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 tolicited.
 
 THE SKETCHES. 
 
 THREE TALES: 
 
 I. WALTER LORIMER ; II. THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE ; 
 III. THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 BY THE AUTHORS OF 
 
 "AMY HERBERT," "THE OLD MAN'S HOME," 
 
 AND 
 
 "HAWKSTONE." 
 
 " Our eyes see all around, in gloom or glow, 
 Hues of their own, fresh borrow'd from the heart." 
 
 Christian Year, 
 
 NEW- YORK: 
 
 D. APPLETON & CO., 200 BROADWAY. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 
 G S APPLETON, 148 CHESNtJT-STREET. 
 
 1848.
 
 ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 This little volume had its origin in the fol- 
 lowing circumstance. It was suggested, as a 
 Christmas amusement, that one of a party 
 should draw a series of sketches, which the 
 rest should severally interweave into some 
 short story or description. Subsequently, a 
 proposal was made that a volume, so framed, 
 should be published, with a view to increasing 
 the funds for the erection of a church and 
 schools at Bonchurch, in which all the contri- 
 butors felt a common interest. 
 
 The original plan has been faithfully adhered 
 to : the engravings, therefore, are not illustra- 
 tions of the letter-press, but the letter-press 
 of the engravings. The Sketches themselves 
 are, in fact, views of actual scenes, and were 
 1*
 
 6 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 finished before they were submitted to the 
 writers. It was, however, left to their option 
 to assign to each of them either the real or a 
 fictitious name, and to arrange the series in 
 any order they pleased. 
 
 Bonchurcli, 
 December 9th, 1847.
 
 LIST OF PLATES. 
 
 The plates are referred to in the several stories under the 
 folloiving names. They are placed for convenience in the 
 supposed order of the " Six Pictures" in the " Emblems of 
 Life." 
 
 WALTER LORLMER. 
 
 Plate 
 
 IV. 
 
 III. 
 
 V. 
 
 I. 
 II. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I. 
 11. 
 III. 
 
 IV. 
 
 V. 
 
 VI. 
 
 St. Bees 
 Welhuest . 
 The Manor House 
 The Sea Shore . 
 
 RiSINGFORD 
 
 The Old Church 
 
 THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE 
 
 The First Picture . 
 The Second Picture 
 The Third Picture 
 The Fourth Picture 
 The Fifth Picture . 
 The Sixth Picture 
 
 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 IV. St. Catherine's 
 
 I. LUCCOMBE 
 
 V. Yaverland 
 
 II. Carisbrooke Castle 
 
 HI. Ventnor 
 
 VI. Yaverland Chuech 
 
 Page 
 11 
 24 
 39 
 52 
 62 
 76 
 
 97 
 101 
 106 
 112 
 116 
 123 
 
 139 
 153 
 168 
 181 
 212 
 230
 
 WALTER LORIMER, 
 
 . . . . wavering still, 
 Unfit alike fur good or ill. 
 
 Rokcby.
 
 WALTER LOUIMEK. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ST. BEES 
 
 (Plate IV.) 
 
 On a still summer evening, some thirty or 
 forty years ago, two figures might have been 
 seen on the summit of the precipitous hill 
 upon which stands the old gray octangular 
 tower, once forming a part of the little oratory 
 of St. Bees. One was a man in the prime of 
 life, who lay stretched upon the turf in an 
 attitude indicative rather of repose of body 
 than of mind. His head was raised, and his 
 arm extended, and the expression of his coun- 
 tenance showed that his whole energies were 
 devoted to the task of arresting the wander- 
 ing attention of the boy who stood beside him. 
 
 " Listen, Walter," he said ; but the tone of
 
 12 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 command was lost upon the merry child, who, 
 clapping his hands in glee, exclaimed : 
 
 " Now, papa, I shall have it ;" and, bound- 
 ing away, pursued a bright-coloured butterfly 
 from flower to flower, amidst tufts of fern and 
 prickly furze, until, w'eary with his vain en- 
 deavours, he returned again to his father. 
 
 This time, however, there was no attempt 
 to amuse or occupy him. Mr. Lorimer's eye 
 was fixed upon the distant horizon, or if, for 
 an instant, it rested upon nearer objects, it 
 was with an air of abstraction which showed 
 that he was insensible to the beauty spread 
 before him. Yet the scene was very lovely. 
 A wide landscape lay beneath, dotted with 
 hedge-rose trees and cottages, and ending in a 
 sharp coast-line, fonifiing a series of bays, the 
 outline of which was at first marked by steep 
 sandy banks overrun by vegetation ; whilst in 
 the distance the land rose suddenly into a per- 
 pendicular chalk cliff of great height, standing 
 out in bold relief against the golden sky. The 
 evening was unusually tranquil; the light grass 
 was scarcely stirred, and the surface of the
 
 ST. BEES. 13 
 
 sea reflected m unbroken distinctness the sails 
 and masts of the soUtary ship which rested 
 apparently motionless upon its bosom. Even 
 the sounds of life were hushed : the tinkling 
 of a sheep bell was iaintly heard far beneath 
 in the valley, the sea-gull swept his rapid wing 
 silently over the blue waters, and the ceaseless 
 plashing of the tide rolling in upon the shingly 
 beach, seemed the murmur, not of this shift- 
 ing transitory earth, but of that unchangeable 
 world where there shall be rest for ever. If 
 nature alone could ever calm the troubled 
 heart of man, surely it must be at such an 
 hour and in such a scene. Yet Mr. Lorimer's 
 brow was clouded, and when, after leaning 
 his head upon his hand for many minutes, he 
 again looked at his little boy, there was less 
 of parental fondness in his glance, than of fore- 
 boding and distrust. 
 
 " Here, Walter," he exclaimed, drawing the 
 child towards him, " recollect more clearly 
 what they said." 
 
 " It was nurse, papa," replied the boy, " she 
 
 was talking to " 
 
 2
 
 14 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 "Quick, quick," interrupted his father im- 
 petuously, " let me hear the words." 
 
 Walter lifted his dark intelligent eye to his 
 father's face, and read in it that the mood of 
 the moment was not one to be trifled with. 
 '• I don't know the words, papa," he answered 
 boldly ; " but nurse thinks that if you had been 
 a wise man, we should never have had to live 
 at the dull old farm." 
 
 For an instant Mr. Lorimer writhed under 
 the implied accusation, but his answer, though 
 sad, was free from bitterness : " When you 
 are a man, Walter, 3rou will know more about 
 it ; now, run off to the top of the hill and see 
 the sun set, and then come back when I call." 
 
 Walter was gone in an instant. His father 
 followed him with his eye, and anxiety settled 
 yet more deeply upon his face as he watched 
 his child's movements. They were restless 
 and undetermined, governed, as it seemed, by 
 no fixed purpose, but shaping their course from 
 every trifle that crossed his path ; turned aside 
 by the beauty of a flower ; attracted by the 
 novelty of a winding path ; one moment
 
 ST. BEES. 15 
 
 directed straight towards the point named ; the 
 next arrested by some sudden fancy, which came 
 but to be succeeded by another as fleeting. It 
 was hard to find fault with that which seems the 
 natural characteristic of childhood ; but vex- 
 ation and almost impatience were discovera- 
 ble in Mr. Lorimer's voice, as he suddenly 
 recalled the child to his side, and pointing to 
 the ship, said, " Walter, I wish you could learn 
 to be like that pretty vessel. Just see, how 
 quiet and steady it is." 
 
 " It would toss about in a storm, though," 
 replied the boy sharply. 
 
 " Yes, but if you were in a storm, you 
 would go wherever the waves carried you; 
 the ship would go straight on its way still." 
 
 " All ships don't," answered Walter. 
 
 " Not ships which have lost their I'udder ; 
 but I should be very sorry to think you would 
 be like them." 
 
 Walter's interest was for the moment en- 
 grossed, and his look was directed to the vessel 
 with an air of great thought. 
 
 " Boys are not ships," he said at length, in a 
 contradictory tone.
 
 16 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 " But they may be like them, Walter : that 
 is all I mean." 
 
 " Like them, — how ? what makes the ships 
 go straight ? what do you mean by a rudder?" 
 
 " You must see a rudder, before you can 
 quite understand," replied Mr. Lorimer. " A 
 rudder is a part of the ship which serves to 
 guide it, and prevent it from being twisted 
 first this way, and then that. But you are not 
 like the ship, because, instead of going directly 
 forward, you are ahvays changing and running 
 after something else. If I were to tell you 
 now to return home, you would walk a little 
 distance, and then, if any one stopped to speak 
 to you, or if you met any thing to amuse you, 
 you would forget what you meant to do, and 
 set off another way." 
 
 " Is it very wa-ong ?" asked Walter. 
 
 A deep sigh w^as the only answer; and 
 the truth of Mr. Lorimer's observation was 
 quickly shown, for Walter's notice was drawn 
 to a curious caterpillar crawling upon the turf, 
 and the subject of the conversation passed 
 from his mind.
 
 ST. BEES. 17 
 
 " He will never be a great or a good man," 
 escaped Mr. Lorimer's lips : " he has no 
 strength of will." 
 
 " Strength of will !" exclaimed Walter, 
 catching the last words ; " what is strength of 
 will ?" 
 
 " Strength to say — I will, and nothing shall 
 prevent me ; strength to determine that you 
 
 will do what you have to do ; strength " 
 
 Mr. Lorimer felt he was speaking beyond his 
 child's comprehension, and he paused. 
 
 " I can say, I will," rephed Walter, " but 
 nurse tells me not." 
 
 The difficulty was becoming yet greater, 
 touching upon the delicate line which separates 
 the exaggeration of right, and the beginning of 
 wrong. 
 
 " I am not speaking of your own will, Wal- 
 ter," observed Mr. Lorimer at length ; " but 
 of the will to do what you are bidden ; that is 
 what I wish you to have." 
 
 Walter's reply was a shout of delight, as a 
 rabbit, wandering from a neighbouring warren, 
 ran by him, and, in an instant, he was in full 
 2*
 
 18 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 pursuit. Mr. Lorimer's look was one of des- 
 pair, but his eye rested upon the tower of the 
 old chapel, and holier thoughts came to his aid ; 
 and, as if to reward the spirit of faith, Walter 
 quickly returned, and throwing his arms 
 round his neck, said, " Don't be vexed, papa, — 
 I do mean to try." 
 
 " Try what ?" asked Mr. Lorimer, attempt- 
 ing to smile, " to say — I will, and be naughty 
 in the nursery ?" 
 
 " No, no, papa, but to say — I will, when I 
 am told to do things." 
 
 " And to begin at once, — in trifles, Walter, — 
 there is the difficulty. Even if there seems no 
 harm in leaving off what you have determined 
 to do, still to go on, because you have deter- 
 mined." 
 
 " Like the ship," said Walter. 
 
 " Yes, like the ship when it mounts over the 
 waves, instead of being turned about by them, 
 and uses them only as helps towards reaching 
 the haven to which it is sent. Our haven 
 is — what, Walter?" 
 
 " Heaven," replied the child reverently.
 
 ST. BEES. 19 
 
 " Yes, Heaven is our home — and the 
 waves ?" 
 
 " They are the waves of this troublesome 
 world," exclaimed Walter quickly; "Mr. 
 Spencer said so when baby was christened." 
 
 " The waves of this troublesome world, and 
 the land of everlasting life," repeated Mr. 
 Lorimer to himself. 
 
 " Mamma is there," said Walter, a look of 
 awe stealing over the brightness of his childish 
 countenance. Mr. Lorimer averted his head, 
 and Walter withdrew to a little distance. 
 Child though he was, and thoughtless, and 
 changeable, he had learnt to feel that grief is 
 sacred. 
 
 " We will go home," said Mr. Lorimer, as 
 he rose suddenly, after a short silence. Wal- 
 ter appeared unwilling to obey. 
 
 " Still thinking of the ship ?" inquired his 
 father, marking the direction in which he was 
 looking. 
 
 " I should like to go in it to see mamma," 
 said Walter.
 
 20 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 Mr. Lorinier's lij) quivered, but it was the 
 only sign of agitation. 
 
 " Walter," he replied firmly, " we are both 
 going there, at least God has put us in the way 
 to go, but that way is not by sailing over the 
 sea, but by doing what He bids us." 
 
 " I wish it was sailing over the sea," said 
 Walter; "I should like that." 
 
 Mr. Lorimer half smiled. " But can you 
 not try and fancy something like it now? 
 When little troubles come, and when you are 
 tempted to leave what you meant to do, and 
 run after something else, then recollect that 
 is just what it would be, if that shij), instead 
 of keeping on its straight course, were to go 
 in whatever direction the tide and the waves 
 drove it. The ship in such case would never 
 reach its port, or if it did reach it, it would be 
 greatly broken and injured." 
 
 " And I shall never go to Heaven, to see 
 dear mamma," said Walter, " if I don't go on 
 straight ?" 
 
 Mr. Lorimer stopped, and kissing ♦his little
 
 ST. BEES. 21 
 
 boy's forehead, said eagerly, yet in a softened 
 tone; "Repeat this after me, Walter, — you 
 cannot understand it now, but you will by and 
 by : — Every event in life is either man's mas- 
 ter or his slave." 
 
 Walter repeated the words. 
 
 " Again, again," exclaimed his father : the 
 child obeyed, and then added, " I won't be a 
 slave, papa, — ever." He had touched a pain- 
 ful chord. Mr. Lorimer paused as he was 
 about to descend the hill. 
 
 " Quick, Walter," he said, in a tone of forced 
 cheerfulness; " run by yourself, and tell them 
 I am coming ; and remember," he added, with 
 sudden severity, — " at once — to the farm, no 
 turning aside on any pretence." 
 
 Walter was accustomed to the changes of 
 his father's humour, and was gone in a mo- 
 ment. Mr. Lorimer did not stay to watch 
 him, but retracing his steps, strode rapidly to 
 the summit of the hill, and leaning against the 
 wall of the chapel, gave way, with the weak- 
 ness of a woman, to a flood of bitter grief. 
 Sorrow of heart was there — the sorrow of
 
 22 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 bereavement ; and the humiliation of bhghted 
 hopes and a wrecked fortune, and the anguish, 
 greater than all, the upbraiding of an awak- 
 ened conscience. A slave ! yes, Mr. Lorimer 
 had been from childhood the slave of circum- 
 stances. The inheritor of a large property, 
 he had squandered away the whole, with the 
 exception of the small portion which was en- 
 tailed upon Walter ; the object of a devoted 
 affection, he had wearied it by petty failings ; 
 the possessor of talents and influence, he had 
 wasted both by engaging in projects which 
 never were completed. Walter was now what 
 he had once been, in every thing except his 
 position in life. What would be his retro- 
 spections when he should have reached the 
 same age ? iMr. Lorimer shuddered at the 
 fears which crossed his mind, and throw- 
 ing himself upon his knees, prayed, with the 
 earnestness of a father's love, that his chil- 
 dren, — Walter the object of his great anxiety, 
 and the infant girl, who within a few weeks 
 had been received into the ark of Christ's 
 Church, — might be " steadfast in faith, joyful
 
 ST. BEES. 23 
 
 through hope, and rooted in charity ; and so 
 pass the waves of this troublesome world, that 
 finally they might come to the land of ever- 
 lasting; life."
 
 24 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 AV E L H U R S T . 
 (Plate III.) 
 
 Twenty years had gone by — it was still in 
 the height of summer, when the air was calm 
 and soft, and the sea unruffled, and the sky 
 without a cloud. But the scene was changed 
 from the lofty hill of St. Bees to the sea-port 
 town of Welhurst. The place was remarka- 
 ble for little beyond the beauty of its situation. 
 There were some straggling houses of a com- 
 fortable size, but many of a mean, poverty- 
 stricken aspect ; some shops which supplied the 
 wants of the neighbourhood ; a few gardens 
 intermixed with irregular streets ; and, here 
 and there, a few trees which had braved the 
 power of the south-west wind. But except for 
 the broad open sea, the beach, and the white 
 cliffs, Welhurst would have passed w'ithout no- 
 tice amongst the many places of the same 
 stamp ; though, with these advantages, it was
 
 VVELHUUST. 25 
 
 gradually rising in dignitj', raid boasted of its 
 reading-room, stage-coaches, and post-horses, 
 together with public baths, and a good hotel ; 
 all temptations to strangers who might wish to 
 enjoy the benefit or the luxury of the fresh 
 sea-breezes. 
 
 About five o'clock in the evening of the day 
 on which we would resume our tale, the road 
 that passed through the suburb of Wei hurst 
 was more than usually lively. A carriage and 
 pair was driving slowly up the slight ascent 
 at the foot of which the town lay ; two cows, 
 attended by a peasant boy, were wending their 
 v/ay in the contrary direction ; a blind beggar, 
 leaning upon his stick, with his hat off", was 
 advancing towards the carriage under the 
 guidance of a little girl ; and two ladies, plainly 
 dressed, and accompanied by a child, were 
 approaching from a road which just at this 
 point met the highway from Welhurst to Lon- 
 don. One or two figures also were seen in the 
 distance, but too far off' to discover more than 
 their general outline. 
 
 " Bertha," said the elder of the two ladies to 
 3
 
 26 WALTER LORIMEK. 
 
 her comi)anion, " we must be early, the 
 coach will not arrive for half an hour at the 
 least." 
 
 " It docs not signify," replied the other, 
 gravely ; " he will not come ; the Hornsleys 
 will be sure to keep him." 
 
 " Nay, then, why bring me here ? there are 
 many prettier walks." 
 
 " But I have business in Welhurst, and be- 
 sides " and Bertha Lorimer looked at her 
 
 friend with an arch smile, which beautifully lit^ 
 up a countenance in general remarked for the 
 peculiar placidity of the regular delicate fea- 
 tures ; " besides, I confess to a hope which my 
 words belie." 
 
 " This brother of yours must be a strange 
 person. Bertha ; very unlike you." 
 
 " Most unlike :" but breaking off, suddenly, 
 Bertha sprang forward w4th the exclamation, 
 " Yes, that is he ! Why should he have come 
 in that way?" and leaving her friend, she went 
 up to the carriage, which was immediately 
 stopped. 
 
 Mrs. Damer, the wife of a clergyman w'ho
 
 WELHURST. 27 
 
 had only recently settled in the neighbourhood, 
 watched with considerable interest the meet- 
 ing between Bertha and her brother. Walter 
 Lorimer's name was a familiar somid, for he was 
 the constant theme of Bertha's hopes and 
 fears, and Mrs. J3amer's curiosity was raised to 
 discover whether the young officer, whom from 
 various circumstances she had not yet seen, at 
 all resembled his sister's description. There 
 was a short greeting at the carriage door be- 
 tween Bertiia and Walter, and the party who 
 were with him, and then Walter alighted, and 
 drawing his sister's arm within his own, began a 
 hurried explanation of the reasons which in- 
 duced him to accompany his friends, the Horn- 
 sleys, in their carriage, instead of taking 
 advantage of the coach, which was the usual 
 mode of transit from the place where he had 
 been staying. In a few seconds his attention 
 was directed to another object. The blind 
 beggar had humbly waited by the road-side till 
 the carriage drove off; his hat was still in his 
 hand, but he seemed to have scarcely the power 
 or the will to ask for relief His countenance
 
 28 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 expressed humiliation and much suflering, and 
 as the child who was his guide whispered 
 somethins; in his ear, he drew back, and seat- 
 ing himself on a bank, appeared anxious to 
 shun rather than to excite attention. Walter's 
 eye was attracted by him, and he stopped his 
 sister as she was hastening to the spot where 
 Mrs. Darner and her little boy aw-aited them. 
 
 " Bertha, I know that face," he said in a 
 tone of compassion and interest ; " I am sure 1 
 know it." 
 
 "I have no recollection of it, dear Walter, 
 and this is not the moment to inquire. Speak 
 to Mrs. Damer first, and then we will ask 
 about him." 
 
 Before the sentence was ended, Walter had 
 left her, and was standing by the old beggar, 
 eagerly inquiring his name, his age, and the 
 place of his abode. Bertha's interest was 
 excited also, and excusing herself to her friend, 
 she joined her brother. Walter drew her 
 aside. 
 
 " You must recollect him now. Bertha, I am 
 sure ; my father's former steward ; — the man
 
 WELIIURST. 20 
 
 who would not leave his service, who stood 
 by him when he had lost every thing except 
 the old farm. What a miserable change ! " 
 Bertha's memory appeared confused. "You 
 were young at the time he left us," continued 
 VV^ alter ; " it was about six years after we 
 came to the farm ; but I was so fond of him, I 
 can never forget him. Ralph," he added kind- 
 ly, going up to the old man, and taking his 
 hand affectionately, " surely you must remem- 
 ber Walter Loi'imer — Master Walter." 
 
 The beggar lifted his sightless eyes to the 
 young man's face, and tears fell down his 
 cheek. 
 
 " And I am Bertha, Ralph : you will know 
 me better than I know you, except that I have 
 so often heard my father and my brother talk 
 of you. Poor papa ! it will cut him to the 
 heart to see you in this state." 
 
 " It is God's will," said the old man solemn- 
 ly ; " but I did not think, Miss Bertha, it would 
 ever have come to this when I left my master." 
 " You were right in leaving him, quite 
 right," exclaimed Walter. " My father always 
 3*
 
 30 WALTER LORIMEIl. 
 
 said that you stayed with him longer than any 
 sense of duty could require. But you must 
 
 tell us what has happened, and we will " 
 
 help, he was going to say, but the sudden con- 
 sciousness of poverty checked his generosity, 
 and he added, " we will talk over your affairs 
 and see what can be done." Just then a 
 servant in livery rode past. " That is one of 
 the Hornsley people," cried Walter ; " I wish 
 he would stop, that I might send a message." 
 
 " A message, — what message, Walter ? you 
 have only just parted from them." 
 
 " Yes, but they wish me to join them — to go 
 with them — they have a party this week, a 
 pic-nic, at Risingford, the old castle. How 
 provoking ! why does the fellow ride at such 
 a rate ?" 
 
 " But it cannot signify now, — you can 
 write." 
 
 " Yes, yes, it does signify, I must decide at 
 once." 
 
 " But what answer will yoU give ?" 
 
 " Never mind ; don't stop me. Bertha. If 
 he walks his horse up the hill, I shall catch 
 him."
 
 VVELHUllST. 
 
 31 
 
 " But, my dear Walter, surely to-morrow 
 will do. Shall you say yes or no ?" 
 
 " No, certainly ; I meant to do so just now, 
 only they would press me. Let me go, I shall 
 be back in an instant." 
 
 Bertha said nothing, though disquietude set- 
 tled on her countenance, as Walter set off at 
 full speed to overtake the servant. She turned 
 to the blind man, who was waiting with an air 
 of resignation until notice should again be be- 
 stowed upon him ; but many times her atten- 
 tion was distracted from his answers to her 
 inquiries, as she watched Walter toiling up the 
 hill till he overtook the rider. A longer time 
 elapsed than the message at all required, but 
 still Walter continued his questions, or his 
 orders. Bertha thought each moment that he 
 would return, and telling the child to lead her 
 grandfather to the bank near which Mrs. Da- 
 mer was standing, she made him sit down to 
 rest himself 
 
 But in those short moments a change had 
 occurred. When Bertha looked round again, 
 Walter was gone, and the man-servant riding
 
 32 WALTER LORIMEU. 
 
 down the hill, came towards her to say that 
 Mr. Lorimer was gone on about a quarter of a 
 mile further. Mrs. Hornsley's carriage was 
 most probably stopping at the house of a 
 friend, and Mr. Lorimer wished to deliver his 
 own message. 
 
 "Why such a sigh, Bertha?'" asked Mrs. 
 Damer, when the servant again rode off. Ber- 
 tha's sweet happy face grew yet more thought- 
 ful, and answering the question only by a 
 smile, which in no way proceeded from the 
 heart, she drew out her purse, and giving the 
 old steward half a crown, told him that it 
 would be better not to wait for her brother's 
 return, but to come to the farm on the follow- 
 ing day, when they should be able to hear his 
 story without interruption. Ralph looked 
 grateful yet disappointed, and Bertha, wishing 
 him good-bye, prepared to return home. The 
 walk was at first pursued in silence, except 
 when broken by the exclamations of little 
 Frank Damer ; but at last, addressing her 
 friend as if ashamed of her want of courtesy. 
 Bertha said,
 
 WELHURST. s 33 
 
 " I think you know me well enough not to 
 wonder at my sudden moods." 
 
 " Moods, dear Bertha! I have never seen 
 them yet, but I am vexed that you are vexed." 
 
 " Though you cannot tell the reason why?" 
 asked Bertha. 
 
 " Yes, but that is not quite the case now ; I 
 can guess a reason." 
 
 " But not all the reason. No one, no one 
 but- "myself, can know all. To see a character 
 frittered, wasted, which might be so great, 
 which is so noble and generous !" 
 
 " Are you sure you do not exaggerate ?" 
 
 " No," replied Bertha ; " it is not in the 
 power of v/ords to do that. Walter might be 
 all that one's best wishes could desire ; he will 
 be nothing, — worse than nothing, — a man of 
 the world, a spendthrift, a gambler, whatever 
 circumstances may make him, — because he 
 has no strength of will, and has never prac- 
 tised the art of acquiring it in the trifling events 
 of life." 
 
 •" It is a difficult lesson to teach where na- 
 ture has not given the disposition."
 
 34 WALTER LOniMER. 
 
 " But Walter has had experience," replied 
 Bertha, while her colour heightened, and the 
 soft quiet tones that were natural to her were 
 raised by the feelings which the subject awoke. 
 " It is the fault of his family, and he knows it. 
 It was the ruin of my father's fortune, and the 
 destruction of my mother's happiness ; Walter 
 has been warned from childhood." 
 
 " But 1 have heard you say the defect has 
 only, as yet, shown itself in trifles." 
 
 " I begin to think there is no such thing as 
 a trifle," replied Bertha ; " certainly nothing 
 can be one which implies or involves a habit 
 of mind ; and if we indulge any fiiult in trifles, 
 how arc we to guard against it in important 
 cases ?" 
 
 Mrs. Damer smiled as she answered, " You 
 are so unlike every one else I ever met with at 
 your age. Bertha, and so unlike even yourself, 
 your outward self." 
 
 " Yes," replied Bertha ; " I know it. I am 
 called indifferent, and s\reet tempered ; some 
 people say I am gentle, but there are many 
 volcanoes hidden beneath the chill earth."
 
 VVELHURST. 35 
 
 " Dear Bertha," replied her companion 
 gravely, "you must, indeed, be careful how 
 you indulge this reserve ; by brooding over 
 your troubles you v^^ill increase them until they 
 are unbearable." 
 
 " And to whom can I speak of them ?" in- 
 quired Bertha ; " except yourself, there lives 
 not a being in the world, besides my father 
 and Walter, who knows or cares for me. I 
 was born in poverty and sorrow ; I have grown 
 up in retirement and privation, and in retire- 
 ment and privation I shall die." 
 
 " Privation ?" repeated Mrs. Darner hastily, 
 but the word was no sooner said than she 
 blushed deeply. Bertha Lorimer, though con- 
 fiding and simple-minded, was not a person to 
 allow too minute an inquiry into the state of 
 her family affairs. 
 
 " Yes, privation," replied Bertha ; " but it is 
 useless to trouble you with domestic cares; 
 and privation, in my case, may mean only that 
 [ have not a carriage and four at my dis- 
 posal." 
 
 Mrs. Darner was silent ; she was pondering
 
 36 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 upon the peculiar character of the youg girl, 
 in Avhose fate she was beginning to feel 
 anxiously interested. It seemed that Bertha 
 had concentrated in herself all that strength of 
 character and fixedness of purpose which was 
 deficient in her family ; and Walter's weakness 
 must, therefore, be as irritating to her natural 
 disposition as it was contrary to her sense of 
 right. 
 
 " I know what you often think," said Bertha, 
 resuming the conversation abruptly ; " you are 
 afraid that what I call strength of will is but 
 another name for obstinacy. Well ! I am aware 
 that it may become so ; but I try to be upon 
 my guard in my own case, and I hope I could 
 advise Walter. I would never have him bent 
 upon an object without reason. I would desire, 
 for him and for myself, such a steady, con- 
 stant, unwavering sense of duty, that our 
 lightest intentions should be governed by it. 
 Duty should be the helmsman, and a strong 
 resolute will the rudder, to guide the ship. It 
 is my father's favourite illustration, learnt from 
 bitter experience."
 
 WELHURST. 37 
 
 " You seek what few people possess," replied 
 Airs. Darner. 
 
 " That I see every day ; but it may not be, 
 therefore, the less desirable ; and we have the 
 authority of Scripture to prove that it is so. 
 Have you never been struck by St. Paul's eager- 
 ness to disclaim lightness of purpose ; — by the 
 solemn way in which he aiiirms that his word 
 was not ' yea and nay ?" 
 
 Again Mrs. Damer smiled. " What you say 
 |, is very true, my dear Bertha ; but you speak 
 jj like a woman of fifty rather than a girl of 
 twenty." 
 
 "I am fifty in many respects, replied Bertha. 
 "I have lived alone with my own thoughts 
 from childhood, except when my father has 
 roused himself from despondency to warn me 
 against the faults which he says have been the 
 ruin of us all ; and I have watched the same 
 faults growing up in Walter, and have seen 
 my father battling with them, and failing ; be- 
 cause, notwithstanding his earnest endeavours, 
 he could not, when advanced in life, so far 
 shake off his natural disposition, as to keep any 
 4
 
 38 
 
 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 one fixed rule ; and now, since Walter has been 
 at home,- my father's spirits have evidently 
 sunk ; and I know that his health is so preca- 
 rious that the least excitement may be fatal to 
 him. Is not all this enough to make me a 
 woman of fifty?" 
 
 Mrs. Damer's answ^er w^as a gentle pressure 
 of Bertha's hand. Something told her that 
 such forebodings were not without foundation, 
 that the day of trial and of change was at 
 hand.
 
 THE MANOR HOUSE. 39 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE MANOR HOUSE. 
 (Plate V.) 
 
 The following day found Walter Lorimer 
 and his sister enjoying the luxury of a summer 
 morning, as they walked together in front of 
 the old Manor Farm, which for twenty years 
 had been their home. There was a curious 
 mixture of refinement and neglect about the 
 place. Much beauty in the antique gables and 
 deep mullioned windows, and tall stacks of 
 ornamented chimneys ; elegance in the ar- 
 rangement of the small garden, surrounded by 
 a low wall ; but poverty, cold, barren poverty, 
 in the decayed woodwork, and the blocked up 
 windows. To Bertha's eye, however, all was 
 perfect ; she would not have had a stone or a 
 brick removed ; and if, occasionally, the thought 
 occurred to her that money might be well be- 
 stowed in repairs, if not in ornament, she 
 turned from the unwelcome idea, and rested
 
 40 WALTER LORIMEK. 
 
 with complacency upon that which formed the 
 most prominent and most welcome object con- 
 nected wdth her home, and which she would have 
 deemed it almost sacrilege to touch. This was 
 a very small, very old Norman church, stand- 
 ing in a churchyard separated from the road 
 by a low wall, and at first sight scarcely to be 
 distinguished from the outhouses belonging to 
 the farm except by its little wooden belfry 
 surmounted by a weather-cock ; yet dear to the 
 eye of the architect and antiquarian from the 
 richness of the carved arch over the doorway, 
 which Bertha had learned to consider, perhaps 
 truly, one of the most perfect specimens of its 
 kind. On this occasion, however, neither 
 Bertha nor Walter were thinking much of the 
 church or the farm. On a bank by the road- 
 side sat Ralph Staines and his little grand- 
 child ; his look of dejection and want forming 
 a strong contrast to the sturdy and contented 
 appearance of a farmer, who, mounted on a 
 small gray pony, with a pack-saddle behind 
 him, and a dog following him, was stopping to 
 talk for a few minutes with a neighbour on foot.
 
 THE MANOR HOUSE. 
 
 41 
 
 Bertha and her brotlier had been listening to 
 the history of the steward's trials, following him 
 through sickness and misfortune, until distress 
 forced him to take refuge with his daughter, 
 the wife of a man who, like himself, had once 
 known prosperous days, but who was now 
 living in a poor cottage on the sea-shore, and 
 gaining a livelihood by fishing. 
 
 " It Vv'as his daughter's illness," he said, 
 " which had driven him to desperation. She 
 was in a hopeless state, and he could not assist 
 her. He had thought of applying to his old 
 master, but feared to be troublesome." Pride 
 also might have weighed with him, though he 
 did not confess it, for now he would not enter 
 the house. His master, he heard, was unwell, 
 and could not then see him ; to wait amongst 
 the servants he could not bear ; and, after 
 many entreaties, Walter and Bertha left him 
 whilst they went to consult upon what it would 
 be best to do. 
 
 " Money, money !" exclaimed Walter, im- 
 patiently, " that is the one thing after all."
 
 43 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 " Is it ?" asked Bertha, " 1 doubt whether 
 you would find it so." 
 
 " Money would save Ralph Staines from 
 wretchedness," replied Walter. 
 
 " Yet much may be done," continued his 
 sister, " without our having what is generally 
 called money, — I mean riches. The difficulty 
 is to inquire personally. 1 can scarcely leave 
 my father to go to the shore, and I do not like to 
 talk to him much, he is very unwell this morn- 
 mg. 
 
 "Nervous," observed Walter, " nothing 
 more. He has been looking over papers, and 
 has given me a number for my own private 
 reading. What a bore business is. Bertha! 
 and that stupid entail — of what use is it?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Bertha, in a tone un- 
 like her usual self-possession. 
 
 " And my father is so unutterably melan- 
 choly when business is mentioned," continued 
 Walter. " He began something to me this 
 morning — something about you, but it upset 
 him, and he was obliged to give up the subject ;
 
 THE MANOR HOUSE. 43 
 
 and then he pushed the papers across the table 
 and looked quite ill, and I almost thought he 
 would have fainted." 
 
 " His mind would be relieved if you would 
 look at those papers," replied Bertha, still 
 speaking with constraint. 
 
 " I intend to look ; I should have done it this 
 morning, but 1 saw you in the garden, and 
 then I could not resist coming out." 
 
 " Dear Walter, if you would only learn to 
 fix your mind to one thing, and not allow it to 
 be disturbed. . I don't mean — I am not speak- 
 ing of this instance in particular." 
 
 " Well, I will, I will ; any thing to please 
 you." 
 
 " But, Walter, indeed it is not only for the 
 present that 1 care. Will you remember 
 that ?" 
 
 " Yes, certainly, I will remember all you 
 wish. I ought to do so," he added, seriously 
 and affectionately ; " you have been my best 
 help and comfort for many long years." 
 
 Bertha's placid face was agitated for an in- 
 stant ; she did not answer Walter's remarks,
 
 44 WALTER LOHirilK!;. 
 
 when lie again alluded to Mr. Lorinier's criti- 
 cal state of health ; but,- merely saying that 
 she would go and see whether her father was 
 equal to hearing old Ralph's history, she i)ro- 
 ceeded to the study, and Walter went to his 
 own chamber. On a table, in the centre of 
 the room, lay a heap of papers scattered in 
 confusion. Walter looked at them with dis- 
 like ; business w^as his aversion, and tliere 
 .were parchments, and cramped penmanship, 
 and documents wdiich he supposed could be of 
 no importance. A statement in his father's 
 handwriting caught his eye, and he took it up ; 
 but another paper lay beside it headed with 
 the date 1607, which excited his curiosity. 
 He had not made up his mind whether to ex- 
 amine into his father's affairs then, or to wait. 
 It seemed that it W'ould be better to wait, at least 
 till the business with Ralph was concluded ; 
 but, as usual, Walter was without a purpose, 
 and, sitting down to the table, he began to de- 
 cipher the old manuscript. It was a law deed 
 of no great interest or consequence ; but it 
 served to amuse him a little while ; and when
 
 THE MANOR HOUSE. 45 
 
 Bertha knocked at the door to tell him that 
 she wished to speak with him, his answer was 
 a request that she would wait : he was very 
 busy, and he would be with her in a few min- 
 utes. But many minutes elapsed, and Walter's 
 door was still closed. Perhaps, had Bertha 
 then known the thoughts which engrossed him, 
 she would have been more willing to excuse 
 his instability. The old manuscript had been 
 cast aside, for Walter was soon weary with an 
 occupation which involved trouble, but in its 
 stead, he held in his hand a short note written 
 in a tremblinn; hand, and signed with his mo- 
 ther's name. It was her last request to his 
 father, her dying entreaty, that he would edu- 
 cate their children religiously, and teach their 
 little Walter to look upon his infant sister as 
 his especial charge. " Tell him," it was writ- 
 ten, " that his duty to her is next to his duty to 
 God and his earthly father. Let it be his ob- 
 ject early, and perhaps it may save him from 
 the fate of his family." The note ended ab- 
 ruptly, and beneath the signature was written,
 
 46 WALTER I.ORIMER. 
 
 "Every event in life is either man's master or 
 his slave." Walter started ; the words had a 
 strange power over him ; in an instant they 
 bore him back, through long, long years, and 
 he stood once more upon the lofty hill, by the 
 side of the ruined chapel, and heard the plash- 
 ing of the ceaseless waves, and the soft whis- 
 pers of the evening breeze, and the tinkling of 
 the far-off bell, and gazed in ecstasy upon the 
 broad band of light which sparkled upon the 
 blue water. And there upon the calm ocean 
 lay the motionless vessel, the type of himself — 
 the symbol of his own existence. Yet was it 
 a type ? That silent, soulless thing, the work 
 of man's art, had fulfilled the purpose of its 
 creation : it had reached the haven to which 
 it was destined ; and he — the waves of this 
 troublesome world were tossing around him, 
 and his struggles w^ere faint, and his will was 
 weak, and he was driven to and fro at the 
 mercy of every opposing current, and his end 
 would be — where ? Walter murmured a bless- 
 ing upon his mother's memory, and tears of
 
 THE MANOR HOUSE, 47 
 
 penitence and self-reproach rushed to his eye. 
 Bertha's voice summoned him to the window : 
 she was standing underneath. 
 
 " Walter, I have waited very long ; Ralph 
 was obliged to go, his daughter was expecting 
 him ; but I intend to walk to the shore soon." 
 
 Walter nodded his head in acquiescence, and 
 Bertha moved away, vexed that he should be 
 so little interested in the result of her interview 
 with her father. Yet she was mistaken in 
 supposing that Walter was not interested. 
 His best feelings were at that moment brought 
 into play, but they were still impulse only. 
 This was the second time that Ralph had gone 
 away, after waiting for him in vain. He felt 
 that he had been wrong, and he would atone 
 for it. He would at least do something useful 
 and kind ; and the idea had scarcely presented 
 itself, when the papers were gathered together 
 and put away, and Walter ran down stairs to 
 his father's study. 
 
 Twenty years had done their work, more 
 than their ordinary work, upon Mr. Lorimer's 
 constitution. At sixty-five, he was a feeble,
 
 48 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 decrepid old man, his face marked by suffering, 
 his tall figure bent by repeated attacks of dan- 
 gerous illness. His life hung upon a thread, 
 and he felt that it did ; but for Bertha, he could 
 have been contented that it should be so. It 
 was only when he thought of her, left unpro- 
 tected, and with barely suliicient for her main- 
 tenance, that he was anxious to live. Then, 
 indeed, his faith sometimes grew weak, and he 
 mourned over Walter's unstable character, 
 with a sorrow aggravated by self-reproach. 
 Many parents might have safely confided the 
 prot-ection and support of an only sister to an 
 elder brother, the sole inheritor of the small 
 family property ; but jMr. Lorimer could not 
 be happy under such a prospect. Unexpected 
 losses had lately diminished a small sum which 
 he had saved for Bertha ; and there was now 
 but one resource left, to cut off the entail, and 
 so provide for her with a portion of Walter's 
 fortune. The alternative was painful to his 
 pride ; more painful to his conscience, which 
 told him, that, but for his own imprudence, 
 Bertha midit have ranked amono; the wealth-
 
 THE MANOR HOUSE. 49 
 
 iest in the land ; but his increasing infirmities 
 warned him that the act must no longer be 
 delayed, and he had that morning, with Ber- 
 tha's knowledge, communicated to Walter in 
 writing the wish which he could not bring 
 himself to express in words. Under these cir- 
 cumstances, Walter's presence brought more 
 pain than pleasure to his father, and when he 
 gently opened the study door, and proposed to 
 read, Mr. Lorimer's reply sounded ungra- 
 cious. 
 
 "I am not in the humour for reading, thank 
 you, Walter. Have you looked at the pa- 
 pers ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, looked, — that is, not carefully, not 
 examined," said Walter, in a disappointed 
 tone. 
 
 " Then I wish you would ; I must talk to 
 you about them." 
 
 " There is no hurry, sir ; I shall have suffi- 
 cient time ; you had better let me read to 
 you." 
 
 " Thank you, Walter ; surely you were able 
 to look over the papers this morning;" and as 
 5
 
 50 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 Mr. Lorimer spoke, his voice grew tremulous, 
 and his eye became eager and excited. 
 
 " I began, sir, — I intended to do it," repHed 
 Walter; "but Ralph Staines was talking to 
 Bertha, and I went out to him, and since " 
 
 " Since, since," repeated Mr. Lorimer, sigh- 
 ing heavily. 
 
 Walter was irritated ; his father's annoy- 
 ance seemed so much greater than the occa- 
 sion demanded. He walked to the window. 
 Bertha was standing by the porch, with a bas- 
 ket on her arm ; she was going to the shore. 
 His wish to be useful to his father had failed ; 
 perhaps he had better go with his sister. It 
 would at least be kind. 
 
 "Shall you want me, sir, for the next hour 
 or so ?" he asked. 
 
 "No, Walter, no, if you will remember the 
 papers." 
 
 "Certainly, sir, this evening." 
 
 " Why not now ?" 
 
 " Bertha will walk alone, sir ; I liad better 
 go with her." 
 
 The father's countenance expressed deep
 
 THE MANOR HOUSE. 51 
 
 vexation ; the son's tone was proud and hasty. 
 They parted. How is it, that men dare to 
 part in anger, even for an liour ; when in the 
 counsels of the Most High it may be written, 
 that on earth they shall never meet again ?
 
 52 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE SEA SHORE. 
 (Plate I.) 
 
 Ralph's home was one of a little nest of 
 cottages clustered upon the sea shore, and in- 
 habited only by fishermen, or, as some thought, 
 by smugglers. It was a lonely spot at all 
 times, yet not desolate. The warm sun shone 
 brightly upon it in the summer, and underlts 
 influence vegetation flourished, bright flowers 
 grew in the little gardens, creepei"s clung to 
 the rough whitewashed walls, and a few herbs 
 were cultivated, even tQ^^ife:;i&jot of the sandy 
 clifl'; and in the depth of winter, when the 
 waves tossed themselves in fury over the sea- 
 weed-covered rocks, and broke in sheets of 
 foam upon the stones and shingles, there was 
 still something of security and protection in 
 the tall clifis, which rose immediately behind, 
 and the dwellers in (he secluded spot were
 
 THE SEA SHORE. 53 
 
 drawn more closely to each other by the bar- 
 rier which shut them out from the sight, and 
 in some cases, from the knowledge of the rest 
 of the world. 
 
 Early in the afternoon of the day on which 
 Ralph had visited the farm, two boats were 
 seen enlivening the broad expanse of sea which 
 spread before the cottages. A man standing 
 upright in one, lying close in upon the shore, 
 was attentively watching the movements of 
 the other, which had just rounded the promon- 
 tory, whilst from time to time, he communi- 
 cated the result of his observations to his two 
 companions, a fisherman, who was about to 
 assist him in rowing, and a gentleman seated 
 in the stern of the little skiff. 
 
 " Yes, it must be them, sir ; there are two, 
 a gentleman and a young lady I think. Jack, 
 look out, will you ? your eyes are younger." 
 
 " It's no use looking yet, Isaac ; they are 
 sure to come ; George Thompson there" — and 
 he pointed to a man who was talking to an 
 old woman on a bank by the cottage — " heard 
 the young lady tell Ralph she should be down 
 5*
 
 54 WALTER I.ORIMER. 
 
 this afternoon, when he was stopi)ing at the 
 farm, to make a bargain with farmer Holhs." 
 
 " The young lady ! she is more certain than 
 master Walter," said the gentleman lightly ; 
 "but look again, now ; perhaps after all they 
 may be coming by the cliff." 
 
 "Not much likelihood of that, sir," replied 
 Isaac, "such weather as this, when there is 
 not enough sea to frighten a cat, and the cliffs 
 are slippery from the dryness. Ah ! that's 
 them, I'm sure." 
 
 " Then we will w^ait," replied the young 
 man, in the same careless tone, "an hour will 
 not make much difference, and I will carry off 
 Walter by some means." 
 
 The men threw aside their oars, and Leo- 
 nard Hornsley, leaving the boat, leant list- 
 lessly against the bank, and amused himself by 
 speculating with the fisherman upon the length 
 of time it would take for Walter and Bertha 
 to reach the shore. 
 
 " Bertha," said Walter, as he looked up at 
 the dark cliffs, and then suffered his eye to 
 ascend higher and higher into the deep blue
 
 THE SEA SHORE. 55 
 
 sky, " you are right ; it is humbling, grievous, 
 to be ruffled on such a day as this." 
 
 " And to be. ruffled on any day," repHed 
 Bertha, " for the heaven above us is unchange- 
 able." 
 
 " And earthly cares never distract you, 
 then?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, indeed they do, lately especially." 
 
 " Why lately ? what do you mean? why did 
 you not write to me when I was away ?" 
 
 " I don't know ; it was not worth while, and 
 I had Mrs. Damsr and her husband to console 
 me when I was out of spirits." 
 
 " And women are fond of telling their griefs 
 to women," said Walter, laughingly, and un- 
 observant of Bertha's serious manner. 
 
 " Mrs. Damer is my best friend out of my 
 own family," replied Bertha ; " her house is a 
 home to me at all times." 
 
 " A home ! but, my dear Bertha, you don't 
 want a home, you have one." 
 
 Bertha faintly smiled. " I mean a home in 
 every sense of the word, a place where one is 
 understood and sympathized with."
 
 56 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 " Then you recjuire sympathy ; but why ? 
 what are these terrible anxieties V" 
 
 Bertha's colour changed, but she evaded the 
 inquiry. 
 
 " My father has been much worse, Walter ; 
 that is one cause for anxiety." 
 
 " He is not much worse that I can see." 
 " We must lose him soon," continued 
 Bertha in an under tone. 
 
 " You will be my care, then," said Walter, 
 earnestly. 
 
 Bertha thought she understood his meaning, 
 and answered, " I hope you will not repent the 
 burden, dear Walter; but the world has many 
 claims upon a man." 
 
 She waited for some expression of affection 
 to convince her that, whatever sacrifice he 
 might be called upon to make for her sake, it 
 w^ould be made willingly. But Walter had 
 caught sight of the little groui)upon the shore, 
 and the thought of his sister was gone. 
 
 Bertha turned aside her face, and tears 
 rushed to her eyes. 
 
 " My father is wrong," was the thought
 
 THE SEA SHORE. 57 
 
 which followed ; " Walter's affection for me is 
 nothing more than ordinary : it is not fair to 
 be a tax upon him. The property is his by in- 
 heritance, and his it shall remain — untouched." 
 Bertha Lorimer was proud — dependence 
 even upon those we love is too apt to make us 
 so. 
 
 Walter's hand was grasped cordially as he 
 jumped on shore. Leonard Hornsley had 
 been expecting him a full hour ; he had in- 
 tended to call at the farm ; and it was only by 
 accident that he learnt it was probable some 
 of the family would be at the fishing cottages 
 in the course of the afternoon. 
 
 " It was happy I did hear it," he continued ; 
 " it has saved me a desperately hot walk ; but I 
 expected only to see Miss Lorimer, and leave a 
 message." He looked round for Bertha, but 
 she had entered the cottage. 
 
 " A charity visit, I suppose," said Leonard, 
 rather ironically ; " but, Walter, we can't let 
 you be tied to your sister's apron strings in 
 this way. We must have you at our pic-nic 
 after all."
 
 58 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 "Impossible, quite! consider my shoi't leave." 
 
 " Short leave ! absurdity ! you know you will 
 get it extended." 
 
 Walter shook his head. " They say we 
 shall be ordered directly to Canada." 
 
 " Then go, — when they order you, go ; but 
 don't trouble yourself about it beforehand." 
 
 " My father is very unv/ell," said Walter. 
 
 " So you tell me always, but I shall begin to 
 think soon there is nothing in it." 
 
 " And Risingford is too far off," persisted 
 Walter ; " ten miles beyond your house : it is 
 not as if I could return the same day." 
 
 " No, of course it is not. When we have 
 you, we shall keep you ; but you can hear as 
 often as you like." 
 
 " That will not do, Leonard ; no, I must give 
 it up." 
 
 Bertha now came out of the cottage, and 
 Walter went to meet her. 
 
 " It is a very bad case," she said ; " worse 
 than Ralph represented. Oh ! Walter, I do 
 begin to wish we had money." 
 
 "But what can we do?" inquired Walter,
 
 THE SEA SHORE. 59 
 
 drawing his purse from his pocket, and un- 
 mindful of the sneer which was upon Leonard 
 Hornsley's face. 
 
 " I cannot tell ; I must go and see for some 
 one to look after the children ; the woman is 
 dying." 
 
 " Walter was shocked, and asked, " what 
 would become of Ralph ?" 
 
 " It is not for him I care so much just now," 
 replied Bertha : " his daughter is suffering 
 dreadfully, and they do not know how to help 
 her." 
 
 " Quick, Walter, quick," said Leonard ; "you 
 must say, yes." 
 
 " No," replied Walter decidedly ; and he 
 looked at Bertha with an air of self- approba- 
 tion. She was gone to inquire of the man 
 and woman who were still standing near the 
 cottage gate, what would be the most speedy 
 way of procuring medical aid. 
 
 " Is there no one to send to Welhurst?" she 
 said to him as Walter drew near. 
 
 Before a reply could be made, Walter in-
 
 60 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 terposed. " Send me, Berlha : I will row back 
 presently." 
 
 " Come, Walter, I am waiting," cried Leon- 
 ard Hornsley. Walter put up his hand to 
 silence him. 
 
 " It would be a great help if you w^ould go," 
 said Bertha, eagerly. 
 
 " I will be off in a moment." He ran to the 
 shore, the two boats were lying together. 
 
 " This one, Walter," said Leonard, pointing 
 to his own ; "just get in, and we will talk over 
 the pic-nic." 
 
 Walter's own boatmen looked at him 
 rather eagerly, and said that they did not 
 often have an afternoon's work ; as they had 
 brought him they should be glad to carry him 
 back. 
 
 " Well, well," exclaimed Walter, " it is all 
 the same ; only be quick." 
 
 He was about to step in, when his eye was 
 caught l#y a book lying on the seat in the other 
 boat. 
 
 " A book, Leonard : lend it to me ; it will 
 amuse me, and I will send it back."
 
 THE SEA SHORE. 
 
 61 
 
 " Come here, then, and we will read it 
 together," replied Leonard, who had stretched 
 himself on a bench. 
 
 " Waher, every moment is precious," said 
 Bertha, drawing near. Leonard Hornsley 
 roused himself, and beckoned to him. 
 
 " The quickest boat by far, Walter ; and I 
 have some capital things to show you here ;" 
 and he held out the novel. " Come." And 
 Walter went. Why, he scarcely knew, — he 
 never thought — and the boat glided swiftly 
 over the waters, and Bertha watched it till 
 it was out of sight, and then returned to the 
 cottage. 
 
 In the short space of twenty minutes they 
 had reached Welhurst. Walter was about 
 to spring on shore when Leonard stopped 
 him. 
 
 " Let one of the men go with the message 
 to the doctor," he said, " for we have no time 
 to spare. You are coming on with me : my 
 mother's carriage will be waiting." 
 
 " But I am not expected," replied Walter. 
 6
 
 62 
 
 WALTER LOEIMER. 
 
 "Of course you are, I was sent after you 
 expressly." 
 
 " But, Bertha, — " replied Walter. " No, I 
 must be firm." 
 
 " Then at least come up to the hotel with 
 me, and make your own excuses. Look, I 
 have written on this card the message to the 
 doctor, and tiie boat will wait to convey him 
 back. Come on." Again Walter obeyed. 
 
 " Mr. Lorimer," said Mrs. Hornsley, lean- 
 ing out of her carriage window and extend- 
 ing her hand, " this is most kind ; we were 
 upon the point of starting. See, here is your 
 vacant seat. Leonard will drive." Walter 
 began to excuse himself, but the horses were 
 becoming restive, and Mrs. Hornsley grew 
 frightened. " Get in, pray get in, we can talk 
 afterwards." 
 
 " But indeed," — and Walter turned to 
 Leonard to support him. 
 
 " Only get in, can't you, my good fellow ?" 
 exclaimed Leonard. 
 
 "Bertha — the doctor — my dress — I'm not 
 prepared," began Walter, entreatingly.
 
 THE SEA SHORE. 63 
 
 " It shall all be managed ; don't trouble 
 yourself. We will drive to the doctor, and 
 send a message to your sister. Now, are you 
 ready ?" Almost forcing Walter into the car- 
 riage, Leonard took the reins, mounted the box, 
 and drove off.
 
 64 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 RISINGFORD. 
 (Plate II.) 
 
 The Castle of Risingford had undergone 
 many and great changes from the time when 
 the old keep or donjon was first raised by the 
 Saxons. It had been enlarged and fortified by 
 the Norman Barons, beleaguered during the 
 wars of the Roses, dismantled in the Great Re- 
 bellion, and at length, in the more peaceful times 
 which succeeded the restoration of Charles II., 
 suflfered to fall into decay, until it had become 
 merely a })lace of interest to antiquarians, and 
 of amusement to sketchers and tourists, who 
 clambered over the broken walls, and peeped 
 into the old towers, and associated their own 
 ephemeral hopes and fears with scenes where 
 once had been acted no insignificant part of 
 the great drama of a nation's history. Yet 
 the life of a nation is, strictly speaking, nothing 
 but the life of individuals : and in the sio;ht of
 
 RISIFGFORD. 65 
 
 that Great Being who can foresee the end of 
 all things from their commencement, the cir- 
 cumstances which involve the destiny of an 
 immortal soul must be infinitely vaster in im- 
 portance than the most striking events which 
 concern the kingdoms of this world only. 
 
 The sun was low in the West, shedding its 
 bright rays upon the noble gateway flanked by 
 two large round towers which, with the ex- 
 ception of the keep, alone remains, to show 
 with certainty the grandeur that the castle 
 once boasted. The heavy wicket gate was 
 closed, and the deep archway shrouded in 
 gloom ; yet sounds of mirth were heard 
 amongst the ruined walls, shouts of laughter 
 rose from time to time upon the breeze, and 
 full a.nd sweet the glad tones of music fell 
 upon the ear. There came a pause, a stillness, 
 as though something startling and unforeseen 
 had occurred to put a stop to mirth ; then, 
 words of hasty command, a kind parting, and 
 the trampling of horses' hoofs. The party 
 seemed dispersed ; their voices were heard in 
 different directions amongst the ruins ; and 
 6*
 
 66 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 two, who had clambered upon the summit of 
 the broken walls, looked down with something 
 of pity and interest upon the deep stony 
 road which led from the castle. A minute 
 afterwards, the massive gates were unbarred, 
 and, spurring his spirited horse to its full speed, 
 Walter Lorimer waved his hand as a hasty 
 farewell, and rushed madly down the hill. 
 Well might he ride desperately. His father 
 lay upon his death-bed. Five and twenty 
 miles, long and wearisome, were before him, 
 the evening was coming on ; his horse, fresh 
 and vigorous though it seemed, had already 
 travelled nearly half the distance ; and Bertha's 
 note, — those few despairing lines, they spoke 
 not a word of hope. Walter had endured but 
 few reproaches of conscience since he so 
 weakly yielded to his friend Leonard's en- 
 treaties. There seemed nothing very wrong in 
 what he had done ; his friends were kind, his 
 companions cheerful ; dancing and laughter 
 and conversation filled the idle hours, and the 
 succeeding day's expedition was entirely suc- 
 cessful. No temper, no annoyance, the ruins
 
 RISINGFORD. 67 
 
 interesting and picturesque, the .party full of 
 excitement and pleasure. He sat at Mrs. 
 Hornsley's right hand, at the head of the long 
 rustic table spread in the open court-yard. 
 His vanity was flattered, and his spirits were 
 proportionately raised. Two letters were sud- 
 denly put into his hand : they were brought by 
 a special messenger : one appeared a letter of 
 business. He was just going to break the seal, 
 when his eye fell upon the handwriting of the 
 other. The current of his ideas was changed. 
 He tore open Bertha's note, gathered its alarm- 
 ing contents at one rapid glance, and sank 
 back in his chair pale and trembhng. His 
 sister's writing was scarcely legible from agita- 
 tion, but it told him that his father's illness was 
 most dangerous and increased by his absence. 
 All other circumstances were in an instant for- 
 gotten, and Walter thrust the accompanying 
 letter into his pocket unread, mounted his 
 horse, and galloped from the castle. 
 
 For once his whole mind was concentrated 
 on one purpose, to reach the farm, to see his
 
 68 WALTER LORIMEK. 
 
 father, to obtain his blessing, his forgiveness 
 for all the grief "which he had ever caused 
 him. 
 
 Even then, as he rode at full speed in the 
 dim twilight, his brain giddy with the rapid 
 motion, and the faint images of gaiety and 
 beauty v^^hich yet haunted him, remorse was 
 busy at his heart. No great sins rose up be- 
 fore him ; but, clear and distinct, following 
 each other in sad array, and standing out 
 vividly as if only the previous day had seen 
 them committed, came the memories of his 
 early offences ; all his neglect, his wilfulness, 
 his indolent yielding to evil habits ; and that 
 last cold parting — it seemed the most ungrate- 
 ful, the most to be lamented of all. 
 
 On he rode, — every step, as it brought him 
 nearer to his home, making his heart beat 
 quicker and fainter. He was still seven 
 miles distant : his horse's strength seemed 
 flagging. 
 
 It was dark, for the moon had not yet risen ; 
 but the stars shone out brightly in the depth
 
 RISINGFORD. 69 
 
 of the purple heavens, and the air was soft and 
 warm, and the nightingale's song cheered the 
 silence of the summer night. 
 
 Seven miles ! it seemed as if they would 
 never end. 
 
 How awful were the shadows which lay 
 around him ! how vague and mysterious the 
 gleaming of the moon when at length it rose ! 
 how overwhelming the height of the over- 
 arching sky and the pale lustre of the mighty 
 universe of worlds above his head! Walter 
 felt it all ; but he was too miserable for 
 thought. A life of warning and experience 
 seemed concentrated in those short moments. 
 He drew near his home ; every tree was as 
 the face of a familiar friend, but sad and 
 silent. 
 
 The moon passed behind a cloud, and Wal- 
 ter's faint flickering hope vanished with it ; 
 and when again it froke forth, its quiet rays 
 fell upon the white tombstones in the little 
 churchyard. 
 
 Walter dismounted, and fastened his horse 
 to the garden gate ; the porch door was open,
 
 70 WALTER LOKIMER. 
 
 and two persons were standing in the hall. 
 He recognized a voice he knew, — the voice 
 of a clergyman. The light of a lamp shone 
 upon his face : it was sorrowful and awe- 
 struck, and he laid his hand upon Walter's 
 arm to stop him. But Walter shook off the 
 grasp. For one instant he paused, and a ques- 
 tion rose to his lips, but he dared not utter it, 
 and, pushing aside the servant who stood in 
 his way, he ascended the staircase. His 
 heavy tread echoed drearily along the passage 
 which led to his father's chamber ; he reached 
 the end, the door was open, and he stood mo- 
 tionless upon the threshold. Within there 
 were low solemn voices, and half-stifled sobs, 
 and then a wild shriek of anguish broke upon 
 the stillness, and Bertha, roused from the stu- 
 por of grief, threw herself upon the bed, and 
 pressed her lips to the clay-cold forehead, and 
 clasped the lifeless form which was all that re- 
 mained to her of her father. 
 
 " Bertha," said the gentle voice of the only 
 friend who had been with her in her hour of 
 trial ; " dearest Bertha, will you not come with 
 me?"
 
 RISINGFORD. 
 
 71 
 
 An hysterical sob was the only answer ; 
 and Mrs. Darner put her arm round her, and 
 attempted to force her to rise. At that 
 instant Walter entered ; he advanced slowly 
 to the foot of the bed, and stood, his glazed 
 eye fixed upon the rigid features changed by 
 the fearful unalterable power of death ; and 
 then he sank on his knees, and prayers and 
 tears of agony relieved the extremity of his 
 grief. 
 
 "Bertha," said Mrs. Darner again, bending 
 down to the unhappy girl, whose face was 
 resting on her father's pillow ; " your brother 
 is come : look up, speak to him." 
 
 Bertha raised her head ; an unnatural, eager 
 expression was in her eyes, and she answered 
 in a deep voice, " Walter left him, and he 
 died." Her face became of an ashy paleness, 
 and she fell back unconscious. 
 
 The remainder of the night Walter Lorimer 
 paced his room with a steady even tread, not 
 pausing to rest or think, not seeking to know 
 tidings of his sister, not caring to give orders 
 in the house of which he was now the master.
 
 72 
 
 WALTER LORIMEK. 
 
 The morning slowly dawned, clear and beau- 
 tiful ; something of a calmei", yet of a colder, 
 feeling stole over him. He sat down in his 
 accustomed place ; all seemed so peaceful and 
 familiar, — yet how changed ! And his sister's 
 miserable words and her altered look ! even 
 her love, then, was gone from him ; his pre- 
 sence could give her no comfort ; he was soli- 
 tary in the wide world. In a short time the 
 door of Bertha's room, which was opposite to 
 his, opened, and he heard a message delivered 
 for Mrs. Damer. " Miss Lorimer wished to 
 see her immediately." But Bertha did not 
 wish to see him, and the thought rendered him 
 desperate. He looked from the window, and 
 watched the labourers going forth to their 
 work ; the sense of loneliness became more 
 oppressive, and he longed to be in the fresh 
 air amongst the open fields. A knock at the 
 door startled him from a vague sad dream of 
 childish days. Bertha had sent to say that she 
 should like to see him whenever he could go 
 to her. But Walter dreaded his sister's pre- 
 sence. Conscience whispered that his thought-
 
 niSINGFORD. 73 
 
 lessness and weakness had added misery to his 
 father's dying hours. " He would come soon," 
 he said ; but still he lingered, and when the 
 servant had left the room he stood again by the 
 window. The cool air blew softly upon his 
 fevered cheek, and it seemed that it would 
 strengthen him for the interview. Yet he left 
 the room and stood at the door of Bertha's 
 chamber. Irresolution was in his every look 
 and action. He grasped the handle, but his eye 
 wandered down the passage seeking an excuse 
 for delay. The loud barking of a dog was 
 heard. The animal was his father's favourite, 
 and Walter's heart was touched, and he ran 
 down stairs to caress it. He found the animal 
 whining at the garden door, and opened it to 
 let him in. Then the impulse to refresh him- 
 self became irresistible, and he left the house. 
 He strayed into the fields, and from the fields 
 farther and farther into the country, until the 
 sun was high in the heavens, and fatigue 
 warned him to rest. As he sat down under a 
 tree, he became aware for the first time of the 
 distance he had gone. He would return, he 
 7
 
 74 WALTER LORIMEK. 
 
 thought, immediately ; but, as lie put his hand 
 into his pocket, he took out the letter which 
 had been forwarded with Bertha's note. 
 
 Now he had time to examine it. It was an 
 official letter, and had been missent. Walter 
 opened it tremblingl}', and it I'ell from his grasp. 
 It was an order instantly to join his regiment, 
 upon the point of sailing for Canada. The 
 delay already incurred was greater than should 
 have been risked. Wellhursl was close at 
 hand, the coach which would carry him to 
 London was, he knew, about to start. He had 
 not another moment to spare ; not one to give 
 to Bertha, to his own affairs, to arrangements 
 of any kind. The last tribute to his father's 
 memory must remain unpaid, and Bertha must 
 be left to her misery without one w ord of sym- 
 pathy, one parting kiss of affection ! Is it in 
 judgment or in mercy that grievous punish- 
 ments follow upon our failings as W'ell as upon 
 our sins ? 
 
 That evening saw Walter Lorimer in the 
 bustle of preparation for his voyage, having 
 scarcely time to write a few words of expla-
 
 RISINGFORD. 75 
 
 nation to his sister, and drowning recollection 
 in excitement. The next, he was sailing over 
 the wide sea to a distant land, less fortunate 
 than the vessel which bore him onwards ; in 
 that the haven to which his soul was voyaging 
 was growing daily more indistinct to view; and 
 the tempestuous waves of this troublesome 
 world more powerful against the weakness of 
 an unstable will.
 
 76 WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE OLD CHURCH. 
 (Plate VL) 
 
 It was a gloomy afternoon in the month of 
 November. The sky was heavily overcast, 
 and brightened only by the lurid colour which 
 tinged the clouds around the setting sun. The 
 north-east wind howled amongst the branches 
 of the trees, at times bursting into a shrill 
 whistle, piercing as the tones of human agony ; 
 whilst the tall dark elms swayed to and fro 
 under the power of a rising storm. Cold, gray, 
 and dilapidated stood the old manor farm ; 
 the garden converted into a yard, the luxuriant 
 creepers over the walls untrained ; a farm in 
 reality as well as in name ; and there, by its 
 side, stood the little church, quiet and holy, 
 amidst the tombs of those who were laid to 
 rest beneath its shadow. The porch dopr was 
 open, and the last light of evening which 
 brightened the rouQ-h stone floor and white-
 
 THE OLD CHURCH. 77 
 
 washed walls, brought out, in strong contrast 
 to the shadow that lay beyond, the beauty of 
 the richly worked, though slightly defaced, 
 Norman archway of the chancel. In other 
 respects, the interior was without ornament, 
 disfigured by high pews, and a pulpit and read- 
 ing desk of unpainted deal, and, though scru- 
 pulously neat, more than usually poor in the 
 arrangements of the altar ; the uncarved oak 
 table and rails, and the uncarpeted floor. Yet 
 the whole was not without interest. It might 
 have been antiquity, association, neatness and 
 simplicity, or merely the solemnity of a con- 
 secrated building, or the natural effect of the 
 evening hour ; but something there v/as, in the 
 little primitive country church, which subdued, 
 and chastened, and elevated the feelings. 
 Heaven was nearer, earth and its cares farther 
 removed. 
 
 Two persons were standing within the 
 chancel arch, their eyes riveted upon the pave- 
 ment. One was a lady, bending forward with 
 dim and tearful eyes striving to trace, by the 
 aid of the fading light, the inscription upon
 
 78 • WALTER LORIMER. 
 
 the small brass plate at her feet. A gentleman 
 stood by her side, whose dress and manner 
 betokened his profession as a clergyman : 
 minutes flew by, but they neither moved nor 
 spoke ; the twilight deepened, the howling of 
 the wind sounded drearily around the old 
 walls ; and sudden gusts burst through the 
 open porch. The lady put her arm within her 
 husband's, and he felt the hand which rested 
 upon it tremble. 
 
 " It will be a fearful night," she said. 
 
 "Yes, fearful for us, but not for her. At 
 last she sleeps in peace." Mrs. Damer's voice 
 faltered, as she replied, — " I scarcely think of 
 peace as yet ; those hours of suffering, and 
 the loneliness and privation are always present 
 to me." 
 
 " And why not the strength which supported 
 her? and the faith which converted all trials 
 into blessings ?" 
 
 " Not quite all trials ; her brother's coldness, 
 his neglect, brought her early to the grave." 
 
 " And early to her God. Bertha's proud, 
 warm feelino-s misht have been the source of
 
 THE OLD CHURCH. 79 
 
 grievous evil, but lor that one bitter disap- 
 pointment." 
 
 "To leave her!" continued Mrs. Darner in 
 a musing tone, " to make no settlement, no 
 arrangement, never to inquire what provision 
 remained for her ; to suffer her slender means 
 to dwindle away day by day ; to know that 
 her health was failing, and still to pursue his 
 thoughtless, expensive course ; pretending af- 
 fection, and leaving her to destitution ! Wal- 
 ter Lorimer will one day have a grievous 
 account to give." 
 
 " We will speak of charity, not of reproach, 
 in the house of God," replied her husband, as 
 he gently withdrew her from the spot. They 
 walked slowly down the aisle ; the moaning 
 of the wind grew louder ; its wail more sharp 
 and thrilling ; then, as they stood together in 
 the porch, there was a sudden lull, and, as if 
 by one consent, they stopped to look forth into 
 the cold, misty twilight. 
 
 " See, Charles, how grim and ghastly it 
 stands !" said Mrs. Damer, pointing to the old 
 farm ; " the type of their ruined fortunes."
 
 80 WALTER LOKIMEK. 
 
 There was a I'aint groan near; or was it but 
 the sighing of the stoi in ? Mrs. Darner 
 started, and looked around, but they seemed 
 alone. " I strive to think of her as I know 
 she is," she continued, clinging more closely 
 to her husband ; " bright and glorious ; but 
 that last hour comes before me ; — the small, 
 wretched lodging, and the want of the com- 
 mon comforts of sickness, and the steward's 
 grandchild her only help. And, again, I see 
 her lying in her coffin ; and now we are leav- 
 ing her to the pitiless storm. Even for Walter 
 Lorimer, I could wish no greater punishment, 
 than to feel as, in my faithless heart, I have 
 felt." 
 
 It was a groan ! a groan of human suffering, 
 or remorse, which mingled with the hollow 
 murmurs of the wdnd. A man stepped from 
 behind the porch, and walked quickly to the 
 other side of the churchyard. Mr. Darner 
 watched hiin, thinking he might return ; but he 
 waited in vain. The stranger leant over the 
 low wall which separated the churchyard from 
 the farm ; but he did not once turn his head
 
 THE OLD CHURCH. 81 
 
 until the gate closed behind the clergyman and 
 his wife. Then he came back to the chm'ch. 
 He paused an instant before entering, and sat 
 down on a bench. His strength appeared for- 
 saking him, and the pale light which yet linger- 
 ed in the sky threw a ghastly glare upon his 
 face. — Walter Lorimer's face! — how pale ! how 
 haggard and despairing! Oh ! bitter memories 
 of youth ! who can endure their upbraidings, 
 w^hen first they waken us to the knowledge 
 that our early, unregarded, unacknowledged 
 sins have been the misery of those who have 
 loved us ! 
 
 Walter rose slowly from his seat, and push- 
 ed open the heavy door. Nearly two years 
 had passed since last he heard the deep dull 
 sound v/ith which it closed. He strode up the 
 aisle, his boots clanking loudly upon the stone 
 floor, and seeming strangely irreverent in that 
 house of prayer ; and then he paused and 
 looked around him. The few monuments upon 
 the wall were familiar to him ; he had known 
 them, from childhood ; and the half defaced 
 letters upon the floor, — they were scarcely
 
 82 WALTER LOIUMEK. 
 
 visible in tiie twilight, but the toucii of cen- 
 turies was upon them. He moved aside, and 
 there, beneath him, trodden under his feet, lay 
 the simple inscription, — " Sacred to the me- 
 mory of Bertha Lorimer." Walter threw 
 himself upon his knees, and prayed for mercy, 
 comfort, strength, that he might bear his trial ; 
 and the twilight deepened into darkness, and 
 the storm raged wildly without ; the wind 
 rocked the belfry, and tore ofi' the tiling from 
 the roof and strewed branches of the elms upon 
 the ground ; and the rain beat in torrents 
 against the windows, and hailstones threatened 
 to break them with their force ; but still Wal- 
 ter knelt upon his sister's grave, and bowed 
 his forehead to the earth, and prayed that the 
 lesson of that hour might never pass from his' 
 mind, — and why? 
 
 We will follow him to his own chamber, the 
 room which for that one night only he occu- 
 pied in the old farm. Papers, bills, letters, 
 were on the table ; they had been awaiting his 
 arrival in England, and had been delivered to 
 him only a few hours before. But Walter
 
 THE OLD CHURCH. 83 
 
 could as yet give his attention to one subject 
 only. Bertha's diary lay open before him. 
 There were passages in it which seemed to 
 write themselves in burning characters upon 
 his brain. 
 
 " June 18. — The day of my father's funeral : 
 the worst is over now, and I am alone. I 
 must learn to think that it is not alone ; per- 
 haps for that reason the trial is ordained. 
 Walter's letter ought to satisfy me, but it does 
 not. It seems that common humanity would 
 have urged him to see me when I sent for him. 
 Still I fancy he may be able to return ; and I 
 listen ; but all is silent, — silent with death. 
 
 " July 20. — By searching in Walter's room 
 I have found some law papers, and my dear 
 father's letter entreating him to provide for 
 me. Walter must have put them aside after 
 reading them. His having seen them saves 
 me from a great difficulty. The papers have 
 been sent to the lawyers ; the letters I have 
 kept. Nothing now is my own, but my un- 
 cle's legacy." 
 
 Then came intimations of disappointed hopes
 
 84 WALTER LORI.AIER. 
 
 in not seeing or hearing from him ; of embai-- 
 rassed circumstances ; of removing from the 
 old farm house to a lodging in Welhurst ; of 
 wounded affection, and mental struggles ; of 
 plans to support herself as a governess or com- 
 panion ; and soon passages which told of de- 
 clining health and strength, of increased penu- 
 ry, of having no one to minister to her neces- 
 sities, but Ralph's little granddaughter, of Mrs. 
 Damer's kindness, and of the consolations of 
 religion, administered by her husband. At last 
 Walter read the following : — 
 
 " Hope is sent at last, the brightest hope that 
 could be granted. I forced my doctor to-day 
 to tell me his opinion of my case. He shook 
 his head. And then I asked if it could be 
 long? He little knew the thrill of happiness 
 which his answer gave me. A few weeks 
 only! Yet, afterwards, as I sat alone in the 
 dim evening light, awful thoughts overwhelmed 
 me. Who could face death but for the cer- 
 tainty of a Saviour ? ' Enter not into judg- 
 ment with Thy servant, O Lord, for in Thy 
 sight shall no man living be justified.'
 
 THE OLD CHURCH. 85 
 
 " Oct. 30. — Walter is on his way home. My 
 heart throbbed with dehght when I heard it ; 
 but ere he can reach England, I may be safe 
 in 'the land which is very far off.' Yet to 
 have seen him once more, to have told him 
 how dearly I loved him through all, to have 
 given him my last warning, — my blessing, 
 would it not have afforded me peace in my 
 dying hour? It is ordered, and therefore it is 
 best, — it must be best. 
 
 " Nov. 6th. — I feel myself sinking rapidly ; 
 but I want for nothing. I can read the events 
 of my short and troubled life, and see that they 
 have been the ladder on which my spirit has 
 mounted upwards to God. To-morrow, Mr. 
 Damer has promised that I shall receive the 
 Hojy Communion. I had one longing, one in- 
 tense longing, that Walter could be with me ; 
 but even that is gone. There is One who is 
 all in all. To God's mercy and protection I 
 commit my darling Walter." — And there was 
 no more, — no record of the failing moments of 
 that lone and wounded spirit, save in the sealed 
 Book, in which it is written how the saints 
 8
 
 86 WALTER LOUIMER. 
 
 of God have struggled, and conquered, and 
 died. 
 
 It is said that from that hour Walter Lori- 
 mer was a changed man. There is reason for 
 hope and belief that it was so. The conse- 
 quences of our faults are sometimes unveiled 
 to us in mercy, and branded upon our memo- 
 ries and our consciences, with the anguish of 
 a keen but salutary remorse. Yet, a parent's 
 life saddened, his deathbed unsoothed, a sister 
 brought to poverty, perhaps to death — who 
 would not tremble to cause such fearful suffer- 
 ing by the indulgence of a single sin, even with 
 the certainty (which none can have) of at 
 length attaining to the repentance over which 
 there is joy in Heaven ?
 
 THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 " The wiiole world is a picture, and all the things we see with our eyes 
 speak something to the mind to instruct and improve it. 
 
 Jones of Nayland.
 
 THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 THE INTRODUCTION. 
 
 " The Emblems of Life" — this inscription 
 caught my attention as I was carelessly turn- 
 ing over the leaves of a portfolio, watching the 
 
 entrance of my friend B . It was annexed 
 
 to a small parcel tied with black tape, which 
 appeared to contain some five or six drawings. 
 1 forgot for the moment that, as I was in my 
 friend's study, the sketches might not be de- 
 signed for public inspection, and in a fit of 
 mere idle curiosity undid the fastening. 
 
 There was nothing in the drawings them- 
 selves to remind me of my intrusion. They 
 were very beautifully executed, and yet it was 
 with a feeling approaching to disappointment 
 that I looked at them. Some were of scenes 
 with which I myself was familiar ; and I con-
 
 90 
 
 THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 jectured that the whole set, which proved to 
 consist of six drawings, was the memorial of a 
 tour in the Isle of Wight. I had expected 
 something totally different, and was beginning 
 to fancy that the inscription on the paper 
 which contained them had been placed there 
 by accident, when a corresponding mark on 
 the drawings themselves convinced me that it 
 must be the result of design. I observed in 
 the left hand corner at the foot of five of them 
 a title which seemed intended to afford some 
 clue to their signification. The words, "Child- 
 hood," — " Youth," — " Manhood," — " the De- 
 cline of Life," — "Old Age," — very faintly 
 traced in pencil characters, with the initials A. 
 M., were written severally upon them. The 
 sixth drawing alone was without an inscrip- 
 tion. 
 
 There could then be no doubt that each 
 drawing w^as supposed to be an emblem of the 
 era of life whose name it bore. But my per- 
 plexity was rather increased than relieved by 
 the discovery ; for, wdth the exception of the 
 second of the number, which represented a
 
 INTRODUCTION. 91 
 
 figure on horseback apparently in the prime of 
 youth, the sketches seenied to have httle or no 
 connection with the periods to which they 
 were assigned. I had taken up the first to ex- 
 amine it more closely, and my attention became 
 so absorbed that I did not observe my friend's 
 entrance until I was startled by the sound of 
 his voice. 
 
 "Curiosity its own punishment," he said 
 good-humourpdly, as he took the picture from 
 my hand ; '•' I was once as puzzled as yourself, 
 and even now should shrink from an attempt 
 to explain their meaning. 
 
 I apologized for the liberty of which I had 
 been guilty ; and yet could not help adding, in 
 the hope of eliciting some explanation, " Then 
 the sketches are not your own?" 
 
 " No," he replied, " they belonged to a dis- 
 tant relative, who, when I was left without 
 home or friends, adopted me as his own child. 
 He died before I was old enough to be aware 
 of the debt of gratitude I owed him ; and I 
 only remember him as a kind-hearted solitary 
 man. But you will not wonder that I look
 
 92 THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 back with a feeling approaching to reverence 
 on every thing connected with his memory. 1 
 found these sketches a few years since in a 
 drawer which contained his private papers, 
 and some memorials of his early years." 
 
 He paused, as though doubtful whether to 
 explain further ; and, in the hope of leading 
 him on, I observed that they appeared to me 
 to be views of the Isle of Wight, and that I 
 was familiar with many of them. But the re- 
 mark had the opposite effect to that which I 
 had intended it to produce. 
 
 " Very likely," he said, dryly ; " other people 
 have told me the same thing, and. as my adopt- 
 ed father passed the last years of his life in the 
 island, it is by no means impossible." 
 
 He now began to replace the drawings in 
 their cover. I was, however, still unwilling to 
 drop the conversation. " They were sketched 
 probably by your relative himself," I said ; 
 " they are certainly very beautiful." 
 
 But this remark was not more successful 
 than the former. He merely answered that 
 his relative himself had been unable to use the
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 93 
 
 pencil at all ; and that he had discovered from 
 an old letter in the same drawer that these 
 sketches had been given him by a friend Vi'ho 
 died shortly after their execution. I observed 
 that his death must have invested them with 
 a peculiar interest, and then ventured to in- 
 quire " whether the relation to whom he re- 
 ferred had given them their title of the emblems 
 of life." 
 
 " No," he replied, " the inscription on the 
 cover is my own." 
 
 " And the pencil marks on the drawings 
 themselves?" I said. "Are in the handwriting 
 of my adopted father," he answered, " and the 
 initials also are his own. But both the one 
 and the other are so faintly traced, that they 
 appear to be a private memorandum, and never 
 to have been intended to attract the attention 
 of strangers." 
 
 The words seemed to hint at my own un- 
 warrantable intrusion, though I do not imagine 
 them to have been spoken with that design. 
 But they gave me no opening for pursuing the 
 conversation farther. I w^as silent while my
 
 94 THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 friend quietly re-fastened tiie tape and closed 
 the portfolio ; and then, alter a vain attempt to 
 talk on indifferent subjects, took my leave. 
 
 " Curiosity its own punishment," — the words 
 haunted me, and so also did the drawings. 
 The whole of that evening I tried to unravel 
 what my imagination magnified into an impor- 
 tant mystery. Sometimes I fancied that my 
 friend must have left the pictures in my way 
 in order to amuse himself at my expense. But 
 his allusion to his deceased relative forbade the 
 thought. I was sure that he would not con- 
 nect his recollection of him with any jest, of 
 however harmless a character. There must 
 then be some clue to their meaning. It was 
 quite wonderful how distinct the pictures them- 
 selves grew in my memory as 1 thought them 
 over again and again. But still the figure on 
 the white horse was the only resting-place. 
 It was followed by a kind of moving panorama 
 of trees, churches, towers, and ships ; and I 
 tried in vain to arrange and separate them into 
 the five eras of life.
 
 THE SIX PICTURES. 95 
 
 THE SIX PICTURES 
 
 The following morning 1 again called on my 
 friend with the express object of asking him to 
 gratify my curiosity. He seemed at first 
 surprised at my visit, but his face brightened 
 before I had got through the apology with 
 which I prefaced my request. 
 
 " What," he said with a smile, " you no 
 longer look upon them as mere views of the 
 Isle of Wight, beautifully executed ! I might 
 have explained them yesterday if I had not 
 been chilled by such a matter-of-fact obser- 
 vation. But you seem now in a more imagi- 
 native humour." 
 
 As he said this he undid the fastening of the 
 portfolio ; but, again pausing before he opened 
 it, he added, "perhaps it will be as well that, 
 in the first place, I should tell you what little 
 I know of my deceased relative's character 
 and history." 
 
 " Nay then," I replied, " if it be the life of
 
 96 THE EMCLExMS OF LIFE. 
 
 an individual to which tiie pictures refer, it is 
 no wonder that I have been unable to find the 
 clue to their meaning. From your calling them 
 ' the emblems of life,' I had fancied them to 
 be of universal application." 
 
 '•' And so I conceive that they are," he an- 
 swered, " though, from the initials annexed, I 
 infer that it was the image of himself which 
 my adopted father saw reilected there. But 
 his was no uncommon story ; and the sketch 
 which I shall give you merely forms an outline 
 which each may fill up, and so make his own. 
 His childhood was passed at home ; and his 
 parents survived to watch his entrance into life. 
 He began his career with bright hopes and fair 
 prospects, but met with many trials and dis- 
 appointments. I cannot tell you their precise 
 character ; I only know that he retired from 
 the world, and for awhile gave way to feelings 
 of depression and despondency. But these 
 were of no long continuance, for he was led 
 by adliction to fix his hopes on a home beyond 
 the grave. You see,'" he added, with a smile, 
 as he opened the portfolio, " it is not a very
 
 THE SIX PICTURES. 97 
 
 eventful history, and yet to my mind it is so 
 interwoven with these emblems, that 1 seem 
 to myself to have been telling the story of the 
 di'a wings rather than that of any individual " 
 
 Ef)e jfkst 33fctuvc. 
 
 (Plate I.) 
 
 He now placed the first picture before me, 
 and as my eye glanced upon it I inquired 
 whether his relative was of humble origin and 
 had been born in the Isle of Wight. He 
 smiled at the purport of the question, and re- 
 plied, "No; he was born in an inland county; 
 and the most eccentric imagination would 
 find it difficult to trace the faintest resemblance 
 between the cottage on the sea-shore and his 
 father's spacious hall. Nor do I imagine his 
 parents themselves would be greatly flattered 
 at recognising their portraits in the two figures 
 on the beach. It is true that he died in the 
 Isle of Wight, and, in accordance with his 
 own wish, was buried there ; but his child- 
 hood, youth, and manhood were passed among 
 9
 
 98 THE KMULKAIrf OF LIFE. 
 
 • Other and very different scenes. You must 
 Remember that the pictures, Avith the exception, 
 perhaps, of the last, are not representations of 
 my relative's history, but emblems of the eras 
 of his life. And now I must ask you to exa- 
 mine the first attentively before I endeavour to 
 interpret it." 
 
 " Nay," I replied, " the examination is un- 
 necessary; I inspected it carefully in my for- 
 mer visit, and it is, in truth, a picture whicii, 
 once looked u}^on, is not easily forgotten. 
 There are high cliffs in the back ground, 
 which seem to shut out the world, in order 
 that the eye may rest on a home-scene of 
 tranquillity and repo^. A picturesque cottage 
 nestles itself beneath them. Two prominent 
 figures stand before it side by side. A boat 
 is stranded near the shore. One sailor appears 
 in mere listlessness to hold an oar, while 
 another seems on the point of pushing forth 
 into deeper water. The waves dash merrily 
 by it, and their white surge gives a life and 
 gladness to the picture that would otherwise 
 be wanting. A second boat is seen in the
 
 THK SIX riCXUKE;^. 99 
 
 distance : and one can almost envy the pas- 
 sengers whom it bears, the quiet and happy 
 scene that must now open to their view." ^ 
 
 " You have described it well," he said, "and 
 I believe not without a perception of its em- 
 blematic meaning ; for such and so tranquil is 
 the scene that meets us at our first entrance 
 into life. There is a barrier to separate us 
 from the cares of the world ; and all that the 
 eye rests upon is comprised in the three happy 
 words of father, mother, and home. And yet 
 it is a seclusion unattended with sadness ; and 
 this is one of many features that distinguishes 
 the present from the fourth drawing. In that 
 there is stillness as well as solitude ; but in this 
 we can conceive an emblem of the restlessness 
 and joyous spirits of childhood in the waves 
 that chase one another on the shore, and the 
 ceaseless murmur of the waters. 
 
 " But the two boats," I said, " what do they 
 signify ?" 
 
 " They are emblems that have perplexed 
 rne," he replied ; " but if we set aside the one 
 in the distance as a mere representation of the
 
 100 THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 voyage of life, the other will give us little diffi- 
 culty. It connects itself partly with the aini- 
 lessness of the pursuits of children, and partly 
 with the preparation for future exertion. 
 Many of their little plans and schemes in 
 which they mimic the occupations of men, 
 might come under the figure of navigating a 
 boat, which, as yet, lies safely on the shore." 
 
 " It would," I said, " be not merely an em- 
 blem, but an actual picture of a favourite 
 amusement of my own childhood. There is 
 certainly enough to explain the emblematic 
 title of the drawing. And yet I own I am still 
 surprised at the absence of children from 
 among the figures of which it is composed. 
 Surely a group of them playing upon tlie beach 
 would have greatly improved it as an emblem." 
 
 " Nay," he answered ; " would not that have 
 rather changed it into a representation, and so 
 have had a tendency to injure its emblematic 
 character? There is a like difficulty with 
 regard to the figures in some of the other 
 drawings. But, after all, I do not so much 
 look for emblems in each little detail as in the
 
 THE SIX PICTURES, 101 
 
 general idea they convey to the mind. Now 
 there can be no question that in the present 
 instance it is pre-eminently one of home hap- 
 piness and seclusion. We may compare it 
 with the description Keble has given of the 
 mountain boy. 
 
 ' The dreary sounds of crowded earth, 
 
 The cries of camp or town, 
 Never untun'd his lonely mirth, 
 
 Nor drew his visions down. 
 The snow-clad peaks of rosy -light 
 
 That meet his morning view, 
 The thwarting cliffs that bound his sight, 
 
 They bound his fancy too.' 
 
 " If we were merely to change the epithets 
 of the first line of the second stanza, the verses 
 might seem to be written for this very pic- 
 ture." 
 
 E])e .SccontJ iJfcturc. 
 
 (Plate II.) 
 
 I certainly was struck by tj^e resemblance, 
 and yet more so when he placed the second 
 picture before me, and with a smile continued 
 the quotation — 
 
 9*
 
 102 THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 ' Oh, blest restraint, more blessed range ! 
 
 Too soon the happy child 
 Nis nook of homely thought will change 
 
 For life's seducing wild : 
 Too soon his altered day-dreams show 
 
 This earth a boundless space, 
 With sun-bright pleasures to and fro 
 
 Sporting in joyous race.' 
 
 " Is there not," he asked, " a marked contrast 
 between this and the first emblem? and yet 
 not greater than the difference between our 
 childhood's ' homely thoughts ' and the ' altered 
 day-dreams' of our early youth ! But I must 
 ask you to describe this picture as you did the 
 former one." 
 
 I did so, and again in such language as I 
 thought would best harmonize with my friend's 
 views. Neither, in truth, was it a forced de- 
 scription. 
 
 " I see," I said, " a solitary figure mounted 
 on a white horse, which is struggling against 
 the slight resy-aint of the rider's hand. A 
 bright and unbounded prospect is opening be- 
 fore them — there seem to be in the distance 
 woods and hills and water and fair meadow-
 
 THE SIX PICTURES. 103 
 
 ground ; the richness of the foHage and the 
 abundant vegetation speak to us of the early 
 summer ; but all is so vague and indefinite that 
 there is no single object in front of the horse- 
 man on which the eye can rest. Behind him, 
 an old gateway, through which he can only 
 have just passed, is sufficiently prominent ; and, 
 I own, the first impression the sketch gave me 
 was that of the escape of some hero of ro- 
 mance from an enchanted castle." 
 
 " Neither was your conjecture far from the 
 truth," he replied, " for it is an emblem of the 
 escape of the young man from the restraints 
 of childhood, when he is sent forth into the 
 world." 
 
 The white horse is the eager imagination 
 that hurries him along. He is in the early 
 summer of his life. He leaves a single barrier 
 behind ; while free and unbounded, and yet no 
 less vague and indefinite than the landscape in 
 the drawing, are the plans and prospects that 
 open to his view. But examine it more atten- 
 tively. -Do you observe no other figures? 
 
 " I see two on a wall by the gateway : they
 
 104 THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 seem to be watching the youtli's progress ; but 
 their forms are very indistinctly traced. Do 
 you assign to them any emblematical mean- 
 ing?" I asked. 
 
 " I do," he replied ; " and the more from 
 their very indistinctness. I conceive them to 
 be the same two that formed so prominent a 
 feature in the former drawing. It is in in- 
 fancy and childhood that Father and Mother 
 are all in all ; tliey do not occupy, so to speak, 
 the same space in the visions of youth, although 
 their images still are there. You may perceive 
 that the figure on horseback waves his hand to 
 them ; and seems to be riding forward with the 
 more pride and exultation thi'ough his con- 
 sciousness that every movement is observed 
 from the gateway that he has left. One may 
 imagine, also, how the progress of the young 
 man is watched from tfiat gateway with a ten- 
 der and earnest gaze : the hearts of his former 
 guardians rejoice at the bright prospect that 
 opens before him ; although, perchance, from 
 the height at which they stand, they can see 
 dangers and difficulties which his own eye is
 
 THE SIX PICTURES. 105 
 
 not able to discern. Is it not," he said, as he 
 once more held it before me, " a very perfect 
 emblem ? I can hardly conceive any possible 
 improvement." 
 
 I confessed that I had no fault to find either 
 in the general view or in the details as he had 
 explained them, but remarked that it appeared 
 to me defective as a representation of life. 
 " Surely," I said, " it ought not to be all green 
 fields and bright sunshine." 
 
 " True," he replied, " but remember it is life 
 as it seems to be in the distance, and not as it 
 really is. This is but the picture of the world 
 drawn in the youth's imagination, which ex- 
 hibits only — 
 
 ' This earth a boundless space, 
 With sun-bright pleasures to and fro 
 Sporting in joyous race.' 
 
 " If we wish to see f&rther the picture of it 
 drawn by experience, we must pass on to the 
 next drawing."
 
 106 THE EMDLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 Eiic STJirTi 33icturc. 
 
 (Plate III.) 
 
 " It is the one marked Manhood," he con- 
 tinued, as he placed it before me : " do you re- 
 member it ?" 
 
 " Not very distinctly," I replied ; " but it 
 seemed to me of a less pleasing character than 
 the others. It was the picture of some town ; 
 and I have a confused recollection of a car- 
 riage, and a herdsman with oxen, and various 
 other figures apparently moving in different 
 directions. But there was an air of stir and 
 business in the whole scene, as well as a hard- 
 ness and severity in the lines of the drawing 
 itself, that almost made me fancy it had got 
 into the set by accident. It possessed neither 
 the romance of the second picture nor the re- 
 pose of the rest." ^ 
 
 He again smiled as he once more repeated 
 from his favourite poet the lines — 
 
 ' Sweet is the infant's waiving smile, 
 
 And sweet the old man's rest, 
 But middle age by no fond wile, 
 No soothing calm, is blest.
 
 THE SIX PICTURES. 107 
 
 Still in the wcrkl's liot rcstlesri gleam 
 
 Slie plies her wcaiy task, 
 While vainly fc^r soino pleasant dream 
 
 Her wanderino- glances ask.' 
 
 " Yes," he added, in a graver tone, " such is 
 manhood, and such our every- day experience 
 of Hfe. The middle picture may v/ell differ in 
 its whole character from the rest ; for it could 
 not be a true emblem if it were not thus hard 
 and severe. There is a colouring of poetry 
 shed not only on the bright vision of hope, but 
 on the saddened retrospect of memory, which 
 is wantijig in our actual intercourse with the 
 world. But examine the drawing more closely. 
 
 " I observe," I said, " an unusual number of 
 trees, especially at the entrance of the town : 
 their foliage is even more abundant than that 
 in the former drawing." 
 
 " They are probably inserted to denote the 
 season of the year," he replied. " The town, 
 taken by itself, must have failed to represent 
 any distinct period of life ; but the appearance 
 of summer at once gives the idea of manhood. 
 You know Thomson describes it as ' our sum-
 
 108 THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 mer's ardent, strength.' And a like image is 
 suggested under the metaphor of the ' world's 
 hot restless gleam,' in the lines whicii I have 
 just quoted." 
 
 " The explanation is ingenious," I remarked, 
 doubtingly. 
 
 " Nay," he said, " more than ingenious ; it 
 must have some foundation in truth. Consider 
 how entirely the whole eflect of the drawing 
 would have been altered by the slightest sign 
 of winter. It would then have been impossible 
 to regard it as an emblem of manhood. But 
 let us pass on to the buildings. Is there not 
 one in this picture more prominent than the 
 rest?" 
 
 " You mean," I said, " the church." 
 
 "I do," he replied. " And there is little need 
 for me to dwell on the analogy that it suggests, 
 for it is the same in almost every town. The 
 church rises above the buildings by which it is 
 surrounded ; and when the eye once rests upon 
 it, becomes the most prominent feature in the 
 view. And yet those who throng the streets 
 fail to perceive it, because there are other
 
 THE SIX PICTURES. 109 
 
 nearei' objects which arrest their attention and 
 perhaps keep it altogether from their sight. So 
 also the things of Heaven are too often hidden 
 from us by the care and turmoil of life." 
 
 After a pause, during which I followed in 
 my own mind the train of thought which this 
 observation called forth, I inquired whether he 
 considered the grouping of the figures to be the 
 result of design or accident. 
 
 " They appear to me," was his answer, " to 
 represent mankind generally, and to be so con- 
 trived as to include all the various classifica- 
 tions of them. Thus — there are men, women 
 and children — there is the husbandman with 
 his cattle, and the citizen — there is the rich 
 man and the poor man — the busy and the idle 
 — they all too are moving in diflTerent directions 
 — each intent on his own occupation ; — and so 
 is it with the world." 
 
 I fancied I observed a hesitation in his voice 
 and manner, as though he had left something 
 unsaid, and I inquired whether he considered 
 any particular figure to represent his own rela- 
 tive. 
 
 10
 
 110 THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 "Not in the present picture," he rephed. 
 " He is here lost to me. During his manhood 
 I know nothing of his actual history beyond 
 the simple fact that he was absorbed in the 
 business of life. But in the next emblem I can 
 see him distinctly. He there again begins to 
 have, as it were, an individual existence." 
 
 " Still," I said, " in the drawing now be- 
 fore us, are there none of the figures to which 
 you attach some particular signification ? I 
 had fancied from your manner it was other- 
 wise." 
 
 " Nay, if you press me for iny own opinion," 
 he answered, " I confess that I regard the two 
 most prominent as distinct emblems ; I mean 
 the beggar and the rich man. Observe how 
 they are moving in opposite directions — the 
 one towards the church, the other away 
 from it. Under this view the former may re- 
 present the " poor in spirit," the latter those 
 who " trust in riches." But as I before said, 
 I would not so much dwell on the details of 
 the drawings as on the general idea which 
 they convey. In this respect at least you
 
 THE SIX PICTURES. Ill 
 
 cannot but admit that the three first are in 
 harmony with the eras of Hfe to which they 
 are assigned. First, there is the quiet seclu- 
 sion of childhood ; — next, the enthusiasm and 
 bright prospects of youth ; — and next, the mat- 
 ter of fact scene which meets us in actual 
 life. Let us now pass on to the fourth pic- 
 ture." 
 
 " Pardon me," I said, " for asking one ques- 
 tion more ; but you have taken no notice of the 
 sea-view which lies beyond the town." 
 
 " The omission was accidental," he replied, 
 " and I should not have failed to allude to it 
 in the explanation of the next drawing, for it 
 there becomes a more prominent feature. I 
 regard it as an emblem of the visions on 
 which, at times, the imagination dwells, and 
 the quiet future which it creates for itself in 
 spite of the stir and tumult of the present hour. 
 The thoughts even of the most worldly are not 
 really occupied with the scenes which imme- 
 diately surround them. Each has his sea- 
 view in the distance, and the vessels of hope 
 are sailing upon it."
 
 112 THE K.MBLE.AIS OF LIFE. 
 
 Srijc JFouctl) 33i'clucc. 
 
 (Plate IV.) 
 
 I NOW examined the fourth picture. It was, 
 like the first, a sea- view ; but every sign of 
 Vii^e and animation appeared studiously to have 
 been withdrawn. There was no ripple of 
 waves along the shore, and far as the eye 
 could reach, the whole expanse of water lay so 
 calm and motionless, that it seemed like a 
 mirror reflecting the objects which passed 
 across its surface. On a smooth down imme- 
 diately above an undulating cliff, the figure of 
 a man reclined in a listless attitude, with a 
 boy standing by his side. The form of a single 
 ship was seen in the distance. The man's 
 finger pointed towards it, but his face was 
 turned away and fixed sorrowfully upon the 
 child. A tal-1 solitary tower rose near them ; 
 while a subdued light was shed on every object 
 by the sun, which was already sinking beneath 
 the quiet waters. 
 
 "It is, indeed," I said, "a scene which speaks 
 to us of languor and decline !"
 
 THE SIX PICTURES. 113 
 
 " There is not one in the whole series," he 
 replied, " in which the emblematic character is 
 more perfectly sustained. I hardly like, even 
 in my own mind, to analyze the component 
 parts, lest we should lose sight of the harmony 
 that pervades them all ; — the setting sun is an 
 emblemof the evening of life — the calm water, 
 of its stillness — the reclining figure, of its re- 
 pose — the vessel in the distance, is hope passing 
 away ; while the little child may, perhaps, be 
 the image brought back by memory of former 
 years." 
 
 " And," I added, " the countenance of the 
 figure is averted from the vessel and turned 
 towards the child." 
 
 " Yes," he replied ; •' for, as J told you, my 
 relation gave way to feelings of despondency 
 when first he retired from the world. He 
 might, therefore, be truly represented as turn- 
 ing aside from the future, and gazing sadly upon 
 the past. But there is one of the most promi- 
 nent objects in the drawing, to which I have 
 not yet alluded." 
 
 " You mean," I said, " the tower ; and I be- 
 10*
 
 114 
 
 THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 lieve I can guess the meaning you assign to it. 
 It is, I presume, a similar emblem with the 
 church in the former picture." 
 
 " It is so," he replied, " and a no less appro- 
 priate one. I regarded it at first merely as a 
 lighthouse, and even then it seemed an apt im- 
 age of that which alone stands unshaken by the 
 waves and storms of life, and out of the midst 
 of the surrounding darkness alTords the mariner 
 an unfailing light to guide him on his way. 
 The very contrast of the setting sun, remind- 
 ing us of the approach of night, appears to give 
 a peculiar force and beauty to the emblem." 
 
 " Undoubtedly," I answered ; " but why do 
 you say that you at first regarded it as a light- 
 house ; surely it must be designed to represent 
 one ?" 
 
 " The building was probably used as such," 
 he replied ; " but there is another explanation 
 of the tov\^er, no less in harmony with its em- 
 blematic character. It appears to have formed 
 part of some ecclesiastical building. A friend, 
 more familiar than myself with the scenery of 
 the Isle of Wight, has informed me that an
 
 THE SIX PICTURES. 
 
 115 
 
 Oratory was originally connected with it, the 
 form of which may still be distinctly traced." 
 
 " Pardon me," I replied, "do I rightly under- 
 stand you ? Are these emblematical drawings 
 also actual scenes?" 
 
 There was a slight embarrassment in his 
 manner as he replied, " I cannot deny them to 
 be so, for persons acquainted with the places 
 they represented, have repeatedly assured me 
 of the fact. You, yourself," he added with a 
 smile, in allusion to our former conversation, 
 "are among the number. You know you 
 praised them as views of the Isle of Wight, 
 and called them beautifully executed." 
 
 " But do you not," I said, " suppose them to 
 have been originally designed as emblems ?'' 
 
 " To be candid with you," he replied, " it is 
 a question that I avoid ; and it was your famil- 
 iarity with some of the actual scenes that made 
 me unwilling to enter on the subject of the pic- 
 tures during your former visit. I was afraid 
 lest, like many others, you should persist in 
 resardino; them as the memorials of a summer 
 tour, and look on their em.blematic colouring
 
 116 THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 as a mere delusion. And yet, it' it be so," he 
 continued after a pause, as though arguing 
 against his own secret doubts, " it is certainly 
 singular that the contrast between the different 
 pictures should be so striking and so uniformly 
 sustained. Thus, let us compare this with the 
 former. In the one we have the glare of the 
 summer sun, with the stir and confusion of 
 crowded streets ; in the other, silence, loneli- 
 ness, and the quiet of the evening hour. Here 
 is the busy scene of manhood, and here life's 
 solitary decline ;" — and then, drawing out the 
 fifth picture, and passing his finger over the 
 churchyard, so thickly cov^ered with tombs, he 
 
 added, " And here " 
 
 I could not help finishing the sentence for 
 him, and said, almost instinctively, " the Ap- 
 proach of Death." 
 
 ClJe iFfftl) i)ictuic. 
 
 (I'lale \.) 
 
 '• It was this picture," he said, " viewed in 
 connection with the second, that first gave me 
 courage to attempt to discover the emblematic
 
 THE SIX PICTURES. 117 
 
 meaning of the whole series. I was struck by 
 the contrast between the stooping figure on the 
 dull aged horse, and the cavalier on his fiery 
 charger, who seemed to bound forth from the 
 gateway in all the pride and vigour of life. For, 
 in like manner, a youth of eagerness and pre- 
 sumption is followed by an old age of anxiety 
 and care." 
 
 " Do 3^ou then," I asked, " suppose that figure 
 to represent your relative ?" 
 
 "Nay," he replied quickly, "very far other- 
 wise. I do but now speak of the first idea 
 suggested by the drawing. But we will return 
 to the particular figures presently. Let us first 
 observe the general aspect of the picture. It 
 seems as though old age had fixed its stamp on 
 all the principal features. The churchyard 
 with its tombstones, the tree stripped of its 
 foliage, the group of old men near it, even the 
 dull horse and the stiff rigid figure of the dog, 
 are all in harmony with each other, and 
 awaken one and the same feeling in the 
 mind." 
 
 "Stay," I observed; "is not the fact of this
 
 118 
 
 THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 tree being without leaves a clear proof that the 
 series of drawings were not merely the result 
 of a tour to the Isle of Wit^ht ? for if all were 
 sketched at the same season, we should not 
 expect one to wear the garb of winter or 
 autumn, and another that of summer or 
 spring." 
 
 He seemed pleased with the observation, but, 
 after a moment's thought, shook his head, and 
 replied that he did not consider it conclusive. 
 
 " You know," said he, " that artists exercise 
 their own discretion in the colouring of time 
 and season which they shed upon their draw- 
 ings. Thus, the last sketcii was not neces- 
 sarily taken in the evening, though the setting 
 sun is introduced to give interest to the pic- 
 ture. And so, also, this might be a true copy 
 from nature, and yet invested by imagination 
 with its autumnal character." 
 
 " True," I said ; " but with what object could 
 the person who sketched it have made the al- 
 teration, unless in his own mind he regarded it 
 as an emblem ?" 
 
 " From a feeling," he replied, " that the close
 
 THE SIX PICTURES. 119 
 
 of the year was in harmony with the scene 
 itself. Consider how completely the whole 
 effect of the drawing would liave been altered 
 if that tree had been covered with leaves, or a 
 group of merry children playing around it." 
 
 " It would have been so," I answered ; " and 
 yet, surely, there is some fallacy in your rea- 
 soning. The old tree and the churchyard 
 must in nature have had their seasons of sum- 
 mer and sunshine, and been cheered at times 
 by the voices of children. How then could it 
 have been unnatural so to have represented 
 them ?" 
 
 " I do not say that it would have been un- 
 natural," he replied, " but only that the whole 
 character of the drawing would have been 
 affected by the change. The design of the 
 person who sketched it may simply have been 
 to invest the picture with a sad and sober air 
 which might be in keeping with the memorials 
 of death. And this would sufficiently account 
 for the introduction of the figures bowed down 
 with age, and the barren and leafless tree. 
 However," he added, with a sm.ile, " I am ar-
 
 120 THE KMBLEMd OF LIFE. 
 
 guing against my own theory ; I had far sooner 
 consider it to have been altogether designed as 
 an emblem. Let us now examine its several 
 featm'es separately : of course you have no diffi- 
 culty in assigning a meaning to the church?"' 
 
 " The same," I replied, " which it bore in the 
 third picture." 
 
 " Undoubtedly," he answered. " But ob- 
 serve what a far more prominent place it 
 occupies in this. It has become almost a 
 solitary object. The eye is at once arrested 
 by its presence, for instead of streets and 
 buildings, it is now surrounded only by the 
 signs of death. The analogy which all this 
 suggests to the mind is too obvious for me to 
 dwell upon. Again, a train of yet sadder 
 thoughts is awakened by the aged figure on 
 horseback, which, as I said, first suggested a 
 clue to the meaning of the drawing. Do you 
 observe how he seems to be leaning forward, 
 and with an anxious look detailing some little 
 piece of news of the day? The grave may 
 be said almost to open beneath his feet, and yet 
 his face is turned away both from the emblems 
 of death and the type of Heaven."
 
 THE SIX PICTURES. 121 
 
 " I do not wonder," I said, " that you were 
 unwilling to connect that figure with your de- 
 ceased relative." 
 
 " No," he replied ; " I find his emblem in the 
 man who is sitting by the child. The figures 
 themselves are different from the two in the 
 former drawing, but their emblematic meaning 
 is the same. The change of look and posture 
 denotes the change that had passed over his 
 own mind. You know 1 told you that his de- 
 pression and despondency were but of short 
 continuance. He had the stay of religion 
 whereon to rest, and affliction quickly wrought 
 the purpose for which it was sent. Resigna- 
 tion succeeded to disappointment. Thus, in the 
 present picture, he is no longer represented as 
 lying down, for he had already aroused him- 
 self from the stunning effect of his misfortunes. 
 The child is still standing by his side, but he 
 does not now dwell with the same fond regret 
 that he once did on the image of the past. 
 His face is turned in the direction of the 
 churchyard, and he seems to me as one who 
 is waiting quietly the approach of death, and 
 11
 
 122 THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 has fixed his thoughts on the Home beyond the 
 grave." 
 
 " It is indeed," I said, " a very perfect and 
 beautiful emblem." 
 
 He scarcely seemed to observe the re- 
 mark, as following the train of his own 
 thoughts, he continued, " I love to connect 
 this emblem of my adopted father with Keble's 
 description of a tranquil old age : — 
 
 " ' How quiet shows the woodland scene ! 
 Each flower and tree, its duty done, 
 Reposing in decay serene. 
 
 Like weary men when age is won. 
 Such calm old age as conscience pure 
 And self-commanding hearts ensure, 
 Waiting their summons to the sky, 
 Content to live, but not afraid to die.' " 
 
 The lines certainly were in harmony with 
 the thoughts suggested by one portion of the 
 drawing. But as I examined it more atten- 
 tively, I could not help observing that the 
 whole of it did not appear to be an emblem 
 of old age. Two youthful figures were pass- 
 ing by the church, and there seemed to be 
 pleasant walks in the distance, and trees that
 
 THE SIX PICTURES. 123 
 
 had not yet lost their fohage. I remarked 
 this to my friend, and said that this portion 
 of the drawino; was irreconcileable with our 
 theory. 
 
 "Nay, rather," he rephed, "say that it con- 
 firms it. I conceive the sketch in the back- 
 ground to represent the other paths of hfe, 
 and to bring out more strongly by their 
 contrast the principal group. The trees there, 
 are of course covered with leaves ; and the 
 youthful figures, of which you speak, are 
 moving towards them ; and yet I own I should 
 have been better pleased if these also had 
 appeared in the distance. The insertion of 
 the same pair is yet more unaccountable in 
 the next drawing." 
 
 Ef)t Siptt) 33ft;tuve. 
 
 (Plate VI.) 
 
 As he said this, he produced the last of the 
 series. It merely represented the interior of a 
 church with two figures that seemed to be 
 examining an inscription over a vault in the 
 nave.
 
 124 THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 " And is this then," 1 said, " also an em- 
 blem ? No title is assigned to it, as there is to 
 the rest." 
 
 " No," he replied ; " for it did not assume its 
 emblematic character until the hand which 
 marked them had lost its power ; and I myself 
 have forborne to touch it. But the vault and 
 the church may well close the emblems of my 
 relative's life. The one as the type of death, 
 the other of the immortality which encompas- 
 ses his tomb. And yet perhaps both this and 
 the former picture should rather be called rep- 
 resentations than emblems. For my adopted 
 father spent his quiet old age in the neighbour- 
 hood of Yaverland, and used often to be seen 
 sitting under a tree which commanded a view 
 of the church. It was afterwards in accord- 
 ance with a wish vv^hich he himself had express- 
 ed that he was buried within the walls of that 
 building. A plain marble slab marks the place 
 of his interment." 
 
 " And is this then," I asked, " a sketch of the 
 interior of Yaverland church ?" 
 
 " It is so," he answered.
 
 THE SIX PICTURES. 125 
 
 " In that case," I said, "the picture itself cer- 
 tainly requires no explanation, and I do not 
 wonder at your having added it to the series. 
 But the introduction of the two figures is, as 
 you say, very unaccountable." 
 
 " They certainly," he replied, " appear to me 
 like intruders upon hallowed ground, and to be 
 out of keeping with the scene. I should greatly 
 prefer that there were nothing to disturb the 
 still and solemn thoughts awakened by the con- 
 templation of death and immortality. And 
 yet perhaps to a stranger their presence is re- 
 quired." 
 
 " Why to a stranger ?" I saia. 
 
 " Because, without it, there would be nothing 
 to draw his attention to the vault where my 
 relative is interred. It is these two figures 
 which make the stone and inscription in the 
 nave the prominent features in the drawing. 
 If they were removed, it would at once be- 
 come merely a sketch of the church itself, and 
 not of any particular monument within its 
 walls." 
 
 " Very true," I answered ; '-'■ especially as 
 11*
 
 126 THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 there is no writing beneath this picture to de- 
 note its emblematic character. Are you even 
 now quite sure that it does belong to the 
 series ?" 
 
 " Yes," he replied, " I found it lying with 
 the rest, and have since discovered a yet more 
 certain evidence. The allegorical titles are not 
 the only marks which the drawings bear. If 
 you examine the back of the paper, you will 
 find a date upon each of them." 
 
 I took up the first drawing and turned the 
 back of it to the light. Something did indeed 
 seem to be traced there in pencil, but it was so 
 very indistinct, that I tried in vain to decipher 
 it. At length, I said, " The only mark that I 
 can see does not look like a date at all. I should 
 imagine it to be some word beginning with the 
 letter ' F' " 
 
 " Exactly so," he replied. " I like to call it 
 a date, but it is in truth a Latin word denoting 
 the progress of time. Examine the fourth draw- 
 ing, and you will have less difficulty." 
 
 " Fiiit," I at once exclaimed ; " and doubtless 
 it is the same word that is on the first."
 
 THE SIX PICTURES. 
 
 127 
 
 " It is so," he answered ; " and also on the 
 second and third. The characters gradually 
 increase in distinctness as we advance, as 
 though my relative instinctively wrote more 
 faintly in describing the more distant eras. But 
 now turn to the fifth drawing, and you will find 
 a change both in the inscription and the way 
 of writing it.-' 
 
 1 looked and immediately read the word 
 " Est." The hand was the same ; but the let- 
 ters were larger, and clearly and distinctly 
 drawn. " This then," I said, " denotes time 
 present, as the former did time past." 
 
 " Exactly so," he replied : " and though there 
 be no title, there is a corresponding mark on the 
 sixth drawing ; the future tense of the same 
 verb is there, and proves it to belong to the 
 same series." As he said this he pointed to the 
 word " Erit," on the back of it. " You will 
 observe," he continued, " that it is written with 
 no faint and wavering hand, but in characters 
 quite as distinct as the " Est " of the preceding 
 picture. There is something to me very sooth- 
 ing in this circumstance, trivial as it seems, and
 
 128 
 
 THE EMllLEMS Or LIFE. 
 
 I love to dwell upon it. It assures me that 
 while my adopted father could trace but feebly 
 in the earlier drawings the emblems of the dis- 
 tant past, the fifth and sixth alike presented clear 
 and certain images to his mind. As he found 
 in the one an exact delineation of the present, so 
 also could he look forward calmly and steadfast- 
 ly to a type of the future in the other."
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 129 
 
 CONCLUSION, 
 
 It was not many months after the above con- 
 versation that I determined on makmg a tour 
 through the Isle of Wight. I did not take the 
 sketclies with me ; my friend was unwilling to 
 part with them ; and the image they had left 
 on my mind w?S so distinct that I did not re- 
 quire them. He gave me, however, a list of the 
 places of which they were supposed to be 
 views by persons familiar with the Island 'scene- 
 ry. They were as follows, — Luccombe Chine, 
 Carisbrooke, Ventnor, St. Catherine's, and Ya- 
 verland. I endeavoured to persuade him to ac- 
 company me, but he declined. " It may be," 
 he said, " that the regarding the pictures as em- 
 blems is after all fanciful, and, should it prove 
 so, I have no wish for the reality to dispel the 
 delusion." 
 
 I myself was not altogether free from a 
 similar fear, but the event showed it to be 
 groundless. It is true that a single glance
 
 130 THE EMBLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 convinced me that the drawings were really 
 taken from nature. Still to my mind they 
 continued emblems ; for imagination shed her 
 friendly colourmg on the actual scenes, and 
 they too became emblematic. It was not 
 Luccombe, or Carisbrooke, or "N^entnor, or St. 
 Catherine's, that I saw ; but the seclusion of 
 childhood, the boundless prospects of youth, 
 the glare and bustle of middle age, and the 
 calm retirement of the decline of life. 
 
 Such was the case with regard to the four 
 first drawings, but the fifth proved an exception. 
 It was obviously designed to represent Yaver- 
 land Church. There had, indeed, been an 
 alteration since the sketch was made. The 
 wooden belfry had been replaced by one of 
 stone, which greatly improved the appearance 
 of the building. But in every other respect 
 the church itself was unchanged ; and yet the 
 whole scene failed altogether to convey the 
 same impression as the corresponding emblem. 
 I tried in vain to connect it with the idea of 
 old age. It awakened no such feeling in the 
 mind. At first I ascribed the difference partly
 
 CONCLUSION. 131 
 
 to the change of season, for it was now sum- 
 mer, and there was abundance of foliage on the 
 trees, and partly to the absence of the group of 
 figures which were so conspicuous in the draw- 
 ing. But some yet more prominent feature 
 appeared to be wanting. At length the truth 
 flashed across me. The church had no burial- 
 ground annexed to it. Thus, the tombstones 
 which, by marking the approach of death, had 
 so strongly imbued the picture with its em- 
 blematic character, were altogether wanting. 
 They had, for some reason, been introduced by 
 the artist, and appeared to afford a strong pre- 
 sumption that this sketch, at least, must origin- 
 ally have been designed as an emblem. 
 
 On my return home, I communicated to my 
 friend the result of my tour. He listened with 
 obvious interest to my description of the feel- 
 ings awakened by the earlier scenes, but was 
 evidently altogether unprepared for the in- 
 accuracy in the fifth drawing. " I used," he 
 said, " rather to wonder why my relative 
 should have been interred within the church. 
 The absence of a burial-ground will account
 
 132 THE EMULEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 for it. But it is very singular that the artist 
 should have introduced one into the picture." 
 
 "Nay," I replied, "it is easily accounted for. 
 In this instance he must have deviated from 
 nature in order to invest the picture more 
 completely with an emblematic character." 
 
 My friend, however, shook his head, and 
 suggested that there might, at one time, have 
 been a burial-ground ; or else that the tomb- 
 stones, like the leafless tree, might have been 
 introduced almost undesignedly, in conse- 
 quence of the feelings under which the pic- 
 ture was drawn. 
 
 " But why," I said, " may not the alteration 
 have been intentionally made ? Do you mean 
 that, after all, the pictures were never designed 
 to be regarded as emblems ?" 
 
 For a moment there was the same embar- 
 rassment in my friend's manner which I had 
 once before observed, but it was now imme- 
 diately succeeded by a smile of quiet satisfac- 
 tion. " Your tour," he said, " has set my own 
 mind at rest, and I will no longer hide from 
 you what I really know of the history of the
 
 CONCLUSION. 133 
 
 drawings. The letter which accompanied the 
 gift proves them to have been originally in- 
 tended only as specimens of the scenery of the 
 Isle of Wight. Nay," he continued, observ- 
 ing my look of disappointment, " I myself used 
 to shrink from this as an unwelcome truth, 
 but thanks to your tour, I no longer fear to 
 acknowledge it. They were sent to my rela- 
 tive as copies from nature, but he changed 
 them into emblems. And the result of your 
 visit to the scenes themselves proves that to 
 regard them as such is no idle delusion." 
 
 " You perplex me," I replied ; " you say that 
 your relative changed them into emblems ; 
 surely you have, more than once, assured me 
 that he added nothing to the drawings." 
 
 " Nothing," he answered, " save the passing 
 shadow of his own thoughts, which he ren- 
 dered distinct and permanent by assigning a 
 corresponding title to every picture." 
 
 " Nay," I said, " now you are more am- 
 biguous than ever. How could the thoughts 
 of your relative produce any change in the 
 pictures themselves?" 
 12
 
 134 TUE EMBLEMS OF LIFE. 
 
 " I will endeavour," he replied, " to explain 
 my meaning more clearly. All the scenes of 
 external nature are capable of conveying not 
 one but an endless variety of emblems to the 
 mind. The imagination accommodates to it- 
 self the objects that meet the eye and brings 
 them into harmony with its own feelings. To 
 quote once more the lines of Keble : 
 
 " ' Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe 
 Our hermit spirits dwell and range apart. 
 Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow — 
 
 Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart.' 
 
 Now when these drawings were first exa- 
 mined by my deceased relative, I believe him 
 to have been occupied with the retrospect of 
 his own history ; and thus, while his eye rested 
 upon them, they reflected one by one the 
 tenor of his thoughts, and so became to him 
 a series of connected emblems. By assigning 
 a title to each he has enabled others to catch 
 as it were the light under which he happened 
 to view them, and in this way has invested 
 them permanently with an emblematic charac- 
 ter. Such, I believe, is the true history of the
 
 CONCLUSION. 135 
 
 drawings ; tliey were originally mere repre- 
 sentations of certain scenes in the Isle of Wight : 
 they continue to be representations, but they are 
 also emblems, — and remember," he added, with 
 a smile, " that though the latter property be of 
 later date, it is infinitely more lasting than the 
 former. The outward aspect of Nature is 
 continually changing. These pictures would 
 not have been faithful representations of the 
 Isle of Wight a century ago, neither will they 
 be so when another century is gone. Some 
 alterations have taken place in the few years 
 that have already passed. But the history of 
 man is always the same ; and if we regard 
 them as Emblems of Life, so far as they are 
 true now, they will continue true for ever."
 
 THE LOST INHERITANCE 
 
 " Suffer the little children to como unto me, and forbid them not : for of 
 such is the kingdom of God." — Mark, x. 14.
 
 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 CHAPTER T. 
 
 ST. Catherine's tower. 
 
 (Plate IV.) 
 
 I SUPPOSE no one can look back to his boy- 
 hood without remembering some one spot, 
 which served him as an interior visionary 
 world, distinct from, and happier and brighter 
 than that visible and palpable world around 
 him, to wiiich we falsely give the name of 
 real, as if nothing could be real which cannot 
 be seen and handled. Every child has his 
 dream-land — a place where he takes refuge 
 from cares and sorrows, and builds up his fairy 
 castles, to repose and revel in, till he is called 
 back, and compelled to grapple with the stern 
 necessities of life. And without such an asy- 
 lum from sorrow, — such phantasms to rouse 
 and feed affections which meet no sympathy
 
 140 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 in the world, — such an exercise ground for the 
 imagination, which, for mere want of materials, 
 is doomed to inactivity in practice, — such hopes 
 of brightness to relieve the dreariness of the 
 present and the disappointments of the past, — 
 man cannot be happy, he can scarcely live. 
 Perhaps, also, no one has returned in after 
 days to this scene of visionary delight — this 
 di'eam-land of his boyhood, — without a strange 
 and bitter regret to find that the spell is broken, 
 and the charm departed ; and that what before 
 was radiant and sparkling, grand and fearful, 
 or soothing and aflecting, has now sunk down 
 into the cold, petty, insipid cheerlessness of 
 every day existence. 
 
 " There was a time, when meadow, grove, and stream, 
 The earth and every common sight, 
 
 To me did seem 
 Apparelled in celestial light. 
 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 It is not now, as it has been of yore ; 
 Turn whcresoe'er I may 
 By night or day, 
 Tlie things whicli 1 have seen, I now can see no more." 
 
 And when with this melancholy conscious-
 
 ST. Catherine's tower. 141 
 
 ness he stands upon the same spot, which was 
 once his haunted ground, let the aduh trace 
 back from his boyhood the struggles, the fever- 
 ish pursuits, the wa-estlings with wants, the 
 yearnings and strivings after good, which have 
 formed the business of life, and he will find 
 them all more or less an effort to realize and 
 embody these early visions, to recover and 
 grasp in his hands something which he once 
 possessed in imagination, but which slipped 
 like a dream away, the moment he was recalled 
 from the future and the invisible to the present 
 and the seen. Life is throughout a struggle to 
 recover something which was once enjoyed, 
 though only in a dream, to regain possession 
 of an inheritance which was once, but is no 
 longer ours. 
 
 I was led into this train of thought, as I sat 
 one bright and tranquil summer evening on a 
 spot which had been to me the dream-land of 
 my boyhood, the summit of St. Catherine's 
 Down, the eminence which forms the most 
 southern promontory of the Isle of Wight. 
 The sun was rolling down its gigantic disk
 
 142 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 into a flood of golden light, which melted to- 
 gether the blue waves and the pale shadowy 
 cliffs of Freshwater into one haze of glory. 
 All the objects which had fed my thoughts so 
 often with imaginations of past days, and spec- 
 tacles of brilliancy, and had peopled worlds 
 with beings above humanity, lay still around 
 me. There was that strange, pathless, treeless, 
 solitude of smooth and thymy turf, abutting 
 with its abrupt precipice of rock on the bound- 
 less expanse of ocean. There was the sweep 
 of cliff and shore, jagged with headlands, each 
 stamped with its tale of shipwreck, and fringed 
 with yellow beach and foaming surf. There 
 was the same deep, unwearied, mysterious 
 roar, booming slowly and unceasingly aleng 
 the strand, like a distant cannonade along the 
 lines of battle, as each long wave rolled in, 
 and tumbled into spray. Far off lay that dim, 
 visionary, dreamy, line of coast, which seemed 
 to the boy as islands never touched by man, 
 and homes of other creatures. To the north 
 opened the rich central basin of the island, 
 dotted with trees and homesteads and spires,
 
 ST. Catherine's tower. 143 
 
 each with its old ivied gabelled manor house 
 nesthng under its wing. And bounding this 
 stretched the long undulating line of green 
 downs, sloping into grassy combs, and lawns 
 hung with ash copses, and at intervals dipping 
 to let in a glimpse of the sail-spotted Solent, 
 and faint-specked shores beyond it. It was 
 strange to think how the visions and hopes 
 which used to be called up by each of those 
 objects, from the shattered obelisk on the sum- 
 mit of Appuldercombe Park, and the dim haze 
 hanging over the mouth of the Medina, to the 
 long line of rough-hewn lichened wall, which 
 alone broke the level expanse of turf before 
 me, had hung over the whole of my life, shaping 
 and guiding almost every thought and action 
 which aimed at a work to be performed. 
 Memory had fed hope, and hope fed energy. 
 The remembrance of the enjoyment of dreams, 
 and of the dreariness and disappointment felt 
 in waking from them, had been the main spring 
 of action. And work after work had been at- 
 tempted, and dream after dream realized. And 
 on each came a fresh waking, fresh disappoint- 
 ment, and fresh dreariness ; till at last the work
 
 144 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 had been found, not which the imagination 
 coveted, but which Heaven appointed, and 
 here at last v»'as reahty and truth. The in- 
 heritance of boyhood had been recovered! 
 
 While the thought was still dwelling on my 
 mind, a sunbeam fell upon the old venerable 
 buildings beneath me of Chale Priory, which, 
 though degraded into unworthy purposes, still 
 preserves traces of its former religious destina- 
 tion. And there also men had lived in centu- 
 ries bygone, who had fled from the world into 
 solitude ; had macerated themselves with self- 
 invented austerities ; had stripped themselves 
 of all the luxuries of life ; and knelt, and prayed, 
 and fasted, and watched, for one object, with 
 one hope, — to recover an inheritance in old 
 age, which they had possessed, and had lost in 
 youth — the innocence of childhood, tiie purity 
 of their baptismal robe. And among them had 
 been minds of other temper, yet with the same 
 hope, who had alike lost their inheritance, and 
 alike strove to regain it, but to regain it by 
 more practical and social duties, — who fasted 
 that they might feed the hungry, laboured with 
 their own hands that they might give to the
 
 ST. CATHERINE S TOWER. 145 
 
 poor; raised piles not for solitary asceticism, but 
 for the welfare, and instruction, and blessing of 
 man ; and kept vigils, (1 was sitting under that 
 old, mysterious, weather-beaten, buttressed 
 tower, which crov/ns the top of the eminence,) 
 kept vigils as they had done, — who used to pass 
 night after night in that lonely watchtower to 
 join prayers for the preservation of the mariner, 
 with toils to keep alive the beacon burning in 
 its summit. They also were struggling to re- 
 cover a lost inheritance. Was it an inheritance 
 of this world ? The church's inheritance — its 
 sway over the nations of the earth, the rule of 
 minds promised and subjected to it by God, its 
 hold over wills and affections, which passion, 
 or pride, or ignorance, were tempting to rebel- 
 lion ? Or was it the simple, lowly, truthful in- 
 heritance of the kingdom of God, to be attained 
 by witnessing to truth, and dying for it in this 
 world, and to be enjoyed in glory and power 
 only beyond the grave ? 
 
 The question was still unanswered, when I 
 beard a voice on the other side of the tower, 
 and moving round became rather intrusively a
 
 146 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 listener to what was passing between a gentle- 
 man, who was half sitting and half lying on 
 the sloping turf, and a little boy, I imagined 
 about five years old, who stood by him. Just 
 as I came in sight of them, the gentleman 
 turned round so as to give me a view of his 
 features. They were handsome, vigorous, and 
 marked with high birth and blood ; but the 
 brow was furrowed, the eye deep-set, the lips 
 compressed as with constant care, and the com- 
 plexion sallow as of one whose days had been 
 passed in the close air of marts and cities ; but 
 I could trace at once his likeness in the curling 
 hair, and high forehead, and beautiful face of 
 the child, though, over that face, exquisite as it 
 was for a picture, there hung that singular 
 mysterious sadness and reserve, that seeming 
 unwillingness to mingle with other minds, and 
 that tendency to commune within itself and 
 brood over deep thoughts, which is often found 
 in children destined to an early grave. The 
 father had been sitting for some time in thought- 
 fulness and silence, while the child had been 
 standing at a little distance looking at a pet
 
 ST. Catherine's tower. . 147 
 
 Iamb which had lost its mother, and apparently 
 was dying from some internal injury. At times 
 'the gentleman rose up, and with a telescope 
 which he held in his hand swept the panorama 
 beneath him, fixing earnestly on some few spots, 
 but always returning to a ship, which, in the 
 distance, was making towards the Needles. 
 Then he would turn to look for his child, as if 
 he would willingly have spoken to it of the 
 thoughts within him, but doubted if he should 
 be understood. And as his eye rested on his 
 son, I could see in it a mixture of pride, and 
 exultation, and anxiety, which told more of 
 some personal selfish ambition, than of the real 
 affection of a parent. At last he seemed unable 
 to resist the impulse, and called the child to him. 
 
 " Leonard, my boy, come here, I want to 
 speak to you." 
 
 The child looked as if lie would rather have 
 stayed by the poor Iamb, but obeyed the call, 
 though with evident timidity. 
 
 " Leonard, my child," said the father, " do 
 you see that ship out there?" 
 
 " Yes, papa." 
 
 " And do you know whose it is ?"
 
 148 TEE LOST IMIEKITANCE. 
 
 " No, papa." 
 
 " What should you say, my boy, if it were 
 your own papa's ?" 
 
 But the child only replied, " I do not know, 
 papa." 
 
 There was no amazement or delight, such 
 as the father had anticipated. If any surprise 
 existed, it was that any should be expected. 
 The father seemed chilled and disappointed, 
 but after a pause continued, 
 
 " And what should you say, Leonard, if 
 there were thousands of pounds in it, and all be- 
 longing to Leonard's papa, and intended for 
 Leonard himself?" 
 
 But once more the child only answered that 
 he did not know. The intelligence seemed to 
 have no charm for him. 
 
 The father was evidently irritated at the 
 child's insensibility. And with a mixture of 
 impatience he drew him nearer, and placed 
 him on his lap. 
 
 " And do not you know, Leonard, what is 
 the good of having all that money ? Are you 
 not obliged to your papa for working so hard 
 all day long to get it for you ?"
 
 ST. Catherine's tower. 149 
 
 " Thank you, papa," said the child ; but the 
 answer was timid. The boy had evidently 
 nevei' been taught to feel a warm affection 
 for his parent, or confidence in his presence. 
 
 " Shall I tell Leonard, what papa means to 
 do with it ?" 
 
 " But papa, if the ship should run upon the rocks 
 or sink. Do not ships ever sink?" asked the child. 
 
 The father shrunk at the words, and made 
 a movement to put the boy down, but checked 
 himself. 
 
 " It won't sink, my boy. There is no fear 
 of it's running on the rocks. And now I will 
 tell you w^hat is to be done with all that 
 money. Look out there, Leonard, do you see 
 out there by those white cliffs behind you ? 
 there are some trees, and in them a little 
 white cottage, and a small church, and an old 
 gray farmhouse, Yaverland, where nurse took 
 you the other day. Do you know who used 
 to live there?" 
 
 " Nurse said, papa, it was my great-great- 
 grand-uncle, and that I was to live there some 
 day or other."
 
 150 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 The father smiled, and his eye hghted up as 
 he pressed the child to him. 
 
 " Yes, my boy, that great house and all the 
 lands all round belonged to your great-great- 
 grand-uncle. And they ought to belong to 
 you now. And they will belong to you when 
 that ship comes into harbour, for papa intends 
 to buy them all with the money in the ship. 
 Shall you not like it ?" 
 
 But the child only looked wistfully in his 
 father's face, and answered " I do not know." 
 
 "Not know?" asked the father fretfully; 
 " should not you like to have all that property, 
 like your ancestors ? and to do what you liked 
 with it ? and to have every one obeying you 
 and looking up to you, as they did to Lord 
 Lisle, your great ancestor, when he had those 
 estates, and was governor of the whole island, 
 and lived in that great castle, where I took 
 you the other day, Carisbrooke Castle ?" 
 
 " Was that the place where the donkey was 
 that drew water?" asked the child ; "I should 
 like to see the poor donkey again, for he was 
 so hungry, and I gave him some gingerbread ;
 
 ST. CATHERINE S TOWER. 151 
 
 and do you know, papa, he ate out of my 
 hand ?" 
 
 " Never mind such things as that, Leonard ; 
 you must learn, though you are so young, to 
 have proper ideas of yourself, and hold your head 
 up like a man. Very likely I may be a Lord 
 one day. And then you will be the son of a 
 Lord, and one of these days a Lord yourself. 
 Shall you not like that ?" 
 
 " I do not know," again replied the little 
 fellow wistfully. And then after a pause, he 
 ventured to look up in his father's face, and 
 said, " Do you know, papa, Old Richard the 
 Fisherman at Luccombe says I am the son of 
 a King?" 
 
 ■ " What, Leonard," asked his father, half 
 carelessly, and half surprised, " what does Old 
 Richard say ?" 
 
 " He told me, papa, I was the son of a King, 
 and heir to a King. But what is an heir, papa?" 
 
 " You are my heir, my child. And when I 
 die you will have all I possess, all my houses, 
 and property, and money, and carriages, and 
 horses, to do as you like with." 
 
 " And what will you have then ?" asked
 
 152 THE LOST IMIERITANCE. 
 
 Leonard. The question brought the colour into 
 the father's cheek, and he put the child down 
 from his lap. But Leonard, having once 
 broken through his reserve, stood still by his 
 side, and once more looked up in his father's 
 care-worn, anxious face. 
 
 " Papa," he said, " Old Richard said that 
 what I was heir to was up there, up in the sky, 
 in heaven. Papa, shall you go to heaven ? I 
 should like to go to heaven, for Old Richard 
 says it is such a beautiful place." 
 
 The father uttered an imperfect exclama- 
 tion ; and the child seemed alarmed. But as 
 if there was something within him overcoming 
 his natural reserve, he looked up once more, 
 and said, " Old Richard, papa, told me if I 
 wanted to go to heaven, I must go to church. 
 Why don't you go to church, papa ?" The 
 question was too much for the patience of the 
 worldly, irreligious man. And with an irrita- 
 ted imprecation on Old Richard's folly, in 
 words which ought never to have reached the 
 child's car, he jumped up, and bidding the child 
 follow him, hastened away from the spot.
 
 LUCCOMBE CHINE. 153 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 LUCCOMBE CHINE, 
 
 (Plate I.) 
 
 Perhaps the reader will not be surprised 
 that the remembrance of the little scene at the 
 summit of St. Catherine's followed and dwelt 
 on my mind for some days. The face of the 
 child — so beautiful, so innocent, so- uncon- 
 scious of the depth of the truths to which he 
 was giving utterance, or of the deep impres- 
 sion which they might be making upon others 
 — came to me more than once in my sleep. 
 Once I dreamed that he had been talking with 
 me, sitting on my lap, and asking questions 
 about God and heaven — and then he vanished 
 suddenly, I knew not how ; and the dream 
 hung about me even after I was awake and 
 dressed, till on planning that morning an ex- 
 cursion for the day, I resolved on visiting 
 Luccombe, to explore the landslip, and after- 
 wards on making an inquiry after Old Richard
 
 154 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 the fisherman. To see the coast to more 
 advantage, I took a boat from the cove at 
 Bonchurch, and rowing along under that ex- 
 quisite scene of cliff and broken precipice, 
 running up into green lawns and copsewood, 
 and tossed into wreck and ruin only to be 
 masqued over by nature with more of delicate 
 beauty, we soon reached the Chine at Luc- 
 combe, and the dark, ferruginous, precipitous 
 cliffs through which it is pierced ; and whose 
 sternness and severity of character contrasts so 
 beautifully with the soft turf and woodland, 
 and smooth expanse of down which tower 
 above them, till they rise into the lofty head- 
 land of Dunnose. While I was enjoying the 
 calmness and beauty of the picture, and Morris, 
 the boatman, with his son, whom I employ 
 always at Bonchurch, was pushing the boat in 
 through the surf, I observed another boat at a 
 distance with a gentleman and lady in it, ap- 
 parently making in the same direction. 
 
 "Ay, Sir," said Morris, as he saw me 
 looking at them ; " that's the grand gentleman 
 and his lady, who have just got such a mint 
 of money."
 
 LUCCOMBE CHINE. 155 
 
 " What gentleman ?" I asked. 
 
 " Mr. Lisle, Sir ; he that is staying at the 
 biggest house in Bonchurch, down near the 
 sea." 
 
 " Mr. Lisle ?" I asked, recollecting the name 
 which I had heard on the top of St. Ca- 
 therine's. 
 
 " Yes, Sir, he's coming after his little boy, 
 the young gentleman who's to have all his 
 money, and they say he will be a Lord by-and- 
 by, and they are going to buy all the land 
 about here, and the farm at Yaverland. They 
 say his great-grandfather had it before him, 
 and used to live at Carisbrooke Castle, and 
 was the King's governor here, and I do not 
 know what." 
 
 " And where is the child ?" I asked. 
 
 " O, Sir, he's in the cottage there, the white 
 cottage with three windows and the little chim- 
 ney, Avhere the nurse and Job Johnson are talk- 
 ing. That's Old Richard's cottage." 
 
 "What, Old Richard the fisherman?" 1 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, Sir." 
 
 " And what is the child doinfi there ?"
 
 156 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 " O, Sir, he's very fond of Old Richard — has 
 taken to him quite kindly somehow. And his 
 nm-se — she's Old Kichard's niece — sometimes 
 brings him here. And this morning the lady 
 and gentleman brought them round in their 
 boat. They were going to Spithead, I believe 
 to inquire about a great ship that was coming 
 in with a power of money and fine things on 
 board. And the little boy did not seem to care 
 about going, and rather liked staying here with 
 Old Richard. And so they put him ashore, with 
 his nurse there, and I suj^pose now they are 
 come back to take him home." 
 
 1 told him to land me as quickly as he could, 
 and after wishing good morning to the nurse, 
 a plain, homely, but respectable looking woman, 
 and to Job Johnson, who I found was Old Rich- 
 ard's nephew, I entered the cottage. It was 
 small, with a low whitewashed ceiling, scantily 
 furnished, but singularly neat. And a ray of 
 light striking through the lattice fell on Old 
 Richard's venerable face, as he sat in his high- 
 backed wicker chair, his Bible on a little table 
 at his side, and his spectacles placed to keep 
 the page open, where he was reading the first
 
 LUCCOMBE CHINE. 157 
 
 chapter of the Epistle to the Hebrews. I was 
 wonderfully struck with the calm intelligence 
 of his smooth broad forehead, thinly sprinkled 
 with white hairs — liis blue eye, clear, and vig- 
 orous, and cheerful — and the whole expression 
 of his face, which, without exhibiting any re- 
 finement beyond his rank in life, bore on it the 
 marks of that sobering, purifying, and elevating 
 influence, which deep earnest piety exerts on 
 the very poorest. Poor he evidently was, and 
 the coarseness of his dress was made more 
 striking by the soft delicate attire of my little 
 friend Leonard, who, in the bright cap and pe- 
 lisse and cape in which I had seen him on the 
 top of St. Catherine's, was now standing at Old 
 Richard's knee, looking up in his face with the 
 same wistfulness, but with more of interest and 
 pleasure, than he had showed in his conversation 
 with his father. I made some excuse for en- 
 tering the cottage, and taking care not to inter- 
 rupt the child as he was talking, had soon the 
 satisfaction of finding that my presence was 
 scarcely noticed. 
 
 " And papa says 1 shall be a Lord," were the 
 14
 
 158 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 first words he uttered after my entrance. "What 
 is a Lord ?" 
 
 Old Richard stroked his hair aflectionate'ly. 
 " A Lord, my little gentleman, is a great person 
 who has plenty of money and servants ; and 
 the Queen asks his advice, and he is allowed to 
 w^ear a crown upon his head, and every body 
 is full of respect to him." 
 
 " But I am only a little child," said Leonard. 
 " Shall you ever be a Lord, Richard ?" 
 
 The old man smiled and shook his head. 
 
 " But should you like to be a Lord ?" repeat- 
 ed Leonard. 
 
 " I do not think 1 should, Master Leonard," 
 
 said Richard. " And besides ," and here 
 
 he looked gravely and earnestly into the child's 
 eye, as if to read his soul within, — " I am some- 
 thing greater than a Lord even now." 
 
 " You greater than a Lord?" asked the little 
 fellow wonderingly. " Nurse said you were so 
 poor, and she was so sorry for it. And she told 
 me I might bring you what papa gave me, be- 
 cause the great ship was come home. She said 
 you had nothing to eat; and I am so sorry;
 
 LUCCOMBE CHINE. 159 
 
 poor Richard !" And the child put out his arms 
 to give the old man a kiss. Richard's eye 
 moistened as he took the beautiful little boy up 
 in his arms, and after kissing his forehead, and 
 giving him a blessing, seated him on his knees. 
 " Master Leonard," he said, " if you will be 
 kind and good to the poor, and say your prayers, 
 and do what your papa and mamma tell you, one 
 of these days you too will be more, much more 
 than a Lord. You will be a Prince." 
 
 "A Prince?" asked Leonard. " But a Prince 
 is the son of a King, is he not ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Richard. 
 
 " And are you a Prince ?" asked Leonard. 
 
 The old man seemed awed with the question, 
 and bowing his head reverently upon the child's 
 neck, till his own gray hairs mingled with the 
 boy's silky glossy curls, he answered in a low 
 voice, " Yes." 
 
 Leonard drew back partly as perplexed, and 
 partly as if afraid, but the question rose again, 
 
 " But a Prince is the son of a King, is he 
 not? You are not the son of a King." 
 
 Once more the old man fixed on him that
 
 160 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 calm, deep, searching eye, and whispered, " I 
 am." 
 
 The colour came into the child's cheek, but 
 from what emotion, whether wonder, or doubt, 
 or surprise, or pleasure, or a feeling mixed of 
 all, I could not decide. He sat silently for a 
 minute, casting up only a side glance at the old 
 man's tranquil face. At last he looked up more 
 boldly, and said, " Why are you so poor, Rich- 
 ard ?" If I was a King I would give you so 
 much money, and you should have such a nice 
 house to live in, instead of this old cottage. Is 
 it not very cold in winter ? Nurse says the 
 rain very often comes through the roof Shall 
 you ever go away ?" 
 
 Richard's face assumed a grave but not a 
 melancholy expression. 
 
 " Whenever," he said, " the good King who 
 is my Father sends for me, then I shall go 
 away." 
 
 " And where shall you live then ?" asked the 
 child. "Papa said that perhaps I should live at 
 Carisbrooke Castle, with lords and ladies, and 
 have horses and carriages, and beautiful clothes,
 
 LUCCOMBE CHINE. 161 
 
 and so many servants to wait on me. When 
 I live there, Richard, will you come too ? Do 
 you know I should like to have some beautiful 
 music there every day ? I like music, do not 
 you, Richard? Does it ever make you cry?" 
 
 " I do not know, my dear," said the old man ; 
 " but sometimes when I have been at church, 
 when they were singing, it has made me think 
 of the beautiful music which is heard where I 
 
 long to go by-and-by : and then " But the 
 
 old man paused. 
 
 " And where is it ?" asked the child. Is it 
 far off?" 
 
 " Yes, very far off." 
 
 " And does the King ever come to see you?" 
 asked the child. 
 
 The old man's breath seemed almost choked 
 with awe as he whispered, " Yes." 
 
 " And are you his heir ? " asked Leonard 
 gently, as if he partook of the awe expressed 
 in the old man's face. " Papa says I am his 
 heir, and am to have all he has got, all the 
 money on board the great ship. What shall 
 you have ?" 
 
 14*
 
 162 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 Poor Richard's brow contracted as with 
 pain. His eyes closed for a minute. And then 
 he answered, 
 
 " Perhaps nothing, perhaps every thing." 
 
 Leonard saw that he was suffering, and put 
 his hand up to Richard's face, and stroked it 
 as if to soothe him. 
 
 " Poor Richard," he said ; " are you ill ?" 
 
 But Richard recovered himself calmly, and 
 answered gravely, 
 
 " My dear little master, when you become a 
 man, if it should please God to spare your life, 
 you will know how many things you have done 
 wrong, how little you deserve kindness and 
 fondness from any one, or to have any thing — 
 much less all the beautiful things which are 
 inherited by the sons of a great King." 
 
 " But you are very good, Richard," said the 
 child. " Nurse says you are so good, and 
 never did any harm in your life." 
 
 The old man shook his head with a bitter 
 smile. 
 
 " Once I was as young as you. Master 
 Leonard. And if then the good King had sent 
 \
 
 LUCCOMBE CHINE. 163 
 
 to take me away, perhaps I should have been 
 sure to have all the beautiful things which are 
 given to his heirs and children. But since — " 
 and he groaned deeply, and remained silent. 
 " O Master Leonard," he said at last, " mind 
 what I tell you now : never do any thing that 
 is wrong, and then you will not have to do 
 what I have been doing all my life, endeavour- 
 ing to recover a lost inheritance." 
 
 The little fellow seemed scarcely to under- 
 stand him, and there was a pause, during wdiich 
 I could not help searching the features of the 
 old man, for marks of some hidden guilt or un- 
 ruly passion, something which might tell of 
 long painful warfare within against sin and 
 temptation, such as in the ordinary language 
 of ordinary Christians would be described, as 
 he had described his own career. But all was 
 calm, innocent, and holy ; and yet there had 
 been a constant daily struggle to regain the 
 sinlessness of baptism, and ensure the hopes 
 of heaven. I felt ashamed. 
 
 At last the silence was broken by the child, 
 who looked up timidly in Richard's face, and
 
 164 THE LOST IXHEEITAXCE. 
 
 said gently, " Richard, may I ask you a ques- 
 tion V" 
 
 •• Yes. my dear little child, certainly."' 
 
 •■ Have you ever had an heir yourself?" 
 asked Leonard. 
 
 The question seemed to thrill through the 
 old man's frame, and almost convulsed him 
 with a sudden shock. He covered his face 
 with his hands, and sat almost shuddering, 
 while the child looked on frightened at the 
 etiect his innocent question had produced. At 
 last Richard seemed to have recovered him- 
 self. He looked up, and gently stroking the 
 child's hair, he said in a broken voice : — 
 
 " Master Leonard, I once had a little boy 
 like yourself He used to sit in my lap, as 
 you do in this cottage : he was to have been 
 the comfort of my old age. I used to teach 
 him the way to heaven, and I thought we 
 
 should have met there. But " And the 
 
 tears trickled down his cheeks, and his voice 
 gave way. 
 
 '• And did he die ?"' asked the child, his in- 
 terest and curiosity roused by what he saw.
 
 LUCCOMBE CHINE. 165 
 
 " No, Master Leonard," said tlie old man, 
 " not die, worse than that. If he had died, he 
 would have been safe now, and we might have 
 met in heaven. He did not die, but he went 
 wrong, did wicked things, and they sent him 
 away, sent him far away, across the sea, thou- 
 sands of miles ; and there he could never be- 
 come better, but could only get w^orse and 
 worse. He was to have come back, if he had 
 been good. But I have not heard of him for 
 this long time. And I shall never live with 
 him again, either in this world or the next." 
 The old man's tears rolled faster down his 
 face, and even the child seemed ready to cry 
 too ; but just as he was going once more to 
 put his arm round Richard's neck to soothe 
 him, a figure passed before the window, and 
 with a joyous cry, " Oh ! here is mamma," he 
 jumped down, and ran to the door. 
 
 " Oh ! Mamma, poor Richard is crying \" 
 were the words with which he greeted a tall, 
 elegant-looking lady, who drew the latchet, 
 and lifted him up in her arms. " Do you 
 know, mamma," and he whispered in her ear.
 
 16G THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 — " do you know Old Richard, good Old 
 Richard, had an heir once, — just like me, and 
 he did not die, but was naughty and was sent 
 away, all out there, all across the sea, and 
 Richard thinks he won't go to heaven ; are 
 you not sorry, mamma ?" 
 
 His mother kissed the child tenderly. "We 
 must not make good Old Richard cry, my love. 
 And do you know, I have something that I 
 think will do him good. Go to papa there, 
 who is in the boat, and tell him that I will 
 come directly. But first, wash Richard good- 
 bye." The child climbed up on the old man's 
 knee, before he could rise from his chair to wel- 
 come the lady ; and could not resist the tempta- 
 tion as he wished him good-bye, to say, " Dear 
 Richard, 1 love you very much. You must 
 not cry, for mamma says she knows something 
 that W'ill do you good." 
 
 What this was, I was at the time unable to 
 discover, for I could see the lady wished to say 
 something to the old man in private, and I took 
 the opportunity of hastily wishing him good 
 morning, and rejoining the boat.
 
 LUCCOMBE CHINE. 167 
 
 " Ah, Sir !" said Morris to me, as he pushed 
 off from the shore, " There is the great rich 
 gentleman, sitting there quite angry, because 
 the lady would go and see Old Richard. It is 
 a sad thing, but I think riches harden the heart. 
 And they say. Sir, he never goes to church, but 
 spends all his Sundays making up accounts, 
 and the like, and getting money, and all to buy 
 back the estate. I hope little Master Leonard, 
 that is to have it all, won't turn out like him, 
 that's all I can say. They're all going to 
 Yaverland to-morrow. The great boat is to 
 take them round Sandown, and they are going 
 to look at the old house. It is all to be built 
 up again, they say, and furnished grandly." . 
 
 But here the boatman was obliged to take to 
 his oars, and while we rowed, back, I did not 
 encourage his loquacity, but sat gazing on the 
 ruins of the landslip, changed by the hand of 
 the same Nature which had wrecked it, into a 
 landscape of inimitable beauty.
 
 168 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Y A V E R L A N D F A R lAI . 
 
 ^^ (Plate V.) 
 
 It is sino-ular how soon we become inter- 
 ested and almost fascinated by subjects and 
 persons which are brought before us, by a pe- 
 cuUar coincidence, two or three times in suc- 
 cession. They become mixed up with our 
 thoughts, and appropriated to ourselves by 
 habit. And thus I was led to dwell on my 
 two meetings with little Leonard and his pa- 
 rents, and Old Richard, till it seemed almost 
 natural and a matter of course, that, as they 
 were going to Yaverland the next day, I should 
 make my excursion in the same direction. It 
 was a part of the island which I had never 
 seen ; and in ])articular I wished to examine 
 the interesting old Manor House, with its many 
 gables, clustered chimneys, parapetted court, 
 and old hall, in which, I had been told, there 
 were some remains of curious oak carving ; as
 
 YAVERLAND FARM. 169 
 
 well as the Norman arches of the little church, 
 which stands close by, in that relation to the 
 mansions of old which modern mansions so 
 carefully eschew, as its chapel. 
 
 As the day was warm and fine, I once more 
 engaged Morris to row me round the Dunnose 
 Point into Sandown Bay ; and as we passed 
 Luccombe Chine I could not resist the tempta- 
 tion of landing, and asking Old Richard how 
 he was. But on going up to the door of his 
 cottage, I was surprised to find no one within, 
 except a little girl, the daughter of one of the 
 neighbours. Richard's chair was empty, but 
 the table was still standing by the side, and the 
 Bible upon it. The little girl was busy in 
 sweeping the room, filling a kettle with water, 
 preparing a fire, and making ready some pota- 
 toes and bacon for dinner. She had produced 
 also a neat white table-cloth, with which the 
 table was covered ; and through an open door 
 I observed that a httle room, which the day 
 before had been occupied with fishing gear and 
 lumber, and a small old cradle in the corner, 
 had now been cleared out ; and a pallet bed of 
 15
 
 170 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 the humblest description, but laid with sheets 
 fresh and clean, had been placed in one corner. 
 
 I asked the girl where Old Richard was, but 
 she could not tell ; only she believed he had 
 heard some news from a lady yesterday who 
 had been on board a ship ; and he had been 
 crying, and was up very early that morning, 
 he and Job Johnson together, and they had 
 taken the white horse and gone somewhere ; 
 and she believed some one was expected to 
 come to the cottage. 
 
 I asked if Old Richard had seemed sorry, 
 and the girl answered me that he seemed very 
 glad that morning, and set off walking quite 
 strong. 
 
 While she was speaking, my ej-es fell on the 
 Bible which lay open, and the pages of which 
 were stained with tears ; — Richard had been 
 reading the parable of the Prodigal Son. 
 
 As no further information could be obtained 
 from the child, except that she believed Old 
 Richard was gone to Bembridge or Spithead, 
 and the inmates of the other cottage were 
 also absent, I embarked again in the boat.
 
 YAVERLAND FARM. 171 
 
 Morris, as usual, was disposed to be com- 
 municative. He told me all that he heard 
 from the boatmen, who the day before had 
 conveyed Mr. and Mrs. Lisle to the ship at 
 Spithead — how it had just arrived from the 
 East, full of all kinds of fine things ; how they 
 were all to belong, one of these days, to young 
 Master Leonard — and how kind and good the 
 lady was. In particular that there had been a 
 poor person on board who had worked his 
 passage home, and was sick, and the lady hap- 
 pened to see him, and inquired about him, and 
 made him tell her his story. And these various 
 topics, coupled with many digressions as to the 
 management of the boat and the prospects of 
 the lobster fishery, occupied us till we reached 
 the shore under Sandown Fort, when leaving 
 Morris to row back to Bonchurch, I proceeded 
 on foot to find my way to the Manor House 
 at Yaverland. 
 
 As I walked up the hollow land under the 
 lawn of the pretty parsonage, I saw two 
 figures just at the gate, in one of which I 
 easily recognised Old Richard, and the other
 
 172 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 seemed to be Job Johnson, on the ^hite horse, 
 with which he was used to carry his fish to 
 Ryde Market. At that moment both were 
 stopping, and Job seemed pressing the old 
 man, his uncle, to get up and ride instead of 
 himself, but Richard would not. He strode 
 on with a hale and vigorous step, which at his 
 age was surprising. It was the step of a man 
 filled with one deep absorbing thought, press- 
 ing on with thankfulness and hope to some 
 newly-awakened happiness ; his stout stick 
 was firmly grasped, his head erect, his foot 
 firm. Only at times he paused and looked up, 
 as if to check and relieve a swelling at the 
 heart ; and then he stopped to caress a dog 
 which bounded and frisked before him. The 
 dog had belonged to his unhappy son. 
 
 The little party, however, soon turned the 
 corner of the road;, and when I came next in 
 sight of them, it was in front of the old Manor 
 House. A lady and gentleman, whom I 
 immediately recognised as Mr. and Mrs. Lisle, 
 were standing, apparently planning some pro- 
 jected alteration either in the building or the
 
 YAVERLAND FARM. 173 
 
 road, I could not tell which. They seemed 
 intently engaged. My little friend Leonard 
 was on tiptoe at his mother's side, trying to 
 attract her attention. 
 
 "What is the matter with that boy?" I 
 heard the father say, as I drew near. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, there is a poor sailor down the 
 road. May I give him something ?" 
 
 "No, Leonard," said Mr. Lisle, angrily; 
 " never give any thing to beggars. They are 
 good-for-nothing rogues and impostors. Keep 
 your money in your purse, or you will be a 
 beggar yourself." 
 
 " But, mamma," whispered Leonard implor- 
 ingly, " he is very ill ; he says he cannot walk 
 any further." 
 
 " Go away, Leonard," said Mr. Lisle ; " go 
 into the house. Your mamma and I are busy." 
 
 " But, mamma," again whispered Leonard, 
 "may I not give him the new-half-crown you 
 gave me ?" 
 
 " Half-a-crown," cried Mr. Lisle ; " I never 
 heard such extravagance. Half-a-crown to a 
 beggar ! Run away, you little goose." 
 15*
 
 174 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 " But may I, mamma ?" 
 . " Yes, my love, if the poor man is very ill 
 you may,'"' whispered Mrs. Lisle gently to him, 
 as her husband happened to turn away. " Your 
 papa does not wish you, I am sure, to be un- 
 kind to the poor, when they are sick." 
 
 But Mr. Lisle overheard it. 
 
 " My dear, he said, " you will ruin that child. 
 I have been toiling night and day to make a 
 foi*tune for him, working like a galley-slave to 
 put him in possession of the estates of his fam- 
 ily. And if he does not learn to save money, 
 he will lose it all again. What has he to do 
 with beggars ? How can I afford to let him 
 have half-a-crown to give to every idle, worth- 
 less vagabond that he meets in the road ? Look 
 here : take away that tree ; carry the terrace 
 straight forward ; bring out another wing of 
 the house for the picture gallery ; and then 
 build the conservatory to the south, with the 
 fountain in the middle. Atkinson, the architect, 
 promises to do it for 5000/. I have ordered the 
 gilding for the drawing-room ceiling already. 
 And the plate glass will do for the recesses."
 
 YAVERLAND FARM. 175 
 
 Mrs. Lisle, with a saddened yet gentle counte- 
 nance, and as anxious to avoid every thing 
 which might irritate her husband, gave up to 
 him her whole attention as he planned room 
 after room — luxury upon luxury. One thought 
 ran through each project : it was all to be 
 Leonard's. 
 
 " And he looks so well," said his father, ex- 
 ultingly. " Dr. Conyers says he has quite re- 
 covered his cough. He has as strong a consti- 
 tution as mine ; and that has borne an immen- 
 sity of wear and tear. I could not go through 
 it again ; — morning and night ; winter and sum- 
 mer ; early and late. It is too much for any 
 man. And then the state of the money market. 
 That last speculation did the thing. But you 
 cannot tell how nearly it was all lost : if Gor- 
 don's bankruptcy had happened one month 
 sooner we should have been beggars. Now, 
 thank goodness, the ship is safe." And Mr. 
 Lisle's face lighted up with exultation, and he 
 proceeded with his plans. 
 
 " Shall you not do something to the church?" 
 asked Mrs. Lisle gently ; " it might be made 
 very beautiful."
 
 176 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 " Pooh ! pooh !" said Mr. Lisle, " it is quite 
 good enough. What is the use of spending 
 money on a church, where people only come 
 on Sundays ? I wish it were half a mile off; 
 I can't bear having a churchyard close to me : 
 however, I shall make a pew for ourselves of 
 course. And I rather think," he said, "it will 
 be a right sort of thing " (but here his voice 
 grew husky) " to have the family vault restored. 
 It is proper and usual : Lord Ilawdon has just 
 done up his mausoleum. However, we need 
 not talk about that now. Thank goodness, we 
 are all sound and well, and no fear of dying." 
 Mrs. Lisle sighed, but said nothing : it was not 
 the time. 
 
 In the meanwhile little Leonard, on quitting 
 his mother's side, had caught sight of Old 
 Richard, striding on even in advance of his 
 nephew on the white horse. The child ran 
 up to him delighted. 
 
 " Oh ! Richard, where are you going ?" 
 
 Richard stooped to take the boy up in his 
 arms, and give hini his kiss and blessing. 
 
 " Oh, Master Leonard," he began, and stop- 
 ped ; for his voice became choked witJn
 
 YAVERLAND FARM. 177 
 
 emotion, and setting the child on the ground, 
 he dashed away something that seemed bhnd- 
 ing his sight. Then again he took the child 
 up, and with that impatience of reserve which 
 joy begets, he could not help pouring out 
 thoughts uppermost in his head, even to his 
 little friend. 
 
 " Oh, Master Leonard, do you remember 
 yesterday how you made me cry? My son, 
 my poor son ! Your dear mother, good, kind 
 lady ! she brought me word. He is come 
 back ; he is very ill. But he is come back, 
 coming home ; and he may still be saved. 
 God be thanked ! God be thanked !" And he 
 kissed the child fervently again and again, 
 as if the thought of his recovered son made 
 his heart yearn still more fondly to those he 
 loved before. " Jack," he cried to the dog, 
 " Jack, poor Jack ;" and the dog came frisking 
 about him, as if filled with a presentiment of 
 joy. "It was his own dog, Master Leonard, 
 his own dog." And once more, overcome 
 with his feelings, he put the child down. " I 
 am going to see him, going to Bembridge, to 
 Spithead, to bring him home to-day. God is
 
 178 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 merciful, most merciful!" And be repeated 
 the words again and again, long and reverently, 
 but with intense fervour, and looking earnestly 
 up to heaven. 
 
 The little fellow seemed unable to enter 
 into or understand his feelings. He looked 
 on, as the day before, wistfully and wondering 
 — but with evident interest and fondness. 
 
 And then he said, " Richard, mamma told 
 me I might give my new half-crown to the 
 poor sailor." 
 
 Richard scarcely heeded him. The child 
 repeated his words. 
 
 " Richard, will you come and help me give 
 my new half-crown to the poor sick man ?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear," said Richard, rousing 
 himself as from absorption of feeling. 
 
 " You must come with me," said Leonard ; 
 " he is out there, sitting on the bank, he is so ill." 
 
 Richard took up his stick, and. with the 
 child holding his hand and leading, followed 
 him down the road. 
 
 " Do you know, Richard, he says lie has 
 been at sea and a great way off, I do not know 
 how many thousand miles."
 
 YAVERLANU FARM. 179 
 
 " What ?" exclaimed Richard, and the co- 
 lour forsook his cheek. 
 
 " He told me he was come from Spithead," 
 ^aid Leonard ; " and do you know he is going 
 to walk all the way to Luccombe." 
 
 Richard started, and gasped for breath. 
 " Where is he V where is he ?"' he asked. 
 But by this time they had turned the corner. 
 
 I did not see what took place at the first 
 meeting. But I could imagine it, — imagine 
 the burst of feeling when the father fell on the 
 neck of his prodigal returning son and kissed 
 him. I was at the north side of the church, 
 examining an old inscription on a tombstone, 
 which told of one who " is the Resurrection 
 and the life." But when I came round to the 
 other side of the churchyard I saw two 
 groups : one was composed of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Lisle, who wei'e walking towards the house, 
 busied apparently in planning further improve- 
 ments, and wholly unconscious of what was 
 taking place behind them. In the other was, 
 first, a pale, emaciated, haggard figure in the 
 dress of a sailor, sitting in a state of exhaus- 
 tion on the bank : holding his hand was little
 
 180 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 Leonard. On the other side was Old Richard, 
 his hat off, resting on his stick, his head 
 turned to the church and bowed as in an 
 attitude of prayer, a prayer of thanksgiving. 
 In front was Job Johnson on the white horse. 
 He had just come up. Nothing had been 
 said to him as yet. Old Richard was too 
 much absorbed to speak. The poor sailor, 
 with one hand resting on his knee, seemed 
 half disposed to rise, half doubting whether he 
 should be met by his cousin as he had been 
 met by his father, half overcome with shame 
 and sorrow as well as suffering. Job himself 
 was stooping forward on his horse, as if sur- 
 prised by a recognition of an old known face, 
 and prepared to jump off and throw himself 
 into the arms of a friend. Jack, the dog, the 
 dog of the lost and recovered prodigal, had 
 caught sight, doubtfully, hesitatingly, of a face 
 and a form he knew ; and was looking to see 
 if the poor, sick, miserable sailor was not 
 his own lost master, now restored, after 
 deadly sin and dreadful suffering, to the father 
 he had deserted and the inheritance he had 
 lost.
 
 CARISBROOKE CASTLE. 181 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CARISBROOKE CASTLE. 
 
 (Plate II.) 
 
 It was a bright and glorious day : the sky 
 unclouded, the air filled with perfumes of 
 flowers, and songs of birds ; the waters that lie 
 in the bosom of Carisbrooke valley, crisped 
 gently with a feathery breeze, and sparkling in 
 the sunshine ; the bees humming busily over 
 the thymy turf; the bells of Carisbrooke tower 
 chiming gaily and cheerily ; and the distant 
 sounds of bustling joj^ous life rising faintly 
 but cheerfully from the village and the town. 
 On the old, battlemented, ruined keep of Ca- 
 risbrooke -Castle floated heavily in the blue sky 
 a huge crimson banner emblazoned with gold. 
 From its smooth terraced bowling-green lined 
 with snowy tents, each surmonnted with its 
 flag, and surrounded with a lively glittering 
 throng of visitors, there swelled on the breeze 
 and died away again the sounds of music. 
 16
 
 182 
 
 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 At times a peal of bugles broke upon the ear 
 from the thickets which mantle the walls. 
 And the roll of carriages and prancing of 
 horses announced the rapid and successive 
 arrival of guests to a brilliant festival. I was 
 standing as one of the invited party, on the 
 angle of the north terrace looking down on the 
 road, as equipage after equipage filled with 
 smiling faces and sparkling attire swept by ; 
 when the bugles in a louder strain than before 
 sounded from the summit of the great gate- 
 way, and at the same instant a flash and 
 volume of smoke from the south-west postern 
 was followed by a discharge of cannon to greet 
 a new arrival. Before I could inquire the ob- 
 ject, a magnificent carriage drawn by four gray 
 horses, with outriders in gorgeous hveries, 
 flashed past, and through the great gates of the 
 castle drove into the courtyard. The carriage 
 was open, and I had just time, as it passed me, 
 to recognise in the three persons seated in it 
 the founders of the feast, Mr. and Mrs. Lisle, 
 and sitting between them, or rather held up by 
 his father on the seat to attract and acknow-
 
 CARISBROOKE CASTLE. 
 
 183 
 
 ledge observation, my little friend Leonard. 
 He was plumed and apparelled like a little 
 prince. And not only to his father and mother 
 but to every eye present he seemed the centre 
 of attraction, the one great object of interest 
 and admiration. To smooth his hair, arrange 
 his dress, gaze on him with an eye full of deep 
 affection, and at times moistened and dimmed, 
 was the task of his mother : to bid him bow 
 his head to each greeting, kiss his hand to 
 some fair lady who waved hers to him ; turn 
 from side to side to acknowledge the cheer 
 which was raised faintly from some of the 
 poorer and humbler bystanders, and at the 
 same time to watch narrowly and proudly 
 every expression of admiration and surprise in 
 surrounding faces, was the occupation of the 
 father. 
 
 It was little Leonard's own fete, his birth- 
 day ; and the worldly ambitious Lisle, now at 
 length at the height of his long-coveted aspira- 
 tions, — the lord of thousands, recoverer of the 
 estates of his ancestors, restored to his heredi- 
 tary position in society, and enabled to realize
 
 184 
 
 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 and command all the dreams of liis youth, — 
 had called round him on this day, not his friends, 
 but all in whom he could hope for either sym- 
 pathy or envy, — all who could add to his dig- 
 nity by their own rank, or from whom he could 
 extort an obsequious flattery, — to rejoice with 
 him, in having found what he had lost. He 
 had chosen Carisbrooke Castle as the spot, for 
 tliis had been the chief seat of his ancestors' 
 glory ; and those days might recur again. The 
 father's eye was lighted up with triumph, his 
 lip compressed in arrogance, but relaxing with 
 each salute into a carefully measured courtesy. 
 His looks turned constantly to his boy, but with 
 a glance very different from his mother's ; no 
 softness, no tenderness, — little of affection, 
 much of pride. My httle innocent Leonard 
 was nothing. The son of the wealthy Lisle, 
 the hope of a lineage of nobles, the future noble 
 himself, was the all in all. And Leonard him- 
 self — I could scarcely get sight of his face, 
 shaded as it was by his embroidered cap. But 
 it seemed so little altered, grave, quiet, wistful, 
 rather wondering, somewhat weary, little
 
 CARISBROOKE CASTLE. 
 
 185 
 
 moved at the brilliancy of the spectacle, whol- 
 ly unconscious of his own importance, obeying 
 every word of his father, but looking from time 
 to time to his mother, as if he would fain ask 
 permission to sit down, and rest upon her lap, 
 and talk quietly in her ear. Only at one turn 
 of the road, as the carriage advanced more 
 slowly up the steep ascent to the castle gates, 
 he sprung round as he caught sight of an old 
 familiar face steadfastly and fondly, but sadly 
 gazing on him, from behind a group of common 
 people. 
 
 " Oh ! mamma !" he cried, " there is Old 
 Richard. I should so like to go to him." 
 
 " Old Richard !" exclaimed his father angri- 
 ly ; " what is that old man doing here ? Look, 
 Leonard, there is Lord Rawdon and your 
 cousin Emily out there, your little wife, you 
 know." 
 
 " I do not want to See Emily," said Leonard. 
 " I would much rather go to Old Richard." 
 
 Some angry answer was on the point of 
 breaking from his father, for the unwillingness 
 to see little Emily jarred on one of the strongest 
 IG*
 
 186 
 
 THE LOST INHERITANCE^ 
 
 and most cherished hopes of Lisle's day-dreams. 
 But his wife soothingly bade the child kiss his 
 hand to Old Richard, and Richard, deeply 
 moved, took off his hat, and bowed with a 
 touching mixture of fondness and of respect. 
 A burst of applause broke from the little group 
 of peasants, behind whom he w^as stationed, and 
 the popularity of the act redeemed in Lisle's 
 mind its unbecoming condescension. 
 
 " I told Old Richard," said Mrs. Lisle, as she 
 saw her husband's face relaxing, and his hat 
 lifted from his head to acknowledge the cheer, 
 " I told him he might come to-day. He is so 
 proud of our boy." 
 
 Lisle muttered something impatiently; but 
 the carriage had reached the great gates of the 
 castle, drove under the ruined archway and 
 towers, and was welcomed in the inner quad- 
 rangle by a burst of music, and the greeting of 
 a throng of gay and fashionable guests, who all 
 crowded round to congratulate the parent, and 
 to force some attention from the silent unre- 
 sisting child. 
 
 " How beautiful ! How like his mother ! His
 
 CARISBROOKE CASTLE. 187 
 
 father's lips ! The Lisle forehead ! What a 
 treasure ! What a lovely child ! What pros- 
 pects ! How I envy him !" was uttered from 
 many lips. But the child looked, as if he heard 
 not ; shrunk back from the forced caresses of 
 one, held out his hand coldly and unregardingly 
 to others, only clung closer to his mother, and 
 his mother heard him whisper to hei', " Mamma, 
 I do not like all this crowd. May I go to Old 
 Richard ? " 
 
 " What a delightful little darling ! Come to 
 me, and let me give you a bonbon," said an old 
 lady, the bright bloom of whose haggard cheeks, 
 and the gay youthfulness of her attire, ill 
 matched with the ravages of age on every fea- 
 ture. " Come and tell me who Old Richard is. 
 I dare say he is some romantic, picturesque, 
 delightful person." 
 
 And she stretched out her withered arms, 
 covered with gaudy jewelry, to entice Leonard 
 to them. But Leonard turned away with a 
 look, which even in a child spoke like a ser- 
 mon. 
 
 " Mamma," he said, whispering, and begging
 
 188 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 to be taken up in her lap, " Mamma, I do not 
 like these people ;" and the tears came into his 
 eyes, as he put his arms round her neck. " I 
 like Old Richard a great deal better." 
 
 " But, my love," said his mother, " I am sure 
 you will do as you ought ; and you ought to 
 like these ladies and gentlemen, for they are 
 your own papa's friends, come here to wish 
 you joy on your birthday." 
 
 " But I think Old Richard loves me a great 
 deal better," said the child. " And he talks to 
 me as I like to hear ; and besides, mamma," 
 (and here his voice was lowered so as only to 
 be heard by those close around them,) "Old 
 Richard hopes that he will go to heaven, and I 
 am to take hold of his hand, and go with him. 
 I do not think any of these people will go to 
 heaven. Do you, mamma?" 
 
 "Hush, my child, hush!" exclaimed the 
 mother, startled even with her religious spirit, 
 — startled as most of us are startled with the 
 thought of immortality introduced into an 
 earthly festivity — and still more at the ominous 
 truthfulness of the child's fancy, in the midst
 
 CARISBROOKE CASXLE. 189 
 
 of a gay, thoughtless throng of fashionable dis- 
 sipation. 
 
 " Hush ! my dear child ; we must not speak 
 of such things at all times." 
 
 But the child clung to her neck more closely, 
 and the tears flowed more freely. 
 
 " Mamma," he whispered, " I want to speak 
 to you alone, where these people won't hear." 
 
 And his mother gently disengaging herself 
 from the crowd, took him aside, and sitting 
 down on a bench, placed him in her lap. 
 
 " What is it you want to say, my love ? 
 What do you wish to tell me?" The child 
 sobbed, and kissed her again and again. 
 
 " Dear mamma," he said. 
 
 "What is the matter, my love? Tell me, 
 and do not be afraid." 
 
 " Nothing, mamma, only I dreamed last 
 night " 
 
 " What did you dream, my dear?" 
 
 " I dreamed, mamma," and his voice faltered, 
 and he paused ; but at last he took courage, "I 
 dreamed, mamma, that I was to be sent for to- 
 day to go to heaven. Old Richard told me
 
 190 
 
 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 that beautiful angels came for us, when we 
 were to go, and one came for me last night. 
 And it was very nice, only I did not like to go 
 away from you, mamma. Will you go too?" 
 
 A cold shudder, a cheek forsaken in a mo- 
 ment by all its colour, and a convulsive pres- 
 sure of the child to her bosom, told of a pang 
 which shot through the mother's heart. It was 
 not the thought of religion, the name of heaven 
 which awoke it. The ideas were familiar to 
 her. But to part with her child, — and then 
 the omen ! Words are not dead and lifeless 
 things : they dp not drop at random ; they have 
 their messages to bear even from unthinking 
 lips, — their prophecies delivered by prophets 
 foretelling, but not foreseeing. Once more the 
 mother shuddered. But Mr. Lisle at that mo- 
 ment appeared, seeking for her, and hastily 
 brushing away the tears, which had left their 
 traces on the child's cheek, she took him ten- 
 derly in her hand, and proceeded to rejoin her 
 husband, as the centre of the brilliant festival. 
 
 And brilliant it was : glittering dresses, 
 laughing eyes, soft strains and peals of music,
 
 CARISBROOKE CASTLE. 191 
 
 gay greetings, and joyous voices, all mingling 
 in rich and picturesque confusion, beneath a 
 bright and sunny sky ; and the more striking 
 from the contrast with the gray ivy-mantled 
 ruins which frowned around us And yet over 
 all there hung, I know not what, but a sense of 
 something hollow, something impending. I 
 watched many a face, the foremost and the 
 gayest in each group ; and the pause, the sud- 
 den check, the breath caught, and changed into 
 a sigh in the middle of the laugh, the strained 
 compliment, the suppressed weariness, the 
 forced exhilaration, all betrayed the presence 
 of a gloom within. Even without, to my own 
 eye, a mist seemed to be gathering over the 
 clear heavens, and clouds forming in the hori- 
 zon. I looked to the lady of the feast, and ob- 
 served her eye glanced every moment to her 
 child, with an anxious look, as if she felt no 
 confidence in his security. The omen had 
 taken possession of her mind. Lisle alone 
 seemed carried away by the unchecked exu- 
 berance of joy. He passed from group to 
 group, courting and receiving congratulations,
 
 192 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 giving vent to plans and projects, dispensing 
 his courtesies with proud condescension, or 
 picturing to himself a coming day, when the 
 noble walls of Carisbrooke might own him as 
 their lord. And then he sent for Leonard, who 
 came silent and unresisting, yet unpleased, to 
 be exhibited, and admired, and flattered. There 
 was an oppression of emptiness about the whole 
 scene, which became painful ; and I turned 
 away from the crowded bowling-green, where 
 the targets were now fixed for the archery, 
 and passed along the southern terrace, intend- 
 ing to stroll quietly among the trenches on that 
 side of the castle. At the corner of the terrace 
 stood a little knot of attendants, and behind 
 them I saw Old Richard. I perceived now 
 that he was dressed in decent mourning, and 
 his face bore evident marks of recent sorrow, 
 and something of present anxiety. I stopped 
 for a minute to accost him, and soon . learned 
 that the son whom he had so recently recov- 
 ered had reached home only to die a few days 
 after. The old man spoke of him calmly and 
 gratefully, even cheerfully.
 
 CARISBROOKE CASTLE. 193 
 
 " God is merciful," he said, " very merciful- 
 He weaned him from his sins ; punished him to 
 save him ; chastised him with siclcness, and pov- 
 erty, and shame, and suffering ; but chastised 
 him as his son, and brought him back to his 
 home — to die ; that is, he corrected himself, to 
 go to his real home, to recover his real lost in- 
 heritance. With some of us, Sir," he said, 
 " this seems the only way, when they have gone 
 wrong in youth- " 
 
 At any other time I should have led him on 
 to speak more, but the subject jarred painfully 
 with the gay sounds that came from the lawn 
 below ; and I changed it to ask what had brought 
 him so far from his cottage that day. He hesi- 
 tated, and the expression of his countenance 
 changed. But at last, as we walked slowly away 
 from the little knot, he said, 
 
 " Sir, you came the other day to my poor 
 cottage, and you saw that little child sitting on 
 my knee. You know. Sir, it is his birthday, 
 and there are many people here come to do him 
 honour, some too who love him. Though I am 
 but a poor man, I love him as dearly as any one. 
 17
 
 194 
 
 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 I think, Sir, God, is not angry if the poor love 
 the rich, and the old love the young. And that 
 little boy has been many times a blessing and 
 a comfort to me, coming to see me in my poor 
 cabin, and talking to me when I seemed shut 
 out under the cliffs from all the world, and as 
 if all the world was dead to me, with no living 
 thing growing up under my eye, and near my 
 heart. His mother. Sir, knows it, and she is a 
 good kind lady, and I thought I should like to see 
 him to-day in the midst of all the fine people 
 and fine things. And yet I do not know. Sir, 
 Taut I would rather see him in my little cabin, 
 asking me to tell him stories out of the Bible. I 
 do not know, Sir, but sometimes my mind mis- 
 gives me." 
 
 The old man stopped, and looked in my face 
 to see whether I was sympathizing with him, 
 — whether he might proceed. 
 
 " And why ?" I asked ; "what are you afraid 
 of, Richard ?" 
 
 " Sir," he said, "I have a sort of superstition : 
 it has always been in our family for years, — that 
 a great feast always comes before a great sor- 
 row."
 
 CARISBROOKE CASTLE. 195 
 
 The words struck me. Something of the kind 
 I had observed within my own experience, till 
 I had learned to dread anygi'eat extraordinary 
 festivity, in which the heart was let loose to 
 exult in the multitude of riches, or the welcome 
 of friends, or the brightness of prospects, lest 
 with it there should come a forgetfulness of 
 God, and the need of chastisement. 
 
 " And besides, Sir," continued the old man, 
 observing that I was touched with his observa- 
 tion. " And besides, Sir, I do not know how it 
 is, but there is something in that little child 
 which makes my heart misgive me, when 1 
 think of his poor mother. He does not look 
 quite like a common child. And sometimes he 
 says things which make me feel as if they would 
 come well from a clergyman preaching in the 
 pulpit. It is not that he knows exactly what it 
 means : but one does not expect such things 
 from children." 
 
 " And yet," I said, " if what the Prayer Book 
 says is true, and when children are baptized, 
 there is given to them a portion of the same 
 deep and mighty spirit of truth ' which spake by
 
 196 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 the prophets,' it may speak also at times ' out 
 of the mouths of babes and suckhngs.' " 
 
 " So it may, Sir," said the okl man. And then 
 he continued after a pause, " And it may be. Sir-, 
 it speaks in many ways that we think nothing 
 about. Should you think, Sir, that it ever speaks 
 in dreams now, as it used to speak in old times, 
 as the Bible tells us ? I had a dream last night, 
 and it seemed all so true and real. And I shall 
 not like to go home till this is all over, and he 
 is quite safe." 
 
 " Who safe ?" I asked. 
 
 The old man brushed away a mist from his 
 eyes. 
 
 " I do not know, Sir," he said ; " it is very 
 silly : and old men have their weaknes.ses. 
 But I cannot say I feel happy about that little 
 child. I dreamed last night his father was 
 playing with him. And I was standing close 
 by, and all at once, I could not tell how, he 
 was changed into a beautiful ano-cl with wines. 
 And two other angels took him in their arms, 
 and were going to carry him away up into 
 the air : but he asked to come first to me and
 
 CARISBROOKE CASTLE. 197 
 
 kiss me, as he used to do. So they brought 
 him to me, and he put his little arms round 
 my neck, and whispered, ' Thank you, dear 
 good Richard, for showing me the way to 
 heaven.' But it was only a dream, Sir, only 
 a dream. And I am very silly and foolish to 
 think of it. Only, Sir, dreams sometimes make 
 us think, whether we will or no. Good morn- 
 ing, Sir ; many thanks for talking to me." 
 
 And as if anxious to escape from further 
 conversation, he took his hat off from his flow- 
 ing white locks, and walked slowly back to 
 the spot where he had before been standing, 
 and watching every movement of his little 
 favourite. 
 
 The archery was over, the prizes delivered, 
 the gay throng, instead of sauntering in gi'oups, 
 gathered round the low door which leads from 
 the bowling-green into the quadrangle of the 
 Castle, impatient, as even fashionable gentle- 
 men and titled ladies can be, to secure com- 
 fortable seats at the banquet, which was spread 
 in the two rooms forming the chief part of the 
 habitable portion of Carisbrooke. Having no 
 17*
 
 198 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 one to escort or attend, and being more in- 
 clined to quit the scene of gaiety than con- 
 tinue in it, if it had not been for a fascination 
 which seemed to hang over that little child, 
 who was to be still the centre of the festival, 
 I was enabled to obtain a retired seat at the 
 bottom of the tables. And as soon as possible 
 after the joyous, noisy, and almost tumultuous 
 repast was over, I withdrew unpercei^'ed, in 
 the hope of enjoying a quiet, silent stroll 
 among the ruins in the calm brightness of a 
 summer evening. The ladies were retiring 
 at the same time, and as Mrs. Lisle passed her 
 husband's seat, little Leonard, who was cling- 
 ing to her hand, whispered to her, 
 
 " Dear mamma, please do not forget. I do 
 not like it. It frightens me so. Please ask 
 papa not to do it." 
 
 " I will, my love," said his mother, and she 
 stopped to ask Lisle quietly, not to do this 
 evening, what he sometimes did, to the child's 
 great alarm, and some little danger. It was 
 very probable the company would wish to 
 drink the child's health. And the father, when
 
 CARISBROOKE CASTLE. 199 
 
 exhilarated and flushed with the occasion, 
 would often place the child on his shoulders, 
 and holding him by his feet would make him 
 stand upright, and utter a litle speech of thanks. 
 The exhibition was seldom made without tears 
 from Leonard, who was neither strong nor 
 fond of exhibition. And Mrs. Lisle had often 
 remonstrated in vain against it, as cruel to the 
 child and perilous. But the child had to-day 
 shown so much uneasiness, and alluded to it 
 so often, that she ventured once more to con- 
 vey the petition to her husband. 
 
 " Pooh ! pooh ! nonsense ! nonsense !" was 
 the only answer she now received : and as the 
 train of ladies passed on, she was obliged to 
 leave the room, and to Leonard's great relief 
 committed him to the care of his nurse, that 
 he might be removed out of the way. 
 
 As I passed by the chapel door, I observed 
 it open, and Nurse Martha standing under the 
 archway of the entrance tower, busy in con- 
 versation with some of the domestics. The 
 chapel itself had been visited during the day 
 by several idle groups, who had sauntered into
 
 200 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 it, and lounged about listlessly and iiTeverently. 
 Lisle himself had taken into it one party of 
 fashionable friends ; and, unable to conceal 
 the thoughts passing in his mind, he had in- 
 dulged in imaginations of improvement, what 
 might be done, what he would do, when — or 
 as he checked himself — if he were the master 
 of the Castle. A banqueting-room to be added 
 here : a range of offices there. And the Chapel 
 stood in the way. Nothing easier, he said, 
 than to take it down. It was not wanted. It 
 might have been useful in former days, when 
 people were less enlightened. But the quad- 
 rangle would look so much better without it. 
 His wife glanced on him sadly, and remarked, 
 with her usual gentleness, that in former days 
 a chaplain was an essential part of a noble- 
 man's household ; and that for any one resident 
 in the Castle, it would be a great blessing to 
 attend the daily service in a consecrated place 
 of worship. Lisle turned away from her im- 
 patiently. He was afraid of being ridiculed 
 by his gay companions ; and assumed more in- 
 difference than he really felt.
 
 CARISBROOKE CASTLE. 201 
 
 "What should you say," he said, with a 
 forced, affected levity, " to keeping it as a 
 ruin ? It might be made extremely pictur- 
 esque. The roof is already in a bad state, 
 and must be taken down ; and the gable, if 
 left standing, would group very well with 
 those chimneys." 
 
 A yawn from several of the party indicated 
 that they had little intei^est either in the 
 destination of the sacred building, or in the 
 dreams of their entertainer ; and Lisle, sensi- 
 tively alive to every expression of weariness 
 or apathy on the day of his fete, hastened to 
 quit the sanctuary. 
 
 When I stood by it, the door was slightly 
 ajar, and all was silent within. I entered 
 softly, and advancing up the aisle, was sur- 
 prised to see a figure kneeling at the altar rails. 
 It was Old Richard. He had moved away 
 from the noise and bustle of the gay party, 
 and while all others, both guests and domestics, 
 were occupied with the banquet, he had 
 entered the chapel. For some little time he 
 stood leaning on his stick, with his head bowed
 
 202 THE LOST 1NHERITA^'CE. 
 
 down, his white locks shading his forehead, 
 his Hps moving silently : at last, seeing no one 
 was present, he approached the rails of the 
 communion table, and screening himself from 
 observation, he knelt down. At the moment 
 I entered, he had been interrupted in his de- 
 votions by feeling some one at his side. A 
 little foot had found its way into the chapel 
 without being heard ; a little hand was gently 
 put into his own ; and the old man, turning 
 round, saw the child for whom he was pray- 
 ing, close by him, and looking up into his 
 face. 
 
 "Are you saying your prayers, Richard?" 
 asked the child. 
 
 The old man rose from his knees, took him 
 up in his arms, kissed him, blessed him, and 
 answered, " Yes." 
 
 " What were you praying for ?" continued 
 Leonard. 
 
 " I was praying," said the old man, " for a 
 little boy whom I love very much, that he 
 might be delivered from evil this day, and in 
 God's good time taken to heaven."
 
 CARISBROOKK CASTLE. 203 
 
 "Was that me?" asked Leonard; "I should 
 Uke to be taken to heaven." 
 
 " It was you, my dear Master Leonard," 
 answered the old man. " I pray for you very 
 often, much oftener than you think." 
 
 " Richard," asked the child, " do all these 
 people here pray for me? They say they are 
 so fond of me. But I do not think they love 
 me as well as you do. If I go to heaven, do 
 you think — " and here he stopped and checked 
 himself, as if in awe. 
 
 " Do I think what. Master Leonard ?" 
 
 " Do you think," repeated the child, hesitat- 
 ingly, and timidly, " that Jesus Christ (as he 
 named the name of names, he bowed his head) 
 will love me as you do ? I am such a little 
 child, and when I play with the other children, 
 they laugh at me, and play tricks with me. 
 And just before the people went in to dinner, 
 when we were up stairs together, Emily and 
 the rest ran away from me, and left me in the 
 dark passage to frighten me." 
 
 " But you must not be afraid in the dark, 
 my dear," said the old man ; " Jesus Christ is
 
 204 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 every where, in the dark or in the hght, to 
 keep you and watch over you. And He loves 
 you very, very dearly — far better than I can 
 do." 
 
 '• And will the angels love me too ?" timidly 
 asked the child. " I think they must be so 
 beautiful and so good. I dreamed I saw one 
 last night, and he spoke to me, and took me in 
 his arms, and I was not at all afraid. Do you 
 know," he said, after a pause and with a low 
 voice — " Do you know, Richard, he told me I 
 was to come with him to heaven, very soon 
 indeed ?" 
 
 " My child, my child," faintly exclaimed the 
 old man, agitated beyond his powers of con- 
 cealment, — " My poor child !" but the word so 
 naturally but so wrongly used as an expression 
 of pity, coupled with the thought of admission 
 to heaven, restored him to his calmness. He 
 corrected himself, and sitting down on a bench 
 took the child in his lap, and pressed him to 
 his heart. His eyes were swimming with tears. 
 
 " What are you crying for?" asked the child; 
 as a big drop fell upon his beautiful forehead
 
 CARISBROOKE CASTLE. 205 
 
 curled over with its glossy chesnut hair. 
 " Poor Richard, do not cry ! Let me kiss you, 
 and love you." The old man's tears flowed 
 fast and freely, as the child twined his arms 
 round his neck. 
 
 " Richard," said the child after a little 
 silence, " I do not think any body cries in 
 heaven. Do you know, I think about heaven 
 very often, ever since you told me about all the 
 beautiful things there, and whom I should see. 
 But mamma says she hopes to go there with 
 me. Do you think papa will be able to come ? 
 I should like to take him with me. Only, 
 Richard, papa does not go to church, and he 
 cannot go to heaven unless he goes to church. 
 Can he, Richard ?" 
 
 The old man shook his he ad sadly. 
 
 " And we must die first, must we not ?" said 
 the child. 
 
 The old man answered awfully, "Yes." 
 
 " I should not like to die," said the child, 
 
 " and be put under the ground, in the dark, 
 
 where it is all cold and wet. But heaven is 
 
 not under ground, is it, Richard ? It is up in 
 
 18
 
 206 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 the skies — all up there ; and such a beautiful 
 place ! How do people go there?" 
 
 " My child," said the old man, " when it 
 pleases God, who is so good and kind, to let 
 them come, he sends his holy angels, and just 
 as when your nurse puts you to bed in your 
 little cot, she takes off your frock and dress, and 
 shuts it up in a drawer, and then lays you qui- 
 etly on your pillow, with God and Jesus Christ 
 and the blessed angels to watch over you till 
 the morning comes — so it is to die." 
 
 The child looked perplexed, and yet pleased. 
 
 " And is there any pain ?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes," said the old man ; " sometimes very 
 great pain ; but then it is only sent because God 
 loves you, and it is to make you better and 
 more fit to live with the angels afterwards." 
 
 " I do not like pain," said the child. " Will 
 it be very hard to bear ?" 
 
 " Not harder than you will be able to bear, 
 my child, if you pray God to comfort and re- 
 lieve you, and make you patient." 
 
 " I tried to be patient the other day," said 
 the child, " when I was obliged to have my
 
 CARISBROOKE CASTLE. 207 
 
 tooth out — it hurt me so much ; but then mam- 
 ma had me in her arms, and kissed me, and 
 asked me to bear it for her sake ; and I did not 
 Hke to make her cry. I do not think I cried at 
 all. But it will be worse than that, won't it, 
 Richard ? Papa told me not to talk of dying. 
 He did not like it at all." 
 
 The old man slightly shuddered. 
 
 " Do you know, Richard, he sometimes makes 
 me so afraid, as if I was going to die." And 
 the poor child turned round as if he heard foot- 
 steps coming, and his cheek became pale. 
 
 " He likes sometimes to make me stand upon 
 his shoulders quite upright, and he holds me fast 
 by the feet ; but it frightens me so, I am sure 1 
 shall fall some day. If I fell down, should I be 
 killed, Richard ?" 
 
 " God forbid ! my child," said the old man. 
 
 At this moment the sound of a vociferous cheer 
 from the banquet-room penetrated even into the 
 chapel, and broke its stillness. I saw the child 
 quail and cling closer to Richard's hand. 
 
 " Richard," he said, " the last time there 
 were people, and they made a noise like that.
 
 208 
 
 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 Papa sent for me. They drank my health. Do 
 you think that he will send for me now ?" 
 
 "I do not know," said the old man. " But 
 if he does, what ought you to do ?" 
 
 The child was silent with alarm, and the 
 tears came into his eyes. 
 
 " My dear little boy," said the old man, 
 " what does God require of little children, who 
 are to come to heaven ?" 
 
 "To do what they are told," said Leonard. 
 
 " And you will do what your papa tells you, 
 will you not ?" 
 
 The child could not refrain from sobbing. 
 
 " O, Richard, would you ask papa not to 
 make me do it ? It frightens me so." 
 
 Richard took the trembling child into his 
 arms, and encouraged him. " Perhaps your 
 papa will not send for you," he said. 
 
 But the child's doubting eye soon saw that 
 this was not meant to inspire much hope. 
 
 " What ought we to do when we are afraid 
 of any thing?" asked the old man. 
 
 " We must say our prayers," said the child. 
 " May I say the beautiful prayer you taught 
 me, Richard?"
 
 CARISBROOKE CASTLE. 209 
 
 " Yes, my dear, say it now." 
 
 " I should like to say it," said the child ; " I 
 think it would make me feel more happy ; may 
 I kneel down ?" And kneeling down, he put 
 his little hands together between the old man's 
 hands, and repeated slowly and distinctly the 
 Lord's Prayer. He had scarcely reached the 
 end when voices were heard calling for Nurse 
 Martha and Master Leonard. 
 
 " They are drinking Master Leonard's 
 health," cried one of the domestics, out of 
 breath, " and he is wanted. Master wants to 
 have him brought directly. You must not stop 
 a moment. Make haste ; where is he, Martha ?" 
 
 " In the chapel," said the nurse. 
 
 And the next minute the servant entered. 
 The poor little fellow shook all over ; his tears 
 burst out afresh, and he clung imploringly to 
 Richard's knee, till the old man himself found 
 his own eyes dimmed. 
 
 "Must I go?" asked the child. 
 
 " Certainly, my dear little boy, go cheerfully 
 — go at once. Dry your eves, and do all that 
 your papa wishes." 
 
 18*
 
 210 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 " And will God take care of me ?" asked the 
 child. 
 
 " Surely — as surely as I am here," answered 
 the old man solemnly. " He will let nothing 
 harm you if you trust to Him. Nothing hap- 
 pens to any of his children which is not for 
 their good, even though it be pain or sickness, 
 or even death itself" 
 
 " And if I do what I am bid, will He take 
 me to heaven ?" asked the child. 
 
 " Surely, most surely," replied the old man. 
 
 " Will you say, God bless you, Richard, as 
 you did the other day, and kiss me ?" 
 
 " God bless you — God for ever bless you, my 
 child," said the poor man, as he sighed at the 
 terror visible in the child's face. " May God 
 have you in his holy keeping for ever!" And 
 the child was taken from his arms. 
 
 I scarcely recall what took place in the next 
 ten minutes. But before f had long left the 
 chapel, and while I was standing by the outer 
 gateway, I heard a shout of loud applause. It 
 was followed by a dead pause. Then came all 
 at once a piercing shriek, and all was silent.
 
 CARISBROOKE CASTLE. 211 
 
 The next minute there was a rush of steps — a 
 murmur — hurried voices — a cry for a surgeon 
 — for a horse. Something terrible had hap- 
 pened. I heard the name of the hltle boy re- 
 peated from mouth to mouth. Something 
 about a fall — an injury. And before I could 
 hurry back into the castle, through the open 
 gates dashed a rider on a white horse. It was 
 Lisle himself, ghastly as a sheet, horror-struck, 
 as one wdio had slain his child. He had sprung 
 on the first horse he could find, and was gal- 
 loping madly down the steep declivity. Two 
 persons (they were Old Richard and the nurse) 
 on the wall to the south of the entrance tower 
 were shouting to him to lose no time ; to bring 
 a surgeon instantly; not a moment w^as to be 
 lost. He threw his arm back to them as if in 
 reckless desperation — and in a moment he van- 
 ished.
 
 212 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 V E N T N O R . 
 
 Instead of continuing the narrative, I may 
 
 as well copy two letters written to a friend, 
 
 which may be less wearisome both to myself 
 
 and the reader : — 
 
 Bonchurch Hotel, 
 Tuesday, August 6th, 1846. 
 My dear W , 
 
 I am still here, at this most delightful of all 
 places, and most comfortable of all village hotels. 
 I have quite recovered from my fatigue ; and 
 if you could only see the view I am now look- 
 ing on, with the windows open down to the 
 ground, and the broad expanse of ocean, glit- 
 tering " like a silver shield," over the tops of 
 firs, and ash, and thorn, and the rugged pictu- 
 resque foreground of Clifden, you would not 
 wonder at my being loth to leave it. It is 
 not nearly so hot here as you would imagine, 
 or as it is down below. Any one who comes 
 to Bonchurch as an invalid, should try and set- 
 tle themselves on this terrace. The tempera-
 
 VENTNOR. 213 
 
 ture is much the same as in the best parts of 
 Ventnor. In summer, the sea breeze is cool- 
 ing, and in winter, the houses lie so close under 
 the cliff, that every cold wind from the north 
 sweeps over it. This I am convinced is one 
 of the great secrets of climate. The people 
 also are all so kind and disposed to sympathize 
 with each other. It is almost a little hospital — 
 nearly each family has some one sickening or 
 dying. And yet such a hospital, so sweet, so 
 soothing, so full of every outward thing that 
 can disarm death of its terrors, by reminding 
 us of heaven ! And next year we hope to have 
 our church. The foundations are laid already. 
 And then, if we can have our daily service, 
 and frequent communion, the comfort to the 
 sick as well as the strong will be incalculable. 
 
 You write to ask how poor Lisle's dear little 
 boy is. He is sinking rapidly. The injury is 
 
 internal, and Dr. gives no hope. Sir 
 
 has been here from London to see 
 
 him. Yesterday Lisle returned from Edin- 
 burgh, where he had been himself, on purpose 
 to fetch Dr. , but all agree that the case is
 
 114 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 beyond the reach of medicine. Sir 
 
 thinks the spine was injm"ed by the fall, or by 
 some wrench, as his poor father was trying to 
 catch him in his arms. He lay insensible for 
 some time afterwards. And his first words, 
 when he recovered in his mother's arms, were, 
 "Don't cry, mamma — I can bear it — I won't 
 scream if I can help it." He has suffei'ed a 
 good deal, but is so patient, so gentle. The 
 
 other day, when Dr. had been applying a 
 
 bandage, which gave him severe pain, so that 
 the perspiration quite stood on his forehead, 
 after it was over, he asked his mother to beg 
 
 Dr. to kiss him. I see him almost every 
 
 day. He likes me to talk to him on the very 
 things uppermost in my own mind, and to en- 
 large on them, as far as one can reach a child's 
 comprehension. I sit by his cot, his mother 
 holding one hand, and I the other, and his eyes, 
 which are losing their lustre every day, turned 
 from one to the other, sometimes to ask for 
 help when the acute pain comes at intervals, 
 and sometimes trying to smile, when we say 
 any thing that pleases him. He has been taken
 
 VENTNOR. 215 
 
 out two or three times in the carriage, but can 
 scarcely bear it. Poor Lisle, himself! You 
 never saw such a spectacle, such a wreck, both 
 of mind and body, as he exhibited for weeks 
 after the accident. They could not prevail on 
 him to take off his clothes for nights together. 
 He continued wandering up and down the 
 house, listening at the door of the nursery, 
 then distracted with the child's moans, beating 
 his head ; at times rushing out of the house in 
 despair, then kneeling by the child's bedside, 
 asking him to forgive him. The first time I 
 was allowed to see him (I had written to him, 
 as an acquaintance, and a clergyman ; above 
 all, as one who loved his child, which had the 
 most weight), he broke out in an agony the 
 moment I entered the room — "I killed him! 
 It was my doing. He asked me not to do it, 
 he prayed me not. I would do it. My child, 
 my poor child ! Vanity, cursed vanity ! My 
 vanity has killed him !" 1 did not attempt to 
 interrupt him, particularly when I found his 
 anguish venting itself in a burst of passionate 
 weeping. He thanked me for coming to see
 
 216 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 him — thanked me quite kindly, as if he had no 
 right to any kindness, any sympathy from any 
 one. Foi- a long time he would not see his 
 wife. He said it would kill her. She must 
 hate him. But I prevailed on him at last.* 
 She is an admirable woman. So gentle, yet 
 so firm. She waited till the paroxysm of hor- 
 ror was over, and then they met. And such a 
 meeting! It ended in her leading him to the 
 child's bed-side, and both knelt down, as it lay 
 dozing in a disturbed sleep. Since then he has 
 become calmer. On Sunday, to my astonish- 
 ment, he proposed to go to church. I dared 
 not make any objection, and yet I dreaded the 
 effect. It seemed too great an eftbrt. But 
 with all the false bias and worldly ambition, 
 which Lisle indulged in his prosperity, there 
 was always a spring of energy and nobleness 
 of spirit in him, connected I have no doubt 
 with his blood and birth, which would proba- 
 bly have been perverted or extinguished in a 
 career of temporal prosperity, and is now be- 
 ginning to awaken itself. He saw what was 
 passing in my mi)id, and without looking up,
 
 VENTNOR. 217 
 
 and while covering his face with his hands, he 
 said, " It is better to do it at once, and do it 
 pubUcly. They will loathe me, point at me. 
 But I cannot be more fallen than I am, more 
 humbled, more degraded. They shall see me 
 where I ought to be — on my knees." 
 
 I walked with him to the church. He would 
 not go in the carriage. The narrow building 
 was crowded, as it usually is, so full, that there 
 was no room : some poor people even in the 
 porch. They made way for us, not without 
 
 wonder and compassion, and the S 's 
 
 opened the door of their pew for him. But he 
 did not take advantage of it. Lisle, the 
 haughty, worldly, ambitious Lisle, knelt down 
 humbly on the bare stones at the open seats 
 under the gallery, by the side of his own ser- 
 vant. He did not rise from his knees for some 
 minutes. And when he did, the tears were 
 streaming down his face. 
 
 I shall never forget the deep silence of com- 
 passion and awe which thrilled that little con- 
 gregation before the service commenced. As 
 we came out from under the lowly porch, and 
 19
 
 218 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 the eye passed over the green sloping lawn, 
 and rested on the glorious sea, dashing and 
 sparkling with its breakers, no face was raised 
 to indulge an idle curiosity. Many reverently 
 took off their hats to him — many, who, under 
 other circumstances, would not have ventured 
 to intrude on his notice, or thought of express- 
 ing respect. But he was a broken-hearted 
 man. A broken heart was written upon every 
 feature ; and all remembrance of the past was 
 lost in pity. He was evidently touched by it 
 most deeply. It did much not only to soothe, 
 but to support and encourage him. Since 
 Sunday I have not been with him, but yester- 
 day I partly witnessed, and partly heard of -a 
 little scene which interested me much. I was 
 walking into Ventnor with my letters, and just 
 at the top of the hill, by St. Boniface, I over- 
 took two ladies and a little girl. The child 
 was about the same age with my poor little 
 sufferer ; and I recognized one of the ladies as 
 Lady Rawdon. They were here some weeks 
 before the accident, staying at Westfield House 
 to be near the Lisles. She is a fine woman.
 
 VENTNOR. 219 
 
 fashionable and dissipated ; and I suspect, not 
 the most careful of mothers. The child, 
 Emily Rawdon, was evidently very trouble- 
 some : as spoiled children usually are : at one 
 moment she was fretting, at another playing 
 tricks ; and silly expostulations, foolish entrea- 
 ties, and angry threats (for threats were used, 
 though not in the proper form to enforce atten- 
 tion), were all in vain. I could not help think- 
 ing that if such an education bore its natural 
 fruits, and poor Lisle 's plans had been realized, 
 a store of suffering would have been prepai'ed 
 for Leonard as a man, infinitely worse than 
 any which he was now enduring as a child. 
 They walked on in advance of me till they 
 reached the top of the shoot, at the point 
 where the road breaks off to the north, up the 
 hill ; and here, coming up the ascent, I saw 
 Lisle's carriage. It was coming slowly, the 
 coachman endeavouring to rein in the spirited 
 horses. The blazons on the pannels, — the 
 gilding on the harness, — the splendid liveries, 
 — the display of pomp and wealth, — all re- 
 minded me of Carisbrooke and the fete ; but
 
 220 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 what a change within ! The clay was so soft 
 and bahiiy that I was glad to see they had 
 been able to bring the poor child out. 
 
 As soon as little Emily caught sight of the 
 carriage, I observed a change in her counte- 
 nance. She seemed awed, and taking hold of 
 her mother's hand, and pointing to the equip- 
 age, she asked if Leonard was in it ? 
 
 " I think very likely he is," said Lady Raw- 
 don ; " they take him out as often as they can 
 when it is fine." 
 
 "Mamma," asked the child in a low voice, 
 " is he going to die ?" 
 
 " Hush, my dear," said her mother, " you 
 should not talk of such things. I do not like 
 to hear of them." 
 
 "But is he very ill, mamma?" persisted the 
 child. 
 
 " I am afraid he is," said Lady Rawdon. 
 
 " Mamma, where do people go to when 
 they die ?" asked the child. 
 
 The mother's countenance changed, and 
 was discomposed, and she began adjusting 
 some portion of the child's dress in order to 
 evade the question.
 
 VENTNOR. 221 
 
 But the child had never been taught to 
 check a wish, or suppress a feehng. And she 
 persevered. " Mamma, I want to know where 
 people go to when they die ? If I were to die, 
 mamma, where should I go to ?" 
 
 " Why do you want to know, my dear ?" 
 asked her mother, evidently disconcerted. 
 
 "Because that day, at the castle, Leonard 
 told me that if I was naughty I should go to 
 a bad place by-and-bye, and be burnt. Was 
 Leonard right, mamma ?" 
 
 " My dear, what could make Leonard talk 
 to you in such a way ?" 
 
 " I do not know, mamma, but we all wanted 
 to go back and look at the well ; and Arthur 
 Monro told us it would be very funny to see 
 the donkey — only Mrs. Lisle had ordered that 
 we should not go for fear of tumbling in. 
 And the door was open. And just as I was 
 going to peep in, Leonard came and took me 
 by the hand, and told me it was very wrong, 
 and that if we did what we were told not to 
 do, God would be very angry, and we should 
 be punished. What did he mean, mamma?" 
 19*
 
 222 THE LOST IXHERITANCE. 
 
 " I wonder, my love, where he could have 
 got such notions ?" said her mother. 
 
 " He said something about Old Richard at 
 Luccombe, w^ho told him," said the little girl, 
 " and that Old Richard knew every thing 
 about it — and that there was a dark place 
 under ground w^here naughty children were 
 sent to when they died — and a beautiful place 
 up in the sky, where they were taken if they 
 were good, You never told me any thing 
 about it, mamma. Do you think it is true ?" 
 
 " Hush ! my love," said the conscience- 
 stricken mother. And turning to her com- 
 panion, who proved to be a humble obsequious 
 attendant — she observed awkwardly, " I can- 
 not think how it is that people in these days, 
 put such strange ideas into children's heads. 
 It makes one quite shudder." 
 
 "It is dreadful," drawled Miss Tarlton. 
 
 " I do not think my nerves can stand this 
 place any longer," said Lady Rawdon. " It 
 was all very well while the Lisles were in 
 good spirits, and could make parties. But 
 ever since that horrid accident they have be- 
 come quite dull — in fact quite a bore."
 
 VENTNOR. 223 
 
 I do not know what answer the obsequious 
 companion would have made, but at this 
 moment the carriage approached, and Lady 
 Rawdon prepared her softest smile and most 
 affectionate wave of the hand. But it was all 
 in vain. 
 
 "I think that is Lady Rawdon coming 
 down the hill," said Mrs. Lisle to her hus- 
 band. 
 
 " Draw down the blind, my love," said 
 Lisle. " They are not friends for an hour like 
 this." 
 
 As he spoke, Leonard, who was lying sup- 
 ported by pillows in his mother's arms, gently 
 turned round his head. " Mamma," he said, 
 " if it would not tire papa, I should like so 
 much to lie in his lap. May I, papa?" 
 
 The mother's look of joy, of thankfulness, as 
 Lisle stretched forward fervently but most 
 tenderly to lift him up, and take him into his 
 lap, was most touching. The eyes of Lisle 
 himself filled with tears. It was the first 
 time he had had his child in his arms since 
 that dreadful day. The poor little fellow lay
 
 224 THE LOt>T INHERITANCE. 
 
 seemingly exhausted by the effort of moving ; 
 but though his eyes were almost closed, he put 
 out his pale hand, thin and transparent, to feel 
 for his father's hand, and having locked his 
 own in it, he lay quite still. It was with 
 great difficulty Lisle mastered his feelings. 
 The choking in his throat became almost 
 audible ; but the dread of distm-bing the child 
 by the slightest movement enabled him to 
 control himself The carriage moved on slow- 
 ly, and at the top of the hill, on the right hand 
 side of the road. Old Richard was standing. 
 He was standing with his hat off, as if he had 
 been in a church, or was praying, or rather 
 as if some object of reverence and awe was 
 approaching. And what object so full of re- 
 verence and awe as a dying child ? A little 
 girl, on<g of the children of the fisherman who 
 lived in the next cottage to his own, was 
 taking hold of his hand and pointing to the 
 carriage with childish admiration and wonder. 
 It was the same child I had seen W'ith him 
 once or twice before, since the accident. He 
 seemed to have adopted it, as if it was neces-
 
 VENTNOR. 225 
 
 sary for him to have some Hving being to love, 
 and, as far as he could, to bless and bring up 
 in goodness ; and as if his heart yearned most 
 to those w^hom our Lord himself so loved — 
 the lambs of Christ's fold. 
 
 Lisle saw Richard as the carriage approach- 
 ed him, and gently stooping over the little suffer- 
 er in his arms, he asked if Leonard would like 
 to see the old man. 
 
 " Yes, dear papa," the child answered faintly. 
 "Very much indeed, if you like it. But I can't 
 sit up. Will you lift me ?" 
 
 Mrs. Lisle pulled the check-string, and the 
 carriage stopped. 
 
 " Ask that good old man to come here," said 
 Lisle to the footman, who appeared at the 
 carriage window. " Open the door and put 
 down the steps." 
 
 And as Richard came close, the child was 
 lifted up. His breath was so seriously affected 
 by the exertion that he could scarcely speak. 
 
 " God bless you ! May God Almighty bless 
 you and keep you, my dear little master," said, 
 the old man, as he gazed through his tears on 
 the little sufferer. " Thank you. Sir, thank you,
 
 22G THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 Ma'am, a thousand times for letting me see 
 him !" And the old man tm'ned away to hide 
 the tears which coursed down his cheeks. 
 
 " Don't cry — you must not cry, dear old 
 Richard," whispered the child faintly. " It 
 makes papa cry — poor papa !" and he tried to 
 lift up his head ; but it sank back on the pillow. 
 And he could only ask with his eyes that his 
 father would stoop down to kiss him. 
 
 As Lisle hung over him, he said, " My 
 darling child, should you like me to tell old 
 Richard now about the cottage we are to build 
 for him, and the nice garden he is to have, and 
 the comfortable bed ?" 
 
 " Not now, please papa ; not now, unless 
 you like it." 
 
 " Shall he come to-morrow afternoon, my 
 child ?" 
 
 " To-morrow morning, if you please, papa." 
 
 " I think the afternoon will be better," said 
 Mrs. Lisle ; you are generally stronger then 
 than in the morning ; and, perhaps, then he 
 ^could tell you one of his pretty stories." 
 
 The child gently shook his head, with a sad 
 but earnest look, as if he knew more than either
 
 VENTNOR. 227 
 
 his father or his mother, that it could not be 
 then. " In the morning, please, dear mamma ; 
 it must be in the morning." 
 
 " Why, my love ?" said Mrs. Lisle. 
 
 But the child only repeated, " In the morning, 
 if you please, dear mamma. Richai'd, will you 
 come and see me in the morning?" 
 
 The old man bent down to kiss his little hand, 
 which lay almost lifeless on the pillow. And 
 the child looked up, and, as he used to do, strok- 
 ed the white hair and furrowed cheek which 
 was pressed close to it. But the exertion was 
 too great. And Lisle, shaking old Rich- 
 ard kindly and warmly by the hand, asked him 
 to come to the house to-morrow at twelve. 
 
 " Ten," faintly whispered the child. " Ten, 
 please, papa ; twelve, too late." 
 
 There seems to have been some mysterious 
 pre 
 
 Wednesday, August 9th. 
 
 I was obliged to break off my letter sudden- 
 ly yesterday. It is all over. Harris, Lisle's 
 butler, came up to me while I was writing, 
 about eleven o'clock, wishing that I would go 
 down to the house at once. The dear Uttle fel-
 
 228 THE LOST IMIERITANCE. 
 
 low was evidently sinking. I went down with- 
 out delay, but found that all was over; the 
 mother wonderfully supported. Lisle himself 
 in an agony of grief; but all taking a right di- 
 rection ; full of remorse, of humility, of resig- 
 nation, and gratitude. Certainly there are in 
 him the elements of a noble character, which 
 this terrible blow is bringing out. I had some 
 conversation with the nurse. She told me the 
 little sufferer lay almost in a state of insensibil- 
 ity from the time of 'his return from his drive 
 till about ten o'clock this morning. Then he 
 seemed to wake up, and asked for old Richard, 
 who was already in the house, and came to him. 
 The nurse could not describe all that i)assed for 
 crying. But she told me the child had made 
 an effort to move and put his arm round the old 
 man's neck, but his strength had failed. Then 
 he motioned the old man to put his ear down 
 close to his lips, and whispered, in a voice 
 scarcely audible, " Thank you, dear Richard, for 
 teaching me the way to heaven." After this, 
 he lay for some little time motionless, with his 
 eyes closed. When he opened them, he saw 
 the old man still bending over him, and made a
 
 VENTNOR. 229 
 
 little significant movement of his hands which 
 were lying on the outside of the bed-clothes. 
 The old man understood it, and taking them 
 very gently, joined them together within his 
 own. The nurse said that a faint smile played on 
 the child's pale face, and his lips moved sensibly. 
 She fancied he was repeating the Lord's Prayer. 
 Just as he came to the close there was a slight 
 convulsive movement, which alarmed her, and 
 she sent for Lisle and the poor mother, who 
 were in the next room. As they came and bent 
 over the bed a sudden strength seemed to be 
 given to the dying boy. He opened his eyes, 
 recognised his father, smiled on him, uttered 
 quite distinctly the words, " Happy — no pain — • 
 no pain. They are coming for me ! Dear papa !" 
 and then a sudden change came over him ; and 
 before a word could be uttered he was asleep — 
 asleep in the Lord. I have seen him since ; so 
 peaceful, so beautiful ! But I must not dwell 
 on it. He has received his inheritance in heav- 
 en. May we strive to regain ours ! 
 
 Ever, my dear W , 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 20
 
 230 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 CHAPTER. VI. 
 
 Y A V E R L A N D CHURCH. 
 
 Bonchurch Hotel, June 6, 1847. 
 
 My dear W , 
 
 On looking back to my diary, I find it was 
 just this day twelvemonth that I wrote you a 
 long letter from this very place. You know 
 how fond I am of it. It grows on me every 
 time I return to it ; and the Lisles being still 
 here gives it an additional interest. You must 
 have observed when you saw him in London, 
 what a wonderful alteration had taken place 
 in his whole tone of mind. I thought at one 
 time he would have fled from a spot which, 
 like this, reminds him daily, hourly, of past 
 events. But they both seem to cling to it 
 more fondly from the recollections of their 
 child. She speaks of him constantly and freely, 
 and he listens without shrinking, but with such 
 grief and humiliation, and humble submission 
 to chastisement in his countenance. It is most 
 touching. His whole thoughts now seem em-
 
 YAVERLAND CHURCH. 231 
 
 ployed in devising modes for the proper 
 employment of his great wealth. He has taken 
 a much smaller house, curtailed his establish- 
 ment, reduced his mode of life to great sim- 
 plicity, as becomes a penitent. There is the 
 hereditary landed property, and the purchase 
 of Yaverland has been suspended. And there- 
 fore he feels at liberty to reside here. I have 
 heard a great deal about him from my friend, 
 Old Richard. The first day he left the house 
 after the funeral of his child, he went alone to 
 Luccombe Chine. The old man told me he 
 should never forget the expression of his face, 
 as he knocked gently at the door and lifted up 
 the latch and came in. He was in the deepest 
 mourning, his face perfectly haggard, his hair 
 whitened, but all so subdued, so softened. 
 Richard rose from his chair, but Lisle would 
 not allow him to stand. He sat down by his 
 side, took the old man's hand in his own and 
 wept freely and silently. It ended in his ex- 
 plaining to Richard his wish that he would 
 come and occupy a cottage near them, and 
 consent to receive an annuity, for Richard's
 
 232 THE LOST INIIEUITANCE. 
 
 wants and habits more than adequate to supply 
 him M'ith every comfort. But the old man 
 respectfully declined. " God," he said, " had 
 not yet deprived him of iiis strength. He 
 could do something to maintain himself. And 
 there were others poorer than himself, who 
 needed it more. The fisherman at the next 
 door had a large family — he had none. If he 
 fell ill, or was unable to work, then he would 
 not hesitate to apply for help ; he should not 
 be ashamed to receive alms from any Christian, 
 much less from Master Leonard's father." 
 
 Lisle pressed him in vain — told him it was 
 the child's own gift, his own entreaty. And 
 then the old man said there was one thing he 
 should like, if it was not taking too great a 
 liberty and asking too much favour. He 
 should like to possess a lock of the little boy's 
 hair. Lisle had anticipated his wish. He had 
 brought one enclosed in a note which the child 
 one day, after the accident, when he had felt 
 better, had sat up in his mother's lap at his 
 own request to write, with her hand to guide 
 the letters. The effort seemed to please him.
 
 YAVERLAND CHURCH. 233 
 
 His mother had asked him what lie had wished 
 to say. But it was only, " Dear Richard, I 
 am better to-day. It is not much pain. I 
 think God is very good and kind to me. If you 
 please, will you come and see me, and tell me 
 a pretty story ? I am your affectionate friend. 
 L. L." The old man took the letter, and 
 placed it in his Bible. 
 
 " Sir," he said to Lisle, " may I say to you 
 what an old man, though he is poor, may say 
 to one who is younger, that such strokes as 
 you have received are not given except to 
 those whom God loves — given to bring them 
 to Himself? I never knew. Sir, in all my ex- 
 perience, any one visited with sorrow, and 
 bearing it patiently and well, who was not 
 thankful for it afterwards. And, Sir, you were 
 thinking of recovering an inheritance for your 
 child — making him rich and a great man. 
 And what you most wished ibr him, God, who 
 loved him, has given him, only sooner and bet- 
 ter and greater far than you ever dreamed of. 
 And now it is his for ever. I had a son. Sir, 
 once. He died very long since ; and I buried
 
 234 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 him at Bonchurch. And now, whenever 1 
 feel lonely here, sitting of an evening without 
 any one to talk to, or work for by my own 
 fireside, 1 think of the time when, if God wills, 
 we shall meet again ; and it does me good. Sir. 
 I think, Sir, if you could bear to talk of your 
 little boy, and to imagine where he is now, 
 what he is doing, how he may be thinking of 
 you or praying for you, (for we do not know 
 what may not be done by blessed spirits in 
 heaven,) it would make you wish to be with 
 him, rather than that he should be with you. 
 And then. Sir — but I am makinc; too bold in 
 talking to you in this way — only, Sir, I loved 
 your little boy very dearly, and when that is 
 the case it does not seem such a liberty to talk 
 to those who loved him too." 
 
 And then the old man went on to speak of 
 the visits the child had paid him, and the little 
 things which had passed, and the traits of 
 character he had observed in him. And all the 
 while, he mingled with the account some little 
 touch of thought which told on Lisle's state 
 of mind, and left impressions deeper than any
 
 YAVERLAND CHURCH. 235 
 
 sermon. There was no art or affectation ; 
 it was the simple, unpretended, unstudied 
 effusion of the heart ; but in a chastened and 
 holy head filled with the Holy Spirit there is a 
 wisdom, and a tact, and a sensibility deeper 
 than any teaching, and more powerful than 
 any eloquence. Lisle sat and listened in 
 silence. He went away with altered thoughts 
 — returned again in a few days — renewed his 
 visits repeatedly, till the poor man became the 
 instructor of the rich, and was teaching the 
 father the way to heaven as he had taught the 
 child. One thing you will be rejoiced to hear. 
 Very soon after the funeral (he was buried of 
 course at Yaverland) Lisle spoke to me about 
 a monument. He knew I was acquainted with 
 one or two of the best sculptors in Italy, and 
 he wished to have a marble statue of him by 
 Gibson. I ventured to dissuade him from it. 
 His mind had never before been turned to the 
 subject. But when I pointed out to him that 
 such an expenditure would only serve to in- 
 dulge his own pride, and commemorate in- 
 dividual feeling — when I asked him to imagine
 
 236 THE T,OST INHERITANCE. 
 
 what would be most gratifying to his Httle 
 boy, if now he could be looking down on 
 earth and hearing what was passing, a monu- 
 ment to his own glory, or a work for the glory 
 of God, he at once saw the thing in its right 
 light. He proposed, of his own accord, to 
 devote a considerable sum to the restoration 
 and improvement of the church, and to place 
 only a plain marble slab over the spot where 
 the little fellow's remains are deposited. I 
 went with them both to Yaverland, for the 
 purpose of looking at the building. He has 
 been in negotiation with architects for some 
 months. 
 
 It was very touching to see the father and 
 mother standing together side by side in the 
 church, looking down, calmly and even grateful- 
 ly on the spot where their child lies. I could not 
 bear to intrude on them. But they remained in the 
 church some little time, and when they came 
 out into the open air both had l)een weeping ; 
 but there was no expression of that dreariness 
 of sori'ow which leaves the heart cold, and des- 
 perate, and hardened. On the contrary, every
 
 YAVERLAND CHURCH. 237 
 
 thing seemed full of soothing recollections and 
 still more soothing hopes. They spoke freely on 
 the subject of the alteration that might be made 
 in the church, preserving the noble arches. I 
 have long had myself a plan of still more ex- 
 tensive benefit, and which I think I shall sug- 
 gest to him. His mind is now so open to acts 
 of benevolence. And any thing which asso- 
 ciates the memory of his child with plans of 
 Christian charity, is so likely not only to inter- 
 est him, but to deepen and strengthen the good 
 impressions which his calamity has made upon 
 his mind. He has given up all thought of pur- 
 chasing Yaverland as a family seat, and expend- 
 ing on it the sums he had once contemplated. 
 But I have sometimes thought that a home for 
 orphans, an orphanotrophium, which formed one 
 of the regular ecclesiastical institutions of the 
 early Church, might well, and properly be 
 created in our own Church, and I shall suggest 
 the idea to him. No monument to his child's 
 memory could be more appropriate. We have 
 foundling hospitals, but they are in many res- 
 pects objectionable. But a home for orphans
 
 238 TIIK LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 where they might be placed under the care and 
 nurture of a little organized family of religious 
 women, (you, who know my views, will not be 
 afraid even if I call them a sisterhood,) would I 
 think be full of interest. I would give them 
 their chapel and their chaplain — teach them 
 music for the church choir — receive payment 
 from the rich in order to maintain the poor — 
 form a proper body of rules to be approved by 
 the bishop, and enforced by him ; and provide 
 a modern endowment for their permanent sup- 
 port. I have often looked on Yaverland as a 
 place admirably suited for some such purpose. 
 It is retired without being remote, the situation 
 healthy and beautiful. The old house would re- 
 quire little more than repairing. And there are 
 a number of out-buildings which, with a little 
 management, might be made available for a 
 variety of useful purposes. The proximity of 
 the little church would be a great advantage, as 
 it would at once serve for a chapel. One thing 
 I am sure of, that in this direction to objects 
 such as these — we must devote our enerc-ies at 
 the present moment. Those who have formed
 
 YAVERLAND CHURCH. 
 
 239 
 
 such theories in their thoughts, must set them 
 before others to whom God has given the means 
 of reahzing them. And we httle know how 
 many minds among the weakhier classes Al- 
 mighty God at this moment, in this hour of trial 
 and resuscitation in the English Church, may be 
 weaning by some dreadful blow from dreams of 
 vanity and pride, that they may offer to Him 
 that sacrifice of their worldly goods, without 
 which such works cannot be accomplished. 
 "Cast thy bread upon the waters."' Suggest 
 such thoughts even where there is no apparent 
 prospect of their being realized, and leave them 
 to his good providence to bear their fruit in 
 due season. All around is working to one end, 
 and under one law — in the struggles of earthly 
 ambition, — in the dreams of poetry and fancy, — 
 in the earnest steady efforts at improvement 
 made by minds which have never fallen from 
 their baptismal purity, — in the anguish and chas- 
 tisement of the penitent, — in the early removal 
 of innocent childhood from the temptations 
 and corruptions of earth, — all alike is a struggle 
 to recover an inheritance we have lost. Has not
 
 240 THE LOST INHERITANCE. 
 
 the Church of our fathers lost its inheritance al- 
 so, lost children from its arms, and sheep from its 
 fold? Shall we not all and each of us struggle 
 with one united effort, with our purses and with 
 our prayers, to recover what, by the blessing of 
 Heaven, may still be made her own ? 
 
 Benedicat Deus ! 
 
 THE END,

 
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