assembled in some universal temple which 
 was the bond of union between their cities. Here has the 
 proconsul presided at his high tribunal : and here the pacha 
 reposes in his divan. The Pagan fane, and the Christian 
 church, and the Turkish mosque, have here alike been 
 erected to form the opinions of the people. The legends of 
 Chaos and Olympus are forgotten, the sites of the seven 
 churches cannot even be traced, and nothing is left but the 
 revelations of the son of Abdallah, a volume, the whole 
 object of which is to convert man into a fanatic slave. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. '339 
 
 Is there tlien no hope ? Is it an irrevocable doom, that 
 Bociety shall be created only to be destroyed ? When I 
 can accept such a dogma, let me also believe that the bene- 
 ficent Creator is a malignant demon. Let ns meditate 
 more deeply ; let us at length discover that no society can 
 long subsist that is based upon metaphysical absurdities. 
 
 The law that regulates man must be founded on a knovr« 
 ledge of his nature, or that law leads him to ruin. What 
 is the nature of man ? In every clime and in every creed 
 we shall find a new definition. 
 
 Before me is a famous treatise on human nature, by a 
 Professor of Konigsberg. No one has more profoundly 
 meditated on the attributes of his subject. It is evident 
 that, in the deep study of his own intelligence, he has dis- 
 covered a noble method of expounding that of others. Yet 
 when I close his volumes, can I conceal from myself that 
 all this time I have been studying a treatise upon the 
 nature, not of man, but, of a German ? 
 
 What then ! Is the German a different animal from the 
 ItaHan ? Let me inquire in turn, whether you conceive 
 the negro of the Gold Coast to be the same being as the 
 Esquimaux, who tracks his way over the polar snows ? 
 
 The most saccessful legislators are those who have con- 
 sulted the genius of the people. But is it possible to render 
 that which is the occasional consequence of fine observation 
 the certain result of scientific study ? 
 
 One thing is quite certain, that the system we have pur- 
 sued to attain a knowledge of man has entirely failed. Let 
 us disembarrass ourselves of that ' moral philosophy ' which 
 has filled so many volumes with words. History will always 
 r(3main a pleasant pastime ; it never could have been a pro- 
 fitable study. To study man from the past is to suppose 
 that man is ever the same animal, which I do not. Those 
 who speculated on the career of Napoleon had ever a dog's- 
 eared annalist to refer to. The past equally proved that 
 
 t 2 
 
540 CONTARIXr FLBMIXG : 
 
 lie was both a Cromwell and a Washington. Prophetic 
 I*ast ! He turned put to be the first. But suppose he had 
 been neither ; suppose he had proved a Sjlla ? 
 
 Man is an animal, and his nature must be studied as that 
 of all other animals. The almighty Creator has breathed 
 his spirit into us ; and we testify our gratitude for this 
 choice boon by never deigning to consider what may be 
 the nature of our intelligence. The philosopher, however, 
 amid this darkness, will not despair. He will look forward 
 to an age of rational laws and beneficent education. He 
 will remember that all the truth he has attained has been 
 hj one process. He "v^dll also endeavour to become ac- 
 quainted with himself by demonstration, and not by dogma. 
 
 CHAPT]*]u n. 
 
 One fair spring morning, with a cJeai- blue sky, and an 
 ardent but not intense sun, I came in sight of tlie whole 
 coast of Syria ; very high and mountainous, and the loftiest 
 ranges covered with snow. 
 
 I had sailed from Smyrna, through its lovely gulf, vaster 
 and more beautiful than the Ambracian, found myself in. a 
 new archipelago, the Sporades ; and, having visited Rhodes 
 and Cyprus, engaged at the last island a pilot to take us to 
 the most convenient Syrian port. 
 
 Syria is, in fact, an immense chain of mountains, extend- 
 ing from Asia l^Iinor to Arabia. In the course of this great 
 chain an infinity of branches constantly detach themselves 
 from the parent trunk, forming on each side, either towards 
 the desert or the sea, beautiful and fertile plains. Washed 
 by the Levantine wave, on one side we behold the onco 
 luxurious Antioch, now a small and dingy Turkish town. 
 The traveller can no longer wander in the voluptuous woort* 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, z'A 
 
 of Daphne. The palace and the garden pass away with the 
 refined genius and the delicate taste that create them ; but 
 Kature is eternal, and even yet the valley of the Orontes 
 offers, under the glowing light of an eastern day, scenes of 
 picturesque beauty that Switzerland cannot surpass. The 
 hills of Laodicea, once famous for their wine, are now cele- 
 brated for producing the choicest tobacco of the East. 
 Tripoli is a flourishing to w^n, embosomed in wild groves of 
 Indian figs, and famous for its fruits and silks. Advancing 
 along the coast we reach the ancient Bery tus, whose tobacco 
 vies with Laodicea, and whose silk surpasses that of Tripoh. 
 We arrive at all that remains of the superb Tyre ; a small 
 peninsula and a mud village. The famous Acre is still the 
 most important place upon the coast ; and Jafia, in spite of 
 so many wars, is yet fragrant amid its gardens and groves 
 of lemon trees. 
 
 The towns on the coast have principally been built on 
 the sites and ruins of the ancient cities whose names they 
 bear. None of them have sufficient claims to the character 
 of a capital ; but on the other side of the mountains we 
 find two of the most important of oriental cities, the popu- 
 lous Aleppo, and the delicious Damascus ; nor must we 
 forget Jerusalem, that city sacred in so many creeds ! 
 
 In ancient remains, Syria is inferior only to Egypt. All 
 have heard of the courts of Baalbec and the columns of 
 Palmyra. Less known, because only recently visited, and 
 visited with extreme danger, are the vast ruins of magni- 
 ficent cities in the Arabian vicinity of the lake Asphaltites. 
 
 The climate of this country is various as its formation. 
 In the plains is often experienced that intense heat so fatal 
 to the European invader ; yet the snow, that seldom falls 
 upon the level ground, or falls only to vanish, rests upon 
 the heights of Lebanon, and, in the higher lands, it is not 
 difficult at all times to discover exactly the temperature you 
 desire. I travelled in Syria at the commencement of the 
 
342 CONTARINI FLE^flXG: 
 
 year, wiien tlie short but violent rainy season had just 
 ceased. It is not easy to conceive a more beautiful and 
 fruitful land. The plains were covered with that fresh green 
 tint so rare under an Eastern sky ; the orange and lemon 
 trees were clothed both with fruit and blossom ; and then, 
 too, I first beheld the huge leaf of the banana, and tasted 
 for the first time the delicate flavour of its unrivalled fi'uit. 
 From the great extent of the country, and the consequent 
 variation of clime, the Syrian can always command a suc- 
 cession, as well as a variety, of luxuries. The season of the 
 pomegranate will commence in Antioch when it ends in 
 Jafia ; and when you have exhausted the figs of Beyroot, 
 you can fly to the gardens of Damascus. Under the worst 
 government that perhaps ever oppressed its subjects, Syria 
 still brings forth the choice productions of almost every 
 clime ; corn and cotton, maize and rice, the sugar-cane of 
 the Antilles, and the indigo and cochineal of Mexico. The 
 plains of Antioch and of Palestine are covered with woods 
 of the finest olives, the tobaccoes of the coast are unrivalled 
 in any country ; and the mountains of Lebanon are clothed 
 witli wbite mulberry-trees that afford the richest silks, or 
 with vineyards that yield a wine which justly bears the 
 name of Golden. 
 
 The inhabitants of this country are various as its pro- 
 ductions and its mutable fortunes. The Ottoman conqueror 
 is now the lord, and rules the posterity of the old Syrian 
 Grreeks and of the Arabs, who were themselves once pre- 
 dominant. In the mountains, the independeut and myste- 
 rious Druses live in freedom under their own Emir ; and 
 in the ranges near Antioch we find the Ansaree tribes, who, 
 it is whispered, yet celebrate the most singular rites of 
 Paganism. In the deserts around Aleppo wander the pas- 
 toral Kourd and the warlilce Turkoman ; and from Tadnior 
 to Gaza the whole Syrian desert is traversed by the famous 
 Bedouin.. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 343; 
 
 Tliero is a charm in oriental life, and ifc is Repose. Upon 
 nie, who had been bred in the artificial circles of corrupt 
 civilisation, and who had so freely indulged the course of 
 his impetuous passions, this character made a forcible 
 impression. Wandering over those plains and deserts, and 
 sojourning in those silent and beautiful cities, I experienced 
 all the serenity of mind which I can conceive to be the 
 enviable portion of the old age of a virtuous life. The 
 memory of the wearing cares, and corroding anxieties, and 
 vaunted excitement of European life, filled me with pain. 
 Keenly I felt the vanity and littleness of all human plans 
 and aspirations. Truly may I say that on the plains of 
 Syria I parted for ever with my ambition. The calm en- 
 joyment of existence appeared to me, as it now does, the 
 highest attainable felicity ; nor can I conceive that anything 
 could tempt me from my solitude, and induce me once more 
 to mingle with mankind, with whom I have little in com- 
 mon, but the strong conviction that the fortunes of my race 
 depended on my efibrt, or that I could materially advance 
 that great amelioration of their condition, in the practica- 
 bihty of which I devoutly believe. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 I GALLOPED over an illimitable plain, covered with a vivid 
 though scanty pasture, and fragrant with aromatic herbs. 
 A soft, fresh breeze danced on my cheek, and brought vigour 
 to my frame. Day after day I journeyed, and met vdth no 
 sign of hmnan existence ; no village, no culture, no resting 
 place, not even a tree. Day after day I journeyed, and 
 tlie land indicated no termination. At an immense dis- 
 tance the sky and the earth blended in a uniform horizon. 
 Sometimes, indeed, a rocky vein shot out of the soil ; some- 
 tines, indeed, the land would swell into long undulations ; 
 
344 COXTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 sometimes, indeed, from a dingle of wild bushes a gazelle 
 would rush forward, stare, and bound away. 
 
 SucL was my first wandering in the Syrian desert ! But 
 remember it was the burst of spring. I could conceive 
 nothLDg more delightful, nothing more unlike what I had 
 anticipated. The heat was never intense, the breeze was 
 ever fresh and sweet, the nocturnal heavens luminous 
 and clear to a degree which it is impossible to describe. 
 Instead of that uniform appearance and monotonous 
 splendour I had hitherto so often gazed on, the stars 
 were of different tints and forms. Some were green, 
 some white, some red ; and, instead of appearing as if 
 they only studded a vast and azui*e vault, I clearly dis- 
 tinguished them, at different distances, floating in ether. 
 
 I no longer wondered at the love of the Bedouins for 
 their free and unsophisticated earth. It appeared to me, 
 that I could have hved in the desert for ever. At night 
 we rested. Our camels bore us water in goat-skins, cakes 
 of fuel, which they themselves produced, and scanty, al- 
 though sufficient, provisions. We lit our fire, pounded our 
 coffee, and smoked our pipes, while others prepared our 
 simple meal, bread made at the instant, and on the cinders, 
 a slice of dried meat, and a few dates. 
 
 I have described the least sterile of the deserts, and I 
 have described it at the most favourable period. In general 
 the soil of the Syrian wilderness is not absolutely barren. 
 The rains cover it with verdure, but these occur only for a 
 few weeks, when the rigour of a winter day an-csts 
 the clouds, and they dissolve into showers. At all other 
 seasons they glide over the scorched and heated plain, 
 which has neither hills nor trees to attract them. It is the 
 want of water which is the occasion of this steriUty. In 
 the desert there is not even a brook ; springs are rare and 
 generally brackish ; and it is on the artificial wells, stored 
 by the rains, that the wanderer chiefly depends. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 345 
 
 From the banks of tlie Euplirnfces to the shores of the 
 Red Sea ; from the banks of the Nile to the Persian Gulf, 
 over a spread of country three times the extent of Germany, 
 Nature, without an interval, ceases to produce. Beneficent 
 Nature ! Let us not wrong her ; for, even in a land appa- 
 rently so unfavoured, exists a numerous and happy race. 
 As you wander along, the appearance of the desert changes. 
 The wilderness, which is comparatively fertile in Syria, 
 becomes rocky when you enter Arabia, and sandy as you 
 proceed. Here in some degree we meet with the terrible 
 idea of the desert prevalent in Europe ; but it is in Africa, 
 in the vast and unexplored regions of Libya and Zahara, 
 that we must seek for that illimitable and stormy ocean of 
 overwhelming sand which we associate with the popular 
 idea of the desert. 
 
 The sun was nearly setting, when an Arab horseman, 
 armed with his long lance, was suddenly observed on an 
 eminence in the distance. He galloped towards us, wheeled 
 round and round, scudded away, again approached, and our 
 guide, shouting, rode forward to meet him. They entered 
 into earnest conversation, and then joined us. Abdallah, 
 the guide, informed me that this was an Arab of the tribe 
 I intended to visit, and that we were very near their en- 
 campment. 
 
 The desert was here broken into bushy knolls, which 
 limited the view. Advancing and mounting the low ridge 
 on which we had first observed the Bedouin, Abdallah 
 pointed out to me at no great distance a largo circle of low 
 black tents, which otherwise I might not have observed, or 
 have mistaken them in the deceptive twilight for some 
 natural formation. On the left of the encampment was 
 a umall grove of palm trees ; and when we had nearly 
 gained the settlement, a procession of women in long blue 
 robes, covering with one hand their faces with their veils, 
 and with the other supporting on their heads a tall and 
 
^j^6 COXTARINI FLEMIXG: 
 
 classically formed vase, advanced with a beautiful melody 
 to the fountain, vrhich was screened by the palm trees. 
 
 The dogs barked : some dark faces and long matchlocks 
 suddenly popped up behind the tents. 
 
 The Bedouin, with a shout, galloped into the encamp- 
 ment, and soon reappeared with several of his tribe. We 
 dismounted, and entered the interior court of the camp, 
 which was filled with camels and goats. There were few 
 persons visible, although, as I was conducted along to the 
 tent of the chief, I detected nsiiny faces staring at me from 
 behind the curtains of their tents. The pavilion of the 
 •scheik was of considerable size. He himself was a man 
 advanced in years, but hale and lively ; his long white 
 beard curiously contrasting with his dark visage. He re- 
 ceived me, sitting on a mat, his son standing on his right 
 hand without his sHppers, and a young grandchild squatting 
 by his side. 
 
 He welcomed me mth the usual oriental salutation ; 
 touching his forehead, his mouth, and his heart, while he 
 exclaimed *Salam;* thus indicating that all his faculties 
 and feeUngs were devoted to me. He motioned that we 
 should seat ourselves on the unoccupied mats, and taking 
 from his mouth a small pipe of date wood, gave it to his 
 son to bear to me. A servant instantly began j)ounding 
 coflPee. I then informed him, through Abdallah, that, having 
 heard of his hospitality and happy life, I had journeyed 
 even from Damascus to visit him ; that I greatly admired 
 the Bedouin character, and eulogised their valour, their 
 independence, their justice, and their simplicity. 
 
 He answered that he liked to be visited by Franks, 
 because they were wise men, and requested that I would 
 feel his pulse. 
 
 I performed this ceremony with becoming gravity, and 
 inquired whether he were indisposed. He said that he waa 
 well, but that he might be better. I told him that his 
 
A P-$YCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 347 
 
 pulse was healthy and strong for one of Ms age, and I 
 begged to examine his tongue, which greatly pleased him ; 
 and he observed that he was eighty years of age, and could 
 ride as well and as long as his son. 
 
 Coffee was now brought. I ventured to praise it. Ho 
 said it was well for those who had not wine. I observed 
 that wine was not suited to these climes, and that, although 
 a Frank, I had myself renounced it. He answered that 
 the Franks were fond of wine, but that, for his part, he had 
 never tasted it, although he should like once to do so. 
 
 I regretted that I could not avail myself of this delicate 
 hint, but Lausanne produced a bottle of eau-de-Cologne, 
 and I offered him a glass. He drank it with great gravity, 
 and asked for some for his son, observing it was good raki, 
 but not wine. I suspected from this that he was not totally 
 unacquainted with the flavour of the forbidden liquor, and 
 I dared to remark with a smile, that raki had one advantage 
 over wine, that it was not forbidden by the prophet. Un- 
 like the Turks, who never understand a jest, he smiled, and 
 then said that the Book (meaning the Koran) was good for 
 men who lived in cities, but that God was everywhere. 
 
 Several men now entered the tent, leaving their slippers 
 on the outside, and some saluting the scheik as they passed. 
 seated themselves. 
 
 I now inquired after horses, and asked him whether he 
 could assist me in purchasing some of the true breed. The 
 old scheik's eyes sparkled as he informed me that he pos- 
 sessed four mares of pure blood, and that he would not 
 part with one, not even for fifty thousand piastres. After 
 this hint, I was inclined to drop the subject, but the scheik 
 seemed interested by it, and inquired if the Franks had any 
 horses. 
 
 I answered, that some Frank nations were famous for 
 their horses, and mentioned the English, who had a superb 
 race from the Arabs. He said he had heard of the English ■ 
 
348 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 and asked me which was the greatest nation of the Franks. 
 I told him there were sevei'al equally powerful, but perhaps 
 that the EngHsh nation might be fairly described as the most 
 important. He answered, ' Ay ! on the sea, but not on land.' 
 
 I was surprised by the general knowledge indicated by 
 this remark, and more so when he further observed that 
 there was another nation stronger by land. I mentioned 
 the Russians. He had not heard of them, notwithstandiuG: 
 the recent war with the Poi^te. The French ? I inquired. 
 He knew the French, and then told me he had been at the 
 siege of Acre, which explained all this intelligence. He 
 then inquired, if I were an Englishman. 1 told him my 
 country, but was not astonished that he had never heard of 
 it. I observed that, when the old man spoke, he was 
 watched by his followers with the greatest attention, and 
 they grinned with pride and exultation at his knowledge of 
 the Franks, showing their white teeth, elevating their eyes, 
 and exchanging looks of wonder. 
 
 Two women now entered the tent, at which I was sur- 
 prised. They had returned from the fountain, and wore 
 small black masks, which covered the upper part of the 
 face. They knelt down at the fire, and made a cake of 
 bread, which one of them handed to me. I now offered to 
 the scheik my own pipe, which Lausanne had prepared. 
 Coffee was again handed, and a preparation of sour milk 
 and rice, not unpalatable. 
 
 I offered the scheik renewed compliments on his mode of 
 life, in order to maintaiu conversation ; for the chief, 
 although, like the Arabs in general, of a lively tempera- 
 ment, had little of the curiosity of what are considered the 
 more civilised Orientals, and asked very few questions. 
 
 * We are content,' said the scheik. 
 
 * Then believe me you are in the condition of no other 
 people,' I replied. 
 
 * My children,' sai^ the scheik, ' hear the words of this 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 349 
 
 v/ise man ! If we lived with the Turks,* continued the 
 chieftain, * we should have more gold and silver, and more 
 clothes, and carpets, and baths ; but we should not have 
 justice and liberty. Our luxuries are few, but our wants 
 are fewer.' 
 
 * Yet you have neither priests nor lawyers ? * 
 
 * When men are pure, laws are useless ; when men are 
 corrupt, laws are broken.' 
 
 * And for priests ? ' 
 
 ' God is everywhere.' 
 
 The women now entered with a more substantial meal, 
 the hump of a young camel. I have seldom eaten anything 
 more delicate and tender. This dish was a great compli- 
 ment, and could only have been offered by a wealthy scheik. 
 Pipes and coffee followed. 
 
 The moon was shining brightly, when, making my 
 excuses, I quitted the pavilion of the chieftain, and went 
 forth to view the humours of the camp. The tall camels, 
 croucLing on their knees in groups, with their outstretched 
 necks and still and melancholy visages, might have been 
 mistaken for works of art had it not been for the process of 
 rumination. A crowd was assembled round a fire, before 
 which a pocjt recited impassioned verses. I observed the 
 slight forms of the men, short and meagre, agile, dry, and 
 dark, with teeth dazzling white, and quick, black, glancing 
 eyes. They were dressed in cloaks of coarse black cloth, 
 apparently the same stuff as their tents, and few of them, I 
 should imagine, exceeded five feet six inches in height. 
 The women mingled with the men, although a few affected 
 to conceal their faces on my approach. They were evi- 
 dently deeply interested in the poetic recital. One passage 
 excited their loud applause. I inquired its purport of 
 Abdallah, who thus translated it to me. A lover beholds 
 his mistress, her face covered with a red veil. Thus he 
 addresses her ! 
 
330 CONTARlS I FLEMING: 
 
 * Oh ! WITHDRAW THAT VEIL, WITHDRAW THAT RED VSIL \ 
 
 Let me behold the beauty that it shrouds ! Yes ! let 
 that rosy twilight fade away, and let the full mook 
 rise to my vision.' 
 
 BeaTitifol! Yet more beautiful in the language of the 
 Arabs ; for in that rich tongue, there are words to describe 
 each species of twilight, and where we are obliged to have 
 recourse to an epithet, the Arabs reject the feeble and 
 unnecessary aid. 
 
 It was late ere I retired, and I stretched myself on my 
 mat, musing over this singular people, who combined 
 ])rimitive simplicity of habits with the refined feelings of 
 civilisation, and who, in a great degree, appeared to me to 
 offer an evidence of that community of property and that 
 equality of condition, which have hitherto proved the 
 despair of European sages, and fed only the visions of their 
 fanciful Utopias. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A Syrian village is beautiful in the centre of a fertile 
 plain. The houses are isolated, and each surrounded by 
 palm trees ; the meadows divided by rich plantations of 
 Indian fig, and bounded by groves of oUve. 
 
 In the distance rose a chain of severe and savage moun- 
 tains. I was soon wandering, and for hours, in the wild, 
 stony ravines of these shaggy rocks. At length, after 
 several passes, I gained the ascent of a high mountain. 
 Upon an opposite height, descending as a steep ravine, and 
 forming, with the elevation on which I rested, a dark and 
 narrow gorge, I beheld a city entirely surrounded by what 
 I should have considered in Europe an old feodal wall, 
 \^ith towers and gates. The city was built tipon an ascent. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 351 
 
 and, from the height on which I stood, I could discern the 
 terrace and the cupola of almost every liouse, and the wall 
 upon the other side rising from the plain ; the ravine 
 extending only on the side to which I was opposite. The 
 city was in a bowl of mountains. In the front was a 
 magnificent mosque, with beautiful gardens, and many 
 light and lofty gates of triumph ; a variety of domes and 
 towers rose in all directions from the buildings of bright 
 stone. 
 
 N'othing could be conceived more wild, and terrible, and 
 desolate than the surrounding scenery, more dark, and 
 storm}^, and severe ; but the ground was thrown about in 
 such picturesque undulations, that the mind, full of the 
 sublime, required not the beautiful ; and rich and waving 
 v/oods and sparkling cultivation would have been mis- 
 placed. Except Athens, I had never witnessed any scene 
 more essentially impressive. I will not place this spectacle 
 below the city of Minerva. Athens and the Holy City in 
 their glory must have been the finest representations of the 
 beautiful and the sublime ; the Holy City, for the elevation 
 on which I stood was the Mount of Olives, and the city on 
 which I gazed was Jerusalem. 
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 
 The dark gorge beneath me was the vale of Jehoshaphat ; 
 farther on was the fountain of Siloah. I entered by the 
 gate of Bethlehem, and sought hospitality at the Latin 
 Convent of the Terra Santa. 
 
 Easter was approaching, and the city was crowded with , 
 pilgrims. I had met many caravans in my progress. The 
 convents of Jerusalem are remarkable. That of the Arme- 
 uian Christians at this time afforded accommodation for 
 
352 CONTARINI FLEMING^ • 
 
 four thousand pilgrims. It is a town of itself, and possesses 
 within its walls streets and shops. The Greek Convent 
 held perhaps half as many. And the famous Latin Convent 
 of the Terra Santa, endowed bv all the monarchs of 
 Catholic Christendom, could boast of only one pilgrim, 
 myself! The Europeans have ceased to visit the Holy 
 Sepulchi-e. 
 
 As for the interior of Jerusalem, it is hilly and clean. 
 The houses are of stone and well built, but like all Asiatic 
 mansions, they offer nothing to the eye but blank walls and 
 dull portals. The mosque I had admired was the famous 
 ^losque of Omar, built upon the supposed site of the 
 Temple. It is perhaps the most beautiful of Mahomedan 
 temples, but the Frank, even in the Eastern dress, wdl 
 enter it at the risk of his life. The Turks of Syi'ia have 
 not been contaminated by the heresies of their enlightened 
 Sultan. In Damascus it is impossible to appear in the 
 Frank dress without being pelted; and although they 
 would condescend, perhaps, at Jerusalem to permit an 
 infidel dog to walk about in his national dress, he would 
 not escape many a curse and many a scornful exclamation 
 of ' Giaour ! ' There in only one way to travel in the East 
 -with ease, and that is with an appearance of pomp. The 
 Turks are much influenced by the exterior, and although 
 they are not mercenaiy, a well-dressed and well-attended 
 infidel will command respect.* 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The church of the Holy Sepulchre is nearly m the middle 
 of the city, and professedly built upon Mount Calvary. 
 
 * The reader will be kind enough to remember that these ohserro- 
 tions were made in Syria in the year 1830. Since that period thi» 
 Lerant has undergone great Tioissjt-udes. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 353 
 
 which, it is alleged, was levelled for tlie structure. Within 
 its walls they have contrived to assemble the scenes of a 
 vast number of incidents in the life of the Saviour, with a 
 highly romantic violation of the nnity of place. Here the 
 sacred feet were anointed, there the sacred garments par- 
 celled ; from the pillar of the scourging to the rent of the 
 rock, all is exhibited in a succession of magical scenes. The 
 truth is, the whole is an ingenious imposture of a com- 
 paratively recent date, and we are indebted to that favoured 
 individual, the Empress Helen, for this exceedingly clever 
 creation, as well as for the discovery of the true cross. 
 The learned believe, and with reason, that Calvary is at 
 present, as formerly, without the walls, and that we must 
 seek this celebrated elevation in the lofty hill now called 
 Sion. 
 
 The church is a spacious building, surmounted by a dome. 
 Attached to it are the particular churches of the various 
 Christian sects, and many chapels and sanctuaries. Mass 
 in some part or other is constantly celebrating, and com • 
 panics of pilgrims may be observed in all directions, visit- 
 ing the holy places and offering their devotions. Latin 
 and Armenian, and Greek friars, are everywhere moving 
 about. The court is crowded with the vendors of relics 
 and rosaries. The church of the Sepulchre itself is a point 
 of common union, and in its bustle and lounging character 
 rather reminded me of an exchange than a temple. 
 
 One day as I was pacing up and down this celebrated 
 building, in conversation with an ingenious Neapolitan 
 friar, experienced in the East, my attention was attracted by 
 one who, from his sumptuous dress, imposing demeanour, 
 self-satisfied air, and the coolness with which, in a Christian 
 temple, he waved in his hand a rosary of Mecca, I for a 
 moment considered a Moslem. ' Is it customary for the 
 Turks to visit this place ? ' I inquired, drawing the atten- 
 tion of ray companion to the stranger. 
 
 A A 
 
354 COXTARIXI FLEMING: 
 
 * The stmnger is not a Turk,' answered the friar, ' though 
 I fear I cannot call him a Christian. It is Marignj, a 
 French traveller. Do you not know him ? I will intro- 
 duce you. He is a man of distinguished science, and has 
 resided some months in this city, studying Arabic* 
 
 We approached him, and the friar made us acquainted. 
 
 ' Salam Aleikoum ! Count. Here at least is no inquisi- 
 tion. Let us enjoy ourselves. How mortifying, my good 
 brother Antony, that you cannot bum me ! ' 
 
 The friar smiled, and was evidently used to this raillery. 
 
 'I hope yet to behold the Kaaba,' said Marigny; ' it is 
 at least more genuine than anything we here see.* 
 
 ' Truth is not truth to the false,* said brother Antony. 
 
 * What, you reason ! * exclaimed Marigny. * Stick to faith 
 and infallibility, my good fnend Antonio. I have just been 
 viewing the rent in the rock. It is a pity, holy father, that 
 I have discovered that it is against the grain.* 
 
 ' The greater the miracle,' said tlie friar. 
 
 * Bravo ! you deserve to be a bishop.' 
 
 * The church has no fear of just reasoners,' observed 
 brother Antony. 
 
 * And is confuted, I suppose, only by the unjust/ rejoined 
 Marigny. 
 
 * Man without religion is a vnld beast,' remarked the friar. 
 
 * Which religion ? ' inquired Marigny. 
 
 * There is only one true religion,' said brother Antony. 
 
 * Exactly ; and in this country, Master Antony, remember 
 you are an infidel.' 
 
 ' And you, they say, are a Moslem.* 
 
 ' They say wrong. I believe in no human revelation, 
 because it obtrades the mind of another man into my body, 
 and must destroy morality, which can only be discovered 
 by my own intelligence,' 
 
 ' All is divine revelation,* said a stranger who joined us. 
 
 ' Ah, Werner ! ' said Marigny, '.you see we are at our old 
 contests. ' 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 355 
 
 * All is divine revelation,' repeated Werner, * for all comes 
 from God.' 
 
 * But what do you mean by God ? ' 
 
 ' I mean the great luminous principle of existence, the 
 first almighty cause from whom we are emanations, and in 
 whose essence we shall again mingle.' 
 
 * I asked for bread, and you gave me a stone. I asked 
 for a fact, and you give me a word. I cannot annex an 
 idea to what you say. Until my Creator gift me with an 
 intelligence that can comprehend the idea of liis existence, 
 I must conclude that he does not desire that I should busy 
 myself about it.' 
 
 'That idea is implanted in our breasts,' said Werner. 
 ' Innate ! ' exclaimed Marigny, with a sneer. 
 
 * And why not innate ? ' replied Werner solemnly. * Is 
 it impossible for the Great Being who created us to create 
 us with a sense of his existence ? ' 
 
 ' Listen to these philosophers,' said brother Antony ; * I 
 never heard two of them agree. I must go to mass.' 
 
 * Mr. Werner and myself. Count,' said Marigny, * are 
 about to smoke a pipe with Besso, a rich Hebrew merchant 
 here. He is one of the finest-hearted fellows in the world, 
 and generous as he is rich. Will you accompany us ? You 
 will greatly honour him and find in his divan some intelli- 
 gent society.' 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 Marigny was a sceptic and an absolute materialist, yet he 
 was influenced by noble views, for he had devoted his life 
 to science, and was now, at his own charge, about to 
 penetrate into the interior of Africa by Sennaar. Werner 
 was a German divine and a rationalist, tauntingly de- 
 scribed by his companion as a devout Christian, who did 
 
 A A 2 
 
356 CONTARIXI FLEMIXG: 
 
 not believe in Christianity. Yet lie had resided in Palestine 
 and Egypt nearly fonr years, studying their language and 
 customs, and accumulating materials for a history of the 
 miraculous creed whose miracles he explained. Both were 
 men of remarkable intellectual powers, and the ablest 
 champions of their respective systems. 
 
 I accompanied these new acquaintances to the house of 
 Besso, and was most hospitably received, and sumptuously 
 entertained. I have seldom met with a man of more easy 
 manners and a more gracious carriage than Besso, who, 
 although sincere in his creed, was the least bigoted of his 
 tribe. He introduced us to his visitor, his friend aild cor- 
 respondent, Sheriff Eflfendi, an Egyptian meichant, who 
 fortunately spoke the Hngua Franca with facility. The 
 other guest was an EngHshman, by name Benson, a mis- 
 sionary, and a learned, pious, and acute man. 
 
 Such was the party in whose society I generally spent a 
 portion of my day during my residence at Jerusalem : and 
 I have often thought that, if the conversations to which I 
 have there hstened were recorded, a volume might be sent 
 forth of more wit and wisdom, than is now usually met 
 with. The tone of discussion was, in general, metaphysical 
 and scientific, varied with speculations principally on African 
 travel, a subject with which Sheriff Effendi was well ac- 
 <|uainted. In metaphysics, sharp were the contests between 
 Benson, Marigny, and Werner, and on all sides ably main- 
 tained. I Hstened to them with great interest. Besso 
 smiled, and Sheriff Effendi shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 Understanding that this mild and intelUgent Moslem 
 was in a few days about to join the caravan over the desert 
 through Gaza, to Egypt, I resolved to accompany him. T 
 remember well that, on the eve of our departure, one of 
 those metaphysical discussions arose in which Marigny 
 delighted. When it terminated, he proposed that, as our 
 agreeable assembly was soon about to disperse, each of us 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 357 
 
 should inscribe on a panel of the wall some sentence as a 
 memorial of his sojourn. 
 
 Benson wrote first, ^ For as in Adam all die, so in Christ 
 all men shall he made alive.* 
 
 Werner wrote, * Glory to Christ ! The sujpematural has 
 destroyed the natural.* 
 
 Marigny wrote, ' Knowledge is human.* 
 
 Besso wrote, ' J loill not helieve in tJiose who must believe in 
 me.* 
 
 Sheriff Effendi wrote, * God is great ; man should he 
 charitable.* 
 
 Contarini Fleming wrote, * Timie* 
 
 These are the words that were written in the house of 
 Besso, the Hebrew, residing at Jerusalem, near the Gate of 
 Sion. Amen ! Travel teaches toleration. 
 
 CHAPTER Vni. 
 
 Perchance, while I am writing these pages, some sage may 
 be reading, in the once mysterious inscriptions of the most 
 ancient of people, some secret which may change the foun- 
 dations of human knowledge. Already the chronology of 
 the world assumes a new aspect ; already, in the now in- 
 telKgible theology of Egypt, we have discovered the origin 
 of Grecian polytheism ; already we have penetrated beyond 
 the delusive veil of Ptolemaic transmutation: Isis has 
 yielded to Athor, and Osiris to Knepth. The scholar 
 discards the Grecian nomenclature of Scsostris and Mem- 
 non. In the temples of Carnac ho discovers the conquests 
 of Rameses, and in the palaces of Medinet Abou, the refined 
 civilisation of Amenoph. 
 
35S COXTARINI FLEMING: } 
 
 Singular fate of modem ages, that beneficent Omni- 
 potence has willed that for all onr knowledge we should be 
 indebted to the most insignificant of ancient states. Onr 
 divine instruction is handed down to us by an Arabian 
 tribe, and our profane learning flows only from the clans 
 of the MgesLTi ! 
 
 Where are the records of the Great Assyrian monarchy ? 
 Where are the books of the Medes and Persians ? Where 
 the learned annals of the Pharaohs ? 
 
 Fortunate Jordan ! Fortunate Ilissus ! I have waded 
 through the sacred waters ; with difficulty I traced the 
 scanty windings of the classic stream. Alas ! for the 
 exuberant Tigris ; alas ! for the mighty Euphrates ; alas ! 
 for the mysterious Nile ! 
 
 A river is suddenly found flowing through the wilder- 
 ness ; its source is unknown. On one side are interminable 
 wastes of sand ; on the other, a rocky desert and a narrow 
 sea. Thus it rolls on for five hundred miles, throwing ujj 
 on each side, to the extent of about three leagues, a soil 
 fertile as a garden. Within a hundred and fifty miles of 
 the sea it divides into two branches, which wind through 
 an immense plain, once the granary of the world. Such is 
 Egypt! 
 
 From the cataracts of Nubia to the gardens of the Delta, 
 in a course of twelve hundred miles, the banks of the Nile 
 are covered at slight intervals with temples and catacombs, 
 pyramids and painted chambers. The rock temples of 
 Ipsambol, guarded by colossal forms, are within the roar of 
 the second cataract : avenues of sphinxes lead to Derr, the 
 chief town of Nubia : from Derr to the first cataract, the 
 Egyptian boundary, a series of rock temples conduct to the 
 beautiful and sacred buildings of Philoe : Edfou and Esneh 
 are a fine preparation for the colossal splendour and the 
 massy grace of ancient Thebes. 
 
 Even after the inexhaustible curiosity and varied mag- 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 359 
 
 nificence of this unrivalled record of ancient art, the beau- 
 tiful Dendera, consummate blending of Egyptian imagination 
 and Grecian taste, will command your enthusiastic gaze ; 
 and, if the catacombs of Siout and the chambers of Beni- 
 hassan prove less fruitful of interest after the tombs of the 
 kings and the cemeteries of Gomou, before you are the 
 obelisks of Memphis, and the pyramids of Gizeh, Saccarah, 
 and Dashour ! 
 
 CHAPTEU IX. 
 
 The traveller who crosses the desert and views the Nile 
 with its lively villages, clustered in groves of palm, and its 
 banks entirely lined with that graceful tree, will bless with 
 sincerity *the Eather of Waters.' 'Tis a rich land, and 
 indeed flowing with milk and honey. The Delta in its 
 general appearance somewhat reminded me of Belgium. 
 The soil everywhere is a rich black mud and without a 
 single stone. The land is so uniformly flat that those who 
 arrive by sea do not descry it until within half a dozen 
 miles, when a palm tree creeps upon the horizon, and then 
 you observe the line of land that supports it. The Delta is 
 intersected by canals, which are filled by the rising Nile. 
 It is by their medium, and not by the absolute overflowing 
 of the river, that the country is periodically deluged. 
 
 The Arabs are gay, witty, vivacious, and susceptible and 
 acute. It is diSicult to render them miserable, and a beneficent 
 government may find in them the most valuable subjects. 
 A delightful climate is some compensation for a grinding 
 tyranny. Every night, as they row along the moonlit 
 river, the boatmen join in a melodious chorus ; shouts of 
 merriment burst from each illumined village ; everywhere 
 are heard the sounds of laughter and of music, and, where- 
 ever you stop, you are saluted by the dancing girls. These 
 
36o CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 are always graeefiil in their craft; sometimes agreeable 
 in tlieir persons. They are gaily, even richly dressed in 
 bright colours, with their hair braided with pearls, and 
 their necks and foreheads adorned with strings of gold 
 coin. In their voluptuous dance, we at once detect the 
 origin of the bolero and fandango and castanets of Spain. 
 
 I admire much the Arab women. They are delicately 
 moulded. Never have I seen such twinkling feet and such 
 small hands. Their complexion is clear, and not dark; 
 their features beautifully formed and sharply defined; 
 their eyes liquid with passion, and bright with int-elligence. 
 The traveller is delighted to find himself in an oriental 
 country where the women are not imprisoned and scarcely 
 veiled. For a long time, I could not detect the reason why 
 I was so charmed with Egyptian life. At last I recollected 
 that I had recurred, after a long estrangement, to the 
 cheerful influence of women. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 I FOLLOWED the course of the Nile far into Nubia, and did 
 not stop until I was under the tropic of Cancer. Shortly 
 after quitting Egypt, the landscape changes. It is per- 
 fectly African ; mountains of burning sand, vegetation 
 unnaturally vivid, groves of cocoa trees, groups of cro- 
 codiles, and an ebony population in a state of nudity, 
 armed with spears of reeds and shields of the hide of the 
 hippopotamus and the girafie. 
 
 The voyage back was tedious, and I was glad after so 
 much wanderino: to settle do-svn in Cairo. 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 361 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Cairo is situate on the base of considerable hills, whose 
 origin cannot be accounted for, but which are undoubtedly 
 artificial. They are formed by the ruins and the rubbish 
 of long centuries. When I witness these extraordinary 
 formations, which are not uncommon in the neighbourhood 
 of Eastern cities, I am impressed with the idea of the 
 immense antiquity of oriental society. 
 
 There is a charm about Cairo, and it is this, that it is a 
 capital in a desert. In one moment you are in the stream 
 of existence, and in another in boundless solitude, or, which 
 is still more awful, the silence of tombs. I speak of the 
 sepulchres of the Mamlouk sultans without the city. They 
 form what may indeed be styled a City of the Dead, an 
 immense Necropolis, fall of exquisite buildings, domCvS 
 covered with fretwork, and minarets carved and moulded 
 with rich and elegant fancy. To me they proved much 
 more interesting than the far-famed pyramids, althougli 
 their cones in a distance are indeed sublime, their gvey 
 cones soaring in the light blue sky. 
 
 The genius that has raised the tombs of the sultans may 
 also be traced in many of the mosques of the city, splendid 
 specimens of Saracenic architecture. In gazing upon these 
 brilliant creations, and also upon those of ancient Eg}^t, 1 
 have often been struck by the felicitous system which they 
 display, of ever forming the external ornaments by in- 
 scriptions. How far excelling the Grecian and Gothic 
 method ! Instead of a cornice of flowers, or an entab- 
 lature of unmeaning fancy, how superior to be reminded 
 of the power of the Creator, or the necessity of government, 
 the deeds of conquerors, or the discoveries of arts ! 
 
362 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 It was in these solitary rides in the Desert of Cairo, and in 
 these lone wanderings amid the tombs of the Sultans, that 
 I first again felt the desire of composition. My mind ap- 
 peared suddenly to have returned. I became restless, 
 disquieted. I found myself perpetually indulging in 
 audible soliloquy, and pouring forth impassioned mono- 
 logues. I was pleased with the system of oriental life, and 
 the hberty in which, in Egypt, Franks can indulge. I felt 
 no inclination to return to Europe, and I determined to 
 cast my lot in this pleasant and firuitfiil land. I had 
 already spent in Cairo several months, and I now re- 
 solved to make it my permanent residence, when I 
 received strange letters from my father. I style them 
 strange, for there breathed throughout a tone of melan- 
 choly which with him was unusual, and which perplexed 
 me. He complained of ill health, and expressed a hope 
 that my wanderings were drawing to a close, and that we 
 might again meet. I had been nearly six years absent. 
 "Was it possible ? Was it indeed six years since I stood 
 upon Mount Jura ? And yet in that time how much had 
 happened ! How much had I seen, and felt, and learnt ! 
 What violent passions, what strange countries, what Hvely 
 action, and what long meditation ! 
 
 Strange as may have appeared my conduct to my father, 
 I loved him devotedly. An indication of sentiment on his 
 part ever called forth aU my latent affection. It was the 
 conviction, of which I could never divest myself, that he 
 was one who could spare no portion of his sense for the 
 softer feelings, and that his conduct to me was rather m 
 accordance with the system of society than instigated by 
 what I should consider the feelings of a father : it was this 
 conviction that had alone permitted me so long to estrange 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 363 
 
 myself from liis hearth. But now he called me back, and 
 almost in sorrow. I read his letter over and over again, 
 dwelt on all its affection and all its suppressed grief. 1 
 felt an irresistible desire to hasten to him without a 
 moment's delay. I longed to receive his blessing and his 
 embrace. 
 
 I quitted Cairo. The Mahmadie canal was not yet open. 
 I was obhged, therefore, to sail to Rosetta. Thence I 
 crossed the desert in a constant mirage, and arrived at the 
 famous Alexandria. In this busy port I was not long in 
 finding a ship. One was about to sail for Ancona. I 
 engaged a passage, and soon the palms and sands of Egypt 
 vanished from my sight. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Our passage was tedious. The captain was afraid of 
 pirates, and, alarmed in the night, suddenly changed his 
 course, and made for the Barbary coast, by which we lost 
 our wind. We were becalmed off Candia. I once more 
 beheld Mount Ida. 
 
 Having induced the captain to run into port, I landed 
 once more on that fatal coast. The old consul and his 
 family were still there, and' received me with a kindness 
 which reminded me of our first happy meeting. I slept in 
 the same chamber. When I awoke in the morning the sun 
 was still shining, the bright plants still quivering in its 
 beams. But the gazelle liad gone, the white gazelle had 
 died. And my gazelle, where was she ? 
 
 I beheld our home, our once happy home. Spiro only 
 was with me, and his family came forth with joy to greet 
 him. I left them, and hastened with tremulous steps to 
 the happy valley. I passed by the grove of orange trees. 
 
364 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 Mj strength deserted me. I leant nearly fainting against 
 a ti'ee. At last I dared to advance a step, and look forward. 
 
 I beheld it : yes ! I beheld it, green and verdant, and 
 covered with white roses ; but I dared not approach. I 
 wafted it an embrace and a blessing, and rushed to tho 
 shore. 
 
 At Ancona I entered the lazaretto to perform a long 
 quarantine. I instantly wrote to my father, and des- 
 patched a courier to my banker at Florence. I received 
 from him in a few days a packet. I opened it with a sad 
 foreboding. A letter in my father's handwriting reassured 
 me. I tore it open j I read. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 * My beloved Contarini, tho hand of death is upon me. 
 Each day my energies decrease. I can conceal from others, 
 but not from myself, my g^'adual but certain decay. We 
 shall not meet again, my child ; I have a deep conviction 
 we shall not meet again. Yet I would not die without ex- 
 pressing to you my love, without yielding to feelings which 
 I have too long suppressed. 
 
 ' Child of my affections ! receive my blessing. Offspring 
 of my young passion ! let me press you, in imagination, to 
 my lone bosom ! 
 
 * Ah ! why are you not with me ? why is not my hand in 
 yours ? There is much to say, more than I can ever ex- 
 press ; yet I must write, for I would not die without my 
 son doing justice to his father. 
 
 ' As a child, you doubted my love ; as a man, in spite of 
 all your struggles, I am conscious you never divested your- 
 self of the agonising idea. What is this life, this life of 
 error and misconception and woe ! 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 365 
 
 * My feeble pen trembles in my band. There is mncli 
 to write, mncb, alas ! that never can be written. Why are 
 we parted ? 
 
 ' You think me cold ; yon think me callous ; you think 
 me a hollow-hearted worlding. Contarini ! recall the doubt 
 and misery of your early years, and all your wild thoughts, 
 and dark misgi^-ings, and vain efforts ; recall all these, and 
 behold the boyhood of your father ! 
 
 * I, too, believed myself a poet ; I, too, aspired to eman- 
 cipate my kind ; I, too, looked forward to a glorious future, 
 and the dazzling vista of eternal fame. The passions of my 
 heart were not less violent than yours, and not less ardent 
 was my impetuous love. 
 
 ' Woe ! woe ! the father and the son have been alike 
 stricken. I know all ; I know all, my child. I would have 
 saved you from the bitter lot ; I alone would have borne 
 the deep despair. 
 
 ' Was she fair ? Was she beautiful ? Alas ! there was 
 onco one as bright and as glorious ; you knew not your 
 mother. 
 
 * I can remember the day but as yesterday when I first 
 gazed upon the liquid darkness of her eye. It was in that 
 fiital city I will not name ; horrible Venice ! 
 
 ' I found her surrounded by a thousand slaves ; I won 
 her from amid this band ; against the efforts and opposition 
 of all her family I won her. Yes ! she was my bride ; the 
 beautiful daughter of this romantic iana ; a land to which I 
 was devoted, and for which I would have perilled my life. 
 Alas ! I perilled my love ! My imagination was fired by 
 that wondrous and witching city. My love of freedom, my 
 hatred of oppression, burned each day with a brighter and 
 more vehement flame. I sighed over its past glory and 
 present degradation ; and when I mingled my blood with 
 the veins of the Contarini, I vowed I would revive ths 
 glory they had themselves created. 
 
o66 CONTARIKI FLEMING: 
 
 • 
 
 * Venice was at that time under the yoke of the French. 
 The recollection of the republic was still fresh in men's 
 minds ; the son of the last doge was my relative and 
 my fnend. Unhappy Manini ! thy memory demands a 
 tear. 
 
 ' We conspired. Even now my blood seems to flow with 
 renewed force, when I recall the excitement of our secret 
 meetings in the old Palazzo Contarini, on the Grand 
 Tiagune. How often has daylight on the waters reminded 
 us of our long councils ! 
 
 * We were betrayed. Timely information permitted me 
 to escape. I bore away my wife. We reached !Mantua in 
 safety. Perhaps it was the agitation of the event and the 
 flight ; since the tragedy of Candia I have sometimes 
 thought it might have been a constitutional doom. But 
 that fatal night : why, why recall it ? We have both ahke 
 sufiered. No, not alike, for I had my child. 
 
 * My child, my darling child, even now your recollection 
 maintains me ; even now my cheek warms, as I repose upon 
 the anticipation of your glory. 
 
 ' I will not dwell upon what I then endured. Alas ! I 
 cannot leave it to your imagination. Your reahty has 
 taught you all. I roved a madman amid the mountains of 
 the Tyrol. But you were with me, my child, and I looked 
 upon your mild and pensive eyes, and the wildness of my 
 thoughts died away. 
 
 * I recurred to those hopes of poetic fame which had 
 soothed the dull wretchedness of my boyhood. Alas ! no 
 flame from heaven descended on my lyre. I experienced 
 only mortification ; and so complete was my wretchedness, 
 so desolate my Hfe, so void of hope and cheerfulness, and 
 even the prospect of that common ease which the merest 
 animals require, that, had it not been for you, I would have 
 freed myself from the indescribable burden of my existence. 
 My hereditar}^ estates were confiscated ; my friends, like 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 367 
 
 myself, were in exile. We Yy-cre, in fact, destitute, and I 
 had lost all confidence in my energies. 
 
 * Thus ■woe-begone, I entered Vienna, where I found a 
 friend. Mingling in the artificial society of that refined city, 
 those excited feelings, fed by my strange adventures and 
 solitary life, subsided. I began to lose what was peculiar 
 in me, and to share much that was general. Worldly feel- 
 ings sprang up. Some success brought back my confidence. 
 I believed that I was not destitute of power, but had 
 only mistaken its nature. It was a political age. A great 
 theatre seemed before me. I had ever been ambitious. I 
 directed my desires into a new channel, and I determined 
 to be a statesman. 
 
 ' I had attracted the attention of the Austrian minister. 
 I became his secretaiy. You know the rest. 
 
 ' I resolved that my child should be happy. I desired to 
 save him from the miseiy that clouded my own youth. I 
 would have preserved him from the tyranny of impetuous 
 passions, and the harrowing woe that awaits an ill-regulated 
 mind. I observed in him a dangerous susceptibihty that 
 alarmed me. I studied to prevent the indulgence of his 
 feelings. I was kind, but I was calm. His imaginative 
 temperament did not escape me. I perceived only hereditary 
 weakness, and would have prevented hereditary woe. It 
 was my aim to make him a practical man. Contarini, it 
 was the anxiety of afiection that prevented me from doing 
 justice to your genms. 
 
 * My son, could I but once press you in my arms, I should 
 die happy. And even now the future supports me, and I 
 feel the glory of your coming fame irradiating my tomb. 
 
 ' Why cannot we meet ? I could say so much, although 
 I would say only I loved you. The pen falls from my hand, 
 the feeble pen, that has sig-nified nothing. Imagine what 
 I would express. Cherish my memoiy, while you receive 
 my blessing.' 
 
368 CONTARINI FLEMING : 
 
 * Let me fly, let me fly to him instantly ! * I felt the 
 horrors of imprisomnent ; I wrung my hands, and stamped 
 from helplessness. There was a packet. I opened it ; a 
 lock of rich dark hair, whose colonr was not strange to me, 
 and a beantiful miniature, that seemed a portrait of my 
 beloved, yet I gazed upon the countenance of my mother. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 There was yet a letter from my banker which I long neg- 
 lected to open. I opened it at last, and learned the death 
 of my remaining parent. 
 
 The age of tears was past ; that relief was denied me. I 
 looked np to Heaven in despair. I flew to a darkened 
 chamber. I buried my face in my hands ; and, lone and 
 speechless, I delivered myself up for days to the silent agony 
 of the past. 
 
 END OF TflE SIXTH PART 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE, 369 
 
 PAET THE SEVENTH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I LEANT against a column of the Temple of Castor. On oni 
 side was the Palace of the Caesars ; on the other, the colossal 
 amphitheatre of Yespasian. Arches of triumph, the pillars 
 of Pagan temples, and the domes of Christian churches rose 
 around me. In the distance was the wide Campagna, the 
 Claudian Aqueduct, and the Alban Mount. 
 
 SoHtude and silence reigned on that sacred road once 
 echoing with the shouts and chariots of three hundred 
 triumphs ; solitude and silence, meet companions of impe- 
 rial desolation ! Where are the spoils of Egypt and of 
 Carthage ? Where the golden tribute of Iberia ? Where 
 the long Gallic trophies ? Where are the rich armour and 
 massy cups of Macedon? Where are the pictures and 
 statues of Corinth ? Where the libraries of Athens ? Where 
 is the broken bow of Parthia ? Where the elephants of 
 Pontus, and the gorgeous diadems of the Asian Kings ? 
 
 And where is Rome? All nations rose and flourished 
 only to swell her splendour, and now I stand amid her ruins. 
 
 In such a scene what are our private griefs and petty 
 sorrows ? And what is man ? I felt my nothingness. 
 Life seemed flat, and dull, and trifling. I could not conceive 
 that I could again become interested in its base pursuits. 
 I believed that I could no longer be influenced by joy or by 
 sorrow. Indifierence alone remained. 
 
 A man clambered down the steep of the Palatine. It was 
 Winter, flushed and eager from a recent excavation. 
 
 l> B 
 
370 CONTARINI FLEMING: 
 
 * What, Counfc,' he exclaimed, ' moralising in the Forum! * 
 
 * Alas, "Winter, what is life ? ' 
 
 * An excellent thing, so long as one can discover as pretty 
 s. Torso as I have stumbled upon this morning.* 
 
 * A Torso ! a maimed memorial of the past. The very 
 name is melancholy.' 
 
 ' What is the past to me ? I am not dead. You may be. 
 I exist in the present.' 
 
 ' The vanity of the present overpowers me.' 
 
 * Pooh ! I tell you what, my friend, the period has arrived 
 in your life, when you must renounce meditation. Action 
 is now your part. Meditation is culture. It is well to think 
 until a man has discovered his genius, and developed his 
 faculties, but then let him put his intelligence in motion. 
 Act, act, act ; act without ceasing, and you will no longer 
 talk of the vanity of life.' 
 
 * But how am I to act ? * 
 
 * Create. Man is made to create, from the poet to the 
 potter.' 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 My father bequeathed me his entire property, which wa,s 
 more considerable than I imagined ; the Coimtess and her 
 children being amply provided for by her own estate. In 
 addition to this, I found that he had claimed in my favour 
 the Contarini estates, to wliioh, independently of the VcaUdity 
 of my marriage, I was entitled through my mother. After 
 much htigation, the question had been decided in my behalf 
 a few months before my return to Italy. I found myself, 
 therefore, unexpectedly a rich man. I wrote to the Countess, 
 and received from her an affectionate reply ; nor should I 
 omit that I was honoured by an autogi-aph letter of condo- 
 
A FSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 371 
 
 lence from the Kuig and an invitation to re-enter hia 
 service. 
 
 As I was now wearied with wandering, and desirons of 
 settling down in life; and as I had been deprived of thoso 
 affections which render home delightful, I determined to 
 find in the creations of art some consolation, and some 
 substitute for that domestic bliss which I value above all 
 other blessings. I resolved to create a paradise. I purchased 
 a large estate in the vicinity of Naples, with a palace and 
 beautiful gardens. I called in the assistance of the first 
 artists in the country ; and I availed myself, above all, of the 
 fine taste of my friend Winter. The palace was a Palladian 
 pile, build upon a stately ten'ace covered with orange and 
 citron trees, and to which you ascended by broad flights of 
 marble steps. The formation of the surrounding country- 
 was highly picturesque, hills beautifully peaked or un« 
 dulating, and richly wooded, covered with the cypress and 
 the ilex, and crowned with the stone pine. Occasionally 
 you caught a ghmpse of the blue sea and the brilliant 
 coast. 
 
 Upon the terrace, upon each side of the portal, I have 
 placed a colossal sphinx, which were excavated when I was 
 at Thebes, and which I was fortunate enough to purchase. 
 They are of rosecoloured granite, and as fresh and sharp as 
 if they were finished yesterday. There is a soft majesty and 
 a serene beauty in the countenances, which are remarkable. 
 
 It is my intention to build in these beautiful domains 
 a Saracenic palace, which my oriental collections will befit, 
 but which I hope also to fill with the masterpieces of 
 Christian art. At present I have placed in a gallery some 
 fine specimens of the Venetian, Roman, and Eclectic schools, 
 and have ranged between them copies in marble, by 
 Bertolini, of the most celebrated ancient statues. In one 
 cabinet, by itself, is the gem of my collection, a Magdalen 
 by Murillo ; and, in another, a sleeping Cnpid, by Canova, 
 
 B B 2 
 
372 CONTARINI FLEMIXG: 
 
 over which I have conti'ived, by a secret light, to throw a 
 rosy flush, that invests the ideal beauty of the sculptor with 
 a still more ideal life. At the end of the gallery I have 
 placed the portraits of my father and of my mother ; the 
 latter copied by an excellent artist from the miniature. 
 Between them is a frame of richly carved ivory, enclosing 
 a black velvet veil, studded M'ith white roses worked in 
 pearls. 
 
 Around me, I hope in time to create a scene which may 
 rival in beauty and variety, although not in extent, the 
 villa of Hadrian, whom I have always considered the most 
 sumptuous and accomplished character of antiquity. I 
 have already conmienced the foundation of a tower which 
 shall rise at least one hundred and fifty feet, and which, I 
 trust, will equal in the beauty of the design and in the 
 solidity of the masonry the most celebrated works of an- 
 tiquity. This tower I shall dedicate to the Future, and I 
 intend that it shall be my tomb. 
 
 Lausanne has married, and will never quit me. He has 
 promised also to form a band of wind instruments, a solace 
 necessary to solitude. Winter is my only friend and my 
 only visitor. He is a great deal with me, and has a studio 
 in the palace. He is so independent, that he often arrives 
 and quits it without my knowledge ; yet I never converse 
 with him without pleasure. 
 
 Here let me pass my life in the study and the creation 
 of the beautiful. Such is my desire ; but whether it will 
 be my career is, I feel, doubtful. My interest in the hap- 
 piness of my race is too keen to permit me for a moment to 
 be blind to the storms that lour on the horizon of society. 
 Perchance also the political regeneration of the country to 
 which I am devoted may not be distant, and in that great 
 work I am resolved to participate. Bitter jest, that the 
 most civilised portion of the globe should be considered 
 incapable of self-government ! 
 
A PSYCHOLOGICAL ROMANCE. 373 
 
 When I examine tlie state of European society with the 
 anLmpassioned spirit which the philosopher can alone com- 
 mand, I perceive that it is in a state of transition, a state of 
 transition from feodal to federal principles. This I conceive 
 to be the sole and secret cause of all the convulsions that 
 have occurred and are to occur. 
 
 Circnmstances are beyond the control of man ; but his 
 conduct is in his own power. The great event is as sure as 
 that I am now penning this prophecy of its occurrence. 
 With us it rests whether it shall be welcomed by wisdom 
 or by ignorance, whether its beneficent results shall be 
 accelerated by enlightened minds, or retarded by our dark 
 passions. 
 
 What is the arch of the conqueror, what the laurel of the 
 poet ! I think of the infinity of space, I feel my nothing- 
 ness. Yet if I am to be remembered, let me be remembered 
 as one who, in a sad night of gloomy ignorance and savage 
 bigotiy was prescient of the flaming morning-break of 
 bright philosophy, as one who deeply sympathised with his 
 fellow-men, and felt a proud and profound conviction of 
 their perfectibility; as one who devoted himself to the 
 amelioration of his kind, by the destruction of error and 
 the propagation of truth. 
 
 TBa S2ro. 
 
THE 
 
 EISE OF ISKANDEB. 
 
THE 
 
 EISE OF ISKANDEE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The sun liad set "behind the monntains, and the rich plain 
 of Athens was suffused with the violet glow of a Grecian 
 eve. A light breeze rose; the olive-groves awoke from 
 their noonday trance, and rustled with returning animation, 
 and the pennons of the Turldsh squadron, that lay at anchor 
 in the harbour of Pirreus, twinkled in the lively air. From 
 one gate of the city the women came forth in procession to 
 the fountain ; from another, a band of sumptuous horsemen 
 sallied out, and threw their wanton javelins in the invigo- 
 rating sky, as they galloped over the plain. The voice of 
 birds, the buzz of beauteous insects, the breath of fragrant 
 flowers, the quivering note of the nightingale, the pittering 
 call of the grasshopper, and the perfume of the violet, 
 shrinking from the embrace of the twilight breeze, filled 
 the pur]3le air with music and with odour. 
 
 A solitary being stood upon the towering crag of the 
 Acropolis, amid the ruins of the Temple of Minerva, and 
 gazed upon the inspiring scene. Around him rose the 
 matchless memorials of antique art ; immortal columns 
 whose sjrmmetry baffles modern proportion, serene Carya- 
 tides, bearing with greater grace a graceful burthen, carv- 
 ings of delicate precision, and friezes breathing ^vith heroic 
 life. x\pparently the stranger, though habited as a Moslem, 
 was not insensible to the genius of the locality, nor indeed 
 
37^ THE RISE OF 
 
 would his form and countenance have misbecome a contem- 
 porary of Pericles and Phidias. In the prime of life, and 
 far above the common stature, but with a frame the mus- 
 cular power of which was even exceeded by its almost ideal 
 symmetry, his high white forehead, his straight profile, his 
 oval countenance, and his curling lip, exhibited the same 
 visage that had inspired the sculptor of the surrounding 
 demigods. 
 
 The dress of the stranger, although gorgeous, was, how- 
 ever, certainly not classic. A crimson shawl was wound 
 round his head, and glittered with a trembHng aigrette of 
 diamonds. His vest, which set tight to his form, was of 
 green velvet, richly embroidered with gold and pearls. 
 Over this he wore a light jacket of crimson velvet, equally 
 embroidered, and lined with sable. He wore also the fall 
 white camese common among the Albanians ; and while his 
 feet were protected by sandals, the lower pai't of his legs 
 was guarded by greaves of embroidered green velvet. From 
 a broad belt of scarlet leather peeped forth the jewelled 
 hilts of a variety of daggers, and by his side was an enor- 
 mous scimetar, in a scabbard of chased silver. 
 
 The stranger gazed upon the wide prospect before him 
 with an air of pensive abstraction. * Beautiful Greece,' he 
 exclaimed, ' thou art still my country. A mournful lot is 
 mine, a strange and mournful lot, yet not uncheered by 
 hope. I am at least a waiTior ; and this arm, though trained 
 to war against thee, will not well forget, in the quick hour 
 of battle, the blood that flows within it. Themistocles saved 
 Greece and died a Satrap : I am bred one, let me reverse 
 our lots, and die at least a patriot.' 
 
 At this moment the Evening Hymn to the Virgin arose 
 from a neighbouring convent. The stranger started as 
 the sacred melody floated towards him, and taking a 
 small golden cross from his heart, he kissed it with de- 
 
ISKANDER. 37g 
 
 votion, and then descending the steep of the citadel, entered 
 the city. 
 
 He proceeded along the narrow winding streets of Athens 
 until he at length arrived in front of a marble palace, in the 
 construction of which the architect had certainly not con- 
 sulted the surrounding models which Time had spared to 
 him, but which, however it might have offended a classic 
 taste, presented altogether a magnificent appearance. 
 Half-a-dozen guards, whose shields and helmets somewhat 
 oddly contrasted with the two pieces of cannon, one of 
 which was ostentatiously placed on each side of the portal, 
 and which had been presented to the Prince of Athens by 
 the Republic of Venice, lounged before the entrance, and 
 paid their military homage to the stranger as he passed 
 them. He passed them and entered a large quadrangular 
 garden, surrounded by arcades, supported by a considerable 
 number of thin, low pillars, of barbarous workmanship, and 
 various- coloured marbles. In the midst of the garden rose 
 a fountain, whence the bubbling waters flowed in artificial 
 channels through vistas of orange and lemon trees. By the 
 side of the fountain on a luxurious couch, his eyes fixed 
 upon a richly-illuminated volume, reposed Mcseus, the 
 youthful Prince of Athens. 
 
 * Ah ! is it you ? ' said the Prince, looking up with a smile, 
 as the stranger advanced. ' You have arrived just in time 
 to remind me that we must do something more than read 
 the Persoe, we must act it.' 
 
 ' My dear Mcseus,* replied the stranger, * I have arrived 
 only to bid you farewell.' 
 
 * Farewell ! ' exclaimed the Prince in a tone of surprise 
 and sorrow ; and he rose from the couch. * Why ! what is 
 this?' 
 
 *It is too true,* said the stranger, and he led the way 
 down one of the walks. * Events have occurred which 
 entirely bafilo all our plans and prosnects, and place me in 
 
38o THE RISE OF 
 
 a position as difficult as it is liarrowing. Himniades has 
 suddenly crossed tlie Danube in great force, and carried 
 everytliing before him. I am ordered to proceed to Al- 
 bania instantly, and to repair to the camp at the head of the 
 Epii'ots.* 
 
 * Indeed ! ' said Kicaeus, with a thoughful air. ' My letters 
 did not prepare me for this. 'Tis sudden ! Is Amurath 
 himself in the field ?' 
 
 * No ; Karam Bey commands. I have accounted for my 
 delay to the Sultan by pretended difficulties in our treaty, 
 and have held out the prospect of a larger tribute.' 
 
 ' When we are plotting that that tribute should be paid 
 no longer ! * added Nicseus, with a smile. 
 
 ' Alas ! my dear friend,' replied the Turkish commander, 
 * my situation has now become criticaL Hitherto my ser- 
 vices for the Moslemin have been confined to acting against 
 nations of their own faith. I am now suddenly summoned 
 to combat against my secret creed, and the best allies of 
 what I must yet call my secret country. The movement, it 
 appears to me, must be made now or never, and I cannot 
 conceal from myself, that it never could have been prose- 
 cuted under less auspicious circumstances.' 
 
 ' What, you desponding ! ' exclaimed Nicaeus ; * then I 
 must despair. Your sanguine temper has alone supported 
 rae throughout all our dangerous hopes.' 
 
 * And^schylus?' said the stranger, smiling. 
 
 * And iEschylus, certainly,' replied Mcagus ; * but I have 
 lived to find even -^schylus insipid. I pant for action.' 
 
 *It may be nearer than we can foresee,' replied the 
 stranger. * There is a God who fashions all things. He 
 will not desert a righteous cause. He knoweth that my 
 thoughts are as pure as my situation is difficult. I have 
 some dim ideas still brooding in my mind, but we will not 
 discuss them now. I must away, dear Prince. The breeze 
 serves fairly. Have you ever seen Hunniades ? 
 
ISKANDER. 38 1 
 
 * I was educated at the Court of Transylvania,' replied 
 Nicaeus, looking down with a somewhat embarrassed air. 
 ' He is a famous knight, Christendom's chief bulwark.' 
 
 The Turkish commander sighed. ' When we meet again,' 
 he said, * may we meet with brighter hopes and more buoy- 
 ant spirits. At present, I must, indeed, say farewell.' 
 
 The Prince turned with a dejected countenance, and 
 pressed his companion to his heart. ' 'Tis a sad end,' said 
 he, ' to all our happy hours and lofty plans.' 
 
 ' You are as yet too young to quarrel with Fortune,' re- 
 plied the stranger, * and for myself, I have not yet settled 
 my accounts with her. However, for the present, farewell, 
 dear Mcaeus ! ' 
 
 ' Farewell,' replied the Prince of Athens, ' farewell, dear 
 Iskander ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Iskander was the youngest son of the Prince of Epirus, 
 who, with the other Grecian princes, had, at the commence- 
 ment of the reign of Amurath the Second, in vain resisted 
 the progress of the Turkish arms in Europe. The Prince 
 of Epirus had obtained peace by yielding his four sons as 
 hostages to the Turkish sovereign, who engaged that they 
 should be educated in all the accomplishments of their rank, 
 and with a due deference to their faith. On the death of 
 the Prince of Epirus, however, Amurath could not resist 
 the opportunity that then offered itself of adding to his 
 empire the rich principality he had long coveted. A Turk- 
 ish force instantly marched into Epirus, and seized upon 
 Croia, the capital city, and the children of its late ruler 
 were doomed to death. The beauty, talents, and valour of 
 the youngest son, saved him, however, from the fate of his 
 poisoned brothers. Iskander was educated at Adrianople, 
 
382 THE RISE OF 
 
 in the Moslem faith, and as he, at a veiy early age, excelled 
 in feats of arms all the Moslemin warriors, he became a 
 prime favourite of the Snltan, and speedily rose in his ser- 
 vice to the highest rank. 
 
 At this period the irresistible progress of the Turkish 
 arms was the subject of alarm throughout all Christendom. 
 
 Constantinople, then the capital of the Greek Empire, had 
 already been more than once besieged by the predecessors 
 of Amurath, and had only been preserved by fortunate acci- 
 dents and humiliating terms. The despots of Bosnia, Servia, 
 and Bulgaria, and the Grecian princes of Etolia, Macedon, 
 Epirus, Athens, Phocis, Boeotia, and indeed of all the re- 
 gions to the straits of Corinth, were tributaries to Amurath, 
 and the rest of Europe was only preserved from his grasp 
 by the valour of the Hungarians and the Poles, whom a for- 
 tunate alHance had now united under the sovereignty of 
 Uladislaus, who, incited by the pious eloquence of the car- 
 dinal of St. Angelo, the legate of the Pope, and, yielding to 
 the tears and supplications of the despot of Servia, had, at 
 the time our story opens, quitted Buda, at the head of a 
 large army, crossed the Danube, and, joining his valiant 
 viceroy, the famous John Hunniades, vaivode of Transyl- 
 vania, defeated the Turks with great slaughter, relieved 
 Bulgaria, and pushed on to the base of Mount Hsemus, 
 known in modem times as the celebrated Balkan. Here 
 the Turkish general, Knram Bey, awaited the Christians, 
 and hither to his assistance was Iskander commanded to 
 repair at the head of a body of janissaries, who had accom- 
 panied him to Greece, and the tributary Epirots. 
 
 Had Iskander been influenced by vulgar ambition, his 
 loftiest desires might have been fally gratified by the career 
 which Amurath projected for him. The Turkish Sultan 
 destined for the Grecian Prince the hand of one of his 
 daughters, and the principal command of his armies. Ho 
 lavished upon him the highest dignities and boundless 
 
ISKANDER, 383 
 
 wealth ; aud, whether it arose from a feeling of remorse, or 
 of affection for a warrior whose unexampled valour and un- 
 rivalled skill had already added some of the finest provinces 
 of Asia to his rule, it is certain that Iskander might have 
 exercised over Amurath a far greater degree of influence 
 than was enjoyed by any other of his courtiers. But the 
 heart of Iskander responded with no sympathy to these 
 flattering favours. His Turkish education could never 
 eradicate from his memory the consciousness that he was a 
 Greek; and although he was brought up in the Moslem 
 faith, he had, at an early period of his career, secretly re- 
 curred to the creed of his Christian fathers. He beheld in 
 Amm-ath the murderer of his dearest kinsmen, and the 
 oppressor of his country ; and although a certain calmness 
 of temper, and coolness of judgment, which early developed 
 themselves in his character, prevented him from ever giving 
 any indication of his secret feelings, Iskander had long me- 
 ditated on the exalted duty of freeing his country. 
 
 Dispatched to Greece, to arrange the tributes and the 
 treaties of the Grecian princes, Iskander became acquainted 
 with the young Niceeus ; and their acquaintance soon ma- 
 tured into friendship. Nicseus was inexperienced; but 
 nature had not intended him for action. The young Prince 
 of Athens would loll by the side of a fountain, and dream 
 of the wonders of old days. Surrounded by his eunuchs, 
 his priests, and his courtiers, he envied Leonidas, and would 
 have emulated Themistocles. He was passionately devoted 
 to the ancient literature of his country, and had the good 
 taste, rare at that time, to prefer Demosthenes and Lysias 
 to Chrysostom and Gregory, and the choruses of the Grecian 
 theatre to the hymns of the Greek church. The sustained 
 energy and noble simplicity of the character of Iskander, 
 seemed to recall to the young pnnce the classic heroes over 
 whom he was so often musing, while the enthusiam and 
 fancy of Nica3us, and all tliat apparent weakness of will. 
 
3S4 THE RISE OF 
 
 and those quick vicissitudes of emotion, to whicii men of a 
 fine susceptibility are subject, equally engaged the sympathy 
 of the more vigorous and constant and experienced mind of 
 his companion. 
 
 To Nicseus, Iskander had, for the first time in his life, 
 confided much of his secret heart ; and the young Prince 
 tii-ed at the inspiring tale. Often they consulted over the 
 fortunes of their country, and, excited by their mutual in- 
 vention, at length even dared to hope that they might efi'ect 
 its deHverance, when Iskander was summoned to the army. 
 It was a mournful parting. Both of them felt that the last 
 few months of their lives had owed many charms to their 
 companionship. The parting of friends, united by sympa- 
 thetic tastes, is always painful; and friends, unless this 
 sympathy subsist, had much better never meet. Iskander 
 stepped into the ship, sorrowful, but serene ; Nicseus re- 
 turned to his palace moody and fretful ; lost his temper 
 with his courtiers, and, when he was alone, even shed tears. 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 Three weeks had elapsed since the parting of Iskander and 
 Nicaeus, when the former, at the head of ten thousand men, 
 entered by a circuitous route the defiles of Mount Hiemus, 
 and approached the Turkish camp, which had been pitched 
 upon a vast and elevated table-ground, commanded on all 
 fiides by superior heights, which, however, were fortified and 
 ^v ell-garrisoned by janissaries. The Epirots halted, and 
 immediately prepared to raise their tents, while their com- 
 mander, attended by a few of his officers, instantly pro- 
 ceeded to the pavilion of Karam Bey. 
 
 The arrival of Iskander difiused great joy among the sol- 
 diery ; and as he pa-sed through tlie encampment, the ex- 
 
ISKANDER. 385 
 
 clamafcions of the Turkish warriors annomnced how ready 
 fchej were to be led to the charge by a chieftain who had 
 been ever successful. A guard of honour, by the orders of 
 Karam Bey, advanced to conduct Iskander to his presence ; 
 and soon, entering the pavilion, the Grecian prince ex- 
 changed courtesies with the Turkish general. After the 
 formal compliments had passed, Karam Bey waved his hand, 
 and the pavilion was cleared, with the exception of Mousa, 
 the chief secretary, and favourite of Karam. 
 
 ' You have arrived in good time, Iskander, to assist in the 
 destruction of the Christian dogs,' said the Bey. ' Flushed 
 with their accursed success, they have advanced too far. 
 Twice they have endeavoured to penetrate the mountains ; 
 and each time they have been forced to retire, with great 
 loss. The passages arc well barricadoed with timber and 
 huge fragments of rock. The dogs have lost all heart, 
 and are sinking under the joint sufferings of hunger and 
 cold. Our scouts tell me they exhibit symptoms of retreat. 
 We must rush down from the mountains, and annihilate 
 them.' 
 
 ' Is Hunniades here in person ? ' inquired Iskander. 
 
 ' He is here,' replied Karam, ' in person ; the dog of dogs ! 
 Come, Iskander, his head would be a fine Ramadan present 
 to Amurath. 'Tis a head worth three tails, I guess.' 
 
 Mousa, the chief secretary, indulged in some suppressed 
 laughter at this joke. Iskander smiled. 
 
 ' If they retreat we must assuredly attack them,' observed 
 Iskander, musingly. * I have a persuasion that Hunniades 
 and myself will soon meet.' 
 
 ' If there be truth in the Prophet ! ' exclaimed Karam 
 ' I have no doubt of it. Hunniades is reserved for you, Bey. 
 We shall hold up our heads at court yet, Iskander. You 
 have had letters lately ? ' 
 
 ' Some slight words.' 
 
 * No mention of us, of course ? * 
 r. rt 
 
3S6 THE RISE OF 
 
 ' Nothing, except some passing praise of jour valour and 
 discretion.' 
 
 ' We do our best, we do our best. Will Isa Bey have 
 uEtolia, think you ? ' 
 
 ' I have no thoughts. Our royal father will not forget 
 his children, and Isa Bey is a most vahant chieftain.* 
 
 ' You heard not that he was coming here ? ' inquired 
 Karam. 
 
 * Have you ? ' responded the cautious Iskander. 
 
 * A rumour, a rumour,' replied Karam. ' He is at Adria- 
 nople, think you ? ' 
 
 ' It may be so : I am, you know, from Athens.* 
 
 ' True, true. We shall beat them, Iskander, we shall 
 beat them.* 
 
 'For myself, I feel sanguine,' replied the Prince, and he 
 arose to retire. * I must at present to my men. We must 
 ascertain more accurately the movements of the Christiana 
 before we decide on our own. I am inclined myself to re- 
 connoitre them. How far may it be ? * 
 
 ' There is not room to form our array between them and 
 the mountains,' repUed Karam. 
 
 * 'Tis well. Success attend the true believers ! By to- 
 morrow's dawn we shall know more.' 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Iskander returned to his men. Night was coming on. 
 Fires and Hghts blazed and sparkled in every direction. 
 The air Avas clear, but very cold. He entered his tent, and 
 mnffiing himself up in his pelisse of sables, he mounted his 
 horse, and declining any attendance, rode for some little 
 distance, until he had escaped from the precincts of the 
 camp. Then he turned his horse towards one of the 
 
TSKANDER. 387 
 
 wildest passes of the mountain, and galloping at great 
 speed, never stopped until he had gained a considerable 
 ascent. The track became steep and rugged. The masses 
 of loose stone rendered his progress slow : but his Anatolian 
 charger still bore him at intervals bravelj'-, and in three 
 hours' time he had gained the summit of Mount Hasmus. 
 A brilHant moon flooded the broad plains of Bulgaria with 
 shadowy light. At the base of the mountainous range, 
 the red watch-fires denoted the situation of the Christian 
 camp. 
 
 Iskander proceeded down the descent with an audacious 
 rapidity ; but his charger was thorougli-bred, and his mo- 
 ments were golden. Ere midnight, he had reached the 
 outposts of the enemy, and was challenged by a sentinel. 
 
 ' Who goes there ? ' 
 
 * A friend to Christendom.' 
 
 'The word?' 
 
 ' I have it not ; nay, calmly. I am alone, but I am not 
 unanned. I do not know the word. I come from a far 
 country, and bear important tidings to the great Hun- 
 niades ; conduct me to that chief.' 
 
 'May I be crucified if I will,' responded the sentinel, 
 * before I know who and what you are. Come, keep off, 
 unless you wish to try the effect of a Polish lance,' con- 
 tinued the sentinel ; ' 'tis something, I assure you, not less 
 awkward than your Greek fire, if Greek indeed you be.' 
 
 ' My friend, you are a fool,' said Iskander, ' but time is 
 too precious to argue any longer.' So saying, the Turkish 
 commander dismounted, and taking up the brawny sentinel 
 in his arms with the greatest ease, threw him over his 
 shoulder, and threatening the astounded soldier with in- 
 stant death if he struggled, covered him with his pehsse, 
 and entered the camp. 
 
 They approached a watch-iire, around which seveiul 
 soldiers were warming themselves. 
 
388 THE RISE OF 
 
 * Who goes there ? ' inquired a second sentinel. 
 
 * A friend to Christendom,' answered Iskander. 
 ' The word ? ' 
 
 Iskander hesitated. 
 
 ' The word, or I'll let fly,' said the sentinel, elevating his 
 cross bow. 
 
 ' The Bridge of Bnda,* instantly replied the terrified 
 prisoner beneath the pelisse of Iskander. 
 
 ' Why did you not answer before, then ? ' said one of the 
 guards. 
 
 ' And why do you mock us by changing your voice ? ' 
 said another. ' Come, get on with you, and no more jokes.' 
 
 Iskand«r proceeded through a street of tents, in some of 
 which were lights, but all of which were silent. At length, 
 he met the esquire of a Polish knight returning from a 
 convivial meeting, not a little elevated. 
 
 * Who are you ? ' inquired Iskander. 
 
 * I am an esquire,' replied the gentleman. 
 
 ' A shrewd man, I doubt not, who would make his for- 
 tune,' replied Iskander. 'You must know great things 
 have happened. Being on guard I have taken a prisoner, 
 who has deep secrets to divulge to the Lord Hunniades. 
 Thither, to his pavilion, I am now bearing him. But he is 
 a stout barbarian, and almost too much for me. Assist me 
 in carrying him to the paviHon of Hunniades, and you 
 shall have all the reward, and half the fame.* 
 
 ' You are a very civil spoken young gentleman,' said the 
 esquire. *I think I know your voice. Your name, if I 
 mistake not, is Leckinski ? ' 
 
 ' A relative. We had a common ancestor.' 
 
 'I thought so. I know the Leckinskies ever by their 
 voice. I am free to help vou on the terms you mention, 
 all the reward and half the fame. 'Tis a strong bar- 
 barian, is it ? We cannot cut his throat, or it will not 
 divulge. All the reward and half the fame ! I will be a 
 
LSKANDEK. 389 
 
 kniglit to-morrow. It seems a sort of fisli, and has a 
 smell/ 
 
 The esquire seized the shoulders of tlic prisoner, who 
 would have spoken had he not been terrified by the threats 
 of Iskander, who, carrying the legs of the sentinel, allowed 
 the Polish gentleman to lead the way to the pavihon of 
 Hunniades. Thither they soon arrived ; and Iskander, 
 dropping his burthen, and leaving the prisoner without to 
 the charge of his assistant, entered the pa^dlion of the 
 General of the Hungarians. 
 
 He was stopped in a small outer apartment by an officer, 
 who inquired his purpose, and to whom he repeated his 
 desire to see the Hungarian leader, without loss of time, 
 on important business. The officer hesitated; but, sum- 
 moning several guards, left Iskander in their custody, and, 
 stepping behind a curtain, disappeared. Iskander heard 
 voices, but could distinguish no words. Soon the officer 
 returned, and, ordering the guards to disarm and search 
 Iskander, directed the Grecian Prince to follow him. 
 Drawing aside the curtain, Iskander and his attendant 
 entered a low apartment of considerable size. It was hung 
 with skins. A variety of armour and dresses were piled 
 on couches. A middle-aged man, of majestic appearance, 
 muffled in a pelisse of furs, with long chestnut hair, and a 
 cap of crimson velvet and ermine, was walking up and down 
 the apartment, and dictating some instructions to a person 
 who was kneeling on the ground, and writing by the briglit 
 flame of a brazen lamp. The bright flame of the blazing 
 lamp fell full upon the face of the secretary. Iskander 
 beheld a most beautiful woman. 
 
 She looked up as Iskander entered. Her large dark 
 eyes glanced through his soul. Her raven hair descended 
 to her shoulders in many curls oii each side of her face, 
 and was braided with strings of immense pearls. A broad 
 cap of white fox-skin crowned her whiter forehead. Her 
 
390 THE RISE OF 
 
 features were very small, but sharply moulded, and a deli- 
 cate tint gave animation to her clear fair cheek. She 
 looked up as Iskander entered, with an air rather of 
 curiosity than embarrassment. 
 
 Hunniades stopped, and examined his visitor with a 
 searching inquisition. ' Whence come you ^ ' inquired tho 
 Hungarian chieftain. 
 
 ' From the Turkish camp,' was the answer. 
 
 ' An envoy or a deserter ? ' 
 
 'Neither.' 
 
 * What then?' 
 
 * A convert.' 
 
 ' Your name ? ' 
 
 ' Lord Hunniades,' said Iskander, * that is for your 
 private ear. I am unarmed, and were I otherwise, the 
 first knight of Christendom can scarcely fear. I am 
 one in birth and rank your equal ; if not in fame, at 
 least, I trust, in honour. ]My time is all precious : I can 
 scarcely stay here while my horse breathes. Dismiss 3'our 
 attendant.' 
 
 Hunniades darted a glance at his visitor which would 
 have baffled a weaker brain, but Iskander stood the scru- 
 tiny calm and undisturbed. ' Go, Stanislaus,' said the 
 Vaivode to the officer. *This lady, sir,' continued the 
 chieftain, ' is my daughter, and one from whom I have no 
 secrets.' 
 
 Iskander bowed lowly as the officer disappeared. 
 
 ' And now,' said Hunniades, ' to business. Your pur- 
 pose ?' 
 
 ' I am a Grecian Prince, and a compulsory ally of the 
 Moslemin. In a word, my purpose here is to arrange a plan 
 by which we may effect, at the same time, your triumph, 
 and my freedom.' 
 
 'To whom, then, have I the honour of speaking]' in- 
 quired Hunniades. 
 
ISKANDER. 391 
 
 * My namej great Hunniades, is perhaps not altogether 
 unknown to 3^ou : they call me Iskander.' 
 
 *What, the right arm of Amurath, the conqueror of 
 Caramania, the flOwer of Turkish chivalry ? Do I indeed 
 behold that matchless warrior ? ' exclaimed Hunniades, 
 and he held forth his hand to his guest, and ungirding 
 his own sword, offered it to the Prince. ' Iduna,' con- 
 tinued Hunniades, to his daughter, * you at length behold 
 Iskander.' 
 
 * My joy is great, sir,* replied Iduna, * if I indeed rightly 
 understand that we may count the Prince Iskander a 
 champion of the Cross.' 
 
 Iskander took from his heart his golden crucifix, and 
 kissed it before her. * This has been my companion and 
 consolation for long years, lady,' said Iskander ; ' you, 
 perhaps, know my mournful history, Hunniades. Hitherto 
 my pretended sovereign has not required me to bare my 
 scimitar against my Christian brethren. Tha-t hour, how- 
 ever, has at length arrived, and it has decided me to adopt 
 a Hne of conduct long meditated. Karam Bey, who is 
 aware of your necessities, the moment you commence your 
 retreat, will attack you. I shall command his left wing. 
 In spite of his superior power and position, draw up in 
 array, and meet him with confidence. I propose, at a con- 
 venient moment in the day, to withdraw my troops, and 
 with the Epirots hasten to my native country, and at once 
 raise the standard of independence. It is a bold measure, 
 but Success is the child of Audacity. We must assist 
 each other with mutual diversions. Single-handed it is in 
 vain for me to commence a struggle, which, with all adven- 
 titious advantages, will require the utmost exertion of 
 energy, skill, and patience. But if yourself and the King 
 Uladislaus occupy the armies of Amurath in Bulgaria, I 
 am not without hope of ultimate success, since I have to 
 inspire me all the most urgent interests of humanity, and 
 
392 THE RISE OF 
 
 combat, at the same time, for my God, my country, and 
 my lawfal crown.' 
 
 ' Brave Prince, I pledge you my trotli,' said Hunniades, 
 coming forward and seizing his hand ; 'and while Iskander 
 and Hunniades live, they will never cease until they have 
 achieved their great and holy end.' 
 
 * It is a solemn compact,' said Iskander, 'more sacred 
 than if registered by all the scribes of Christendom. Lady 
 Iduiia, your prayers ! ' 
 
 ' They are ever with the champions of the Cross,' replied 
 the daughter of Hunniades. She rose, the large cloak in 
 which she was enveloped fell from her exquisite form. 
 'Noble Iskander, this rosary is from the Holy Sepulchre,' 
 continued Iduna ; ' wear it for the sake and memory of that 
 blessed Saviour who died for our sins.' 
 
 Iskander held forth his arm and touched her delicate 
 hand as he received the rosary, which, pressing to his lips, 
 he placed round his neck. 
 
 ' Great Hunniades,' said the Grecian Prince, ' I must 
 cross the mountains before dawn. Let me venture to en- 
 treat that we should hear to-morrow that the Christian 
 camp is in retreat.' 
 
 * Let it even be so,' said the Hungarian, after some thought, 
 * and may to-morrow's sun bring brighter days to Christen- 
 dom.' And with these words terminated the brief and 
 extraordinary visit of Iskander to the Christian general. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 The intelligence of the breaking up of the Christian camp, 
 and the retreat of the Christian army, soon reached the 
 Divan of Karam Bey, who immediately summoned Iskander 
 to consult on the necessary operations. Tlae chieftains agreed 
 
JSKANDER. 393 
 
 that instant parsuit was indispensable, and soon the savage 
 Hsenms poured forth from its green bosom swarms of that 
 light cavalry which was perhaps even a more fatal arm of 
 the Turkish power than the famous Janissaries themselves. 
 They hovered on the rear of the retreating Christians, 
 charged the wavering, captured the unwary. It was im- 
 possible to resist their sudden and impetuous movements, 
 which rendered their escape as secure as their onset was 
 overwhelming. Wearied at length by the repeated assaults, 
 Hunniades, who, attended by some chosen knights, had 
 himself repaired to the rear, gave orders for the army to 
 halt and offer battle. 
 
 Their pursuers instantly withdrew to a distance, and 
 gradually forming into two divisions, awaited the arrival of 
 the advancing army of the Turks. The Moslemin came 
 forward in fierce array, and with the sanguine courage in- 
 spired by expected triumph. Very conspicuous was Iskan- 
 der bounding in his crimson vest upon his ebon steed, and 
 waving his gleaming scimetar. 
 
 The Janissaries charged, calling upon Allah! with an 
 awful shout. The Christian knights, invoking the Christian 
 saints, received the Turks at the points of their lances. 
 But many a noble lance was shivered that morn, and many 
 a bold rider and worthy steed bit the dust of that field, 
 borne down by the irresistible numbers of their fierce ad- 
 versaries. Everywhere the balls and the arrows whistled 
 through the air, and sometimes an isolated shriek heard 
 amid the general clang, announced another victim to the fell 
 and mysterious agency of the Greek fire. 
 
 Hunniades, while he performed all the feats of an ap- 
 proved warrior, watched with anxiety the disposition of 
 the Turkish troops. Hitherto, from the nature of their 
 position but a portion of both armies had interfered in the 
 contest, and as yet Iskander had kept aloof. But now, as 
 the battle each instant raged with more fury, and as it was 
 
394 'i'H^ RiSE OF 
 
 evident tliat ere long the main force of both armies must be 
 brought into collision, Hunniades, with a terrible suspense, 
 watched whether the Grecian prince were willing or even 
 capable of executing his plan. Without this fulfilment, the 
 Christian hero could not conceal from himself that the day 
 must be decided against the Cross. 
 
 In the meantime Iskander marked the course of events 
 with not less eagerness than Hunniades. Already Karam 
 Bey had more than once summoned him to bring the Epii-ots 
 into action. He assented ; but an hour passed away with- 
 out changing his position. At length, more from astonish- 
 ment than rage, the Turkish commander sent his chief 
 secretary Mousa himself to impress his wishes upon his 
 colleague, and obtain some explanation of his views and 
 conduct. Mousa found Iskander surrounded by some of the 
 principal Epirot nobles, all mounted on horseback, and 
 standing calmly under a wide- spreading plane tree. The 
 chief secretary of Karam Bey was too skilful a courtier to 
 permit his countenance to express his feelings, and he de- 
 livered himself of his mission rather as if he had come to 
 request advice, than to communicate a reprimand. 
 
 *Your master is a wise man Mousa,' repHed Iskander; 
 * but even Karam Bey may be mistaken. He deems that a 
 battle is not to be won by loitering under a shadowy tree. 
 Now I differ with him, and I even mean to win this day by 
 such a piece of truancy. However, it may certainly now 
 be time for more active work. You smile encouragement, 
 good Mousa. Giorgio, Demetrius, to your duty ! ' 
 
 At these words, two stout Epirots advanced to the un- 
 fortunate secretary, seized and bound him and placed him, 
 on horseback before one of their comrades. 
 
 ' Now all who love their country follow me ! ' exclaimed 
 Iskander. So saying, and at the head of five thousand 
 horsemen, Iskander quitted the field at a rapid jiace. 
 
JSKANDER. 
 
 CPIAPTER YI. 
 
 395 
 
 VVirH incredible celerity Iskander and his cavalry dashed 
 over the plains of Roumelia, and never halted, except for 
 short aiid hurried intervals of rest and repose, until they 
 had entered the mountainous borders of Epirus, and were 
 within fifty miles of its capital, Croia. On the eve of 
 entering the kingdom of his fathers, Iskander ordered his 
 guards to produce the chief secretaiy of Karam Bey. Ex- 
 hausted with fatigue, vexation, and terror, the disconsolate 
 Mousa was led forward. 
 
 ' Cheer up, worthy Mousa ! ' said Iskander, lying his length 
 on the green turf. ' We have had a sharp ride ; but I doubt 
 not we shall soon find ourselves, by the blessing of God, in 
 good quarters. There is a city at hand w^hich they call 
 Groia, and in which once, as the rumour runs, the son of 
 my father should not have had to go seek for an entrance. 
 No matter. Me thinks, worthy Mousa, thou art the only 
 man in our society that can sign thy name. Gome now, 
 write me an order, signed Karam Bey to the governor of 
 this said city, for its dehvery up to the valiant champion of 
 the Grescent, Iskander, and thou shalt ride in future at a 
 pace more suitable to a secretary.' 
 
 The worthy Mousa humbled himself to the ground, and 
 then taking his writing materials from his girdle, inscribed 
 the desired order, and delivered it to Iskander, who, glancing 
 at the inscription, pushed it into his vest. 
 
 * I shall proceed at once to Groia, with a few friends,' said 
 Iskander ; 'do you, my bold companions, follow me this eve 
 in various parties, and in various routes. At dead of the 
 second night, collect in silence before the gates of Groia ! ' 
 
 Thus speaking, Iskander called for his now refreshed 
 charger, and accompanied by two hundred horsemen, bade 
 
396 THE RISE OF 
 
 » 
 farewell for a brief period to his troops, and soon having 
 crossed the mountains, descended into the fertile plains of 
 Epiriis. 
 
 When the sun rose in the morning, Iskander and his 
 friends beheld at the further end of the plain a fine city 
 shining in the hght. It was suiTounded with lofty tun'eted 
 walls flanked by square towers, and was bmlt upon a gentl© 
 eminence, which gave it a majestic appearance. Behind it 
 rose a lofty range of purple mountains of picturesque form, 
 and the highest peaks capped with snow. A noble lake, 
 from which troops of wild fowl occasionally rose, expanded 
 like a sheet of silver on one side of the dty. The green 
 breast of the contiguous hills sparkled with white houses. 
 
 * Behold Croia ! ' exclaimed Iskander. * Our old fathers 
 could choose a site, comrades. "We shall see whether they 
 expended their time and treasure for strangers, or their own 
 seed.' So saying he spurred his horse, and with panting 
 hearts and smiling faces, Iskander and his company had 
 soon arrived in the vicinity of the city. 
 
 The city was surrounded by a beautiful region of corn- 
 fields and fruit-trees. The road was arched with the over- 
 hanging boughs. The birds chirped on every spray. It was 
 a blithe and merry morn. Iskander plucked a bunch of 
 olives as he cantered along. ' Dear friends,' he said, look- 
 ing round with an inspiring smile, * let us gather our first 
 harvest ! ' And, thereupon, each putting forth his rapid 
 hand, seized, as he rushed by, the emblem of possession, 
 and following the example of his leader, placed it in his 
 cap. 
 
 They arrived at the gates of the city, which was strongly 
 garrisoned ; and Iskander, followed by his train, galloped up 
 the height of the citadel. Alighting from his horse, he was 
 ushered into the divan of the governor, an ancient Pacha, 
 who received the conqueror of Caramania with all the re- 
 spect that became so illustrious a champion of the Crescent. 
 
ISKANDER. - 2>97 
 
 After the usual forms of ceremonious hospitality, Iskander, 
 with a courteous air, presented him the order for delivering 
 up the citadel ; and the old Pacha, resigning himself to the 
 loss of his post with Oriental submission, instantly de- 
 livered the keys of the citadel and town to Iskander, and 
 requested permission immediately to quit the scene of his 
 late command. 
 
 Quitting the citadel, Iskander now proceeded through the 
 whole town, and in the afternoon reviewed the Turkish orar- 
 rison in the great square. As the late governor was anxious 
 to quit Croia that very day, Iskander insisted on a conside- 
 rable portion of the garrison accompanying him as a guard 
 of honour, and returning the next morning. The rest he 
 divided in several quarters, and placed the gates in charge 
 of his own companions. 
 
 At midnight the Epirots, faithful to their orders, arrived 
 and united beneath the walls of the city, and after inter- 
 changing the signals agreed upon, the gates were opened. 
 A large body instantly marched and secured the citadel. 
 The rest, conducted by appointed leaders, surrounded the 
 Turks in their quarters. And suddenly, in the noon of 
 night, in that great city, arose a clang so dreadful that 
 people leapt up from their sleep and stared with stupor. 
 Instantly the terrace of every house blazed with torches, 
 and it became as light as day. Troops of armed men were 
 charging down the streets, brandishing their scimetars 
 and yataghans, and exclaiming, ' The Cross, the Cross ! * 
 ' Liberty ! ' ' Greece ! ' ' Iskander and Epirus ! ' The towns- 
 men recognised their countrymen by their language and 
 their dress. The name of Iskander acted as a spell. They 
 stopt not to inquire. A magic sympathy at once persuaded 
 them that this great man had, by the grace of Heaven, re- 
 curred to the creed and country of his fathers. And so every 
 townsman, seizing the nearest weapon, with a spirit of 
 p9.triotlc frenzy, rushed into the streets?, crying out, ' Tho 
 
398 THE RISE OF 
 
 Cross, the Cross ! Liberty ! Greece ! Iskander and Epirus ! * 
 Av 1 even the women lost all womanly fears, and stimulated 
 instead of soothing the impulse of their masters. They 
 fetched them arms, they held the torches, they sent them 
 forth with vows and prayers and imprecations, their chil- 
 dren clinging to their robes, and repeating with enthusiasm, 
 phrases which they could not comprehend. 
 
 The Turks fought with the desperation of men who feel 
 that they are betrayed, and must be victims. The small 
 and isolated bodies were soon massacred, all with cold 
 steel, for at this time, although some of the terrible inven- 
 tions of modern warfare were introduced, their use was not 
 general. The citadel, indeed, was fortified with cannon ; 
 but the greater part of the soldiery trusted to their crooked 
 swords and their unerring javelins. The main force of the 
 Turkish garrison had been quartered in an old palace of 
 the archbishop, situate in the middle of the city on a 
 slightly rising and open ground, a massy building of rustic 
 stone. Here the Turks, although surrounded, defended 
 1 hemselves desperately, using their cross bows with terrible 
 effect ; and hither, the rest of the city being now secured, 
 Iskander himself repaired to achieve its complete deliver- 
 ance. 
 
 The Greeks had endeavoured to carry the principal en- 
 trance of the palace by main force, but the strength of the 
 portal had resisted their utmost exertions, and the arrows 
 of the besieged had at length forced them to retire to a dis- 
 tance. Iskander directed that two pieces of cannon should 
 be dragged down from the citadel, and then played against 
 the entrance. In the meantime, he ordered immense piles 
 of damp faggots to be lit before the building, the smoke of 
 which prevented the besieged from taking any aim. The 
 ardour of the people was so great that the cannon were soon 
 served against the palace, and their effects were speedily 
 remarked. The massy portal shook ; a few blows of tho 
 
ISKANDER. 399 
 
 battering ram, and it fell. The Turks Rallied forth, were 
 received with a shower of Greek fire, and driven in with 
 agonising yells. Some endeavoured to escape from the 
 the windows, and were speared or cut down ; some appeared 
 wringing their hands in despair upon the terraced roof. 
 Suddenly the palace was announced to be on fire. A tall 
 white blueish flame darted up from a cloud of smoke, and 
 soon, as if by magic, the whole back of the building was 
 encompassed with rising tongues of red and raging light. 
 Amid a Babel of shrieks, and shouts, and cheers, and 
 prayers, and curses, the roof of the palace fell in with a 
 crash, which produced amid the besiegers an awful and 
 momentary silence, but in an instant they started from 
 their strange inactivity, and rushing forward, leapt into the 
 smoking ruins, and at the same time completed the massacre 
 and achieved their freedom. 
 
 CHAPTER yil. 
 
 At break of dawn Iskander sent couriers throughout all 
 Epirus, announcing the fall of Croia, and that he had raised 
 the standard of independence in his ancient coutitry. He 
 also despatched a trusty messenger to Prince Nicaeus at 
 Athens, and to the great Hunniades. The people were so 
 excited throughout all Epirus, at this great and un though t- 
 of intelligence, that they simultaneously rose in all the open 
 country, and massacred the Turks, and the towns were only 
 restrained in a forced submission to Amurath, by the strong 
 garrisons of the Sultan. 
 
 Now Iskander was very anxious to effect the removal of 
 these garrisons without loss of time, in order that if Amu- 
 rath sent a great power against him, as he expected, the 
 invading army might have nothing to rely upon but its own 
 
400 THE RISE OF 
 
 force, and that his attention might not in any way be di- 
 verted froni eflfecting their overthrow. Therefore, as soon 
 as his troops had rested, and he had formed his new recruits 
 into some order, which, witli theii* wilHng spirits, did not 
 demand many days, Iskander set out from Croia, at the 
 head of twelve thousand men, and marched against the 
 strong city of Petrella, meeting in his way the remainder of 
 the garrison of Croia on their retura, who surrendered 
 themselves to him at discretion. Petrella was only one 
 day's march from Croia, and when Iskander aiTived there 
 he requested a conference with the governor, and told his 
 tale so well, representing the late overthrow of the Turks 
 by Hunniades, and the incapacity of Amurath at present to 
 relieve him, that the Turkish commander agreed to deliver 
 up the place, and leave the country with his troops, par- 
 ticularly as the alternative of Iskander to these easy terms 
 was ever conquest without quarter. And thus, by a happy 
 mixture of audacity and adroitness, the march of Iskander 
 throughout Epirus was rather like a triumph than a cam- 
 paign, the Turkish gaiTisons imitating, without any excep- 
 tion, the conduct of their comrades at Petrella, and dreading 
 the fate of their comrades at the capital. In less than a 
 month Iskander returned to Epirus, having delivered the 
 whole country from the Moslem yoke. 
 
 Hitherto Iskander had heard nothing either of Hunniades 
 or iN'icseus. He learnt, therefore, with great interest, as lie 
 passed through the gates of the city, that the Prince of 
 Athens had arrived at Croia the preceding eve, and also 
 that his messenger had returned from the Hungarian camp. 
 Amid the acclamations of an enthusiastic people, Iskander 
 once more ascended the citadel of Croia. Nicceus received 
 him at the gate. Iskander sprang from his horse, and em- 
 braced his friend. Hand in hand, and followed by their ro- 
 Hpective trains, they entered the fortress palace. 
 
 Ocar friend,* said Iskander, when they werr once more 
 
ISKANDEK, 401 
 
 alone, * you see we were right not to despair. Two months 
 have scarcely elapsed since we parted without a prospect, 
 or with the most gloomy one, and now we are in a fair way 
 of achieving all that we can desire. Epirus is free ! ' 
 
 ' I came to claim my share in its emancipation,* said 
 Nicasns, with a smile, * but Iskander is another Caesar ! ' 
 
 'You will have many opportunities yet, beheve me, 
 Nicagus, of proving your courage and your patriotism,' re- 
 plied Iskander ; ' Amurath will never allow this affair to 
 pass over in this quiet manner. I did not commence this 
 struggle without a conviction that it would demand all the 
 energy and patience of a long life. I shall be rewarded if I 
 leave freedom as an heritage to my countrymen ; but for 
 the rest, Ifeel that I bid farewell to every joy of life, except the 
 ennobling consciousness of performing a noble duty. In the 
 meantime, lunderstand a messenger awaits me here from the 
 great Hunniades. Unless that shield of Christendom main- 
 tain himself in his present position, our chance of ultimate 
 security is feeble. With his constant diversion in B«algaria, 
 we may contrive here to struggle into success. You some- 
 times laugh at my sanguine temper, Nicaeus. To say the 
 truth, I am more serene than sanguine, and was never more 
 conscious of the strength of my opponent than now, when 
 it appears that I have beaten him. Hark ! the people 
 cheer. I love the people, Nicaeus, who are ever influenced 
 by genuine and generous feelings. They cheer as if they 
 had once more gained a country. Alas ! they little know 
 what they must endure even at the best. Nay ! look not 
 gloomy; we have done great things, and will do more. 
 Who waits without there ? Demetrius ! Call the messenger 
 from Lord Hunniades.' 
 
 An Epirot bearing a silken packet was now introduced, 
 which he delivered to Iskander. Eeverently touching the 
 hand of his chieftain, the messenger then kissed his own and 
 
 D D 
 
402 THE RISE OF 
 
 withdrew. Iskander broke the seal, and drew forth a letter 
 from the silken cover. 
 
 * So ! this is well ! ' exclaimed the prince, with great 
 animation, as he threw his quick eye over the letter. * As I 
 hoped and deemed, a most complete victory. Karam Bey 
 himself a prisoner, baggage, standards, great guns, treasure. 
 Brave soldier of the Cross ! (may I prove so !) Your per- 
 fectly-devised movement (poh, poh !) Hah ! what is this ? ' 
 exclaimed Iskander, turning pale ; his lip quivered, his eye 
 looked dim. He walked to an arched window. His com- 
 panion, who supposed that he was reading, did not disturb 
 him. 
 
 ' Poor, poor Hunniades ! ' at length exclaimed Iskander, 
 shaking his head. 
 
 * What of him?' inquired Nicasus, qiiickly. 
 
 * The sharpest accident of war ! ' repHed Iskander. * It 
 quite clouds my spirit. We must forget these things, we 
 must forget. Epirus ! he is not a patriot who can spare a 
 thought from thee. And yet, so young, ao beautiful, so 
 gifted, so worthy of a hero ! when I saw her by her great 
 father's side, sharing his toils, aiding his councils, supplying 
 his necessities, methought I gazed upon a ministering angel I 
 upon ' 
 
 * Stop, stop in mercy's name, Iskander ! ' exclaimed Nicaeus, 
 in a very agitated tone. * What is all this ? Surely no, 
 surely not, surely Iduna ' 
 
 *'Tisshe!' 
 
 * Dead ? ' exclaimed Nicaeus, rushing up to his companior 
 and seizing his arm. 
 
 ' Worse, much worse ! ' 
 
 ' God of Heaven ! ' exclaimed the young prince, with 
 almost a frantic air. * Tell me all, tell me all ! This sus- 
 pense fires my brain. Iskander, you know not what this 
 iroman is t-o nie : the sole object of my being, the bane thn 
 
ISKANDER, 
 
 403 
 
 blessing of my life ! Speak, dear friend, speak ! I beseech 
 you ! Where is Iduna ? * 
 ' A prisoner to the Turk/ 
 
 * Iduna a prisoner to the Turk. I'll not believe it ! Why 
 do we wear swords? Where's chivalry? Iduna, a prisoner 
 to the Turk ! 'Tis false. It cannot be. Iskander, you are 
 a coward ! I am a coward ! All are cowards ! A prisoner 
 to the Turk ! Iduna ! What, the Rose of Christendom 1 
 has it been plucked by such a turbaned dog as Amurath ? 
 Farewell, Epirus ! Farewell, classic Athens ! Farewell, 
 bright fields of Greece, and dreams that made them 
 brighter ! The sun of all my joy and hope is set, and set 
 for ever ! ' 
 
 So saying, Nicceus, tearing his hair and garments, flung 
 himself upon the floor, and hid his face in his robes. 
 
 Iskander paced the room witb a troubled step and 
 thoughtful brow. After some minutes he leant down by 
 the Prince of Athens, and endeavoured to console him. 
 
 * It is in vain, Iskander, it is in vain,' said Nicasus. ' I 
 wish to die.' 
 
 * Were I a favoured lover, in such a situation,' replied 
 Iskander, * I should scarcely consider death my duty, unless 
 the sacrifice of myself preserved my mistress.' 
 
 * Hah ! ' exclaimed Nicceus, starting from the ground. 
 * Do you conceive, then, the possibility of rescuing her ? * 
 
 ' If she live, she is a prisoner in the Seraglio at Adria- 
 nople. You are as good a judge as myself of the prospect 
 that awaits your exertions. It is, without doubt, a difficult 
 adventure, but such, methinks, as a Christian knight should 
 scarcely shun.' 
 
 ■ ' To hoi-se,' exclaimed Nicasus, * To horse And yet 
 
 what can I do ? Were she in any other place but the capi- 
 tal I might rescue her by force, but in the heart of their 
 empire, it is impossible. Is there no ransom that can tciiipt 
 
 D D 2 
 
404 THE RISE OF 
 
 the Turk? My principality would rise in the balance beside 
 this jewel.' 
 
 ' That were scarcely wise, and certainly not just,' replied 
 Iskander ; * but ransom will be of no avail. Hunniades has 
 already offered to restore Karam Bey, and all the prisoners 
 of rank, and the chief trophies, and Amurath has refused to 
 listen to anj' terms. The truth is, Iduna has found favour 
 in the eyes of his son, the young Mahomed.' 
 
 * Holy Virgin ! hast thou no pity on this Christian maid ? ' 
 exclaimed Nicceus. * The young Mahomed ! Shall this 
 
 licentious infidel ah ! Iskander, dear, dear Iskander, 
 
 you who have so much wisdom, and so much courage, you 
 who can devise all things, and dare all things, help me, 
 help me ; on my knees I do beseech you, take up this trying 
 cause of foul oppression, and for the sake of all you love 
 and reverence, your creed, your country, and perchance 
 your friend, let your great genius, like some solemn angel, 
 haste to the rescue of the sweet Iduna, and save her, save 
 her!' 
 
 ' Some thoughts like these were rising in my mind when 
 first I spoke,' replied Iskander. ' This is a better cue, far 
 more becoming princes than boyish tears, and all the out- 
 ward misery of woe, a tattered garment and dishevelled 
 locks. Come, Nicasus, we have to struggle with a mighty 
 fortune. Let us be firm as Fate itself.' 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Immediately after his interview with Nicaeus, Iskander 
 summoned some of the chief citizens of Croia to the citadel, 
 and submitting to them his arrangements for the adminis- 
 tration of Epirus, announced the necessity of his instant 
 departure for a short interval ; and the same evening, ere 
 the moon had risen, himself and the Prince of AtheTis 
 
ISKANDER. 405 
 
 quitted the city, and proceeded in the direction of Adria- 
 nople. They travelled with great rapidity until they reached 
 a small town upon the frontiers, where they halted for one 
 day. Here, in the bazaar, Iskander purchased for himself 
 the dress of an Armenian physician. In his long dark 
 robes, and large round cap of black wool, his face and 
 hands stained, and his beard and mustachios shaven, it 
 seemed impossible that he could be recognised. Nicaeus 
 was habited as his page, in a dress of coarse red cloth, 
 sitting tight to his form, with a red cap, with a long blue 
 tassel. He carried a large bag containing drugs, some sur- 
 gical instruments, and a few books. In this guise, as soon 
 as the gates were open on the morrow, Iskander, mounted 
 on a small mule, and Mcaeus on a large donkey, the two 
 Princes commenced the pass of the mountainous range, an 
 arm of the Balkan which divided Epirus from Roumelia. 
 
 ' I broke the wind of the finest charger in all Asia when 
 I last ascended these mountains,' said Iskander ; * I hope 
 this day's journey may be accepted as a sort of atonement. 
 
 ' Faith ! there is little doubt I am the best mounted of 
 the two,' said Nicaeus. 'However, I hope we shall return 
 at a sharper pace.' 
 
 'How came it, my Meatus,' said Iskander, 'that you 
 never mentioned to me the name of Iduna when we were 
 at Athens. I little supposed when I made my sudden visit, 
 to Hunniades, that I was about to appeal to so fair a host. 
 She is a rarely gifted lady.' 
 
 'I knew of her being at the camp as little as youi'self,* 
 replied the Prince of Athens, * and for the rest, the truth is, 
 Iskander, there are some slight crosses in our loves, which 
 Time, I hope, wdll fashion rightly.' So saying Nicseus 
 pricked on his donkey, and flung his stick at a bird which 
 was perched on the branch of a tree. Iskander did not re- 
 sume a topic to which his companion seemed disinclined. 
 Their journey Avas tedious. Towards nightfall they reached 
 
4o6 THE RISE OF 
 
 the summit of the usual track ; and as the descent 
 difficult, they were obliged to rest until daybreak. 
 
 On the morrow they had a magnificent view of the rich 
 plains of RoumeKa, and in the extreme distance, the great 
 city of Adrianople, its cupolas and minarets blazing and 
 sparkling in the sun. This glorious prospect at once re- 
 vived all their energies. It seemed that the moment of 
 peril and of fate had arrived. They pricked on their soiTy 
 steeds ; and on the morning of the next day presented 
 themselves at the gates of the city. The thorough know- 
 ledge which Iskander possessed of the Turkish character 
 obtained them an entrance, which was at one time almost 
 doubtful, from the irritability and impatience of Nicaeus. 
 They repaired to a caravansera of good repute in the neigh- 
 bourhood of the seraglio ; and having engaged their rooms, 
 the Armenian physician, attended by his page, visited seve- 
 ral of the neighbouring coffee-houses, announcing, at the 
 same time, his arrival, his profession, and his skill. 
 
 As Iskander felt pulses, examined tongues, and distributed 
 drusfs and charms, he listened with interest and amusement 
 to the conversation of which he himself was often the hero. 
 He found that the Turks had not yet recovered from their 
 consternation at his audacity and success. They were still 
 wondering, and if possible more astounded than indignant. 
 The politicians of the coffee-houses, chiefly consisting of 
 Janissaries, were loud in their murmurs. The popularity 
 of Amurath had vanished before the triumph of Hunniades, 
 and the rise of Iskander. 
 
 * But Allah has in some instances favoured the faithful,* 
 remarked Iskander ; ' I heard in my travels of your having 
 captured a great princess of the Giaours.' 
 
 ' God is great ! ' said an elderly Turk with a long white 
 beard. * The Hakira congratulates the faithful because thej 
 have taken a woman ! ' 
 . * Not so merely,' replied Iskander ; * I heard the woman 
 
ISKANDER. 407 
 
 was a princess. If so, the people of Frangueatan will pay 
 any ransom for their great women ; and by giving up tliis 
 fair Giaour yon may free many of the faithful.' 
 
 ' Mashallah ! ' said another ancient Turk, sipping his 
 coffee. ' The Hakim speaks wisely.' 
 
 * May I murder my mother ! ' exclaimed a young Janis- 
 sary, with great indignation. ' But this is the very thing 
 that makes me wild against Amurath. Is not this princess 
 a daughter of that accursed Giaour, that dog of dogs, Hun- 
 niades ? and has he not offered for her . ransom our brave 
 Karam Bey himself and his chosen warriors ? and has not 
 Amurath said nay ? And why has he said nay ? Because 
 his son, the Prince Mahomed, instead of lighting against 
 the Giaours, has looked upon one of their women, and has 
 become a Mejnoun. Pah ! May I murder my mother, but 
 if the Giaours were in full march to the city, I'd not 
 fight. And let him tell this to the Cadi who dares ; for 
 there are ten thousand of us, and we have sworn by the 
 Kettle, but we will not fight for Giaours, or those wdio love 
 Giaours ! ' 
 
 * If you mean me, Ali, about going to the Cadi,' said the 
 chief eunuch of Mahomed, who was standing by, ' let me 
 tell you I am no tale-bearer, and scorn to do an unmanly 
 act. The young prince can beat the Giaours without the 
 aid of those who are noisy enough in a cofiee-house, when 
 they are quiet enough in the field. And, for the rest of the 
 business, you may all ease your hearts; for the Frangy 
 princess you talk of is pining away, and will soon die. The 
 Sultan has ofiered a hundred purses of gold to any one who 
 cures her ; but the gold will never be counted by the Has- 
 nadar, or I will double it.' 
 
 * Try your fortune. Hakim,' said several laughing loungers 
 to Iskander. 
 
 * Allah has stricken the Frangy princess,* said the old 
 Turk with a white beard. 
 
4o8 'THE RISE OF 
 
 ' He will strike all Giaours,' said his ancient companion, 
 sipping his coffee. * 'Tis so written/ 
 
 ' Well ! I do not like to hear of women slaves pining to 
 death,' said the young Janissary, in a softened tone, * par- 
 ticularly when they are young. Amurath should have 
 i-ansomed her, or he might have given her to one of his 
 officers, or any young fellow that had particularly distin- 
 guished himself.' And so, twirling his mustachios, and 
 Hinging down his piastre, the young Janissary strutted out 
 of the coffee-house. 
 
 ' When we were young,' said the old Turk with the white 
 ])eard to his companion, shaking his head, * when we were 
 young ' 
 
 * We conquered Anatolia, and never opened our mouths,' 
 rejoined his companion. 
 
 * I never offered an opinion till I was sixty,' said the old 
 Turk ; * and then it was one which had been in our family 
 for a century.' 
 
 ' No wonder Hunniades carries everything before him,* 
 said his companion. 
 
 ' And that accursed Iskander,' said the old man. 
 
 The chief eunuch, finishing his vase of shei'bet, moved 
 away. The Armenian physician followed him. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The chief eimuch turned into a burial-ground, through 
 which a way led, by an avenue of cypress-trees, to the 
 quarter of the Seraglio. The Armenian physician, accom- 
 panied by his page, followed him. 
 
 * Noble sir ! ' said the Annenian physician ; ' may I tres- 
 pass for a moment on your lordship's attention ? ' 
 
 * Worthy Hakim, is it you r ' replied the chief eunuch. 
 
ISKANDER. 409 
 
 turning round with an encouraging smile of courteous con- 
 descension, ' your pleasure ? ' 
 
 ' I would speak to you of important matters,' said the 
 physician. 
 
 The eunuch carelessly seated himself on a richly-carved 
 tomb, and crossing his legs -with an air of pleasant supe- 
 riority, adjusted a fine emerald that sparkled on his finger, 
 and bade the Hakim address him without hesitation. 
 
 ' I am a physician,' said the Armenian. 
 
 The eunuch nodded. 
 
 ' And I heard your lordship in the cofiee-house mention 
 that the Sultan, our sublime Master, had ofiered a rich 
 reward to any one who could efiect the cure of a favourite 
 captive.' 
 
 ' No less a reward than one hundred purses of gold,' re- 
 marked the eunuch. ' The reward is proportioned to the 
 exigency of the case. Believe me, worthy sir, it is desperate.' 
 
 * With mortal means,' replied the Armenian ; * but I pos- 
 sess a talisman of magical influence, which no disorder can 
 resist. I would fain try its efiicacy.' 
 
 ' This is not the first talisman that has been ofiered us, 
 worthy doctor,' said the eunuch, smiling incredulously. 
 
 ' But the first that has been ofiered on these terms,' said 
 the Armenian. ' Let me cure the captive, and of the one 
 hundred purses, a moiety shall belong to yourself. Ay ! so 
 confident am I of success, that I deem it no hazard to com- 
 mence our contract by this surety.' And so saying, the 
 Armenian took from his finger a gorgeous carbuncle, and 
 offered it to the eunuch. The worthy dependant of the 
 Seraglio had a great taste in jewellery. He examined the 
 stone with admiration, and placed it on his finger with 
 complacency. ' I require no inducements to promote the 
 interests of science, and the purposes of charity,' said the 
 eunuch, with a patronising air. ' 'Tis assuredly a pretty 
 atone, and, as the memorial of an ingenious sti'ant;er, whom 
 
4ia THE RISE OF 
 
 I respect, I shall, with pleasure, retain it. You were saying 
 something about a talisman. Are you serious ? I doubt 
 not that there are means which might obtain you the 
 desired trial ; but the Prince Mahomed is as violent when 
 displeased or disappointed as munificent when gratified. 
 Cure this Christian captive, and we may certainly receive 
 the promised purses : fail, and your head will as assuredly 
 be flung into the Seraglio moat, to say nothing of my own.* 
 
 ' Most noble sir ! ' said the physician, * I am willing to 
 undertake the experiment on the terms you mention. Rest 
 assured that the patient, if alive, must, with this remedy, 
 speedily recover. You marvel ! Believe me, had you wit- 
 nessed tlie cures which it has already effected, you would 
 only Tvonder at its otherwise incredible influence.' 
 
 ' You have the advantage,' repHed the eunuch, * of ad- 
 dressing a man who has seen something of the world. I 
 travel every year to Anatoha with the Prince Mahomed. 
 Were I a narrow-minded bigot, and had never been five 
 miles fi'om Adrianople in the whole course of my life, I 
 might indeed be sceptical. But I am a patron of science, 
 and have heard of talismans. How much might this ring 
 weigh, think you r ' 
 
 * I have heard it spoken of as a carbuncle of uncommon 
 size,' replied the Armenian. 
 
 * Where did you say you lodged, Hakim ? ' 
 ' At the Khan of Bedreddin.' 
 
 * A very proper dwelling. Well, we shall see. Have you 
 more jewels ? I might, perhaps, put you in the way of 
 parting with some at good prices. The Khan of Bedreddin 
 is very conveniently situated. I may, perhaps, towards 
 evening, taste your coffee at the Khan of Bedreddin, and 
 we will talk of this said talisman. Allah be with you, 
 worthy Hakim ! ' The eunuch nodded, not w^ithout en- 
 couragement, and went his way. 
 
 * Anxiety alone enabled me to keep my count^nanco.' 
 
ISKANDER. 411 
 
 said Nicseus. * A patron of science, forsooth ! Of aU the 
 
 insolent, sliallow-brained, rapacious coxcombs ' 
 
 ' Hush, my friend ! ' said Iskander, with a smile. * The 
 chief eunuch of the heir apparent of the Turkish empire is 
 a far greater man than a poor prince, or a proscribed rebel. 
 This worthy can do our business, and I trust will. He 
 clearly bites, and a richer bait will, perhaps, secure him. 
 In the meantime, we must be patient, and remember whose 
 destiny is at stake.' 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The chief eunuch did not keep the adventurous companions 
 long in suspense ; for, before the muezzin had announced 
 the close of day from the minarets, he had reached the 
 Klhan of Bedreddin, and inquired for the Armenian phy- 
 sician. 
 
 ' We have no time to lose,' said the eunuch to Iskander. 
 * Bring with you whatever you may requu-e, and folloAV 
 me.' 
 
 The eunuch led the way, Iskander and Nicaeus main- 
 taining a respectful distance. After proceeding down 
 several streets, they arrived at the burial-ground, where 
 they had conversed in the morning ; and when they had 
 entered this more retired spot, the eunuch fell back, and 
 addressed his companion. 
 
 ' Now, worthy Hakim,' he said, * if you deceive me, I 
 will never patronize a man of science again. I found an 
 opportunity of speaking to the Prince this afternoon of 
 your talisman, and he has taken from my representations 
 such a fiincy for its immediate proof, that I found it quite 
 impossible to postpone its trial even until to-morrow. I 
 mentioned the terms. I told the Prince your life was the 
 
412 
 
 THE RISE OF 
 
 pledge. I said nothing of the moiety of the reward, worthy 
 Hakim. That is an affair between ourselves. I trust to 
 your honour, and I always act thus with men of science.' 
 
 ' I shall not disgrace my profession or your confidence, 
 rest assured,' replied Iskander. 'And am I to see the 
 captive this night ? ' 
 
 ' 1 doubt it not. Are you prepared ? We might, per- 
 haps, gain a Httle time, if very necessary.' 
 
 ' By no means, sir ; Truth is ever prepared.' 
 
 Thus conversing, they passed through the burial-ground, 
 and approached some high, broad walls, forming a terrace, 
 and planted with young sycamore trees. The eunucli 
 tapped, with his silver stick, at a small gate, which opened, 
 and admitted them into a garden, full of large clumps of 
 massy shrubs. Through these a winding walk led for some 
 way, and then conducted them to an open lawn, on which 
 was situate a vast and irregular building. As they ap- 
 proached the pile, a young man of imperious aspect rushed 
 forward from a gate, and abruptly accosted Iskander. 
 
 * Are you the Armenian physician ? ' he inquired. 
 Iskander bowed assent. 
 
 * Have you got your talisman ? You know the terms ? 
 Cure this Christian girl and you shall name your own 
 reward ; fail, and I shall claim your forfeit head.' 
 
 *The terms are well understood, mighty Prince,' said 
 Iskander, for the young man was no less a personage than 
 the son of Amurath, and future conqueror of Constantinople ; 
 ' but I am confident there will be no necessity for the 
 terror of Christendom claiming any other heads than those 
 of his enemies.* 
 
 ' Kaflis will conduct you at once to your patient,' said 
 Mahomed. ' For myself, I cannot rest until I know the 
 result of your visit. I shall wander about these gardens, 
 and destroy the flowei"* wl.Jnl^ is the only pleasure now 
 left me.' 
 
ISKANDER. 
 
 413 
 
 Kaflis motioned to his companions to advance, and they 
 i-iTjtA3red the Seraglio. 
 
 At the end of a long gallery they came to a great portal, 
 which Kaflis opened, and Iskander and Nicaens for a moment 
 Rupposed that they had arrived at the chief hall of the 
 Tower of Babel, but they found the shrill din only pro- 
 ceeded from a large company of wom.en, who were employed 
 in distilling the rare atar of the jasmine flower. All their 
 voices ceased en the entrance of the strangers, as if by a 
 miracle ; but when they had examined them, and observed 
 that it was only a physician and his boy, their awe, or 
 their surprise, disappeared ; and they crowded round 
 Iskander, some holding out their wrists, others lolling 
 out their tongues, and some asking questions, which per- 
 plexed alike the skill and the modesty of the adventurous 
 dealer in magical medicine. The annoyance, however, was 
 not of great duration, for Kaflis so belaboured their fair 
 shoulders with his official baton, that they instantly re- 
 treated with precipitation, uttering violent shrieks, and 
 bestowing on the eunuch so many titles, that Iskander and 
 his page were quite astounded at the intuitive knowledge 
 which the imprisoned damsels possessed of that vocabulary 
 of abuse, which is in general mastered only by the experi- 
 ence of active existence. 
 
 Quitting this chamber, the eunuch and his companions 
 ascended a lofty staircase. They halted at length before a 
 door. * This is the chamber of the tower,' said their guide, 
 * and here we shall find the fair captive.' He knocked, the 
 door was opened by a female slave, and Iskander and 
 Nicasus, with an anxiety they could with difficulty conceal, 
 were ushered into a small but sumptuous apartment. In 
 the extremity was a recess covered with a light gauzy 
 curtain. The eunuch bidding them keep in the background, 
 advanced, and cautiously withdrawing the curtain slightly 
 aside, addressed some words in a low voice to the inmate 
 
414 THE RISE OF 
 
 of the recess. In a few minutes the eunuch beckoned to 
 Iskander to advance, and whispered to him : ' She would 
 not at first Bee you, but I have told her you are a Christian, 
 the more the pity, and she consents.' So saying, he with- 
 drew the curtain, and exhibited a veiled female hgure lying 
 on a couch. 
 
 * Noble lady,' said the physician in Greek, which he had 
 ascertained the eunuch did not comprehend ; ' pardon the 
 zeal of a Chi-istian friend. Though habited in this garb, I 
 have served under your illustrious sire. I should deem 
 my life well spent in serving the daughter of the great 
 Hunniades.' 
 
 ' Kind stranger,' replied the captive, * I was ill prepared 
 for such a meeting. I thank you for your sympathy, but 
 my sad fortunes are beyond human aid.' 
 
 ' God works by humble instruments, noble lady,' said 
 Iskander, 'and with his blessing we may yet prosper.' 
 
 * I fear that I must look to death as my only refuge,' 
 repHed Iduna, * and still more, I fear that it is not so 
 present a refuge as my oppressors themselves imagine. 
 But you are a physician ; tell me then how speedily Kature 
 will make me free.' 
 
 She held forth her hand, which Iskander took and 
 involuntarily pressed. 'Noble lady,' he said, 'my skill is a 
 mere pretence to enter these walls. The only talisman I 
 bear with me is a message from your friends.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' said Iduna, in an agitated tone. 
 
 ' Restrain yourself, noble lady,' said Iskander, inter- 
 posing, ' restrain yourself. Were you any other but the 
 daughter of Hunniades I would not have ventured upon 
 this perilous exploit. But I know that the Lady Iduna has 
 inherited something more than the name of her great an- 
 cestors, their heroic soul. If ever there were a moment in 
 her life in which it behoved her to exert all her energies, 
 tliat moment has arrived. The physician who addresses 
 
ISKANDER. 415 
 
 her, and liis attenda,iit who waits at Land, are two of tlio 
 Ladj Idiina's most devoted friends. There is nothing that 
 thej will not hazard, to efi'ect her delivery ; and they have 
 matured a plan of escape which they are sanguine must 
 succeed. Yet its completion will require, on her part, 
 great anxiety of mind, greater exertion of body, dangei', 
 fatigue, privation. Is the Lady Iduna prepared for all this 
 endurance, and all this hazard ? ' 
 
 ' Noble friend,' rephed Iduna, ^ for I cannot deem you a 
 stranger, and none but a chivalric knight could have 
 entered upon this almost forlorn adventure ; you have not, 
 I trust, miscalculated my character. I am a slave, and 
 unless heaven will interpose, must soon be a dishonoured 
 one. My freedom and my fame are alike at stake. There 
 is no danger, and no suffering which I will not gladly wel- 
 come, provided there be even a remote chance of regaining 
 my liberty and securing my honour.* 
 
 * You are in the mind I counted on. Now, mark my 
 words, dear lady. Seize an opportunity this evening of 
 expressing to your gaolers that you have already experi- 
 enced some benefit from my visit, and announce your rising 
 confidence in my skill. In the meantime I will make such 
 a report that our daily meetings will not be difficult. For 
 the present, farewell. The Prince Mahomed waits without, 
 and I would exchange some words with him before I go.' 
 
 * And must we part without my being acquainted with 
 the generous friends to whom I am indebted for an act of 
 devotion which almost reconciles me to my sad fate ? ' said 
 Iduna. * You will not, perhaps, deem the implicit trust 
 reposed in you by one whom you have no interest to 
 deceive, and who, if deceived, cannot be placed in a worse 
 position than she at present fills, as a very gratifying mark 
 of confidence, yet that trust is reposed in you ; and let mc, 
 at least, soothe the galling dreariness of my solitary hours, 
 by the recollection of the friends to whom I am indebted 
 
4i6 THE RISE OF 
 
 for a deed of friendship which has filled me with a feelinp 
 of wonder from which I have not yet recovered.' 
 
 ' The person who has penetrated the Seraglio of Con- 
 stajitinople in disguise to rescue the Lady Iduna,' answered 
 Iskander, * is the Prince Nicaeus.' 
 
 ' Nicasus ! ' exclaimed Iduna, in an agitated tone. ' Tlie 
 voice to which I listen is surety not that of the Prince 
 Nicaeus ; nor the form on which I gaze,' she added, as she 
 unveiled. Beside her stood the tall figure of the Armenian 
 physician. She beheld his swarthy and unrecognised coun- 
 tenance. She cast her dark eyes around with an air of 
 beautiful perplexity. 
 
 ' I am a friend of the Prince Nicasus,' said the physician. 
 ' He is here. Shall he advance ? Alexis,' called out 
 Iskander, not waiting for her reply. The page of the phy- 
 sician came forward, but the eunuch accompanied him. 
 ' All is right,' said Iskander to Kaflis. ' We are sure of 
 our hundred purses. But, without doubt, with any other 
 aid, the case were desperate.' 
 
 ' There is but one God,' said the eunuch, polishing his 
 carbuncle, with a visage radiant as the gem. ' I never 
 icpeuted patronizing men of science. The prince waits 
 without. Come along ! ' He took Iskander by the arm. 
 ' "Where is your boy ? What are you doing there, sir ? ' 
 inquired the eunuch, sharply, of Nicaeus, who was tarrying 
 behind, and kissing the hand of Iduna. 
 
 ' I was asking the lady for a favour to go to the coffee- 
 house with,' repHed Nicaeus, 'you forget that Jam to have 
 none of the hundred purses.' 
 
 ' True,' said the eunuch ; ' there is something in that. 
 Here, boy, here is a piastre for you. I like to encourage 
 men of science, and all that belong to them. Do not go 
 and spend it all in one morning, boy, and when the fair 
 captive is cured, if you remind i ^^ boy, perhaps I may give 
 you another.' 
 
ISKANDER, 4i7 
 
 CHAPTER XT. 
 
 Kaflis and his charge again reached the garden. The 
 /twilight was nearly past. A horseman galloped up to 
 them, followed by several running footmen. It was the 
 prince. 
 
 'Well, Hakim,' he inquired, in his usual abrupt style, 
 * can you cure her ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Iskander, firmly. 
 
 ' Now listen. Hakim,' said Mahomed. * I must very 
 shortly leave the city, and proceed into Epirus at the head 
 of our troops. I have sworn two things, and I have sworn 
 them by the holy stone. Ere the new moon, I will have 
 the heart of Iduna and the head of Iskander ! ' 
 
 The physician bowed. 
 
 ' If you can so restore the health of this Erangy girl,' 
 continued Mahomed, ' that she may attend me within ten 
 days into Epirus, you shall claim from my treasury what 
 sum you Hke, and become physician to the Seraglio. What 
 say you ? ' 
 
 ' My hope and my belief is,' replied Iskander, ' that within 
 ten days she may breathe the air of Epirus.' 
 
 'By my father's beard, you are a man after my own 
 heart,' exclaimed the prince; 'and since thou dealest in 
 talismans. Hakim, can you give me a charm that will 
 secure me a meeting with this Epirot rebel within the terra, 
 so that I may keep ray oath. What say you ? what say 
 you ?' 
 
 ' There are such spells,' replied Iskander. * But mark, I 
 can only secure the raeeting, not the head.' 
 
 ' That is my part,' said Mahomed, witli an arrogant sneer. 
 But the meeting, the meeting ? * 
 
 E E 
 
41 8 THE RISE OF 
 
 * You know the foimtain of Kallista in Epirus. Its vir- 
 tues are renowned.' 
 
 ' I have heard of it.' 
 
 ' Plunge your scimetar in its midnight waters thrice, on 
 the eve of the new moon, and each time summon the enemj^ 
 you would desire to meet. He will not fail you.* 
 
 * If you cure the captive, I will credit the legend, and 
 keep the appointment,' replied Mahomed, thoughtfully. 
 
 * I have engaged to do that,' replied the physician. 
 
 ' Well, then, I shall redeem my pledge,' said the prince. 
 
 * But mind,' said the physician, ' while I engage to cure 
 the lady and produce the warrior, I can secure your 
 highness neither the heart of the one nor the head of the 
 other.' 
 
 * 'Tis understood,' said Mahomed. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The Armenian physician did not fail to attend his captive 
 patient at an early hour on the ensuing mom. His patron 
 Kaflis received him with an encouraging smile. 
 
 * The taHsman already works,' said the eunuch : * she has 
 passed a good night, and confesses to an improvement. 
 Our purses are safe. !Methinks I already count the gold. 
 But I Bay, worthy Hakim, come hither, come hither,' and 
 Kaflis looked around to he sure that no one Avas within 
 hearing. * I say,' and here he put on a veiy mysterious air 
 indeed, * the pi'ince is generous ? you understand ? We go 
 shares. We shall not quarrel. I never yet repented pa- 
 tronising a man of science, and I am sure I never shall. 
 The prince, you see, is violent, but generous. I would not 
 cure her too soon, eh ? ' 
 
 * You take a most discreet view of affairs/ responded Is- 
 
ISKANDER, 419 
 
 kander, with an air of complete assent, and tliey entered 
 the cliamber of the tower. 
 
 Idnna performed her part with dexterity ; but, indeed, it 
 required less skill than herself and her advisers had at first 
 imagined. Her malady, although it might have ended 
 fatally, was in its origin entirely mental, and the sudden 
 prospect of freedom, and of restoration to her country and 
 her family, at a moment when she had delivered herself up 
 to despair, afforded her a gTeat and instantaneous benefit. 
 She could not, indeed, sufficiently restrain her spirits, and 
 smiled incredulously when Iskander mentioned the impend- 
 ing exertion and fatigues with doubt and apprehension. 
 His anxiety to return immediately to Epirus^ determined 
 him to adopt the measures for her rescue without loss of 
 time, and on his third -vdsit, he prepared her for making tho 
 great attempt on the ensuing mom. Hitherto Iskander 
 had refrained from revealing himself to Idnna. He was 
 induced to ardopt this conduct by various considerations. 
 He could no longer conceal from himself that the daughter 
 of Hunniades exercised an influence over his feelings which 
 he was unwilling to encourage. His sincere friendship for 
 Nicseus, and his conviction that it was his present duty to 
 concentrate all his thought and affection in the cause of his 
 country, would have rendered him anxious to have resisted 
 any emotions of the kind, even could he have flattered him- 
 self that there was any chance of their being returned by 
 the object of his rising passion. But Iskander was as 
 modest as he was brave and gifted. The disparity of age 
 between himself and Iduna appeared an insuperable barrier 
 to his hopes, even had there been no other obstacle. Is- 
 kander struggled with his love, and with his strong mind 
 the struggle, though painful, was not without success. He 
 felt that he was acting in a manner which must ultimately 
 tend to the advantage of his country, the happiness of his 
 friend, and perhaps the maintenance of his own self-respect. 
 
 a u 2 
 
420 THE RISE OF 
 
 For lie liad too much pride not to be sensible to the bitter* 
 iiess of rejection. 
 
 Had he perceived more indications of a cordial feeling 
 subsisting between Nicaeus and Iduna, he would perhaps 
 not have persisted in maintaining his disguise. But he had 
 long suspected that the passion of the Prince of Athens was 
 not too favourably considered by the daughter of Hunnia- 
 des, and he was therefore exceedingly anxious that Kicteus 
 should possess all the credit of the present adventure, which 
 Iskander scarcely doubted, if successful, would allow Nicaeus 
 to urge irresistible claims to the heart of a mistress whom 
 he had rescued at the peril of his life from slavery and dis- 
 honour, to offer rank, reputation, and love. Iskander took, 
 therefore, several opportunities of leading Iduna to believe 
 that he was merely a confidential agent of Nicaeus, and that 
 the whole plan of her rescue from the Seraglio of Adrian ople 
 had been planned by his young friend. In the meantime, 
 during the three days on which they had for short intervals 
 met, very few words had been interchanged between Nicaeus 
 and his mistress. Those words, indeed, had been to him of 
 the most inspiring nature, and expressed such a deep sens© 
 of gratitude, and such lively regard, that Nicaeus could no 
 longer resist the delightful conviction that he had at length 
 created a permanent interest in her heart. Often he longed 
 to rush to her couch, and press her hand to his lij^s. Even 
 the anticipation of future happiness could not prevent him 
 from envying the good fortune of Iskander, who was allowed 
 to converse with her without restraint ; and bitterly, on 
 their return to the khan, did he execrate the pompous 
 eunuch for all the torture which he occasioned him by his 
 Hilly conversation, and the petty tyranny of office with which 
 Kaflis always repressed his attempts to converse for a moment 
 with Iduna. 
 
 In the meantime all Adrianoplfe sounded with the pre- 
 parations for the immediate invasion of Epirus, and the 
 
JSKANDER. 421 
 
 return of Iskandcr to his country became each hour more 
 urgent. Everything being prepared, the adventurers deter- 
 mined on the fourth morning to attempt the rescue. They 
 repaired as usual to the Serail, and were attended by Kaflis 
 to the chamber of the tower, who congratulated Iskander 
 on their way on the rapid convalescence of the captive. 
 When they had fairly entered the chamber, the physician 
 being somewhat in advance, Nicasus, who was behind, com- 
 menced proceedings by knocking down the eunuch, and 
 Iskander instantly turning round to his assistance, they 
 succeeded in gagging and binding the alarmed and aston- 
 ished Kaflis. Iduna then habited herself in a costume 
 exactly similar to that worn by Nicseus, and which her 
 friends had brought to her in their bag. Iskander and 
 Iduna then immediately quitted the Serail without notice 
 or suspicion, and hurried to the khan, where they mounted 
 their horses, that were in readiness, and hastened without a 
 moment's loss of time to a fountain without the gates, where 
 they awaited the arrival of Niceeus with anxiety. After re- 
 maining a few minutes in the chamber of the tower, the 
 Prince of Athens stole out, taking care to secure the door 
 upon Kaflis. He descended the staircase, and escaped 
 through the Serail without meeting any one, ^d had 
 nearly reached the gate of the gardens, when he was chal- 
 lenged by some of the eunuch guard at a little distance. 
 * Hilloa ! ' exclaimed one ; ' I thought you passed just 
 
 now 
 
 ?' 
 
 ' So I did,' replied Nicaeus, with nervous effrontery ; ' but 
 I came back for my bag, which I left behind,' and, giving 
 them no time to reflect, he pushed his way through the gate 
 with all the impudence of a page. He rushed through the 
 burial-ground, hurried through the streets, mounted his 
 horse, and galloped through the gates. Iskander and Iduua 
 were in sight, he waved his hand for them at once to pro- 
 ceed, and in a moment, without exchanging a word, they 
 
422 THE RISE or 
 
 \verv3 all gafloping at full speed, nor did tliey breathe their 
 horses until sunset. 
 
 By nightfall they had reached a small wood of chestnut- 
 trees, where they rested for two hours, more for the sake of 
 their steeds than their own refreshment, for anxiety pre- 
 vented Iduna from indulging in any repose, as much as 
 excitement prevented her from feeling any fatigue. Iskan- 
 der ht a fire and prepared their rough meal, unharnessed 
 the horses, and turned them out to their pasture. Nicapus 
 made Iduna a couch of fern, and supported her head, while, 
 in deference to his entreaties, she endeavoured in vain to 
 sleep. Before midnight they were again on their way, and 
 proceeded at a rapid pace towards the mountaius, until a 
 few hours before noon, when their horses began to sink 
 under the united influence of their previous exertions and 
 the increasing heat of the day. Iskander looked sei-ious, 
 and often threw a backward glance in the direction of 
 Adrianople. 
 
 ' We must be beyond pursuit,' said Nicaeus, * I dare say 
 poor Kaflis is still gagged and bound.* 
 
 ' Could we but reach the mountains,' replied his com- 
 panion, ' I should have little fear, but I counted upon our 
 steeds carrying us there without faltering. We cannot 
 reckon upon more than three hours' start, prince. Our 
 friend Kaflis is too important a personage to be long 
 missed.' 
 
 ' The Holy Virgin befriend us ! ' said the Lady Iduna. ' I 
 can urge my poor horse no more.' 
 
 They had now ascended a small rising ground, which gave 
 them a wide prospect over the plain. Iskander halted and 
 threw an anxious glance around him. 
 
 ' There are some horsemen in the distance whom I do not 
 like,' said the physician. 
 
 ' I see them,' said Nicasus ; ' travellers like ourselves.' 
 
 ' Let us die sooner than be taken/ said Iduna. 
 
ISKANDER. 423 
 
 * Mjvo on,' said the physician, * and lefc me observe these 
 horsemen alone. I would there were some forest at hand. 
 In two hours we may gain the mountains.* 
 
 The daughter of Hunniades and the Prince of Athens de- 
 scended the rising ground. Before them, but at a consider- 
 able distance, was a broad and rapid river, crossed by a 
 ruinous Roman bridge. The opposite bank of the river was 
 the termination of a narrow plain, which led immediately to 
 the mountains. 
 
 ' Fair Iduna, you are safe,' said the Prince of Athens. 
 
 * Dear Nicaeus,' replied his companion, ' imagina what I 
 feel. It is too wild a moment to express my gratitude.' 
 
 '■ 1 trust that Iduna will never express her gratitude to 
 Nicaeus,' answered the prince ; ' it is not, I assure you, 
 a favourite word with him.' 
 
 Their companion rejoined them, urging his wearied horse 
 to its utmost speed. 
 
 ' Nic88us ! ' he called out, ' halt ! ' 
 
 They stopped their willing horses. 
 
 'How now! my friend;' said the prince; 'you look 
 grave.' 
 
 ' Lady Iduna ! ' said the Armenian, ' we are pursued.' 
 
 Hitherto the prospect of success, and the consciousness 
 of the terrible destiny that awaited failure, had supported 
 Iduna under exertions, which under any other circum- 
 stances must have proved fatal. But to learn, at the vei'v 
 moment that she was congratulating herself on the felici- 
 tous completion of their daring enterprise, that that 
 dreaded failure was absolutely impending, demanded too 
 great an exertion of her exhausted energies. She turned 
 pale ; she Hfbed up her imploring hands and eyes to heaven 
 in speechless agony, and then, bending down her head, 
 wept with unrestrained and harrowing violence. The dis- 
 ti'acted Nicaeus sprung from his horse, endeavoured to 
 console the almost insensible Iduna, and then woefully 
 
424 THE RISE OF 
 
 glancing at his fellow adventurer, wrung his hands in des- 
 pair. His fellow adventurer seemed lost in thought. 
 
 * They come,' said Nicseus, starting ; ' methinks I see one 
 on the brow of the hill. Away! fly! Let us at least die 
 fighting. Dear, dear Iduna, would that my life could i^n- 
 sora thine! God! this is indeed agony.' 
 
 ' Escape is impossible,' said Iduna, in a tone of calmness 
 wliich astonished them. ' They must overtake us. Alas! 
 brave friends, I have brought ye to this ! Pardon me, par- 
 don me ! I am ashamed of my selfish grief. Ascribe it to 
 other causes than a narrow spirit and a weak mind. One 
 course alone is left us. We must not be taken prisoners. 
 Ye are warriors, and can die as such. I am only a woman, 
 but I am the daughter of Hunniades. Nicaeus, you are 
 my father's friend ; I beseech you sheathe your dagger in 
 my breast.' 
 
 The prince in silent agony pressed his hands to his sight. 
 His limbs quivered Tvdth terrible emotion. Suddenly ho 
 advanced and threw himself at the feet of his hitherto 
 silent comrade. ' Oh ! Iskander ! ' exclaimed Nicseus, ' great 
 and glorious friend ! my head and heart are both too weak 
 for these awfiil trials ; save her, save her! ' 
 
 * Iskander!' exclaimed the thunderstruck Iduna. 'Is- 
 kander!' 
 
 * I have, indeed, the misfortune to be Iskander, beloved 
 lady,' he replied. * This is, indeed, a case almost of des- 
 peration, but if I have to endure more than most men, I 
 have, to inspire me, influences which fall to the lot of few, 
 yourself and Epirus. Come! Nicaeus, there is but one 
 chance, we must gain the bridge.' Thus speaking, Iskan- 
 der caught Iduna in his arms, and remounting his steed, 
 and followed by the Prince of Athens, hurried towards the 
 river. 
 
 *The water is not fordable,' said Iskander, when they 
 had arrived at ita bank. ' The bridge I shall defend ; and 
 
ISKANDER. 
 
 425 
 
 it will go hard if I do not keep them at bay long enough 
 for von and Iduna to gain the monntains. Away ; think 
 no more of me ; nay ! no tear, dear lady, or yon will nn- 
 man me. An inspiring smile, and all will go well. Hasten 
 to Croia, and let nothing tempt yon to linger in the vicinity, 
 with the hope of my again joining you. Believe me, we 
 shall meet agaiu, but act upon what I say, as if they were 
 my dying words. God bless you, Niceeus ! No murmuring. 
 For once let the physician, indeed, command his page. 
 Gentle lady, commend me to your father. Would I had 
 such a daughter in Epirus, to head my trusty brethren if I 
 fall. Tell the great Hunniades my legacy to him is my 
 country. * Farewell, farewell ! ' 
 
 ' I will not say farewell ! ' exclaimed Iduna; 'I too can 
 fight. I will stay and die with you.' 
 
 ' See they come ! Believe me I shall conquer. Fly, fly, 
 thou noble girl ! Guard her well, Mcasus. God bless thee, 
 boy! Live and be happy. N'ay, nay, not another word. 
 The farther ye are both distant, trust me, the stronger will 
 be my arm. Indeed, indeed, I do beseech ye, fly ! ' 
 
 Nic8eus placed the weeping Iduna in her saddle, and 
 after leading her horse over the narrow and broken bridge, 
 mounted his own, and then they ascended together the 
 hilly and winding track. Iskander watched them as they 
 went. Often Iduna waved her kerchief to her forlorn 
 champion. In the meantime Iskander tore off his Arme- 
 nian robes and flung them into the river, tried his footing 
 on the position he had taken up, stretched his limbs, ex- 
 amined his daggers, flourished his scimetar. 
 
 The bridge would only permit a single rider to pass 
 abreast. It was supported by three arches, the centre one 
 of considerable size, the others small, and rising oiit of the 
 shallow water on each side. In many parts the parapet wall 
 was broken, in some even the pathway was almost impass- 
 able from the masses of fallen stone, and the dangerous 
 
426 THE RISE OF 
 
 fissures. In the centre of the middle arch was a hnge key- 
 stone, on which was sculptured, in high relief, an enor- 
 mous helmet, which indeed gave, amcng the people of the 
 country, a title to the bridge. 
 
 A band of horsemen dashed at full speed, with a loud 
 shout, down the hill. They chocked their horses, when to 
 their astonishment they found Iskander with his drawn 
 scimetar, prepared to resist their passage. But they paused 
 only for a moment, and immediately attempted to swim the 
 river. But their exhausted horses drew back with a strong 
 instinct from the rushing waters : one of the band alone, 
 mounted on a magnificent black mare, succeeding in his 
 purpose. The rider was half-way in the stream, his high- 
 bred steed snorting and struggling in the strong current. 
 Iskander, wdth the same ease as if he were plucking the 
 ripe fruit from a tree, took up a ponderous stone, and hurled 
 it with fatal precision at his adventurous enemy. The rider 
 shrieked and fell, and rose no more : the mare, relieved from 
 her burden, exerted all her faihug energies, and succeeded 
 in gaining the opposite bank. There, rolling herself in the 
 welcome pasture, and neighing with a note of triumph, she 
 revelled in her hard escape. 
 
 ' Cut down the Giaour ! ' exclaimed one of the horsemen, 
 and he dashed at the bridge. His fragile blade shivered 
 into a thousand pieces as it crossed the scimetar of Iskander. 
 and in a moment his bleeding head fell over the parapet. 
 
 Instantly the whole band, each emulous of revenging his 
 comrades, rushed without thought at Iskander, and en- 
 deavoured to overpower him by their irresistible charge. 
 His scimetar flashed like Hghtning. The two foremost of 
 his enemies fell, but the impulse of the numbers prevailed, 
 and each instant, although dealing destruction with every 
 blow, he felt himself losing ground. At length he was on the 
 centre of the centre arch, an eminent position, which allowed 
 him for a moment to keep them at bay, and gave him 
 
ISKANDER. 427 
 
 breatliing fcime. Suddenly lie made a desperate charge, clove 
 the head of the leader of the band in two, and beat them back 
 several yards ; then swiftly returning to his former position, 
 he summoned all his supernatural strength, and stamping 
 on the mighty, but mouldering keystone, he forced it from 
 its form, and broke the masonry of a thousand years. Amid 
 a loud and awfal shriek, horses and horsemen, and the 
 dissolving fragments of the scene for a moment mingled as 
 it were in airy chaos, and then plunged with a horrible 
 plash into the fatal depths below. Some fell, and, stunned 
 by the massy fragments, rose no more; others struggled 
 again into light, and gained with difficulty their old shore. 
 Amid them, Iskander, unhurt, swam like a river god, and 
 stabbed to the heart the only strong swimmer that was 
 making his way in the direction of Epirus. Drenched and ex- 
 liausted, Iskander at length stood upon the opposite margin, 
 and wrung his garments, while he watched the scene of 
 strange destruction. 
 
 Three or four exhausted wretches were lying bruised and 
 breathless on the opposite ba-nk : one drowned horse was 
 stranded near them, caught by the rushes. Of all that 
 brave company the rest had vanished, and the broad, and 
 blue, and sunny waters rushed without a shadow beneath 
 the two remaining arches. 
 
 * Iduna ! thou art safe,' exclaimed Iskander. ' Now for 
 Epirus ! ' So saying, he seized the black mare, renovated 
 by her bath and pasture, and vaulting on her back, was in 
 a few minutes bounding over his native hills. 
 
4^8 - THE RISE OF 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 In the meantime let us not forget the Prince of Athens and 
 the Lady Iduna. These adventurous companions soon lost 
 sight of their devoted champion, and entered a vrinding 
 ravine, which gradually brought them to the summit of the 
 first chain of the Epirot mountains. Prom it they looked 
 down upon a vast and rocky valley, through which several 
 mule tracks led in various directions, and entered the 
 highest barrier of the mountains, which rose before them 
 covered with forests of < chestnut and ilex. Nicaeus chose the 
 track which he considered least tempting to pursuit, and 
 towards sunset they had again entered a ravine washed by 
 a mountain stream. The course of the waters had made 
 the earth fertile and beautiful. Wild shrubs of gay and 
 pleasant colours refreshed their wearied eye-sight, and the 
 perfume of aromatic plants invigorated their jaded senses. 
 Upon the bank of the river, too, a large cross of roughly- 
 carved wood brought comfort to their Christian hearts, and 
 while the holy emblem filled them with hope and consolation, 
 and seemed an omen of refuge from their Moslemin op- 
 pressors, a venerable Eremite, with a long white beard 
 descending over his dark robes, and leaning on a staff of 
 thorn, came foi-th from an adjoining cavern to breathe the 
 evening air and pour forth his evening orisons. 
 
 Iduna and Nicaeus had hitherto prosecuted their sorrow- 
 ful journey almost in silence. Exhausted with anxiety, 
 affliction, and bodily fatigue, with difficulty the daughter of 
 Hunniades could preserve her seat upon her steed. One 
 thought alone interested her, and by its engrossing in- 
 fluence maintained her under aU her sufferings, the memory 
 of Iskander. Since she first met him, at the extraordinary 
 interview in her father's pavilion, often had the image of 
 
ISKANDER. '' 429 
 
 the liei'O l*ecurrecl to her fancy, often had she mused over 
 his great qualities and strange career. His fame, so dan- 
 gerous to femalo hearts, was not diminished by his presence. 
 And now, when Iduna recollected that she was indebted to 
 him for all that she held dear, that she owed to his disin- 
 terested devotion, not only life, but all that renders life 
 desirable, honour and freedom, country and kindred, that 
 image was invested with associations and with sentiments, 
 which, had Iskander himself been conscious of their exist- 
 ence, would have lent redoubled vigour to his arm, and 
 fresh inspiration to his energy. More than once Iduna had 
 been on the point of inquiring of Mcaeus the reason which 
 had induced alike him and Iskander to preserve so strictly 
 the disguise of his companion. But a feeHng which she 
 did not choose to analyse, struggled successfully with her 
 curiosity : she felt a reluctance to speak of Iskander to the 
 Prince of Athens. In the meantime Nicasus himself was 
 not apparently very anxious of conversing upon the sub- 
 ject, and after the first rapid expressions of fear and hope 
 ■ns to the situation of their late comrade, they relapsed into 
 silence, seldom broken by Nicaeus, but to deplore the sufier- 
 iugs of his mistress, lamentations which Iduna answered 
 with a faint smile. 
 
 The refreshing scene wherein they had now entered, and 
 the cheering appearance of the Eremite, were subjects of 
 mutual congratulation ; and Mcaeus, somewhat advancing, 
 claimed the attention of the holy man, announcing their 
 faith, imprisonment, escape, and sufferings, and entreating 
 hospitality and refuge. The Eremite pointed with his 
 staff to the winding path, which ascended the bank of the 
 river to the cavern, and welcomed the pilgrims, in the 
 name of their blessed Saviour, to his wild abode and simple 
 fare. 
 
 The cavern widened when they entered, and comprised 
 several small apartments. It was a work of the earl^ 
 
430 THE RISE OF 
 
 Christians, who had found a refuge in their days of perse- 
 cntion, and art had completed the beneficent design of 
 nature. The cavern was fresh, and sweet, and clean. 
 Heaven smiled npon its pions inmate through an aperture 
 in the roof; the floor was covered with rushes; in one 
 niche rested a brazen cross, and in another a perpetual 
 lamp burnt before a picture, where Madonna smiled with 
 meek tenderness upon her young divinity. 
 
 The Eremite placed upon a block of wood, the surface of 
 which he had himself smoothed, some honey, some dried 
 fish, and a wooden bowl filled from the pure stream that 
 flowed beneath them : a simple meal, but welcome. His 
 guests seated themselves upon a rushy couch, and while 
 they refreshed themselves, he gently inquired the history 
 of their adventures. As it was evident that the Eremite, 
 from her apparel, mistook the sex of Iduna, Niceeus thought 
 fit not to undeceive him, but passed her ofi" as his brother. 
 He described themselves as two Athenian youths, who had 
 been captured while serving as volunteers under the great 
 Hunniades, and who had efiected their escape from Adrian- 
 ople under circumstances of great peril and difficulty ; and 
 when he had gratified the Eremite's curiosity respecting 
 their Christian brethren in Paynim lands, and sympatheti- 
 cally marvelled with him at the advancing fortunes of the 
 Crescent, Nicseus, who perceived that Iduna stood in great 
 need of rest, mentioned the fatigues of his more fragile 
 brother, and requested permission for him to retire. Where- 
 upon the Eremite himself, fetching a load of fresh rushes, 
 arranged them in one of the cells, and invited the fair 
 Iduna to repose. The daughter of Hunniades, first humb- 
 ling herself before the altar of the Virgin, and offering her 
 gratitude for all the late mercies vouchsafed unto her, and 
 then bidding a word of peace to her host and her com- 
 panion, withdrew to her hard-earned couch, and soon was 
 buried in a sleep as sweet and innocent as herself. 
 
ISKANDER. 4.31 
 
 But repose fell not upon the eye -lids of NIceeus in spite 
 of all his labours. The heart of the Athenian Prince was 
 distracted by the two most powerful of passions, Loye and 
 Jealousy ; and when the Eremite, pointing out to his guest 
 his allotted resting-place, himself retired to his regular and 
 simple slumbers, Nicseus quitted the cavern, and standing 
 upon the bank of the river, gazed in abstraction upon the 
 rushing waters foaming in the moonlight. The Prince of 
 Athens, with many admirable quaUties, was one of those 
 men who are influenced only by their passions, and who, in 
 the affairs of life, are invariably guided by their imagination 
 instead of their reason. At present all thought and feehng, 
 all considerations, and all circumstances, merged in the 
 overpowering love he entertained for Iduna, his determina- 
 tion to obtain her at all cost and peril, and his resolution 
 that she should never again meet Iskander, except as the 
 wife of Nicaeus. Compared with this paramount object, the 
 future seemed to vanish. The emancipation of his country, 
 the welfare of his friend, even the maintenance of his holy 
 creed, all those great and noble objects for which, under 
 other circumstances, he would have been prepared to sacri- 
 fice his fortune and his life, no longer interested or influ- 
 enced him ; and while the legions of the Crescent were on 
 the point of pouring into Greece to crush that patriotic and 
 Christian cause over which Iskander and himself had so 
 often mused, whose interests the disinterested absence of 
 Iskander, occasioned solely by his devotion to Mcoeus, had 
 certainly endangered, and perhaps, could the events of the 
 last few hours be known, even sacrificed, the Prince of 
 Athens resolved, unless Iduna would consent to become his, 
 at once to carry ofi' the daughter of Hunniades to some 
 distant country. Nor indeed, even with his easily excited 
 vanity, was Nica^us sanguine of obtaining his purpose by less 
 violent means. He was already a rejected suitor, and under 
 circumstances which scarcely had left hope. Nothing but the 
 
432 THE RISE OF 
 
 sole credit of her chivalric rescue could perhaps have oT>- 
 tained for him the interest in the heart of Iduna which he 
 coveted. For "while this exploit proffered an in-esistible 
 claim to her deepest gratitude, it indicated also, on the part 
 of her deliverer, the presence and possession of all those 
 great qualities, the absence of which in the character and 
 conduct of her suitor, Iduna had not, at a former period, en- 
 deavoured to conceal to be the principal cause of his rejec- 
 tion. And now, hj the unhappy course of circumstances, 
 the very deed on which he counted, with sanguine hope, as 
 the sure means of his success, seemed as it were to have 
 placed him in a still inferior situation than before. The 
 constant society of his mistress had fanned to all its former 
 force and ardour the flame which, apart from her and 
 hopeless, he had endeavoured to repress; while, on the 
 other hand, he could not conceal from himself, that Iduna 
 must feel that he had played in these great proceedings but 
 a secondary part ; that all the genius and all the generosity 
 of the exploit rested with Iskander, who, after having ob- 
 tained her freedom by so much energy, peril, sagacity and 
 skill, had secui^ed it by a devoted courage which might 
 shame all the knights of Christendom ; perhaps, too, had 
 secured it by his own life. 
 
 What if Iskander were no more ? It was a gi'eat contin- 
 gency. The eternal servitude of Greece, and the shameful 
 triumph of the Crescent, were involved, perhaps, in that 
 single event. And could the possession of Iduna compen- 
 sate for such disgrace and infamy? Let us not record the 
 wild response of passion. 
 
 It was midnight ere the restless Nicaeus, more exhausted 
 by his agitating reverie than by his previous exertions, re- 
 turned into the cavern, and found refage in sleep from all 
 his disquietudes. 
 
ISKANDER. 433 
 
 CHAPTER Xiy. 
 
 The Eremite rose with the sun ; and while he was yet at 
 matins, was joined by Iduna, refreshed and cheerful after 
 her unusual slumbers. After performing their devotions, 
 her venerable host proposed that they should go forth and 
 enjoy the morning air. So, descending the precipitous 
 bank of the river, he led the way to a small glen, the bed 
 of a tributary rivulet, now nearly exhausted. Beautiful 
 clumps of biroh-trees, and tall thin i3oplars, rose on each 
 side among the rocks, which were covered with bright 
 mosses, and parasitical plants of gay and various colours. 
 One side of the glen was touched with the golden and 
 grateful beams of the rising sun, and the other was in deep 
 shadow. 
 
 * Here you can enjoy nature and freedom in security ; ' 
 said the Eremite, 'for your enemies, if they have not 
 already given up their pursuit, will scarcely search this 
 sweet solitude.' 
 
 ' It is indeed sweet, holy father,' said Iduna ; ' but the 
 captive, who has escaped from captivity, can alone feel all 
 its sweetness.' 
 
 * It is true,' said the Eremite ; ' I also have been a 
 captive.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! holy father. To the Infidels ? ' 
 ' To the Infidels, gentle pilgrim.' 
 
 * Have you been at Adrianople ? ' 
 
 ' My oppressors were not the Paynim,' replied the Ere- 
 mite, ' but they were enemies far more dire, my own evil 
 passions. Time was when my eye sparkled like thine, 
 gentle pilgrim, and my heart was not as pure.' 
 
 * God is merciful,' said Iduna, * and without His aid, the 
 strongest are but shadows.' 
 
 F r 
 
434 '^^^ K^^E OF 
 
 * Ev^er tliink so,' replied the Eremite, ' and yon Avill 
 deserve rather His love than His mercj. Thirty long years 
 have I spent in this sohtude, meditating npon the past, 
 and it is a theme yet fertile in instraction. My hours are 
 never heavy, and memory is to me what action is to other 
 men.' 
 
 ' You have seen much, holy father ? ' 
 
 'And felt more. Yet you vrill perhaps think the result 
 of all my experience very slight, for I can only say unto 
 thee, trust not in thyself.' 
 
 * It is a great truth,' remarked Iduna, ' and leads to a 
 higher one.' 
 
 ' Even so,' replied the Eremite. ' We aro full of wisdom 
 in old age, as in winter this river is full of water, but the 
 fire of youth, like the summer sun, dries up the stream.' 
 
 Iduna did not reply. The Eremite attracted her atten- 
 tion to a patch of cresses on the opposite bank of the 
 stream. * Every morning I rise only to discover fresh 
 instances of omnipotent benevolence,' he exclaimed. 'Yes- 
 terday ye tasted my honey and my fish. To-day I can 
 ofier ye a fresh dainty. Wc will break our fast in this 
 pleasant glen. Rest thou here, gentle youth, and I will 
 summon thy brother to our meal. I fear me much he does 
 not bear so contented a spirit as thyself.' 
 
 ' He is older, and has seen more,' replied Iduna. 
 
 The Eremite shook his head, and leaning on his staff, 
 returned to the cavern. Iduna remained, seated on a 
 mossy rock, listening to the awakening birds, and musing 
 over the fate of Iskander. While she was indulging in this 
 reverie, her name was called. She looked up with a blush, 
 and beheld Nicseus. 
 
 * How fares my gentle comrade ? ' inquired the Prince of 
 Athens. 
 
 * As well as I hope you are, dear Niceeus. We have been 
 indeed fDi-tunate. in finding so kind a host,' 
 
ISKANDER, 435 
 
 ' I tliink I may now congratulate you on yoar safety,* 
 eaid the Prince. * This unfrequented pass will lead us in 
 two days to Epirus, nor do I indeed now fear pursuit.' 
 
 ' Acts and not words must express in future how much 
 we owe to you,' said Iduna. * My joy would be complete 
 if my father only knew of our safety, and if our late com- 
 panion were here to share it.' 
 
 ' Fear not for my friend,' repHed Nicaaus. * I have faith 
 in the fortune of Iskander.' 
 
 * If any one could succeed under such circumstances, he 
 doubtless is the man,' rejoined Iduna; 'but it was indeed 
 an awful crisis in his fate.* 
 
 ' Trust me, dear lady, it is wise to banish gloomy 
 thoughts.' 
 
 ' We can give him only our thoughts,' said Iduna, ' and 
 when we remember how much is dependent on his Hfe, 
 can they be cheerful ? ' 
 
 ' Mine must be so, when I am in the presence of Iduna,' 
 replied Nicaeus. 
 
 The daughter of Hunniades gathered moss from the rock, 
 and threw it into the stream. 
 
 * Dear lady,' said the Prince of Athens, seating himself 
 by her side, and stealing her gentle hand. ' Pardon me, if 
 an irrepressible feeling at this moment impels me to recur 
 to a subject, which, I would fain hope, were not so un- 
 pleasing to you, as once unhappily you deemed it. O ! 
 Iduna, best and dearest, we are once more together ; once 
 more I gaze upon that unrivalled form, and listen to the 
 music of that matchless voice. I sought you, I perhaps 
 violated my pledge, but I sought you in captivity and sor- 
 row. Pardon me, pity me, Iduna ! ! Iduna, if possible, 
 love me ! * 
 
 She turned away her head, she turned away her stream- 
 ing eyes. ' It is impossible not to love my deliverer,' she 
 replied, in a low and tremulous voice, * even could ho not 
 
436 THE RISE OF 
 
 prefer the many other claims to affection which are pos- 
 sessed by the Prince of Athens. I was not prepared for 
 this renewal of a painful subject, perhaps not under any 
 circumstances, but least of all under those in which we now 
 find ourselves.' 
 
 * Alas ! ' exclaimed the prince, * I can no longer control 
 my passion. My Hfe, not my happiness merely, depends 
 upon Iduna becoming mine. Bear with me, beloved, bear 
 with me ! Were you Nicaeus, you too would need forgive- 
 ness.' 
 
 ' I beseech you, cease ! ' exclaimed Iduna, in a firmer 
 voice ; and, withdrawing her hand, she suddenly rose. 
 * This is neither the time nor place for such conversation. 
 I have not forgotten that, but a few days back, I was a 
 hopeless captive, and that my life and fame are even now 
 in danger. Great mercies have been vouchsafed to me ; 
 but still I perhaps need the hourly interposition of heavenly 
 aid. Other than such worldly thoughts should fill my 
 mind, and do. Dear Nicaeus,' she continued, in a soothing 
 tone, ' you have nobly commenced a most heroic enterprise : 
 fulfil it in like spirit.* 
 
 He would have replied ; but at this moment the staff of 
 the Eremite sounded among the rocks. Baffled, and dark 
 with rage and passion, the Piince of Athens quitt^ed Iduna, 
 and strolled towards the upper part of the glen, to conceal 
 his anger and disappointment. 
 
 *Eat, gentle youth,' said the Eremite. *Will not thy 
 brother join us ? What may be his name ? ' 
 
 *Kic8eus, holy father.' 
 'And thine ? ' 
 
 Iduna blushed and hesitated. At length, in her con- 
 fusion, she replied, ' Iskander.' 
 
 * Niceei:^ ! ' called out the Eremite, ' Iskander and myself 
 await thee ! ' 
 
 Iduna trembled. She was agreeably surprised when th? 
 
JSKANDER. 437 
 
 prince returned with a smiling countenance, and joined in 
 the meal, with many cheerful words. 
 
 ' Now, I propose,' said the Eremite, * that yourself and 
 your brother Iskander should tarry with me some days, if, 
 indeed, my simple fare have any temptation.' 
 
 'I thank thee, holy father,' replied Nicseus, 'but our 
 affairs are urgent ; nor indeed could I have tarried here at 
 all, had it not been for my young Iskander here, who, as 
 you may easily believe, is little accustomed to his late ex- 
 ertions. But, indeed, towards sunset, we must proceed.' 
 
 * Bearing with us,' added Iduna, * a most grateful recol- 
 lection of our host.' 
 
 * God be with ye, wherever ye may proceed,' replied the 
 Eremite. 
 
 ' My trust is indeed in Him,' rejoined Iduna. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 And so, two hours before sunset, mounting their refreshed 
 horses, Nicseus and Iduna quitted, with many kind words, 
 the cavern of the Eremite, and took their way along the 
 winding bank of the river. Throughout the moonlit night 
 they travelled, ascending the last and highest chain of 
 mountains, and reaching the summit by dawn. The cheer- 
 ful light of morning revealed to them the happy plains of 
 a Christian country. With joyful spirits they descended 
 into the fertile land, and stopped at a beautiful Greek 
 village, embowered in orchards and groves of olive-trees. 
 
 The Prince of Athens instantly inquired for the Primate, 
 or chief personage of the village, and was conducted to 
 his house ; but its master, he was informed, was without, 
 supervising the commencement of the vintage. Leaving 
 Iduna with the family of the Primate, Nicoeus went in 
 
438 THE RISE OF 
 
 searcli of him. The vineyard was full of gronps, busied in 
 the most elegant and joyous of hnman occupations, gather- 
 ing, with infinite bursts of merriment, the harvest of the 
 vine. Some mounted on ladders, fiixed against the festoon- 
 ing branches, plucked the rich bunches, and threw them 
 below, where girls, singing in chorus, caught them in 
 panniers, or their extended drapery. In tie centre of the 
 vineyard, a middle-aged man watched with a calm, but 
 vigilant eye, the whole proceedings, and occasionally 
 stimulated the indolent, or prompted the inexperienced. 
 
 ' Christo ! ' said the Prince of Athens, when he had ap- 
 proached him. The Primate turned round, but evidently 
 did not immediately recognise the person who addressed 
 him. 
 
 ' I see,' continued the prince, * that my meditated caution 
 was unnecessary. My strange garb is a sufficient disguise.' 
 
 ' The Prince NicaBus ! ' exclaimed the Primate. * He is, 
 indeed, disguised, but will, I am sure, pardon his faithful 
 servant.' 
 
 ' N'ot a word, Christo ! ' rephed the prince. ' To be brief, 
 I have crossed the mountains from Roumelia, and have 
 only within this hour recognised the spot whither I have 
 chanced to arrive. I have a companion with me. I would 
 not be known. You comprehend ? Affairs of state. I take 
 it for granted that there are none here who will recognise 
 me, after three years' absence, in this dress.' 
 
 ' You may feel secure, my lord,' replied Christo. * K you 
 puzzled me, who have known you since you were no bigger 
 than this bunch of grapes, you will quite confound the rest.' 
 
 * 'Tis well. I shall stay here a day or two, in order to 
 give them an opportunity to prepare for my reception. In 
 the meantime, it is necessary to send on a courier at once. 
 You must manage all this for me, Christo. How are your 
 daughters ? ' 
 
 * So, so, please your highness,* replied Christo. 'A man 
 
ISKANDER. 439 
 
 witli seven ctaughters lias got trouble for every day in the 
 week.* 
 
 * But not when they are so pretty as yours are ! * 
 
 * Poh ! poh ! handsome is that handsome does ; and as for 
 Alexina, she wants to be married.* 
 
 'Very natural. Let her marry, by all means.' 
 
 * But Helena wants to do the same.' 
 
 * More natural still ; for, if possible, she is prettier. For 
 my part, I could marry them both.' 
 
 * Ay, ay ! that is all very well ; but handsome is that hand- 
 some does. I have no objection to Alexina marrying, and 
 even Helena ; but then there is Lais ' 
 
 ' Hah ! hah ! hah ! ' exclaimed the prince. * I see, my dear 
 Christo, that my foster sisters give you a very proper portion 
 of trouble. However, I must be off to my travelling com- 
 panion. Come in as soon as you can, my dear fellow, and 
 we will settle everything. A good vintage to you, and 
 only as much mischief as necessary.' So saying, the prince 
 tripped away. 
 
 'Well! who would have thought of seeing him here!' 
 exclaimed the worthy Primate. ' The same gay dog as ever ! 
 What can he have been doing in Roumelia? Affairs of 
 state, indeed ! I'll wager my new Epiphany scarf, that, 
 whatever the affairs are, there is a pretty girl in the case.' 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 The fair Iduna, after all her perils and sufferings, was at 
 length sheltered in safety under a kind and domestic roof. 
 Alexina, and Helena, and Lais, and all the other sisters 
 emulated each other in the attentions which they lavished 
 npon the two brothers, but especially the youngest. Their 
 kindness, indeed, was only equalled by their ceaseless 
 curiosity, and had they ever waited for the answers of 
 
440 THE RISE OF 
 
 Idana to their questions, the daughter of Hunniades might, 
 perhaps, have been somewhat puzzled to reconcile her re- 
 sponses with probability. Helena answered the questions 
 of Alexina : Lais anticipated even Helena. All that Iduna 
 had to do was to smile and be silent, and it was universally 
 agreed that Iskander was singularly shy as well as exces- 
 sively handsome. In the meantime, when Nicaeus met Iduna 
 in the evening of the second day of their visit, he informed 
 her that he had been so fortunate as to resume an ac- 
 quaintance with an old companion in arms in the person of 
 a neighbouring noble, who had invited them to rest at his 
 castle at the end of their next day's journey. He told her 
 likewise that he had despatched a courier to Croia to enquire 
 after Iskander, who, he expected, in the course of a very few 
 days, would bring them intelligence to guide their future 
 movements, and decide whether they should at once pro- 
 ceed to the capital of Epirus, or advance into Bulgaria, in 
 case Hunniades was still in the field. On the morrow, 
 therefore, they proceeded on their journey. Nicaeus had 
 procured a Htter for Iduna, for which her dehcate health 
 was an excuse to Alexina and her sisters, and they were 
 attended by a small body of well-armed cavalry, for, ac- 
 cording to the accounts which Mcsbus had received, the 
 countiy was still disturbed. They departed at break of 
 day, Nicaeus riding by the side of the litter, and occasion- 
 ally making anxious inquiries after the well-being of his 
 fair charge. An hour after noon they rested at a well, sur- 
 rounded by olive-trees, until the extreme heat was some- 
 what alla^^ed ; and then remounting, proceeded in the 
 direction of an undulating ridge of green hills, that par- 
 tially intersected the wide plain. Towards sunset the Prince 
 of Athens withdrew the curtains of the Htter, and called the 
 attention of Iduna to a very fair castle, rising on a fertile 
 eminence, and sparkling in the quivering beams of dying 
 light. 
 
JSKANDER. 441 
 
 *I fear/ said Nicaeus, 'that my friend Justinian will 
 scarcely have returned, but we are old comrades, and he 
 desired me to act as his seneschal. For your sake I am 
 sorry, Iduna, for I feel convinced that he would please you.' 
 
 ' It is, indeed, a fair castle,' replied Iduna, ' and none but 
 a true knight deserves such a noble residence.' 
 
 While she spoke the commander of the escort sounded 
 his bugle, and they commenced the ascent of the steep, a 
 winding road, cut through a thick wood of evergreen shrubs. 
 The gradual and easy ascent soon brought them to a portal 
 flanked with towers, which admitted them into the out- 
 works of the fortification. Here they found several soldiers 
 on guard, and the commander again sounding his bugle, 
 the gates of the castle opened, and the seneschal, attended 
 by a suite of many domestics, advanced and welcomed 
 Nicaeus and Iduna. The Prince of Athens dismounting, 
 assisted his fair companion from the litter, and leading her 
 by the hand, and preceded by the seneschal, entered the 
 castle. 
 
 They passed through a magnificent hall, hung with choice 
 armour, and ascending a staircase of Pentelic marble, were 
 ushered into a suite of lofty chambers, lined with Oriental 
 tapestry, and furnished with many costly couches and 
 cabinets. While they admired a spectacle so different to 
 anything they had recently beheld or experienced, the 
 seneschal, followed by a number of slaves in splendid 
 attire, advanced and offered them rare and choice refresh- 
 ments, coffee and confectionery, sherbets and spiced wines. 
 When they had partaken of this elegant cheer, Nica3us inti- 
 mated to the seneschal that the Lady Iduna might probably 
 wish to retire, and instantly a discreet matron, followed by 
 six beautiful girls, each bearing a fragrant torch of cin- 
 namon and roses, advanced and offered to conduct the Lady 
 Iduna to her apartments. 
 
 The matron and her company of maidens conducted tho 
 
442 
 
 THE RISE OF 
 
 daughter of Hunmades down a long gallery, wliich led to a 
 snite of the prettiest chambers in the world. The first was 
 an antechamber, painted like a bower, but filled with the 
 mnsic of living birds ; the second, which was much larger, 
 was entirely covered with Venetian mirrors, and resting 
 on a bright Persian carpet were many conches of crimson 
 velvet, covered with a variety of sumptuous dresses ; the 
 third room wa-s a bath, made in the semblance of a gigantic 
 shell. Its roof was of transparent alabaster, glowing with 
 shadowy light. 
 
 CHAPTER XYn. 
 
 A FLOURISH of trumpets announced the return of the Lady 
 Iduna; and the Prince of Athens, magnificently attired, 
 came forward with a smile, and led her, with a compliment 
 on her resuming the dress of her sex, if not of her country, 
 to the banquet. Iduna was not uninfluenced by that ex- 
 citement which is insensibly produced by a sudden change 
 of scene and circumstances, and especially by an unexpected 
 transition from hardship, peril, and sufiering, to luxury, 
 security and enjoyment. Their spirits were elevated and 
 gay ; she smiled upon Nicsaus with a cheerful sympathy. 
 They feasted, they listened to sweet music, they talked over 
 their late adventures, and, animated by their own enjoyment, 
 they became more sanguine as to the fate of Iskander. 
 
 ' In two or three days we shall know more,' said NicoBus. 
 ' In the meantime, rest is absolutely necessary to you. It 
 is only now that you will begin to be sensible of the exer- 
 tion you have made. If Iskander be at Croia, he has 
 already informed your father of your escape ; if he have 
 not arrived, I have arranged that a courier shall be des- 
 patched to Huuniades fi-om that city. Do not be anxious. 
 
ISKANDER. 443 
 
 Try to be happy. I am myself sanguine tliat yon will find 
 all well. Come, pledge me your father's health, fair lady, 
 m this goblet of Tenedos ! ' 
 
 * How know I that at this moment he may not be at the 
 point of death,' replied Iduna. * When I am absent from 
 those I love, I dream only of their unhappiness.' 
 
 ' At this moment also,' rejoined Nicaeus, ' he dreams 
 perhaps of your imprisonment among barbarians. Yet how 
 mistaken ! Let that consideration support you. Come ! 
 here is to the Eremite.' 
 
 * As willing, if not as sumptuous, a host as our present 
 one,' said Iduna; 'and when, by-the-bye, do you think that 
 your friend, the Lord Justinian, will arrive ? ' 
 
 'Oh! never mind him,' said NicjBus. 'He would have 
 arrived to-morrow, but the great news which I gave him 
 has probably changed his plans. I told him of the ap- 
 proaching invasion, and he has perhaps found it necessary 
 to visit the neighbouring chieftains, or even to go on to 
 Croia.' 
 
 ' Well-a-day ! ' exclaimed Iduna, ' I would we were in 
 my father's camp ! ' 
 
 ' We shall soon be there, dear lady,' replied the Prince. 
 * Come, worthy seneschal,' he added, turning to that 
 functionary, ' drink to this noble lady's happy meeting 
 with her friends.' 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Three or four days passed away at the castle of Justinian, 
 in which Mcseus used his utmost exertions to divert the 
 anxiety of Iduna. One day was spent in examining the 
 castle, on another he amused her with a hawking party, on 
 a third he carried her to the neighbouring ruins of a 
 temple, and read his favourite -^schylus to her amid its 
 
44^^ THE RISE OF 
 
 lone and elegant columns. It was impossible for any odd to 
 be more amiable and entertaining, and Iduna could not 
 resist recognising bis many virtues and accomplisbments. 
 The courier bad not yet returned from Croia, which Mcaeus 
 accounted for by many satisfactory reasons. The suspense, 
 however, at length became so painful to Iduna, that she 
 proposed to the Prince of Athens that they should, without 
 further delay, proceed to that city. As usual, Mcoeus was 
 not wanting in many plausible arguments in favour of 
 their remaining at the castle, but Iduna was resolute. 
 
 * Indeed, dear Nicseus,' she said, ' my anxiety to see my 
 father, or hear from him, is so great, that there is scarcely 
 any danger which I would not encounter to gratify my 
 wish. I feel that I have already taxed your endurance too 
 much. But we are no longer in a hostile land, and guards 
 and guides are to be engaged. Let me then depart 
 alone ! ' 
 
 * Iduna ! ' exclaimed Nicaeus, reproachfully. * Alas ! 
 Iduna, you are cruel, but I did not expect this ! ' 
 
 ' Dear Nicaeus ! * she answered, * you always misinterpret 
 me ! It would infinitely delight me to be restored to 
 Hunniades by yourself, but these are no common times, 
 and you are no common person You forget that there is 
 one that has greater claims upon you even than a forlorn 
 maiden, your country. And whether Iskander be at Croia 
 or not, Greece requires the presence and exertions of the 
 Prince of Athens.' 
 
 ' I have no country,' replied Niceeus, mournfully, ' and 
 no object for which to exert myself.' 
 
 * Nicaeus ! Is this the poetic patriot who was yesterday 
 envying Themistocles ? ' 
 
 * Alas ! Iduna, yesterday you were my muse. I do not 
 wonder you are wearied of this castle,' continued the princo 
 in a melancholy tone. * This spot contains nothing to in- 
 terest you ; but for me, it holds all that is dear, and, ! 
 
ISKANDER. 445 
 
 gentle maiden, one smile from you, one smile of inspiration, 
 and I would not envy Themistocles, and might perhaps 
 rival him.' 
 
 They were walking together in the hall of the castle ; 
 Iduna stepped aside and affected to examine a curioua 
 buckler, Nicasus followed her, and placing his arm gently 
 in hers, led her away. 
 
 * Dearest Iduna,' he said, * pardon me, but men struggle 
 for their fate. Mine is in your power. It is a contest be- 
 tween misery and happiness, glory and perhaps infamy. 
 Do not then wonder that I will not yield my chance of the 
 brighter fortune without an effort. Once more I appeal to 
 your pity, if not to your love. Were Iduna mine, were she 
 to hold out but the possibility of her being mine, there is 
 no career, solemnly I avow what solemnly I feel, there is no 
 career of which I could not be capable, and no condition to 
 which I would not willingly subscribe. But this certainty, 
 or this contingency, I must have : I cannot exist without 
 the alternative. And now, upon my knees, I implore her 
 to grant it to me ! ' 
 
 'Nicaeus,' said Iduna, *this continued recurrence to a 
 forbidden subject is most ungenerous.' 
 
 * Alas ! Iduna, my life depends upon a word, which you 
 will not speak, and you talk of generosity. No ! Iduna, it 
 is not I that am ungenerous.' 
 
 * Let me say then unreasonable. Prince Nicaeus.' 
 
 * Say what you like, Iduna, provided that you say that 
 you are mine.' 
 
 * Pardon me, sir, I am free.' 
 
 * Free ! You have ever underrated me, Iduna. To whom 
 do you owe this boasted freedom ? ' 
 
 * This is not the first time,' remarked Iduna, ' tliat you 
 have reminded me of an obligation, the memory of which 
 is indelibly impressed upon my heart, and for which even 
 the present conversation eannot" make me feel less gratufal 
 
446 THE RISE OF 
 
 I can never forget tliat I owe all tliat is dear to yourself 
 and your companion.' 
 
 * My companion ! ' replied tlie Prince of Athens, pale and 
 passionate. ' My companion ! Am I ever to be reminded 
 of my companion ? ' 
 
 * I^icaBus ! ' said Iduna ; ' if you forget what is due to me, 
 at least endeavour to remember what is due to yourself ? ' 
 
 ' Beautiful being ! ' said the prince, advancing and pas- 
 sionately seizing her hand ; * pardon me ! pardon me ! I am 
 not master of my reason ! I am nothing, I am nothing while 
 Iduna hesitates ! ' 
 
 ' She does not hesitate, Nicseus. I desire, I require, that 
 this conversation shall cease ; shall never, never be re- 
 newed.' 
 
 * And I tell thee, haughty woman,' said the Prince of 
 Athens, grinding his teeth, and speaking with violent 
 action, * that I will no longer be despised with impunity. 
 Iduna is mine, or is no one else's.' 
 
 ' Is it possible ? ' exclaimed the daughter of Hunniades. 
 ' Is it, indeed, come to this ? But why am I surprised ? 
 I have long known Nicasus. I quit this castle instantly.' 
 
 ' You are a prisoner,' replied the prince calmly, and 
 leaning with folded arms against the wall. 
 
 ' A prisoner ! ' exclaimed Iduna, a little alarmed. ' A 
 prisoner! I defy you, sir. You are only a guest like 
 myself. I will appeal to the seneschal in the absence of 
 his lord. He will never permit the honour of his master's 
 flag to be violated by the irrational caprice of a passionate 
 boy.' 
 
 * What lord ? ' inquired Nicseus. 
 
 * Your friend, the Lord Justinian,' answered Iduna. ' He 
 could little anticipate such an abuse of his hospitahty.' 
 
 * My friend, the Lord Justinian ! ' replied Nicseus, with a 
 malignant smile. ' I am surprised that a personage of the 
 Lady Iduna's dear discrimination should so easily be de- 
 
ISKANDER. 447 
 
 ceived by "a passionate boy! " Is it possible that yon 
 could have supposed for a moment that there was any other 
 lord of this castle save your devoted slave ? * 
 
 * What ! ' exclaimed Iduna, really frightened. 
 
 * I have, indeed, the honour of finding the Lady Iduna 
 my guest,' continued Mcjeus, in a tone of bitter railery. 
 * This castle of Kallista, the fairest in all Epirus, I inherit 
 from my mother. Of late I have seldom visited it ; but, 
 indeed, it will become a favourite residence of mine, if it 
 be, as I anticipate, the scene of my nuptial ceremony.' 
 
 Iduna looked around her with astonishment, then threw 
 herself upon a couch, and burst into tears. The Prince of 
 Athens walked up and down the hall with an air of deter- 
 mined coolness. 
 
 ' Perfidious ! ' exclaimed Iduna between her sobs. 
 
 'Lady Iduna,' said the prince, and he seated himself by 
 her side, * I will not attempt to palliate a deception which 
 your charms could alone inspire and can alone justify. 
 Hear me. Lady Iduna, hear me with calmness. I love you ; 
 I love you with a passion which has been as constant as it 
 is strong. My birth, my rank, my fortunes, do not dis- 
 qualify me for an union with the daughter of the great 
 Hunniades. If my personal claims may sink in comparison 
 with her surpassing excellence, I am yet to learn that any 
 other prince in Christendom can urge a more efiective plea. 
 I am young ; the ladies of the court have called me hand- 
 some ; by your great father's side I have broken some lances 
 in your honour ; and even Iduna once confessed she thought 
 me clever. Come, come, be mercHul ! Let my beautiful 
 Athens receive a fitting mistress! A holy father is in 
 readiness, dear maiden. Come now, one smile ! In a few 
 days we shall reach your father's camp, and then we will 
 kneel, as I do now, and beg a blessing on our happy union.' 
 As he spoke, he dropped upon his knee, and stealing her 
 hand, looked into Jier face. It was sorrowful and gloomy. 
 
448 THE RISE OF 
 
 * Ifc is in vain, Nicsstis,' said Iduna, ' to appeal to yonr 
 generosity ; it is useless to talk of the past ; it is idle to 
 reproacli yon for the present. I am a woman, alone and 
 persecnted, where I could least anticipate persecution. 
 Nicaeus, I never can be yours ; and now I deliver myself to 
 the mercy of Almighty God.' 
 
 * 'Tis well,' said Nicasus. ' From the tower of the castle you 
 may behold the waves of the Ionian Sea. You will remain 
 here a close prisoner, until one of my galleys arrives from 
 Piraeus to bear us to Italy. Mine you must be, Iduna. It 
 remains for you to decide under what circumstances. Con- 
 tinue in your obstinacy, and you may bid farewell for ever 
 to your country and to your father. Be reasonable, and a 
 destiny awaits you, which offers everything that has hitherto 
 been considered the source or cause of happiness.' Thus 
 speaking, the prince retired, leaving the Lady Iduna to her 
 own unhappy thoughts. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 The Lady Iduna was at first inclined to view the conduct 
 of the Prince of Athens, as one of those passionate and 
 passing ebullitions in which her long acquaintance with him 
 had taught her he was accustomed to indulge. But when 
 on retii'ing soon after to her apartments, she was informed 
 by her attendant matron that she must in future consider 
 herself a prisoner, and not venture again to quit them 
 without permission, she began to tremble at the possible 
 violence of an ill-regulated mind. She endeavoured to 
 interest her attendant in her behalf ; but the matron was 
 too well schooled to evince any feeling or express any 
 opinion on the subject ; and indeed, at length, fairly in- 
 formed Iduna that she was commanded to confine her 
 conversation to tlip duties of her office. 
 
' ISKANDER: 449 
 
 The Lady Iduna was very unhappy. She thought of her 
 father, she thought of Iskander. The past seemed a dream; 
 she was often tempted to believe that she was still, and 
 had ever been, a prisoner in the Serail of Adrianople ; and 
 that all the late wonderful incidents of her life were but 
 the shifting scenes of some wild slumber. And then some 
 slight incident, the sound of a bell, or the sight of some 
 holy emblem, assured her she was in a Christian land, and 
 convinced her of the strange truth that she was indeed in 
 captivity, and a prisoner, above all others, to the fond 
 companion of her youth. Her indignation at the conduct 
 of Nicseus roused her courage ; she resolved to make an 
 effort to escape. Her rooms were only lighted from above • 
 she determined to steal forth at night into the gallery; the 
 door was secured. She hastened back to her chamber in 
 fear and son*ow, and wept. 
 
 T^vice in the course of the day the stem and silent 
 matron visited Iduna with her food ; and as she retired, 
 secured the door. This was the only individual that the 
 imprisoned lady ever beheld. And thus heavily rolled on 
 upwards of a week. On the eve of the ninth day, Iduna 
 was surprised by the matron presenting her a letter as she 
 quitted the chamber for the night. Iduna seized it with 
 a feeling of curiosity not unmixed with pleasure. It was 
 the only incident that had occurred during her captivity. 
 She recognised the handwriting of Nicseus, and threw it 
 down with vexation at her silliness in supposing, for a 
 moment, that the matron could have been the emissary of 
 any other person. 
 
 Tet the letter must be read, and at length she opened it. 
 It informed her that a ship had arrived from Athens at the 
 coast, and that to-morrow she must depart for Italy. It 
 told her also, that the Turks, under Maliomed, had invaded 
 Albania ; and that the Hungarians, under the command of 
 lier father, had come to support the Cross. It said nothing 
 
 G G 
 
450 THE RISE OF 
 
 of Iskander. But it reminded lier that little more tlian the 
 same time that wonld cany her to the coast to embark for 
 a foreign land, wonld, were she wise, alike enable Nicsens 
 to place her in her father's arms, and allow him to join in 
 the great struggle for his country and his creed. The 
 letter was written with firmness, but tenderly. It left, 
 however, on the mind of Idnna an impression of the des- 
 perate resolution of the writer. 
 
 Now it so happened, that as this nnhappy lady jnmped 
 from her couch, and paced the room in the perturbation of 
 her mind, the wind of her drapery extinguished her lamp. 
 As her attendant, or visitor, had paid her last visit for the 
 day, there seemed little chance of its being again illumined. 
 The miserable are always more nnhappy in the dark. Light 
 is the greatest of comforters. And so this little misfortune 
 seemed to the forlorn Iduna almost overwhelming. And 
 as she attempted to look around, and wrung her hands in 
 very woe, her attention was attracted by a brilliant streak 
 of light upon the wall, which greatly surprised her. She 
 groped her way in its direction, and slowly stretching forth 
 her hand, observed that it made its way through a chink in 
 the frame of one of the great mirrors which were inlaid in 
 the wall. And as she pressed the frame, she felt to her 
 surprise that it sprang forward. Had she not been vcr^ 
 cautious the advancing mirror would have struck her with 
 great force, but she had presence of mind to withdraw her 
 hand very gradually, repressing the swiftness of the spring. 
 The aperture occasioned by the opening of the miiTor 
 consisted of a recess, formed by a closed-up window. An 
 old wooden shutter, or blind, in so ruinous a state, that the 
 light freely made its way, was the only barrier against the 
 elements. Iduna, seizing the handle which remained, at 
 once drew it open with Httle difficulty. 
 
 The captive gazed with gladdened feelings upon the free 
 and beautiful scone. Beneath her rose the rich and aro- 
 
' ISKANDER.' 451 
 
 matic slirubs tinged with the soft and silver light of eve : 
 before her extended the wide and fertile champaign, skirted 
 by the dark and undulating mountains : in the clear sky, 
 glittering and sharp, sparkled the first crescent of the new 
 moon, an auspicious omen to the Moslemin invaders. 
 
 Iduna gazed with joy upon the landscape, and then 
 hastily descending from the recess, she placed her hands to 
 her eyes, so long unaccustomed to the light. Perhaps, 
 too, she indulged in momentary meditation. For suddenly 
 seizing a number of shawls which were lying on one of the 
 couches, she knotted them together, and then, striving with 
 all her force, she placed the heaviest couch on one end 
 of the costly cord, and then throwing the other out of the 
 window, and entrusting herself to the merciful care of the 
 holy Virgin, the brave daughter of Hunniades successfully 
 dropped down into the garden below. 
 
 She stopped to breathe, and to revel in her emancipated 
 existence. It was a bold enterprise gallantly achieved. 
 Bat the danger had now only commenced. She found that 
 she had alighted at the back of the castle. She stole along 
 upon tip-toe, timid as a fawn. She remembered a small 
 wicket-gate that led into the open country. She arrived 
 at the gate. It was of course guarded. The single sentinel 
 was kneeling before an image of St. George, beside him 
 was an empty drinking-cup and an exhausted wine-skin. 
 
 ' Holy Saint ! ' exclaimed the pious sentinel, ' preserve us 
 from all Turkish infidels ! ' Iduna stole behind him. * Sliall 
 men who drink no wine conquer true Christians ! ' con- 
 tinued the sentinel. Iduna placed her hand upon the lock. 
 ' We thank thee for our good vintage,' said the sentinel. 
 Iduna opened the gate with the noiseless touch which a 
 feminine finger can alone command. * And for the rise of 
 the Lord Iskander ! ' added the sentinel. Iduna escaped ! 
 
 Now she indeed was free. Swiftly she ran over the wide 
 plain. She hoped to reach some town or village before her 
 
452 THE RISE OF 
 
 escape could be discovered, and slie hurried on for tliree 
 hours without resting. She came to a beautiful grove of 
 olive-trees that spread in extensive ramifications about the 
 plain. And through this beautiful grove of olive-trees her 
 path seemed to lead. So she entered and advanced. And 
 when she had journeyed for about a mile, she came to an 
 open and verdant piece of ground, which was, as it were, 
 the heart of the grove. In its centre rose a fair and an- 
 tique structure of white m.arble, shrouding from the noon- 
 day sun the perennial flow of a famous fountain. It was 
 near midnight. Iduna was wearied, and she sat down 
 upon the steps of the fountain for rest. And while she wa? 
 musing over all the strange adventures of her life, she heard 
 a rustling in the wood, and being alarmed, she rose and hid 
 herself behind a tree. 
 
 And while she stood there, with palpitating heart, the 
 figure of a man advanced to the fountain from an opposite 
 direction of the grove. He went up the steps, and looked 
 down upon the spring as if he were about to drink, but 
 instead of doing that, he drew his scimetar, and plunged it 
 into the water, and called out Avith a loud voice the name 
 of * Iskander ! ' three times. Whereupon Iduna, actuated 
 by an irresistible impulse, came forward from her hiding- 
 place, but instantly gave a loud shriek when she beheld 
 the Prince Mahomed ! 
 
 ' O ! night of glory ! ' exclaimed the prince, advancing. 
 ' Do I indeed behold the fair Iduna ! This is truly magic ! ' 
 
 ' Away ! away ! ' exclaimed the distracted Iduna, as she 
 endeavoured to fly from him. 
 
 ' He has kept his word, that cunning leech, better than I 
 expected,' said Mahomed, seizing her. 
 
 ' As well as you deserve, ravisher ! ' exclaimed a majestic 
 voice. A tall figure rushed forward from the wood, and 
 dashed back the Turk. 
 
ISKANDER. 453 
 
 * I am hare to complete my contract. Prince Mahomed,* 
 Faid the stranger, drawing his sword. 
 
 ' Iskander ! ' exclaimed the prince. 
 
 ' We have met before, prince. Let us so act now that 
 we may meet for the last time.' 
 
 ' Infamous, infernal traitor,' exclaimed Mahomed, * dost 
 tliou, indeed, imagine that I ^ill sully my imperial blade 
 with the blood of my runaway slave ! No ! I came here 
 to secure thy panishment, but I cannot condescend to 
 become thy punisher. Advance, guards, and seize him ! 
 Seize them both ! ' 
 
 Iduna flew to Iskander, who caught her in one arm, 
 while he waved his scimetar with the other. The guards 
 of Mahomed poured forth from the side of the grove whence 
 the prince had issued. 
 
 * And dost thou indeed think, Mahomed,' said Iskander, 
 * that I have been educated in the Seraglio to be duped by 
 ^Moslem craft. I offer thee single combat if thou desirest it, 
 but combat as we may, the struggle shall be equal.' He 
 whistled, and instantly a body of Hungarians, headed by 
 Hunniades himself, advanced from the side of the grove 
 wh'^nce Iskander had issued. 
 
 * Come on, then,' said Mahomed ; * each to his man.' 
 Their swords clashed, but the principal attendants of the 
 son of Amurath deeming the affair under the present cir- 
 cumstances assumed the character of a mere rash adventure, 
 bore away the Turkisn prince. 
 
 * To-morrow, then, this fray shall be decided on the plains 
 of Kallista,' said Mahomed. 
 
 * Epirus is prepared,' replied Iskander. 
 
 The Turks withdrew. Iskander bore the senseless form 
 of Iduna to her father. Hunniades embraced his long-lost 
 child. They sprinkled her face with water from the foun-- 
 tain. She revived. 
 
454 THE RISE OF 
 
 * Wliere is Nic89Tis ? ' inquired Iskander ; * and how came 
 yoii again, dear lady, in the power of Mahomed ? ' 
 
 ' Alas ! noble sir, my twice deliverer,' answered Iduna, 
 * I have, indeed, again been doomed to captivity, but my 
 persecutor, I blush to say, was this time a Christian prince.* 
 
 'Holy Virgin!' exclaimed Iskander. *Who can this 
 villain be?' 
 
 ' The villain. Lord Iskander, is your friend : and your 
 pupil, dear father.' 
 
 ^Nicaeus of Athens ! ' exclaimed Hunniades. 
 
 Iskander was silent and melancholy. 
 
 Thereupon the Lady Iduna recounted to her father and 
 Iskander, sitting between them on the margin of the fount, 
 all that had occurred to her, since herself and Nicseus parted 
 with Iskander ; nor did she omit to relate to Hunniades all 
 the devotion of Iskander, respecting which, like a truly 
 brave man, he had himself been silent. The great Hunniades 
 scarcely knew which rather to do, to lavish his affection on 
 his beloved child, or his gratitude upon Iskander. Thus 
 they went on conversing for some time, Iskander placing 
 his own cloak around Iduna, and almost unconsciously 
 winding his arm around her unresisting form. 
 
 Just as they were preparing to return to the Christian 
 camp, a great noise was heard in the grove, and presently, 
 in the direction whence Iduna had arrived, there came a 
 band of men, bearing torches and examining the grove in 
 all directions in great agitation. Iskander and Hunniades 
 stood upon their guard, but soon perceived they were 
 Greeks. Their leader, seeing a group near the fountain, 
 advanced to make inquiries respecting the object of his 
 search, but when he indeed recognised the persons who 
 formed the group, the torch fell from his grasp, and he 
 turned away his head and hid his face in his hands. 
 
 Iduna clung to her father ; Iskander stood vnth his eyes 
 fixed upon the ^ound, but Hunniades, stem and terrible, 
 
ISKANDER. 4-55 
 
 disembarrassing Hmself of the grasp of his daughter, ad- 
 vanced and laid his hand upon the stranger. 
 
 * Young man,* said the noble father, ' were it contrition 
 instead of shame that inspired this attitude, it might be 
 better. I have often warned you of the fatal consequences 
 of a reckless indulgence of the passions. More than once I 
 have predicted to you, that, however great might be your 
 confidence in your ingenuity and your resources, the hour 
 would arrive when such a career would place you in a posi- 
 tion as despicable as it was shameful. That hour has 
 arrived, and that position is now filled by the Prince of 
 Athens. You stand before the three individuals in this 
 world whom you have most injured, and whom you were 
 most bound to love and to protect. Here is a friend, who 
 has hazarded his prosperity and his existence for your life 
 and your happiness. And you have made him a mere 
 pander to your lusts, and then deserted him in his greatest 
 necessities. This maiden was the companion of your youth, 
 and entitled to your kindest offices. You have treated her 
 infinitely worse than her Turkish captor. And for myself, 
 sir, your father was my dearest friend. I endeavoured to 
 repay his friendship by supplying his place to his orphan 
 child. How I discharged my duty it becomes not me to 
 say : how you have discharged yours, this lady here, my 
 daughter, your late prisoner, sir, can best prove.' 
 
 * Oh ! spare me, spare me, sir,' said the Prince of Athens, 
 iuming and falling upon his knee. * I am most wretched. 
 Every word cuts to my very core. Just Providence has 
 baffled all my arts, and I am grateful. Whether this lady 
 can, indeed, forgive me, I hardly dare to think, or even 
 hope. And yet forgiveness is a heavenly boon. Perhaps 
 the memory of old days may melt her. As for yourself, 
 
 sir but I'll not speak, I cannot. Noble Iskander, if I 
 
 mistake not, you may whisper words in that fair ear, less 
 gi*ating than my own, May you be happy ! I will not 
 
456 THE RISE OF 
 
 profane jour prospects with my vows. And vet I'll say 
 farewell ! ' 
 
 The Prince of Athens turned away with an air of com- 
 plete wretchedness, and slowly withdrew. Iskander fol- 
 lowed him. 
 
 ' Nicseus,' said Iskander ; but the the prince entered the 
 gi-ove, and did not turn round. 
 
 * Dear Nicaeus,' said Iskander. The prince hesitated. 
 
 *Let us not part thus,' said Iskander. *Iduna is most 
 unhappy. She bade me tell you she had forgotten all.' 
 
 ' God bless her, and God bless you, too ! ' replied Nica3iis. 
 ' I pray you let me go.' 
 
 ' Nay ! dear Nicasus, are we not friends ? ' 
 
 ' The best and truest, Iskander. I will to the camp, and 
 meet you in your tent ere morning break. At present, I 
 would be alone.' 
 
 ' Dear Nicaeus, one word. You have said upon one point, 
 what I could well wish unsaid, and dared to prophesy what 
 may never happen. I am not made for such supreme 
 felicity. Epirus is my mistress, my Kicaeus. As there i8 
 a hving God, my friend, most solemnly I vow, I have had 
 no thoughts in this affair, but for youi' honour.' 
 
 ' I know it, my dear friend, I know it,' replied Nicseus. 
 * I keenly feel your admirable worth. Say no more, say no 
 more. She is a fit wife for a hero, and you are one ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 After the battle of the bridge, Iskander had hurried to 
 Croia without delay. In his progress, he had made many 
 fruitless inquiries after Iduna and Mcaeus, but he consoled 
 himself for the unsatis.&ctory answers he received by the 
 opinion that they had taken a different course, and the 
 conviction that all must now be safe. The messenger from 
 
ISKANDER. 
 
 4S7 
 
 Croia that informed Hnnniades of the escape of his daughter, 
 alr.o solicited his aid in favour of Epirus against the im- 
 pending invasion of the Turks, and stimulated by personal 
 gratitude as well as by public duty, Hnnniades answered 
 the solicitation in person at the head of twenty thousand 
 lances. 
 
 Hnnniades and Iskander had mutually flattered them- 
 selves when apart, that each would be able to quell the 
 anxiety of the other on the subject of Iduna. The leader 
 of Epirus flattered himself that his late companions had 
 proceeded at once to Transylvania, and the Yaivode himself 
 had indulged in the dehghtful hope that the first person 
 he should embrace at Croia would be his long-lost child. 
 When, therefore, they met, and were mutually incapable of 
 imparting any information on the subject to each other, 
 they were filled with astonishment and disquietude. Events, 
 however, gave them little opportunity to indulge in anxiety 
 or gi'ief . On the day that Hnnniades and his lances arrived 
 at Croia, the invading army of the Turks under the Prince 
 Mahomed crossed the mountains, and soon after pitched 
 their camp on the fertile plain of Kalhsta. 
 
 As Iskander, by the aid of Hnnniades and the neighbour- 
 ing princes, and the patriotic exertions of his countrymen, 
 was at this moment at the head of a force which the 
 Turkish prince could not have anticipated, he resolved to 
 march at once to meet the Ottomans, and decide the fate 
 of Greece by a pitched battle. 
 
 The night before the arrival of Iduna at the famous 
 fountain, the Christian army had taken up its position 
 within a few miles of the Turks. The turbaned warriors 
 wished to delay the engagement until the new moon, the 
 eve of which was at hand. And it happened on that said 
 eve that Iskander, calling to mind his contract with the 
 Turkish prince made in the gardens of the Seraglio at 
 Adrianople, and beHcTing from the superstitious character 
 
^38 THE RISE OF 
 
 of Maliomed tlaafc lie would not fail to be at the appointed 
 spot, resolved, as we have seen, to repair to the fountain of 
 Kallista. 
 
 And now from that fountain the hero retired, bearing 
 mth In'm a prize scarcely less precious than the freedom of 
 liis country, for which he was to combat on the morrow's 
 morn. 
 
 Ere the dawn had broken, the Christian power was in 
 motion. Iskander commanded the centre, Hunniades the 
 right wing. The left was entrusted at his urgent request 
 to the Prince of Athens. A mist that hung about the plain 
 allowed Nicfieus to charge the right wing of the Turks 
 almost ujiperceived. He charged with irresistible fiiry, 
 and soon disordered the ranks of the Moslemin. Mahomed 
 mth the reserve hastened to their aid, A mighty multitude 
 of Janissaries, shouting the name of Allah and his Prophet, 
 penetrated the Christian centre. Hunniades endeavoured 
 to attack them on their flank, but was himself charged by the 
 Turkish cavalry. The battle was now general, and raged 
 with terrible fury. Iskander had secreted in his centre, a 
 new and powerful battery of cannon, presented to him by 
 the Pope, and which had just arrived from Venice. This 
 battery played upon the Janissaries with destruction. He 
 himself mowed them down with his irresistible scimetar. 
 Infinite was the slaughter ! awful the uproar ! But of all 
 the Christian knights, this day, no one performed such 
 mighty feats of arms as the Prince of Athens. With a 
 reckless desperation he dashed about the field, and every- 
 thing seemed to yield to his inspired impulse. His example 
 animated his men with such a degree of enthusiasm, that 
 the division to which he was opposed, although encouraged 
 by the presence of Mahomed himself, could no longer with- 
 stand the desperate courage of the Christians, and fled in 
 aH directions. Then, rushing to the aid of Iskander, Niceeus, 
 at the head of a body of picked men> dashed upon the rear 
 
ISKANDER. 459 
 
 of the Janissaries, and nearly surr-ounded tliera. Himniades 
 instantly made a fresh charge upon the left wing of the 
 Turks. A panic fell upon the Moslemin, who were little 
 prepared for such a demonstration of strength on the part 
 of their adversaries. In a few minutes, their order seeiaed 
 generally broken, and their leaders in vain endeavoured to 
 rally them. Waving his bloody scimetar, and bounding on 
 his black charger, Iskander called upon his men to secure 
 the triumph of the Cross and the freedom of Epirus. Pur- 
 suit was now general. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 The Turks were massacred by thousands. Mahomed, when 
 he found that all was lost, j3.ed to the mountains, with a 
 train of guards and eunuchs, and left the care of his dis- 
 persed host to his Pachas. The hills were covered with 
 the fugitives and their pursuers. Some fled also to the 
 sea-shore, where the Turkish fleet was at anchor. The 
 plain was strewn with corpses and arms, and tents and 
 standards. The sun was now high in the heavens. The 
 mist had cleared away; but occasional clouds of smoke still 
 sailed about. 
 
 A solitary Christian knight entered a winding pass in the 
 gi^een hills, apart from the scene of strife. The slow and 
 trembling step of his wearied steed would have ill qualified 
 him to join in the triumphant pursuit, even had he himself 
 been physically enabled ; but the Christian knight was 
 covered with gore, unhappily not alone that of his enemies. 
 He was, indeed, streaming with desperate wounds, and 
 scarcely could his fainting form retain its tottering seat. 
 
 The winding pass, which for some singular reason he 
 now pursued in solitude, instead of returning to the busy 
 
46o THE RISE OF 
 
 camp for aid and assistance, conducted tlie knight to a 
 small green vallej, covered witli sweet herbs, and entirely 
 surrounded by hanging woods. In the centre rose the 
 ruins of a Doric fane ; three or four columns, grey and 
 majestic. All was still and silent, save that in the clear 
 blue sky an eagle flew, high in the air, but whirling round 
 the temple. 
 
 The knight reached the ruins of the Doric fane, and with 
 diflSculty dismounting from his charger, fell upon the soft 
 and floweiy turf, and for some moments was motionless. 
 His horse stole a few yards away, and though scarcely less 
 injured than its rider, instantly commenced cropping the 
 inviting pasture. 
 
 At length the Christian knight slowly raised his head, 
 and leaning on his arm, sighed deeply. His face was very 
 pale ; but as he looked up, and perceived the eagle in the 
 heaven, a smile played upon his pallid cheek, and his 
 beautiful eye gleamed with a sudden flash of light. 
 
 * Glorious bird ! ' murmured the Christian warrior, * once 
 I deemed that my career might resemble thine ! 'Tis over 
 now ; and Greece, for which I would have done so much, 
 will soon forget my immemorial name. I have stolen here 
 to die in silence and in beauty. This blue air, and these 
 green woods, and these lone columns, which oft to me have 
 been a consolation, breathing of the poetic past, and of the 
 days wherein I fain had lived, I have escaped from the fell 
 field of carnage to die among them. Farewell my country ! 
 Farewell to one more beautiful than Greece, farewell, 
 Iduna!' 
 
 These were the last words of Nicaeus, Prince of Athens. 
 
ISKANDER. 4^1 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 While the unliappy lover of the dangliter of Hunniades 
 breathed his last words to the solitary elements, his more 
 fortunate friend received, in the centre of his scene of 
 trinmph, the glorious congratulations of his emancipated 
 country. The discomfiture of the Turks was complete, and 
 this overthrow, coupled with their recent defeat in Bul- 
 garia, secured Christendom from their assaults during the 
 remainder of the reign of Amurath the Second. Surrounded 
 by his princely allies, and the chieftains of Epirus, the 
 victorious standards of Christendom, and the triumphant 
 trophies of the Moslemin, Iskander received from the great 
 Hunniades the hand of his beautiful daughter. ' Thanks 
 to these brave warriors,' said the hero, * T can now offer to 
 your daughter a safe, an honourable, and a Christian 
 home.' 
 
 * It is to thee, great sir, that Epirus owes its security,' 
 said an ancient chieftain, addressing Iskander, ' its national 
 existence, and its holy religion. All that we have to do 
 now is to preserve them ; nor, indeed, do I see that we can 
 more effectually obtain these great objects than by entreat- 
 ing thee to mount the redeemed throne of thy ancestors. 
 Therefore I say God save Iskander, King op Epirus ! ' 
 
 And all the people shouted and said, ' God save the 
 King ! God save Iskander, King op Epirus ! * 
 
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