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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.

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.

I.
II.

VI.

I.
11.
III.

IV.

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 "

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.

" 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

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.

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.

" 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

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.

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.

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-

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.

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 —

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.

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

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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