LIIRARY 
 
 UNJVEftCTY OF 
 
 CAUF«»NIA 
 SAN DIEQO
 
 
 /r£
 
 ^ 
 
 / 
 
 .
 
 COLLECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 BRITISH AUTHORS. 
 
 VOL. CXYII. 
 
 TAXCRED BY E. DISRAELI, M.P. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I.
 
 
 TANCRED: 
 
 THE NEW CRUSADE. 
 
 BY 
 
 B! DISRAELI, M.P. 
 
 COPYRIGHT EDITION. 
 
 I N T W VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 B E R N H A 11 1) TAUCIIXI T Z 
 
 184 7.
 
 TANCRED: 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE NEW CRUSADE. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In that part of the celebrated parish of St. George, which is 
 bounded on one side by Piccadilly and on the other by Curzon 
 Street, is a district of a peculiar character. 'T is a cluster of small 
 streets of little houses, frequently intersected by mews, which 
 here are numerous, and sometimes gradually, rather than ab- 
 ruptly, terminating in a ramification of those mysterious regions. 
 Sometimes a group of courts develops itself, and you may even 
 chance to find your way into a small market-place. Those, how- 
 ever, who are accustomed to connect these hidden residences of 
 the humble with scenes of misery and characters of violence, need 
 not apprehend in this district any appeal to their sympathies , or 
 any shock to their tastes. All is extremely genteel ; and there is 
 almost as much repose as in the golden saloons of the contiguous 
 palaces. At any rate, if there be as much vice, there is as little 
 crime. 
 
 Tancred. I. J
 
 No sight or sound can be seen or heard at any hour, which 
 could pain the most precise or the most fastidious. Even if a 
 chance oath may float on the air from a stable-yard to the lodging 
 of a French cook, *t is of the newest fashion, and, if responded 
 to with less of novel charm, the repartee ,is at least conveyed in 
 the language of the most polite of nations. They bet upon the 
 Derby in these parts a little, are interested in Goodwood which 
 they frequent, have perhaps, in general, a weakness for play, 
 live highly, and indulge those passions which luxury and refine- 
 ment encourage; but that is all. 
 
 A policeman would as soon think of reconnoitring these 
 secluded streets as of walking into a house in Park Lane or Berke- 
 ley Square, to which, in fact, this population in a great 
 measure belongs. For here reside the wives of house-stewards 
 and of butlers in tenements furnished by the honest savings of 
 their husbands, and let in lodgings to increase their swelling 
 incomes; here dwells the retired servant, who now devotes his 
 practised energies to the occasional festival, which, with his ac- 
 cumulations in the three per cents., or in one of the public 
 houses of the quarter, secures him at the same time an easy 
 living, and the casual enjoyment of that great world which lingers 
 in his memory. Here may be found his grace's coachman, and 
 here his lordship's groom, who keeps a book and bleeds periodi- 
 cally too speculative footmen, by betting odds on his master's 
 horses. But above all, it is in this district that the cooks have 
 ever sought a favourite and elegant abode. An air of stillness 
 and serenity, of exhausted passions and suppressed emotion, 
 rather than of sluggishness and of dulness, distinguishes this 
 quarter during the day. 
 
 When you turn from the vitality and brightness of Piccadilly, 
 the park, the palace, the terraced mansions, the sparkling 
 equipages, the cavaliers cantering up the hill, the swarming 
 multitude, and enter the region of which we are speaking, the
 
 effect is at first almost unearthly. Not a carriage, not a horse- 
 man, scarcely a passenger; there seems some great and sudden 
 collapse in the metropolitan system, as if a pest had been 
 announced, or an enemy were expected in alarm by a vanquished 
 capital. The approach from Curzon Street has not this effect. 
 Hyde Park has still about it something of Arcadia. There are 
 woods and waters, and the occasional illusion of an illimitable 
 distance of sylvan joyance. The spirit is allured to gentle 
 thoughts as we wander in what is still really a lane, and, turning 
 down Stanhope Street, behold that house which the great Lord 
 Chesterfield tells us, in one of his letters, he was "building 
 among the fields." The cawing of the rooks in his gardens 
 sustains the tone of mind, and, Curzon Street, after a long, 
 straggling, sawney course, ceasing to be a thoroughfare, and 
 losing itself in the gardens of another palace , is quite in keeping 
 with all the accessaries. 
 
 In the night, however, the quarter of which we are speaking 
 is alive. The manners of the population follow those of their 
 masters. They keep late hours. The banquet and the ball 
 dismiss them to their homes at a time when the trades of ordinary 
 regions move in their last sleep, and dream of opening shutters 
 and decking the windows of their shops. At night, the chariot 
 whirls round the frequent corners of these little streets, and the 
 openingvalves of the mews vomit forth their legion of broughams. 
 At night, too, the footman, taking advantage of a ball at 
 Holdernesse or a concert at Lansdowne House, and, knowing 
 that, in either instance, the link-boy will answer when necessary 
 for his summoned name, ventures to look in at his club, reads 
 the paper, talks of his master or his mistress, and perhaps 
 throws a main. The shops of this district, depending almost 
 entirely for their custom on the classes we have indicated, and 
 kept often by their relations, follow the order of the place, and 
 are most busy when otherplaces of business are closed. 
 
 1*
 
 A. gusty March morning had subsided into a sunshiny after- 
 noon, nearly two years ago, when a young man, slender, above 
 the middle height, with a physiognomy thoughtful yet delicate, 
 his brown hair worn long, slight whiskers, on his chin a tuft, 
 knocked at the door of a house in Carriugton Street, May Fair. 
 His mien and his costume denoted a character of the class of 
 artists. He wore a pair of green trowsers, braided with a black 
 stripe down their sides, puckered towards the waist, yet fitting 
 with considerable precision to the boot of French leather that 
 enclosed a well-formed foot. His waistcoat was of maroon velvet, 
 displaying a steel watch-chain of refined manufacture, and a black 
 satin cravat, with a coral brooch. His bright blue frockcoat was 
 frogged and braided like his trowsers. As the knocker fell from 
 the primrose-coloured glove that screened his hand, he unco- 
 vered, and passing his fingers rapidly through his hair, resumed 
 his new silk hat, which he placed rather on one side of his 
 
 head. 
 
 "Ah! Mr. Leander, is it you?" exclaimed a pretty girl, who 
 
 opened the door, and blushed. 
 
 "And how is the good papa, Eugenie? Is he at home? For 
 I want to see him much." 
 
 " I will show you up to him at once, Mr. Leander, for he will 
 be very happy to see you. We have been thinking of hearing of 
 you," she added, talking as she ushered her guest up the narrow 
 staircase. "The good papa has a little cold: 't is not much, I 
 hope ; caught at Sir Wallinger's, a large dinner ; they would have 
 the kitchen windows open, which spoilt all the entries, and papa 
 got a cold; but I think, perhaps, it is as much vexation as any- 
 thing else; you know, if anything goes wrong, especially with 
 the entries — " 
 
 "He feels as a great artist must," said Leander, finishing her 
 sentence. "However, I am not sorry at this moment to find him 
 a prisoner, for I am pressed to see him. It is only this morning
 
 5 
 
 that I have returned from Mr. Coningsby's at Hellingsley — the 
 house full, forty covers every day, and some judges. One does 
 not grudge one's labour if we are appreciated," added Leander; 
 "but I have had my troubles. One of my marmitons has disap- 
 pointed me; I thought I had a genius, but on the third day he 
 lost his head; and had it not been — Ah! good papa," he ex- 
 claimed, as the door opened, and he came forward and warmly 
 shook the hand of a portly man, advanced in middle life, sitting 
 in an easy chair, with a glass of sugared water by his side, and 
 reading a French newspaper in his chamber robe, and with a 
 white cotton nightcap on his head. 
 
 "Ah! my child," said Papa Prevost, "is it you? You see 
 me a prisoner; Eugenie has told you; a dinner at a merchant's; 
 dressed in a draught; everything spoiled, and I — " and sighing, 
 Papa Prevost sipped his eau sucre"e. 
 
 "We have all our troubles," said Leander, in a consoling 
 tone; "but we will not speak now of vexations. I have just come 
 from the country ; Daubuz has written to me twice ; he was at my 
 house last night ; I found him on my steps this morning. There 
 is a grand affair on the tapis. The son of the Duke of Bellamont 
 comes of age at Easter; it is to be a business of the thousand and 
 one nights; the whole county to be feasted. Camacho's wedding 
 will do for the peasantry; roasted oxen, and a capon in every 
 platter, with some fountains of ale and good Porto. Our mar- 
 mitons, too, can easily serve the provincial noblesse; but there 
 is to be a party at the Castle of double cream; princes of the 
 blood, high relatives and grandees of the Golden Fleece. The 
 Duke's cook is not equal to the occasion. 'T is an hereditary 
 chef who gives dinners of the time of the continental blockade. 
 They have written to Daubuz to send them the first artist of the 
 age," said Leander; "and," added he, with some hesitation, 
 " Daubuz has written to me." 
 
 "And he did quite right, my child," said Prevost, "for there
 
 6 
 
 is not a man in Europe that is your equal. What do they say? 
 ThatAhreu rivals you in flavour, and thatGaillard has not less 
 invention. But who can combine gout with new combinations? 
 "lis yourself, Leander; and there is no question, though you 
 have only twenty-five years, that you are the chef of the age." 
 
 "You are always very good to me, Sir," said Leander, bend- 
 ing his head with great respect; "and I will not deny, that to be 
 famous when you are young is the fortune of the gods. But we 
 must never forget that I had an advantage which Abreu and Gail- 
 lard had not, and that I w as your pupil." 
 
 "I hope that I have not injured you," said Papa Prevost, with 
 an air of proud self-content. " What you learned from me came 
 at least from a good school. It is something to have served under 
 Napoleon," added Prevost, with the grand air of the Imperial 
 kitchen. " Had it not been for Waterloo, I should have had the 
 cross. But the Bourbons and the cooks of the empire never could 
 understand each other. They brought over an emigrant chef, 
 who did not comprehend the taste of the age. He wished to bring 
 everything back to the time of the ceil de bmif. When Monsieur 
 passed my soup of Austerlitz untasted, I knew the old family was 
 doomed. Butwegossip. You wished to consult me?" 
 
 "I want not only your advice, but your assistance. This af- 
 fair of the Duke of Bellamont's requires all our energies. I hope 
 you will accompany me; and, indeed, we must muster all our 
 forces. It is not to be denied that there is a want, not only of 
 genius, but of men, in our art. The cooks are like the civil en- 
 gineers: since the middle class have taken to giving dinners, the 
 demand exceeds the supply." 
 
 "There is Andrien," said Papa Prevost, "you had some 
 hopes of him?" 
 
 "He is too young; I took him to Hellingsley, and he lost his 
 head on the third day. I entrusted the souffles to him, and, but
 
 for the most desperate personal exertions, all would have been 
 lost. It was an affair of the bridge of Areola." 
 
 "Ah! mon Dieu! those are moments!" exclaimed Prevost. 
 "Gaillard and Abreu will not serve under you, eh? And if they 
 would, they could not be trusted. They would betray you at the 
 tenth hour." 
 
 "What I want are generals of division, not commanders in 
 chief. Abreu is sufficiently bon garcon, but he has taken an en- 
 gagement with Monsieur deSidonia, and is not permitted to go 
 out." 
 
 " With Monsieur de Sidonia ! You once thought of that, my 
 Leander. And what is his salary?" 
 
 "Not too much; four hundred, and some perquisites. It 
 would not suit me ; besides, I will take no engagement but with 
 a crowned head. But Abreu likes travelling, and he has his own 
 carriage, which pleases him." 
 
 "There are Philippon and Dumoreau," said Prevost ; "they 
 are very safe." 
 
 "I was thinking of them," said Leander, "they are safe — 
 under you. And there is an Englishman, Smit, he is chef at Sir 
 Stanley's, but his master is away at this moment. He has talent." 
 
 "Yourself, four chefs, with your marmitons, it would do," 
 said Prevost. 
 
 "For the kitchen," said Leander; "but who is to dress the 
 tables?" 
 
 "A — h!" exclaimed Papa Prevost, shaking his head. 
 
 "Daubuz's head man, Trenton, is the only one I could trust; 
 and he wants fancy, though his style is broad and bold. He 
 made a pyramid of pines relieved with grapes without destroying 
 the outline, very good, this last week, at Hellingsley. But 
 Trenton has been upset on the railroad, and much injured. Even 
 if he recover, his hand will tremble so for the next month that I 
 could have no confidence in him."
 
 8 
 
 "Perhaps you might find some one at the Duke's?" 
 
 "Out of the question!" said Leander; "I make it always a 
 condition that the head of every department shall be appointed by 
 myself. I take Pellerini -with rne for the confectionary. How 
 often have I seen the effect of a first-rate dinner spoiled by a 
 vulgar dessert; laid flat on the table, for example, or with orna- 
 ments that look as if they had been hired at a pastry-cook's: 
 triumphal arches, and Chinese pagodas, and solitary pines 
 springing up out of ice-tubs surrounded with peaches, as if they 
 were in the window of a fruiterer of Covent Garden." 
 
 "Ah! it is incredible what uneducated people will do," said 
 Prevost. " The dressing of the tables was a department of itself 
 in the Imperial kitchen." 
 
 "It demands an artist of a high calibre," said Leander. "I 
 only know one man who realizes my idea, and he is at St. Peters- 
 burg. You do not know Anastase? There is a man! But the 
 Emperor has him secure. He can scarcely complain, however, 
 since he is decorated, and has the rank of full colonel." 
 
 "Ah!" said Prevost, mournfully, "there is no recognition 
 of genius in this country. What think you of Vanesse, my 
 child? He has had a regular education." 
 
 "In a bad school: as a pis aller one might put up with him. 
 But his eternal tiers of bon-bons! As if they were ranged for a 
 supper of the Carnival, and my guests were going to pelt each 
 other! No, I could not stand Vanesse, Papa." 
 
 "The dressing of the table: 'tis a rare talent," said Prevost, 
 mournfully, "and always was. In the Imperial kitchen — " 
 
 "Papa," said Eugenie, opening the door, and putting in her 
 head, "here is Monsieur Vanillette just come from Brussels. 
 He has brought you a basket of truffles from Ardennes. I told 
 him you were on business — but to-night, if you be at home, he 
 could come."
 
 "Vanillette!" exclaimed Prevost, starting in his chair, "our 
 little Vanillette. There is your man, Leander. He was ray first 
 pupil, as you were my last, my child. Bring up our little 
 Vanillette, Eugenie. He is in the household of King Leopold, 
 and his forte is dressing the table ! "
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Duke of Bellamont was a personage who, from his rank, 
 his blood, and his wealth, might almost be placed at the head of 
 the English nobility. Although the grandson of a mere country 
 gentleman, his fortunate ancestor, in the decline of the last 
 century, had captivated the heiress of the Montacutes, Dukes of 
 Bellamont, a celebrated race of the times of the Plantagenets. 
 The bridegroom, at the moment of his marriage, had adopted 
 the illustrious name of his young and beautiful wife. Mr. Mon- 
 tacute was by nature a man of energy and of an enterprising 
 spirit. His vast and early success rapidly developed his native 
 powers. With the castles and domains and boroughs of the 
 Bellaraonts, he resolved also to acquire their ancient baronies 
 and their modern coronets. The times were favourable to his 
 projects, though they might require the devotion of a life. He 
 married amid the disasters of the American war. The king and 
 his minister appreciated the independent support afforded them 
 by Mr. Montacute, who represented his county, and who com- 
 manded Ave votes in the house besides his own. He was one of 
 the chief pillars of their cause ; but he was not only independent, 
 he was conscientious, and had scruples. Saratoga staggered 
 him. The defection of the Montacute votes, at this moment, 
 would have at once terminated the struggle between England and 
 her colonies. A fresh illustration of the advantages of our par- 
 liamentary constitution! The independent Mr. Montacute, how- 
 ever, stood by his sovereign; his five votes continued to cheer 
 the noble lord in the blue ribbon , and their master took his seat 
 and the oaths in the House of Lords, as Earl of Bellamont and 
 Viscount Montacute.
 
 11 
 
 This might be considered sufficiently well for one genera- 
 tion; but the silver spoon which some fairy had placed in the 
 cradle of the Earl of Bellamont was of colossal proportions. The 
 French Revolution succeeded the American war, and was oc- 
 casioned by it. It was but just, therefore, that it also should 
 bring its huge quota to the elevation of the man whom a colonial 
 revolt had made an earl. Amid the panic of Jacobinism, the 
 declamations of the friends of the people, the sovereign having 
 no longer Hanover for a refuge , and the prime minister examined 
 as a witness in favour of the very persons whom he was trying for 
 high treason, the Earl of Bellamont made a calm visit to 
 Downing-street, and requested the revival of all the honours of 
 ..the ancient Earls and Dukes of Bellamont in his own person. 
 Mr. Pitt, who was far from favourable to the exclusive character 
 which distinguished the English peerage in the last century, was 
 himself not disinclined to accede to the gentle request of his 
 powerful supporter; but the king was less flexible. His majesty, 
 indeed, was on principle not opposed to the revival of titles in 
 families to whom the domains without the honours of the old 
 nobility had descended; and he recognised the claim of the pre- 
 sent Earls of Bellamont eventually to regain the strawberry leaf 
 which had adorned the coronet of the father of the present 
 countess. But the king was of opinion that this supreme dis- 
 tinction ought only to be conferred on the blood of the old house, 
 and that a generation, therefore, must necessarily elapse before 
 a Duke of Bellamont could again figure in the golden book of the 
 English aristocracy. 
 
 But George the Third, with all his firmness, was doomed to 
 frequent discomfiture. His lot was cast in troubled waters, and 
 he had often to deal with individuals as inflexible as himself. 
 Benjamin Franklin was not more calmly contumacious than the 
 individual whom his treason had made an English peer. In that 
 age of violence, change, and panic, power, directed by a clear
 
 12 
 
 brain and an obdurate spirit, could not fail of its aim; and so it 
 turned out, that, in the very teeth of the royal will, the simple 
 country gentleman, whose very name was forgotten, became, at 
 the commencement of this century, Duke of Bellamont, Marquis 
 of Montacute, Earl of Bellamont, Dacre, andVilleroy, with all 
 the baronies of the Plantagenets in addition. The only revenge 
 of the king was, that he never would give the Duke of Bellamont 
 the garter. It was as well perhaps that there should be some- 
 thing for his son to desire. 
 
 The Duke and Duchess of Bellamont were the handsomest 
 couple in England, and devoted to each other," but they had only 
 one child. Fortunately, that child was a son. Precious life! 
 The Marquis of Montacute was married before he was of age. 
 Not a moment was to be lost to find heirs for all these honours. 
 Perhaps, had his parents been less precipitate, their object might 
 have been more securely obtained. The union was not a happy 
 one. The first duke had, however, the gratification of dying a 
 grandfather. His successor bore no resemblance to him, ex- 
 cept in that beauty which became a characteristic of the race. 
 He was born to enjoy, not to create. A man of pleasure, the 
 chosen companion of the Begent in his age of riot, he was cut off 
 in his prime; but he lived long enough to break his wife's heart 
 and his son's spirit: like himself, too, an only child. 
 
 The present Duke of Bellamont had inherited something of 
 the clear intelligence of his grandsire, with the gentle disposi- 
 tion of his mother. His fair abilities, and his benevolent incli- 
 nations, had been cultivated. His mother had watched over the 
 child, in whom she found alike the charm and consolation of her 
 life. But, at a certain period of youth, the formation of cha- 
 racter requires a masculine impulse, and that was wanting. The 
 duke disliked his son; in time he became even jealous of him. 
 The duke had found himself a father at too early a period of life. 
 Himself in his lusty youth , he started with alarm at the form that
 
 13 
 
 recalled his earliest and most brilliant hour, and who might 
 prove a rival. The son was of a gentle and affectionate nature, 
 and sighed for the tenderness of his harsh and almost vindictive 
 parent. But he had not that passionate soul which might have 
 appealed, and perhaps not in vain, to the. dormant sympathies of 
 the being who had created him. The young Montacute was by 
 nature of an extreme shyness, and the accidents of his life had 
 not tended to dissipate his painful want of self-confidence. Phy- 
 sically courageous his moral timidity was remarkable. He alter- 
 nately blushed or grew pale in his rare interviews with his father, 
 trembled in silence before the undeserved sarcasm, and often 
 endured the unjust accusation without an attempt to vindicate 
 himself. Alone, and in tears alike of woe and indignation, he 
 cursed the want of resolution or ability which had again missed 
 the opportunity that, both for his mother and himself, might 
 have placed affairs in a happier position. Most persons, under 
 these circumstances, would have become bitter, but Montacute 
 was too tender for malice, and so he only turned melancholy. 
 
 On the threshold of manhood, Montacute lost his mother, and 
 this seemed the catastrophe of his unhappy life. His father 
 neither shared his grief nor attempted to alleviate it. On the 
 contrary, he seemed to redouble his efforts to mortify his son. 
 His great object was to prevent Lord Montacute from entering 
 society, and he was so complete a master of the nervous tempe- 
 rament on which he was acting, that there appeared a fair chance 
 of his succeeding in his benevolent intentions. When his son's 
 education was completed, the duke would not furnish him with 
 the means of moving in the world in a becoming manner, or even 
 sanction his travelling. His grace was resolved to break his son's 
 spirit by keeping him immured in the country. Other heirs ap- 
 parent of a rich seignory would soon have removed these difficul- 
 ties. By bill or by bond, by living usury, or by post-obit liqui- 
 dation, by all the means that private friends or public offices could
 
 14 
 
 supply, the sinews of war would have been forthcoming. They 
 would have beaten their fathers' horses at Newmarket, eclipsed 
 them with their mistresses, and, sitting for their boroughs, 
 voted against their party. But Montacute was not one of those 
 young heroes who rendered so distinguished the earlier part of 
 this century. He had passed his life so much among women and 
 clergymen, that he had never emancipated himself from the old 
 law that enjoined him to honour a parent. Besides, with all his 
 shyness and timidity, he was extremely proud. He never forgot 
 that he was a Montacute, though he had forgotten, like the world 
 in general, that his grandfather once bore a different and humbler 
 name. All merged in the great fact, that he was the living re- 
 presentative of those Montacutes ofBellamont, whose wild and 
 politic achievements, or the sustained splendor of whose stately 
 life, had for seven hundred years formed a stirring and superb 
 portion of the history and manners of our country. Death was 
 preferable, in his view, to having such a name soiled in the 
 haunts of jockeys and courtezans and usurers; and, keen as was 
 the anguish which the conduct of the duke to his mother or him- 
 self had often occasioned him, it was sometimes equalled in de- 
 gree by the sorrow and the shame which he endured when he 
 heard of the name of Bellamont only in connexion with some 
 stratagem of the turf or some frantic revel. 
 
 Without a friend, almost without an acquaintance, Montacute 
 sought refuge in love. She who shed over his mournful life the 
 divine ray of feminine sympathy was his cousin, the daughter of 
 his mother's brother, an English peer, but resident in the north 
 of Ireland, where he had vast possessions. It was a family other- 
 wise little calculated to dissipate the reserve and gloom of a 
 depressed and melancholy youth; puritanical, severe, and for- 
 mal in their manners, their relaxations a Bible Society or a 
 meeting for the conversion of the Jews. But Lady Katherine 
 was beautiful, and all were kind to one to whom kindness was
 
 15 
 
 strange, and the soft pathos of whose solitary spirit demanded 
 affection. 
 
 Montacute requested his father's permission to marry his 
 cousin, and was immediately refused. The duke particularly 
 disliked his wife's family, but the fact is, he had no wish that 
 his son should ever marry. He meant to perpetuate his race 
 himself, and was at this moment, in the midst of his orgies, 
 meditating a second alliance, which should compensate him for 
 his boyish blunder. In this state of affairs Montacute, at length 
 stung to resistance, inspired by the most powerful of passions, 
 and acted upon by a stronger volition than his own , was planning 
 a marriage in spite of his father — love, a cottage by an Irish 
 lake, and seven hundred a-year; when intelligence arrived that 
 his father, whose powerful frame and vigorous health seemed 
 to menace a patriarchal term, was dead. 
 
 The new Duke of Bellamont had no experience of the world; 
 but, though long cowed by his father, he had a strong character. 
 Though the circle of his ideas was necessarily contracted, they 
 were all clear and firm. In his moody youth he had imbibed 
 certain impressions and arrived at certain conclusions, and they 
 never quitted him. His mother was his model of feminine per- 
 fection, and he had loved his cousin because she bore a re- 
 markable resemblance to her aunt. Again, he was of opinion 
 that the tie between the father and the son ought to be one of the 
 most intimate confidence and the most refined tenderness, and 
 he resolved that, if Providence favoured him with offspring, his 
 child should ever find in him absolute devotion of thought and 
 feeling. 
 
 A variety of causes and circumstances had impressed him 
 with a conviction that what is called fashionable life was a 
 compound of frivolity and fraud, of folly and vice; and he 
 resolved never to enter it. To this he was, perhaps, in some 
 degree unconsciously prompted by his reserved disposition and
 
 16 
 
 by his painful sense of inexperience — for he looked forward 
 to this world with almost as much of apprehension as of dislike. 
 To politics, in the vulgar sense of the word, he had an equal 
 repugnance. He had a lofty idea of his duty to his sovereign 
 and his country, and felt within him the energies that would 
 respond to a conjuncture. But he acceded to his title in a period 
 of calmness, when nothing was called in question, and no 
 danger was apprehended; and as for the fights of factions, the 
 duke altogether held himself aloof from them; he wanded no- 
 thing — not even the blue ribbon which he was soon obliged to 
 take. Next to his domestic hearth, all his being was concentred 
 in his duties as a great proprietor of the soil. On these he had 
 long pondered, and these he attempted to fulfil. That perfor- 
 mance, indeed, was as much a source of delight to him as of 
 obligation. He loved the country and a country life. His reserve 
 seemed to melt away the moment he was on his own soil. Cour- 
 teous he ever was, but then he became gracious and hearty. 
 He liked to assemble "the county" around him; to keep "the 
 county" together ; "the county" seemed always his first thought ; 
 he was proud of "the county," where he reigned supreme, not 
 more from his vast possessions, than from the influence of his 
 sweet yet stately character, which made those devoted to him, 
 who otherwise were independent of his sway. 
 
 From straitened circumstances, and without having had a 
 single fancy of youth gratified, the Duke of Bellaraont had been 
 suddenly summoned to the lordship of an estate scarcely inferior 
 in size and revenue to some continental principalities; to dwell 
 in palaces and castles; to be surrounded by a disciplined re- 
 tinue, and to find every wish and want gratified before they could 
 be expressed or anticipated. Yet he showed no elation, and 
 acceded to his inheritance as serene as if he had never felt a pang 
 or proved a necessity. She whom in the hour of trial he had 
 selected for the future partner of his life, though a remarkable
 
 17 
 
 woman, by a singular coincidence of feeling — for it was as 
 much from her original character as from sympathy with her 
 husband — confirmed him in all his moods. 
 
 Katherine, Duchess of Bellamont, was beautiful: small and 
 delicate in structure, with a dazzling complexion, and a smile 
 which, though rare, was of the most winning and brilliant 
 character. Her rich brown hair, and her deep blue eye might 
 have become a Dryad; but her brow denoted intellect of a high 
 order, and her mouth spoke inexorable resolution. She was 
 a woman of fixed opinions, and of firm and compact prejudices. 
 Brought up in an austere circle, where on all matters irrevocable 
 judgment had been passed, which enjoyed the advantages of 
 knowing exactly what was true in dogma, what just in conduct, 
 and what correct in manners, she had early acquired the con- 
 venient habit of decision, while her studious mind employed 
 its considerable energies in mastering every writer who favoured 
 those opinions which she had previously determined were the 
 right ones. The duchess was deep in the divinity of the seven- 
 teenth century. In the controversies between the two churches, 
 she could have perplexed St. Omers or Maynooth. Chillingworth 
 might be found in her boudoir. Not that her grace's reading was 
 confined to divinity; on the contrary, it was various and exten- 
 sive. Puritan in religion, she was precisian in morals; but in 
 both she was sincere. She was so in all things. Her nature 
 was frank and simple: if she were inflexible, she at least wished 
 to be just; and though very conscious of the greatness of her 
 position, she was so sensible of its duties, that there was 
 scarcely any exertion which she would evade, or any humility 
 from which she would shrink , if she believed she were doing her 
 duty to her God or to her neighbour. 
 
 Itwillbe seen, therefore, that the Duke of Bellamont found 
 no obstacle in his wife, who otherwise very much influenced his 
 conduct, to the plans which he had pre-conceived for the conduct 
 Tancred. I. 2
 
 18 
 
 of his life after marriage. The duchess shrank, with a feeling 
 of haughty terror, from that world of fashion, which would have 
 so willingly greeted her. During the greater part of the year, 
 therefore, the Bellamonts resided in their magnificent castle, in 
 their distant county, occupied with all the business and the 
 pleasures of the provinces. While the duke, at the head of the 
 magistracy, in the management of his estates, and in the sports 
 of which he was fond, found ample occupation , his wife gave an 
 impulse to the charity of the county, founded schools, endowed 
 churches, received their neighbours, read her books, and 
 amused herself in the creation of beautiful gardens, for which 
 she had a passion. 
 
 After Easter, Parliament requiring their presence, the court- 
 yard of one of the few palaces in London opened, and the world 
 learnt that the Duke and Duchess of Bellamont had arrived at 
 Bellamont House, from Montacute Castle. During their stay in 
 town, which they made as brief as they well could, and which 
 never exceeded three months, they gave a series of great dinners, 
 principally attended by noble relations, and those families of the 
 county who were so fortunate as to have also a residence in Lon- 
 don. Regularly every year, also, there was a grand banquet 
 given to some members of the royal family by the Duke and Duch- 
 ess of Bellamont, and regularly every year the Duke and Duch- 
 ess of Bellamont had the honour of dining at the palace. Ex- 
 cept at a ball or concert under the royal roof, the Duke and Duch- 
 ess were never seen anywhere in the evening. The great ladies 
 indeed, the Lady St. Julians, and the Marchionesses of De- 
 loraine, always sent them invitations, though they were ever 
 declined. But the Bellamonts maintained a sort of traditional 
 acquaintance with a few great houses, either by the ties of re- 
 lationship, which, among the aristocracy, are very ramified, or 
 by occasionally receiving travelling magnificoes at their hospita- 
 ble castle.
 
 19 
 
 To the great body, however, of what is called "the World" 
 — the world that lives in St. James's Street and Pall Mall, that 
 looks out of a club window, and surveys mankind as Lucretius 
 from his philosophic tower; the world of the Georges and the 
 Jemmys; of Mr. Cassilis and Mr. Melton; of the Milfords and 
 the Fitzherons, the Berners and the Egertons, the Mr. Ormsbys 
 and the Alfred Mountchesneys — the Duke and Duchess of Bel- 
 lamont were absolutely unknown. All that the world knew was, 
 that there was a great peer who was called Duke of Bellamont; 
 that there was a great house in London, with a court-yard, 
 which bore his name; that he had a castle in the country, which 
 was one of the boasts of England; and that this great duke had a 
 duchess: but they never met them anywhere, nor did their wives 
 and their sisters, and the ladies whom they admired, or who 
 admired them either at ball or at breakfast, either at morning 
 dances or at evening dejeuners. It was clear, therefore, that 
 the Bellamonts might be very great people, but they were not in 
 "society." 
 
 It must have been some organic law, or some fate which uses 
 structure for its fulfilment, but again it seemed that the continu- 
 ance of the great house of Montacute should depend upon the life 
 of a single being. The duke, like his father and his grand- 
 father, was favoured only with one child, but that child was 
 again a son. From the moment of his birth, the very existence 
 of his parents seemed identified with his welfare. The duke and 
 his wife mutually assumed to each other a secondary position , in 
 comparison with that occupied by their offspring. From the 
 hour of his birth to the moment when this history opens, and 
 when he was about to complete his majority, never had such 
 solicitude been lavished on human being, as had been con- 
 tinuously devoted to the life of the young Lord Montacute. 
 During his earlier education he scarcely quitted home. He had, 
 indeed, once been shown to Eton, surrounded by faithful domes- 
 
 2*
 
 20 
 
 tics, and accompanied by a private tutor, -whose vigilance would 
 not have disgraced a superintendent of police; but the scarlet 
 fever happened to break out during his first half, and Lord 
 Montacute was instantly snatched away from the scene of danger, 
 where he was never again to appear. At eighteen, he went to 
 Christchurch. His mother, who had nursed him herself, wrote 
 to him every day; but this was not found sufficient, and the 
 duke hired a residence in the neighbourhood of the university, 
 in order that they might occasionally see their son during 
 term.
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 "Saw Eskdale just now," said Mr. Cassilis, at White's, 
 "going down to the Duke of Bellaraont's. Great doings there — 
 son comes of age at Easter — wonder what sort of fellow he is? 
 Anybody know anything about him?" 
 
 "I wonder what his father's rent-roll is," said Mr. Ormsby. 
 
 "They say it 's quite clear," said Lord Fitzheron. 
 
 "Safe for that," said Lord Milford; "and plenty of ready 
 money too I should think, for one never heard of the present 
 duke doing anything." 
 
 "He does a good deal in his county," said Lord Valentine. 
 
 "I don't call that anything," said Lord Milford ; " but I mean 
 to say he never played — was never seen at Newmarket, or did 
 anything which anybody can remember. In fact, he is a person 
 whose name you never by any chance hear mentioned." 
 
 "He is a sort of cousin of mine," said Lord Valentine; "and 
 we are all going down to the coming of age — that is, we are 
 asked." 
 
 "Then you can tell us what sort of fellow the son is." 
 
 "I never saw him," said Lord Valentine; "but I know the 
 duchess told my mother last year, that Montacute, throughout 
 his life, had never occasioned her a single moment's pain." 
 
 Here there was a general laugh. 
 
 "Well, I have no doubt he will make up for lost time," said 
 Mr. Ormsby, demurely. 
 
 "Nothing like mamma's darling for up-setting a coach," said 
 Lord Milford. "You ought to bring your cousin here, Valentine ; 
 we would assist the development of his unsophisticated intelli-
 
 22 
 
 " If I go down , I will propose it to him." 
 
 "Why if?" said Mr. Cassilis; "sort of thing I should like 
 to see once uncommonly — oxen roasted alive, old armour, and 
 the girls of the village all running about as if they were behind 
 the scenes." 
 
 "Is that the way you did it at your majority, George?" said 
 Lord Fitzheron. 
 
 "Egad, I kept my arrival at years of discretion at Brighton. 
 I believe it was the last fun there ever was at the Pavilion. The 
 poor dear king, God bless him! proposed my health, and made 
 the devil's own speech; we all began to pipe. He was Regent 
 then. Your father was there, Valentine — ask him if he re- 
 members it? That was a scene! I won't say how it ended: but 
 the best joke is, I got a letter from my governor a few days after, 
 with an account of what thev had all been doing at Brandingham, 
 and rowing me for not coming down, and I found out I had kept 
 my coming of age the wrong day ! " 
 
 "Did you tell them?" 
 
 "Not a word : I was afraid we might have had to go through 
 it over again." 
 
 "I suppose old Bellamont is the devil's own screw," said 
 Lord Milford. "Rich governors, who have never been hard up, 
 always are." 
 
 "No : I believe he is a very good sort of fellow," said Lord 
 Valentine; "at least my people always say so. I don't know 
 much about him , for they never go anywhere." 
 
 "They have got Leander down atMontacute," said Mr. Cas- 
 silis. "Had not such a thing as a cook in the whole county. They 
 say Lord Eskdale arranged the cuisine for them ; so you will feed 
 well, Valentine." 
 
 "That's something: and one can eat before Easter; but when 
 the balls begin — " 
 
 "Oh! as for that, you will have dancing enough at Monta-
 
 23 
 
 cute ; it 's expected on these occasions — Sir Roger de Coverley, 
 tenants' daughters, and all that sort of thing. Deuced funny; 
 but I must say, if I am to have a lark, I like Vauxhall." 
 
 "I never met the Bellamouts," said Lord Milford, musingly. 
 "Are there any daughters?" 
 
 "None." 
 
 " That 's a bore. A single daughter, even if there be a son, 
 may be made something of; because, in nine cases out of ten, 
 there is a round sum in the settlements for the younger children, 
 and she takes it all." 
 
 "That 's the case of Lady Blanche Bickerstaffe," said Lord 
 Filzheron. "She will have a hundred thousand pounds." 
 
 "You don't mean that!" said Lord Valentine; "and she is a 
 very nice girl, too." 
 
 "You are quite wrong about the hundred thousand, Fitz," 
 said Lord Milford ; "fori made it my business to inquire most 
 particularly into the affair: it is only fifty." 
 
 "In these cases, the best rule is only to believe half," said 
 Mr. Ormsby. 
 
 "Then you have only got twenty thousand a-year, Ormsby," 
 said Lord Milford, laughing, "because the world gives you 
 forty." 
 
 "Well, we must do the best we can in these hard times," 
 said Mr. Ormsby, with an air of mock resignation. "With your 
 Dukes of Bellamont and all these grandees on the stage, we little 
 men shall be scarcely able to hold up our heads." 
 
 "Come, Ormsby," said Lord Milford, "tell us the amount 
 of your income tax." 
 
 "They say Sir Robert quite blushed when he saw the figure at 
 which you were sacked, and declared it was downright spo- 
 liation." 
 
 "You young men are always talking about money," said Mr. 
 Ormsby, shaking his head ; " you should think of higher things."
 
 24 
 
 "I wonder what young Montacute will be thinking of this time 
 next year," said Lord Fitzheron. 
 
 "There will be plenty of people thinking of him," said Mr. 
 Cassilis. "Egad, you gentlemen must stir yourselves, if you 
 mean to be turned off. You will have rivals." 
 
 "He will be no rival to me," said Lord Milford ; "fori am 
 an avowed fortune-hunter, and that you say he does not care for, 
 at least, at present." 
 
 "And I marry only for love," said Lord Valentine, laughing; 
 "and so we shall not clash." 
 
 "Ay, ay, but if he will not go to the heiresses, the heiresses 
 will go to him," said Mr. Ormsby. "I have seen a good deal of 
 these things, and I generally observe the eldest son of a duke takes 
 a fortune out of the market. Why, there is Beaumanoir, he is 
 like Valentine ; I suppose he intends to marry for love, as he is 
 always in that way ; but the heiresses never leave him alone , and 
 in the long run you cannot withstand it ; it 's like a bribe ; a man 
 is indignant at the bare thought, refuses the first offer, and 
 pockets the second." 
 
 "It is very immoral, and very unfair," said Lord Milford, 
 " that any man should marry for tin , who does not want it."
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Forest of Montacute , in the north of England, is the 
 name given to an extensive district, which in many parts offers no 
 evidence of the propriety of its title. The land, especially during 
 the last century, has been effectively cleared, and presents, in 
 general, a champaign view, rich and rural , but far from pictu- 
 resque. Over a wide expanse, the eye ranges on corn fields and 
 rich hedge-rows, many a sparkling spire, and many a merry 
 windmill. In the extreme distance, on a clear day, may be dis- 
 cerned the blue hills of the Border, and towards the north the 
 cultivated country ceases, and the dark form of the old forest 
 spreads into the landscape. The traveller, however, who may 
 be tempted to penetrate these sylvan recesses, will find much that 
 is beautiful, and little that is savage. He will be struck by the 
 capital road that winds among the groves of ancient oak , and the 
 turfy and ferny wilderness which extends on each side, whence 
 the deer gaze on him with haughty composure, as if conscious 
 that he was an intruder into their kingdom of whom they need 
 have no fear. As he advances , he observes the number of cross 
 routes which branch off from the main road, and which, though 
 of less dimensions, are equally remarkable for their masterly 
 structure and compact condition. 
 
 Sometimes the land is cleared, and he finds himself by the 
 homestead of a forest farm, and remarks the buildings, distin- 
 guished not only by their neatness but the propriety of their rustic 
 architecture. Still advancing, the deer become rarer, and the 
 road is formed by an avenue of chestnuts; the forest, on each 
 side , now transformed into vegetable gardens. The stir of popu- 
 lation is soon evident. Persons are moving to and fro on the side
 
 26 
 
 path of the road. Horsemen and carts seem returning from 
 market; women with empty baskets, and then the rare vision of 
 a stage coach. The postillion spurs his horses, cracks his whip, 
 and dashes at full gallop into the town of Montacute , the capital 
 of the forest. 
 
 It is the prettiest little town in the world, built entirely of 
 hewn stone, the well-paved and well-lighted streets as neat as a 
 Dutch village. There are two churches; one of great antiquity, 
 the other raised by the present duke, but in the best style of 
 Christian architecture. The bridge that spans the little but rapid 
 river Belle, is perhaps a trifle too vast and Roman for its site; 
 but it was built by the first duke of the second dynasty, who was 
 always afraid of underbuilding his position. The town was also 
 indebted to him for their hall, a Palladian palace. Montacute is 
 a corporate town, and under the old system returned two mem- 
 bers to Parliament. The amount of its population, according 
 to the rule generally observed , might have preserved it from dis- 
 franchisement, but, as every house belonged to the duke, and 
 as he was what, in the confused phraseology of the revolutionary 
 war, was. called a Tory, the Whigs took care to putMontacute 
 in Schedule A. 
 
 The town-hall, the market-place, a literary institution, and 
 the new church, form, with some very good houses of recent 
 erection, a handsome square, in which there is a fountain, the 
 gift to the town of the present duchess. 
 
 At the extremity of the town, the ground rises, and on a woody 
 steep, which is in fact the termination of a long range of table- 
 land, may be seen the towers of the outer court of Montacute 
 Castle. The principal building, which is vast and of various ages, 
 from the Plantagenets to the Guelphs, rises on a terrace, from 
 which, on the side opposite to the town, you descend into a well- 
 timbered inclosure, called the Home Park. Further on, the 
 forest again appears — the deer again crouch in their fern, or
 
 27 
 
 glance along the vistas ; nor does this green domain terminate till 
 it touches the vast and purple moors that divide the kingdoms of 
 Great Britain. 
 
 It was on an early day of April, that the duke was sitting in his 
 private room, a pen in one hand, and looking up with a face of 
 pleasurable emotion at his wife , who stood by his side , her right 
 arm sometimes on the back of his chair, and sometimes on his 
 shoulder, while, with her other hand, between the intervals of 
 speech, she pressed a handkerchief to her eyes, bedewed with 
 the expression of an affectionate excitement. 
 
 "It is too much," said her grace. 
 
 "And done in such a handsome manner!" said the duke. 
 
 "I would not tell our dear child of it at this moment," said 
 the duchess ; "he has so much to go through ! " 
 
 "You are right, Kate. It will keep till the celebration is over. 
 How delighted he will be ! " 
 
 "My dear George, I sometimes think we are too happy." 
 
 "You are not half as happy as you deserve to be," replied her 
 husband, looking up with a smile of affection; and then he 
 finished his reply to the letter of Mr. Hungerford, one of the 
 county members, informing the duke, that now Lord Montacute 
 was of age, he intended at once to withdraw from Parliament, 
 having for a long time fixed on the majority of the heir of the house 
 of Bellamont, as the signal for that event. "I accepted the post," 
 said Mr. Hungerford, "much against my will. Your grace 
 behaved to me at the time in the handsomest manner, and, in- 
 deed, ever since, with respect to this subject. But a Marquis 
 of Montacute is, in my opinion, and, I believe I may add, in 
 that of the whole county, our proper representative; besides we 
 want young blood in the House." 
 
 "It certainly is done in the handsomest manner," said 
 the duke. 
 
 "But then you know, George, you behaved to him in the
 
 28 
 
 handsomest manner — he says so, as you do indeed to everybody; 
 and this is your reward." 
 
 "I should be very sorry indeed if Hungerford did not with- 
 draw with perfect self-satisfaction," urged the duke, "and his 
 family too; they are most respectable people, one of the most 
 respectable families in the county — I should be quite grieved if 
 this step were taken without their entire and hearty con- 
 currence." 
 
 "Of course it is," said the duchess, "with the entire and 
 hearty concurrence of every one. Mr. Hungerford says so. And 
 I must say that, though few things could have gratified me more, 
 I quite agree with Mr. Hungerford that a Lord Montacute is the 
 natural member for the county; and I have no doubt that if 
 Mr. Hungerford, or any one else in his position, had not resigned, 
 they never could have met our child without feeling the greatest 
 embarrassment." 
 
 " A man though , and a man of Hungerford's position , an old 
 family in the county, does not like to figure as a warming-pan," 
 said the duke, thoughtfully. "I think it has been done in a very 
 handsome manner." 
 
 "And we will show our sense of it," said the duchess. "The 
 Hungerfords shall feel, when they come here on Thursday, that 
 they are among our best friends." 
 
 "That is my own Kate! Here is a letter from your brother. 
 They will be here to-morrow. Eskdale cannot come over till 
 Wednesday. He is at home, but detained by a meeting about 
 his new harbour." 
 
 "I am delighted that they will be here to-morrow," said the 
 duchess; "I am so anxious that he should see Kate before the 
 castle is full, when he will have a thousand calls upon his time! 
 I feel persuaded that he will love her at first sight. And as for 
 their being cousins, why, we were cousins, and that did not 
 hinder us from loving each other."
 
 29 
 
 ''If she resemble you as much as you resembled youraunt— " 
 said the duke, looking up. 
 
 "She is my perfect image, my very self, Harriet says, in 
 disposition as well as face and form." 
 
 "Then our son has a good chance of being a very happy 
 man," said the duke. 
 
 "That he should come of age, enter Parliament, and marry 
 in the same year! We ought to be very thankful. What a happy 
 year!" 
 
 "But not one of these events has yet occurred," said the 
 duke, smiling. 
 
 "But they all will," said the duchess — "under Providence." 
 
 "I would not precipitate marriage." 
 
 "Certainly not; nor should I wish him to think of it before 
 the autumn. I should like him to be married on our wedding- 
 day."
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The sun shone brightly, there was a triumphal arch at every 
 road; the market-place and the town-hall were caparisoned like 
 steeds for a tournament, every house had its garland; the flags 
 were flying on every tower and steeple. There was such a peal of 
 bells you could scarcely hear your neighbour's voice ; then came 
 discharges of artillery, and then bursts of music from various 
 bands, all playing different tunes. The country people came 
 trooping in, some on horseback, some in carts, some in pro- 
 cession. The Temperance band made an immense noise, and 
 the Odd Fellows were loudly cheered. Every now and then one 
 of the duke's yeomanry galloped through the town in his regi- 
 mentals of green and silver, with his dark flowing plume and 
 clattering sabre, and with an air of businesslike desperation, 
 as if he were carrying a message from the commander-in-chief in 
 the thickest of the fight. 
 
 Before the eventful day of which this merry morn was the 
 harbinger, the arrivals of guests at the castle had been numerous 
 and important. First came the brother of the duchess, with his 
 countess and their fair daughter the Lady Katherine, whose fate, 
 unconsciously to herself, had already been sealed by her noble 
 relatives. She was destined to be the third Katherine of Bella- 
 mont that her fortunate house had furnished to these illustrious 
 walls. Nor, if unaware of her high lot, did she seem unworthy 
 of it. Her mien was prophetic of the state assigned to her. This 
 was her first visit to Montacute since her early childhood, and 
 she had not encountered her cousin since their nursery days. 
 The day after them, Lord Eskdale came over from his principal 
 seat in the contiguous county, of which he was lord-lieutenant.
 
 31 
 
 He was the first cousin of the duke, his father and the second 
 Duke of Bellamont having married two sisters, and of course 
 intimately related to the duchess and her family. LordEskdale 
 exercised a great influence over the house of Montacute, though 
 quite unsought for by him. He was the only man of the world 
 whom they knew, and they never decided upon anything out of 
 the limited circle of their immediate experience without con- 
 sulting him. Lord Eskdale had been the cause of their son going 
 to Eton; Lord Eskdale had recommended them to send him to 
 Christchurch. The duke had begged his cousin to be his trustee 
 when he married; he had made him his executor, and had in- 
 tended him as the guardian of his son. Although, from the 
 difference of their habits, little thrown together in their earlier 
 youth, Lord Eskdale had shown, even then, kind consideration 
 for his relative; he had even proposed that they should travel 
 together, but the old duke would not consent to this. After his 
 death, however, being neighbours as well as relatives, Lord 
 Eskdale had become the natural friend and counsellor of his 
 grace. 
 
 The duke deservedly reposed in him implicit confidence, and 
 entertained an almost unbounded admiration of his cousin's 
 knowledge of mankind. He was scarcely less a favourite or less 
 an oracle with the duchess, though there were subjects on which 
 she feared Lord Eskdale did not entertain views as serious as her 
 own; but Lord Eskdale, with an extreme carelessness of manner 
 and an apparent negligence of the minor arts of pleasing, was a 
 consummate master of the feminine idiosyncracy, and, from a 
 French actress to an English duchess, was skilled in guiding 
 women without ever letting the curb be felt. Scarcely a week 
 elapsed, when Lord Eskdale was in the country, that a long let- 
 ter of difficulties was not received by him from Montacute, with 
 an earnest request for his immediate advice. His lordship, 
 singularly averse to letter writing, and especially to long letter
 
 32 
 
 writing, used generally in reply to say that, in the course of a 
 day or two he should be in their part of the world, and would 
 talk the matter over with them. 
 
 And, indeed, nothing was more amusing than to see Lord 
 Eskdale, imperturbable, yet not heedless, with his peculiar 
 calmness, something between that of a Turkish pacha and an 
 English jockey, standing up with his back to the fire and his 
 hands in his pockets, and hearing the united statement of a case 
 by the Duke and Duchess ofBellamont; the serious yet quiet and 
 unexaggerated narrative of his grace, the impassioned inter- 
 ruptions, decided opinions, and lively expressions of his wife, 
 when she felt the duke was not doing justice to the circumstances, 
 or her view of them, and the Spartan brevity with which, when 
 both his clients were exhausted, their counsel summed up the 
 whole affair, and said three words which seemed suddenly to re- 
 move all doubts and to solve all difficulties. In all the business 
 of life, Lord Eskdale, though he appreciated their native ability, 
 and respected their considerable acquirements, which he did not 
 share, looked upon his cousins as two children, and managed 
 them as children; but he was really attached to them, and the 
 sincere attachment of such a character is often worth more than 
 the most passionate devotion. The last great domestic embar- 
 rassment at Montacute had been the affair of the cooks. Lord 
 Eskdale had taken this upon his own shoulders, and, writing to 
 Daubuz, had sent down Leander and his friends, to open the 
 minds and charm the palates of the north. 
 
 Lord Valentine and his noble parents, and their daughter 
 Lady Florentina, who was a great horsewoman, also arrived. 
 The countess, who had once been a beauty with the reputation of 
 a wit, and now set up for being a wit on the reputation of having 
 been a beauty, was the lady of fashion of the party, and scarcely 
 knew anybody present, though there were many who were her 
 equals and some her superiors in rank. Her way was to be a
 
 33 
 
 little fine, always smiling and condescendingly amiable; when 
 alone with her husband, shrugging her shoulders somewhat, 
 and vowing that she was delighted that Lord Eskdale was there, 
 as she had somebody to speak to. It was what she called " quite 
 a relief." A relief, perhaps, from Lord and Lady Mountjoy, 
 whom she had been avoiding all her life — unfortunate people, 
 who with a large fortune, lived in a wrong square, and asked to 
 their house everybody who was nobody; besides, Lord Mountjoy 
 was vulgar, and laughed too loud, and Lady Mountjoy called 
 you "my dear," and showed her teeth. A relief, perhaps, 
 too, from the Hon. and Rev. Montacute Mountjoy, who, with 
 Lady Eleanor, four daughters and two sons, had been invited to 
 celebrate the majority of the future chieftain of their house. The 
 countess had what is called "a horror of those Mountjoys, and 
 those Montacute Mountjoys," and what added to her annoyance 
 was, that Lord Valentine was always flirting with the Misses 
 Montacute Mountjoy. 
 
 The countess could find no companions in the Duke and 
 Duchess of Clanronald, because, as she told her husband, as 
 they could not speak English and she could not speak Scotch, it 
 was impossible to exchange ideas. The bishop of the diocese 
 was there, toothless and tolerant, and wishing to be on good 
 terms with all sects, provided they paid church-rates, and 
 another bishop far more vigorous and of greater fame. By his 
 administration the heir of Bellamont had entered the Christian 
 church, and by the imposition of his hands had been confirmed 
 in it. His lordship, a great authority with the duchess, was 
 specially invited to be present on the interesting occasion, when 
 the babe that he had held at the font, and the child that he had 
 blessed at the altar, was about thus publicly to adopt and 
 acknowledge the duties and responsibility of a man. But 
 the countess, though she liked bishops, liked them, as she 
 told her husband, "in their place." What that exactly was, 
 
 Tittered. I. 3
 
 34 
 
 she did not define; but probably their palaces or the House of 
 Lords. 
 
 It was hardly to be expected that her ladyship would find 
 any relief in the society of the Marquis and Marchioness of 
 Hampshire; for his lordship passed his life in being the Presi- 
 dent of scientific and literary societies, and was ready for 
 anything, from the Royal , if his turn ever arrived, toopeninga 
 Mechanics' Institute in his neighbouring town. Lady Hampshire 
 was an invalid; but what was her ailment was one of those 
 mysteries which still remained insoluble, although, in the most 
 liberal manner, she delighted to afford her friends all the infor- 
 mation in her power. Never was a votary endowed with a faith at 
 once so lively and so capricious. Each year she believed in 
 some new remedy, and announced herself on the eve of some 
 miraculous cure. But the saint was scarcely canonized, be- 
 fore his claims to beatitude were impugned. One year Lady 
 Hampshire never quitted Leamington ; another, she contrived to 
 combine the infinitesimal doses of Hahnemann with the colossal 
 distractions of the metropolis. Now her sole conversation was 
 the water cure. Lady Hampshire was to begin immediately after 
 her visit to Montacute, and she spoke in her sawney voice of 
 factitious enthusiasm, as if she pitied the lot of all those who 
 were not about to sleep in wet sheets. 
 
 The members for the county, with their wives and daughters, 
 the Hungerfords and the Ildertons, Sir Russell Malpas, or even 
 Lord Hull, an Irish peer with an English estate, and who re- 
 presented one of the divisions, were scarcely a relief. Lord Hull 
 was a bachelor, and had twenty thousand a-year, and would not 
 havebeen too old forFlorentina,ifLord Hull had only lived in "so- 
 ciety," learnt how to dress and how to behave, and had avoided 
 that peculiar coarseness of manners and complexion which seem 
 the inevitable results of a provincial life. What are forty-five or 
 even forty-eight years, if a man do not get up too early or go to
 
 35 
 
 bed too soon, if he be dressed by the right persons, and, early ac- 
 customed to the society of women, he possess that flexibility of 
 manner and that readiness of gentle repartee which a feminine 
 apprenticeship can alone confer? But Lord Hull was a man with 
 a red face and a grey head, on whom coarse indulgence and the 
 selfish negligence of a country life had already conferred a shape- 
 less form; and who, dressed something like a groom, sate at 
 dinner in stolid silence by Lady Hampshire, who, whatever were 
 her complaints, had certainly the art, if only from her questions, 
 of making her neighbours communicative. The countess exa- 
 mined Lord Hull through her eye-glass with curious pity at so 
 fine a fortune and so good a family being so entirely thrown away. 
 Had he been brought up in a civilized manner, lived six months 
 in May Fair, passed his carnival at Paris, never sported except 
 in Scotland and occasionally visited a German bath, even Lord 
 Hull might have "fined down." His hair need not have been 
 grey if it had been attended to; his complexion would not have 
 been so glaring; his hands never could have grown to so huge a 
 shape. 
 
 What a party, where the Countess was absolutely driven to 
 speculate on the possible destinies of a Lord Hull! But in this 
 party there was not a single young man, at least not a single young 
 manone had ever heard of, except her son, and he was of no use. 
 The Duke of Bellamont knew no young men; the duke did not 
 even belong to a club ; the Duchess of Bellamont knew no young 
 men ; she never gave and she never attended an evening party. 
 As for the county youth, the young Hungerfords and the young 
 Ildertons, the best of them formed part of the London crowd. 
 Some of them, by complicated manoeuvres, might even have made 
 their way into the countess's crowded saloons on a miscellaneous 
 night. She knew the length of their tether. They ranged, as the 
 Price Current says, from eight to three thousand a-year. Not the 
 figure that purchases a Lady Florentina! 
 
 3*
 
 36 
 
 There were many other guests, and some of them very no- 
 table, though not of the class and character to interest the fasti- 
 dious mother of Lord Valentine; but whoever and whatever they 
 might be, of the sixty or seventy persons who were seated each 
 day in the magnificent banqueting-room of Montacute castle, 
 feasting, amid pyramids of gold plate, on the masterpieces of 
 Leander, there was not a single individual who did not possess 
 one of the two great qualifications : they were all of them cousins 
 of the Duke of Bellamont, or proprietors in his county. 
 
 But we must not anticipate, the great day of the festival having 
 hardly yet commenced.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 In the Home park was a colossal pavilion, which held more 
 than two thousand persons, and in which the townsfolk of Monta- 
 cute were to dine: at equal distances were several smaller tents, 
 each of different colours and patterns, and each bearing on a 
 standard the name of one of the surrounding parishes which be- 
 longed to the Duke of Bellamont, and to the convenience and 
 gratification of whose inhabitants these tents were to-day dedi- 
 cated. There was not a man of Buddleton or Fuddleton; not a 
 yeoman or peasant of Montacute super Mare or Montacute Ab- 
 botts, nor of Percy Bellamont nor Friar's Bellamont, nor Winch 
 nor Finch, nor of Mandeville Stokes nor Mandeville Bois; nota 
 goodman true of Carleton and Ingleton and Kirkby and Dent, and 
 Gillamoor and Padmore and Hutton le Hale; not a stout forester 
 from the glades of Thorp, or the sylvan homes of Hurst Lydgatc 
 and Bishopstowe, that knew not where foamed and flowed the 
 duke's ale, that was to quench the longings of his thirsty village. 
 And their wives and daughters were equally welcome. At the 
 entrance of each tent, the duke's servants invited all to enter, 
 supplied them with required refreshments, or indicated their ap- 
 pointed places at the approaching banquet. In general, though 
 there were many miscellaneous parties, each village entered the 
 park in procession, with its flag and its band. 
 
 At noon the scene presented the appearance of an immense 
 but well-ordered fair. In the back-ground, men and boys 
 climbed poles or raced in sacks, while the exploits of the ginglers, 
 their mischievous manoeuvres and subtile combinations, elicited 
 frequent bursts of laughter. Further on, two long menaced 
 cricket matches called forth all the skill and energy of Fuddleton
 
 38 
 
 and Buddleton, and Winch and Finch. The great throng of the 
 population, however, was in the precincts of the terrace, where, 
 in the course of the morning, it was known that the duke and 
 duchess, with the hero of the day and all their friends, were to 
 appear, to witness the sports of the people, and especially the 
 feats of the morrice-dancers, who were at this moment practising 
 before a very numerous and delighted audience. In the mean 
 time, bells, drums, and trumpets, an occasional volley, and the 
 frequent cheers and laughter of the multitude, combined with the 
 brilliancy of the sun and the brightness of the ale to make a right 
 gladsome scene. 
 
 "It 's nothing to what it will be at night," said one of the 
 duke's footmen to his family — his father and mother, two 
 sisters and a young brother, listening to him with open mouths, 
 and staring at his state livery with mingled feelings of awe and 
 affection. They had come over from Bellamont Friars, and their 
 son had asked the steward to give him the care of the pavilion of 
 of that village, in order that he might look after his friends. 
 Never was a family who esteemed themselves so fortunate or felt 
 so happy. This was having a friend at court indeed. 
 
 "It 's nothing to what it will be at night," said Thomas. 
 "You will have 'Hail, star of Bellamont!' and 'God save the 
 Queen!' a crown, three stars, four flags, and two coronets, all 
 in coloured lamps, letters six feet high, on the castle. There 
 will be one hundred beacons lit over the space of fifty miles the 
 moment a rocket is shot off from the Bound Tower, and as for 
 fireworks, Bob, you '11 see them at last. Bengal lights, and 
 the largest wheels will be as common as squibs and crackers; 
 and I have heard say, though it is not to be mentioned — " And 
 he paused. 
 
 "We '11 not open our mouths," said his father, earnestly. 
 
 "You had better not tell us," said his mother in a nervous 
 paroxysm ; " for I am in such a fluster, I am sure I cannot answer
 
 39 
 
 for myself, and then Thomas may lose his place for breach of 
 conference." 
 
 "Nonsense, mother," said his sisters, who snubbed their 
 mother almost as readily as is the gracious habit of their betters. 
 "Pray tell us, Tom." 
 
 "Ay, ay, Tom," said his younger brother. 
 
 "Well," said Tom, in a confidential whisper, "won't there 
 be a transparency! I have heard say the queen never had any- 
 thing like it. You won't be able to see it for the first quarter of 
 an hour, there will be such a blaze of fire and rockets; but 
 when it does come, they say it 's like heaven opening; the young 
 markiss on a cloud, with his hand on his heart, in his new 
 uniform." 
 
 " Dear me ! " said his mother. "I knew him before he was 
 weaned. The duchess suckled him herself, which shows her 
 heart is very true; for they may say what they like, but, if an- 
 other's milk is in your child's veins, he seems, in a sort of way, 
 as much her bairn as your own." 
 
 "Mother's milk makes a true-born Englishman," said the 
 father; "and I make no doubt our young markiss will prove the 
 same." 
 
 "Howl long to see him!" exclaimed one of the daughters. 
 
 "And so do I!" said her sister, "and in his uniform! How 
 beautiful it must be ! " 
 
 "Well, I don't know," said the mother; "and perhaps you 
 will laugh at me for saying so, but, after seeing my Thomas in 
 his state livery, I don't care much for seeing anything else." 
 
 "Mother, how can you say such things! I am afraid the 
 crowd will be very great at the fireworks. We must try to get a 
 good place." 
 
 "I have arranged all that," said Thomas, with a triumphant 
 look. "There will be an inner circle for the steward's friends, 
 and you will be let in."
 
 40 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed his sisters. 
 
 "Well, I hope I shall get through the day," said his mother; 
 "but it 's rather a trial after our quiet life." 
 
 "And when will they come on the terrace , Thomas? " 
 
 "You see, they are waiting for the corporation, — that 's the 
 mayor and town council of Monlacute; they are coming up with 
 an address. There! Do you hear that? That's the signal gun. 
 They are leaving the town-hall at this same moment. Now, in 
 three quarters of an hour's time or so, the duke and duchess, 
 and the young markiss, and all of them, will come on the terrace. 
 So you be alive, and draw near, and get a good place. I mast 
 look after these people." 
 
 About the same time that the cannon announced that the 
 corporation had quitted the town- hall, some one tapped at the 
 chamber-door of Lord Eskdale, who was sealing a letter in his 
 private room. 
 
 "Well, Harris?" said Lord Eskdale, looking up, and re- 
 cognising his valet. 
 
 "His grace has been inquiring for your lordship several 
 times," replied Mr. Harris, with a perplexed air. 
 
 "I shall be with him in good time," replied his lordship, 
 again looking down. 
 
 "If you could manage to come down at once, my lord," said 
 Mr. Harris. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Mr. Leander wishes to see your lordship very much." 
 
 "Ah! Leander!" said Lord Eskdale, in a more interested 
 tone. " What does he want? " 
 
 "I have not seen him," said Mr. Harris; "but Mr. Prevost 
 tells me that his feelings are hurt." 
 
 " I hope he has not struck," said Lord Eskdale, with a comi- 
 cal glance. 
 
 "Something of that sort," said Mr. Harris, very seriously.
 
 41 
 
 Lord Eskdale had a great sympathy with artists; he was well 
 acquainted with that irritability which is said to be the charac- 
 teristic of the creative power; genius always found in him an 
 indulgent arbiter. He was convinced that, if the feelings of a 
 rare spirit like Leander were hurt, they were not to be trifled 
 with. He felt responsible for the presence of one so eminent 
 in a country where, perhaps, he was not properly appreciated; 
 and Lord Eskdale descended to the steward's room with the con- 
 sciousness of an important, probably a difficult mission. 
 
 The kitchen of Montacute Castle was of the old style, fitted 
 for baronial feasts. It covered a great space, and was very lofty. 
 Now they build them in great houses on a different system ; even 
 more distinguished by height, but far more condensed in area, 
 as it is thought that a dish often suffers from the distances which 
 the cook has to move over in collecting its various component 
 parts. The new principle seems sound; the old practice, how- 
 ever, was more picturesque. The kitchen at Montacute was like 
 the preparation for the famous wedding feast of Prince Riquet 
 with the Tuft, when the kind earth opened, and revealed that 
 genial spectacle of white-capped cooks, and endless stoves and 
 stewpans. The steady blaze of two colossal fires was shrouded 
 by vast screens. Everywhere, rich materials and silent artists; 
 business without bustle, and the all-pervading magic of method. 
 Philippon was preparing a sauce; Dumoreau, in another quar- 
 ter of the spacious chamber, was arranging some truffles; the 
 Englishman, Smit, was fashioning a cutlet. Between these 
 three generals of division aides-de-camp perpetually passed, 
 in the form of active and observant marmitons, more than one of 
 whom, as he looked on the great masters around him, and with 
 the prophetic faculty of genius surveyed the future, exclaimed to 
 himself, like Corregio, "And I also will be a cook." 
 
 In this animated and interesting scene was only one unoc- 
 cupied individual, or rather occupied only with his own sad
 
 42 
 
 thoughts. This was Papa Prevost, leaningagainst rather than sit- 
 ting on a dresser, with his arras folded, his idle knife stuck in his 
 girdle, and the tassel of his cap awry with vexation. His gloomy 
 brow, however, lit up as Mr. Harris, for whom he was waiting 
 with anxious expectation, entered, and summoned him to the 
 presence of Lord Eskdale, who, with a shrewd yet lounging air, 
 which concealed his own foreboding perplexity, said, "Well, 
 Prevost, whatis the matter? The people here been impertinent?" 
 Prevost shook his head. "We never were in a house, my 
 lord, where they were more obliging. It is something much 
 worse." 
 
 "Nothing wrong about your fish, I hope. Well, what is it?" 
 "Leander, my lord, has been dressing dinners for a week 
 — dinners, I will be bound to say, which were never equalled in 
 the Imperial kitchen, and the duke has never made a single ob- 
 servation, or sent him a single message. Yesterday, determined 
 to outdo even himself, he sent up some escalopes de laitances de 
 carpesalaBellamont. In my time I have seen nothing like it, my 
 lord. Ask Philippon, ask Dumoreau, what they thought of it! 
 Even the Englishman, Smit, who never says anything, opened 
 his mouth and exclaimed; as for the marmitons, they were 
 breathless, and I thought Achille, the youth of whom I spoke to 
 you, my lord, and who appears to me to be born with the true 
 feeling, would have been overcome with emotion. When it was 
 finished, Leander retired to this room — I attended him — and 
 covered his face with his hands. Would you believe it, my lord ! 
 Not a word — not even a message. All this morning Leander 
 has waited in the last hope. Nothing, absolutely nothing! How 
 can he compose when he is not appreciated? Had he been ap- 
 preciated, he would to-day not only have repeated the escalopes 
 a la Bellamont, but perhaps even invented what might have out- 
 done it. It is unheard of, my lord. The late Lord Monmouth 
 would have sent for Leander the very evening, or have written to
 
 i3 
 
 him a beautiful letter, which would have been preserved iu 
 his family, M. de Sidonia would have sent him a tankard from 
 his table. These things in themselves are nothing; but they 
 prove to a man of genius that he is understood. Had Leander 
 been in the Imperial kitchen, or even with the Emperor of Rus- 
 sia, he would have been decorated ! " 
 
 "Where is he?" said Lord Eskdale. 
 
 "He is alone in the cook's room." 
 
 "I will go and say a word lo him." 
 
 Alone, in the cook's room, gazing in listless vacancy 
 on the fire — that fire which, under his influence, had often 
 achieved so many master-works — was the great artist who was 
 not appreciated. No longer suffering under mortification, but 
 overwhelmed by that exhaustion which follows acute sensibility 
 and the over-tension of the creative faculty, he looked round as 
 Lord Eskdale entered, and when he perceived who was his visi- 
 tor, he rose immediately, bowed very low, and then sighed. 
 
 "Prevost thinks we are not exactly appreciated here," said 
 Lord Eskdale. 
 
 Leander bowed again, and still sighed. 
 
 "Prevost does not understand the affair," continued Lord 
 Eskdale. "Why I wished you to come down here, Leander, 
 was not to receive the applause of my cousin and his guests, but 
 to form their taste." 
 
 Here was a great idea; exciting and ennobling. It threw 
 quite a new light upon the position of Leander. He started; his 
 brow seemed to clear. Leander, then, like other eminent 
 men, had duties to perform as well as rights to enjoy; he had a 
 right to fame, but it was also his duty to form and direct public 
 taste. That then was the reason he was brought down to Bella- 
 mont Castle; because some of the greatest personages in Eng- 
 land, who never had eaten a proper dinner in their lives, would 
 have an opportunity, for the first time, of witnessing art. What
 
 44 
 
 could the praise of the Duke of Clanronald, or Lord Hampshire, 
 or Lord Hull, signify to one -who had shared the confidence of a 
 Lord Monmouth, and whom Sir Alexander Grant, the first judge 
 in Europe, had declared the only man of genius of the age? 
 Leander erred too in supposing that his achievements had been 
 lost upon the guests at Bellamont. Insensibly his feats had set 
 them a-thinking. They had been like Cossacks in a picture gal- 
 lery; but the Clanronalds, the Hampshires, the Hulls, would 
 return to their homes impressed with a great truth — that there is 
 a difference between eating and dining. Was this nothing for 
 Leander to have effected? Was it nothing, by this development 
 of taste, to assist in supporting that aristocratic influence which 
 he wished to cherish, and which can alone encourage art? If 
 anything can save the aristocracy in this levelling age, it is an ap- 
 preciation of men of genius. Certainly it would have been very 
 gratifying to Leander if his grace had only sent him a message, 
 or if Lord Montacute had expressed a wish to see him. He had 
 been long musing over some dish a la Montacute, for this very 
 day. The young lord was reputed to have talent; this dish 
 might touch his fancy ; the homage of a great artist flatters youth ; 
 this offering of genius might colour his destiny. But what, after 
 all, did this signify? Leander had a mission to perform. 
 
 "If I were you, I would exert myself, Leander," said Lord 
 Eskdale. 
 
 "Ah! my lord, if all men were like you ! If artists were only 
 sure o! being appreciated; if we were but understood — a dinner 
 would become a sacrifice to the gods, and a kitchen would be 
 Paradise." 
 
 In the mean time , the mayor and town-councillors of Monta- 
 cute, in their robes of office, and preceded by their bedels and 
 their mace-bearer, have entered the gates of the castle. They 
 pass into the great hall, the most ancient part of the building, 
 with its open roof of Spanish chestnut, its screen and gallery and
 
 45 
 
 dais, its painted windows and marble floor. Ascending the dais, 
 they are ushered into an antichamber, the first of that suite of 
 state apartments that opens on the terrace. Leaving on one side 
 the principal dining-room and the library, they proceeded through 
 the green drawing-room, so called from its silken hangings, the 
 red drawing-room, covered with ruby velvet, and both adorned, 
 but not encumbered, with pictures of the choicest art, into the 
 principal or duchesses' drawing-room, thus entitled from its 
 complete collection of portraits of Duchesses of Bellamont. It 
 was a very spacious and beautifully proportioned chamber, hung 
 with amber satin, its ceiling by Zucchero, whose rich colours 
 were relieved by the burnished gilding. The corporation trod 
 tremblingly over the gorgeous carpet of Axminster, which dis- 
 played, in vivid colours and colossal proportions, the shield and 
 supporters of Bellamont, and threw a hasty glance at the vases 
 of porphyry and malachite, and mosaic tables covered with pre- 
 cious toys , which were grouped about. 
 
 Thence they were ushered into the Montacute room, adorned, 
 among many interesting pictures, by perhaps the finest per- 
 formance of Lawrence, a portrait of the present duke, just after 
 his marriage. Tall and graceful, with a clear dark complexion, 
 regular features, eyes of liquid tenderness, a frank brow, and 
 rich clustering hair, the accomplished artist had seized and con- 
 veyed the character of a high-spirited but gentle-hearted cavalier. 
 From the Montacute chamber, they entered the ball-room; very 
 spacious, white and gold, a coved ceiling, large Venetian lustres, 
 and the walls of looking-glass , enclosing friezes of festive sculp- 
 ture. Then followed another antechamber, in the centre of 
 which was one of the master-pieces of Canova. This room, lined 
 with footmen in state liveries, completed the suite that opened 
 on the terrace. The northern side of this chamber consisted of 
 a very large door; divided, and decorated in its panels with 
 emblazoned shields of arms.
 
 46 
 
 The valves being thrown open, the mayor and town-council 
 ofMontacute were ushered into a gallery one hundred feet long, 
 and which occupied a great portion of the northern side of the 
 castle. The panels of this gallery enclosed a series of pictures 
 in tapestry, which represented the principal achievements of the 
 third crusade. A Montacute had been one of the most dis- 
 tinguished knights in that great adventure, and had saved the 
 life of Cceur de Lion at the siege of Ascalon. In after-ages a Duke 
 of Bellamont, who was our ambassador at Paris, had given 
 orders to the Gobelins factory for the execution of this series of 
 pictures from cartoons by the most celebrated artists of the time. 
 The subjects of the tapestry had obtained for the magnificent 
 chamber, which they adorned and rendered so interesting, the 
 title of "The Crusaders' Gallery." 
 
 At the end of this gallery, surrounded by their guests, their 
 relatives, and their neighbours; by high nobility, by reverend 
 prelates, by the members and notables of the county, and by 
 some of the chief tenants of the duke, a portion of whom were 
 never absent from any great carousing or high ceremony that oc- 
 curred within his walls, the Duke and Duchess of Bellamont and 
 their son, a little in advance of the company, stood to receive 
 the congratulatory addresses of the mayor and corporation of 
 their ancient and faithful town ofMontacute — the town which 
 their fathers had built and adorned , which they had often repre- 
 sented in parliament in the good old days, and which they took 
 care should then enjoy its fair proportion of the good old things 
 — a town, every house in which belonged to them, and of which 
 there was not an inhabitant who, in his own person or in that of 
 his ancestry, had not felt the advantages of the noble con- 
 nexion. 
 
 The duke bowed to the corporation, with the duchess on his 
 left hand; and on his right there stood a youth, above the middle 
 height and of a frame completely and gracefully formed. His
 
 47 
 
 dark brown hair, in those hyacinthine curls which Grecian poets 
 have celebrated, and which Grecian sculptors have immortalized, 
 clustered over his brow, which, however, they only partially 
 concealed. It was pale, as was his whole countenance, but the 
 liquid richness of the dark brown eye, and the colour of the lip, 
 denoted anything but a languid circulation. The features were 
 regular, and inclined rather to a refinement, which might have 
 imparted to the countenance a character of too much delicacy, 
 had it not been for the deep meditation of the brow, and for the 
 lower part of the visage, which intimated indomitable will and an 
 iron resolution. 
 
 Placed for the first time in his life in a public position, and 
 under circumstances which might have occasioned some degree 
 of embarrassment even to those initiated in the world, nothing 
 was more remarkable in the demeanour of Lord Montacute than 
 his self-possession; nor was there in his carriage anything 
 studied, or which had the character of being preconceived. 
 Every movement or gesture was distinguished by what may be 
 called a graceful gravity. With a total absence of that excite- 
 ment which seemed so natural to his age and situation, there was 
 nothing in his manner which approached to nonchalance or in- 
 difference. It would appear that he duly estimated the import- 
 ance of the event they were commemorating, yet was not of a 
 habit of mind that over-estimated anything.
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The week of celebration was over: some few guests re- 
 mained, near relatives, and not very rich, the Montacutc 
 Mountjoys for example. They came from a considerable dis- 
 tance, and the duke insisted that they should remain until the 
 duchess went to London, an event, by the bye, which was to 
 occur very speedily. Lady Eleanor was rather agreeable, and 
 the duchess a little liked her; there were four daughters, to be 
 sure, and not very lively, but they sang in the evening. 
 
 It was a bright morning, and the duchess, with a heart pro- 
 phetic of happiness, wished to disburthen it to her son; she 
 meant to propose to him, therefore, to be her companion in her 
 walk, and she had sent to his rooms in vain, and was inquiring 
 after him, when she was informed that "Lord Montacute was 
 with his grace." 
 
 A smile of satisfaction flitted over her face, as she recalled 
 the pleasant cause of the conference that was now taking place 
 between the father and the son. 
 
 Let us see how it advanced. 
 
 The duke is in his private library, consisting chiefly of the 
 statutes at large, Hansard, the Annual Register, Parliamentary 
 Reports, and legal treatises on the powers and duties of justices 
 of the peace. A portrait of his mother is over the mantel-piece.
 
 49 
 
 opposite it a huge map of the county. His correspondence on 
 public business with the secretary of state, and the various 
 authorities of the shire, is admirably arranged. For the duke 
 was what is called an excellent man of business, that is to say, 
 methodical, and an adept in all the small arts of routine. These 
 papers were deposited, after having been ticketed with a date 
 and a summary of their contents, and tied with much tape, in 
 a large cabinet, which occupied nearly one side of the room, 
 and on the top of which were busts in marble of Mr. Pitt, 
 George III., and the Duke of Wellington. 
 
 The duke was leaning back in his chair, which it seemed, 
 from his air and position, he had pushed back somewhat sud- 
 denly from his writing table, and an expression of painful sur- 
 prise, it cannot be denied, dwelt on his countenance. Lord 
 Montacute was on his legs, leaning with his left arm on the 
 chimney-piece, very serious, and, if possible, paler than 
 usual. 
 
 "You take me quite by surprise," said the duke; "I thought 
 it was an arrangement that would have deeply gratified you." 
 
 Lord Montacute slightly bowed his head, but said nothing. 
 His father continued. 
 
 "Not wish to enter Parliament at present! Why — that is all 
 very well, and if, as was once the case, we could enter Parlia- 
 ment when we liked and how we liked, the wish might be very 
 reasonable. If I could ring my bell, and return you member for 
 Montacute with as much ease as I could send over to Bellamont 
 to engage a special train to take us to town , you might be justified 
 in indulging a fancy. But how and when, I should like to know, 
 are you to enter Parliament now? This Parliament will last; it 
 will go on to the lees. Lord Eskdale told me so not a week ago. 
 Well then, at any rate, you lose three years: for three years you 
 are an idler. I never thought that was your character. I have 
 always had an impression you would turn your mind to public 
 
 T/mcred. J. A
 
 50 
 
 business, that the county might look up to you. If you have 
 ■what are called higher views, you should not forget there is a 
 great opening now in public life, which may not offer again. The 
 Duke is resolved to give the preference, in carrying on the 
 business of the country, to the aristocracy. He believes this 
 is our only means of preservation. He told me so himself. If 
 it be so , I fear we are doomed. I hope we may be of some use 
 to our country without being ministers of state. But let that pass. 
 As long as the Duke lives, he is omnipotent, and will have his 
 way. If you come into Parliament now, and show any dispo- 
 sition for office, you may rely upon it you will not long be un- 
 employed. I have no doubt I could arrange that you should move 
 the address of next session. I dare say Lord Eskdale could 
 manage this, and, if he could not, though I abhor asking a 
 minister for anything, I should, under the circumstances, feel 
 perfectly justified in speaking to the duke on the subject myself, 
 and," added his grace, in a lowered tone, but with an expres- 
 sion of great earnestness and determination, "I flatter myself 
 that if the Duke of Bellamont chooses to express a wish , it would 
 not be disregarded." 
 
 Lord Montacute cast his dark, intelligent eyes upon the 
 ground, and seemed plunged in thought. 
 
 "Besides," added the duke, after a moment's pause, and 
 inferring, from the silence of his son, that he was making an 
 impression, "suppose Hungerford is not in the same humour 
 this time three years which he is in now. Probably he may be; 
 possibly he may not. Men do not like to be balked when they 
 think they are doing a very kind and generous and magnanimous 
 thing. Hungerford is not a warming-pan, we must remember 
 that; he never was originally; and if he had been, he has been 
 member for the county too long to be so considered now. I 
 should be placed in a most painful position, if, this time three
 
 51 
 
 years, I had to withdraw my support from Hungerford, in order 
 to secure your return." 
 
 "There would be no necessity, under any circumstances, for 
 that, my dear father," said Lord Montacute, looking up, and 
 speaking in a voice which, though somewhat low, was of that 
 organ that at once arrests attention : a voice that comes alike from 
 the brain and from the heart, and seems made to convey both 
 profound thought and deep emotion. There is no index of cha- 
 racter so sure as the voice. There are tones, tones brilliant and 
 gushing, which impart a quick and pathetic sensibility: there 
 are others that, deep and yet calm, seem the just interpreters 
 of a serene and exalted intellect. But the rarest and the most 
 precious of all voices is that which combines passion and repose-, 
 and whose rich and restrained tones exercise, perhaps, on the 
 human frame a stronger spell than even the fascination of the eye, 
 or that bewitching influence of the hand, which is the privilege 
 of the higher races of Asia. 
 
 "There would be no necessity, under any circumstances, 
 for that, my dear father," said Lord Montacute; "for, to be 
 frank, I believe I should feel as little disposed to enter Parlia- 
 ment three years hence as now." 
 
 The duke looked still more surprised. "Mr. Fox was not of 
 age when he took his seat," said his grace. "You know how old 
 Mr. Pitt was when he was a minister. Sir Robert, too, was in 
 harness very early. I have always heard the good judges say — 
 Lord Eskdale , for example — that a man might speak in Parlia- 
 ment too soon , but it was impossible to go in too soon." 
 
 "If he wished to succeed in that assembly," replied Lord 
 Montacute, "I can easily believe it. In all things an early ini- 
 tiation must be of advantage. But I have not that wish." 
 
 "I don't like to see a man take his seat in the House of Lords 
 who has not been in the House of Commons. He seems to me 
 always, in a manner, unfledged." 
 
 4*
 
 52 
 
 "It will be a long time, I hope, my dear father, before I 
 take my seat in the House of Lords," said Lord Montacute, "if, 
 indeed, I ever do." 
 
 " In the course of nature 't is a certainty." 
 
 "Suppose the Duke's plan for perpetuating and aristocracy 
 do not succeed," said Lord Montacute, "and our house ceases 
 to exist?" 
 
 His father shrugged his shoulders. "It is not our business 
 to suppose that. I hope it never will be the business of any one, 
 at least seriously. This is a great country, and it has become 
 great by its aristocracy." 
 
 "You think, then, our sovereigns did nothing for our great- 
 ness — Queen Elizabeth, for example, of whose visit to Monta- 
 cute you are so proud?" 
 
 "They performed their part." 
 
 "And have ceased to exist. We may have performed our 
 part, and may meet the same fate." 
 
 " Why , you are talking liberalism ! " 
 
 "Hardly that, my dear father, for I have not expressed an 
 opinion." 
 
 "I wish I knew what your opinions were, my dear boy, or 
 even your wishes." 
 
 "Well, then — to do my duty." 
 
 "Exactly: you are a pillar of the State; support the State." 
 
 "Ah ! if any one would but tell me what the State is," said 
 Lord Montacute, sighing. "It seems to me your pillars remain, 
 but they support nothing; in that case, though the shafts may be 
 perpendicular, and the capitals very ornate, they are no longer 
 props, they are a ruin." 
 
 "You would hand us over, then, to the ten-pounders?" 
 
 "They do not even pretend to be a State," said Lord Monta- 
 cute; "they do not even profess to support anything; on the
 
 53 
 
 eontray, the essence of their philosophy is, that nothing is to be 
 established , and everything is to be left to itself." 
 
 "The common sense of this country and the fifty-pound 
 clause will carry us through," said the duke. 
 
 "Through what?" inquired his son. 
 
 "This — this state of transition ," replied his father. 
 
 "A passage to what?" 
 
 "Ah ! that is a question the wisest cannot answer." 
 
 "But into which the weakest, among whom I class myself, 
 have surely a right to inquire." 
 
 " Unquestionably ; and I know nothing that will tend more to 
 assist you in your researches than acting with practical men." 
 
 "And practising all their blunders," said Lord Montacute. 
 "lean conceive an individual who has once been entrapped into 
 their hap-hazard courses, continuing in the fatal confusion to 
 which he has contributed his quota; but I am at least free, and 
 I wish to continue so." 
 
 "And do nothing?" 
 
 " But does it follow what a man is infirm of action , because 
 he declines fighting in the dark." 
 
 "And how would you act, then? What are your plans? 
 Have you any?" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 "Well, that is satisfactory," said the duke, with animation. 
 "Whatever they are, you know you may count upon my doing 
 everything that is possible to forward your wishes. I know they 
 cannot be unworthy ones, for I believe, my child, you are in- 
 capable of a thought that is not good or great." 
 
 "I wish I knew what was good and great," said Lord Monta- 
 cute •, "I would struggle to accomplish it." 
 
 "But you have formed some views; you have some plans. 
 Speak to me of them, and without reserve; as to a friend, the 
 most affectionate, the most devoted."
 
 54 
 
 "My father," said Lord Montacute, and, moving, he drew 
 a chair to the table, and seated himself by the duke, "you 
 possess and have a right to my confidence. I ought not to have 
 said that I doubted about what was good ; for I know you." 
 
 "Sons like you make good fathers." 
 
 "It is not always so," said Lord Montacute; "you have been 
 to me more than a father, and I bear to you and to my mother a 
 profound and fervent affection; an affection," he added, in a 
 faltering tone, "that is rarer, I believe, in this age than it was 
 in old days. I feel it at this moment more deeply," he con- 
 tinued, in a firmer tone, "besause 1 am about to propose that 
 we should for a time separate." 
 
 The duke turned pale, and leant forward in his chair, but 
 did not speak. 
 
 "You have proposed to me to-day," continued Lord Monta- 
 cute, after a momentary pause, "to enter public life. I do not 
 shrink from its duties. On the contrary, from the position in 
 which I am born, still more from the impulse of my nature, I 
 am desirous to fulfil them. I have meditated on them, I may 
 say, even for years. But I cannot find that it is part of my duty 
 to maintain the order of things, for I will not call it system, 
 which at present prevails in our country. It seems to me that it 
 cannot last, as nothing can endure, or ought to endure, that, is 
 not founded upon principle; and its principle I have not dis- 
 covered. In nothing, whether it be religion, or government, 
 or manners, sacred or political or social life, do I find faith; 
 and if there be no faith , how can there be duty? Is there such 
 a thing as religious truth? Is there such a thing as political 
 right? Is there such a thing as social propriety? Are these 
 facts, or are they mere phrases? And if they be facts, where 
 are they likely to be found in England? Is truth in our Church? 
 Why, then, do you support dissent? Who has the right to 
 govern? The Monarch? You have robbed him of his prerogative.
 
 55 
 
 The Aristocracy? You confess to me that we exist by sufferance. 
 The People? They themselves tell you that they are nullities. 
 Every session of that Parliament in which you wish to introduce 
 me, the method by which power is distributed is called in ques- 
 tion, altered, patched up, and again impugned. As for our 
 morals, tell me — is charity the supreme virtue, or the greatest 
 of errors? Our social system ought to depend on a clear con- 
 ception of this point. Our morals differ in different counties, in 
 different towns, in different streets, even in different Acts of 
 Parliament. What is moral in London is immoral in Monta- 
 cute; what is crime among the multitude is only vice among the 
 
 few." 
 
 "You are going into first principles," said the duke, much 
 
 surprised. 
 
 "Give me then second principles," replied his son; "give 
 
 me any." 
 
 "We must take a general view of things to form an opinion," 
 said his father, mildly. "The general condition of England is 
 superior to that of any other country, it cannot be denied, that 
 on the whole there is more political freedom, more social hap- 
 piness, more sound religion, and more material prosperity, 
 among us , than in any nation in the world." 
 
 "I might question all that," said his son; "but they are 
 considerations that do not affect my views. If other States are 
 worse than we are, and I hope they are not, our condition is not 
 mended, but the contrary, for we then need the salutary stimu- 
 lus of example." 
 
 "There is no sort of doubt," said the duke, "that the state 
 of England at this moment is the most flourishing that has ever 
 existed, certainly in modern times. What with these railroads, 
 even the condition of the poor, which I admit was lately far from 
 satisfactory, is infinitely improved. Every man has work who 
 needs it, and wages are even high."
 
 56 
 
 "The railroads may have improved, in a certain sense, the 
 condition of the working classes almost as much as that of 
 members of Parliament. They have been a good thing for both 
 of them. And if you think that more labour is all that is wanted 
 by the people of England, we may be easy for a time. I sec 
 nothing in this fresh development of material industry, but fresh 
 causes of moral deterioration. You have announced to the millions 
 that their welfare is to be tested by the amount of their wages. 
 Money is to be the cupel of their worth, as it is of all other classes. 
 You propose for their conduct the least ennobling of all impulses. 
 If you have seen an aristocracy invariably become degraded under 
 such influence ; if all the vices of a middle class may be traced to 
 such an absorbing motive — why are we to believe that the people 
 should be more pure, or that they should escape the catastrophe 
 of the policy that confounds the happiness with the wealth of 
 nations?" 
 
 The duke shook his head, and then said — "You should not 
 forget we live in an artificial state." 
 
 "So I often hear, Sir," replied his son; "but where is the 
 art? It seems to me the very quality wanting to our present con- 
 dition. Art is order, method, harmonious results obtained by 
 fine and powerful principles. I see no art in our condition. The 
 people of this country have ceased to be a nation. They are a 
 crowd, and only kept in some rude provisional discipline by the 
 remains of that old system which they are daily destroying." 
 
 "But what would you do, my dear boy?" said his grace, 
 looking up very distressed. " Can you remedy the state of things 
 in which we find ourselves?" 
 
 "I am not a teacher," said Lord Montacute, mournfully; 
 "I only ask you, I supplicate you, my dear father, to save 
 me from contributing to this quick corruption that surrounds 
 us."
 
 57 
 
 "You shall be master of your own actions. I offer you 
 counsel, I give no commands; and, as for the rest, Providence 
 ■will guard us." 
 
 "If an angel would but visit our house as he visited the 
 house of Lot!" said Lord Montacute, in a tone almost of 
 anguish. 
 
 "Angels have performed their part," said the duke. "We 
 have received instruction from one higher than angels. It is 
 enough for all of us." 
 
 "It is not enough for me," said Lord Montacute, with a 
 glowing cheek, and rising abruptly. "It was not enough for 
 the apostles ; for though they listened to the sermon on the mount, 
 and partook of the first communion, it was still necessary that 
 He should appear to them again, and promise them a Comforter. 
 I require one," he added, after a momentary pause, but in an 
 agitated voice. "I must seek one. Yes! my dear father, it is 
 of this that I would speak to you ; it is this which for a long time 
 has oppressed my spirit, and filled me often with intolerable 
 gloom. We must separate. I must leave you, I must leave that 
 dear mother, those beloved parents, in whom are concentred all 
 my earthly affections; but I obey an impulse that I believe comes 
 from above. Dearest and best of men, you will not thwart me — 
 you will forgive, you will aid me! " And he advanced, and threw 
 himself into the arms of his father. 
 
 The duke pressed Lord Montacute to his heart, and endea- 
 voured, though himself agitated and much distressed, to pene- 
 trate the mystery of this ebullition. "He says we must separate," 
 thought the duke to himself. "Ah! he has lived too much at 
 home, too much alone; he has read and pondered too much; he 
 has moped. Eskdale was right two years ago. I wish I had sent 
 him to Paris, but his mother was so alarmed; and, indeed, 'tis 
 a precious life! The House of Commons would have been just 
 the thing for him. He would have worked on committees, and
 
 58 
 
 grown practical. But something must be done for him, dear 
 child! He says we must separate: he wants to travel. And 
 perhaps he ought to travel. But a life on which so much depends ! 
 And what will Katherine say? It will kill her. I could screw 
 myself up to it. I would send him well attended. Brace should 
 go with him; he understands the continent; he was in the 
 Peninsular war; and he should have a skilful physician. I 
 see how it is; I must act with decision, and break it to his 
 mother." 
 
 These ideas passed through the duke's mind during the few 
 seconds that he embraced his son, and endeavoured at the same 
 time to convey consolation by the expression of his affection, 
 and his anxiety at all times to contribute to his child's hap- 
 piness. 
 
 "My dear son," said the duke, when Lord Montacute had 
 resumed his seat, "I see how it is; you wish to travel?" 
 
 Lord Montacute bent his head, as if in assent. 
 
 "It will be a terrible blow to your mother; I say nothing of 
 myself. You know what I feel for you. But neither your mother 
 nor myself have a right to place our feelings in competition with 
 any arrangement for your welfare. It would be in the highest 
 degree selfish and unreasonable ; and perhaps it will be well for 
 you to travel awhile; and, as for Parliament, I am to see Hun- 
 gerford this morning at Bellamont. I will try and arrange with 
 him to postpone his resignation until the autumn, or, if possible, 
 for some little time longer. You will then have accomplished your 
 purpose. It will do you a great deal of good. You will have seen 
 the world , and you can take your seat next year." 
 
 The duke paused. Lord Montacute looked perplexed and 
 distressed; he seemed about to reply, and then, leaning on the 
 table, with his face concealed from his father, he maintained 
 his silence. The duke rose, looked at his watch, said he must 
 be at Bellamont by two o'clock — hoped that Brace would dine
 
 59 
 
 at the Castle to-day — thought it not at all impossible Brace 
 might — would send on to Montacute for him — perhaps might 
 meet him at Bellamont. Brace understood the continent, spoke 
 several languages, Spanish among them, though it was not 
 probable his son would have any need of that, the present state 
 of Spain not being very inviting to the traveller. "As for France," 
 continued the duke, "France is Paris, and I suppose that will 
 be your first step; it generally is. We must see if your cousin, 
 Henry Howard, is there. If so, he will put you in the way of 
 everything. With the embassy and Brace, you would manage 
 very well at Paris. Then, I suppose, you would like to go to 
 Italy; that, I apprehend, is your great point. Your mother will 
 not like your going to Borne. Still, at the same time, a man, 
 they say, should see Borne before he dies. I never did. I have 
 never crossed the sea except to go to Ireland. Your grandfather 
 would never let me travel; I wanted to, but he never would. 
 Not, however, for the same reasons which have kept you at 
 home. Suppose you even winter at Borne, which I believe is 
 the right thing, why, you might very well be back by the spring. 
 However, we must manage your mother a little about remaining 
 over the winter — and, on second thoughts, we will get Barnard 
 to go with you, as well as Brace and a physican, and then she 
 will be much more easy. I think, with Brace, Barnard, and a 
 medical man whom we can really trust, Harry Howard at Paris, 
 and the best letters for every other place, which we will consult 
 Lord Eskdale about, I think the danger will not be extreme." 
 
 "I have no wish to see Paris," said Lord Montacute, evidently 
 embarrassed, and making a great effort to relieve his mind of 
 some burthen. "I have no wish to see Paris." 
 
 "I am very glad to hear that," said his father, eagerly. 
 
 " Nor do I wish either to go to Borne," continued his son. 
 
 "Well, well, you have taken a load off my mind, my dear 
 boy. I would not confess it, because I wished to save you pain ;
 
 60 
 
 but really, I believe the idea of your going to Rome would have 
 been a serious shock to your mother. It is not so much the 
 distance, though that is great, nor the climate, which has its 
 dangers, — but, you understand, with her peculiar views, her 
 very strict — " The duke did not care to finish his sentence. 
 
 "Nor, my dear father," continued Lord Monlacute, "though 
 I did not like to interrupt you when you were speaking with so 
 much solicitude and consideration for me, is it exactly travel, in 
 the common acceptation of the term, that I feel the need of. 
 I wish, indeed, to leave England; I wish to make an expedition; 
 a progress to a particular point; without wandering, without 
 any intervening residence. In a word — it is the Holy Land 
 that occupies my thought, and I propose to make a pilgrimage 
 to the sepulchre of my Saviour." 
 
 The duke started, and sank again into his chair. "The 
 Holy Land! The Holy Sepulchre!" he exclaimed, and repeated 
 to himself , staring at his son. 
 
 "Yes, Sir, the Holy Sepulchre," repeated Lord Montacute, 
 and now speaking with his accustomed repose. "When I re- 
 member that the Creator, since light sprang out of darkness, 
 has deigned to reveal himself to his creature only in one land; 
 that in that land he assumed a manly form, and met a human 
 death ; I feel persuaded that the country sanctified by such 
 intercourse and such events, must be endowed with marvellous 
 and peculiar qualities, which man may not in all ages be com- 
 petent to penetrate, but which, nevertheless, at all limes exer- 
 cise an irresistible influence upon his destiny. It is these 
 qualities that many times drew Europe to Asia during the middle 
 centuries. Our castle has before this sent forth a De Montacute 
 to Palestine. For three days and three nights he knelt at the 
 tomb of his Redeemer. Six centuries and more have elapsed 
 since that great enterprise. It is time to restore and renovate our 
 communications with the Most High. I, too, would kneel at
 
 61 
 
 that tomb; I, too, surrounded by the holy hills and sacred 
 groves of Jerusalem, would relieve my spirit from the bale that 
 bows it down ; would lift up my voice to Heaven, and ask, What 
 is Duty, and what is Faith? — What ought I to do, and what 
 
 OUght I tO BELIEVE?" 
 
 The Duke of Bellamont rose from his seat, and walked up 
 and down the room for some minutes, in silence and in deep 
 thought. At length, stopping and leaning against the cabinet, 
 he said, "What has occurred to-day between us, my beloved 
 child, is, you may easily believe, as strange to me as it is 
 agitating. I will think of all you have said; I will try to com- 
 prehend all you mean and wish. I will endeavour to do that 
 which is best and wisest; placing above all things your happi- 
 ness, and not our own. At this moment I am not competent to 
 the task — I need quiet, and to be alone. Your mother, I know, 
 wishes to walk with you this morning. She may be speaking to 
 you of many things. Be silent upon this subject, until I have 
 communicated with her. At present I will ride over to Bella- 
 mont. I must go; and, besides, it will do me good. I never 
 can think very well except in the saddle. If Brace comes, make 
 him dine here. God bless you." 
 
 The duke left the room; his son remained in meditation. 
 The first step was taken. He had poured into the interview of an 
 hour the results of three years of solitary thought. A sound 
 roused him; it was his mother. She had only learnt casually 
 that the duke was gone; she was surprised he had not come into 
 her room before he went; it seemed the first time since their 
 marriage that the duke had gone out without first coming to 
 speak to her. So she went to seek her son , to congratulate him 
 on being a member of Parliament, on representing the county of 
 which they were so fond, and of breaking to him a proposition 
 which she doubted not he would find not less interesting and 
 charming. Happy mother, with her only son, on whom she
 
 62 
 
 doted and of whom she was so justly proud, about to enter public 
 life in which he was sure to distinguish himself, and to marry a 
 woman who was sure to make him happy! With a bounding heart 
 the duchess opened the library door, where she had been in- 
 formed she should find Lord Montacute. She had her bonnet 
 on, ready for the walk of confidence, and, her face flushed with 
 delight, she looked even beautiful. "Ah!" she exclaimed, 
 " I have been looking for you, Tancred ! "
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The duke returned rather late from Bellamont, and -went 
 immediately to his dressing-room. A few minutes before dinner 
 the duchess knocked at his door and entered. She seemed dis- 
 coucerted, and reminded him, though with great gentleness, 
 that he had gone out to-day without first bidding her adieu ; she 
 really believed it was the only time he had done so since their 
 marriage. The duke, who, when she entered, anticipated 
 something about their son, was relieved by her remark, em- 
 braced her, and would have affected a gaiety which he did not 
 really feel. 
 
 "I am glad to hear that Brace dines here to-day, Kate, for I 
 particularly wanted to see him." 
 
 The duchess did not reply, and seemed absent; the duke, 
 to say something, tying his cravat, kept harping upon Brace. 
 
 "Never mind Brace, George," said the duchess; "tell me 
 what is this about Tancred? Why is his coming into Parliament 
 put off?" 
 
 The duke was perplexed ; he wished to know how far at this 
 moment his wife was informed upon the matter; the feminine 
 frankness of the duchess put him out of suspense. " I have been 
 walking with Tancred," she continued, "and intimated, but 
 with great caution, all our plans and hopes. I asked him what 
 he thought of his cousin ; he agrees with us she is by far the most 
 charming girl he knows, and one of the most agreeable. I im- 
 pressed upon him how good she was. I wished to precipitate 
 nothing. I never dreamed of their marrying until late in the au- 
 tumn. I wished him to become acquainted with his new life, 
 which would not prevent him seeing a great deal of Katherine in
 
 64 
 
 London, and then to visit them in Ireland, as you visited us, 
 George; and then, when I was settling everything in the most 
 delightful manner, what he was to do when he was kept up very 
 late at the House, which is the only part I don't like, and beg- 
 ging him to be very strict in making his servant always have coffee 
 ready for him, very hot, and a cold fowl too, or something of 
 the sort, he tells me, to my infinite astonishment, that the va- 
 cancy will not immediately occur, that he is not sorry for it, as 
 he thinks it may be as well that he should go abroad. What can 
 all this mean? Pray tell me; forTancred has told me nothing, 
 and, when I pressed him, waived the subject, and said we would 
 all of us consult together." 
 
 "And so we will, Kate," said the duke, "but hardly at this 
 moment, for dinner must be almost served. To be brief," he 
 added , speaking in a light tone , " there are reasons which per- 
 haps may make it expedient that Hungerford should not resign at 
 the present moment ; and as Tancred has a fancy to travel a little, 
 it may be as well that we should take it into consideration whether 
 he might not profitably occupy the interval in this manner." 
 
 "Profitably!" said the duchess. "I never can understand 
 how going to Paris and Rome, which young men always mean 
 when they talk of travelling, can be profitable to him; it is the 
 very thing which, all my life, I have been endeavouring to 
 prevent. His body and his soul will be both imperilled; Paris 
 will destroy his constitution, and Rome, perhaps, change his 
 faith." 
 
 "I have more confidence in his physical power and his reli- 
 gious principle than you, Kate," said the duke, smiling. "But 
 make yourself easy on these heads ; Tancred told me this morning 
 that he had no wish to visit either Rome or Paris." 
 
 "Well!" exclaimed the duchess, somewhat relieved, "if 
 he wants to make a little tour in Holland, I think I could bear it; 
 It is a Protestant country, and there are no vermin. And then
 
 65 
 
 those dear Disbrowcs, I am sure, would take care of him at the 
 Hague." 
 
 "We will talk of all this to-night, my love ," said the duke ; 
 and offering his arm to his wife, who was more composed, if not 
 more cheerful , they descended to their guests. 
 
 Colonel Brace was there, to the duke's great satisfaction. The 
 colonel had served as a cornet in a dragoon regiment in the last 
 campaign of the Peninsular war, and had marched into Paris. 
 Such an event makes an indelible impression on the memory of a 
 handsome lad of seventeen, and the colonel had not yet finished 
 recounting his strange and fortunate adventures. 
 
 He was tall, robust, a little portly , but, well buckled, still 
 presented a grand military figure. He was what you call a fine 
 man; florid, with still a good head of hair though touched with 
 grey, splendid mustachoes, large fat hands, and a courtly de- 
 meanour, not unmixed with a slight swagger. The colonel was 
 a Montacute man, and had inherited a large house in the town 
 and a small estate in the neighbourhood. Having sold out, he 
 had retired to his native place , where he had become a consider- 
 able personage. The duke had put him in the commission, and 
 he was the active magistrate of the district; he had reorganised 
 the Bellamont regiment of yeomanry cavalry, which had fallen 
 into sad decay during the late duke's time, but which now, with 
 Brace for its lieutenant-colonel , was second to none in the king- 
 dom. Colonel Brace was one of the best shots in the county; 
 certainly the boldest rider among the heavy weights; and bore 
 the palm from all with the rod, and that, too, in a county fa- 
 mous for its feats in lake and river. The colonel was a man of 
 greatenergy, of good temper, of ready resource, frank, a little 
 coarse, but hearty and honest. He adored the Duke and Duchess 
 of Bellamont. He was sincere; he was not a parasite; he really 
 believed that they were the best people in the world, audi am 
 not sure that he had not some foundation for his faith. On the 
 
 Tutured. 1. 5
 
 66 
 
 whole, he might be esteemed the duke's right-hand man. His 
 grace generally consulted the colonel on county affairs; the com- 
 mand of the yeomanry alone gave him a considerable position; 
 he was the chief also of the militia staff; could give his opinion 
 whether a person was to be made a magistrate or not; and had 
 even been called into council when there was a question of ap- 
 pointing a deputy-lieutenant. The colonel, who was a leading 
 member of the corporation of Montacute, had taken care to be 
 chosen mayor this year; he had been also chairman of the Com- 
 mittee of Management during the celebration of Tancred's majo- 
 rity ; had had the entire ordering of the fireworks , and was gene- 
 rally supposed to have given the design, or at least the leading 
 idea, for the transparency. 
 
 We should notice also Mr. Bernard, a clergyman, and recently 
 the private tutor of Lord Montacute, a good scholar; in eccle- 
 siastical opinions, what is called high and dry. He was about 
 five-and-thirty ; well-looking, bashful. The duke intended to 
 prefer him to a living when one was vacant; in the mean time he 
 remained in the family, and at present discharged the duties of 
 chaplain aud librarian at Montacute, and occasionally assisted 
 the duke as a private secretary. Of his life one-third had been 
 passed at a rural home , and the rest might be nearly divided be- 
 tween school and college. 
 
 These gentlemen, the distinguished and numerous family of 
 the Montacute Mountjoys, young Hungerford, whom the duke 
 had good-naturedly brought over from Bellamont for the sake of 
 the young ladies, the duke and duchess, and their son, formed 
 the party , which presented rather a contrast, not only in its num- 
 bers, to the series of recent banquets. They dined in the Monta- 
 cute chamber. The party, without intending it, was rather dull 
 and silent. The duchess was brooding over the disappointment 
 of the morning; the duke trembled for the disclosures of the 
 morrow. The Misses Mountjoy sang better than they talked;
 
 67 
 
 their mother, who was more lively, was seated by the duke, and 
 confined her powers of pleasing to him. The Honourable and 
 Reverend Montacute himself was an epicure, and disliked con- 
 versation during dinner. Lord Montacute spoke to Mr. Hunger- 
 ford across the table, but Mr. Hungerford was whispering des- 
 pairing nothings in the ear of Arabella Mountjoy, and replied to 
 his question without originating any in return, which of course 
 terminates talk. 
 
 When the second course had arrived, the duke, who wanted 
 a little more noise and distraction, fired off in despair a shot at 
 Colonel Brace , who was on the left hand of the duchess , and set 
 him on his yeomanry charger. From this moment affairs im- 
 proved. The colonel made continual charges, and carried all 
 before him. Nothing could be more noisy in a genteel way. His 
 voice sounded like the bray of a trumpet amid the din of arms ; it 
 seemed that the moment he began , everybody and everything be- 
 came animated and inspired by his example. All talked ; the duke 
 set them the fashion of taking wine with each other ; Lord Monta- 
 cute managed to entrap Araminta Mountjoy into a narrative in 
 detail of her morning's ride and adventures ; and, affecting scep- 
 ticism as to some of the incidents, and wonder at some of the 
 feats, produced a considerable addition to the general hubbub, 
 which he instinctively felt that his father wished to encourage. 
 
 "I don't know whether it was the Great Western or the South 
 Eastern," continued Colonel Brace; "but I know his leg is 
 broken." 
 
 "God bless me!" said the duke; "and only think of my not 
 hearing of it at Bellamont to-day ! " 
 
 "I don't suppose they know anything about it," replied the 
 colonel. "The way I know it is this: I was with Roby to-day, 
 when the post came in, and he said to me. 'Here is a letter from 
 Lady Malpas ; I hope nothing is the matter with Sir Russell or any 
 of the children.' And then it all came out. The train was blown 
 
 5*
 
 68 
 
 up behind ; Sir Russell was in a centre carriage, and was pitched 
 right into a field. They took him into an inn, put him to bed, 
 and sent for some of the top sawyers from London , Sir Benjamin 
 Brodie, and that sort of thing; and the moment Sir Russell came 
 to himself, he said , « I must have Roby — send for Roby— Roby 
 knows my constitution.' And they sent for Roby. And I think 
 he was right. The quantity of young officers I have seen sent 
 rightabout in the Peninsula, because they were attended by a 
 parcel of men who knew nothing of their constitution! Why, 
 I might have lost my own leg once , if I had not been sharp. I got 
 a scratch in a little affair at Almeidas , charging the enemy a little 
 too briskly — « but we really ought not to speak of these things 
 before the ladies • — " 
 
 "My dear colonel," said Lord Montacute, "on the contrary, 
 there is nothing more interesting to them. Miss Mountjoy was 
 only saying yesterday, that there was nothing she found so dif- 
 ficult to understand as the account of a battle , and how much she 
 wished to comprehend it." 
 
 "That is because, in general, they are not written by sol- 
 diers," said the colonel; "but Napier's battles are very clear. 
 I could fight every one of them on this table. That 's a great book, 
 that history of Napier; it has faults, but they are rather omissions 
 than mistakes. Now that affair of Almeidas of which I was just 
 speaking, and which nearly cost me my leg, it is very odd, but 
 he has omitted mentioning it altogether." 
 
 "But you saved your leg, colonel," said the duke. 
 
 "Yes, I had the honour of marching into Paris, and that is 
 an event not very easy to be forgotten, let me tell your grace. 
 I saved my leg because I knew my constitution. For the very 
 same reason by which I hope Sir Russell Malpas will save his 
 leg. Because he will be attended by a person who knows his 
 constitution. He never did a wiser thing than sending for Roby. 
 For my part, if I were in garrison at Gibraltar to-morrow, and
 
 60 
 
 laid up, I would do the same; I would send for Roby. In all 
 these things, depend upon it, knowing the constitution is hall' 
 the battle." 
 
 All this time, while Colonel Brace was indulging in his gar- 
 rulous comments, the Duke of Bellamont was drawing his moral. 
 He had a great opinion of Mr. Roby, who was the medical attend- 
 ant of the castle, and an able man. Mr. Roby was perfectly 
 acquainted with the constitution of his son ; Mr. Roby must go to 
 the Holy Sepulchre. Cost what it might, Mr. Roby must be sent 
 to Jerusalem. The duke was calculating all this time the income 
 that Mr. Roby made. He would not put it down at more than five 
 hundred pounds per annum, and a third of that was certainly 
 afforded by the castle. The duke determined to offer Roby a 
 thousand and his expenses to attend Lord Montacute. He would 
 not be more than a year absent, and his practice could hardly 
 seriously suffer while away, backed as he would be, when he 
 returned, by the castle. And if it did, the duke must guarantee 
 Roby against loss; it was a necessity, absolute and of the first 
 class, that Tancred should be attended by a medical man who 
 knew his constitution. The duke agreed with Colonel Brace that 
 it was half the battle.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "Miserable mother that I am!" exclaimed the duchess, and 
 she clasped her hands in anguish. 
 
 "My dearest Katherine!" said the duke, "calm yourself." 
 
 "You ought to have prevented this, George; you ought never 
 to have let things come to this pass." 
 
 "But, my dearest Katherine, the blow was as unlooked for 
 by me as by yourself. I had not, how could I have, a remote 
 suspicion of what was passing through his mind? " 
 
 "What, then, is the use of your boasted confidence with your 
 child , which you tell me you have always cultivated? Had I been 
 his father, I would have discovered his secret thoughts." 
 
 "Very possibly, my dear Katherine; but you are at least his 
 mother, tenderly loving him, and tenderly loved by him. The 
 intercourse between you has ever been of an extreme intimacy, 
 and especially on the subjects connected with this fancy of his — 
 and yet, you see, even you are completely taken by surprise." 
 
 "I once had a suspicion he was inclined to the Puseyite 
 heresy, and I spoke to Mr. Bernard on the subject, and after- 
 wards to him, but I was convinced that I was in error. I am 
 sure," added the duchess, in a mournful tone, "I have lost no 
 opportunity of instilling into him the principles of religious 
 truth. It was only last year, on his birthday, that I sent him a 
 complete set of the publications of the Parker Society, my own 
 copy of Jewel — full of notes, and my grandfather, the primate's, 
 manuscript commentary ou Chillingworth; a copy made pur- 
 posely by myself." 
 
 "I well know," said the duke, "that you have done every-
 
 71 
 
 thing for his spiritual welfare which ability and affection com- 
 bined could suggest." 
 
 " And it ends in this ! " exclaimed the duchess. " The Holy 
 Land! Why, if he even reach it, the climate is certain death. 
 The curse of the Almighty, for more than eighteen centuries, 
 has been on that land. Every year it has become more sterile, 
 more savage, more unwholesome, and more unearthly. It is 
 the abomination of desolation. And now my son is to go there ! 
 Oh! he is lost to us for ever!" 
 
 "But, my dear Katherine, let us consult a little." 
 "Consult! Why should I consult? You have settled every- 
 thing, you have agreed to everything. You do not come here to 
 consult me; I understand all that; you come here to break a fore- 
 gone conclusion to a weak and miserable woman." 
 " Do not say such things , Katherine ! " 
 "What should I say? What can I say?" 
 "Anything but that. I hope that nothing will be ever done in 
 this family w ithout your full sanction." 
 
 "Rest assured, then, that I will never sanction the departure 
 of Tancred on this crusade." 
 
 "Then he will never go — at least, with my consent," said 
 the duke; "but Katherine, assist me, my dear wife. All shall 
 be — shall ever be, as you wish; but I shrink from being placed 
 — from our being placed — in collision with our child. The 
 mere exercise of parental authority is a last resource; I would 
 appeal first, rather to his reason , to his heart — your arguments, 
 his affection for us, may yet influence him." 
 
 "You tell me you have argued with him," said the duchess, 
 in a melancholy tone. 
 
 "Yes, but you know so much more on these subjects than I 
 do — indeed, upon all subjects; you are so clever, that I do not 
 despair, my dear Ratherine* of your producing an impression 
 on him."
 
 72 
 
 "I would tell him at once," said the duchess, firmly, "that 
 the proposition cannot be listened to." 
 
 The duke looked very distressed. After a momentary pause, 
 he said, "If, indeed, you think that the best; but let us con- 
 sult before we take that step, because it would seem to terminate 
 all discussion, and discussion may yet do good. Besides, I 
 cannot conceal from myself thatTancred in this affair is acting 
 under the influence of very powerful motives; his feelings are 
 highly strung; you have no idea — you can have no idea from 
 what we have seen of him hitherto, how excited he is. I had no 
 idea of his being capable of such excitement. I always thought 
 him so very calm, and of such a quiet turn. And so, in short, 
 my dear Katherine, were we to be abrupt at this moment, per- 
 emptory, you understand, I — I — should not be surprised, 
 were Tancred to go without our permission." 
 
 "Impossible!" exclaimed the duchess, starting in her chair, 
 but with as much consternation as confidence in her countenance. 
 "Throughout his life, he has never disobeyed us." 
 
 "And that is an additional reason," said the duke, quietly, 
 but in his sweetest tone, "why we should not treat as a light 
 ebullition this first instance of his preferring his own will to that 
 of his father and mother." 
 
 "He has been so much away from us these last three years," 
 said the duchess, in a tone of great depression, "and they are 
 such important years in the formation of character! But Mr. 
 Bernard, he ought to have been aware of all this — he ought to 
 have known what was passing through his pupil's mind ; he ought 
 to have warned us. Let us speak to him — let us speak to him 
 at once. Bing, my dear George, and request the attendance 
 of Mr. Bernard." 
 
 That gentleman, who was in the library, kept them waiting 
 but a few minutes. As he entered the room, he perceived, by 
 the countenances of his noble patrons, that something remark-
 
 73 
 
 able, and probably not agreeable, had occurred. The duke 
 opened the case to Mr. Bernard with calmness; he gave an out- 
 line of the great catastrophe ; the duchess filled up the parts, and 
 invested the whole with a rich and even terrible colouring. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the astonishment of the late private 
 tutor of Lord Montacute. He was fairly overcome : the commu- 
 nication itself was startling, the accessaries overwhelmed him. 
 The unspoken reproaches that beamed from the duke's mild eye ; 
 the withering glance of maternal desolation that met him from the 
 duchess; the rapidity of her anxious and agitated questions; — 
 all were too much for the simple, though correct, mind of one 
 unused to those passionate developments which are commonly 
 called scenes. All that Mr. Bernard for some time could do was 
 to sit with his eyes staring and mouth open, and repeat, with a 
 bewildered air, "The Holy Land — the Holy Sepulchre!" No, 
 most certainly not; most assuredly; never in any way, by any 
 word or deed, had Lord Montacute ever given him reason to sup- 
 pose or imagine that his lordship intended to make a pilgrimage 
 to the Holy Sepulchre , or that he was influenced by any of those 
 views and opinions which he had so strangely and so uncompro- 
 misingly expressed to his father. 
 
 "But, Mr. Bernard, you have been his companion, his in- 
 structor, for many years," continued the duchess, "for the last 
 three years especially, years so important in the formation of 
 character. You have seen much more of Montacute than we 
 have. Surely you must have had some idea of what was passing 
 in his mind; you could not help knowing it; you ought to have 
 known it; you ought to have warned — to have prepared us." 
 
 "Madam," at length said Mr. Bernard, more collected, and 
 feeling the necessity and excitement of self-vindication — 
 "Madam, your noble son, under my poor tuition, has taken the 
 highest honours of his university; his moral behaviour during 
 that period has been immaculate; and as for his religious senti-
 
 74 
 
 merits, even this strange scheme proves that they are, at any rale, 
 of no light and equivocal character." 
 
 "To lose such a son!" exclaimed the duchess, in a tone of 
 anguish, and with streaming eyes. 
 
 The duke took her hand, and would have soothed her; and 
 then, turning to Mr. Bernard, he said, in a lowered tone, "We 
 are very sensible how much we owe you; the duchess equally 
 with myself. All we regret is, that some of us had not obtained 
 a more intimate aaquaintance with the character of my son than 
 it appears we have acquired." 
 
 "My lord duke," said Mr. Bernard, "had yourself or her 
 grace ever spoken to me on this subject, I would have taken the 
 liberty of expressing what I say now. I have ever found Lord 
 Montacute inscrutable. He has formed himself in solitude, and 
 has ever repelled any advance to intimacy, either from those who 
 were his inferiors or his equals in station. He has never had a 
 companion. As for myself, during the ten years that I have had 
 the honour of being connected with him, I cannot recall a word 
 or a deed on his part which towards me has not been courteous 
 and considerate; but as a child he was shy and silent, and as a 
 man, for I have looked upon him as a man in mind for these four 
 or even five years, he has employed me as his machine to obtain 
 knowledge. It is not very flattering to one's self to make these 
 confessions, but at Oxford he had the opportunity of communi- 
 cating with some of the most eminent men of our time, and I 
 have always learnt from them the same result. Lord Montacute 
 never disburthened. His passion for study has been ardent; his 
 power of application is very great; his attention unwearied as 
 long as there is anything to acquire; but he never seeks your 
 opinions, and never offers his own. The interview of yester- 
 day with your grace is the only exception with which I am ac- 
 quainted, and at length throws some light on the mysteries of his 
 mind."
 
 75 
 
 The duke looked sad; his wife seemed plunged in profound 
 thought; there was a silence of many moments. At length the 
 duchess looked up, and said, in a calmer tone, and with an air 
 of great seriousness, "It seems that we have mistaken the cha- 
 racter of our son. Thank you very much for coming to us so 
 quickly in our trouble, Mr. Bernard. It was very kind, as you 
 always are." Mr. Bernard took the hint, rose, bowed, and 
 retired. 
 
 The moment that he had quitted the room, the eyes of the 
 Duke and Duchess of Bellamont met. Who was to speak first? 
 The duke had nothing to say, and therefore he had the ad- 
 vantage ; the duchess wished her husband to break the silence, 
 but, having something to say herself, she could not refrain from 
 interrupting it. So she said, with a tearful eye, "Well, George, 
 what do you think we ought to do?" 
 
 The duke had a great mind to propose his plan of sending 
 Tancred to Jerusalem, with Colonel Brace, Mr. Bernard, and 
 Mr. Boby, to take care of him, but he hardly thought the occa- 
 sion was ripe enough for that; and so he suggested that the 
 duchess should speak to Tancred herself. 
 
 "No," said her grace, shaking her head, "I think it better 
 for me to be silent; at least at present. It is necessary, however, 
 that the most energetic means should be adopted to save him, 
 nor is there a moment to be lost. We must shrink from nothing 
 for such an object. I have a plan. We will put the whole matter 
 in the hands of our friend, the bishop. We will get him to speak 
 to Tancred. I entertain not a doubt that the bishop will put his 
 mind all right; clear all his doubts; remove all his scruples. 
 The bishop is the only person, because, you see, it is a case 
 political as well as theological, and the bishop is a great states- 
 man as well as the first theologian of the age. Depend upon it, 
 my dear George, that this is the wisest course, and, with the 
 blessing of Providence, will effect our purpose. It is, perhaps,
 
 76 
 
 asking a good deal of the bishop, considering his important and 
 multifarious duties, to undertake this office, but we must not 
 be delicate when everything is at stake; and, considering he 
 christened and confirmed Tancred, and our long friendship, it 
 is quite out of the question that he can refuse. However, there 
 is no time to be lost. We must get to town as soon as possible ; 
 to-morrow, if we can. I shall advance affairs by writing to the 
 bishop on the subject, and giving him an outline of the case, so 
 that he may be prepared to see Tancred at once on our arrival. 
 What think you, George, of my plan?" 
 
 "I think it quite admirable," replied his grace, only too 
 happy that there was at least a prospect of a lull of a few days in 
 this great embarrassment.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 About the time of the marriage of the Duchess of Bellamont, 
 her noble family, and a few of their friends, some of whom also 
 believed in the millennium, were persuaded that the conversion 
 of the Roman Catholic population of Ireland to the true faith, 
 which was their own, was at hand. They had subscribed very 
 liberally for the purpose, and formed an amazing number of 
 sub-committees. As long as their funds lasted, their missio- 
 naries found proselytes. It was the last desperate effort of a 
 Church that had from the first betrayed its trust. Twenty years 
 ago, statistics not being so much in vogue, and the people of 
 England being in the full efflorescence of that public ignorance 
 which permitted them to believe themselves the most enlightened 
 nation in the world, the Irish "difficulty" was not quite so well 
 understood as at the present day. It was then an established 
 doctrine, that all that was necessary for Ireland was more Pro- 
 testantism, and it was supposed to be not more difficult to supply 
 the Irish with Protestantism than it had proved, in the instance 
 of a recent famine, (1822,) to furnish them with potatoes. What 
 was principally wanted in both cases were — subscriptions. 
 
 When the English public, therefore, were assured by their 
 co-religionists on the other side of St. George's Channel, that at 
 last the good work was doing, that the flame spread, even ra- 
 pidly — that not only parishes but provinces were all agog — and 
 that both town aud country were quite in a heat of proselytism, 
 they began to believe that at last the scarlet lady was about to be 
 dethroned ; they loosened their purse-strings ; fathers of families 
 contributed their zealous five pounds, followed by every other 
 member of the household , to the babe in arms , who subscribed
 
 78 
 
 its fanatical five shillings. The affair looked well. The journals 
 teemed with lists of proselytes and cases of conversion ; and even 
 orderly, orthodox people, who were firm in their own faith, but 
 wished others to be permitted to pursue their errors in peace, 
 began to congratulate each other on the prospect of our last be- 
 coming a united Protestant people. 
 
 In the blaze and thick of the affair, Irish Protestants jubilant, 
 Irish Papists denouncing the whole movement as fraud and 
 trumpery, John Bull perplexed, but excited, and still sub- 
 scribing, a young bishop rose in his place in the House of Lords, 
 and , with a vehemence there unusual , declared that he saw " the 
 finger of God in this second Reformation," and pursuing the 
 prophetic vein and manner, denounced "woe to those who 
 should presume to lift up their hands and voices in vain and im- 
 potent attempts to stem the flood of light that was bursting over 
 Ireland." 
 
 In him, who thus plainly discerned "the finger of God" in 
 transactions in which her family and feelings were so deeply in- 
 terested, the young and enthusiastic Duchess of Bellamont in- 
 stantly recognised the "man of God;" and, from that moment 
 the right reverend prelate became, in all spiritual affairs, her 
 infallible instructor, although the impending second Reforma- 
 tion did chance to take the untoward form of the emancipation of 
 the Roman Catholics, followed in due season by the destruction 
 of Protestant bishoprics, the sequestration of Protestant tithes, 
 and the endowment of Maynooth. 
 
 In speculating on the fate of public institutions and the course 
 of public affairs, it is important that we should not permit our 
 attention to be engrossed by the principles on which they are 
 founded and the circumstances which they present, but that we 
 should also remember how much depends upon the character of 
 the indhiduals who are in the position to superintend or to 
 direct them.
 
 79 
 
 The Church of England, mainly from its deficiency of oriental 
 knowledge, and from a misconception of the priestly character 
 which has been the consequence of that want, has fallen of late 
 years into great straits ; nor has there ever been a season when it 
 has more needed for its guides men possessing the higher qua- 
 lities both of intellect and disposition. About five-and-twenty 
 years ago, it began to be discerned that the time had gone by , at 
 least in England, for bishoprics to serve as appauages for the 
 younger sons of great families. The Arch-Mediocrity who then 
 governed this country, and the mean tenor of whose prolonged 
 administration we have delineated in another work, was im- 
 pressed with the necessity of reconstructing the episcopal bench 
 on principles of personal distinction and ability. But his notion 
 of clerical capacity did not soar higher than a private tutor who 
 had suckled a young noble into university honours; and his test 
 of priestly celebrity was the decent editorship of a Greek play. 
 He sought for the successors of the apostles, for the stewards 
 of the mysteries of Sinai and of Calvary, among third-rate hunters 
 after syllables. These men, notwithstanding their elevation, with 
 one exception, subsided into their native insignificance; and 
 during our agitated age, when the principles of all institutions, 
 sacred and secular, have been called in question; when, alike 
 in the senate and the market-place, both the doctrine and the 
 discipline of the Church have been impugned, its power assailed, 
 its authority denied, the amount of its revenues investigated, 
 their disposition criticised, and both attacked; not a voice has 
 been raised by these mitred nullities, either to warn or to vin- 
 dicate; not a phrase has escaped their lips or their pens, that 
 ever influenced public opinion, touched the heart of nations, or 
 guided the conscience of a perplexed people. If they were ever 
 heard of, it was that they had been pelted in a riot. 
 
 The exception which we have mentioned to their sorry careers, 
 was that of the too adventurous prophet of the second Reforma-
 
 80 
 
 tion; the duclor dubitantium appealed to by the Duchess of Bel- 
 lainont, to convince her son that the principles of religious truth, 
 as well as of political justice, required no further investigation — 
 at least by young marquesses. 
 
 The ready audacity with which this right reverend prelate had 
 stood sponsor for the second Reformation is a key to his cha- 
 racter. He combined a great talent for action with very limited 
 powers of thought. Bustling, energetic, versatile, gifted with 
 an indomitable perseverance, and stimulated by an ambition that 
 knew no repose, with a capacity for mastering details and an in- 
 ordinate passion for affairs, he could permit nothing to be done 
 without his interference, and consequently was perpetually in- 
 volved in transactions which were either failures or blunders. 
 He was one of those leaders who are not guides. Having little 
 real knowledge , and not endowed with those high qualities of in- 
 tellect which permit their possessor to generalize the details af- 
 forded by study and experience, and so deduce rules of conduct, 
 his lordship, when he received those frequent appeals which 
 were the necessary consequence of his officious life, became 
 obscure, confused, contradictory, inconsistent, illogical. The 
 oracle was always dark. Placed in a high post in an age of poli- 
 tical analysis, the bustling intermeddler was unable to supply 
 society with a single solution. Enunciating second-hand, with 
 characteristic precipitation, some big principle in vogue, as if 
 he were a discoverer, he invariably shrank from its subsequent 
 application, the moment that he found it might be unpopular and 
 inconvenient. All his quandaries terminated in the same ca- 
 tastrophe — a compromise. Abstract principles with him ever 
 ended in concrete expediency. The aggregate of circumstances 
 outweighed the isolated cause. The primordial tenet, which had 
 been advocated with uncompromising arrogance, gently subsided 
 into some second-rate measure recommended with all the artifice 
 of an impenetrable ambiguity.
 
 SI 
 
 Beginning with the second Reformation, which was a little 
 rash but dashing, the bishop, always ready, had in the course 
 of his episcopal career placed himself at the head of every move- 
 ment in the church which others had originated, and had as 
 regularly withdrawn at the right moment, when the heat was 
 over, or had become, on the contrary, excessive. Furiously 
 evangelical, soberly high and dry, and fervently Puseyite, each 
 phasis of his faith concludes with what the Spaniards term a 
 "transaction." The saints are to have their new churches, but 
 they are also to have their rubrics and their canons; the univer- 
 sities may supply successors to the apostles, but they are also 
 presented with a church commission; even the Puseyites may 
 have candles on their altars , but they must not be lighted. 
 
 It will be seen, therefore, that his lordship was one of those 
 characters not ill-adapted to an eminent station in an age like the 
 present, and in a country like our own; an age of movement, 
 but of confused ideas; a country of progress, but too rich to 
 risk much chauge. Under these circumstances, the spirit of a 
 period and a people seeks a safety-valve in — bustle. They do 
 something, lest it be said that they do nothing. At such a time, 
 ministers recommend their measures as experiments, and par- 
 liaments are ever ready to rescind their votes. Find a man who, 
 totally destitute of genius, possesses nevertheless considerable 
 talents; who has official aptitude, a volubility of routine rheto- 
 ric, great perseverance, a love of affairs; who, embarrassed 
 neither by the principles of the philosopher nor by the prejudices 
 of the bigot, can assume, with a cautious facility, the prevalent 
 tone, and disembarrass himself of it with a dexterous ambiguity, 
 the moment it ceases to be predominant; recommending himself 
 to the innovator by his approbation of change "in the abstract," 
 and to the conservative by his prudential and practical respect for 
 that which is established; such a man, though he be one of an 
 essentially small mind, though his intellectual qualities be less 
 
 Tuncred. 1. (j
 
 82 
 
 than moderate, with feeble powers of thought, no imagination, 
 contracted sympathies, and a most loose public morality; — 
 such a man is the individual whom kings and parliaments would 
 select to govern the State or rule the Church. Change, "in the 
 abstract," is what is wanted by a people who are at the same 
 time inquiring and wealthy. Instead of statesmen, they desire 
 shufflers; and compromise in conduct and ambiguity in speech 
 are — though nobody will confess it — the public qualities now 
 most in vogue. 
 
 Not exactly, however, those calculated to meet the case of 
 Tancred. The interview was long, for Tancred listened with 
 apparent respect and deference to the individual under whose 
 auspices he had entered the Church of Christ; but the replies to 
 his inquiries, though more adroit than the duke's, were in reality 
 not more satisfactory, and could not, in any way, meet the 
 inexorable logic of Lord Montacute. The bishop was as little 
 able as the duke to indicate the principle on which the present 
 order of things in England was founded ; neither faith nor its 
 consequence, duty, were at all illustrated or invigorated by his 
 handling. He utterly failed in reconciling a belief in ecclesiasti- 
 cal truth with the support of religious dissent. When he tried 
 to define in whom the power of government should repose, he 
 was lost in a maze of phrases, and afforded his pupil not a 
 single fact. 
 
 "It cannot be denied," at length said Tancred, with great 
 calmness, "that society was once regulated by God, and that 
 now it is regulated by man. For my part, I prefer divine to 
 self-government , and I wish to know how it is to be attained." 
 
 "The Church represents God upon earth," said the bishop. 
 
 "But the Church no longer governs man," replied Tancred. 
 
 "There is a great spirit rising in the Church," observed the 
 bishop , with thoughtful solemnity — "a great and excellent spi- 
 rit. The Church of 1845 is not the Church of 1715. We must
 
 83 
 
 remember that; we know not what may happen. We shall soon 
 see a bishop at Manchester." 
 
 "But I want to see an angel at Manchester." 
 
 "An angel!" 
 
 "Why not? Why should there not be heavenly messengers, 
 when heavenly messages are most wanted?" 
 
 "We have received a heavenly message by one greater than 
 theangels," said the bishop. "Their visits to man ceased with 
 the mightier advent." 
 
 "Then why did angels appear to Mary and her companions at 
 the holy tomb?" inquired Tancred. 
 
 The interview from which so much was anticipated was not 
 satisfactory. The eminent prelate did not realize Tancred's ideal 
 of a bishop, while his lordship did not hesitate to declare that 
 Lord Montacute was a visionary.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 When the duchess found that the interview with the bishop 
 had been fruitless of the anticipated results, she was staggered, 
 disheartened; but she was a woman of too high a spirit to suc- 
 cumb under a first defeat. She was of opinion that his lordship 
 had misunderstood the case, or had mismanaged it; her confi- 
 dence in him , too , was not so illimitable since he had permitted 
 the Puseyites to have candles on their altars, although he had 
 forbidden their being lighted, as when he had declared, twenty 
 years before, that the finger of God was about to protestantize 
 Ireland. His lordship had said and had done many things since 
 that time, which had occasioned the duchess many misgivings, 
 although she had chosen that they should not occur to her recol- 
 lection until he failed in convincing her son that religious truth 
 v. as to be found iu the parish of St. James, and political justice 
 in the happy haunts of Moutacute forest. 
 
 The bishop had voted for the Church Temporalities' Bill, in 
 1833, which at one swoop had suppressed ten Irish episcopates. 
 This was a queer suffrage for the apostle of the second Reforma- 
 tion. True it is that Whiggism was then in the ascendant, and, 
 two years afterwards, when Whiggism had received a heavy blow 
 and great discouragement; when we had been blessed in the 
 interval with a decided though feeble Conservativ e administration, 
 and were blessed at the moment with a strong though undecided 
 Conservative opposition; his lordship, with characteristic acti- 
 vity, had galloped across country into the right line again, de- 
 nounced the Appropriation Clause in a spirit worthy of his earlier 
 days, and, quite forgetting the ten Irish Bishoprics, that only
 
 85 
 
 four-and-twenty months before he had doomed to destruction, 
 was all for proselytising Ireland again by the efficacious means of 
 Irish Protestant bishops. 
 
 "The bishop says that Tancred is a visionary," said the 
 duchess to her husband , with an air of great displeasure. "Why, 
 it is because he is a visionary that we sent him to the bishop. I 
 want to have his false imaginings removed by one who has the 
 competent powers of learning and argument, and the authority of 
 a high and holy office. A visionary, indeed! Why, so are the 
 Puseyites; they are visionaries, and his lordship has been 
 obliged to deal with them; though, to be sure, if he spoke to 
 Tancred in a similar fashion , I am not surprised that my son has 
 returned unchanged! This is the most vexatious business that 
 ever occurred to us. Something must be done; but what to fix 
 on? What do you think, George? Since speaking to the 
 bishop, of which you so much approved, has failed, what do 
 you recommend?" 
 
 While the duchess was speaking, she was seated in her 
 boudoir, looking into the Green Park ; the duke's horses were in 
 the court-yard, and he was about to ride down to the House of 
 Lords; he had just looked in , as was his custom, to say far well 
 till they met again. 
 
 "I am sorry that the interview with the bishop has failed," 
 said the duke, in a hesitating tone and playing with his riding- 
 stick; and then walking up to the window and looking into the 
 Park, he said, apparently after reflection, "I always think 
 the best person to deal with a visionary is a man of the world." 
 
 "But what can men of the world know of such questions?" 
 said the duchess, mournfully. 
 
 "Very little," said her husband, "and therefore they are 
 never betrayed into arguments, v\hich I fancy always make people 
 more obstinate, even if they are confuted. Men of the world
 
 86 
 
 have a knack of settling everything without discussion ; they do it 
 by tact. It is astonishing how many difficulties I have seen re- 
 moved — by Eskdale, for example — which it seemed that no 
 power on earth could change, and about which we had been ar- 
 guing for months. There was the Cheadle churches case, for 
 example; it broke up some of the oldest friendships in the 
 county; even Hungerford and Ilderton did not speak. I never 
 had a more anxious time of it; and, as far as I was personally 
 concerned, I would have made any sacrifice to keep a good un- 
 derstanding in the county. At last I got the business referred to 
 Eskdale, and the affair was ultimately arranged to everybody's 
 satisfaction. I don't know how he managed : it was quite impos- 
 sible that he could have offered any new arguments; but he did 
 it by tact. Tact does not remove difficulties, but difficulties melt 
 away under tact." 
 
 "Heigho!" sighed the duchess. "I cannot understand how 
 tact can tell us what is religious truth, or prevent my son from 
 going to the Holy Sepulchre." 
 
 "Try," said the duke. 
 
 "Shall you see our cousin to-day, George?" 
 
 "He is sure to be at the House," replied the duke, eagerly. 
 "I tell you what I propose, Rate: — Tancred is gone to the 
 House of Commons to hear the debate on Maynooth; I will try 
 and get our cousin to come home and dine with us, and then we 
 can talk over the whole affair at once. What say you?" 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 "We have failed with a bishop; we will now try a man 
 of the world; and if we are to have a man of the world, we 
 had better have a first-rate one, and everybody agrees that our 
 cousin — " 
 
 "Yes, yes, George," said the duchess, "ask him to come; 
 tell him it is very urgent, that we must consult him immediately;
 
 87 
 
 and then if he be engaged, I dare say he will manage to come all 
 the same." 
 
 Accordingly, about half-past eight o'clock, the two peers 
 arrived at Bellamont House together. They were unexpectedly 
 late; they had been detained at the House. The duke was ex- 
 cited; even Lord Eskdale looked as if something had happened. 
 Something had happened ; there had been a division in the House 
 of Lords. Rare and startling event! It seemed as if the peers 
 were about to resume their functions. Divisions in the House of 
 Lords are nowadays so thinly scattered, that, when one occurs, 
 the peers cackle as if they had laid an egg. They are quite proud 
 of the proof of their still procreative powers. The division to- 
 night had not been on a subject of any public interest or import- 
 ance; but still it was a division, and, what was more, the 
 government had been left in a minority. True, the catastrophe 
 was occasioned by a mistake. The dictator had been asleep 
 during the debate, woke suddenly from a dyspeptic dream, would 
 make a speech, and spoke on the wrong side. A lively colleague, 
 not yet sufficiently broken in to the frigid discipline of the High 
 Court of Registry, had pulled the great man once by his coat tails, 
 a House of Commons practice, permitted to the Cabinet when 
 their chief is blundering, very necessary sometimes for a lively 
 leader, but of which Sir Robert highly disapproves, as the ar- 
 rangement of his coat tails, next to beating the red box, forms 
 the most important part of his rhetorical accessaries. The 
 dictator, when he at length comprehended that he had made a 
 mistake, persisted in adhering to it; the division was called, 
 some of the officials escaped, the rest were obliged to vote with 
 their ruthless master; but his other friends, glad of an opportu- 
 nity of asserting their independence and administering to the 
 dictator a slight check in a quiet inoffensise way, put him in a 
 minority; and the Duke of Bellamont and Lord Eskdale had con- 
 tributed to this catastrophe.
 
 88 
 
 Dinner was served in the library; the conversation during it 
 was chiefly the event of the morning. The duchess, who, though 
 not a partisan, was something of a politician, thought it was a 
 pity that the dictator had ever stepped out of his military sphere ; 
 her husband , who had never before seen a man's coat tails pulled 
 when he was speaking, dilated much upon the singular circum- 
 stance of Lord Spur so disporting himself on the present occa- 
 sion; while Lord Eskdale, who had sate for a long time in the 
 House of Commons, and who was used to everything, assured 
 his cousin that the custom, though odd, was by no means irre- 
 gular. "I remember," said his lordship, "seeing Ripon, when 
 he was Robinson, and Huskisson, each pulling one ofCanning's 
 coat tails at the same time." 
 
 Throughout dinner not a word about Tancred. Lord Eskdale 
 neither asked where he was nor how he was. At length, to the 
 great relief of the duchess, dinner was finished; the servants 
 had disappeared. The duke pushed away the table; they drew 
 their chairs round the hearth; Lord Eskdale took half a glass of 
 Madeira, then stretched his legs a little, then rose, stirred the 
 fire, and then, standing with his back to it and his hands in his 
 pockets, said, in a careless tone approaching to a drawl, "And 
 so, duchess, Tancred wants to go to Jerusalem?" 
 
 "George has told you, then, all our troubles?" 
 
 "Only that; he left the rest to you, and I came to hear it." 
 
 Whereupon the duchess went off, and spoke for a consi- 
 derable time with great animation and ability, the duke hanging 
 on every word with vigilant interest, Lord Eskdale never inter- 
 rupting her for an instant; while she stated the case not only 
 with the impassioned feeling of a devoted mother, but occa- 
 sionally with all the profundity of a theologian. She did not 
 conceal from him the interview between Tancred and the bishop ; 
 it was her last effort, and had failed; and so, "after all our
 
 89 
 
 plans," she ended, "as far as I can form an opinion, he is 
 absolutely more resolved than ever to go to Jerusalem." 
 
 "Well," said his lordship, "it's at least betterthan going 
 to the Jews, which most men do at his time of life." 
 
 "I cannot agree even to that," said the duchess; "for I 
 would rather that he should be ruined than die." 
 
 "Men do notdie as they used," said his lordship. "Ask the 
 annuity offices-, they have all raised their rales." 
 
 "I know nothing about annuily offices, but I know that 
 almost everybody dies who goes to those countries: look at young 
 Fernborough, he was just Tancred's age ; the fevers alone must 
 kill him." 
 
 "He must take some quinine in his dressing-case," said 
 Lord Eskdale. 
 
 "You jest, Henry," said the duchess, disappointed, "when 
 I am in despair." 
 
 "No," said Lord Eskdale, looking up to the ceiling, "lam 
 thinking how you may prevent Tancred from going to Jerusalem, 
 without, at the same time, opposing his wishes." 
 
 "Ay, ay," said the duke, "that is it." And he looked 
 triumphantly to his wife, as much as to say, "Now you see what 
 it is to be a man of the world." 
 
 "A man cannot go to Jerusalem as he would to Birmingham, 
 by the next train," continued his lordship; " he must get some- 
 thing to take him ; and if you make the sacrifice of consenting to 
 his departure, you have a right to stipulate as to the manner in 
 which he should depart. Your son ought to travel with a suite ; 
 he ought to make the voyage in his own yacht. Yachts are not to 
 be found like hack cabs, though there are several for sale now ; 
 but then they are not of the admeasurement of which you approve 
 for such a voyage and such a sea. People talk very lightly of the 
 Mediterranean, but there are such things as white squalls. 
 Anxious parents, and parents so fond of a son as you are, and a
 
 90 
 
 son whose life for so many reasons is so precious, have a right 
 to make it a condition of their consent to his departure, that he 
 should embark in a vessel of considerable tonnage. He will find 
 difficulty in buying one second-hand; if he finds one, it will not 
 please him. He will get interested in yacht-building, as he is 
 interested now about Jerusalem — both boyish fancies. He will 
 stay another year in England to build a yacht to take him to the 
 Holy Land; the yacht will be finished this time twelvemonths; 
 and, instead of going to Palestine, he will go to Cowes." 
 
 "That 's quite my view of the case," said the duke. 
 
 " It never occurred to me ," said the duchess. 
 
 Lord Eskdale resumed his seat, and took another half-glass 
 of Madeira. 
 
 "Well, I think it is very satisfactory, Katharine," said the 
 duke, after a short pause. 
 
 "And what do you recommend us to do first?" said the 
 duchess to Lord Eskdale. 
 
 "LetTancred go into society: the best way for him to forget 
 Jerusalem is to let him see London." 
 
 "But how can I manage it?" said the duchess. "I never go 
 anywhere; nobody knows him, and he does not wish to know 
 anybody." 
 
 "I will manage it, with your permission; 't is not difficult; 
 a young marquess has only to evince an inclination, and in a 
 week's time he will be everywhere. I will tell Lady St. Julians 
 and the great ladies, to send him invitations; they will fall like 
 a snow storm. All that remains is for you to prevail upon him 
 to accept them." 
 
 "And how shall I contrive it?" said the duchess. 
 
 "Easily," said Lord Eskdale. "Make his going into society, 
 while his yacht is preparing, one of the conditions of the great 
 sacrifice you are making. He cannot refuse you; 'tis but the 
 first step. A youth feels a little repugnance to launching into the
 
 !)1 
 
 great world; 'tis shyness; butaflerthe plunge, the great diffi- 
 culty is to restrain rather than to incite. Let him but once enter 
 the world, and be tranquil, he will soon find something to engage 
 him." 
 
 "As long as he does not take to play," said the duke, "I 
 don't much care what he does." 
 
 "My dear George!" said the duchess, "how can you say 
 such things! I was in hopes," she added, in a mournful tone, 
 "that we might have settled him, without his entering what you 
 call the world, Henry. Dearest child! I fancy him surrounded 
 by pitfalls."
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 After this consultation with Lord Eskdale, the duchess be- 
 came much easier iu her mind. She was of a very sanguine 
 temper, and with facility believed what she wished. Affairs 
 stood thus: it was agreed by all that Tancred should go to the 
 Holy Land, but he was to go in his own yacht; which yacht was 
 to be of a iirst-rate burthen, and to be commanded by an officer 
 in H.M.S. ; and he was to be accompanied by Colonel Brace, 
 Mr. Bernard, and Mr. Boby ; and the servants were to be placed 
 entirely under the control of some trusty foreigner accustomed to 
 the East, and who was to be chosen by Lord Eskdale. In the 
 meantime, Tancred had acceded to the wish of his parents, that 
 until his departure he should mix much in society. The duchess 
 calculated that, under any circumstances, three months must 
 elapse before all the arrangements were concluded; and she 
 felt persuaded that, during that period, Tancred must become 
 enamoured of his cousin Katherine, and that the only use of the 
 yacht would be to take them all to Ireland. The duke was re- 
 solved only on two points — that his son should do exactly as his 
 son liked, and that he himself would never take the advice, on 
 any subject, of any other person than Lord Eskdale. 
 
 In the mean time Tancred was launched, almost uncon- 
 sciously, into the great world. The name of the Marquess of 
 Montacute was foremost in those delicate lists by which an eager 
 and admiring public is apprised who, among their aristocracy, 
 cat, drink, dance, and sometimes pray. From the saloons of 
 Belgrave and Grosvenor Squares to the sacred recesses of the 
 Chapel Boyal, the movements of Lord Montacute were tracked
 
 93 
 
 and registered, and were devoured every morning, oftener with 
 a keener relish than the matin meal of which they formed a regu- 
 lar portion. England is the only country which enjoys the un- 
 speakable advantage of being thus regularly, promptly, and 
 accurately furnished with catalogues of those favoured beings 
 who are deemed qualified to enter the houses of the great. 
 What condescension in those who impart the information ! What 
 indubitable evidence of true nobility! What superiority to all 
 petty vanity! And in those who receive it, what freedom from 
 all little feelings! No arrogance on one side; on the other, no 
 envy. It is only countries blessed with a free press that can be 
 thus favoured. Even a free press is not alone sufficient. Besides 
 a free press, you must have a servile public. 
 
 After all, let us be just. The uninitiated world is apt to 
 believe that there is sometimes, in the outskirts of fashion, an 
 eagerness, scarcely consistent with self-respect, to enter the 
 mansions of the great. Not at all : few people really want to go 
 to their grand parties. It is not the charms of conversation, the 
 flash of wit or the blaze of beauty, the influential presence of 
 the powerful and celebrated, all the splendour and refinement, 
 which, combined, offer in a polished saloon so much to charm 
 the taste and satisfy the intellect, that the mass of social par- 
 tisans care anything about. What they want is, notsomuchto 
 be in her ladyship's house as in her ladyship's list. After the 
 party at Coningsby Castle, our friend, Mrs. Guy Flouncey, at 
 length succeeded in being asked to one of Lady St. Julians' 
 assemblies. It was a great triumph, and Mrs. Guy Flouncey 
 determined to make the most of it. She was worthy of the 
 occasion. But alas! next morning, though admitted to the rout, 
 Mrs. Guy Flouncey was left out of the list! It was a severe 
 blow! But Mrs. Guy Flouncey is in every list now, and even 
 strikes out names herself. But there never was a woman who 
 advanced with such dexterity!
 
 94 
 
 Lord Montacute was very much shocked, when, one morning, 
 taking up a journal, he first saw his name in print. He was 
 alone, and he blushed ; felt, indeed, extremely distressed, when 
 he found that the English people were formally made acquainted 
 with the fact, that he had dined on the previous Saturday with 
 the Earl and Countess of St. Julians; "a grand banquet," of 
 which he was quite unconscious until he read it; and that he was 
 afterwards "observed" at the Opera. 
 
 He found that he had become a public chanacter , and he was 
 not by any means conscious of meriting celebrity. To be pointed 
 at as he walked the streets, were he a hero, had done, said, 
 or written anything that anybody remembered, though at first 
 painful and embarrassing, for he was shy, he could conceive 
 ultimately becoming endurable, and not without a degree of 
 excitement, for he was ambitious; but to be looked at because 
 he was a young lord, and that this should be the only reason why 
 the public should be informed where he dined, or where he 
 amused himself, seemed to him not only vexatious but de- 
 grading. When he arrived however at a bulletin of his devo- 
 tions, he posted off immediately to the Surrey Canal, to look at 
 a yacht there, and resolved not to lose unnecessarily one moment 
 in setting off for Jerusalem. 
 
 He had from the first busied himself about the preparations 
 for his voyage with all the ardour of youth; that is, with all the 
 energy of inexperience, and all the vigour of simplicity. As 
 everything seemed to depend upon his obtaining a suitable 
 vessel, he trusted to no third person; had visited Cowes several 
 times; advertised in every paper; and had already met with 
 more than one yacht which at least deserved consideration. 
 The duchess was quite frightened at his progress. "I am afraid 
 he has found one," she said to Lord Eskdale; "he will be off 
 directly." 
 
 Lord Eskdale shook his head. "There are always things of
 
 95 
 
 this sort in the market. He will inquire before he purchases, 
 and he will find that he has got hold of a slow coach." 
 
 "A slow coach!" said the duchess, looking inquiringly. 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "A tub that sails like a collier, and which, instead of taking 
 him to Jerusalem , will hardly take him to Newcastle." 
 
 Lord Eskdale was right. Notwithstanding all his ardour, all 
 his inquiries, visits to Cowes and the Surrey Canal, advertise- 
 ments and answers to advertisements, time flew on, and Tancred 
 was still without a yacht. 
 
 In this unsettled state, Tancred found himself one evening at 
 Deloraine House. It was not a ball , it was only a dance ; brilliant 
 and select; but, all the same, it seemed to Tancred that the 
 rooms could not be much more crowded. The name of the 
 Marquis of Montacute, as it was sent along by the servants, 
 attracted attention. Tancred had scarcely entered the world, his 
 appearance had made a sensation, everybody talked of him, 
 many had not yet seen him. 
 
 "Oh! that is Lord Montacute," said a great lady, looking 
 through her glass; "very distinguished!" 
 
 "I tell you what," whispered Mr. Ormsby to Lord Valentine, 
 "you young men had better look sharp; Lord Montacute will cut 
 you all out!" 
 
 "Oh! he is going to Jerusalem," said Lord Valentine. 
 
 "Jerusalem!" said Mr. Ormsby, shrugging his shoulders. 
 "What can he find to do at Jerusalem?" 
 
 "What, indeed," said Lord Milford. "My brother was there 
 in — 39; he got leave after the bombardment of Acre; and he 
 says there is absolutely no sport of any kind." 
 
 "There used to be partridges in the time of Jeremiah," said 
 Mr. Ormsby; "at least they told us so at the Chapel Royal last 
 Sunday, where, by the bye, I saw Lord Montacute for the first
 
 or, 
 
 time; and a deuced good-looking fellow he is," he added, 
 musingly. 
 
 "Well, there is not a bird in the whole country now," said 
 Lord Milford. 
 
 "Montacute does not care for sport," said Lord Valentine. 
 
 "What does he care for?" asked Lord Milford. "Because 
 if he wants any horses , I can let him have some." 
 
 "He wants to buy a yacht," said Lord Valentine; "and that 
 reminds me that I heard to-day Exmouth wanted to get rid of 
 'The Flower of Yarrow,' and I think it would suit my cousin. 
 I '11 tell him of it." And he followed Tancred. 
 
 "You and Valentine must rub up your harness, Milford," 
 said Mr. Ormsby; "there is a new champion in the field. We 
 are talking of Lord Montacute," continued Mr. Ormsby, ad- 
 dressing himself to Mr. Melton, who joined them; "I tell Mil- 
 ford he will cut you all out." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Melton, "for my part I have had so much 
 success, that I have no objection, by way of change, to be for 
 once eclipsed." 
 
 "Well done, Jemmy," said Lord Milford. 
 
 "I see, Melton," said Mr. Ormsby, "you are reconciled to 
 your fate like a philosopher." 
 
 "Well, Montacute," said Lord St. Patrick, a good-tempered, 
 witty Milesian, with a laughing eye, "when are you going to 
 Jericho?" 
 
 "Tell me," said Tancred, in reply, and rather earnestly, 
 " who is that? " And he directed the attention of Lord St. Patrick 
 to a young lady, rather tall, a brilliant complexion, classic 
 features, a profusion of light brown hair; a face of intelligence 
 and a figure rich and yet graceful. 
 
 "That is Lady Constance Raw leigh; if you like, I will intro- 
 duce you to her. She is my cousin, and deuced clever. Come 
 along!"
 
 97 
 
 In the mean time in the room leading to the sculpture gallery 
 where they are dancing, the throng is even excessive. As the two 
 great divisions, those who would enter the gallery and those who 
 are quitting it, encounter each other, they exchange flying phrases 
 as they pass. 
 
 "They told me you had gone to Paris! — I have just returned. 
 — Dear me, how time flies ! — Pretty dance, is it not? — Very. — 
 Do you know whether the Madlethorpes mean to come up this 
 y ear ? — i hardly know; their little girl is very ill. — Ah! so I 
 hear; what a pity, and such a fortune! — Such a pity with such 
 a fortune! — How d'ye do? Mr. Coningsby here? — No; he 's 
 at the House. — They say he is a very close attendant. — It 
 interests him.— Well, Lady Florentina, you never sent me the 
 dances. — Pardon, but you will find them when you return. 
 I lent them to Augusta, and she would copy them. — Is it true 
 that I am to congratulate you? — Why? — Lady Blanche? — 
 Oh! that is a romance of Easter week. — Well, I am really 
 delighted; I think such an excellent match for both; exactly 
 suited to each other. — They think so. — Well, that is one 
 point. — How well Lady Everingham is looking! She is quite 
 herself again. — Quite. — Tell me, have you seen M. de Talley- 
 rand here? — I spoke to him but this moment. — Shall you be 
 at Lady Blair's to-morrow? — No; I have promised to go to 
 Mrs. Guy Flouncey's. She has taken Craven Cottage , and is to be 
 at home every Saturday. — Well, if you are going, I think I 
 shall. — I would; everybody will be there." 
 
 Lord Montacute had conversed some time with Lady Con- 
 stance; then he had danced with her; he had hovered about her 
 during the evening. It was observed , particularly by some of the 
 most experienced mothers. Lady Constance was a distinguished 
 beauty of two seasons; fresh, but adroit. It was understood 
 that she had refused offers of a high calibre ; but the rejected still 
 sighed about her, and it was therefore supposed that, though 
 
 Tancred. J. 7
 
 98 
 
 decided, she had the art of not rendering them desperate. One 
 at least of them was of a rank equal to that of Tancred. She had 
 the reputation of being very clever, and of being able, if it 
 pleased her, to breathe scorpions as well as brilliants and roses. 
 It had got about that she admired intellect, and, though she 
 claimed the highest social position, that a booby would not 
 content her, even if his ears were covered with strawberry 
 leaves. 
 
 In the cloak-room, Tancred was still at her side, and was 
 presented to her mother, Lady Charmouth. 
 
 "I am sorry to separate," said Tancred. 
 
 "And so am I," said Lady Constance, smiling; "but one 
 advantage of this life is, we meet our friends every day." 
 
 "I am not going anywhere to-morrow, where I shall meet 
 you," said Tancred, "unless you chance to dine at the Arch- 
 bishop of York's." 
 
 "I am not going to dine with the Archbishop of York," said 
 Lady Constance, "but I am going, where everybody else is 
 going, to breakfast with Mrs. Guy Flouncey, at Craven Cottage. 
 Why, will not you be there?" 
 
 " I have not the honour of knowing her," said Tancred. 
 
 "That is not of the slightest consequence; she will be very 
 happy to have the honour of knowing you. I saw her in the 
 dancing-room, but it is not worth while waiting to speak to her 
 now. You shall receive an invitation the moment you are 
 awake." 
 
 "But to-morrow I have got an engagement. I have got to 
 look at a yacht." 
 
 "But that you can look at on Monday; besides, if you wish 
 to know anything about yachts, you had better speak to my 
 brother, Fitzheron, who has built more than any man alive."
 
 99 
 
 "Perhaps he has got one that he wishes to part with?" said 
 Tancred. 
 
 "I have no doubt of it. You can ask him to-morrow at Mrs. 
 Guy Flouncey's." 
 
 "I will. Lady Charmouth's carriage is called. May I have 
 the honour?" said Tancred, offering his arm. 
 
 7*
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 There is nothing so remarkable as feminine influence. Al- 
 though the character of Tancred was not completely formed; for 
 that result depends in some degree, upon the effect of circum- 
 stances at a certain time of life, as well as on the impulse of a 
 natural bent; still the temper of his being was profound and 
 stedfast. He had arrived in solitude, and by the working of 
 his own thought, at a certain resolution, which had assumed to 
 his strong and fervent imagination a sacred character, and which 
 he was determined to accomplish at all costs. He had brought 
 himself to the point, that he would not conceive an obstacle that 
 should balk him. He had acceded to the conditions which had 
 been made by his parents, for he was by nature dutiful, and 
 wished to fulfil his purpose, if possible, with their sanction. 
 
 Yet he had entered society with repugnance, and found no- 
 thing in its general tone with which his spirit harmonised. He 
 was alone in the crowd; silent, observing, and not charmed. 
 There seemed to him generally a want of simplicity and repose; 
 too much flutter, not a little affectation. People met in the 
 thronged chambers, and interchanged brief words, as if they 
 were always in a hurry. "Have you been here long? Where 
 are you going next?" These were the questions which seemed 
 to form the staple of the small talk of a fashionable multitude. 
 Why too was there a smile on every countenance, which often 
 also assumed the character of a grin? No error so common or so 
 grievous as to suppose that a smile is a necessary ingredient of 
 the pleasing. There are few faces that can afford to smile. A 
 smile is sometimes bewitching, in general vapid, often a con- 
 tortion. But the bewitching smile usually beams from the grave
 
 101 
 
 face. It is then irresistible. Tancred, though he was unaware 
 of it, was gifted with this rare spell. He had inherited it from 
 his mother; a woman naturally earnest and serious, and of a 
 singular simplicity, but whose heart when pleased spoke in the 
 dimpling sunshine of her cheek with exquisite beauty. The 
 smiles of the Duchess of Bellamont however were like her dia- 
 monds, brilliant, but rarely worn. 
 
 Tancred had not mounted the staircase of Deloraine House 
 with any anticipation of pleasure. His thoughts were far away 
 amid cities of the desert, and by the palmy banks of ancient 
 rivers. He often took refuge in these exciting and ennobling 
 visions, to maintain himself when he underwent the ceremony 
 of entering a great house. He was so shy in little things, that to 
 hear his name sounded from servant to servant, echoing from 
 landing-place to landing-place, was almost overwhelming. No- 
 thing but his pride, which was just equal to his reserve, pre- 
 vented him from often turning back on the stairs and precipi- 
 tately retreating. And yet he had not been ten minutes in De- 
 loraine House, before he had absolutely requested to be in- 
 troduced to a lady. It was the first time he had ever made such 
 a request. 
 
 He returned home, softly musing. A tone lingered in his 
 ear; he recalled the countenance of one absent. In his dressing- 
 room he lingered before he retired, with his arm on the mantel- 
 piece, and gazing with abstraction on the fire. 
 
 When his servant called him in the morning, the servant 
 brought him a card from Mrs. Guy Flouncey, inviting him on 
 that day to Craven Cottage, at three o'clock: "dejeuner at four 
 o'clock precisely." Tancred took the card, looked at it, and the 
 letters seemed to cluster together and form the countenance of 
 Lady Constance. "It will be a good thing to go," he said, "be- 
 cause I want to know Lord Fitzheron; he will be of great use
 
 102 
 
 to me about my yacht." So he ordered his carriage at three 
 o'clock. 
 
 The reader must not for a moment suppose that Mrs. Guy 
 Flouncey, though she was quite as well dressed, and almost as 
 pretty, as she was when at Coningsby Castle in 1837, was by 
 any means the same lady who then strove to amuse and struggled 
 to be noticed. By no means. In 1837, Mrs. Guy Flouncey was 
 nobody; in 1845, Mrs. Guy Flouncey was somebody, and some- 
 body of very great importance. Mrs. Guy Flouncey had invaded 
 society, and had conquered it, gradually, but completely, like 
 the English in India. Social invasions are not rare, but they are 
 seldom fortunate, or success if achieved is partial, and then 
 only sustained at immense cost, like the French in Algiers. 
 
 The Guy Flounceys were not people of great fortune. They 
 had a good fortune; seven or eight thousand a-year. But then, 
 with an air of great expenditure, even profusion, there was a 
 basis of good management. And a good fortune with good 
 management, and without that equivocal luxury a great country 
 house, is almost equal to the great fortune of a peer. But they 
 not only had no country house, they had no children. And a 
 good fortune, with good management, no country house, and 
 no children, is Aladdin's lamp. 
 
 Mr. Guy Flouncey was a sporting character. His wife had 
 impressed upon him that it was the only way in which he could 
 become fashionable and acquainted with "the best men." He 
 knew just enough of the affair not to be ridiculous ; and , for the 
 rest, with a great deal of rattle and apparent heedlessness of 
 speech and deed, he was really an extremely selfish and suf- 
 ficiently shrewd person, who never compromised himself. It is 
 astonishing with what dexterity Guy Flouncey could extricate 
 himself from the jaws of a friend, who, captivated by his 
 thoughtless candour and ostentatiously good heart, might be 
 induced to request Mr. Flouncey to lend him a few hundreds,
 
 103 
 
 only for a few months, or, more diplomatically, might beg his 
 friend to become his security for a few thousands, for a few 
 years. Mr. Guy Flouncey never refused these applications, they 
 were exactly those to which it delighted his heart to respond , be- 
 cause nothing pleased him more than serving a friend. But then 
 he always had to write a preliminary letter of preparation to his 
 banker, or his steward, or his confidential solicitor; and, by 
 some contrivance or other, without offending any one, rather 
 with the appearance of conferring an obligation, it ended always 
 by Mr. Guy Flouncey neither advancing the hundreds, nor 
 guaranteeing the thousands. He had indeed managed, like 
 many others, to get the reputation of being what is called "a 
 good fellow;" though it would have puzzled his panegyrists to 
 allege a single act of his that evinced a good heart. 
 
 This sort of pseudo reputation, whether for good or for evil, 
 is not uncommon in the world. Man is mimetic ; judges of cha- 
 racter are rare; we repeat without thought the opinions of some 
 third person, who has adopted them without inquiry; and thus 
 it often happens that a proud generous man obtains in time the 
 reputation of being "a screw," because he has refused to lend 
 money to some impudent spendthrift, who from that moment 
 abuses him; and a cold-hearted, civil-spoken personage, pro- 
 fuse in costless services, with a spice of the parasite in him, or 
 perhaps hospitable out of vanity, is invested with all the thought- 
 less sympathies of society, and passes current as that most po- 
 pular of characters , " a good fellow." 
 
 Guy Flouncey's dinners began to be talked of among men ; it 
 became a sort of fashion, especially among sporting men, to 
 dine with Mr. Guy Flouncey, and there they met Mrs. Guy Floun- 
 cey. Not an opening ever escaped her. If a man had a wife, 
 and that wife was a personage, sooner or later, much as she 
 might toss her head at first, she was sure to visit Mrs. Guy Floun- 
 cey, and, when she knew her, she was sure to like her. The
 
 104 
 
 Guy Flounceys never lost a moment; the instant the season was 
 over, they were at Cowes, then at a German bath, then at Paris, 
 then at an English country-house, then in London. Seven years, 
 to such people, was half a century of social experience. They 
 had half a dozen seasons in every year. Still it was hard work, 
 and not rapid. At a certain point they stuck, as all do. Most 
 people then give it up; but patience, Buffon tells us, is genius, 
 and Mrs. Guy Flouncey was in her way a woman of genius. Their 
 dinners were in a certain sense established these in return 
 brought them to a certain degree into the dinner world ; but balls, 
 at least balls of a high calibre , were few , and as for giving a ball 
 herself, Mrs. Guy Flouncey could no more presume to think of 
 that, than of attempting to prorogue Parliament. The house, 
 however, got really celebrated for "the best men." Mrs. Guy 
 Flouncey invited all the young dancing lords to dinner. Mothers 
 will bring their daughters where there are young lords. Mrs. 
 Guy Flouncey had an Opera box in the best tier, which she took 
 only to lend to her friends; and a box at the French play, which 
 she took only to bribe her foes. They were both at everybody's 
 service, like Mr. Guy Flouncey's yacht, provided the persons 
 who required them were members of that great world in which 
 Mrs. Guy Flouncey had resolved to plant herself. 
 
 Mrs. Guy Flouncey was pretty; she was a flirt on principle; 
 thus she had caught the Marquess of Beaumanoir, who, if they 
 chanced to meet, always spoke to her, which gave Mrs. Guy 
 Flouncey fashion. But Mrs. Guy Flouncey was nothing more 
 than a flirt. She never made a mistake ; she was born with strong 
 social instincts. She knew that the fine ladies among whom, 
 from the first, she had determined to place herself, were moral 
 martinets with respect to any one not born among themselves. 
 That which is not observed, or, if noticed, playfully alluded to 
 in the conduct of a patrician dame, is visited with scorn and 
 contumely, if committed by some "shocking woman," who has
 
 105 
 
 deprived perhaps a countess of the affections of a husband who 
 has not spoken to her for years. But if the countess is to lose 
 her husband, she ought to lose him to a viscountess, at least. 
 In this way the earl is not lost to " society." 
 
 A great nobleman met Mrs. Guy Flouncey at a country-house, 
 and was fairly captivated by her. Her pretty looks, her coquet- 
 tish manner, her vivacity, her charming costume, above all, 
 perhaps, her imperturbable good temper, pierced him to the 
 heart. The great nobleman's wife had the weakness to be an- 
 noyed. Mrs. Guy Flouncey saw a great opportunity. She threw 
 over the earl, and became the friend of the countess, who could 
 never sufficiently evince her gratitude to the woman who would 
 not make love to her husband. This friendship was the great 
 incident for which Mrs. Guy Flouncey had been cruising for 
 years. Men she had vanquished; they had given her a sort of 
 ton which she had prudently managed. She had not destroyed 
 herself by any fatal preference. Still, her fashion among men 
 necessarily made her unfashionable among women, who, if they 
 did not absolutely hate her, which they would have done had she 
 had a noble lover, were determined not to help her up the social 
 ladder. Now she had a great friend, and one of the greatest of 
 ladies. The moment she had pondered over for years had arrived. 
 Mrs. Guy Flouncey determined at once to test her position. Mrs. 
 Guy Flouncey resolved on giving a ball. 
 
 But some of our friends in the country will say , " Is that all ? 
 Surely it required no very great resolution, no very protracted 
 pondering, to determine on giving a ball! Where is the diffi- 
 culty? The lady has but to light up her house, hire the fiddlers, 
 line her staircase with American plants, perhaps inclose her 
 balcony, order Mr. Gunter to provide plenty of the best refresh- 
 ments, and at one o'clock a superb supper, and, with the com- 
 pany of your friends, you have as good a ball as can be desired 
 by the young, or endured by the old."
 
 106 
 
 Innocent friends in the country! You might have all these 
 things. Your house might be decorated like a Russian palace, 
 blazing with the most brilliant lights and breathing the richest 
 odours; you might have Jullien presiding over your orchestra, 
 and a banquet worthy of the Romans. As for your friends, they 
 might dance until daybreak, and agree that there never was an 
 entertainment more tasteful, more sumptuous, and, what would 
 seem of the first importance, more merry. But, having all these 
 things, suppose you have not a list? You have given a ball, you 
 have not a list. The reason is obvious: you are ashamed of your 
 guests. You are not in " society." 
 
 But even a list is not sufficient for success. You must also 
 get a day: the most difficult thing in the world. After inquiring 
 among your friends, and studying the columns of the Morning 
 Post, you discover that five weeks hence, a day is disengaged. 
 You send out your cards ; your house is dismantled; your lights 
 are arranged; the American plants have arrived ; the band, per- 
 haps two bands, are engaged. Mr. Gunter has half dressed 
 your supper, and made all your ice, when suddenly, within 
 eight-and-forty hours of the festival which you have been five 
 weeks preparing, the Marchioness of Deloraine sends out cards 
 for a ball in honour of some European sovereign who has just 
 lighted on our isle, and means to stay only a week, and at whose 
 court, twenty years ago, Lord Deloraine was ambassador. 
 Instead of receiving your list, you are obliged to send mes- 
 sengers in all directions to announce that your ball ispostponed, 
 although you are perfectly aware that not a single individual 
 would have been present whom you would have cared to 
 •welcome. 
 
 The ball is postponed; and next day the Morning Post 
 informs us it is postponed to that day week; and the day after 
 you have circulated this interesting intelligence, you yourself, 
 perhaps, have the gratification of receiving an invitation,
 
 107 
 
 for the same day, to Lady St. Julians: with "dancing," 
 neatly engraved in the corner. You yield in despair; and 
 there are some ladies who, with every qualification for an excel- 
 lent ball — guests, Gunter, American plants, pretty daughters 
 — have been watching and waiting for years for an opportunity of 
 givingit; andatlast, quite hopeless, at the end of the season, ex- 
 pend their funds in a series of Greenwich banquets, which some- 
 times fortunately produce the results expected from the more im- 
 posing festivity. 
 
 You see, therefore, that giving a ball is not that matter-of- 
 course affair you imagined; and that for Mrs. Guy Flouncey to 
 give a ball and succeed, completely, triumphantly to succeed, 
 was a feat worthy of that fine social general. Yet she did it. 
 The means, like everything that is great, were simple. She in- 
 duced her noble friend to ask her guests. Her noble friend can- 
 vassed for her as if it were a county election of the good old days, 
 when the representation of a shire was the certain avenue to a 
 peerage, instead of being, as it is now, the high road to a poor- 
 law commissionership. Many were very glad to make the ac- 
 quaintance of Mrs. Guy Flouncey; many only wanted an excuse 
 to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Guy Flouncey ; they went to 
 her party because they were asked by their dear friend, Lady 
 Kingcastle. As for the potentates, there is no disguise on these 
 subjects among them. They went to Mrs. Guy Flouncey's ball 
 because one who was their equal, not only in rank, but in social 
 influence, had requested it as a personal favour, she herself, 
 when the occasion offered, being equally ready to advance their 
 wishes. The fact was, that affairs were ripe for the recognition 
 of Mrs. Guy Flouncey as a member of the social body. Circum- 
 stances had been long maturing. The Guy Flounceys, who, in 
 the course of their preparatory career, had hopped from Park 
 Crescent to Portman Square, had now perched upon their 
 "splendid mansion" in Belgrave Square. Their dinners were
 
 108 
 
 renowned. Mrs. Guy Flouncey was seen at all the " best balls ," 
 andwasalwayssurroundedbythe "best men." Though aflirtand 
 a pretty woman, she was a discreet parvenue, who did not entrap 
 the affections of noble husbands. Above all, she was the friend 
 of Lady Kingcastle, who called her and her husband "those 
 good Guy Flounceys." 
 
 The ball was given; you could not pass through Belgrave 
 Square that night. The list was published ; it formed two co- 
 lumns of the "Morning Post." Lady Kingcastle was honoured 
 by the friendship of a royal duchess. She put the friendship to 
 the proof, and her royal highness was seen at Mrs. Guy Floun- 
 cey's ball. Imagine the reception, — the canopy, the crimson 
 cloth, the "God save theKing" from the band of the first guards, 
 bivouacked in the hall, Mrs. Guy Flouncey herself performing her 
 part as if she had received princesses of the blood all her life ; so 
 reverent and yet so dignified , so very calm and yet with a sort of 
 winning, sunny innocence. Her royal highness was quite charm- 
 ed with her hostess, praised her very much to Lady Kingcastle, 
 told her that she was glad that she had come, and even stayed 
 half an hour longer than Mrs. Guy Flouncey had dared to hope. 
 As for the other guests, the peerage was gutted. The Dictator 
 himself was there, and, the moment her royal highness had re- 
 tired, Mrs. Guy Flouncey devoted herself to the hero. All the 
 great ladies, all the ambassadors, all the beauties, a full chapter 
 of the Garter, a chorus among the "best men" that it was with- 
 out doubt the " best ball" of the year, — happy Mrs. Guy Floun- 
 cey! She threw a glance at her swing-glass, while Mr. Guy Floun- 
 cey, " who had not had time to get anything the whole evening," 
 was eating some supper on a tray, in her dressing-room, at five 
 o'clock in the morning, and said, "We have done it at last, my 
 love!" 
 
 She was right; and from that moment Mrs. Guy Flouncey
 
 109 
 
 was asked to all the great houses, and became a lady of the most 
 unexceptionable ton. 
 
 But all this time we are forgetting her de'jeuner, and that Tan- 
 cred is winding his way through the garden lanes of Fulham to 
 reach Craven Cottage.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The day was brilliant: music, sunshine, ravishing bonnets, 
 little parasols that looked like large butterflies. The new phae- 
 tons glided up, then carriages and four swept by, in general the 
 bachelors were ensconced in their comfortable broughams, with 
 their glasses down and their blinds drawn, to receive the air and 
 to exclude the dust; some less provident were cavaliers, but, 
 notwithstanding the well-watered roads, seemed a little dashed 
 as they cast an anxious glance at the rose which adorned their 
 button-hole, or fancied that they felt a flying black from a Lon- 
 don chimney light upon the tip of their nose. 
 
 Within, the winding walks dimly echoed whispering words; 
 the lawn was studded with dazzling groups ; on the terrace by the 
 river a dainty multitude beheld those celebrated waters which 
 furnish flounders to Richmond and whitebait to Blackwall. 
 
 "Mrs. Coningsby shall decide," said Lord Beaumanoir. 
 
 Edith and Lady Theresa Lyle stood by a statue that glittered 
 in the sun, surrounded by a group of cavaliers; among them, 
 Lord Beaumanoir, Lord Milford, Lord Eugene de Vere. Her 
 figure was not less lithe and graceful since her marriage, a little 
 more voluptuous ; her rich complexion, her radiant and abounding 
 hair, and her long grey eye, now melting with pathos and now 
 twinkling with mockery, presented one of those faces of witchery 
 which are beyond beauty. 
 
 "Mrs. Coningsby shall decide." 
 
 " It is the very thing," said Edith, " that Mrs. Coningsby will 
 never do. Decision destroys suspense, and suspense is the 
 charm of existence."
 
 Ill 
 
 "But suspense may be agony," said Lord Eugene de Vere, 
 casting a glance that would read the innermost heart of Edith. 
 
 "And decision may be despair," said Mrs. Coningsby. 
 
 "But we agreed the other night that you were to decide 
 everything for us," said Lord Beaumanoir; "and you con- 
 sented." 
 
 "I consented the other night, and I retract my consent to- 
 day; and I am consistent, for that is indecision." 
 
 "You are consistent in being charming," said Lord Eugene. 
 
 "Pleasing and original!" said Edith. "By the bye, when I 
 consented that the melancholy Jaques should be one of my aid- 
 de-camps I expected him to maintain his reputation, not only for 
 gloom but wit. I think you had better go back to the forest, 
 Lord Eugene, and see if you cannot stumble upon a fool who 
 may drill you in repartee. How do you do, Lady Riddlesworth?" 
 And she bowed to two ladies, who seemed inclined to stop, but 
 Edith added, "I heard great applications for you this moment 
 on the terrace." 
 
 "Indeed!" exclaimed the ladies; and they moved on. 
 
 "When Lady Riddlesworth joins the conversation it is like a 
 stoppage in the streets. I invented a piece of intelligence to clear 
 the way, as you would call out Fire! or The queen is coming! 
 There used to be things called vers de socie'te', which were not 
 poetry ; and I do not see why there should not be social illusions 
 which are not fibs." 
 
 "I entirely agree with you," said Lord Milford; "and I move 
 that we practise them on a large scale." 
 
 "Like the verses, they might make life more light," said 
 Lady Theresa.. 
 
 "We are surrounded by illusions," said Lord Eugene, in a 
 melancholy tone.
 
 112 
 
 " And shams of all descriptions," said Edith; "the greatest, 
 a man -who pretends he has a broken heart when all the time he 
 is full of fun." 
 
 "There are a great many men -who have broken hearts," said 
 Lord Beaumanoir, smiling sorrowfully. 
 
 "Cracked heads are much commoner," said Edith, "you 
 may rely upon it. The only man I really know with a broken 
 heart is Lord Fitzbooby. I do think that paying Mount-Dullard's 
 debts has broken his heart. He takes on so; 't is piteous. 'My 
 dear Mrs. Coningsby,' he said to me last night, 'only think what 
 that young man might have been; he might have been a lord of 
 the treasury in '35; why, if he had had nothing more in '41, 
 why, there 's a loss of between four and five thousand pounds; 
 but with my claims — Sir Robert, having thrown the father over, 
 was bound on his own principle to provide for the son — he 
 might have got something better; and now he comes to me with 
 his debts, and his reason for paying his debts, too, Mrs. 
 Coningsby, because he is going to be married — to be married 
 to a woman who has not a shilling. Why, if he had been in 
 office, and only got 1500/. a-year, and married a woman with 
 only another 1500/. he would have had 3000/. a-year, Mrs. 
 Coningsby; and now he has nothing of his own except some 
 debts, which he wants me to pay, and. settle 3000/. a-year on 
 him besides.'" 
 
 They all laughed. 
 
 "Ah!" said Mrs. Coningsby, with a resemblance which made 
 all start, "you should have heard it with the Fitzbooby voice." 
 
 The character of a woman rapidly develops after marriage, 
 and sometimes seems to change, when in fact it is only complete. 
 Hitherto we have known Edith only in her girlhood, bred up in a 
 life of great simplicity, and under the influence of a sweet fancy 
 or an absorbing passion. Coningsby had been a hero to her be- 
 fore they met, the hero of nursery hours and nursery tales.
 
 113 
 
 Experience had not disturbed those dreams. From the moment 
 they encountered each other atMillbank, he assumed that place 
 in her heart which he had long occupied in her imagination ; and, 
 alter their second meeting at Paris, her existence was merged in 
 love. All the crosses and vexations of their early affection only 
 rendered this state of being on her part more profound and en- 
 grossing. 
 
 But, though Edith was a most happy wife, and blessed with 
 two children worthy of their parents, love exercises quite a dif- 
 ferent influence upon a woman when she has married, and espe- 
 cially when she has assumed a social position which deprives life 
 of all its real cares. Under any circumstances, that suspense, 
 which, with all its occasional agony, is the great spring of ex- 
 citement, is over; but, generally speaking, it will be found, 
 notwithstanding the proverb, that, with persons of a noble nature, 
 the straitened fortunes which they share together, and manage, 
 and mitigate by mutual forbearance, are more conducive to the 
 sustainment of a high-toned and romantic passion than a luxu- 
 rious and splendid prosperity. The wife of a man of limited 
 means, who, by contrivance, by the concealed sacrifice of some 
 necessity of her own, supplies him with some slight enjoyment 
 which he has never asked, but which she fancies he may have 
 sighed for, experiences, without doubt, a degree of pleasure far 
 more ravishing than the patrician dame who stops her barouche 
 at Storr and Mortimer's, and out of her pin-money buys a trinket 
 for the husband whom she loves, and which he finds, perhaps, 
 on his dressing-table, on the anniversary of their wedding-day. 
 That's pretty too and touching, and should be encouraged; but 
 the other thrills, and ends in an embrace that is still poetry. 
 
 The Coningsbys shortly after their marriage had been called 
 
 to the possession of a great fortune, for which, in every sense, 
 
 they were well adapted. But a great fortune necessarily brings 
 
 with it a great change of habits. The claims of society propor- 
 
 Ttmcred. I. 8
 
 114 
 
 tionately increase with your income. You live less for yourselves. 
 For a selfish man, merely looking to his luxurious ease, Lord 
 Eskdale's idea of having ten thousand a-year, while the world 
 suppose you have only five, is the right thing. Coningsby how- 
 ever looked to a great fortune as one of the means, rightly em- 
 ployed, of obtaining great power. He looked also to his wife to 
 assist him in this enterprise. Edith, from a native impulse, as 
 well as from love for her husband, responded to his wish. When 
 they were in the country, Hellingsley was a perpetual stream and 
 scene of splendid hospitality; there the flower of London society 
 mingled with all the aristocracy of the county. Leander was often 
 retained specially , like a Wilde or a Kelly , to renovate the genius 
 of the habitual chief — not of the circuit, but the kitchen. A noble 
 mansion in Park-lane received them the moment Parliament as- 
 sembled. Coningsby was then immersed in affairs, and counted 
 entirely on Edith to cherish those social influences which in a 
 public career are not less important than political ones. The 
 whole weight of the management of society rested on her. She 
 had to cultivate his alliances, keep together his friends, arrange 
 his dinner-parties, regulate his engagements. What time for 
 romantic love? They were never an hour alone. Yet they loved 
 not less; but love had taken the character of enjoyment instead 
 of a wild bewitchment; and life had become an airy bustle, in- 
 stead of a storm, an agony, a hurricane of the heart. 
 
 In this change in the disposition, not in the degree, of their 
 affection , for there was the same amount of sweet solicitude, only 
 it was duly apportioned to everything that interested them, in- 
 stead of being exclusively devoted to each other, the character of 
 Edith, which had been swallowed up by the absorbing passion, 
 rapidly developed itself amid the social circumstances. She was 
 endued with great vivacity, a sanguine and rather saucy spirit, 
 with considerable talents, and a very large share of feminine 
 vanity — that divine gift which makes woman charming. Entirely
 
 115 
 
 sympathising with her husbaud, labouring with zeal to advance 
 his views, and living perpetually in the world, all these qualities 
 came to light. During her first season she had been very quiet, 
 not less observant, making herself mistress of the ground. It 
 was prepared for her next campaign. When she evinced a dis- 
 position to take a lead, although found faultless the first year, it 
 was suddenly remembered that she was a manufacturer's daugh- 
 ter; and she was once described by a great lady as "that person 
 whom Mr. Coningsby had married, when Lord Monmouth cut 
 him off with a shilling." 
 
 But Edith had anticipated these difficulties, and was not to 
 be daunted. Proud of her husband, confident in herself, sup- 
 ported by a great establishment, and having many friends, she 
 determined to exchange salutes with these social sharp-shooters, 
 who are scarcely as courageous as they are arrogant. It was dis- 
 covered that Mrs. Coningsby could be as malicious as her as- 
 sailants, and far more epigrammatic. She could describe in a 
 sentence and personify in a phrase. The ?not was circulated, the 
 nom de nique repeated. Surrounded by a brilliant band of youth 
 and wit, even her powers of mimickry were revealed to the 
 initiated. More than one social tyrant, whom all disliked, but 
 whom none had ventured to resist, was made rediculous. 
 Flushed by success and stimulated by admiration, Edith flattered 
 herself that she was assisting her husband while she was grati- 
 fying her vanity. Her adversaries soon vanished, but the powers 
 that had vanquished them were too choice to be forgotten or 
 neglected. The tone of raillery she had assumed for the moment, 
 and extended, in self-defence, to persons, was adopted as a 
 habit, and infused itself over affairs in general. 
 
 Mrs. Coningsby was the fashion; she was a wit as well as a 
 beauty; a fascinating droll; dazzling and bewitching, the idol 
 of every youth. Eugene de Vere was roused from his premature 
 exhaustion, and at last again found excitement. He threw him- 
 
 8*
 
 116 
 
 self at her feet; she laughed at him. He asked leave to follow 
 her footsteps; she consented. He was only one of a band of 
 slaves. Lord Beauraanoir, still a bachelor, always hovered 
 about her; feeding on her laughing words with a mild me- 
 lancholy , and sometimes bandying repartee with a kind of tender 
 and stately despair. His sister, Lady Theresa Lyle , was Edith's 
 great friend. Their dispositions had some resemblance. Mar- 
 riage had developed in both of them a frolic grace. They hunted 
 in couple; and their sport was brilliant. Many things may be 
 said by a strong female alliance, that would assume quite a dif- 
 ferent character were they even to fall from the lips of an Aspasia 
 to a circle of male votaries — so much depends upon the scene 
 and the characters, the mode and the manner. 
 
 The good-natured world would sometimes pause in its amuse- 
 ment, and, after dwelling with statistical accuracy on the 
 number of times Mrs. Coningsby had danced the Polka, on the 
 extraordinary things she said to Lord Eugene de Vere, and the 
 odd things she and Lady Theresa Lyle were perpetually doing, 
 would wonder, with a face and voice of innocence, "how Mr. 
 Coningsby liked all this? " There is no doubt what was the anti- 
 cipation by the good-natured world of Mr. Coningsby's feelings. 
 But they were quite mistaken. There was nothing that Mr. 
 Coningsby liked more. He wished his wife to become a social 
 power; and he wished his wife to be amused. He saw that, 
 with the surface of a life of levity, she already exercised con- 
 siderable influence, especially over the young; and indepen- 
 dently of such circumstances and considerations, he was de- 
 lighted to have a wife who was not afraid of going into society by 
 herself; not one whom he was sure to find at home when he re- 
 turned from the House of Commons, not reproaching him ex- 
 actly for her social sacrifices, but looking a victim, and thinking 
 that she retained her husband's heart by being a mope. Instead 
 of that, Coningsby wanted to be amused when he came home,
 
 117 
 
 and more than that, he wanted to be instructed in the finest 
 learning in the world. 
 
 As some men keep up theirGreek by reading every day a chap- 
 ter in the New Testament, so Coningsby kept up his knowledge 
 of the world, by always once at least in the four-and-twenty hours 
 having a delightful conversation with his wife. The processes 
 are equally orthodox. Exempted from the tax of entering general 
 society, free to follow his own pursuits, and to live in that poli- 
 tical world which alone interested him, there was not an anec- 
 dote, a trait, a good thing said, or a bad thing done, which did 
 not reach him by a fine critic and a lively narrator. He was al- 
 ways behind those social scenes which, after all, regulate the 
 political performers, knew the springs of the whole machinery, 
 the changes and the shiftings, the fiery cars and golden chariots 
 which men might mount, and the trap-doors down which men 
 might fall. 
 
 But the Marquess of Montacute is making his reverence to 
 Mrs. Guy Flouncey. 
 
 There was not at this moment a human being whom that lady 
 was more glad to see at her dejeuner; but she did not show it in 
 the least. Her self-possession, indeed, was the finest work of 
 art of the day , and ought to be exhibited at the Adelaide Gallery. 
 Like all mechanical inventions of a high class, it had been 
 brought to perfection very gradually, and after many experiments. 
 A variety of combinations, and an almost infinite number of 
 trials , must have been expended before the too-startling laugh of 
 Coningsby Castle could have subsided into the haughty suavity 
 of that sunny glance , which was not familiar enough for a smile 
 nor foolish enough for a simper. As for the rattling vein which 
 distinguished her in the days of our first acquaintance, that had 
 long ceased. Mrs. Guy Flouncey now seemed to share the pre- 
 valent passion for genuine Saxon, and used only monosyllables; 
 while Fine-ear himself would have been sometimes at fault had
 
 118 
 
 he attempted to give a name to her delicate breathings. In short, 
 Mrs. Guy Flouncey never did or said anything but in "the best 
 taste." It may however be a question, whether she ever would 
 have captivated Lord Monmouth, and those who like a little na- 
 ture and fun, if she had made her first advances in this style. 
 But that showed the greatness of the woman. Then she was 
 ready for anything for promotion. That was the age of forlorn 
 hopes; but now she was a general of division, and had assumed 
 a becoming carriage. 
 
 This was the first dejeuner at which Tancred had been pre- 
 sent. He rather liked it. The scene, lawns, and groves, and 
 a glancing river, the air, the music, our beautiful countrywo- 
 men, who, with their brilliant complexions and bright bonnets, 
 do not shrink from the daylight — these are circumstances which, 
 combined with youth and health, make a morning festival, say 
 what they like, particularly for the first time, very agreeable — 
 even if one be dreaming of Jerusalem. Strange power of the 
 world, that the moment we enter it, our great conceptions 
 dwarf! In youth it is quick sympathy that degrades them; more 
 advanced, it is the sense of the ridiculous. But perhaps these 
 reveries of solitude may not be really great conceptions ; perhaps 
 they are only exaggerations ; vague, indefinite, shadowy, formed 
 on no sound principles, founded on no assured basis. 
 
 Why should Tancred go to Jerusalem? What does it signify 
 to him whether there be religious truth or political justice? He 
 has youth, beauty, rank, wealth, power, and all in excess. 
 He has a mind that can comprehend their importance and appre- 
 ciate their advantages. What more does he require? Unrea- 
 sonable boy! And if he reach Jerusalem, why should he find re- 
 ligious truth and political justice there? He can read of it in the 
 travelling books, written by young gentlemen, with the best let- 
 ters of introduction to all the consuls. They tell us what it is — 
 a fifth-rate city in a stony wilderness. Will the Providence of
 
 119 
 
 Fashion prevent this great folly about to be perpetrated by one 
 born to be Fashion's most brilliant subject? A folly, too, which 
 may end in a catastrophe? His parents, indeed, have appealed 
 in vain; but the sneer of the world will do more than the suppli- 
 cation of the father. A mother's tear may be disregarded, but 
 the sigh of a mistress has changed the most obdurate. We shall 
 see. At present Lady Constance Rawleigh expresses her pleasure 
 at Tancred's arrival, and his heart beats a little.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 "They are talking about it," said Lord Eskdale to the 
 duchess, as she looked up to him with an expression of the 
 deepest interest. 
 
 "He asked St. Patrick to introduce him to her at Deloraine 
 House, danced with her, was with her the whole evening, went 
 to the breakfast on Saturday to meet her, instead of going to 
 Blackwall to see a yacht he was after." 
 
 "If it were only Katherine," said the duchess, "I should be 
 quite happy." 
 
 " Don't be uneasy ," said Lord Eskdale ; "there will be plenty 
 of Katherines and Constances, too, before he finishes. This 
 affair is not much, but it shows, as I foretold, that, the mo- 
 ment he found something more amusing, his taste for yachting 
 would pass off." 
 
 "You are. right — you always are." 
 
 What really was this affair, which Lord Eskdale held lightly? 
 With a character likeTancred, everything may become important. 
 Profound and yet simple, deep in self-knowledge yet inexpe- 
 rienced, his reserve, which would screen him from a thousand 
 dangers, was just the quality which would insure his thraldom 
 by the individual who could once effectually melt the icy barrier 
 and reach the central heat. At this moment of his life , with all 
 the repose, and sometimes even the high ceremony, on the sur- 
 face, he was a being formed for high-reaching exploits, ready to 
 dare everything and reckless of all consequences, if he proposed 
 to himself an ohject which he believed to be just and great. This 
 temper of mind would, in all things, have made him act 'with 
 that rapidity , which is rashness with the weak, and decision with
 
 121 
 
 the strong. The influence of woman on him was novel. It was 
 a disturbing influence, on which he had never counted in those 
 dreams and visions in which there had figured more heroes than 
 heroines. In the imaginary interviews in which he had disci- 
 plined his solitary mind, his antagonists had been statesmen, 
 prelates, sages, and senators, with whom he struggled and whom 
 he vanquished. 
 
 He was not unequal in practice to his dreams. Hi* shyness 
 would have vanished in an instant before a great occasion; he 
 could have addressed a public assembly; he was capable of 
 transacting important affairs. These were all situations and con- 
 tingencies which he had foreseen, and which for him were not 
 strange, for he had become acquainted with them in his reveries. 
 But suddenly he was arrested by an influence for which he was 
 unprepared ; a precious stone made him stumble who was to have 
 scaled the Alps. Why should the voice, the glance, of another 
 agitate his heart? The cherubim of his heroic thoughts not only 
 deserted him, but he was left without the guardian angel of his 
 shyness. He melted, and the iceberg might degenerate into a 
 puddle. 
 
 Lord Eskdale drew his conclusions like a clever man of the 
 world, and in general he would have been right; but a person 
 like Tancred was in much greater danger of being captured than 
 a common-place youth entering life with second-hand experience, 
 and living among those who ruled his opinions by their sneers 
 and sarcasms. A malicious tale by a spiteful woman, the chance 
 ribaldry of a club-room window, have often been the impure 
 agencies which have saved many a youth from committing a great 
 folly; but Tancred was beyond all these influences. If they had 
 been brought to bear on him, they would rather have precipitated 
 the catastrophe. His imagination would have immediately been 
 summoned to the rescue of his offended pride; he would have
 
 122 
 
 Invested the object of his regard with supernatural qualities , and 
 consoled her for the impertinence of society by his devotion. 
 
 Lady Constance was clever; she talked like a married woman, 
 was critical, yet easy, and, having guanoed her mind by reading 
 French novels, had a variety of conclusions on all social topics, 
 which she threw forth with unfaltering promptness, and with the 
 well-arranged air of an impromptu. These were all new to Tan- 
 cred, and startling. He was attracted by the brilliancy, though 
 he often regretted the tone, which he ascribed to the surrounding 
 corruption from which he intended to escape , and almost wished 
 to save her at the same time. Sometimes Tancred looked un- 
 usually serious; but at last his rare and brilliant smile beamed 
 upon one who really admired him, was captivated by his intellect, 
 his freshness, his difference from all around, his pensive beauty 
 and his grave innocence. Lady Constance was free from affecta- 
 tion ; she was frank and natural ; she did not conceal the pleasure 
 she had in his society; she conducted herself with that dignified 
 facility, becoming a young lady who had already refused the 
 hands of two future earls , and of the heir of the Clan-Alpins. 
 
 A short time after the dejeuner at Craven Cottage, Lord Monta- 
 cute called on Lady Charmouth. She was at home, and received 
 him with great cordiality, looking up from her frame of worsted 
 work with a benign maternal expression; while Lady Constance, 
 who was writing an urgent reply to a note that had just arrived, 
 said rapidly some agreeable words of welcome, and continued 
 her task. Tancred seated himself by the mother, made an essay 
 in that small talk in which he was by no means practised, but 
 Lady Charmouth helped him on without seeming to do so. The 
 note was at length dispatched , Tancred of course still remaining 
 at the mother's side, and Lady Constance too distant for his 
 wishes. He had nothing to say to Lady Charmouth; he began to 
 feel that the pleasure of feminine society consisted in talking 
 alone to her daughter.
 
 123 
 
 While he was meditating a retreat, and yet had hardly courage 
 to rise and walk alone down a large long room, a new guest was 
 announced. Tancred rose, and murmured good morning; and 
 yet, somehow or other, instead of quitting the apartment, he 
 went and seated himself by Lady Constance. It really was as 
 much the impulse of shyness, which sought a nook of refuge, as 
 any other feeling that actuated him; but Lady Constance seemed 
 pleased, and said, in a low voice and in a careless tone, "Tis 
 Lady Brancepeth; do you know her? Mamma's great friend;" 
 which meant, you need give yourself no trouble to talk to any 
 one but myself. 
 
 After making herself very agreeable , Lady Constance took up 
 a book which was at hand, and said, "Do you know this?" And 
 Tancred, opening a volume which he had never seen, and then 
 turning to its title-page, found it was "The Revelations of 
 Chaos," a startling work just published, and of which a rumour 
 had reached him. 
 
 "No," he replied; "I have not seen it." 
 
 "I will lend it you if you like; it is one of those books one 
 must read. It explains everything, and is written in a very 
 agreeable style." 
 
 "It explains everything!" said Tancred; "it must, indeed, 
 be a very remarkable book ! " 
 
 "I think it will just suit you," said Lady Constance. "Do 
 you know, I thought so several times while I was reading it." 
 
 "To judge from the title, the subject is rather obscure," 
 said Tancred. 
 
 "No longer so ," said Lady Constance. " It is treated scienti- 
 fically; everything is explained by geology and astronomy, and 
 in that way. It shows you exactly how a star is formed ; nothing 
 can be so pretty! A cluster of vapour — the cream of the milky 
 way — a sort of celestial cheese — churned into light — you must 
 read it, 'tis charming."
 
 124 
 
 Nobody ever saw a star formed," said Tancred. 
 
 "Perhaps not. You must read the 'Revelations;' it is all 
 explained. But what is most interesting, is the way in which 
 man has been developed. You know, all is development. The 
 principle is perpetually going on. First, there was nothing, then 
 there was something; then — I forget the next — I think there 
 were shells, then fishes; then we came — let me see — did we 
 come next? Never mind that; we came at last. And the next 
 change there will be something very superior to us — something 
 with wings. Ah! that 's it: we were fishes, and I believe we 
 shall be crows. But you must read it." 
 
 " I do not believe I ever was a fish ," said Tancred. 
 
 "Oh! but it is all proved: you must not argue on my rapid 
 sketch; read the book. It is impossible to contradict anything 
 in it. You understand, it is all science; it is not like those 
 books in which one says one thing and another the contrary, and 
 both may be wrong. Everything is proved — by geology, you 
 know. You see exactly how everything is made; how many 
 worlds there have been; how long they lasted; what went before, 
 what comes next. We are a link in the chain, as inferior ani- 
 mals were that preceded us: we in turn shall be inferior; all that 
 will remain of us will be some relics in a new red sandstone. 
 This is development. We had fins — we may have wings." 
 
 Tancred grew silent and very thoughtful; Lady Brancepcth 
 moved, and he rose at the same time. Lady Charmouth looked 
 as if it were by no means necessary for him to depart, but he 
 bowed very low, and then bade farewell to Lady Constance, who 
 said , " We shall meet to-night." 
 
 "I was a fish, and I shall be a crow," said Tancred to him- 
 self, when the hall door closed on him. "What a spiritual 
 mistress! And yesterday, for a moment, I almost dreamed of 
 kneeling with her at the Holy Spepulchre ! I must get out of this 
 city as quickly as possible — I cannot cope with its corruption.
 
 125 
 
 The acquaintance, however, has been of use tome, for I think 
 I have got a yacht by it. I believe it was providential, and a trial. 
 I will go home and write instantly toFitzheron, and accept his 
 offer. One hundred and eighty tons — it will do — it must." 
 
 At this moment he met Lord Eskdale, who had observed 
 Tancred, from the end of Grosvenor Square, on the steps of 
 Lord Charmouth's door. This circumstance ill prepared Lord 
 Eskdale for Tancred's salutation. 
 
 "My dear lord, you are just the person I wanted to meet. 
 You promised to recommend me a servant who had travelled in 
 the East." 
 
 "Well, are you in a hurry?" said Lord Eskdale, gaining 
 time, and pumping. 
 
 "I should like to get off as soon as practicable." 
 
 "Humph!" said Lord Eskdale. "Have you got a yacht?" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 "Oh! So you want a servant?" he added, after a moment's 
 pause. 
 
 "I mentioned that, because you were so kind as to say you 
 could help me in that respect." 
 
 "Ah! I did," said Lord Eskdale, thoughtfully. 
 
 "But I want a great many things," continued Tancred. "I 
 must make arrangements about money; I suppose I must get 
 some letters; in fact, I want generally your advice." 
 
 "What are you going to do about the Colonel and the rest?" 
 
 "I have promised my father to take them," said Tancred, 
 " though I feel they will only embarrass me. They have engaged 
 to be ready at a week's notice ; I shall write to them immediately. 
 If they do not fulfil their engagement, I am absolved from 
 mine." 
 
 "So you have got a yacht, eh?" said Lord Eskdale. "I 
 suppose you have bought the 'Basilisk?' " 
 
 "Exactly."
 
 126 
 
 "She wants a good deal doing to her." 
 
 "Something, but chiefly for show, which I do not care about; 
 but I mean to getaway, and refit, if necessary, at Gibraltar. I 
 must go." 
 
 "Well, if you must go," said his lordship, and then he 
 added, "and in such a hurry — Let me see. You want a first- 
 rate managing man, used to the East, and letters, and money, 
 and advice. Hem! You don't know Sidonia?" 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 "He is the man to get hold of, but that is so difficult now. 
 He never goes anywhere. Let me see — this is Monday, to- 
 morrow is post-day, and I dine with him alone in the City. Well, 
 you shall hear from me on Wednesday morning early, about 
 everything; but I would not write to the colonel and his friends 
 just yet."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 What is most striking in London is its vastness. It is the 
 illimitable feeling that gives it a special character. London is 
 not grand. It possesses only one of the qualifications of a grand 
 city, size; but it wants the equally important one, beauty. It 
 is the union of these two qualities that produced the grand cities 
 — the Romes, the Rabylons, the hundred portals of the Pha- 
 raohs; multitudes and magnificence; the millions influenced by 
 art. Grand cities are unknown since the beautiful has ceased to 
 be the principle of invention. Paris, of modern capitals, has 
 aspired to this character; but, if Paris be a beautiful city, it 
 certainly is not a grand one; its population is too limited, and, 
 from the nature of their dwellings, they cover a comparatively 
 small space. Constantinople is picturesque; nature has fur- 
 nished a sublime site, but it has little architectural splendour, 
 and you reach the environs with a fatal facility. London over- 
 powers us with its vastness. 
 
 Place a Forum or an Acropolis in its centre, and the effect of 
 the metropolitan mass, which now has neither head nor heart, 
 instead of being stupifying, would be ennobling. Nothing more 
 completely represents a nation than a public building. A mem- 
 ber of Parliament only represents at the most the united con- 
 stituencies: but the Palace of the Sovereign, a National Gallery, 
 or a Museum baptized with the name of the country, these are 
 monuments to which all should be able to look up with pride, 
 and which should exercise an elevating influence upon the spirit 
 of the humblest. What is their influence in London? Let us 
 not criticise what all condemn. But how remedy the evil? What
 
 128 
 
 is wanted in architecture, as in so many things, is — a man. 
 Shall we find a refuge in a Committee of Taste? Escape from 
 the mediocrity of one to the mediocrity of many? We only 
 multiply our feebleness, and aggravate our deficiencies. But 
 one suggestion might be made. No profession in England has 
 done its duty until it has furnished its victim. The pure ad- 
 ministration of justice dates from the deposition of Macclesfield. 
 Even our boasted navy never achieved a great victory until we 
 shot an admiral. Suppose an architect were hanged? Terror 
 has its inspiration as well as competition. 
 
 Though London is vast, it is very monotonous. All those 
 new districts that have sprung up within the last half-century, 
 the creatures of our commercial and colonial wealth — it is 
 impossible to conceive anything more tame, more insipid, more 
 uniform. Pancras is like Mary-le-bone, Mary-le-bone is like 
 Paddington; all the streets resemble each other, you must read 
 the names of the squares before you venture to knock at a door. 
 This amount of building capital ought to have produced a great 
 city. What an opportunity for Architecture suddenly summoned 
 to furnish habitations for a population equal to that of the city of 
 Bruxelles, and a population, too, of great wealth. Mary-le-bone 
 alone ought to have produced a revolution in our domestic archi- 
 tecture. It did nothing. It was built by Act of Parliament. 
 Parliament prescribed even a fagade. It is Parliament to whom 
 we are indebted for your Gloucester Places, and Baker Streets, 
 and Harley Streets, and Wimpole Streets, and all those flat, 
 dull, spiritless streets, all resembling each other, like a large 
 family of plain children, with Portland Place and Portman 
 Square for their respectable parents. The influence of our par- 
 liamentary government upon the fine arts is a subject worth 
 pursuing. The power that produced Baker Street as a model for 
 street architecture in its celebrated Building Act, is the power 
 that prevented Whitehall from being completed, and which sold
 
 120 
 
 to foreigners all the pictures which the King of England had col- 
 lected to civilize his people. 
 
 In our own days we have witnessed the rapid creation of a 
 new metropolitan quarter, built solely for the aristocracy by an 
 aristocrat. The Belgrave district is as monotonous as Mary-le- 
 bone ; and is so contrived as to be at the same time insipid and 
 tawdry. 
 
 Where London becomes more interesting is Charing Cross. 
 Looking to Northumberland House, and turning your back upon 
 Trafalgar Square, the Strand is perhaps the finest street in 
 Europe, blending the architecture of many periods ; and its river 
 ways are a peculiar feature and rich with associations. Fleet 
 Street, with its Temple, is not unworthy of being contiguous to 
 the Strand. The fire of London has deprived us of the delight of 
 a real old quarter of the City; but some bits remain, and every- 
 where there is a stirring multitude, and a great crush and crash 
 of carts and wains. The Inns of Court, and the quarters in the 
 vicinity of the port, Thames Street, Tower Hill, Billingsgate, 
 Wapping, Rotherhithe, are the best parts of London; they are 
 full of character : the buildings bear a nearer relation to what the 
 people are doing than in the more polished quarters. 
 
 The old merchants of the times of the first Georges were a fine 
 race. They knew their position, and built up to it. While the 
 territorial aristocracy, pulling down their family hotels, were 
 raising vulgar streets and squares upon their site, and occupying 
 themselves one of the new tenements, the old merchants filled 
 the straggling lanes, which connected the Royal Exchange with 
 the port of London, with mansions which , if not exactly equal to 
 the palaces of stately Venice , might at least vie with many of the 
 hotels of old Paris. Some of these, though the great majority 
 have been broken up into chambers and counting-houses, still 
 remain intact. 
 
 In a long, dark, narrow, crooked street, which is still called 
 
 Tuncrerl. 1. 9
 
 130 
 
 a lane, and which runs from the south side of the street of the 
 Lombards towards the river, there is one of these old houses of 
 a century past, and which, both in its original design and pre- 
 sent condition, is a noble specimen of its order. A pair of 
 massy iron gates of elaborate workmanship separate the street 
 from its spacious and airy court-yard, which is formed on either 
 side by a wing of the mansion, itself a building of deep red brick, 
 with a pediment, and pilasters, and copings of stone. A flight 
 of steps leads to the lofty and central doorway ; in the middle of 
 the court there is a small garden plot, inclosing a fountain, and 
 a very fine plane tree. 
 
 The stillness, doubly effective after the tumult just quitted, 
 the lulling voice of the water, the soothing aspect of the quivering 
 foliage, the noble building, and the cool and capacious 
 quadrangle — the aspect even of those who enter, and frequently 
 enter, the precinct, and who are generally young men, gliding 
 in and out, earnest and full of thought — all contribute to give to 
 this locality something of the classic repose of a college , instead 
 of a place agitated with the most urgent interests of the current 
 hour; a place that deals with the fortunes of kings and empires 
 and regulates the most important affairs of nations, for it is the 
 counting-house in the greatest of modern cities of the most 
 celebrated of modern financiers. 
 
 It was the visit of Tancred to the City, on the Wednesday 
 morning after he had met Lord Eskdale, that occasions me to 
 touch on some of the characteristics of our capital. It was the 
 first time that Tancred had ever been in the City proper, and it 
 greatly interested him. His visit was prompted by receiving, 
 early on Wednesday morning , the following letter : — 
 
 "Dear Tancred , — I saw Sidonia yesterday, and spoke to 
 him of what you want. He is very much occupied just now, as 
 his uncle, who attended to affairs here, is dead, and, until he
 
 131 
 
 can import another uncle or cousin, he must steer the ship, as 
 times are critical. But he bade me say you might call upon him 
 in the City to-day, at two o'clock. He lives in Sequin Court, 
 near the Bank. You will have no difficulty in finding it. I recom- 
 mend you to go, as he is the sort of man who will really under- 
 stand what you mean, which neither your father nor myself do 
 exactly; and besides, he is a person to know. 
 
 "I inclose a line which you will send in, that there may be 
 no mistake. I should tell you, as you are very fresh, that he is 
 of the Hebrew race; so don't go on too much about the Holy 
 Sepulchre. 
 
 "Yours faithfully, 
 
 "ESKDALE. 
 
 "Spring Gardens, 
 Wednesday morning." 
 
 It was just where the street is most crowded, where it 
 narrows, and losing the name of Cheapside, takes that of the 
 Poultry, that the last of a series of stoppages occurred ; a stop- 
 page which, at the end of ten minutes, lost its inert character of 
 mere obstruction, and developed into the livelier qualities of the 
 row. There were oaths, contradictions, menaces; "No, you 
 sha'n't — Yes, I will — No, I didn't — Yes, you did — No, 
 you hav'n't — Yes, I have;" the lashing of a whip, the inter- 
 ference of a policeman, a crash, a scream. Tancred looked out 
 of the window of his brougham. He saw a chariot in distress — 
 a chariot such as would have become an Ondine by the waters of 
 the Serpentine, and the very last sort of equipage that you could 
 expect to see smashed in the Poultry. It was really breaking a 
 butterfly upon awheel: to crush its delicate springs, and crack 
 its dark brown panels, soil its dainty hammercloth, and endanger 
 the lives of its young coachman in a flaxen wig, and its two tall 
 footmen in short coats , worthy of Cinderella. 
 
 9*
 
 132 
 
 The scream, too, came from a fair owner, who was sur- 
 rounded by clamorous carmen and city marshals, and who, in 
 an unknown land , was afraid she might be put in a city Compter, 
 because the people in the city had destroyed her beautiful 
 chariot. Tancred let himself out of his brougham, and not 
 without difficulty contrived, through the narrow and crowded 
 passage formed by the two lines, to reach the chariot, which was 
 coming the contrary way to him. Some ruthless officials were 
 persuading a most beautiful woman to leave her carriage, the 
 wheel of which was broken. "But where am I to go?" she ex- 
 claimed. "I cannot walk. I will not leave my carriage until you 
 bring me some conveyance. You ought to punish these people, 
 who have quite ruined my chariot." 
 
 "They say it was your coachman's fault: we have nothing to 
 do with that; besides, you know who they are. Their employer's 
 name is on the cart, Brown, Bugsby and Co., Limehouse. 
 You can have your redress against Brown, Bugsby and Co., Lime- 
 house, if your coachman is not in fault; but you cannot stop up 
 the way, and you had better get out, and let the carriage be 
 removed to the Steel-yard." 
 
 "What am I to do!" exclaimed the lady, with a tearful eye 
 and agitated face. 
 
 "I have a carriage at hand," said Tancred, who at this mo- 
 ment reached her, "and it is quite at your service." 
 
 The lady cast her beautiful eyes, with an expression of 
 astonishment she could not conceal, at the distinguished youth 
 who thus suddenly appeared in the midst of insolent carmen, 
 brutal policemen , and all the cynical amateurs of a mob. Public 
 opinion in the Poultry was against her; her coachman's wig had 
 excited derision; the footmen had given themselves airs; there 
 was a strong feeling against the shortcoats. As for the lady, 
 though at first awed by her beauty and magnificence, they 
 rebelled against the authority of her manner. Besides, shewn-
 
 133 
 
 not alone. There was a gentleman with her, who wore mous- 
 taches, and had taken a part in the proceedings at first, by ad- 
 dressing the carmen in French. This was too much, and the 
 mob declared he was Don Carlos. 
 
 "You are too good," said the lady, with a sweet expression. 
 
 Tancrcd opened the door of the chariot, the policemen pulled 
 down the steps, the servants were told to do the best they could 
 with the wrecked equipage; in a second the lady and her com- 
 panion were in Tancred's brougham, who, desiring his servants 
 to obey all their orders, disappeared, for the stoppage at this 
 moment began to move, and there was no time for bandying com- 
 pliments. 
 
 He had gained the pavement, and had made his way as far as 
 the Mansion House, when, finding a group of public buildings, 
 he thought it prudent to inquire which was the Bank. 
 
 "That is the Bank," said a good-natured man, in a bustle, 
 but taken by Tancred's unusual appearance. —   "What do you 
 want? I am going there." 
 
 "I do not want exactly the Bank," replied Tancred, "but a 
 place somewhere near it. Do you happen to know, Sir, a place 
 called Sequin Court?" 
 
 "I should think I did," said the man, smiling. "So you 
 are going to Sidonia's?"
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Tancred entered Sequin Court; a chariot with a foreign 
 coronet was at the foot of the great steps which he ascended. He 
 was received by a fat hall porter, who would not have disgraced 
 his father's establishment, and who, rising with lazy insolence 
 from his hooded chair, when he observed that Tancred did not 
 advance, asked the new comer what he wanted. 
 
 "I want Monsieur de Sidonia." 
 
 "Can't see him now; he is engaged." 
 
 " I have a note for him." 
 
 "Very well, give it me; it will be sent in. You can sit here." 
 And the porter opened the door of a waiting room , which Tancred 
 declined to enter. "I will wait here, thank you," said Tancred, 
 and he looked round at the old oak hall, on the walls of which 
 were hung several portraits, and from which ascended one of 
 those noble staircases never found in a modern London mansion. 1 
 At the end of the hall, on a slab of porphyry, was a marble bust, 
 with this inscription on it, "Fundator." It was the first Sido- 
 nia, by Chanlrey. 
 
 "I will wait here , thank you," said Tancred , looking round ; 
 and then, with some hesitation, he added, "I have an appoint- 
 ment here at two o'clock." 
 
 As he spoke, that hour sounded from the belfry of an old city 
 church that was at hand, and then was taken up by the chimes of 
 a large German clock in the hall. 
 
 "It may be," said the porter, "but I can't disturb master 
 now; the Spanish ambassador is with him, and others are
 
 135 
 
 wailing. When he is gone, a clerk will take in your letter with 
 some others that are here." 
 
 At this moment, and while Tancred remained in the hall, 
 various persons entered, and, -without noticing the porter, 
 pursued their way across the apartment. 
 
 "And where are those persons going?" inquired Tancred. 
 
 The porter looked at the inquirer with a blended gaze of 
 curiosity and contempt, and then negligently answered him 
 without looking in Tancred's face, and while he was brushing up 
 the hearth, "Some are going to the counting-house, and some 
 are going to the Bank, I should think." 
 
 " I wonder if our hall porter is such an infernal bully as Mon- 
 sieur dc Sidonia's!" thought Tancred. 
 
 There was a stir. "The ambassador is coming out," said 
 the hall porter; "you must not stand in the way." 
 
 The well-trained ear of this guardian of the gate was conver- 
 sant with every combination of sound which the apartments of 
 Sequin Court could produce. Close as the doors might be shut, 
 you could not rise from your chair without his being aware of it; 
 and in the present instance he was correct. A door at the end of 
 the hall opened , and the Spanish minister came forth. 
 
 "Stand aside," said the hall porter to Tancred; and, sum- 
 moning the servants without, he ushered his excellency with some 
 reverence to his carriage. 
 
 "IS'ow your letter will go in with the others," he said to 
 Tancred, whom for a few moments he left alone, and then re- 
 turned, taking no notice of our young friend, but, depositing 
 his bulky form in his hooded chair, he resumed the city article of 
 the "Times." 
 
 The letter ran thus : — 
 
 "Dear Sidonia, — This will be given you by my cousin 
 Montacute, of whom I spoke to you yesterday. He wants to go
 
 136 
 
 to Jerusalem, which very much perplexes his family, for he is 
 an only child. I don't suppose the danger is what they imagine. 
 But still there is nothing like experience, and there is no one who 
 knows so much of these things as yourself. I have promised his 
 father and mother — very innocent people, whom, of all my re- 
 latives, I most affect, — to do what I can for him. If, therefore, 
 you can aid Montacute, you will really serve me. He seems to 
 have character, though I can't well make him out. I fear I in- 
 dulged in the hock yesterday, for I feel a twinge. 
 
 "Yours faithfully, 
 
 "Eskdale. 
 
 "Wednesday Morning." 
 
 The hall clock had commenced the quarter chimes, when a 
 young man, fair - and intelligent, and wearing spectacles, came 
 into the hall, and, opening the door of the waiting room, looked 
 as if he expected to find some one there; then, turning to the 
 porter, he said, "Where is Lord Montacute?" 
 
 The porter rose from his hooded chair, and put down the 
 newspaper, but Tancred had advanced when he heard his name, 
 and bowed, and followed the young man in spectacles, who invited 
 Tancred to accompany him. 
 
 Tancred -was ushered into a spacious and rather long apart- 
 ment, panelled with old oak up to the white coved ceiling, which 
 was richly ornamented. Four windows looked upon the fountain 
 and the plane tree. A portrait by Lawrence, evidently of the 
 same individual who had furnished the model to Chantrcy, was 
 over the high, old-fashioned, but very handsome marble mantel- 
 piece. A Turkey carpet, curtains of crimson damask, some 
 large tables covered with papers, several easy chairs, against 
 the wall some iron cabinets — these were the furniture of the 
 room, at one corner of which was a glass door, which led to a
 
 137 
 
 vista of apartments fitted up as counting-houses, filled with 
 clerks, and which, if expedient, might be covered by a baize 
 screen, which was now unclosed. 
 
 A gentleman writing at a table rose as he came in, and ex- 
 tending his hand said, as he pointed to a seat, "I am afraid I 
 have made you come out at an unusual hour." 
 
 The young man in spectacles in the mean while retired ; 
 Tancred had bowed and murmured his compliments; and his 
 host, drawing his chair a little from the table, continued: "Lord 
 Eskdale tells me that you have some thoughts of going to Jeru- 
 salem." 
 
 "I have for some time had that intention." 
 
 "It is a pity that you did not set out earlier in the year, and 
 then you might have been there during the Easter pilgrimage. It 
 is a fine sight." 
 
 "It is a pity," said Tancred; "but to reach Jerusalem is with 
 me an object of so much moment, that I shall be content to find 
 myself there at any time , and under any circumstances. " 
 
 "It is no longer difficult to reach Jerusalem; the real diffi- 
 culty is the one experienced by the crusaders — to know what to 
 do when you have arrived there." 
 
 "It is the land of inspiration," said Tancred, slightly blush- 
 ing ; " and w hen I am there , I would humbly pray that my course 
 may be indicated to me." 
 
 "And you think that no prayers, however humble, would 
 obtain for you that indication before your departure?" 
 
 "This is not the land of inspiration," replied Tancred, 
 timidly. 
 
 "But you have your Church," said Sidonia. 
 
 "Which I hold of divine institution, and which should be 
 •jnder the immediate influence of the Holy Spirit," said Tancred,
 
 138 
 
 dropping his eyes and colouring still more as he found himself 
 already trespassing on that delicate province of theology, which 
 always fascinated him, but -which it had been intimated to him by 
 Lord Eskdale that he should avoid. 
 
 "Is it wanting to you, then, in this conjuncture?" inquired 
 his companion. 
 
 "I find its opinions conflicting, its decrees contradictory, its 
 conduct inconsistent," replied Tancred. "I have conferred with 
 one who is esteemed its most eminent prelate, and I have left him 
 with a conviction, of what I had for some time suspected, that 
 inspiration is not only a divine but a local quality." 
 
 "You and I have some reason to believe so," said Sidonia. 
 "I believe that God spoke to Moses on Mount Horeb, and you 
 believe that he was crucified, in the person of Jesus, on Mount 
 Calvary. Both were, at least carnally, children of Israel: they 
 spoke Hebrew to the Hebrews. The prophets were only He- 
 brews; the apostles were only Hebrews. The churches of Asia, 
 which have vanished, were founded by a native Hebrew ; and the 
 church of Rome, which says it shall last for ever, and which con- 
 verted this island to the faith of Moses and of Christ, vanquish- 
 ing the Druids, Jupiter Olympius, and Woden, who had suc- 
 cessively invaded it, was also founded by a native Hebrew. 
 Therefore I say, your suspicion or your conviction is, at least, 
 not a fantastic one." 
 
 Tancred listened to Sidonia as he spoke with great interest, 
 and with an earnest and now quite unembarrassed manner. The 
 height of the argument had immediately surmounted all his 
 social reserve. His intelligence responded to the great theme 
 that had so long occupied his musing hours; and the unex- 
 pected character of a conversation which, as he had supposed, 
 would have mainly treated of letters of credit, the more excited 
 him.
 
 139 
 
 "Then," said Tancred, with animation, "seeing how things 
 are, that I am born in an age and in a country divided between 
 infidelity on one side, and an anarchy of creeds on the other; 
 with none competent to guide me, yet feeling that I must believe, 
 for I hold that duty cannot exist without faith; is it so wild as 
 some would think it, I would say is it unreasonable, that I should 
 wish to do that which, six centuries ago, was done by my an- 
 cestor whose name I bear, and that I should cross the seas, and 
 — " He hesitated. 
 
 "And visit the Holy Sepulchre," said Sidonia. 
 "And visit the Holy Sepulchre," said Tancred, solemnly, 
 " for that I confess is my sovereign thought." 
 
 "Well, the crusades were of vast advantage to Europe," 
 said Sidonia, "and renovated the spiritual hold which Asia 
 has always had upon the North. It seems to wane at pre- 
 sent, but it is only the decrease that precedes the new de- 
 velopment." 
 
 "It must be so," said Tancred; "for who can believe, that a 
 country once sanctified by the divine presence, can ever be as 
 other lands? Some celestial quality , distinguishing it from all 
 other climes, must for ever linger about it. I would ask those 
 mountains,that\vere reached by angels, why they no longer receive 
 heavenly visitants? I would appeal to that Comforter promised 
 to man on the sacred spot on which the assurance of solace was 
 made. I require a Comforter. I have appealed to the holy in- 
 fluence in vain in England. It has not visited me ; I know none 
 here on whom it has descended. I am induced , therefore, to 
 believe that it is part of the divine scheme that its influence 
 should be local ; that it should be approached with reverence, 
 not thoughtlessly and hurriedly, but with such difficulties and 
 such an interval of time, as a pilgrimage to a spot sanctified can 
 alone secure."
 
 140 
 
 Sidonia listened to Tancred with deep attention. Lord Mon- 
 tacute was seated opposite the windows, so that there was a full 
 light upon the play of the countenance, the expression of which 
 Sidonia watched, while his keen and far-reaching vision traced 
 at the same time the formation and development of the head of 
 his visitor. He recognised in this youth not a vain and vague 
 visionary, but a being in whom the faculties of reason and ima- 
 gination were both of the highest class, and both equally de- 
 veloped. He observed that he was of a nature passionately affec- 
 tionate, and that he was of a singular audacity. He perceived 
 that, though, at this moment, Tancred was as ignorant of the 
 world as a young monk, he possessed all the latent qualities 
 which in future would qualify him to control society. When 
 Tancred had finished speaking, there was a pause of a few se- 
 conds, during which Sidonia seemed lost in thought; then, 
 looking up, he said, "Itapperas to me, Lord Montacute, that 
 what you want is to penetrate the great Asian mystery." 
 
 "You have touched my inmost thought," said Tancred, 
 eagerly. 
 
 At this moment there entered the room, from the glass door, 
 the same young man who had ushered Tancred into the apartment. 
 He brought a letter to Sidonia. Lord Montacute felt confused; 
 his shyness returned to him; he deplored the unfortunate inter- 
 ruption, but he felt he was in the way. He rose, and began to 
 say good morning, when Sidonia, without taking his eyes off the 
 letter, saw him, and waving his hand, stopped him, saying, 
 " I settled with Lord Eskdale that you were not to go away if any- 
 thing occurred which required my momentary attention. So 
 pray sit down, unless you have engagements." And Tancred 
 again seated himself. 
 
 "Write," continued Sidonia to the clerk, "that my letters 
 are twelve hours later than the despatches, and that the city con-
 
 141 
 
 tinned quite tranquil. Let the extract from the Berlin letter be 
 left at the same time at the Treasury. The last bulletin?" 
 
 "Consols drooping at half-past two; all the foreign funds 
 lower; shares very active." 
 
 They were once more alone. 
 
 "When do you propose going?" 
 
 "I hope in a week." 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 "I fear I shall have many attendants." 
 
 "That's a pity. Well, when you arrive at Jerusalem, you 
 will naturally go to the convent of Terra Santa. You will make 
 there the acquaintance of the Spanish prior, Alonzo Lara. He 
 calls me cousin ; he is a Nuevo of the fourteeenth century. Very 
 orthodox; but the love of the old land and the old language have 
 come out in him, as they will, though his blood is no longer 
 clear, but has been modified by many Gothic intermarriages, 
 which was never our case. We are pure Sephardim. Lara 
 thoroughly comprehendsPalestine and all that pertains to it. He 
 has been there a quarter of a century, and might have been 
 Archbishop of Seville. You see , he is master of the old as well 
 as the new learning; this is very important; they often explain 
 each other. Your bishops here know nothingabout these things. 
 How can they? A few centuries back they were tattooed savages. 
 This is the advantage which Rome has over you, and which 
 you never can understand. That Church was founded by a He- 
 brew, and the magnetic influence lingers. But you will go to 
 the fountain head. Theology requires an apprenticeship of some 
 thousand years at least; to say nothing of clime and race. You 
 cannot get on with theology as you do with chemistry and mecha- 
 nics. Trust me, there is something deeper in it. I shall give 
 you a note to Lara — cultivate him; he is the man you want. 
 You will want others; they will come; but Lara has the first 
 key."
 
 142 
 
 " I am sorry to trouble you about sucli things," said Tailored, 
 in a hesitating voice, "but perhaps I may uot have the great plea- 
 sure to see you again, and Lord Eskdale said that I was to speak 
 to you about some letters of credit." 
 
 "Oh! we shall meet before you go. But what you say re- 
 minds me of something. As for money, there is only one banker 
 in Syria; he is everywhere — at Aleppo, Damascus, Beiroot, 
 Jerusalem. ItisBesso. Before the expulsion of the Egyptians, 
 he really ruled Syria, but he is still powerful, though they have 
 endeavoured to crush him at Constantinople. I applied to Met- 
 ternich about him, and, besides that, he is mine. I shall give 
 you a letter to him , but not merely for your money affairs. I wish 
 you to know him. He lives in splendour at Damascus, moderately 
 at Jerusalem, where there is little to do, but which he loves as a 
 residence, being a Hebrew. I wish you to know him. You will, 
 I am sure, agree with me, that he is, without exception, the 
 most splendid specimen of the animal man you ever became ac- 
 quainted with. His name is Adam, and verily he looks as if he 
 were in the garden of Eden before the fall. But his soul is as 
 grand and as fine as his body. You will lean upon this man as 
 you would on a faithful charger. His divan is charming; you 
 •will always find there the most intelligent people. You must learn 
 to smoke. There is nothing that Besso cannot do; make him do 
 everything you want; have no scruples; he will be gratified. 
 Besides, he is one of those who kiss my signet. These two let- 
 ters will open Syria to you, and any other land, if you care to 
 proceed. Give yourself no trouble about any other prepa- 
 rations." 
 
 "And how ami to thank you?" saidTancred, rising; "and 
 how am I to express to you all my gratitude?" 
 
 "What are you going to do with yourself to-morrow?" said 
 Sidonia. "I never go anywhere; but I have a very few friends 
 who are so kind as to come sometimes to me. There are two
 
 143 
 
 or three persons dining with me to-morrow, whom you might 
 like to meet. Will you do so?" 
 
 " I shall be most proud and pleased." 
 
 "That 's well. It is not here; it is in Carlton Gardens; at 
 sunset." And Sidonia continued the letter which he was writing 
 when Tancred entered.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 When Tancred returned home, musing, from his visit to 
 Sidonia , he found the following note : — 
 
 "Lady Bertie andBellair returns LordMontacute his carriage 
 with a thousand compliments and thanks. She fears she greatly 
 incommoded Lord Montacute, but begs to assure him how very 
 sensible she is of his considerate courtesy. 
 
 "Upper Brook Street, 
 Wednesday." 
 
 The handwriting was of that form of scripture which attracts; 
 refined yet energetic; full of character. Tancred recognised the 
 titles of Bertie and Bellair as those of two not inconsiderable 
 earldoms, now centred in the same individual. Lady Bertie and 
 Bellair was herself a lady of the high nobility ; a daughter of the 
 present Duke of Fitz-Aquitaine; the son of that duke who was 
 the father-in-law of Lord de Mowbray, and whom Lady Fire- 
 brace, the present Lady Bardolf, and Tadpole, had dexterously 
 converted to conservatism by persuading him that he was to be 
 Sir Robert's Irish viceroy. Lady Bertie and Bellair, therefore, 
 was first-cousin to Lady Joan Mountchesney, and her sister, 
 who is still Lady Maud Fitz-Warene. Tancred was surprised 
 that he never recollected to have met before one so distinguished 
 and so beautiful. His conversation with Sidonia, however, had 
 driven the little adventure of the morning from his memory, and 
 now that it was thus recalled to him, he did not dwell upon it. 
 His being was absorbed in his paramount purpose. Thesym-
 
 145 
 
 pathy of Sidonia, so complete, and as instructive as it was ani- 
 mating, was a sustaining power which we often need when we 
 are meditating great deeds. How often, when all seems dark, 
 and hopeless, and spiritless, and tame, when slight obstacles 
 figure in the cloudy landscape as Alps, and the rushing cataracts 
 of our invention have subsided into drizzle, a single phrase of a 
 great man instantaneously flings sunshine on the intellectual 
 landscape, and the habitual features of power and beauty, over 
 which we have so long mused in secret corfidence and love, re- 
 sume all their energy and lustre. 
 
 The haunting thought that occasionally, notwithstanding his 
 strong will , would perplex the soul and agitate the heart of Tan- 
 cred — the haunting thought that, all this time, he was perhaps 
 the dupe of boyish fantasies, was laid to-day. Sometimes he 
 had felt, Why does no one sympathise with my views; why, 
 though they treat them with conventional respect, is it clear that 
 all I have addressed hold them to be absurd? My parents are 
 pious and instructed; they are predisposed to view everything I 
 say, or do, or think, with an even excessive favour. They think 
 me moonstruck. Lord Eskdale is a perfect man of the world; 
 proverbially shrewd , and celebrated for his judgment; he looks 
 upon me as a raw boy, and believes that, if my father had kept 
 me at Eton and sent me to Paris, I should by this time have ex- 
 hausted my crudities. The bishop is what the world calls a great 
 scholar; he is a statesman who, aloof from faction, ought to be 
 accustomed to take just and comprehensive views; and a priest 
 w ho ought to be under the immediate influence of the Holy Spirit. 
 He says I am a visionary. All this might well be disheartening ; 
 but now comes one whom no circumstances impel to judge my 
 project with indulgence; who would, at the first glance, appear 
 to have many prejudices arrayed against it, who knows more of 
 the world than Lord Eskdale, and who appears to me to be more 
 learned than the whole bench of bishops — and he welcomes my 
 
 Tattered. I. 10
 
 146 
 
 ideas, approves my conclusions, sympathises with my sugges- 
 tions; develops, illustrates, enforces them; plainly intimates 
 that I am only on the threshold of initiation , and would aid me to 
 advance to the innermost mysteries. 
 
 There was this night a great ball at Lady Bardolf's, in Bel- 
 grave Square. One should generally mention localities, because 
 very often they indicate character. Lady Bardolf lived next door 
 to Mrs. GuyFlouncey. Both had risen in the world, though it 
 requires some esoteric knowledge to recognise the patrician par- 
 venue; and both had finally settled themselves down in the only 
 quarter which Lady Bardolf thought worthy of her new coronet, 
 and Mrs. Guy Flouncey of her new visiting list. 
 
 Lady Bardolf had given up the old family mansion of the Fire- 
 braces in Hanover Square, at the same time that she had resigned 
 their old title. Politics being dead, in consequence of the majo- 
 rity of 1841, who, after a little kicking for the million, satisfac- 
 torily assured the minister that there was no vice in them, Lady 
 Bardolf had chalked out a new career, and one of a still more 
 eminent and exciting character than her previous pursuit. Lady 
 Bardolf was one of those ladies — there are several — who enter- 
 tain the curious idea that they need only to be known in certain 
 high quarters, to be immediately selected as the principal objects 
 of court favour. Lady Bardolf was always putting herself in the 
 way of it; she never lost an opportunity; she never missed a 
 drawing-room, contrived to be at all the court balls, plotted to 
 be invited to a costume f6te, and expended the tactics of a cam- 
 paign to get asked to some grand chateau honoured by august 
 presence. Still her Majesty had not yet sent for Lady Bardolf. 
 She was still very good friends with Lord Masque, for he had 
 social influence, and could assist her; but as for poor Tadpole, 
 she had sadly neglected him, his sphere being merely political, 
 and that being no longer interesting. The honest gentleman still
 
 147 
 
 occasionally buzzed about her, slavering portentous stories 
 about malcontent country gentlemen, mumbling Maynooth, and 
 shaking his head at Young England. Tadpole was wont to say in 
 confidence, that lor his part he wished Sir Robert had left alone 
 religion and commerce, and confined himself to finance, which 
 was his forte as long as he had a majority to carry the projects 
 which he found in the pigeon-holes of the Treasury, and which 
 are always at the service of every minister. 
 
 Well, it was at Lady Bardolf's ball, close upon midnight, 
 that Tancred, who had not long entered, and had not very far 
 advanced in the crowded saloons, turning his head, recognised 
 his heroine of the morning, his still more recent correspondent, 
 Lady Bertie and Bellair. She was speaking to Lord Valentine. 
 It was impossible to mistake her; rapid as had been his former 
 observation of her face, it was too remarkable to be forgotten, 
 though the captivating details were only the result of his present 
 more advantageous inspection. A very small head and very large 
 dark eyes, dark as her rich hair which was quite unadorned, a 
 pale but delicate complexion, small pearly teeth, were charms 
 that crowned a figure rather too much above the middle height, 
 yet undulating and not without grace. Her countenance was calm 
 without being grave ; she smiled with her eyes. 
 
 She was for a moment alone; she looked round, and re- 
 cognised Tancred; she bowed to him with a beaming glance. In- 
 stantly he was at her side. 
 
 "Our second meeting to-day," she said, in a low, sweet 
 voice. 
 
 "How came it that we never met before?" he replied. 
 
 "I have just returned from Paris; the first time I have been 
 out; and, had it not been for you," she added, "I should not 
 have been here to-night. I think they would have put me in 
 prison." 
 
 10*
 
 148 
 
 "Lady Bardolf ought to be very much obliged to me, and so 
 ought the world." 
 
 "I am," said Lady Bertie and Bellair. 
 
 "That is worth everything else," said Tancred. 
 
 "What a pretty carriage you have! I do not think I shall 
 ever get into mine again. I am almost glad they have destroyed 
 my chariot. I am sure I shall never be able to drive in anything 
 else now except a brougham." 
 
 "Why did you not keep mine?" 
 
 "You are magnificent; too gorgeous and oriental for these 
 cold climes. You shower your presents as if you were in the East, 
 which Lord Valentine tells me you are about to visit. When do 
 you leave us?" 
 
 "I think of going immediately." 
 
 "Indeed!" said Lady Bertie and Bellair, and her counte- 
 nance changed. There was a pause, and then she continued 
 playfully, yet as it were half in sadness, "I almost wish you had 
 not come to my rescue this morning." 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 "Because I do not like to make agreeable acquaintances only 
 to lose them." 
 
 "I think that I am most to be pitied," said Tancred. 
 
 "You are wearied of the world very soon. Before you can 
 know us, you leave us." 
 
 "I am not wearied of the world, for indeed, as you say, I 
 know nothing of it. I am here by accident, as you were in the 
 stoppage to-day. It will disperse, and then I shall get on." 
 
 "Lord Valentine tells me that you are going to realize my 
 dream of dreams — that you are going to Jerusalem." 
 
 "Ah!" said Tancred, kindling, "you too have felt that 
 want?"
 
 149 
 
 "But I never can pardon myself for not having satisfied it," 
 said Lady Bertie and Bellair, in a mournful tone, and looking in 
 his face with her beautiful dark eyes. "It is the mistake of my 
 life, and now can never be remedied. But I have no energy. I 
 ought, as a girl, when they opposed my purpose, to have taken 
 up my palmer's staff, and never have rested content till I had 
 gathered my shell on the strand of Joppa." 
 
 "It is the right feeling," saidTancred. "I am persuaded we 
 ought all to go." 
 
 "But we remain here," said the lady, in a tone of suppressed 
 and elegant anguish — "here, where we all complain of our 
 hopeless lives; with not a thought beyond the passing hour, yet 
 all bewailing its wearisome and insipid moments." 
 
 " Our lot is cast in a material age ," said Tancred. 
 
 "The spiritual can alone satisfy me," said Lady Bertie and 
 Bellair. 
 
 "Because you have a soul," continued Tancred, with ani- 
 mation, "still of a celestial hue. They are rare in the nine- 
 teenth century. Nobody now thinks about heaven. They never 
 dream of angels. All their existence is concentred in steam- 
 boats and railways." 
 
 "You are right," said the lady, earnestly; "and you fly 
 from it." 
 
 "I go for other purposes; I would say even higher ones," 
 said Tancred. 
 
 "I can understand you; your feelings are my own. Jerusa- 
 lem has been the dream of my life. I have always been en- 
 deavouring to reach it, but somehow or other I never got farther 
 than Paris." 
 
 "And yet it is very easy now to get to Jerusalem," said Tan- 
 cred; "the great difficulty, as a very remarkable man said to me 
 this morning, is to know what to do when you are there."
 
 150 
 
 "Who said that to you?" inquired Lady Bertie and Bellair, 
 bending her head. 
 
 "It was the person I was going to call upon when I met you — 
 Monsieur de Sidonia." 
 
 "Monsieur de Sidonia!" said the lady, with animation. 
 "Ah! you know him?" 
 
 "Not as much as I could wish. I saw him to-day for the first 
 time. My cousin, LordEskdale, gave me a letter of introduction 
 to him, for his advice and assistance about my journey. Sidonia 
 has been a great traveller." 
 
 "There is no person I wish to know so much as M. de Sido- 
 nia ," said Lady Bertie and Bellair. " He is a great friend of Lord 
 Eskdale's, I think? I must get Lord Eskdale," she added, 
 musingly, "to give me a little dinner, and ask M. de Sidonia to 
 meet me." 
 
 "He never goes anywhere; at least I have heard so," said 
 Tancred. 
 
 " He once used to do, and to give us great fetes. I remember 
 hearing of them before I was out. We must make him resume 
 them. He is immensely rich." 
 
 " I dare say he may be," said Tancred. " I wonder how a man 
 with his intellect and ideas can think of the accumulation of 
 wealth." 
 
 "'T is his destiny," said Lady Bertie. "He can no more 
 disembarrass himself of his hereditary millions than a dynasty of 
 the cares of empire. I wonder if he will get the Great Northern. 
 They talked of nothing else at Paris." 
 
 "Of what?" said Tancred. 
 
 " Oh ! let us talk of Jerusalem ! " said Lady Bertie and Bellair. 
 "Ah, here is Augustus! Let ine make you and my husband 
 acquainted." 
 
 Tancred almost expected to see the moustached companion of 
 the morning, but it was not so. Lord Bertie and Bellair was a
 
 151 
 
 tall, thin, distinguished, -withered-looking young man, who 
 thanked Tancred for his courtesy of the morning with a sort of 
 gracious negligence, and, after some easy talk, asked Tancred to 
 dine with them on the morrow. He was engaged, but he pro- 
 mised to call on Ladic Bertie and Bellair immediately, and see 
 some drawings of the Holy Land.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Passing through a marble antechamber, Tancred was ushered 
 into an apartment half saloon and half library; the choicely- 
 bound volumes, which were not too numerous, were ranged on 
 shelves inlaid in the walls, so that they ornamented, without 
 diminishing, the apartment. These walls were painted in en- 
 caustic, corresponding with the coved ceiling, which was richly 
 adorned in the same fashion. A curtain of violet velvet covering 
 if necessary the large window, which looked upon a balcony full 
 of flowers, and the umbrageous Park; an Axminster carpet, 
 manufactured to harmonise both in colour and design with the 
 rest of the chamber ; a profusion of luxurious seats ; a large table 
 of ivory marquetry, bearing a carved silver bell which once be- 
 longed to a pope; a Naiad, whose golden urn served as an ink- 
 stand; some daggers that acted as paper cutters, and some 
 French books just arrived; a group of beautiful vases recently 
 released from an Egyptian tomb and ranged on a tripod of 
 malachite; the portrait of a statesman, and the bust of an em- 
 peror , and a sparkling fire — were all circumstances which made 
 the room both interesting and comfortable in which Sidonia wel- 
 comed Tancred, and introduced him to a guest who had preceded 
 him, Lord Henry Sidney. 
 
 It was a name that touched Tancred , as it has all the youth of 
 England, significant of a career that would rescue public life 
 from that strange union of lax principles and contracted sym- 
 pathies which now form the special and degrading features of 
 British politics. It was born by one whose boyhood we have 
 painted amid the fields and schools of Eton, and the springtime
 
 153 
 
 of whose earliest youth we traced by the sedgy waters of the Cam. 
 We left him on the threshold of public life; and in four years, 
 Lord Henry had created that reputation which now made him a 
 source of hope and solace to millions of his countrymen. But 
 they were four years of labour which outweighed the usual exer- 
 tions of public men in double that space. His regular attendance 
 in the House of Commons alone had given him as much parlia- 
 mentary experience as fell to the lot of many of those who had 
 been first returned in 1837, and had been therefore twice as long 
 in the House. He was not only a vigilant member of public and 
 private committees, but had succeeded in appointing and con- 
 ducting several on topics which he esteemed of high importance. 
 Add to this, that he took an habitual part in debate, and was 
 a frequent and effective public writer, and we are furnished with 
 an additional testimony, if that indeed were wanting, that there 
 is no incentive to exertion like the passion for a noble renown. 
 Nor should it be forgotten, that, in all he accomplished, he had 
 but one final purpose, and that the highest. The debate, the 
 committee, the article in the Journal or the Review, the public 
 meeting, the private research — these were all means to advance 
 lhat which he had proposed as the object of his public life, 
 namely, to elevate the condition of the people. 
 
 Although there was no public man whose powers had more 
 rapidly ripened, still it was interesting to observe that their 
 maturity had been faithful to the healthy sympathies of his earlier 
 years. The boy, whom we have traced intent upon the revival 
 of the pastimes of the people, had expanded into the statesman, 
 who, in a profound and comprehensive investigation of the 
 elements of public wealth, had shown that a jaded population is 
 not a source of national prosperity. What had been a picturesque 
 emotion had now become a statistical argument. The material 
 system that proposes the supply of constant toil to a people as the 
 perfection of polity, had received a staggering blow from the
 
 154 
 
 exertions of a young patrician, who announced his belief that 
 Jabour had its rights as well as its duties. What was excellent 
 about Lord Henry was, that he was not a mere philanthropist, 
 satisfied to rouse public attention to a great social evil, or in- 
 stantly to suggest for it some crude remedy. 
 
 A scholar and a man of the world , learned in history and not 
 inexperienced in human nature, he was sensible that we must 
 look to the constituent principles of society for the causes and the 
 cures of great national disorders. He therefore went deeply into 
 the question; nor shrank from investigating how far those dis- 
 orders were produced by the operation or the desuetude of ancient 
 institutions, and how far it might be necessary to call new in- 
 fluences into political existence for their remedy. Richly in- 
 formed, still studious, fond of labour and indefatigable, of a 
 gentle disposition though of an ardent mind, calm yet energetic, 
 very open to conviction, but possessing an inflexibility amount- 
 ing even to obstinacy when his course was once taken, a ready 
 and improving speaker, an apt and attractive writer, affable and 
 sincere, and with the undesigning faculty of making friends, 
 Lord Henry seemed to possess all the qualities of a popular 
 leader, if we add to them the golden ones — high lineage, an 
 engaging appearance, youth, and a temperament in which the 
 reason had had not been developed to the prejudice of the 
 heart. 
 
 "And when do you start for the Holy Land?" said Lord 
 Henry to Tancred, in a tone and with a countenance which 
 proved his sympathy. 
 
 "I have clutched my staff, but the caravan lingers." 
 "I envy you!" 
 "Why do you not go?" 
 
 Lord Henry slightly shrugged his shoulders, and said, "It 
 is too late. I have begun my work, and I cannot leave it."
 
 155 
 
 "If a parliamentary career could save Ihis country," said 
 Tancred, "I am sure you would be a public benefactor. I have 
 observed what you and Mr. Coningsby and some of your friends 
 have done and said, with great interest. But Parliament seems 
 to me to be the very place which a man of action should avoid. 
 A parliamentary career — that old superstition of the eighteenth 
 century — was important when there were no other sources of 
 power and fame. An aristocracy at the head of a people whom 
 they had plundered of their means of education, required some 
 cultivated tribunal whose sympathy might stimulate their in- 
 telligence and satisfy their vanity. Parliament was never so 
 great as when they debated with closed doors. The public 
 opinion, of which they never dreamed, has superseded the rhe- 
 torical club of our great-grandfathers. They know this well 
 enough, and try to maintain their unnecessary position by af- 
 fecting the character of men of business, but amateur men of 
 business are very costly conveniences. In this age it is not 
 Parliament that does the real work. It does not govern Ireland 
 for example. If the manufacturers want to change a tariff, they 
 form a commercial league, and they effect their purpose. It is 
 the same with the abolition of slavery, and all our great revolu- 
 tions. Parliament has become as really insignificant as for 
 two centuries it has kept the monarch. O'Connell has taken 
 a good share of its power; Cobden has taken another; and 
 I am inclined to believe," said Tancred, "though I care little 
 about it, that, if our order had any spirit or prescience, they 
 would put themselves at the head of the people, and take the 
 rest." 
 
 "Coningsby dines here to-day," said Sidonia, who un- 
 observed had watched Tancred as he spoke with a searching 
 glance. 
 
 "Notwithstanding what you say," said Lord Henry, smiling,
 
 156 
 
 "I wish I could induce you to remain and help us. You would 
 be a great ally." 
 
 "1 go to a land," said Tancred , " that has never been blessed 
 by that fatal drollery called a representative government, though 
 Omniscience once deigned to trace out the polity which should 
 rule it." 
 
 At this moment the servant announced Lord and Lady 
 Marney. 
 
 Political sympathy had created a close intimacy between Lord 
 Marney and Coningsby. They were necessary to each other. 
 They were both men entirely devoted to public affairs, and 
 sitting in different houses, both young, and both masters of 
 fortunes of the first class, they were indicated as individuals 
 who hereafter might take a lead , and, far from clashing, would 
 co-operate with each other. Through Coningsby the Marneys 
 had become acquainted with Sidonia, who liked them both, par- 
 ticularly Sybil. Although received by society with open arms, 
 especially by the high nobility, who affected to look upon Sybil 
 quite as one of themselves, Lady Marney, notwithstanding the 
 homage that everywhere awaited her, had already shown a dis- 
 position to retire as much as possible within the precinct of a 
 chosen circle. 
 
 This was her second season, and Sybil ventured to think that 
 she had made, in the general gaieties of her first, a sufficient 
 oblation to the genius of fashion, and the immediate require- 
 ments of her social position. Her life was faithful to its first 
 impulse. Devoted to the improvement of the condition of the 
 people, she was the moving spring of the charitable development 
 ofthis great city. Herhouse, without any pedantic effort, had 
 become the focus of a refined society, who, though obliged to 
 show themselves for the moment in the great carnival , wear their 
 masks, blow their trumpets, and pelt the multitude with sugar-
 
 157 
 
 plums, were glad to find a place where they could at all times 
 divest themselves of their mummery, and return to their accus- 
 tomed garh of propriety and good taste. 
 
 Sybil too felt alone in the world. Without a relation , without 
 an acquaintance of early and other days, she clung to her hus- 
 band with a devotion which was peculiar as well as profound. 
 Egremout was to her more than a husband and a lover-, he was 
 her only friend; it seemed to Sybil that he could be her only 
 friend. The disposition of Lord Marney was not opposed to the 
 habits of his wife. Men, when they are married, often shrink 
 from the glare and bustle of those social multitudes which are 
 entered by bachelors with the excitement of knight-crrants in 
 a fairy wilderness, because they are supposed to be rife with ad- 
 ventures, and, perhaps, fruitful of a heroine. The adventure 
 sometimes turns out to be a catastrophe, and the heroine a copy 
 instead of an original ; but let that pass. 
 
 Lord Marney liked to be surrounded by those who sympathised 
 with his pursuit; and his pursuit was politics, and politics on a 
 great scale. The common-place career of official distinction was 
 athis command. A great peer, with abilities and ambition, a 
 good speaker, supposed to be a conservative, he might soon have 
 found his way into the cabinet, and, like the rest, have assisted 
 in registering the decrees of one too powerful individual. But 
 Lord Marney had been taught to think at a period of life when he 
 little dreamed of the responsibility which fortune had in store 
 for him. 
 
 The change in his position had not altered the conclusions at 
 which he had previously arrived. He held that the state of Eng- 
 land, notwithstanding the superficies of a material prosperity, 
 was one of impending doom, unless it were timely arrested by 
 those who were in high places. A man of fine mind rather than 
 of brilliant talents, Lord Marney found, in the more vivid and 
 impassioned intelligence of Coningsby, the directing sympathy
 
 158 
 
 which he required. Tadpole looked upou his lordship as little 
 short of insane. "Do you see that man?" he would say, as 
 Lord Marney rode by. "He might be Privy Seal, and he throws 
 it all away for the nonsense of Young England ! " 
 
 Mrs. Coningsby entered the room almost on the footsteps of 
 the Marneys. 
 
 "I am in despair about Harry," she said as she gave a finger 
 to Sidonia , "but he told me not to wait for him later than eight. 
 I suppose he is kept at the House. Do you know anything of 
 him, Lord Henry?" 
 
 "You may make yourself quite easy about him," said Lord 
 Henry. "He promised Vavasour to support a motion which he 
 has to-day, and perhaps speak on it. I ought to be there too, 
 but Charles Buller told me there would certainly be no division, 
 and so I ventured to pair off with him." 
 
 "He will come with Vavasour," said Sidonia, "who 
 makes up our party. They will be here before we have seated 
 ourselves." 
 
 The gentlemen had exchanged the usual inquiry, whether 
 there was anything new to-day, without waiting for the answer. 
 Sidonia introduced Tancred and Lord Marney. 
 
 "And what have you been doing to-day?" said Edith to 
 Sybil, by whose side she had seated herself. "Lady Bardolf 
 did nothing last night but gronder rne, because you never go to 
 her parties. In vain I said that you looked upou her as the most 
 odious of her sex and her balls the pest of society. She was not 
 in the least satisfled. And how is Gerard?" 
 
 "Why, we really have been very uneasy about him," said 
 Lady Marney, "but the last bulletin," she added, with a smile, 
 "announces a tooth." 
 
 "Next year you must give him a pony, and let him ride with 
 my Harry, I mean my little Harry, Harry of Monmouth I call
 
 159 
 
 him; he is so like a portrait Mr. Coniugsby has of his grand- 
 father — the same debauched look." 
 
 "Your dinner is served, Sir!" 
 
 Sidouia offered his hand to Lady Marney; Edith was attended 
 by Tancred. A door at the end of the room opened into a marble 
 corridor, which led to the dining-room, decorated in the same 
 style as the library. It was a suite of apartments which Sidonia 
 used for an intimate circle like the present.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 They seated themselves at a round table, on which everything 
 seemed brilliant and sparkling; nothing heavy, nothing oppres- 
 sive. There was scarcely anything that Sidonia disliked so much 
 as a small table, groaning, as it is aptly termed, with plate. 
 He shrunk from great masses of gold and silver; gigantic groups, 
 colossal shields, and mobs of tankards and flagons; and never 
 used them except on great occasions, when the banquet assumes 
 an Egyptian character, and becomes too vast for refinement. At 
 present, the dinner was served on Sevres porcelain of Rose du 
 Barry, raised on airy golden stands of arabesque workman- 
 ship; a mule bore your panniers of salt, or o sea-nymph prof- 
 fered it you on a shell just fresh from the ocean, or you found it 
 in a bird's nest; by every guest a different pattern. In the centre 
 of the table, mounted on a pedestal, was a group of pages in 
 Dresden china. Nothing could be more gay than their bright 
 cloaks and flowing plumes, more elaborately exquisite than 
 their laced shirts and rosettes, or more fantastically saucy 
 than their pretty affected faces, as each, with extended arm, 
 held a light to a guest. The room was otherwise illumined 
 from the sides. 
 
 The guests had scarcely seated themselves, when the two 
 absent ones arrived. 
 
 "Well, you did not divide, Vavasour," said Lord Henry. 
 
 "Did I not?" said Vavasour; "and nearly beat the govern- 
 ment. You are a pretty fellow ! " 
 
 "I was paired." 
 
 "With some one who could not stay. Your brother, Mrs.
 
 161 
 
 Coningsby, behaved like a man, sacrificed his dinner, and 
 made a capital speech." 
 
 "Oh! Oswald, did he speak? Did you speak, Harry?" 
 
 "No; I voted. There was too much speaking as it was: if 
 Vavasour had not replied, I believe we should have won." 
 
 "But then, my dear fellow, think of my points; think how 
 they laid themselves open?" 
 
 "A majority is always the best repartee," said Coningsby. 
 
 " I have been talking with Montacute," whispered Lord Henry 
 to Coningsby, who was seated next to him. " Wonderful fellow ! 
 You can conceive nothing richer! Very wild, but all the right 
 ideas; exaggerated of course. You must get hold of him after 
 dinner." 
 
 "But they say he is going to Jerusalem." 
 
 "But he will return." 
 
 "I do not know that; even Napoleon regretted that he had 
 ever re-crossed the Mediterranean. The East is a career." 
 
 Mr. Vavasour was a social favourite ; a poet and a real poet, 
 quite a troubadour, as well as a member of Parliament; tra- 
 velled, sweet-tempered, and good-hearted; very amusing, and 
 very clever. With catholic sympathies and an eclectic turn of 
 mind, Mr. Vavasour saw something good in everybody and every- 
 thing, which is certainly amiable, and perhaps just, but dis- 
 qualifies a man in some degree for the business of life, which 
 requires for its conduct a certain degree of prejudice. Mr. Va- 
 vasour's breakfasts were renowned. Whatever your creed, class, 
 or country, one might almost add your character, you were a 
 welcome guest at his matutinal meal, provided you were cele- 
 brated. That qualification , however, was rigidly enforced. 
 
 It not rarely happened that never were men more incon- 
 gruously grouped. Individuals met at his hospitable hour who 
 had never met before, but who for years had been cherishing in 
 solitude mutual detestation, with all the irritable exaggeration of 
 
 Taitcred. I. 11
 
 162 
 
 the literary character. Vavasour liked to be the Amphitryon of a 
 cluster of personal enemies. He prided himself on figuring as 
 the social medium by which rival reputations became acquainted, 
 and paid each other in his presence the compliments which veiled 
 their ineffable disgust. All this was very well at his rooms in the 
 Albany, and only funny; but when he collected his menageries 
 at his ancestral hall in a distant county, the sport sometimes 
 became tragic. A real philosopher, alike from his genial dis- 
 position and from the influence of his rich and various informa- 
 tion, Vavasour moved amid the strife sympathizing with every 
 one; and perhaps, after all, the philanthropy which was his 
 boast was not untinged by a dash of humour, of which rare and 
 charming quality he possessed no inconsiderable portion. 
 
 Vavasour liked to know everybody who was known, and to see 
 everything which ought to be seen. He also was of opinion that 
 everybody who was known ought to know him; and that the 
 spectacle, however splendid or exciting, was not quite perfect 
 without his presence. His life was a gyration of energetic curio- 
 sity; an insatiable whirl of social celebrity. There was not a 
 congregation of sages and philosophers in any part of Europe 
 which he did not attend as a brother. He was present at the camp 
 of Kalisch in his yeomanry uniform , and assisted at the festivals 
 of Barcelona in an Andalusian jacket. He was everywhere and 
 at everything; he had gone down in a diving-bell and gone up 
 in a balloon. As for his acquaintances, he was welcomed in 
 every land; his universal sympathies seemed omnipotent. Em- 
 peror and king, jacobin and carbonaro, alike cherished him. 
 He was the steward of Polish balls and the vindicator of Russian 
 humanity, he dined with Louis Philippe and gave dinners to 
 Louis Blanc. 
 
 This was a dinner of which the guests came to partake. 
 Though they delighted in each other's society, their meetings 
 were not so rare that they need sacrifice the elegant pleasures of
 
 163 
 
 a refined meal for the opportunity of conversation. They let that 
 take its chance, and ate and drank without affectation. Nothing 
 so rare as a female dinner where people eat, and few things mere 
 delightful. On the present occasion, some time elapsed, while 
 the admirable performances of Sidonia's cook were discussed, 
 with little interruption; a burst now and then from the ringing 
 voice of Mrs. Coningsby crossing a lance with her habitual op- 
 ponent, Mr. Vavasour, who however generally withdrew from 
 the skirmish when a fresh dish was handed to him. 
 
 At length, the second course being served, Mrs. Coningsby 
 said, "I think you have all eaten enough: I have a piece of in- 
 formation for you. There is going to be a costume ball at the 
 palace." 
 
 This announcement produced a number of simultaneous re- 
 marks and exclamations. "When was it to be? What was it to 
 be? An age, or a country; or an olio of all ages and all coun- 
 tries?" 
 
 "An age is a masquerade," said Sidonia. "The more con- 
 tracted the circle , the more perfect the illusion." 
 
 "Oh, no!" said Vavasour, shaking his head. "An age is 
 the thing; it is a much higher thing. What can be finer than to 
 represent the spirit of an age?" 
 
 "And Mr. Vavasour to perform the principal part," said 
 Mrs. Coningsby. " I know exactly what he means. He wants to 
 dance the Polka as Petrarch , and find a Laura in every partner." 
 
 "You have no poetical feeling," said Mr. Vavasour, waving 
 his hand. "I have often told you so." 
 
 "You will easily find Lauras, Mr. Vavasour, if you often 
 write such beautiful verses as I have been reading to-day," said 
 Lady Marney. 
 
 "You, on the contrary," said Mr. Vavasour, bowing, "have 
 a great deal of poetic feeling, Lady Marney — I have always 
 said so." 
 
 11*
 
 164 
 
 "But give us your news, Edith," said Coningsby. "Imagine 
 our suspense, when it is a question, whether we are all to look 
 picturesque or quizzical." 
 
 "Ah, you want to know whether you can go as Cardinal Ma- 
 zarin, or the Duke of Ripperda, Harry. I know exactly what 
 you all are now thinking of; whether you will draw the prize in 
 the forthcoming lottery, and get exactly the epoch and the cha- 
 racter which suit you. Is it not so, Lord Montacute? Would 
 not you like to practise a little with your crusados at the Queen's 
 ball , before you go to the Holy Sepulchre ? " 
 
 "I would rather hear your description of it," said Tancred. 
 
 "Lord Henry, I see, is half inclined to be your companion 
 as a Redcross Knight," continued Edith. "As for Lady Marney, 
 she is the successor of Mrs. Fry, and would wish, I am sure, to 
 go to the ball as her representative." 
 
 "And pray what are you thinking of being?" said Mr. Vava- 
 sour. "We should like very much to be favoured with Mrs. 
 Coningsby's ideal of herself." 
 
 "Mrs. Coningsby leaves the ideal to poets. She is quite 
 satisfied to remain what she is, and it is her intention to do so, 
 though she means to go to her majesty's ball." 
 
 "I see that you are in the secret," said Lord Marney. 
 
 "If I could only keep secrets, I might turn out something," 
 said Mrs. Coningsby. "I am the depositary of so much that is 
 occult — joys, sorrows, plots, and scrapes; but I always tell 
 Harry, and he always betrays me. Well, you must guess a 
 little. Lady Marney begins." 
 
 "Well, we were at one at Turin," said Lady Marney, "and 
 it was oriental — Lalla Rookh. Are you to be a sultana? " 
 
 Mrs. Coningsby shook her head. 
 
 "Come, Edith," said her husband ; "if you know, which I 
 doubt — "
 
 105 
 
 "Oh! you doubt—" 
 
 "Valentine told me yesterday," said Mr. Vavasour, in a 
 mock peremptory tone , " that there would not be a ball." 
 
 "And Lord Valentine told me yesterday that there would be 
 a ball, and what the ball would be; and what is more, I have 
 fixed on my dress," said Mrs. Coningsby. 
 
 "Such a rapid decision proves that much antiquarian re- 
 search is not necessary," said Sidonia. "Your period is 
 modern." 
 
 "Ah!" said Edith, looking at Sidonia, "he always finds 
 me out. Well, Mr. Vavasour, you will not be able to crown 
 yourself with a laurel wreath, for the gentlemen will wear 
 wigs." 
 
 "Louis Quatorze?" said her husband. "Peel as Louvois." 
 
 "No, Sir Robert would be content with nothing less than 
 Le Grand Colbert, Rue Richelieu, No. 15, grand magazin de 
 nouveaute"s tr&s anciennes : prix fixe avec quelques rabais." 
 
 "A description of Conservatism ," said Coningsby. 
 
 The secret was soon revealed: every one had a conjecture 
 and a commentary. Gentlemen in wigs, and ladies powdered, 
 patched, and sacked. Vavasour pondered somewhat dolefully on 
 the anti-poetic spirit of the age; Coningsby hailed him as the 
 author of Leonidas. 
 
 "And you, I suppose, will figure as one of the 'boys' ar- 
 rayed against the great Sir Robert?" said Mr. Vavasour, with a 
 countenance of mock veneration for that eminent personage. 
 
 "The 'boys' beat him at last," said Coningsby; and then, 
 with a rapid precision and a richness of colouring which were pe- 
 culiar to him, he threw out a sketch which placed the period 
 before them; and they began to tear it to tatters, select the in- 
 cidents, and apportion the characters.
 
 166 
 
 Two things which arc very necessary to a perfect dinner are 
 noiseless attendants and a precision in serving the various dishes 
 of each course, so that they may all be placed upon the table at 
 the same moment. A deficiency in these respects produces that 
 bustle and delay which distract many an agreeable conversation 
 and spoil many a pleasant dish. These two excellent character- 
 istics were never wanting at the dinners of Sidonia. At no house 
 was there less parade. The appearance of the table changed as if 
 by the waving of a wand , and silently as a dream. And , at this 
 moment, the dessert being arranged, fruits and their beautiful 
 companions, flowers, reposed in alabaster baskets raised on 
 silver stands of filagree work. 
 
 There was half an hour of merry talk, graceful and gay: a 
 good story, a bon mot fresh from the mint, some raillery like 
 summer lightning, vivid but not scorching. 
 
 "And now," said Edith, as the ladies rose to return to the 
 library — "and now, we leave you to Maynooth." 
 
 "By the bye, what do they say to it in your House, Lord 
 Marney?" inquired Henry Sidney, filling his glass. 
 
 "It will go down," said Lord Marney. "A strong dose for 
 some, but they are used to potent potions." 
 
 "The bishops, they say, have not made up their minds." 
 
 "Fancy bishops not having made up their minds," exclaimed 
 Tancred : "the only persons who ought never to doubt." 
 
 "Except when they are offered a bishopric," said Lord 
 Marney. 
 
 "Why I like this Maynooth project," said Tancred, "though 
 otherwise it little interests me, is, that all the shopkeepers are 
 against it." 
 
 "Don't tell that lo the minister," said Coningsby, "or he 
 will give up the measure." 
 
 "Well, that is the very reason," said Vavasour, "why,
 
 167 
 
 though otherwise iuclined to the giant, I hesitate as to my vote. 
 I have the highest opinion of the shopkeepers; I sympathize even 
 with their prejudices. They are the class of the age; they re- 
 present its order, its decency, its industry." 
 
 "And you represent them," said Coningsby. "Vavasour is 
 the quintessence of order, decency, and industry." 
 
 "You may jest," said Vavasour, shaking his head with a 
 spice of solemn drollery; "but public opinion must and ought 
 to be respected, right or wrong." 
 
 "What do you mean by public opinion?" said Tancred. 
 
 "The opinion of the reflecting majority," said Vavasour. 
 
 "Those who don't read your poems," said Coningsby. 
 
 "Boy, boy!" said Vavasour, who could endure raillery from 
 one he had been at college with, but who was not over-pleased 
 at Coningsby selecting the present occasion to claim his franchise, 
 when a new man was present like Lord Montacute on whom Vava- 
 sour naturally wished to produce an impression. It must be 
 owned that it was not, as they say, very good taste in the husband 
 of Edith, but prosperity had developed in Coningsby a native 
 vein of sauciness which it required all the solemnity of the senate 
 to repress. Indeed, even there, upon the benches, with a grave 
 face, he often indulged in quips and cranks, that convulsed his 
 neighbouring audience, who often, amid the long dreary nights 
 of statistical imposture, sought refuge in his gay sarcasms, his 
 airy personalities, and happy quotations. 
 
 "I don't see how there can be opinion without thought," 
 said Tancred; "and I don't believe the public ever think. How 
 can they? They have no time. Certainly we live at present under 
 the empire of general ideas, which are extremely powerful. But 
 the public have not invented those ideas. They have adopted 
 them from convenience. No one has confidence in himself; on 
 the contrary, every one has a mean idea of his own strength and
 
 168 
 
 has no reliance on his own judgment. Men obey a general im- 
 pulse, they bow before an external necessity, whether for 
 resistance or action. Individuality is dead; there is a want of 
 inward and personal energy in man ; and that is what people feel 
 and mean when they go about complaining there is no faith." 
 
 "You would hold, then," said Henry Sidney, "that the 
 progress of public liberty marches with the decay of personal 
 greatness?" 
 
 "It would seem so." 
 
 "But the majority will always prefer public liberty to per- 
 sonal greatness," said Lord Marney. 
 
 "But without personal greatness, you never would have had 
 public liberty," said Coningsby. 
 
 "After all, it is civilization that you are kicking against," 
 said Vavasour. 
 
 "I don't understand what you mean by civilization," said 
 Tancred. 
 
 "The progressive development of the faculties of man," said 
 Vavasour. 
 
 "Yes, but what is progressive development?" saidSidonia; 
 "and what are the faculties of man? If development be progres- 
 sive, how do you account for the state of Italy? One will tell you 
 it is superstition, indulgences, and the Lady of Loretto; yet 
 three centuries ago, when all these influences were much more 
 powerful, Italy was the soul of Europe. The less prejudiced — 
 a Puseyite for example, like our friend Vavasour — will assure 
 us that the state of Italy has nothing to do with the spirit of its 
 religion, but that it is entirely an affair of commerce; a revolu- 
 tion of commerce has convulsed its destinies.' I cannot forget 
 that the world was once conquered by Italians who had no com- 
 merce. Has the development of Western Asia been progressive? 
 It is a land of tombs and ruins. Is China progressive, the most
 
 160 
 
 ancient and numerous of existing societies? Is Europe itself pro- 
 gressive? Is Spain a tithe as great as she was? Is Germany as 
 great as when she invented printing ; as she was under the rule of 
 Charles the Fifth? France herself laments her relative inferiority 
 to the past. But England flourishes. Is it what you call civili- 
 zation that makes England flourish? Is it the universal develop- 
 ment of the faculties of man that has rendered an island , almost 
 unknown to the ancients, the arbiter of the world? Clearly not. 
 It is her inhabitants that have done this; it is an affair of race. A 
 Saxon race, protected by an insular position, has stamped its 
 diligent and methodic character on the century. And when a 
 superior race, with a superior idea to Work and Order, ad- 
 vances, its state will be progressive, and we shall perhaps follow 
 the example of the desolate countries. All is race; there is no 
 other truth." 
 
 "Because it includes all others?" said Lord Henry. 
 
 "You have said it." 
 
 "As for Vavasour's definition of civilization," said Conings- 
 by, "civilization was more advanced in ancient than modern 
 times; then what becomes of the progressive principle? Look at 
 the great centuries of the Boman empire! You had two hundred 
 millions of human beings governed by a jurisprudence so philo- 
 sophical that we have been obliged to adopt its laws and living in 
 perpetual peace. The means of communication, of which we 
 now make such a boast, were far more vast and extensive in 
 those days. What were the Great Western and the London and 
 Birmingham to the Appian and Flaminian roads? After two 
 thousand five hundred years, parts of these are still used. A 
 man under the Antonines might travel from Paris to Antioch with 
 as much ease and security as we go from London to York. As for 
 free trade, there never was a really unshackled commerce ex- 
 cept in the days when the whole of the Mediterranean coasts be-
 
 170 
 
 longed to one power. What a chatter there is now about the 
 towns, and how their development is cited as the peculiarity of 
 the age, and the great security for public improvement. Why, 
 the Roman empire was the empire of great cities. Man w as then 
 essentially municipal." 
 
 "What an empire! " said Sidonia. "All the superior races 
 in all the superior climes." 
 
 "But how does all this accord with your and Coningsby's fa- 
 vourite theory of the influence of individual character," said 
 Vavasour to Sidonia, "which I hold, by the bye," he added 
 rather pompously, "to be entirely futile?" 
 
 "What is individual character but the personification of 
 race," said Sidonia, "its perfection and choice exemplar? In- 
 stead of being an inconsistency, the belief in the influence of the 
 individual is a corollary of the original proposition." 
 
 "I look upon a belief in the influence of individual character 
 as a barbarous superstition," said Vavasour. 
 
 "Vavasour believes that there would be no heroes if there 
 were a police," said Coningsby; "but I believe that civilization 
 is only fatal to minstrels, and that is the reason now we have 
 no poets." 
 
 "How do you account for the Polish failure in 1831?" said 
 Lord Marney. "They had a capital army, they were backed by 
 the population — but they failed. They had everything but 
 a man." 
 
 "Why were the Whigs smashed in 1834," said Coningsby, 
 " but because they had not a man? " 
 
 "What is the real explanation of the state of Mexico?" said 
 Sidonia. "It has not a man." 
 
 "So much for progress since the days of Charles the Fifth," 
 said Henry Sidney. "The Spaniards then conquered Mexico, and 
 now they cannot govern it."
 
 171 
 
 "So much for race," said Vavasour. "The race is the same; 
 why are not the results the same?" 
 
 "Because it is worn out," said Sidonia. "Why do not the 
 Ethiopians build anotherThebes, or excavate the colossal temples 
 of the cataracts? The decay of a race is an inevitable necessity, 
 unless it lives in deserts and never mixes its blood."
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 "I am sorry, my dear mother, that I cannot accompany you; 
 but I must go down to my yacht this morning, and on my return 
 from Greenwich I have an engagement." 
 
 This was said about a week after the dinner at Sidonia's, by 
 Lord Montacute to the duchess. 
 
 "That terrible yacht!" thought the duchess. 
 
 Her grace, a year ago, had she been aware of it, would have 
 deemed Tancred's engagement as fearful an affair. The idea 
 that her son should have called every day for a week on a married 
 lady, beautiful and attractive, would have filled her with alarm 
 amounting almost to horror. Yet such was the innocent case. 
 It might at the first glance seem difficult to reconcile the rival 
 charms of the Basilisk and Lady Bertie and Bellair, and to un- 
 derstand how Tancred could be so interested in the preparations 
 for a voyage which was to bear him from the individual in whose 
 society he found a daily gratification. But the truth is, that 
 Lady Bertie and Bellair was the only person who sympathized 
 with his adventure. 
 
 She listened with the liveliest concern to his account of all his 
 progress ; she even made many admirable suggestions , for Lady 
 Bertie and Bellair had been a frequent visitor at Cowes, and was 
 quite initiated in the mysteries of the dilettante service of the 
 Yacht Club. She was a capital sailor; at least she always told 
 Tancred so. But this was not the chief source of sympathy or 
 the principal bond of union between them. It was not the 
 voyage, so much as the object of the voyage, that touched all the
 
 173 
 
 passion of Lady Bertie and Bellair. Her heart was at Jerusalem. 
 The sacred city was the dream of her life; and, amid the dissi- 
 pations of May Fair and the distractions of Belgravia, she had in 
 fact all this time only been thinking of Jehosaphat and Sion. 
 Strange coincidence of sentiment — strange and sweet ! 
 
 The enamoured Montacute hung over her with pious rapture, 
 as they examined together Mr. Boberls's Syrian drawings, and she 
 alike charmed and astonished him by her familiarity with every 
 locality and each detail. She looked like a beautiful prophetess 
 as she dilated with solemn enthusiasm on the sacred scene. 
 Tancred called on her every day , because when he called the first 
 time, he had announced his immediate departure, and so had 
 been authorised to promise that he would pay his respects to her 
 every day till he went. It was calculated that by these means, 
 that is to say three or four visits, they might perhaps travel 
 through Mr. Roberts's views together before he left England, 
 which would facilitate their correspondence, for Tancred had 
 engaged to write to the only person in the world worthy of re- 
 ceiving his letters. But, though separated, Lady Bertie and 
 Bellair would be with him in spirit; and once she sighed and 
 seemed to murmur, that if his voyage could only be postponed 
 awhile, she might in a manner become his fellow-pilgrim, for 
 Lord Bertie, a great sportsman, had a desire to kill antelopes, 
 and, wearied with the monotonous slaughter of English pre- 
 serves, tired even of the eternal moors, had vague thoughts of 
 seeking new sources of excitement amid the snipes of the Grecian 
 marshes and the deer and wild boars of the desert and the Syrian 
 hills. 
 
 While his captain was repeating his inquiries for instructions 
 on the deck of the Basilisk at Greenwich, moored off the Tra- 
 falgar Hotel , Tancred fell into reveries of female pilgrims kneel- 
 ing at the Holy Sepulchre by his side; then started, gave a
 
 174 
 
 hurried reply, and drove back quickly to town, to pass the 
 remainder of the morning in Brook Street. 
 
 The two or three days had expanded into two or three weeks, 
 and Tancred continued to call daily on Lady Bertie and Bellair 
 — to say farewell. It was not wonderful: she was the only 
 person in London who understood him; so she delicately inti- 
 mated, so he profoundly felt. They had the same ideas; they 
 must have the same idiosyncracy. The lady asked with a sigh 
 why they had not met before; Tancred found some solace in the 
 thought that they had at least become acquainted. There was 
 something about this lady very interesting besides her beauty, 
 her bright intelligence, and her seraphic thoughts. She was 
 evidently the creature of impulse; to a certain degree perhaps 
 the victim of her imagination. She seemed misplaced in life. 
 The tone of the century hardly suited her refined and romantic 
 spirit. Her ethereal nature seemed to shrink from the coarse 
 reality which invades in our days even the boudoirs of May Fair. 
 There was something in her appearance and the temper of her 
 being which rebuked the material, sordid, calculating genius of 
 our reign of Mammon. 
 
 Her presence in this world was a triumphant vindicaion of 
 the claims of beauty and of sentiment. It was evident that she 
 was not happy ; for, though her fair brow always lighted up when 
 she met the glance of Tancred, it was impossible not to observe 
 that she was sometimes strangely depressed, often anxious and 
 excited, frequently absorbed in reverie. Yet her vivid intelli- 
 gence, the clearness and precision of her thought and fancy- 
 never faltered. In the unknown yet painful contest, the intel- 
 lectual always triumphed. It was impossible to deny that she 
 was a woman of great ability. 
 
 Nor could it for a moment be imagined that these fitful moods 
 were merely the routine intimations that her domestic hearth was
 
 175 
 
 not as happj as it deserved to be. On the contrary, Lord and 
 Lady Bertie and Bellair were the very best friends; she always 
 spoke of her husband with interest and kindness; they were 
 much together, and there evidently existed between them mutual 
 confidence. His lordship's heart indeed was not at Jerusalem; 
 and perhaps this want of sympathy on a subject of such rare and 
 absorbing interest might account for the occasional musings of 
 his wife, taking refuge in her own solitary and devoutly pas- 
 sionate soul. But this deficiency on the part of his lordship 
 could scarcely be alleged against him as a very heinous fault; 
 it is far from usual to find a British noble who on such a topic 
 entertains the notions and sentiments of Lord Montacute; almost 
 as rare to find a British peeress who could respond to them with 
 the same fervour and facility as the beautiful Lady Bertie and 
 Bellair. The life of a British peer is mainly regulated by Ara- 
 bian laws and Syrian customs at this moment, but, while he 
 sabbatically abstains from the debate or the rubber, or regulates 
 the quarterly performance of his judicial duties in his province 
 by the advent of the sacred festivals, he thinks little of the land 
 and the race who, under the immediate superintendence of the 
 Deity, have by their sublime legislation established the prin- 
 ciple of periodic rest to man, or by their deeds and their 
 dogmas, commemorated by their holy anniversaries, have 
 elevated the condition and softened the lot of every nation except 
 their own. 
 
 "And how does Tancred get on?" asked Lord Eskdale one 
 morning of the Duchess of Bellamont, with a dry smile. "I un- 
 derstand that, instead of going to Jerusalem, he is going to give 
 us a fish dinner." 
 
 The Duchess of Bellamont had made the acquaintance of Lady 
 Bertie and Bellair, and was delighted with her, although her 
 grace had been told that Lord Montacute called upon her every
 
 176 
 
 day. The proud, intendsely proper, and highly prejudiced 
 Duchess of Bellamont, took the most charitable view of this 
 sudden and fervent friendship. A female friend, who talked 
 about Jerusalem, but kept her son in London, was in the present 
 estimation of the duchess a real treasure, the most interesting 
 and admirable of her sex. Their intimacy was satisfactorily ac- 
 counted for by the invaluable information which she imparted to 
 Tancred ; what he was to see, do, eat, drink; how he was to 
 avoid being poisoned and assassinated, escape fatal fevers, re- 
 gularly attend the service of the church of England in countries 
 where there were no churches, and converse in languages of 
 which he had no knowledge. He could not have a better coun- 
 sellor than Lady Bertie , who had herself travelled — at least to 
 the Faubourg St. Honore" — and , as Horace Walpole says, after 
 Calais nothing astonishes. Certainly Lady Bertie had not been 
 herself to Jerusalem, but she had read about it, and every other 
 place. The duchess was delighted that Tancred had a companion 
 who interested him. With all the impulse of her sanguine tem- 
 perament, she had already accustomed herself to look upon the 
 long-dreaded yacht as a toy, and rather an amusing one, and 
 was daily more convinced of the prescient shrewdness of her 
 cousin, Lord Eskdale. 
 
 Tancred was going to give them a fish dinner! A what? A 
 sort of banquet which might have served for the marriage feast of 
 Neptune and Amphitrite and be commemorated by a constella- 
 tion ; and which ought to have been administered by the Nereids 
 and the Naiads; terrines of turtle, pools of water souchee, 
 flounders of every hue, and eels in every shape, cutlets of sal- 
 mon, salmis of carp, ortolans represented by whitebait, and 
 huge roasts carved out of the sturgeon. The appetite is distracted 
 by the variety of objects, and tantalized by the restlessness of 
 perpetual solicitation; not a moment of repose — no pause for 
 enjoyment; eveutually, a feeling of satiety without satisfaction
 
 177 
 
 and of repletion without sustenance; till, at night, gradually 
 recovering from the whirl of the anomalous repast, famished yet 
 incapable of flavour, the tortured memory can only recall with an 
 effort, that it has dined off pink champagne and brown bread and 
 butter. 
 
 What a ceremony to be presided over by Tancred of Monta- 
 cute; who, if he deigned to dine at all, ought to have dined at 
 no less a round table than that of King Arthur. What a consum- 
 mation of a sublime project ! What a catastrophe of a spiritual 
 career ! A Greenwich party and a tavern bill ! 
 
 All the world now is philosophical, and therefore they can 
 account for this disaster. Without doubt we are the creatures of 
 circumstances; and, if circumstances take the shape of a charm- 
 ing woman, who insists upon sailing in your yacht, which hap- 
 pens to be atBlackwall or Greenwich, it is not easy to discover 
 how the inevitable consequences can be avoided. It would hardly 
 do, off the Nore, to present your mistress with a sea-pie, or 
 abruptly remind your farewell friends and sorrowing parents of 
 their impending loss, by suddenly serving up soup hermetically 
 sealed, and roasting the embalmed joint, which ought only to 
 have smoked amid the ruins of Thebes or by the cataracts of 
 Nubia. 
 
 There are however two sides of every picture ; a party may 
 be pleasant, and even a fish dinner not merely a whirl of 
 dishes and a clash of plates. The guests may be not too nu- 
 merous , and well assorted ; the attendance not too devoted , yet 
 regardful; the weather may be charming, which is a great 
 thing, and the giver of the dinner maybe charmed, and that is 
 everything. 
 
 The party to see the Basilisk was not only the most agreeable 
 of the season, but the most agreeable ever known. They all said 
 so when they came back. Mr. Vavasour, who was there, went 
 Tancred. 1. 12
 
 178 
 
 to all his evening parties ; to the assembly by the wife of a minis- 
 ter in Carlton Terrace ; to a rout by the wife of the leader of Op- 
 position in Whitehall ; to a literary soiree in Westminster, and 
 a brace of balls in Portman and Belgrave Squares; and told them 
 all that they were none of them to be compared to the party of the 
 morning, to which, it must be owned, he had greatly contri- 
 buted by his good humour and merry wit. Mrs. Coningsby de- 
 clared to every one, that, if Lord Montacute would take her, she 
 was quite ready to go to Jerusalem ; such a perfect vessel was the 
 Basilisk, and such an admirable sailor was Mrs. Coningsby, 
 which, considering that the river was like a mill-pond, according 
 to Tancred's captain, or like a mirror, according to Lady Bertie 
 and Bellair, was not surprising. The duke protested that he 
 was quite glad that Montacute had taken to yachting, it seemed 
 to agree with him so well-, and spoke of his son's future move- 
 ments, as if there were no such place as Palestine in the world. 
 The sanguine duchess dreamed of Cowes regattas, and resolved 
 to agree to any arrangement to meet her son's fancy , provided he 
 would stay at home , which she convinced herself he had now re- 
 solved to do. 
 
 "Our cousin is so wise," she said to her husband, as they 
 were returning. "What could the bishop mean by saying that 
 Tancred was a visionary? I agree with you, George, there is 
 no counsellor like a man of the world." 
 
 "I wish M. de Sidonia had come," said Lady Bertie and 
 Bellair, gazing from the window of the Trafalgar on the moonlit 
 river with an expression of abstraction, and speaking in a tone 
 almost of melancholy. 
 
 "I also wish it, since you do," said Tancred. "But they 
 say he goes nowhere. It was almost presumptuous in me to ask 
 him, yet I did so because you wished it." 
 
 "I never shall know him," said Lady Bertie and Bellair, with 
 some vexation.
 
 179 
 
 "He interests you," said Tancred , a little piqued. 
 
 " I had so many things to say to him ," said her ladyship. 
 
 "Indeed!" said Tancred; and then he continued, "I offered 
 him every inducement to come, for I told him it was to meet you ; 
 but perhaps if he had known that you had so many things to say to 
 him, he might have relented." 
 
 "So many things! Oh! yes. You know he has been a 
 great traveller; he has been everywhere; he has been at Jeru- 
 salem." 
 
 "Fortunate man!" exclaimed Tancred, half to himself. 
 " Would I were there ! " 
 
 "Would we were there, you mean," said Lady Bertie, in a 
 tone of exquisite melody, and looking at Tancred with her rich 
 charged eyes. 
 
 His heart trembled: he was about to give utterance to some 
 wild words, but they died upon his lips. Two great convictions 
 shared his being — the absolute necessity of at once commencing 
 his pilgrimage, and the persuasion that life, without the constant 
 presence of this sympathizing companion, must be intolerable. 
 What was to be done? In his long reveries, where he had 
 brooded over so many thoughts, some only of which he had as 
 yet expressed to mortal ear, Tancred had calculated, as he be- 
 lieved, every combination of obstacle which his projects might 
 have to encounter; but one, it now seemed, he had entirely 
 omitted — the influence of woman. Why was he here? Why 
 was he not away? Why had he not departed? The reflection 
 was intolerable; it seemed to him even disgraceful. The 
 being who would be content with nothing less than com- 
 muning with celestial powers in sacred climes, standing at 
 a tavern window, gazing on the moonlit mud- banks of the 
 barbarous Thames — a river which neither angel nor prophet 
 had ever visited! Before him, softened by the hour, was 
 
 12*
 
 180 
 
 the Isle of Dogs. The Isle of Dogs! It should at least he 
 Cyprus! 
 
 The carriages were announced; Lady Bertie and Bellair 
 placed her arm in his.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Tancred passed a night of great disquiet. His mind was 
 agitated, his purposes indefinite; his confidence in himself 
 seemed to falter. Where was that strong will that had always 
 sustained him? that faculty of instant decision, which had given 
 such vigour to his imaginary deeds? A shadowy haze had suf- 
 fused his heroic idol, duty, and he could not clearly distinguish 
 either its form or its proportions. Did he wish to go to the Holy 
 Land or not? What a question! Had it come to that? Was it 
 possible that he could whisper such an inquiry, even to his mid- 
 night soul? He did wish to go to the Holy Land; his purpose 
 was not in the least faltering; he most decidedly wished to go to 
 the Holy Land, but he wished also to go thither in the company 
 of Lady Bertie and Bellair. 
 
 Tancred could not bring himself to desert the only being per- 
 haps in England, excepting himself, whose heart was at Jerusa- 
 lem; and that being a woman! There seemed something about 
 it unknightly, unkind and cowardly, almost base. Lady Bertie 
 was a heroine worthy of ancient Christendom rather than of 
 enlightened Europe. In the old days, truly the good old days, 
 when the magnetic power of Western Asia on the Gothic races 
 had been more puissant, her noble yet delicate spirit might have 
 been found beneath the walls of Ascalon or by the purple waters 
 of Tyre. When Tancred first met her, she was dreaming of 
 Palestine amid her frequent sadness; he could not, utterly void 
 of all self-conceit as he was, be insensible to the fact, that his 
 sympathy, founded on such a divine congeniality, had often 
 chased the cloud from her brow and lightened the burtheD of her
 
 182 
 
 drooping spirit. If she were sad before, what would she be now, 
 deprived of the society of the only being to whom she could un- 
 fold the spiritual mysteries of her romantic soul? Was such a 
 character to be left alone in this world of slang and scrip-, of 
 coarse motives and coarser words? Then too she was so in- 
 telligent and so gentle; the only person who understood him, 
 and never grated for an instant on his high ideal. Her temper 
 also was the sweetest in the world, eminent as her generous 
 spirit. She spoke of others with so much kindness, and never 
 indulged in that spirit of detraction or that love of personal 
 gossip, which Tancred had frankly told her he abhorred. Some- 
 how or other, it seemed that their tastes agreed on everything. 
 
 The agitated Tancred rose from the bed where the hope of 
 slumber was vain. The fire in his dressing-room was nearly 
 extinguished; wrapped in his chamber robe, he threw himself 
 into a chair which he drew near the expiring embers , and sighed. 
 Unhappy youth ! For you commences that great hallucination, 
 which all must prove, but which fortunately can never be 
 repeated, and which, in mockery, we call first love. The 
 physical frame has its infantile disorders; the cough which it 
 must not escape, the burning skin which it must encounter. The 
 heart has also its childish and cradle malady, which may be fatal, 
 but which, if once surmounted, enables the patient to meet with 
 becoming power all the real convulsions and fevers of passion 
 that are the heir-loom of our after life. They too may bring 
 destruction; but, in their case, the cause and the effect are 
 more proportioned. The heroine is real, the sympathy is wild 
 but at least genuine , the catastrophe is that of a ship at sea which 
 sinks with a rich cargo in a noble venture. 
 
 In our relations with the softer sex it cannot be maintained that 
 ignorance is bliss. On the contrary, experience is the best se- 
 curity for enduring love. Love at first sight is often a genial and 
 genuine sentiment, but first love at first sight is ever eventually
 
 183 
 
 branded as spurious. Still more so is that first love which suffuses 
 less rapidly the spirit of the ecstatic votary, when he finds that by 
 degrees his feelings, as the phrase runs, have become engaged. 
 Fondness is so new to him that he has repaid it with exaggerated 
 idolatry, and become intoxicated by the novel gratification of his 
 vanity. Little does he suspect that all this time his seventh heaven 
 is but the crapulence of self-love. In these cases, it is not 
 merely that everything is exaggerated, but everything is factitious. 
 Simultaneously, the imaginary attributes of the idol disappearing, 
 and vanity being satiated, all ends in a crash of iconoclastic 
 surfeit. 
 
 The embers became black, the night air had cooled the tur- 
 bulent blood of Lord Montacute, he shivered, returned to his 
 couch, and found a deep and invigorating repose. 
 
 The next morning, about two hours after noon, Tancred 
 called on Lady Bertie. As he drove up to the door, there came 
 forth from it the foreigner who was her companion in the city fray, 
 when Tancred first saw her and went to her rescue. He recognised 
 Lord Montacute, and bowed with much ceremony, though with 
 a certain grace and beariug. He was a man whose wrinkled visage 
 strangely contrasted with his still gallant figure, scrupulously 
 attired; a blue frock coat with a ribboned button-hole, a well- 
 turned boot, hat a little too hidalgoish, but quite new. There 
 was something respectable and substantial about him, notwith- 
 standing his moustaches, and a carriage a degree too debonair 
 for his years. He did not look like a carbonaro or a refugee. 
 Who could he be? 
 
 Tancred had asked himself this question before. This was 
 not the first time that he had encountered this distinguished 
 foreigner since their first meeting. Tancred had seen him before 
 this, quitting the door of Lord Bertie and Bellair; had stumbled 
 over him before this, more than once, on the staircase; once, 
 to his surprise, had met him as he entered the personal saloon of
 
 184 
 
 Lady Bertie. As it was evident, on that occasion , that his visit 
 had been to the lady, it was thought necessary to say something, 
 and he had been called the Baron, and described, though in a 
 somewhat flurried and excited manner, as a particular friend, a 
 person in whom they had the most entire confidence, who had 
 been most kind to them at Paris, putting them in the way of 
 buying the rarest china for nothing, and who was now over here 
 on some private business of his own, of great importance. The 
 Bertie and Bellairs felt immense interest in his exertions, and 
 wished him every success; Lord Bertie particularly. It was not 
 at all surprising, considering the innumerable kindnesses they 
 had experienced at his hands — was it? 
 
 "Nothing more natural," replied Tancred; and he turned the 
 conversation. 
 
 Lady Bertie was much depressed this morning, so much so, 
 that it was impossible for Tancred not to notice her uneqnal de- 
 meanour. Her hand trembled as he touched it ; her face, flushed 
 when he entered, became deadly pale. 
 
 "You are not well," he said. "I fear the open carriage 
 last night has made you already repent our expedition." 
 
 She shook her head. It was not the open carriage, which 
 was delightful, nor the expedition, which was enchanting, that 
 had affected her. Would that life consisted only of such incidents, 
 of barouches and whitebait banquets! Alas! no, it was not 
 these. But she was nervous, her slumbers had been disquieted, 
 she had encountered alarming dreams ; she had a profound con- 
 viction that something terrible was impending over her. And 
 Tancred took her hand, to prevent, if possible, what appeared 
 to be inevitable hysterics. But Lady Bertie and Bellair was a 
 strong-minded woman, and she commanded herself. 
 
 "I can bear anything," said Tancred, in a trembling voice, 
 "but to see you unhappy." And he drew his chair nearer to 
 hers.
 
 185 
 
 Her face was hid, her beautiful face in her beautiful hand. 
 There was silence and then a sigh. 
 
 "Dear lady," said Lord Montacute. 
 
 " What is it? " murmured Lady Bertie and Bellair. 
 
 " Why do you sigh? " 
 
 "Because I am miserable." 
 
 "No, no, no, don't use such words," said the distracted 
 Tancred. "You must not be miserable; you shall not be." 
 
 " Can I help it? Are we not about to part? " 
 
 "We need not part," he said, in a low voice. 
 
 "Then you will remain?" she said, looking up, and her dark 
 brown eyes were fixed with all their fascination on the tortured Tan- 
 cred. 
 
 "Till we all go," he said, in a soothing voice. 
 
 "That can never be," said Lady Bertie; "Augustus will 
 never hear of it; he never could be absent more than six weeks 
 from London, he misses his club so. If Jerusalem were only a 
 place one could get at, something might be done; iftherewerea 
 railroad to it for example." 
 
 "A railroad!" exclaimed Tancred, with a look of horror. 
 "A railroad to Jerusalem ! " 
 
 "No, I suppose there never can be one," continued Lady 
 Bertie, in a musing tone. "There is no traffic. And I am the 
 victim," she added, in a thrilling voice; "I am left here among 
 people who do not comprehend me, and among circumstances with 
 which I can have no sympathy. But go, Lord Montacute, go, and 
 be happy — alone. I ought to have been prepared for all this ; you 
 have not deceived me. You told me from the first you were a pil- 
 grim, but I indulged in a dream. I believed that I should not 
 only visit Palestine, but even visit it with you." And she leant 
 back in her chair and covered her face with her hands. 
 
 Tancred rose from his seat, and paced the chamber. His 
 heart seemed to burst.
 
 186 
 
 "What is all this?" he thought. "How came all this to 
 occur? How has arisen this singular combination of unforeseen 
 causes and undreamed of circumstances, which baffles all my 
 plans and resolutions, and seems, as it were, without my 
 sanction and my agency, to be taking possession of my destiny 
 and life? I am bewildered, confounded, incapable of thought 
 or deed." 
 
 His tumultuous reverie was broken by the sobs of Lady 
 Bertie. 
 
 "By heaven, I cannot endure this!" said Tancred, ad- 
 vancing. "Death seems to me preferable to her unhappiness. 
 Dearest of women!" 
 
 "Do not call me that," she murmured. "I can bear any- 
 thing from your lips but words of fondness. And pardon all this ; 
 I am not myself to-day, I had thought that I had steeled myself 
 to all, to our inevitable separation; but I have mistaken myself, 
 at least miscalculated my strength. It is weak; it is very weak 
 and very foolish, but you must pardon it. I am too much inter- 
 ested in your career to wish you to delay your departure a moment 
 for my sake. I can bear our separation, at least I think I can. 
 I shall quit the world — for ever. I should have done so had we 
 not met. I was on the point of doing so when we did meet — 
 when — when my dream was at length realized. Go, go; do not 
 stay. Bless you, and write to me, if I be alive to receive your 
 letters." 
 
 "I cannot leave her," thought the harrowed Tancred. "It 
 never shall be said of me that I could blight a woman's life or 
 break her heart." But, just as he was advancing, the door 
 opened, and a servant brought in a note, and, without looking 
 at Tancred, who had turned to the window, disappeared. The 
 desolation and despair which had been impressed on the counte- 
 nance of Lady Bertie andBellair vanished in an instant, as she 
 recognised the handwriting of her correspondent. They were
 
 187 
 
 succeeded by an expression of singular excitement. She tore 
 open the note ; a stupor seemed to spread over her features , and, 
 giving a faint shriek, she fell into a swoon. 
 
 Tancred rushed to her side; she was quite insensible, and 
 pale as alabaster. The note, which was only two lines, was 
 open and extended in her hands. It was from no idle curiosity, 
 but it was impossible for Tancred not to read it. He had one of 
 those eagle visions that nothing could escape, and, himself ex- 
 tremely alarmed, it was the first object at which he uncon- 
 sciously glanced in his agitation to discover the cause and the 
 remedy for this crisis. The note ran thus — 
 
 "3 o'clock. 
 "The Narrow Gauge has won. We are utterly done; and 
 Snicks tells me you bought five hundred more yesterday , at ten. 
 Is it possible ! 
 
 "F." 
 
 "Is it possible!" echoed Tancred, as, entrusting Lady Ber- 
 tie to her maid, he rapidly descended the staircase of her man- 
 sion. He almost ran to Davies Street, where he jumped into a 
 cab , not permitting the driver to descend to let him in. 
 
 "Whereto?" asked the driver. 
 
 "The city." 
 
 "What part?" 
 
 "Nevermind; near the Bank." 
 
 Alighting from the cab, Tancred hurried to Sequin Court, 
 and sent in his card to Sidonia, who in a few moments received 
 him. As he entered the great financier's room, there came out 
 of it the man called in Brook Street the Baron. 
 
 "Well, how did your dinner go off?" said Sidonia, looking 
 with some surprise at the disturbed countenance of Tancred. 
 
 "It seems very ridiculous, very impertinent I fear you will
 
 188 
 
 think it," said Tancred, in a hesitating confused manner, "but 
 that person — that person who has just left the room — I have a 
 particular reason — I have the greatest desire — to know who 
 that person is." 
 
 "That is a French capitalist," replied Sidonia, with a slight 
 smile, "an eminent French capitalist — the Baron Villebecque 
 de Chateau Neuf. He wants me to support him in a great rail- 
 road enterprise in his country — a new line to Strasbourg — and 
 looks to a great traffic I suppose in pasties. But this cannot 
 much interest you. What do you want really to know about 
 him? I can tell you everything. I have been acquainted with 
 him for years. He was the intendant of Lord Monmouth, who 
 left him thirty thousand pounds, and he set up upon this at Pa- 
 ris as a millionaire. He is in the way of becoming one, has 
 bought lands, is a deputy and a baron. He is rather a favourite 
 of mine," added Sidonia, "and I have been able, perhaps, to 
 assist him, for I knew him long before Lord Monmouth did, in 
 a very different position from that which he now fills, though 
 not one for which I have less respect. He was a fine comic actor 
 in the courtly parts, and the most celebrated manager in Europe ; 
 always a fearful speculator, but he is an honest fellow, and has 
 a good heart." 
 
 "He is a great friend of Lady Bertie and Bellair," said Tan- 
 cred, rather hesitatingly. 
 
 "Naturally," said Sidonia. 
 
 "She also," saidTancred, with a becalmed countenance but 
 a palpitating heart, "is, I believe, much interested in rail- 
 roads?" 
 
 "She is the most inveterate female gambler in Europe," said 
 Sidonia, "whatever shape her speculations take. Villebecque 
 is a great ally of hers. He always had a weakness for the Eng- 
 lish aristocracy, and remembers that he owed his fortune to one 
 of them. Lady Bertie was in great tribulation this year at Paris :
 
 189 
 
 (hat was the reason she did not come over before Easter; and 
 Yillebecque extricated her from a scrape. He would assist her 
 now if he could. By the bye, the day that I had the pleasure of 
 making your acquaintance, she was here with Villebecque, an 
 hour at my door, but I could not see her; she pesters me too 
 with her letters. But I don't like feminine finance. I hope the 
 worthy baron will be discreet in his alliance with her, for her 
 affairs, which I know, as I am obliged to know every one's, 
 happen to be at this moment most critical." 
 
 "I am trespassing on you," said Tancred, after a painful 
 pause ; " but I am about to set sail." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "To-morrow; to-day, if I could; and you were so kind as to 
 promise me — " 
 
 "A letter of introduction and a letter of credit: I have not 
 forgotten, and I will write them for you at once." And Sidonia 
 took up his pen and wrote — 
 
 A LETTEB OF INTBODUCTION 
 
 To Alonzo Lara , Spanish Prior , at the Convent of Terra Santa 
 
 at Jerusalem. 
 
 "Most holt Father, — The youth who will deliver to you 
 
 this is a pilgrim who aspires to penetrate the great Asian 
 
 mystery. Be to him what you were to me; and may the God of 
 
 Sinai, in whom we all believe, guard over you, and prosper his 
 
 enterprise! 
 
 Sidonia. 
 "London, May, 1845." 
 
 "You can read Spanish," said Sidonia, giving him the let- 
 ter. "The other I shall write in Hebrew, which you will soon 
 read."
 
 190 
 
 A LETTER OF CREDIT. 
 
 To Adam Besso, at Jerusalem. 
 
 "London, May, 1845. 
 "My good Adam, — If the youth who bears this require ad- 
 vances, let him have as much gold as would make the right-hand 
 lion on the first step of the throne of Solomon the king ; and if he 
 want more , let him have as much as would form the lion that is 
 on the left; and so on, through every stair of the royal seat. 
 For all which will be responsible to you the child of Israel, who 
 
 among the Gentiles is called 
 
 "Sidonia.
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The broad moon lingers on the summit of Mount Olivet, 
 but its beam has long left the garden of Gethsemane and the 
 tomb of Absalom, the waters of Kedron and the dark abyss of 
 Jehoshaphat. Full falls its splendour however on the opposite 
 city, vivid and defined in its silver blaze. A lofty wall, with 
 turrets and towers and frequent gates, undulates with the un- 
 equal ground which it covers, as it encircles the lost capital of 
 Jehovah. It is a city of hills, far more famous than those of 
 Rome: for all Europe has heard of Sion and of Calvary, while 
 the Arab and the Assyrian, and the tribes and nations beyond, 
 are as ignorant of the Capitolian and Aventine Mounts as they are 
 of the Malvern or the Chillern Hills. 
 
 The broad steep of Sion, crowned with the tower of David; 
 nearer still, Mount Moriah, with the gorgeous temple of the God 
 of Abraham, but built, alas! by the child of Hagar, and not by 
 Sarah's chosen one; close to its cedars and its cypresses, its 
 lofty spires and airy arches, the moonlight falls upon Bethesda's 
 pool; further on, entered by the gate of St. Stephen, the eye, 
 though 't is the noon of night, traces with ease the Street of Grief, 
 a long winding ascent to a vast cupolaed pile that now covers 
 Calvary, called the Street of Grief, because there the most illus- 
 trious of the human, as well as of the hebrew, race, the de-
 
 192 
 
 scendant of King David , and the divine Son of the most favoured 
 of women, twice sank under that burden of suffering and shame 
 which is now throughout all Christendom the emblem of triumph 
 and of honour; passing over groups and masses of houses built 
 of stone, with terraced roofs or surmounted with small domes, 
 we reach the hill of Salem, where Melchisedek built his mystic 
 citadel; and still remains the hill ofScopas, where Titus gazed 
 upon Jerusalem on the eve of his final assault. Titus destroyed 
 the temple. The religion of Judaea has in turn subverted the 
 fanes which were raised to his father and to himself in their im- 
 perial capital; and the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, 
 is now worshipped before every altar in Rome. 
 
 Jerusalem by moonlight ! 'T is a fine spectacle, apart from all 
 its indissoluble associations of awe and beauty. The mitigating 
 hour softens the austerity of a mountain landscape magnificent 
 in outline, however harsh and severe in detail; and, while it 
 retains all its sublimity, removes much of the savage sternness 
 of the strange and unrivalled scene. A fortified city, almost 
 surrounded by ravines, and rising in the centre of chains of far- 
 spreading hills, occasionally offering, through their rocky glens, 
 the gleams of a distant and richer land ! 
 
 The moon has sunk behind the Mount of Olives, and the stars 
 in the darker sky shine doubly bright over the sacred city. The 
 all-pervading stillness is broken by a breeze, that seems to have 
 travelled over the plain of Sharon from the sea. It wails among 
 the tombs and sighs among the cypress groves. The palm-tree 
 trembles as it passes, as if it were a spirit of woe. Is it the breeze 
 that has travelled over the plain of Sharon from the sea? 
 
 Or is it the haunting voice of prophets mourning over the city 
 that they could not save? Their spirits surely would linger on 
 the land where theirCreator had deigned to dwell, and over whose 
 impending fate Omnipotence had she human tears. From this 
 Mount! Who can but believe that, at the midnight hour, from
 
 193 
 
 the summit of the Ascension, the great departed of Israel as- 
 semble to gaze upon the battlements of their mystic city? There 
 might be counted heroes and sages, who need shrink from no 
 rivalry with the brightest and the wisest of other lands; but the 
 lawgiver of the time of the Pharaohs, whose laws are still obeyed ; 
 the monarch, whose reign has ceased for three thousand years, 
 but whose wisdom is a proverb in all nations of the earth; the 
 teacher, whose doctrines have modelled civilized Europe; — 
 the greatest of legislators, the greatest of administrators, and 
 the greatest of reformers — what race, extinct or living, can 
 produce three such men as these! 
 
 The last light is extinguished in the \illage of Bethany. 
 The wailing breeze has become a moaning wind; a white film 
 spreads over the purple sky; the stars are veiled, the stars are 
 hid ; all becomes as dark as the waters of Kedron and the valley 
 of Jehoshaphat. The tower of David merges into obscurity; no 
 longer glitter the minarets of the mosque of Omar; Bethesda's 
 angelic waters, the gate of Stephen, the street of sacred sorrow, 
 the hill of Salem and the heights of Scopas, can no longer be 
 discerned. Alone in the increasing darkness, while the very 
 line of the walls gradually eludes the eye, the church of the Holy 
 Sepulchre is a beacon light. 
 
 And why is the church of the Holy Sepulchre a beacon light? 
 Why, when it is already past the noon of darkness, when every 
 soul slumbers in Jerusalem, and not a sound disturbs the deep 
 repose, except the howl of the wild dog crying to the wilder wind 
 — why is the cupola of the sanctuary illumined , though the hour 
 has long since been numbered, when pilgrims there kneel and 
 monks pray? 
 
 An armed Turkish guard are bivouacked in the court of the 
 church; within the church itself, two brethren of the convent of 
 Terra Santa keep holy watch and ward; while, at the tomb 
 beneath, there kneels a solitary youth, who prostrated himself at 
 
 Tnncred. I. 13
 
 194 
 
 sunset, and who will there pass unmoved the whole of the sacred 
 night. 
 
 Yet the pilgrim is not in communion with the Latin Church ; 
 neither is he of the Church Armenian, or the Church Greek; 
 Maronite, Coptic, or Abyssinian; these also are Christian 
 churches which cannot call him child. 
 
 He comes from a distant and a northern isle to bow before the 
 tomb of a descendant of the kings of Israel, because he, in 
 common with all the people of that isle, recognises in that sub- 
 lime Hebrew incarnation the presence of a Divine Redeemer. 
 Then why does he come alone? It is not that he has availed 
 himself of the inventions of modern science, to repair first to a 
 spot, which all his countrymen may equally desire to visit, and 
 thus anticipate their hurrying arrival. Before the inventions of 
 modern science, all his countrymen used to flock hither. Then 
 why do they not now? Is the Holy Land no longer hallowed? Is 
 it not the land of sacred and mysterious truths? The land of 
 heavenly messages and earthly miracles? The land of prophets 
 and apostles? Is it not the land upon whose mountains the 
 Creator of the Universe parleyed with man, and the flesh of 
 whose anointed race He mystically assumed , when He struck the 
 last blow at the powers of evil? Is it to be believed , that there 
 are no peculiar and eternal qualities in a land thus visited , which 
 distinguish it from all others? That Palestine is like Normandy 
 or Yorkshire , or even Attica or Rome? 
 
 There may be some who maintain this ; there have been some, 
 and those too among the wisest and the wittiest of the northern 
 and western races, who, touched by a presumptuous jealousy of 
 the long predominance of that oriental intellect to which they 
 owed their civilization, would have persuaded themselves and 
 the world that the traditions of Sinai and Calvary were fables. 
 Half a century ago, Europe made a violent and apparently suc- 
 cessful effort to disembarrass itself of its Asian faith. The most
 
 195 
 
 powerful and the most civilized of its kingdoms, about to con- 
 quer the rest, shut up its churches, desecrated its altars, mas- 
 sacred and persecuted their sacred servants, and announced that 
 the Hebrew creeds which Simon Peter brought from Palestine, 
 and which his successors revealed to Clovis, were a mockery and 
 a fiction. What has been the result? In every city, town, vil- 
 lage, and hamlet, of that great kingdom, the divine image of the 
 most illustrious of Hebrews has been again raised amid the 
 homage of kneeling millions; while, in the heart of its bright 
 and witty capital, the nation has erected the most gorgeous of 
 modern temples, and consecrated its marble and golden walls 
 to the name and memory and celestial efficacy of a Hebrew 
 woman. 
 
 The country of which the solitary pilgrim, kneeling at this 
 moment at the Holy Sepulchre, was a native, had not actively 
 shared in that insurrection against the first and second Testa- 
 ment, which distinguished the end of the eighteenth century. 
 But more than six hundred years before, it had sent its king, and 
 the flower of its peers and people, to rescue Jerusalem from 
 those whom they considered infidels; and now, instead of the 
 third crusade, they expend their superfluous energies in the con- 
 struction of railroads. 
 
 The failure of the European kingdom of Jerusalem , on which 
 such vast treasure, such prodigies of valour and such ardent 
 belief had been wasted, has been one of those circumstances 
 which have tended to disturb the faith of Europe, although it 
 should have carried convictions of a very different character. The 
 Crusaders looked upon the Saracens as infidels, whereas the 
 children of the Desert bore a much nearer affinity to the sacred 
 corpse that had, for a brief space, consecrated theHoIySepulchre, 
 than any of the invading host of Europe. The same blood flowed 
 in their veins, and they recognised the divine missions both of 
 Moses and of his greater successor. In an age so deficient in 
 
 13*
 
 196 
 
 physiological learning as the twelfth century the mysteries of race 
 were unknown. Jerusalem, it cannot be doubted, will ever re- 
 main the appanage either of Israel or of Ishmael; and if , in the 
 course of those great vicissitudes, which are no doubt impending 
 for the East, there be any attempt to place upon the throne of 
 David a prince of the House of Coburg or Deuxponts, the same 
 fate will doubtless await him as , with all their brilliant qualities 
 and all the sympathy of Europe, was the final doom of the God- 
 freys, the Baldwins, and the Lusignans. 
 
 Like them, the ancestor of the kneeling pilgrim had come to 
 Jerusalem with his tall lance and his burnished armour; but his 
 descendant, though not less daring and not less full of faith, 
 could profit by the splendid but fruitless achievements of the first 
 Tancred de Montacute. Our hero came on this new crusade with 
 an humble and contrite spirit to pour forth his perplexities and 
 sorrows on the tomb of his Redeemer, and to ask counsel of the 
 sacred scenes which the presence of that Redeemer and his grea 
 predecessors had consecrated.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Near the gate of Sion, there is a small, still, hilly street, 
 the houses of which, as is general iu the East, present to the 
 passenger, with the exception of an occasional portal, only blank 
 walls, built, as they are at Jerusalem, of stone, and very lofty. 
 These walls commonly enclose a court, and, though their ex- 
 terior offers always a sombre and often squalid appearance, it by 
 no means follows that within you may not be welcomed with 
 cheerfulness and even luxury. 
 
 At this moment a man iu the Syriau dress, turban and flowing 
 robe, is passing through one of the gateways of this street, and 
 entering the large quadrangle to which it leads. It is surrounded 
 by arcades; on one side indications of commerce, piles of 
 chests, cases, and barrels; the other serving for such simple 
 stables as are sufficient in the East. Crossing this quadrangle, 
 the two companions passed by a corridor into a square garden of 
 orange and lemon trees and fountains. This garden court was 
 surrounded by inhabited chambers, and, at the end of it, pass- 
 ing through a low arch at the side, and then mounting a few 
 steps, he was at once admitted into a spacious and stately 
 chamber. Its lofty ceiling was vaulted and ligthly painted in ara- 
 besque; its floor was of white marble varied with mosaics of 
 fruit and flowers; it was panelled with cedar, and in six of the 
 principal panels were Arabic inscriptions emblazoned in blue 
 and gold. At the top of this hall, and ranging down its two 
 sides, was a divan or seat raised about one foot from the ground, 
 and covered with silken cushions; and the marble floor before 
 this divan was spread at intervals with small bright Persian 
 carpets.
 
 198 
 
 In this chamber some half dozen persons were seated in the 
 Eastern fashion, and smoking either the choice tobaccoes of 
 Syria through the cherry-wood or jasmine tube of a Turkish or 
 Egyptian chibouque, or inhaling through rosewater the more 
 artificial flavour of the nargilly, which is the hookah of the Le- 
 vant. If a guest found his pipe exhausted, he clapped his hands, 
 and immediately a negro page appeared, dressed in scarlet or in 
 white, and, learning his pleasure, returned in a few moments, 
 and bowing presented him with a fresh and illumined chibouque. 
 At intervals these attendants appeared without a summons, and 
 offered cups of Mocha coffee or vases of sherbet. 
 
 The lord of this divan, who was seated at the upper end of the 
 room, reclining on embroidered cushions of various colours, 
 and using a nargilly of fine workmanship, was a man much above 
 the common height, being at least six feet two without his red 
 cap of Fez, though so well proportioned, that you would not at 
 the first glance give him credit for such a stature. He was ex- 
 tremely handsome, retaining ample remains of one of those 
 countenances of blended regularity and lustre which are found 
 only in the cradle of the human race. Though he was fifty years 
 of age, time had scarcely brought a wrinkle to his still brilliant 
 complexion, while his large, soft, dark eyes, his arched brow, 
 his well-proportioned nose, his small mouth and oval cheek 
 presented altogether one of those faces which, in spite of long 
 centuries of physical suffering and moral degradation , still haunt 
 the cities of Asia Minor, the isles of Greece, and the Syrian 
 coasts. It is the archetype of manly beauty, the tradition of 
 those races who have wandered the least from Paradise, and 
 who, notwithstanding many vicissitudes and much misery, are 
 still acted upon by the same elemental agencies as influenced the 
 Patriarchs; are warmed by the same sun, freshened by the same 
 air, and nourished by the same earth as cheered , and invigorated 
 and sustained the earlier generations. The costume of the East
 
 199 
 
 certaiuly does not exaggerate the fatal progress of time; if a 
 figure becomes too portly, the flowing robe conceals the incum- 
 brance which is aggravated by a western dress ; he too who wears 
 a turban has little dread of grey hairs ; a grizzly beard indeed has 
 few charms, but whether it were the lenity of time or the skill of 
 his barber in those arts in which Asia is as experienced as 
 Europe , the beard of the master of the divan became the rest of 
 his appearance, and flowed to his waist in rich dark curls, lend- 
 iag additional dignity to a countenance of which the expression 
 was at the same time grand and benignant. 
 
 Upon the right of the master of the divan was, smoking a 
 jasmine pipe, Scheriff Effendi an Egyptian merchant, of Arab 
 race, a dark face in a white turban, mild and imperturbable, 
 and seated as erect on his crossed legs as if he were administer- 
 ing justice, a remarkable contrast to the individual who was on 
 the left of the host, who might have been mistaken for a mass of 
 brilliant garments huddled together, had not the gurgling sound 
 of the nargilly occasionally assured the spectator that it was 
 animated by human breath. This person was apparently lying 
 on his back, his face hid, his form not to be traced, a wild con- 
 fusion of shawls and cushions, out of which, like some wily and 
 dangerous reptile, glided the spiral involutions of his pipe. 
 Next to the Invisible sate a little wiry man with a red nose, 
 sparkling eyes, and a white beard. His black turban intimated 
 that he was a Hebrew, and indeed he was well known as Barizy 
 of the Tower, a description which he had obtained from his re- 
 sidence near the Tower of David, and which distinguished him 
 from his cousin who was called Barizy of the Gate. Further on 
 an Armenian from Stamboul , in his dark robes and black pro- 
 tuberant head-dress, resembling a colossal truffle, solaced him- 
 self with a cherry-stick which reminded him of the Bosphorus, 
 and he found a companion in this fashion in the young officer of 
 a French brig of war anchored at Beiroot, and who had obtained
 
 200 
 
 leave to visit the Holy Land, as he was anxious to see the women 
 of Bethlehem, of whose beauty he had heard much. 
 
 As the new comer entered the hall, he shuffled off his slippers 
 at the threshold, and then advancing, and pressing a hand to 
 his brow, his mouth and his heart, a salutation which signifies, 
 that in thought, speech, and feeling, he was faithful to his host, 
 and which salutation was immediately returned, he took his seat 
 upon the divan, and the master of the house letting the flexible 
 tube of his nargilly fall on one of the cushions , and clapping his 
 hands, a page immediately brought a pipe to the new guest. This 
 was SignorPasqualigo, one of those noble Venetian names that 
 every now and then turn up in the Levant, and borne in the pre- 
 sent case by a descendant of a family who for centuries had 
 enjoyed a monopoly of some of the smaller consular offices ol the 
 Syrian coast. Signor Pasqualigo had installed his son as deputy 
 iu the ambiguous agency at Jaffa which he described as a vice- 
 consulate, and himself principally resided at Jerusalem, of 
 which he was the prime gossip, or second only to his rival, Barizy 
 of the Tower. He had onh taken a preliminary puff of his chi- 
 bouque, to be convinced that there was no fear of its being ex- 
 tinguished, before he said — 
 
 "So there was a fine pilgrimage last night; the church of the 
 Holy Sepulchre lighted up from sunset to sunrise, an extra guard 
 in the court, and only the Spanish prior and two brethren per- 
 mitted to enter. It must be 10,000 piastres at least in the coffers 
 of the Terra Santa. Well, they want something! It is a long 
 time since we have had a Latin pilgrim in El Khuds." 
 
 "And they say, after all, that this was not a Latin pilgrim," 
 said Barizy of the Tower. 
 
 "He could not have been one of my people," said the Ar- 
 menian, "or he never would have gone to the Holy Sepulchre 
 with the Spanish prior."
 
 201 
 
 "Had he been one of your people," said Pasqualigo, "he 
 could not have paid 10,000 piastres for a pilgrimage." 
 
 "1 am sure a Greek never -would," saidBarizy, "unless he 
 were a Russian prince." 
 
 "And a Russian does not care much for rosaries unless they 
 are made of diamonds," said Pasqualigo. 
 
 "As far as I can make out this morning," said Barizy of the 
 Tower, "it is a brother of the Queen of England." 
 
 "I was thinking it might be that," said Pasqualigo, nettled 
 at his rival's early information, "the moment I heard he was an 
 Englishman." 
 
 "The English do not believe in the Holy Sepulchre," said 
 the Armenian, calmly. 
 
 "They do not believe in our blessed Saviour," said Pasqua- 
 ligo, " but they do believe in the Holy Sepulchre." 
 
 Pasqualigo's strong point was theology, and there were few 
 persons in Jerusalem who on this head ventured to maintain an 
 argument with him. 
 
 "How do you know that the pilgrim is an Englishman?" 
 asked their host. 
 
 "Because his servants told me so," said Pasqualigo. 
 
 " He has got an English general for the prinipal officer of his 
 household," saidBarizy, "which looks like blood royal — a 
 very line man, who passes the whole day at the English con- 
 sulate." 
 
 "They have taken a house in the Via Dolorosa," said Pasqua- 
 ligo. 
 
 "Of Hassan Nejed?" continued Barizy of the Tower, clutch- 
 iug the words out of his rival's grasp; "Hassan asked live 
 thousand piastres per month, and they gave it ! What think you 
 
 of that?" 
 
 "He must indeed be an Englishman," said Scheriff Effendi,
 
 202 
 
 taking his pipe slowly from his mouth. There was a dead silence 
 when he spoke ; he was much respected. 
 
 "He is very young," said Barizy of the Tower; "younger 
 than the queen, which is one reason why he is not on the throne, 
 for in England the eldest always succeeds, except in moveables, 
 and those always go to the youngest." 
 
 Barizy of the Tower, though he gave up to Pasqualigo in theo- 
 logy, partly from delicacy, being a Jew, would yield to no man 
 in Jerusalem in his knowledge of law. 
 
 "If he goes on at this rate," said the Armenian, "he will 
 soon spend all his money ; this place is dearer than Stambool." 
 
 "There is no fear of his spending all his money," said their 
 host, "for the young man has brought me such a letter, that if 
 he were to tell me to rebuild the temple, I must do it." 
 
 "And who is this young man, Besso?" exclaimed the Invi- 
 sible, starting up, and himself exhibiting a youthful counte- 
 nance; fair, almost effeminate, no beard, a slight moustache, 
 his features too delicate, but his brow finely arched, and his 
 blue eye glittering with fire. 
 
 "He is an English lord," said Besso, "and one of the 
 greatest; that is all I know." 
 
 "And why does he come here?" inquired the youth. "The 
 English do not make pilgrimages." 
 
 "Yet you have heard what he has done." 
 
 "And why is this silent Frenchman smoking your Latakia," 
 he continued in a low voice. "He comes to Jerusalem at the 
 same time as this Englishman. There is more in this than meets 
 our eye. You do not know the northern nations. They exist 
 only in political combinations. You are not a poltician, my 
 Besso. Depend upon it, we shall hear more of this Englishman, 
 and of his doing something else than praying at the Holy Se- 
 pulchre."
 
 203 
 
 "Itmaybeso, most noble Emir, but, as you say, I am no 
 politician." 
 
 "Would that you -were, myBcsso! It would be well for you 
 and for all of us. See now," he added in a whisper, "that ap- 
 parently inanimate mass, ScheriffEffendi, that man has a poli- 
 tical head, he understands a combination, he is going to smuggle 
 me five thousand English muskets into the Desert, he will de- 
 liver them to aBedoueen tribe, who have engaged to convey them 
 safely to the Mountain. There, what do you think of that, my 
 Besso! Do you know now what are politics? Tell the Bose of 
 Sharon of it. She will say it is beautiful. Ask the Bose what 
 she thinks of it, my Besso." 
 
 " Well, I shall see her to-morrow." 
 
 "I have done well; have I not?" 
 
 "You are satisfied ; that is well." 
 
 "Not quite, my Besso; but I can be satisfied, if you please. 
 You see that Scheriff Effendi there, sitting like an Afrite — he 
 will not give me the muskets unless I pay him for them — and 
 the Bedoueen chief, he will not carry the arms unless I give him 
 10,000 piastres. Now, if you will pay these people for me, my 
 Besso, and deduct the expenses from my Lebanon Loan when it 
 is negotiated, that would be a great service. Now, now, my 
 Besso, shall it be done?" he continued with the coaxing voice 
 and with the wheedling manner of a girl. "You shall have any 
 terms you like, and I will always love you so, my Besso. Let 
 it be done, let it be done! I will go down on my knees, and kiss 
 your hand before the Frenchman, which will spread your fame 
 throughout Europe, andmakeLouisPhilippetake you for the first 
 man in Syria, if you will do it for me. Dear, dear Besso, you 
 will pay that old camel ScheriffEffendi for me — will you not? 
 — and please the Bose of Sharon as much as me!" 
 
 "My prince," said Besso, "have a fresh pipe; I never can 
 transact business after sunset."
 
 204 
 
 The reader will remember (hat Sidonia had given Taucred a 
 letter of credit on Besso. He is the same Besso who was the 
 friend at Jerusalem of Contarini Fleming, and this is the same 
 chamber in which Contarini, his host, and others who were pre- 
 sent, inscribed one night, before their final separation, certain 
 sentences in the panels of the walls. The original writing re- 
 mains, but Besso, as we have already seen, has had the senten- 
 ces emblazoned in a manner more permanent and more striking 
 to the eye. They may however be both seen by all those who 
 visit Jerusalem, and who enjoy the flowing hospitality and ex- 
 perience the boundless benevolence of this prince of Hebrew 
 merchants.
 
 ¥ 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The Christian convents form one of the most remarkable 
 features of modem Jerusalem. There are three principal ones: 
 the Latin Convent of Terra Santa, founded it is believed during 
 the last crusade, and richly endowed by the kings of Christen- 
 dom; the Armenian and the Greek convents, whose revenues are 
 also considerable, but derived from the numerous pilgrims of 
 their different churches, who annually visit the Holy Sepulchre, 
 and generally during their sojourn reside within the walls of their 
 respective religious houses. To be competent to supply such 
 accommodation, it will easily be apprehended that they are of 
 considerable size. They are in truth monastic establishments of 
 the first class : as large as citadeis, and almost as strong. Lofty 
 stone walls enclose an area of acres , in the centre of which rises 
 an irregular mass of buildings and enclosures; courts of all 
 shapes, galleries of cells, roofs, terraces, gardens, corridors, 
 churches, houses, and even streets. Sometimes as many as 
 five thousand pilgrims have been lodged, fed, and tended during 
 Easter in one of these convents. 
 
 Not in that of Terra Santa, of which a Protestant traveller, 
 passing for a pilgrim , is often the only annual guest ; as Tancred 
 at present. In a white-washed cell, clean, and sufficiently airy 
 and spacious, Tancred was lying on an iron bedstead, the only 
 permanent furniture of the chamber, with the exception of a 
 crucifix, but well suited to the fervent and procreative clime. He 
 was smoking a Turkish pipe, which stretched nearly across the 
 apartment, and his Italian attendant, Baroni, on one knee, 
 was arranging the bowl.
 
 206 
 
 4 
 
 "I begin rather to like it," said Tancred. 
 
 "I am sure you would, my lord. In this country it is like 
 mother's milk, nor is it possible to make way without it. 'T is 
 the finest tobacco of Latakia, the choicest in the world, and I have 
 smoked all. I begged it myself from Signor Besso , whose divan 
 is renowned, the day I called on him with your lordship's 
 letter. 
 
 Saying this, Baroni quickly rose — a man from thirty-two to 
 thirty-five — rather under the middle height, slender, lithe, and 
 pliant; a long black beard, cleared off his chin when in Europe, 
 and concealed under his cravat, but always ready for the Orient, 
 whiskers closely shaved but strongly marked, sallow, an aquiline 
 nose, white teeth, a sparkling black eye. His costume entirely 
 white, fashion Mamlouk — that is to say, trowscrs of a prodigious 
 width and a light jacket; a white shawl wound round his waist, 
 enclosing his dagger; another forming his spreading turban. 
 Temperament, remarkable vivacity modified by extraordinary 
 experience. 
 
 Availing himself of the previous permission of his master, 
 Baroni, having arranged the pipe, seated himself cross-legged 
 on the floor. 
 
 "And what are they doing about the house?" inquired 
 Tancred. 
 
 "They will be all stowed to-day ," replied Baroni. 
 
 "I shall not quit this place," said Tancred; "I wish to be 
 quite undisturbed." 
 
 "Be not alarmed, my lord; they are amused. The colonel 
 never quits the consulate ; dines there every day, and tells stories 
 about the Peninsular war and the Bellamont cavalry, just as he 
 did on board; Mr. Bernard is always with the English bishop, 
 who is delighted to have an addition to his congregation, which 
 is not too much, consisting of his own family, the English and
 
 207 
 
 Prussian consuls, and five Jews, whom they have converted at 
 twenty piastres a-week; but I know they are going to strike for 
 wages. As for the doctor, he has not a minute to himself. The 
 governor's wife has already sent for him; he has been admitted 
 to the harem ; has felt all their pulses without seeing any of their 
 faces, and his medicine chest is in danger of being exhausted 
 before your lordship requires its aid." 
 
 "Take care that they are comfortable ," said Tancred. 
 
 "And what does your lordship wish to do to-day?" 
 
 " I must go to Gethsemane." 
 
 "'T is the shot of an arrow ; go out by the gate of Sion , pass 
 through the Turkish cemetery, cross the Kedron, which is so dry 
 this weather that you may do so in your slippers, and you will find 
 the remnant of an olive grove at the base of the mount." 
 
 "You talk as if you were giving a direction in London." 
 
 "I wish I knew London as well as I know Jerusalem ! This 
 is not a very great place, and I think I have been here twenty 
 times. Why, I made eight visits here in '40 and '41 ; twice from 
 England, and six times from Egypt." 
 
 "Active work!" 
 
 "Ah! those were times! If the Pacha had taken M. de Si- 
 donia's advice, in '41, something would have happened in this 
 city—" And here Baroni pulled up: "Your lordship's pipe 
 draws easy?" 
 
 "Very well. And when was your first visit here, Baroni?" 
 
 "When M. de Sidonia travelled. I came in his suite from 
 Naples , eighteen years ago , the next Annunciation of our blessed 
 Lady," and he crossed himself. 
 
 "You must have been very young then?" 
 
 "Young enough; but it was thought, I suppose, that I could 
 light a pipe. We were seven when we left Naples, all picked 
 men; but I was the only one who was in Paraguay with M. de Si-
 
 208 
 
 donia, and that was nearly the end of our travels, which lasted 
 five years." 
 
 "And what became of the rest?" 
 
 "Got ill or got stupid ; no mercy in either case with M. de Si- 
 donia, packed off instantly, wherever you may be; whatever 
 money you like , but go you must. If you were in the middle of 
 the desert and the least grumbling, you would be spliced on a 
 camel and a Bedoueen tribe would be hired to take you to the 
 nearest city, Damascus or Jerusalem, or anywhere, with an 
 order on Signor Besso, or some other signor to pay them." 
 
 "And you were never invalided?" 
 
 "Never; I was young and used to tumble about as long as I 
 can remember day; but it was sharp practice sometimes; five 
 years of such work as few men have been through. It educated 
 me and opened my mind amazingly." 
 
 "It seems to have done so," saidTancred, quietly. 
 
 Shortly after this, Tancred, attended by Baroni , passed the 
 gateofSion. Not a human being was visible, except the Turkish 
 sentries. It was midsummer, but no words and no experience 
 of other places, can convey an idea of the canicular heat of Jeru- 
 salem. Bengal, Egypt, even Nubia, are nothing to it; in these 
 countries there are rivers, trees, shade, and breezes; but Jeru- 
 salem at mid-day in midsummer is a city of stone in a land of 
 iron with a sky of brass. The wild glare and savage lustre of the 
 landscape are themselves awful. We have all read of the man 
 who had lost his shadow — this is a shadowless world. Every- 
 thing is so flaming and so clear, that it would remind one of a 
 Chinese painting, but that the scene is one too bold and wild for 
 the imagination of the Mongol race. 
 
 "There," said Baroni, pointing to a group of most ancient 
 olive trees at the base of the opposite hill , and speaking as if he 
 were showing the way to Kensington — "there is Gethsemane; 
 the path to the right leads to Bethany."
 
 209 
 
 "Leave me now," said Tancred. 
 
 There are moments when we must be alone, and Tancred had 
 fixed upon this hour for visiting Gethsemane , because he felt as- 
 sured that no one would be stirring. Descending Mount Sion, 
 and crossing Kedron, he entered the sacred grove. 
 
 Tancred. I-
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The sun had been declining for some hours, the glare of the 
 earth had subsided , the fervour of the air was allayed. A caravan 
 came winding round the hills, with many camels and persons in 
 rich, bright Syrian dresses; a congregation that had assembled 
 at the church of the Ascension on Mount Olivet had broken up, 
 and the side of the hill was studded with brilliant and picturesque 
 groups ; the standard of the Crescent floated on the tower of Da- 
 vid; there was the clang of Turkish music, and the governor of 
 the city, with a numerous cavalcade, might be discerned on 
 Mount Moriah, caracoling without the walls; a procession of 
 women bearing classic vases on their heads, who had been fetch- 
 ing the waters of Siloah from the well of Job , came up the valley 
 of Jehoshaphat, to wind their way to the gate of Stephen and enter 
 Jerusalem by the street of Calvary. 
 
 Tancred came forth from the garden of Gethsemane, his face 
 was flushed with the rapt stillness of pious ecstacy; hours had 
 vanished during his passionate reverie, and he stared upon the 
 declining sun. 
 
 "The path to the right leads to Bethany." The force of as- 
 sociation brought back the last words that he had heard from a 
 human voice. And can he sleep without seeing Bethany? He 
 mounts the path. What a landscape surrounds him as he moves! 
 What need for nature to be fair in a scene like this, where not a 
 spot is visible that is not heroic or sacred, consecrated or me- 
 morable; not a rock that is not the cave of prophets; not a valley 
 that is not the valley of heaven-anointed kings; not a mountain 
 that is not the mountain of God ! 
 
 Before him is a living, a yet breathing and existing city, which
 
 211 
 
 Assyrian monarchs came down to besiege, which the chariots of 
 Pharaohs encompassed, which Roman Emperors have personally 
 assailed, for which Saladin and Cceur de Lion, the Desert and 
 Christendom, Asia and Europe, struggled in rival chivalry — a 
 city which Mahomet sighed to rule, and over which the Creator 
 alike of Assyrian kings and Egyptian Pharaohs and Roman Cae- 
 sars, the framer alike of the Desert and of Christendom, poured 
 forth the full effusion of his divinely human sorrow. 
 
 What need of cascade and of cataract, the deep green turf, 
 'the foliage of the fairest trees, the impenetrable forest, the 
 abounding river, mountains of glaciered crest, the \oice of 
 birds, the bounding forms of beauteous animals, — all sights 
 and sounds of material loveliness that might become the delicate 
 ruins of some archaic theatre, or the lingering fanes of some 
 forgotten faith! They would not be observed as the eye seized on 
 Sion and Calvary, the gates of Bethlehem and Damascus; the 
 hill of Titus; the mosque of Mahomet and the tomb of Christ. 
 The view of Jerusalem is the history of the world; it is more, it 
 is the history of earth and of heaven. 
 
 The path winding round the southern side of the Mount of 
 Olives at length brought Tancred in sight of a secluded village, 
 situate among the hills on a sunny slope, and shut out from all 
 objects excepting the wide landscape which immediately faced it; 
 the first glimpse of Arabia through the ravines of the Judsean 
 hills ; the rapid Jordan quitting its green and happy valley for the 
 bitter waters of Asphaltites, and, in the extreme distance, the 
 blue mountains of Moab. 
 
 Ere he turned his reluctant steps towards the city, he was at- 
 tracted by a garden, which issued as it were from a gorge in the 
 hills, so that its limit was not perceptible, and then spread over 
 a considerable space, comparatively with the inclosures in its 
 vicinity, until it reached the village. It was surrounded by high 
 stone walls, which every now and then the dark spiral forms of a 
 
 14*
 
 212 
 
 cypress or a cedar would overtop , and in the more distant and 
 elevated part rose a tall palm tree, bending its graceful and 
 languid head on which the sunbeam glittered. It was the first 
 palm that Tancred had ever seen, and his heart throbbed as he 
 beheld that fair and sacred tree. 
 
 As he approached the garden, Tancred observed that its portal 
 was open: he stopped before it, and gazed upon its walks of 
 lemon trees with delight and curiosity. Tancred had inherited 
 from his mother a passion for gardens; and an eastern garden, 
 a garden in the Holy Land , such as Gethsemane might have been 
 in those days of political justice when Jerusalem belonged to the 
 Jews, — the occasion was irresistible; he could not withstand 
 the temptation of beholding more nearly a palm tree; and he 
 entered. 
 
 Like a prince in a fairy tale, who has broken the mystic 
 boundary of some enchanted pleasaunce, Tancred traversed the 
 alleys which were formed by the lemon and pomegranate tree, 
 and sometimes by the myrtle and the rose. His ear caught the 
 sound of falling water, bubbling with a gentle noise; more dis- 
 tinct and more forcible every step that he advanced. The walk in 
 which he now found himself ended in an open space covered with 
 roses; beyond them a gentle acclivity, clothed so thickly with a 
 small bright blue flower that it seemed a bank of turquoise, and 
 on its top was a kiosk of white marble, gilt and painted; by its 
 side, rising from a group of rich shrubs, was the palm, whose 
 distant crest had charmed Tancred without the gate. 
 
 In the centre of the kiosk was the fountain, whose alluring 
 voice had tempted Tancred to proceed further than he had at firs! 
 dared to project. He must not retire without visiting the waters 
 which had been speaking to him so long. Following the path 
 round the area of roses, he was conducted to the height of the 
 acclivity, and entered the kiosk; some small beautiful mats were 
 spread upon its floor, and, reposing upon one of them, Tancred
 
 213 
 
 watched the bright clear water as it danced and sparkled in its 
 marble basin. 
 
 The reader has perhaps experienced the effect of falling water. 
 Its lulling influence is proverbial. In the present instance, we 
 must remember, that Tancred had been exposed to the meridian 
 fervour of a Syrian sun, that he had been the whole day under 
 the influence of that excitement which necessarily ends in ex- 
 haustion; and that, in addition to this, he had recently walked 
 some distance; it will not, therefore, be looked upon as an in- 
 cident improbable or astonishing, that Lord Montacute, after 
 pursuing for sometime that train of meditation which was his 
 custom, should have fallen asleep. 
 
 His hat had dropped from his head; his rich curls fell on his 
 outstretched arm that served as a pillow for a countenance which 
 in the sweet dignity of its blended beauty and stillness might 
 have become an archangel; and, lying on one of the mats, in au 
 attitude of unconscious gracefulness which a painter might have 
 transferred to his portfolio, Tancred sank into a deep and dream- 
 less repose. 
 
 He woke refreshed and renovated , but quite insensible of all 
 that had recently occurred. He stretched his limbs; something 
 seemed to embarrass him ; he found himself covered with a rich 
 robe. He was about to rise, resting on his arm, when turning 
 his head he beheld — the form of a woman. 
 
 She was young, even for the East; her stature rather above 
 the ordinary height, and clothed in the rich dress usual among 
 the Syrian ladies. She wore an amber vest of gold-embroidered 
 silk, fitting closely to her shape and fastening with buttons of 
 precious stones from the bosom to the waist, there opening like 
 a tunic, so that her limbs were free to range in her huge Mamlouk 
 trowsers, made of that white Cashmere, a shawl of which can be 
 drawn through a ring. These, fastened round her ancles with 
 clasps of rubies, fell again over her small slippered feet. Over
 
 214 
 
 her amber vest she had an embroidered pelisse of violet silk, 
 with long hanging sleeves, which showed occasionally an arm 
 rarer than the costly jewels which embraced it; a many-coloured 
 Turkish scarf inclosed her waist; and then, worn loosely over 
 all, was an outer pelisse of amber Cashmere, lined with the fur 
 of the white fox. At the back of her head was a cap, quite unlike 
 the Greek and Turkish caps which we are accustomed to see in 
 England, but somewhat resembling the head-dress of a Man- 
 darin; round, not flexible, almost flat; and so thickly incrusted 
 with pearls, that it was impossible to detect the colour of the 
 velvet which covered it. Beneath it descended two broad braids 
 of dark brown hair, which would have swept the ground had they 
 not been turned half-way up , and there fastened with bunches of 
 precious stones; these too restrained the hair which fell, in rich 
 braids, on each side of her face. 
 
 That face presented the perfection of oriental beauty; such 
 as it existed in Eden, such as it may yet occasionally be found 
 among the favoured races in the favoured climes, and such as it 
 might have been found abundantly and for ever, had not the folly 
 and malignity of man been equal to the wisdom and beneficence 
 of Jehovah. The countenance was oval, yet the head was small. 
 The complexion was neither fair nor dark, yet it possessed the 
 brilliancy of the north without its dryness, and the softness 
 peculiar to the children of the sun without its moisture. A rich 
 subdued and equable tint overspread this visage, though the 
 skin was so transparent that you occasionally caught the streaky 
 splendour of some vein like the dappled shades in the fine peel of 
 beautiful fruit. 
 
 But it was in the eye and its overspreading arch that all the 
 Orient spake, and you read at once of the starry vaults of Araby 
 and the splendour of Chaldean skies. Dark, brilliant, with pupil 
 of great size and prominent from its socket, its expression and 
 effect, notwithstanding the long eyelid of the Desert, would have
 
 215 
 
 been those of a terrible fascination, had not the depth of the 
 curve in which it reposed softened the spell and modified irre- 
 sistible power by ineffable tenderness. This supreme organiza- 
 tion is always accompanied, as in the present instance, by a 
 noble forehead, and by an eyebrow of perfect form, spanning its 
 space with undevialing beauty; very narrow, though its roots are 
 invisible. 
 
 The nose was small, slightly elevated, with long oval nostrils 
 fully developed. The small mouth, the short upper lip, the 
 teeth like the neighbouring pearls of Ormuz, the round chin, 
 polished as a statue , were in perfect harmony with the delicate 
 ears, and the hands with nails shaped like almonds. 
 
 Such was the form that caught the eye of Tancred. She was 
 on the opposite side of the fountain, and stood gazing on him 
 with calmness, and with a kind of benignant curiosity. The 
 garden, the kiosk, the falling waters, recalled the past, which 
 flashed over his mind almost at the moment that he beheld the 
 beautiful apparition. Half risen, yet not willing to remain un- 
 til he was on his legs to apologize for his presence, Tancred, 
 still leaning on his arm and looking up at his unknown com- 
 panion, said, "Lady, I am an intruder." 
 
 The lady, seating herself on the brink of the fountain, and 
 motioning at the same time with her hand to Tancred not to rise, 
 replied, "We are so near the desert that you must not doubt our 
 hospitality." 
 
 "I was tempted by the first sight of a palm tree to a step too 
 bold; and then sitting by this fountain, I know not how it 
 was — " 
 
 "You yielded to our Syrian sun," said the lady. "It has 
 been the doom of many; but you, I trust, will not find it fatal. 
 Walking in the garden with my maidens, we observed you, and 
 one of us covered your head. If you remain in this land you 
 should wear the turban."
 
 216 
 
 "This garden seems a Paradise," said Tancred. "I had 
 not thought that anything so fair could be found among these 
 awful mountains. It is a spot that quite becomes Bethany." 
 
 "You Franks love Bethany?" 
 
 " Naturally ; a place to us most dear and interesting." 
 
 "Pray, are you of those Franks who worship a Jewess; or of 
 those other who revile her, break her images, and blaspheme 
 her pictures?" 
 
 "I venerate, though I do not adore, the mother of God," 
 said Tancred, with emotion. 
 
 "Ah! the mother of Jesus!" said his companion, "He is 
 your God. He lived much in this village. He was a great man, 
 but he was a Jew ; and you worship him." 
 
 "And you do not worship him?" said Tancred, looking up 
 to her with an inquiring glance, and with a reddening cheek. 
 
 "It sometimes seems to me that I ought," said the lady; 
 " for I am of his race, and you should sympathize with your race." 
 
 "You are, then, a Hebrew?" 
 
 "I am of the same blood as Mary whom you venerate, but 
 will not adore." 
 
 "You just now observed," said Tancred, after a momentary 
 pause, "that it sometimes almost seems to you, thatyouought 
 to acknowledge my Lord and Master. He made many converts 
 at Bethany, and found here some of his gentlest disciples. I 
 wish that you had read the history of his life." 
 
 "I have read it. The English Bishop here has given me the 
 book. It is a good one, written, I observe, entirely by Jews. 
 I find in it many things with which I agree ; and if there be some 
 from which I dissent, it may be that I do not comprehend 
 
 them." 
 
 "You are already half a Christian!" said Tancred, with 
 
 animation. 
 
 "But the Christianity -which I draw from your book does not
 
 217 
 
 agree with the Christianity which you practise, ' said the lady, 
 "and I fear, therefore, it may be heretical." 
 
 "The Christian Church would be your guide." 
 
 "Which?" inquired the lady, "there are so many in Jeru- 
 salem. There is the good bishop who presented me with this 
 \olume, and who is himself a Hebrew — he is a Church; there 
 is the Latin Church, which was founded by a Hebrew, there is 
 the Armenian Church, which belongs to an eastern nation who, 
 like the Hebrews, have lost their country and are scattered in 
 every clime; there is the Abyssinian Church, who hold us in 
 great honour, and practise many of our rites and ceremonies; 
 and there are the Greek, theMaronite, and the Coptic churches, 
 who do not favour us, but who do not treat us as grossly as they 
 treat each other. In this perplexity it may be wise to remain 
 within the pale of a church older than all of them, the church in 
 which Jesus was born and which he never quitted, for he was 
 born a Jew, lived a Jew, and died a Jew; as became a Prince of 
 the house of David, which you do and must acknowledge him to 
 have been. Your sacred genealogies prove the fact; and if you 
 could not establish it, the whole fabric of your faith falls to the 
 ground." 
 
 "If I had no confidence in any Church," saidTancred, with 
 agitation, "I would fall down before God and beseech him to 
 enlighten me; and, in this land," he added, in a tone of ex- 
 citement, "I cannot believe that the appeal to the Mercy-seat 
 would be made in vain." 
 
 "But human wit ought to be exhausted, before we presume 
 to invoke divine interposition," said the lady. "I observe that 
 Jesus was as fond of asking questions as of performing miracles ; 
 an inquiring spirit will solve mysteries. Let me ask you — 
 you think that the present state of my race is penal and mira- 
 culous?" 
 
 Tancred gently bowed assent.
 
 218 
 
 "Why do you?" asked the lady. 
 
 "It is the punishment ordained for their rejection and cruci- 
 fixion of the Messiah." 
 
 " Where is it ordained? " 
 
 "Upon our heads and upon our children be his blood." 
 
 "The criminals said that, not the judge. Is it a principle 
 of your jurisprudence to permit the guilty to assign their own 
 punishment? They might deserve a severer one. Why should 
 they transfer any of the infliction to their posterity? What 
 evidence have you that Omnipotence accepted the offer? It is 
 not so announced in your histories. Your evidence is the re- 
 verse. He, whom you acknowledge as omnipotent, prayed to 
 Jehovah to forgive them on account of their ignorance. But, 
 admit that the offer was accepted, which in my opinion is blas- 
 phemy, is the cry of a rabble at a public execution to bind a 
 nation? There was a great party in the country not disinclined 
 to Jesus at the time, especially in the provinces where he had 
 laboured for three years and on the whole with success ; are they 
 and their children to suffer? But you will say, they became 
 Christians. Admit it. We were originally a nation of twelve 
 tribes; ten, long before the advent of Jesus, had been carried 
 into captivity and scattered over the East and the Mediterranean 
 world; they are probably the source of the greater portion of the 
 existing Hebrews; for we know that, even in the time of Jesus, 
 Hebrews came up to Jerusalem at the Passover from every pro- 
 vince of the Roman empire. What had they to do with the cru- 
 cifixion or the rejection?" 
 
 "The fate of the Ten Tribes is a deeply interesting question," 
 saidTancred; "but involved in, Ifear, inexplicable obscurity. 
 In England, there are many who hold them to be represented by 
 theAffghans, who state that their ancestors followed the laws of 
 Moses. But perhaps they ceased to exist and were blended with 
 their conquerors."
 
 219 
 
 "The Hebrews have never blended with their conquerors," 
 said the lady, proudly. "They were conquered frequently, like 
 all small states situate amid rival empires. Syria was the battle- 
 held of the great monarchies. Jerusalem has not been conquered 
 oftener than Athens, or treated worse; but its people, un- 
 happily, fought too bravely and rebelled too often, so at last 
 they were expatriated. I hold that, to believe that the Hebrew 
 communities are in a principal measure the descendants of the 
 Ten Tribes, and of the other captivities preceding Christ, is a 
 just and fair and sensible inference, which explains circum- 
 stances that otherwise could not be explicable. But let that pass. 
 We will suppose all the Jews in all the cities of the world to be 
 the lineal descendants of the mob who shouted at the crucifixion. 
 Yet another question ! My grandfather is a Bedoueen sheikh, 
 chief of one of the most powerful tribes of the desert. My mother 
 was his daughter. He is a Jew — his whole tribe are Jews — 
 they read, and obey the five books, live in tents, have thousands 
 of camels, ride horses of the Nedjed breed, and care for nothing 
 except Jehovah, Moses, and their mares. Were they at Jeru- 
 salem at the crucifixion, and does the shout of the rabble touch 
 them? Yet my mother marries a Hebrew of the cities, and a 
 man, too, fit to sit on the throne of King Solomon; and a little 
 Christian Yahoor with a round hat, who sells figs at Smyrna, will 
 cross the street if he see her, lest he should be contaminated by 
 the blood of one who crucified his Saviour; his Saviour being, 
 by his own statement, one of the princes of our royal house. 
 No; I will never become a Christian, if I am to eat such sand! 
 It is not to be found in your books. They were written by Jews, 
 men far too well acquainted with their subject to indite such tales 
 of the Philistines as these ! " 
 
 Tancred looked at her with deep interest as her eye flashed 
 fire, and her beautiful cheek was for a moment suffused with the 
 crimson cloud of indignant passion; and then he said, "You
 
 220 
 
 speak of things that deeply interest me, or I should not be in 
 this land. But tell me — it cannot be denied that, whatever the 
 cause, the miracle exists; and that the Hebrews, alone of the 
 ancient races, remain, and are found in every country — a me- 
 morial of the mysterious and mighty past." 
 
 "Their state may be miraculous without being penal. But 
 why miraculous? Is it a miracle that Jehovah should guard his 
 people? And can he guard them better than by endowing them 
 with faculties superior to those of the nations among whom they 
 dwell?" 
 
 "I cannot believe that merely human agencies could have 
 sustained a career of such duration and such vicissitudes." 
 
 "As for human agencies, we have a proverb: 'The will of 
 man is the servant of God.' But if you wish to make a race en- 
 dure, rely upon it, you should expatriate them. Conquer them, 
 and they may blend with their conquerors ; exile them, and they 
 will live apart and for ever. To expatriate is purely oriental — 
 quite unknown to the modern world. We were speaking of the 
 Armenians — they are Christians, and good ones, I believe." 
 
 "I have understood very orthodox." 
 
 "Go to Armenia, and you will not find an Armenian. They 
 too are an expatriated nation, like the Hebrews. The Persians 
 conquered their land, and drove out the people. The Armenian 
 has a proverb — ' In every city of the East I find a home.' They 
 are everywhere; the rivals of my people, for they are one of the 
 great races, and little degenerated: with all our industry, and 
 much of our energy; I would say, with all our human virtues, 
 though it cannot be expected that they should possess our divine 
 qualities; they have not produced Gods and prophets, and are 
 proud that they can trace up their faith to one of the obscurest of 
 the Hebrew apostles, and who never knew his great master." 
 
 "But the Armenians are found only in the East," said 
 Tancred.
 
 221 
 
 "Ah!" said the lady, with a sarcastic smile; f ' it is exile to 
 Europe, then, that is the curse: well, I think you have some 
 reason. I do not know much of your quarter of the globe : Eu- 
 rope is to Asia what America is to Europe. But I have felt the 
 winds of the Euxine blowing up the Bosphorus; and, when the 
 Sultan was once going to cut off our heads for helping the Egyp- 
 tians, I passed some months at Vienna. Oh! how I sighed for 
 my beautiful Damascus ! " 
 
 "And for your garden at Bethany?" said Tancred. 
 
 "It did not exist then. This is a recent creation," said the 
 lady. "I have built a nest in the chink of the hills, that I might 
 look upon Arabia; and the palm tree that invited you to honour 
 my domain was the contribution of my Arab grandfather to the 
 only garden near Jerusalem. But I want to ask you another 
 question — what, on the whole, is the thing most valued in 
 Europe?" 
 
 Tancred pondered; and after a slight pause, said, "I think 
 I know what ought to be most valued in Europe; it is something 
 very different from what, I fear, I must confess is most valued 
 there. My cheek burns while I say it; but I think, in Europe, 
 what is most valued is — money." 
 
 "On the whole," said the lady, "he that has most money 
 there is most honoured?" 
 
 "Practically, I apprehend so." 
 
 " Which is the greatest city in Europe? " 
 
 "Without doubt, the capital of my country, London." 
 
 "Greater I know it is than Vienna; but is it greater thau 
 Paris?" 
 
 "Perhaps double the size of Paris." 
 
 " And four times that of Stambool ! What a city ! Why 't is 
 Babylon! How rich the most honoured man must be there! 
 Tell me is he a Christian?" 
 
 "I believe he is one of your race and faith."
 
 222 
 
 "And in Paris — who is the richest man in Paris?" 
 
 "The brother, I believe, of the richest man in London." 
 
 "I know all about Vienna," said the lady, smiling. "Caesar 
 makes my countrymen barons of the empire , and rightly, for it 
 would fall to pieces in a week without their support. Well, you 
 must admit that the European part of the curse has not worked 
 very fatally." 
 
 "I do not see," said Tancred thoughtfully, after a short 
 pause, "that the penal dispersion of the Hebrew nation is at all 
 essential to the great object of the Christian scheme. If a Jew 
 did not exist, that would equally have been obtained." 
 
 "And what do you hold to be the essential object of the 
 Christian scheme?" 
 
 "The Expiation." 
 
 "Ah!" said the lady, in a tone of much solemnity, "that is 
 a great idea : in harmony with our instincts , with our traditions, 
 our customs. It is deeply impressed upon the convictions of 
 this land. Shaped as you Christians offer the doctrine, it loses 
 none of its sublimity ; or its associations full at the same time of 
 mystery, power, and solace. A sacrificial Mediator with Jeho- 
 vah, that expiatory intercessor born from the chosen house of 
 the chosen people, yet blending in his inexplicable nature the 
 divine essence with the human elements, appointed before all 
 time, and purifying, by his atoning blood, the myriads that 
 preceded and the myriads that will follow us, without distinction 
 of creed or clime — this is what you believe. I acknowledge the 
 vast conception, dimly as my brain can partially embrace it. I 
 understand thus much: the human race is saved; and, without 
 the apparent agency of a Hebrew prince, it could not have been 
 saved. Now tell me: suppose the Jews had not prevailed upon 
 the Romans to crucify Jesus, what would have become of the 
 Atonement?" 
 
 "I cannot permit myself to contemplate such contingencies,"
 
 tm> f, *J 
 
 said Tancred. "The subject is too high for me to touch with 
 speculation. I must not even consider an event that had been 
 pre-ordained by the Creator of the world for countless ages." 
 
 "Ah!" said the lady; "pre-ordained by the Creator of the 
 world for countless ages ! Where then was the inexpiable crime 
 of those who fulfilled the beneficent intention? The holy race 
 supplied the victim and the immolators. What other race could 
 have been entrusted with such a consummation? Was not 
 Abraham prepared to sacrifice even his son? And with such 
 a doctrine, that embraces all space and time; nay more, chaos 
 and eternity; with divine persons for the agents, and the re- 
 demption of the whole family of man for the subject — you can 
 mix up the miserable persecution of a single race! And this is 
 practical, not doctrinal Christianity. It is not found in your 
 Christian books, which were all written by Jews; it must have 
 been made by some of those Churches to which you have referred 
 me. Persecute us! Why, if you believed what you profess, you 
 should kneel to us! You raise statues to the hero who saves 
 a country. We have saved the human race, and you persecute 
 us — for doing it." 
 
 "I am no persecutor," saidTancred, with emotion; "and, 
 had I been so, ray visit to Bethany would have cleansed my heart 
 of such dark thoughts." 
 
 "We have some conclusions in common," said his com- 
 panion, rising. "We agree that half Christendom worships 
 a Jewess, and the other half a Jew. Now let me ask you one 
 more question. Which do you think should be the superior race ; 
 the worshipped or the worshippers? " 
 
 Tancred looked up to reply, but the lady had disappeared.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Before Tancred could recover from his surprise, the kiosk 
 ■was invaded by a crowd of little grinning negro pages, dressed in 
 white tunics, with red caps and slippers. They bore a number 
 of diminutive trays of ebony inlaid with tortoiseshell and the 
 mother of pearl of Joppa, and covered with a great variety of 
 dishes. It was in vain that he would have signified to them , that 
 he had no wish to partake of the banquet, and that he attempted 
 to rise from his mat. They understood nothing that he said , but, 
 always grinning and moving about him with wonderful quick- 
 ness, they fastened a napkin of the finest linen, fringed with 
 gold, round his neck, covered the mats and the border of the 
 fountain with their dishes and vases of differently coloured sher- 
 bets, and proceeded, notwithstanding all his attempts at refusal, 
 to hand him their dainties in due order. Notwithstanding his 
 present tone of mind, which was ill-adapted to any carnal grati- 
 fication, Tancred had nevertheless been an unusual number of 
 hours without food. He had made during the period no incon- 
 siderable exertion, and was still some distance from the city. 
 Though he resigned himself perforce to the care of his little 
 attendants, their solicitude therefore was not inappropriate. He 
 partook of some of their dishes, and when he had at length suc- 
 ceeded in conveying to them his resolution to taste no more, they 
 cleared the kiosk with as marvellous a celerity as they had stored 
 it, and then two of them advanced with a nargilly and a chi- 
 bouque, to offer their choice to their guest. Tancred placed the 
 latter for a moment to his mouth, and then rising, and making 
 signs to the pages that he would now return, they danced before 
 him in the path till he had reached the other side of the area of
 
 225 
 
 roses, and then, with a hundred bows bending, they took their 
 leave of him. 
 
 The sun had just sunk asTancred quitted the garden : a crim- 
 son glow, shifting, as he proceeded, into rich tints of purple 
 and of gold, suffused the stern Judaean hills, and lent an almost 
 supernatural lustre to the landscape ; lighting up the wild gorges, 
 gilding the distant glens, and still kindling the superior eleva- 
 tions with its living blaze. The air, yet fervid, was freshened 
 by a slight breeze that came over the wilderness from the Jordan, 
 and the big round stars that were already floating in the skies 
 were the brilliant heralds of the splendour of a Syrian night. 
 The beauteous hour and the sacred scene were alike in unison 
 with the heart of Tancred, softened and serious. He mused in 
 fascinated reverie over the dazzling incident of the day. Who 
 was this lady of Bethany, who seemed not unworthy to have 
 followed Him who had made her abiding place so memorable? 
 Her beauty might have baffled the most ideal painter of the fair 
 Hebrew saints. Raffaelle himself could not have designed a brow 
 of more delicate supremacy. Her lofty but gracious bearing, the 
 vigour of her clear, frank mind, her earnestness, free from all 
 ecstasy and flimsy enthusiasm, but founded in knowledge and 
 deep thought, and ever sustained by exact expression and ready 
 argument, her sweet witty voice, the great and all-engaging theme 
 on which she was so content to discourse, and which seemed by 
 right to belong to her — all these were circumstances which 
 wonderfully affected the imagination of Tancred. 
 
 He was lost in the empyrean of high abstraction, his gaze 
 apparently fixed on the purple mountains and the golden skies 
 and the glittering orbs of coming night, which yet in truth he 
 never saw, when a repeated shout at length roused him. It bade 
 him stand aside on the narrow path that winds round the Mount 
 of Olives from Jerusalem to Bethany , and let a coming horseman 
 pass. The horseman was the young Emir who was a guest the 
 
 Tancred. J. 15
 
 226 
 
 night before in the divan of Besso. Though habited in the Mam- 
 louk dress, as if only the attendant of some great man, huge 
 trowsers and jacket of crimson cloth, a white turban, a shawl 
 round his waist holding his pistols and sabre , the horse he rode 
 was a Kochlani of the highest breed. By him was a running foot- 
 man, holding his nargilly, to Avhich the Emir frequently applied 
 his mouth as he rode along. He shot a keen glance at Tancred 
 as he passed by, and then throwing his tube to his attendant, he 
 bounded on. 
 
 In the mean time, we must not forget the lady of Bethany 
 after she so suddenly disappeared from the kiosk. Proceeding 
 up her mountain garden, which narrowed as she advanced, and 
 attended by two female slaves, who had been in waiting without 
 the kiosk, she was soon in that hilly chink in which she had built 
 her nest; a long, low pavilion, with a shelving roof, and sur- 
 rounded by a Saracenic arcade; the whole painted in fresco; a 
 golden pattern of flowing fancy on a white ground. If there were 
 door or window, they were entirely concealed by the blinds 
 which appeared to cover the whole surface of the building. 
 Stepping into the arcade, the lady entered the pavilion by a side 
 portal, which opened by a secret spring, and which conducted 
 her into a small corridor, and this again through two chambers, 
 in both of which were many females who mutely saluted her as 
 she passed, without rising from their employments. Then she 
 entered a more capacious and ornate apartment. Its ceiling, 
 which described the horseshoe arch of the Saracens, was en- 
 crusted with that honeycomb work which is peculiar to them, 
 and which, in the present instance, was of rose colour and 
 silver. Mirrors were inserted in the cedar panels of the walls ; a 
 divan of rose-coloured silk surrounded the chamber, and on the 
 thick soft carpet of many colours , which nearly covered the floor, 
 were several cushions surrounding an antique marble tripod of 
 wreathed serpents. The lady, disembarrassing herself of her
 
 227 
 
 slippers, seated herself on the divan in the fashion of her 
 country; one of her attendants brought a large silver lamp, 
 which diffused a delicious odour as well as a brilliant light, and 
 placed it on the tripod; while the other clapping her hands, a 
 band of beautiful girls entered the room, bearing dishes of 
 confectionary, plates of choice fruits, and vases of delicious 
 sherbets. The lady, partaking of some of these, directed, 
 after a short time, that they should be offered to her immediate 
 attendants, who thereupon kissed their hands with a grave face, 
 and pressed them to their hearts. Then one of the girls leaving 
 the apartment for a moment, returned with a nargilly of crystal, 
 set by the most cunning artists of Damascus in a frame-work of 
 golden filagree crusted with precious stones. She presented the 
 flexible silver tube, tipped with amber, to the lady, who, waving 
 her hand that the room should be cleared, smoked a confection 
 of roses and rare nuts, while she listened to a volume read by 
 one of her maidens , who was seated by the silver lamp. 
 
 While they were thus employed, an opposite curtain to that 
 by which they had entered was drawn aside, and a woman ad- 
 vanced, and whispered some words to the lady, who seemed to 
 signify her assent. Immediately, a tall negro of Dongola, richly 
 habited in a flowing crimson vest, and with a large silver collar 
 round his neck, entered the hall, and, after the usual saluta- 
 tions of reverence to the lady, spoke earnestly in a low voice. 
 The lady listened with great attention, and then, taking out her 
 tablets from her girdle, she wrote a few words and gave a leaf to 
 the tall negro, who bowed and retired. Then she waved her 
 hand, and the maiden who was reading closed her book, rose, 
 and, pressing her hand to her heart, retired. 
 
 It seemed that the young Emir had arrived at the pavilion, 
 and prayed that, without a moment's delay, he might speak with 
 the Lady of Bethany. 
 
 The curtain was again withdrawn, a light step was heard, 
 
 15*
 
 228 
 
 the young man who had recently passed Tancred on the road to 
 Jerusalem bounded into the room. 
 
 "How is the Rose of Sharon?" he exclaimed. He threw 
 himself at her feet, and pressed the hem of her garment to his 
 lips with an ecstasy which it would have been difficult for a by- 
 stander to decide whether it were mockery or enthusiasm, or 
 genuine feeling which took a sportive air to veil a devotion which 
 it could not conceal , and which it cared not too gravely to in- 
 timate. 
 
 "Ah, Fakredeen!" said the lady, "and when did you leave 
 the Mountain?" 
 
 "I arrived at Jerusalem yesterday by sunset; never did I 
 want to see you so much. The foreign consuls have stopped my 
 civil war, which cost me a hundred thousand piastres. We went 
 down to Beiroot and signed articles of peace ; I thought it best to 
 attend to escape suspicion. However, there is more stirring 
 than you can conceive: never had I such combinations! First 
 let me shortly tell you what I have done, then what I wish you to 
 do. I have made immense hits, but I am also in a scrape." 
 "That I think you always are," said the lady. 
 "But you will get me out of it, Rose of Sharon! You always 
 do, brightest and sweetest of friends! What an alliance is ours! 
 My invention, your judgment — my combinations, your criti- 
 cism. It must carry everything before it." 
 
 "I do not see that it has effected much hitherto," said the 
 lady. "However, give me your mountain news. What ha\c 
 you done?" 
 
 "In the first place," said Fakredeen, "until this accursed 
 peace intrigue of the foreign consuls, which will not last as long 
 as the carnival, the Mountain was more troubled than ever, and 
 the Porte, backed up by Sir Canning, is obstinate against any 
 prince of our house exercising the rule." 
 "Do you call that good news?"
 
 229 
 
 "It serves. In the first place it keeps my good uncle, the 
 Emir Bescheer and his sons prisoners at the Seven Towers. 
 Now, I will tell you what I have done. I have sent to my uncle 
 and offered him two hundred thousand piastres a-year for his life 
 and that of his sons, if they will represent to the Porte that none 
 but a prince of the House of Shehaab can possibly pacify and ad- 
 minister Lebanon, and that, to obtain this necessary end, they 
 are ready to resign their rights in favour of .any other member of 
 the family." 
 
 "What then?" said the Lady of Bethany, taking her nargilly 
 from her mouth. 
 
 "Whythen/'saidFakredeen, "I am by anotheragent working 
 upon Biza Pacha to this effect — that of all the princes of the great 
 house of Shehaab, there is none so well adapted to support the 
 interests of the Porte as the Emir Fakredeen , and for these three 
 principal reasons: in the first place, because he is a prince of 
 great qualities — " 
 
 "Your proof of them to the vizir would be better than your 
 assertion." 
 
 "Exactly," said Fakredeen, "I prove them by my second 
 reason, which is a guarantee to his excellency of the whole re- 
 venue of the first year of my princedom, provided I receive the 
 berat." 
 
 "I can tell you something," said the lady, "Biza shakes a 
 little. He is too fond of first fruits. His nomination will not be 
 popular." 
 
 "Yes it will, when the divan takes into consideration the third 
 reason for my appointment," said the prince. "Namely, that 
 the Emir Fakredeen is the only prince of the great house of She- 
 haab who is a good Mussulman." 
 
 "You a good Mussulman! Why, I thought you had sent two 
 months ago Archbishop Murad to Paris, urging King Louis to 
 support you, because, amongst other reasons, being a Christian
 
 230 
 
 prince, you would defend the faith and privileges of the Maro- 
 nites." 
 
 "And devote myself to France," said Fakredeen. "It is very 
 true, and an excellent combination it is, if we could only bring 
 it to bear, which I do not despair of, though affairs, which looked 
 promising at Paris, have taken an unfortunate turn of late." 
 
 "I am very sorry for that," said the lady, "for really, Fak- 
 redeen, of all your innumerable combinations, that did seem to 
 me to be the most practical. I think it might have been worked. 
 The Maronites are very powerful ; the French nation is interested 
 in them; they are the link between France and Syria; and you, 
 being a Christian prince as well as an emir of the most illustrious 
 house, with your intelligence and such aid as we might give you, 
 I think your prospects were, to say the least, fair." 
 
 "Why, as to being a Christian prince, Eva, you must re- 
 member I aspire to a dominion where I have to govern the Ma- 
 ronites who are Christians, the Metoualis who are Mahometans, 
 the Anzareys who are Pagans, and the Druses who are nothing. 
 As for myself, my house, as you well know, is more ancient 
 even than that ofOthman. We are literally descended from the 
 standard-bearer of the Prophet, and my own estates, as well as 
 of those of the Emir Bescheer, have been in our registered pos- 
 session for nearly eight hundred years. Our ancestors became 
 Christians to conciliate the Maronites. Now tell me: in Europe, 
 an English or French prince who wants a throne, never hesitates 
 to change his religion — why should I be more nice? I am of that 
 religion which gives me a sceptre ; and if a Frank prince adopts a 
 new creed when he quits London or Paris, I cannot understand 
 why mine may not change according to the part of the mountain 
 through which I am passing. What is the use of belonging to an 
 old family unless to have the authority of an ancestor ready for 
 any prejudice, religious or political, which your combinations 
 may require?"
 
 231 
 
 "Ah! Fakredeen," said the lady, shaking licr head, "you 
 have no self-respect." 
 
 "No Syrian has; it won't do for us. You are an Arabian; it 
 will do for the desert. Self-respect too is a superstition of past 
 centuries, an affair of the crusades. It is not suited to these 
 times; it is much too arrogant, too self-conceited, too egotisti- 
 cal. No one is important enough to have self-respect. Don't you 
 see?" 
 
 "You boast of being a prince inferior to none in the antiquity 
 of your lineage, and, as far as the mere fact is concerned, you 
 are justified in your boast. I cannot comprehend how one who 
 feels this pride should deign to do anything that is not 
 princely. " 
 
 "A prince!" exclaimed Fakredeen, "Princes go for nothing 
 now — without a loan. Get me a loan, and then you turn the 
 prince into a government. That 's the thing." 
 
 "You will never get a loan till you are Emir of Lebanon," said 
 the lady. "And you have shown me to-day that the only chance 
 you have is failing you, for, after all, Paris was your hope. 
 What has crossed you?" 
 
 "In the first place," said Fakredeen, "what can the French 
 do? After having let the Egyptians be driven out, fortunately 
 for me, for their expulsion ruined my uncle, the French will 
 never take the initiative in Syria. All that I wanted of them was, 
 that they should not oppose Riza Pacha in his nomination of me. 
 But to secure his success a finer move was necessary. So I 
 instructed Archbishop Murad, whom they received very well at 
 Paris, to open secret communications over the water with the 
 English. He did so, and offered to cross and explain in detail to 
 their ministers. I wished to assure them in London that I was 
 devoted to their interests; and Imeantto offer to lettlieProtestant 
 missionaries establish themselves in the mountain, so that Sir 
 Canning should have received instructions to support my nomina-
 
 232 
 
 tion by Riza. Then you see, I should have had the Porte, Eng- 
 land, and France. The game was won. Can you believe it? 
 Lord Aberdeen enclosed my agent's letter to Guizot. I was 
 crushed." 
 
 "And disgraced. You deserved it. You never will succeed. 
 Intrigue will be your ruin, Fakredeen." 
 
 "Intrigue!" exclaimed the prince, starling from the cushion 
 near the tripod, on which be sate, speaking wi|h great animation, 
 and using, as was his custom, a superfluity of expression, both 
 of voice and hands and eyes — "intrigue! It is life! It is the 
 only thing. How do you think Guizot and Aberdeen got to be 
 ministers without intrigue? Or Riza Pacha himself? How do 
 you think Mehemet Ali got on? Do you believe Sir Canning never 
 intrigues? He would be recalled in a week if he did not. Why, 
 I have got one of his spies in my castle at this moment, and I 
 make him write home for the English all that I wish them not to 
 believe. Intrigue! Why, England won India by intrigue. Do 
 you think they are not intriguing in the Punjaub at this moment? 
 Intrigue has gained half the thrones of Europe: Greece, France, 
 Belgium, Portugal, Spain, Russia. If you wish to produce a 
 result, you must make combinations ; and you call combinations, 
 Eva, intrigue!" 
 
 "And this is the scrape that you are in," said the lady. "I 
 do not see how I can help you out of it." 
 
 "Pardon; this is not the scrape: and here comes the point 
 on which I need your aid, daughter of a thousand sheikhs! lean 
 extricate myself from the Paris disaster , even turn it to account. 
 I have made an alliance with the Patriarch of the Lebanon, who 
 manages affairs for the Emir Bescheer. The patriarch hates 
 Murad, whom you see I was to have made patriarch. I am to 
 declare the Archbishop an unauthorized agent, an adventurer, 
 and my letter to be a forgery. The patriarch is to go to Stam- 
 boul, with his long while beard, and put me right with France,
 
 233 
 
 through De Bourqucncy, with whom he has relations in favour of 
 the Emir Bescheer ; my uncle is to be thrown over; all the Ma- 
 ronite chiefs are to sign a declaration supplicating the Porte to 
 institute me ; nay, the declaration is signed — " 
 
 "And the Druses? Will not this Maronile manifestation put 
 you wrong with the Druses?" 
 
 "I live among the Druses, you see," said Fakredeen, 
 shaking his head, and looking with his glittering eye a thousand 
 meanings. "The Druses love me. They know that I am one of 
 themselves. They will only think that I have made the Maronites 
 eat sand." 
 
 "And what have you really done for the Maronites to gain all 
 this?" asked the lady, quietly. 
 
 "There, it is," said Fakredeen, speaking in an affected 
 whisper, "the greatest stroke of state that ever entered the mind 
 of a king without a kingdom, for I am resolved that the Mountain 
 shall be a royalty! You remember when Ibrahim Pacha laid his 
 plans for disarming the Lebanon, the Maronites, urged by their 
 priests, fell into the snare, while the Druses wisely went with 
 their muskets and scimitars, and lived awhile with the eagle and 
 the antelope. This has been sand to the Maronites ever since. 
 The Druses put their tongues in their cheek whenever they meet, 
 and treat them as so many women. The Porte of course will do 
 nothing for the Maronites; they even take back the muskets 
 which they lent them for the insurrection. Well, as the Porte will 
 not arm them, I have agreed to do it." 
 
 "You!" 
 
 "'T is done; at least the caravan is laden; we only want a 
 guide. And that is why I am at Jerusalem. ScherifT Effendi, 
 who met me here yesterday, has got me five thousand English 
 muskets, and I have arranged with the Bedoueen of Zoalia to 
 carry them to the Mountain."
 
 234 
 
 "You have indeed Solomon's signet, my dear Fakredeen." 
 
 "Would that I had; for then I could pay two hundred 
 thousand piastres to that Egyptian camel, ScheriffEffendi, and 
 he would give me up my muskets, which now, like a true son of 
 Eblis, he obstinately retains." 
 
 "And this is your scrape, Fakredeen. And how much have 
 you towards the sum? " 
 
 "Not a piastre; nor do I suppose I shall ever see, until I 
 make a great financial stroke, so much of the sultan's gold as is 
 on one of the gilt balls of roses in your nargilly. My crops are 
 sold for next year, my jewels are gone, my studs are to be broken 
 up. There is not a cur in the streets of Beiroot of whom I have 
 not borrowed money. Riza Pacha is a sponge that would dry the 
 sea of Galilee." 
 
 "It is a great thing to have gained the Patriarch of Lebanon," 
 said the lady; "I always felt that, as long as that man was 
 against you, the Maronites never could be depended on. And 
 yet these arms — after all, they are of no use, for you would not 
 think of insurrection ! " 
 
 "No; but they can quarrel with the Druses, and cut each 
 others' throats, and this will make the mountain more unma- 
 nageable than ever, and the English will have no customers for 
 their calicoes — don't you see ! Lord Palmerston will arraign the 
 minister in the council — I shall pay off Aberdeen for enclosing 
 the Archbishop's letter to Guizot. Combination upon combina- 
 tion! The calico merchants will call out for a prince of the 
 house of Shehaab! Riza will propose me; Bourqueney will not 
 murmur, and Sir Canning, finding he is in a mess, will sign a 
 fine note of words about the peace of Europe and the prosperity 
 of Lebanon, and 't is finished." 
 
 "And my father — you have seen him?" 
 
 "I have seen him," said the young Emir, and he cast his 
 eyes on the ground.
 
 235 
 
 "He has done so much," said Eva. 
 
 "Ask him to do more, Rose of Sharon," said Fakredeeo, 
 like a child about to cry for a toy, and he threw himself on his 
 knees before Eva, and kept kissing her robe. "Ask him to do 
 more," he repeated, in a suppressed tone of heart-rending 
 cajolery, "he can refuse you nothing. Ask him, ask him, 
 Eva! I have no friend in the world but you; I am so desolate. 
 You have always been my friend, my counsellor, my darling, 
 my ruby, my pearl, my rose of Rocnabad! Ask him, Eva; 
 never mind my faults — you know me by heart — only ask 
 him!" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Tell him that you are my sister, that I am his son, that I 
 love you so, that I love him so; tell him anything. Say that be 
 ought to do it because I am a Hebrew." 
 
 "A what!" said Eva. 
 
 "A Hebrew; yes, a Hebrew. I am a Hebrew by blood, and 
 we all are by faith." 
 
 "Thou son of a slave!" exclaimed the lady, "thou masque- 
 rade of humanity! Christian or Mussulman, Pagan or Druse, 
 thou mayest figure as; but spare my race, Fakredeen — they are 
 fallen — " 
 
 "Rut not so base as I am. It may be true, but I love you, 
 Eva, and you love me, and if I had as many virtues as yourself, 
 you could not love me more; — perhaps less. Women like to 
 feel their superiority; you are as clever as I am, and have more 
 judgment; you are generous and I am selfish ; honourable, and 
 I am a villain; brave, and I am a coward ; rich, and I am poor. 
 Let that satisfy you, and do not trample on the fallen," and 
 Fakredeen took her hand and bedewed it with his tears. 
 
 "Dear Fakredeen," saidEva, "I thought you spoke in jest, 
 as I did."
 
 236 
 
 "How can a man jest, who has to go through what I endure!" 
 said the young Emir, in a desponding tone, and still lying at her 
 feet. "0, ray more than sister, 'tis hell! The object I propose 
 to myself would, with the greatest resources, be difficult; and 
 now I have none." 
 
 "Relinquish it." 
 
 "When I am young and ruined! When I have the two 
 greatest stimulants in the world to action — Youth and Debt! 
 No ; such a combination is never to be thrown away. Any young 
 prince ought to win the Lebanon, but a young prince in debt 
 ought to conquer the world !" and the Emir sprang from the floor, 
 and began walking about the apartment. 
 
 " I think, Eva," he said, after a moment's pause, and speak- 
 ing in his usual tone, "I think you really might do something 
 with your father; I look upon myself as his son; he saved my 
 life. And I am a Hebrew; I was nourished by your mother's 
 breast — her being flows in my veins; and independent of all 
 that, my ancestor was the standard-bearer of the Prophet, and 
 the Prophet was the descendant of Ishmael, and Ishmael and Is- 
 rael were brothers. I really think, between my undoubted 
 Arabian origin and being your foster-brother, that I may be 
 looked upon as a Jew, and that your father might do something 
 for me." 
 
 "Whatever my father will do, you and he must decide to- 
 gether," said Eva; "after the result of my last interference, I 
 promised my father that I never would speak to him on your 
 affairs again; and you know therefore that I cannot. You ought 
 not to urge me, Fakredeen." 
 
 "Ah! you are angry with me," he exclaimed, and again 
 seated himself at her feet. "You were saying in your heart he is 
 the most selfish of beings. It is true, I am. But I have glorious 
 aspirations at least. I am not content to live like my fathers in
 
 237 
 
 a beautiful palace, amid my woods and mountains, with Coch- 
 lani steeds, falcons that would pull down an eagle, and nargil- 
 lies of rubies and emeralds. I want something more thau troops 
 of beautiful slaves , music and dances. I want Europe to talk of 
 me. lam wearied of hearing of nothingbutlbrahimPasha, Louis 
 Philippe, and Palmerston. I, too, can make combinations ; and I 
 am of a better family than all three, for Ibrahim is a child of mud, 
 a Bourbon is not equal to a Shehaab, and Lord Palmerston only 
 sits in the queen's second chamber of council, as I well know from 
 anEnglishmanwho was atBeiroot, and with whom I have formed 
 some political relations, of which perhaps some day you will 
 hear." 
 
 " Well, we have arrived at a stage of your career, Fakredeen, 
 in which no combination presents itself; I am powerless to assist 
 you; ray resources, never very great, are quite exhausted." 
 
 "No," saidtheEmir, "the game is yet to be won. Listen, 
 Rose of Sharon, for this is really the point on which I came to 
 hold counsel. A young English lord has arrived at Jerusalem 
 this week or ten days past; he is of the highest dignity, and rich 
 enough to buy the grand bazaar of Damascus; he has letters of 
 credit on your father's house without any limit. No one can dis- 
 cover the object of his mission. I have some suspicions; there 
 is also a French officer here who never speaks; I watch them 
 both. The Englishman, I learnt this morning, is going to 
 Mount Sinai. It is not a pilgrimage, because the English are 
 really neither Jews nor Christians, but follow a sort of religion 
 of their own, which is made every year by their bishops, one of 
 whom they have sent to Jerusalem, in what they call a parlia- 
 ment, a college of muftis — you understand. Now lend me thatear 
 that is like an almond of Aleppo ! I propose that one of the tribes 
 that obey your grandfather shall make this Englishman prisoner 
 as he traverses the desert. You see? Ah! Rose of Sharon, I
 
 238 
 
 am uot yet beat; your Fakredeen is not the baffled boy that, a 
 few minutes ago, you looked as if you thought him. I defy Ibra- 
 him, or the King of France, or Palmerston himself, to make a 
 combination superior to this. What a ransom ! The English 
 lord will pay Scheriff Effendi for his ten thousand muskets, and 
 for their conveyance to the mountain besides."
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 In one of those civil broils at Damascus which preceded the 
 fall of the Janissaries, au Emir of the house of Shehaab, who 
 lost his life in the fray, had, in the midst of the convulsion, 
 placed his infant son in the charge of the merchant Besso, a 
 child most dear to him, not only because the babe was his heir, 
 but because his wife, whom he passionately loved, — a beauti- 
 ful lady of Antioch and of one of the old families of the country, 
 — had just sacrificed her life in giving birth to their son. 
 
 The wife of Besso placed the orphan infant at her own breast, 
 and the young Fakredeen was brought up in every respect as a 
 child of the house; so that, for some time, he looked upon the 
 little Eva, who was three years younger than himself, as his 
 sister. When Fakredeen had attained an age of sufficient intel- 
 ligence for the occasion and the circumstances, his real position 
 was explained to him; but he was still too young for the commu- 
 nication to effect any change in his feelings, and the idea that 
 Eva was not his sister only occasioned him sorrow, until his 
 grief was forgotten when he found that the change made no differ- 
 ence in their lives or their love. 
 
 Soon after the violent death of the father of Fakredeen, 
 affairs had become more tranquil, and Besso had not neglected 
 the interests of his charge. The infant was heir to a large estate 
 in the Lebanon; a fine castle, an illimitable forest, and culti- 
 vated lands, whose produce, chiefly silk, afforded a revenue 
 sufficient to maintain the not inconsiderable state of a mountain 
 prince. 
 
 When Fakredeen was about ten years of age, his relative the 
 Emir Bescheer, who then exercised a sovereign and acknow-
 
 240 
 
 ledged sway over all the tribes of the Lebanon, whatever their 
 religion or race, signified his pleasure that his kinsman should 
 be educated at his court, in the company of his sons. SoFakre- 
 deen, with many tears, quitted his happy home at Damascus, 
 and proceeded to Beteddeen, the beautiful palace of his uncle, 
 situate among the mountains in the neighbourhood of Beiroot. 
 This was about the time that the Egyptians were effecting the con- 
 quest of Syria, and both the Emir Bescheer, the head of the 
 house of Shehaab as well as Prince of the Mountain, and the 
 great commercial confederation of the brothers Besso, had de- 
 clared in favour of the invader, and were mainly instrumental to 
 the success of Mehemet Ali. Political sympathy, and the feel- 
 ings of mutual dependence which united the Emir Bescheer and 
 the merchantof Damascus, renderedthe communications between 
 the families so frequent that it was not difficult for the family of 
 Besso to cherish those sentiments of affection which were strong 
 and lively in the heart of the young Fakredeen, but which, under 
 any circumstances, depend so much on sustained personal inter- 
 course. Eva saw a great deal of her former brother, and there 
 subsisted between them a romantic friendship. He was their 
 frequent guest at Damascus, and was proud to show her how he 
 excelled in his martial exercises, how skilful he was with his 
 falcon, and what horses of pure race he proudly rode. 
 
 In the year '39, Fakredeen being then fifteen years of age, 
 the country entirely tranquil, even if discontented, occupied by 
 a disciplined army of 80,000 men, commanded by captains equal 
 it was supposed to any conjuncture , the Egyptians openly encou- 
 raged by the greatest military nation of Europe, the Turks pow- 
 erless, and only secretly sustained by the countenance of the 
 ambassador of the weakest government that ever tottered in Eng- 
 land — a government that had publicly acknowledged that it had 
 forfeited the confidence of the parliament which yet it did not dis- 
 solve ; every thing being thus in a state of flush and affluent pro-
 
 2 41 
 
 sperity , and both the house of Shehaab and the house of Besso 
 feeling, each day more strongly, how discreet and how lucky 
 they had been in the course which they had adopted — came the 
 great Syrian crash! 
 
 Whatever difference of opinion may exist as to the policy pur- 
 sued by the foreign minister of England , with respect to the set- 
 tlement of the Turkish empire in 1840-41, none can be permitted, 
 by those at least competent to decide upon such questions , as to 
 the ability with which that policy was accomplished. When we 
 consider the position of the minister at home, not only deserted 
 by parliament, but abandoned by his party and even forsaken 
 by his colleagues; the military occupation of Syria by the 
 Egyptians; the rabid demonstration of France; that an accident 
 of time or space, the delay of a month or the gathering of a storm, 
 might alone have baffled all his combinations; it is difficult to 
 fix upon a page in the history of this country which records a 
 superior instance of moral intrepidity. The bold conception 
 and the brilliant performance were worthy of Chatham; but the 
 domestic difficulties with which Lord Palmerston had to struggle 
 place the exploit beyond the happiest achievement of the elder 
 Pitt. Throughout the memorable conjuncture, Lord Palmerston 
 however had one great advantage which was invisible to the mil- 
 lions ; he was served by a most vigilant and able diplomacy. The 
 superiority of his information concerning the state of Syria to that 
 furnished to the French minister was the real means by which he 
 baffled the menaced legions of our neighbours. A timid secre- 
 tary of state in the position of Lord Palmerston, even with such 
 advantages, might have faltered; but the weapon was placed in 
 the hands of one who did not shrink from its exercise, and the 
 expulsion of the Egyptians from Turkey remains a great historic 
 monument alike of diplomatic skill and administrative energy. 
 
 The rout of the Egyptians was fatal to the Ernir Bescheer, 
 and it seemed also, for a time, to the Damascus branch of the 
 Tattered. I. 16
 
 242 
 
 family of Besso. But in these days a great capitalist has deeper 
 roots than a sovereign prince, unless he is very legitimate. The 
 Prince of the Mountain and his sons were summoned from their 
 luxurious and splendid Beteddeen to Constantinople, where they 
 have ever since remained prisoners. Young Fakredeen, the 
 moment he heard of the fall of Acre, rode out with his falcon, 
 as if for the pastime of a morning, and the moment he was out of 
 sight made for the Desert, and never rested until he reached the 
 tents of the children of Bechab, where he placed himself under 
 the protection of the grandfather of Eva. As for the worthy 
 merchant himself, having ships at his command, he contrived 
 to escape with his wife and his young daughter to Trieste, and he 
 remained in the Austrian dominions between three and four 
 years. At length the influence of Prince Metternich, animated 
 by Sidonia, propitiated the Porte. Adam Besso, after making 
 his submission at Stamboul, and satisfactorily explaining his 
 conduct to Biza Pacha, returned to his country, not substantially 
 injured in fortune, though the northern clime had robbed him of 
 his Arabian wife; for his brothers, who, as far as politics were 
 concerned, had ever kept in the shade, had managed affairs in 
 the absence of the more prominent member of their house — and, 
 in truth, the family of Besso were too rich to be long under a 
 cloud. The Pacha of Damascus found his revenue fall very 
 short without their interference; and as for the Divan, the 
 Bessoes could always find a friend there if they chose. The 
 awkwardness of the Syrian catastrophe was, that it was so sudden 
 and so unexpected, that there was then no time for those satis- 
 factory explanations which afterwards took place between Adam 
 Besso and Biza. 
 
 Though the situation of Besso remained therefore unchanged 
 after the subsidence of the Syrian agitation, the same circum- 
 stance could not be predicated of the position of his foster-child. 
 Fakredeen possessed all the qualities of the genuine Syrian
 
 243 
 
 character in excess; vain, susceptible, endowed with a brilliant 
 though frothy imagination, and a love of action so unrestrained 
 that restlessness deprived it of energy, with so fine a taste that 
 he was always capricious, and so ingenious that he seemed ever 
 inconsistent. His ambition was as high as his apprehension 
 was quick. He saw everything and understood everybody in a 
 flash; and believed that everything that was said or done ought to 
 be made to contribute to his fortunes. Educated in the sweet 
 order and amid the decorous virtues of the roof of Besso, 
 Fakredeen, who, from his susceptibility, took the colour of his 
 companions, even when he thought they were his tools, had 
 figured for ten years as a soft-hearted and somewhat timid child, 
 dependent on kind words, and returning kindness with a pas- 
 sionate affection. 
 
 His change to the palace of his uncle developed his native 
 qualities, which, under any accidents, could not perhaps have 
 been long restrained, but which the circumstances of the times 
 brought to light and matured with a celerity peculiar to the East. 
 The character of Fakredeen was formed amid the excitement of 
 the Syrian invasion and its stirring consequences. At ten years 
 of age, he was initiated in all the mysteries of political intrigue. 
 His startling vivacity and the keen relish of his infant intelligence 
 for all the passionate interests of men amused and sometimes 
 delighted his uncle. Everything was spoken before him; he 
 lived in the centre of intrigues which were to shake thrones, and 
 perhaps to form them. He became habituated to the idea that 
 everything could be achieved by dexterity, and that there was no 
 test of conduct except success. To dissemble and to simulate; 
 to conduct confidential negotiations with contending powers and 
 parties at the same time ; to be ready to adopt any opinion and to 
 possess none ; to fall into the public humour of the moment and 
 to evade the impending catastrophe; to look upon every man as a 
 tool, and never to do anything which had not a definite though 
 
 16*
 
 244 
 
 circuitous purpose ; — these were his political accomplishments ; 
 and, while he recognized them as the best means of success, he 
 found in their exercise excitement and delight. To be the centre 
 of a maze of manoeuvres was his empyrean. He was never without 
 a resource. 
 
 Stratagems came to him as naturally as fruit comes to a tree. 
 He lived in a labyrinth of plans, and he rejoiced to involve some 
 one in the perplexities which his magic touch could alone un- 
 ravel. Fakredeen had no principle of any kind; he had not a 
 prejudice; a little superstition, perhaps, like his postponing 
 his journey because a hare crossed his path. But, as for life and 
 conduct in general, forming his opinions from the great men of 
 whom he had experience, princes, pachas, and some others, 
 and from the great transactions with which he was connected, — 
 he was convinced that all was a matter of force or fraud. 
 Fakredeen preferred the latter, because it was more ingenious, 
 and because he was of a kind and passionate temperament, 
 loving beauty and the beautiful, apt to idealize everything, and 
 of too exquisite a taste not to shrink with horror from an unneces- 
 sary massacre. 
 
 Though it was his profession and his pride to simulate and to 
 dissemble, he had a native ingenuousness which was extremely 
 awkward and very surprising, for, the moment he was intimate 
 with you, he told you everything. Though he intended to make 
 a person his tool and often succeeded, such was his suscepti- 
 bility, and so strong were his sympathetic qualities, that he was 
 perpetually, without being unaware of it, showing his cards. 
 The victim thought himself safe, but the teeming resources of 
 Fakredeen were never wanting, and some fresh and brilliant 
 combination, as he styled it, often secured the prey which so 
 heedlessly he had nearly forfeited. Recklessness with him was 
 a principle of action. He trusted always to his fertile expedients 
 if he failed, and ran the risk in the mean while of paramount
 
 245 
 
 success — the fortune of those who are entitled to be rash. With 
 all his audacity, which was nearly equal to his craft, he had no 
 moral courage; and, if affairs went wrong, and, from some 
 accident, exhaustion of the nervous system, the weather, or 
 some of those slight causes which occasionally paralyze the 
 creative mind, he felt without a combination , he would begin to 
 cry like a child, and was capable of any action however base 
 and humiliating to extricate himself from the impending dis- 
 aster. 
 
 Fakredeen had been too young to have fatally committed him- 
 self during the Egyptian occupation. The moment he found 
 that the Emir Bescheer and his sons were prisoners at Constan- 
 tinople, he returned to Syria, lived quietly at his own castle, 
 affected popularity among the neighbouring chieftains, who were 
 pleased to see a Shehaab among them, and showed himself on 
 every occasion a most loyal subject of the Porte. At seventeen 
 years of age , Fakredeen was at the head of a powerful party , and 
 had opened relations with the Divan. The Porte looked upon 
 him with confidence, and although they intended, if possible, 
 to govern Lebanon in future themselves, a young prince of a 
 great house, and a young prince so perfectly free from all dis- 
 agreeable antecedents was not to be treated lightly. All the 
 leaders of all the parties of the Mountain frequented the castle of 
 Fakredeen, and each secretly believed that the prince was his 
 pupil and his tool. There was not one of these men , grey though 
 some of them were in years and craft, whom the innocent and 
 ingenuous Fakredeen did not bend as a nose of wax, and, when 
 Adam Besso returned to Syria in '43, he found his foster-child by 
 far the most considerable person in the country, and all parties 
 amid their doubts and distractions looking up to him with hope 
 and confidence. He was then nineteen years of age, and Eva 
 was sixteen. Fakredeen came instantly to Damascus to welcome 
 them, hugged Besso, wept like a child over his sister, sat up
 
 246 
 
 the whole night on the terrace of their house smoking his nar- 
 gilly, and telling them all his secrets without the slightest re- 
 serve — the most shameful actions of his career as well as the 
 most brilliant; and finally proposed to Besso to raise a loan for 
 the Lebanon, ostensibly to promote the cultivation of mulberries, 
 really to supply arms to the discontented population who were to 
 make Fakredeen and Eva sovereigns of the Mountain. 
 
 It will have been observed, that to supply the partially dis- 
 armed tribes of the mountain with weapons was still, though at 
 intervals, the great project of Fakredeen, and to obtain the re- 
 sult in his present destitution of resources involved him in end- 
 less stratagems. His success would at the same time bind the 
 tribes, already well affected to him, with unalterable devotion 
 to a chief capable of such an undeniable act of sovereignty, and 
 of course render them proportionately more efficient instruments 
 in accomplishing his purpose. It was the interest of Fakredeen 
 that the Lebanon should be powerful and disturbed. Besso, 
 who had often befriended him, and who had frequently rescued 
 him from the usurers of Beiroot and Sidon, lent a cold ear to 
 these suggestions. The great merchant was not inclined again 
 to embark in a political career, or pass another three or four 
 years away from his Syrian palaces and gardens. He had seen 
 the most powerful head that the East had produced for a century, 
 backed by vast means , and after ha\ing apparently accomplished 
 his purpose, ultimately recoil before the superstitious fears of 
 Christendom, lest any change in Syria should precipitate the 
 solution of the great Eastern problem. He could not believe 
 that it was reserved for Fakredeen to succeed in that which had 
 baffled Mehemet Ali. 
 
 Eva took the more sanguine view that becomes youth and 
 ■woman. She had faith in Fakredeen. Though his position was 
 not as powerful as that of the great viceroy, it was, in her 
 opinion, more legitimate. He seemed indicated as the natural
 
 247 
 
 ruler of the Mountain. She had faith too in his Arabian origin. 
 With Eva, what is called society assumed the character of a 
 continual struggle between Asia and the North. She dreaded 
 the idea that, after having escaped the crusaders, Syria should 
 fall first under the protection, and then the colonization of some 
 European power. A link was wanted in the chain of resistance 
 which connected the ranges of Caucasus with the Atlas. She 
 idealized her foster-brother into a hero, and saw his standard 
 on Mount Lebanon, the beacon of the oriental races, like the 
 spear of Shami or the pavilion of Abdel Kader. Eva had often 
 influenced her father for the advantage ofFakredeen, but at last 
 even Eva felt that she should sue in vain. 
 
 A year before, involved in difficulties which it seemed no 
 combination could control, and having nearly occasioned the 
 occupation of Syria by a united French and English force , Fakre- 
 deen burst out a-crying like a little boy, and came whimpering 
 to Eva, as if somebody had broken his toy or given him a beat- 
 ing. Then it was that Eva had obtained for him a final assist- 
 ance from her father, the condition being, that this application 
 should be the last. 
 
 Eva had given him jewels, had interested other members of 
 her family in his behalf, and effected for him a thousand ser- 
 vices, which only a kind-hearted and quick-witted woman could 
 devise. While Fakredeen plundered her without scruple and 
 used her without remorse, he doted on her; he held her intellect 
 in absolute reverence; a word from her guided him; a look of 
 displeasure, and his heart ached. As long as he was under the 
 influence of her presence, he really had no will, scarcely an 
 idea of his own. He spoke only to elicit her feelings and 
 opinions. He had a superstition that she w as born under a for- 
 tunate star, and that it was fatal to go counter to her. But the 
 moment he was away, he would disobey, deceive, and y if ne- 
 cessary, betray her; loving her the same all the time. But what
 
 248 
 
 was to be expected from one whose impressions were equally 
 quick and vi\id, who felt so much for himself and so much for 
 others, that his life seemed a perpetual re-action between intense 
 selfishness and morbid sensibility? 
 
 Had Fakredeen married Eva , the union might have given him 
 some steadiness of character, or at least its semblance. The 
 young Emir had greatly desired this alliance — not for the moral 
 purpose that we have intimated — not even from love of Eva, for 
 he was totally insensible to domestic joys, but because he wished 
 to connect himself with great capitalists, and hoped to gain the 
 Lebanon loan for a dower. But this alliance was quite out of the 
 question. The hand of Eva was destined, according to the 
 custom of the family, for her cousin, the eldest son of Besso of 
 Aleppo. The engagement had been entered into while she was at 
 Vienna, and it was then agreed that the marriage should take 
 place soon after she had completed her eighteenth year. The 
 ceremony was therefore at hand; it was to occur within a very 
 few months. 
 
 Accustomed from an early period of life to the contemplation 
 of this union, it assumed in the eyes of Eva a character as natural 
 as that of birth or death. It never entered her head to ask herself 
 whether she liked or disliked it. It was one of those inevitable 
 things of which we are always conscious, yet of which we never 
 think, like the years of our life or the colour of our hair. Had 
 her destiny been in her own hands, it is very probable that she 
 would not have shared it with Fakredeen, for she had never for 
 an instant entertained the wish that there should be any change in 
 the relations which subsisted between them. According to the 
 custom of the country, it was to Besso that Fakredeen had ex- 
 pressed his wishes and his hopes. The young Emir made liberal 
 offers: his wife and his children might follow any religion they 
 pleased; nay, he was even ready to conform himself to any 
 which they fixed upon. He attempted to dazzle Besso with the
 
 249 
 
 prospect of a Hebrew Prince of the Mountains. "My daughter," 
 said the merchant, "would certainly, under any circumstances, 
 marry one of her own faith ; but we need not say another word 
 about it; she is betrothed, and has been engaged for some years, 
 to her cousin." 
 
 When Fakredeen, during his recent visit to Bethany, found 
 that Eva, notwithstanding her Bedoueen blood, received his 
 proposition for kidnapping a young English nobleman with the 
 utmost alarm and even horror, he immediately relinquished it, 
 diverted her mind from the contemplation of a project, on her 
 disapproval of which, notwithstanding his efforts at distraction, 
 she seemed strangely to dwell, and finally presented her with a 
 new and more innocent scheme in which he required her as- 
 sistance. According to Fakredeen, his new English acquaintance 
 atBeiroot whom he had before quoted, was ready to assist him 
 in the fulfilment of his contract, provided he could obtain suffi- 
 cient time from Scheriff Effendi: and what he wished Eva to do 
 was personally to request the Egyptian merchant to grant time for 
 this indulgence. This did not seem to Eva an unreasonable 
 favour for her foster-brother to obtain, though she could easily 
 comprehend why his previous irregularities might render him an 
 unsuccessful suitor to his creditor. Glad that it was still in her 
 power in some degree to assist him , and that his present project 
 was at least a harmless one , Eva offered the next day to repair to 
 the city and see Scheriff Effendi on his business. Pressing her 
 hand to his heart, and saluting her with a thousand endearing 
 names , the Emir quitted the Bose of Sharon w ith the tears in his 
 grateful eyes. 
 
 Now the exact position of Fakredeen was this : he had induced 
 the Egyptian merchant to execute the contract for him by an 
 assurance that Besso would be his security for the venture, 
 although the peculiar nature of the transaction rendered it im- 
 possible for Besso, in his present delicate position, personally
 
 250 
 
 to interfere in it. To keep up appearances, Fakredeen, with his 
 usual audacious craft, had appointed Scheriff Effendi to meet 
 him at Jerusalem, at the house of Besso, for the completion of 
 the contract; and accordingly, on the afternoon of the day pre- 
 ceding his visit to Bethany, Fakredeen had arrived at Jerusalem 
 without money and without credit, in order to purchase arms for 
 a province. 
 
 The greatness of the conjuncture, the delightful climate, his 
 sanguine temperament, combined however to sustain him. As 
 he traversed his delicious mountains, with their terraces of 
 mulberries, and olives, and vines, lounged occasionally for a 
 short time at the towns on the coast, and looked in at some of his 
 creditors to chatter charming delusions, or feel his way for a new 
 combination most necessary at this moment, his blood was quick 
 and his brain creative; and, although he had ridden nearly two 
 hundred miles when he arrived at the " Holy City," he was fresh 
 and full of faith that " something would turn up." His Egyptian 
 friend, awfully punctual, was the first figure that welcomed him 
 as he entered the divan of Besso, where the young Emir remained 
 in the position which we have described, smoking interminable 
 nargillies while he revolved his affairs, until the conversation 
 respecting the arrival ofTancred roused him from his brooding 
 meditation. 
 
 It was not difficult to avoid Scheriff Effendi for a while. The 
 following morning, Fakredeen passed half a dozen hours at the 
 bath, and then made his visit to Eva with the plot which had oc- 
 curred to him the night before at the divan, and which had been 
 matured this day while they were shampooing him. The moment 
 that baffled, he again arrived at Jerusalem, he sought his 
 Egyptian merchant, and thus addressed him: — "You see, 
 Effendi, that you must not talk on this business to Besso, nor 
 can Besso talk to you about it." 
 
 "Good!" said the Effendi.
 
 251 
 
 "But, if it be managed by another person to your satis- 
 faction, it will be as well." 
 
 " One grain is like another." 
 
 "It will be managed by another person to your satisfaction." 
 
 "Good!" 
 
 "The Rose of Sharon is the same in this business as her 
 father?" 
 
 " He is a ruby and she is a pearl." 
 
 "The Rose of Sharon will see you to-morrow about this busi- 
 ness." 
 
 "Good!" 
 
 "The Rose of Sharon may ask you for time to settle every- 
 thing-, she has to communicate with other places. You have 
 heard of such a city as Aleppo ? " 
 
 "If Damascus be an eye , Aleppo is an ear. 
 
 "Don't trouble the Rose of Sharon, Effendi, with any details 
 if she speaks to you ; but be content w ith all she proposes. She 
 will ask, perhaps, for three months; women are nervous; they 
 think robbers may seize the money on its way, or the key of the 
 chest may not be found when it is wanted — you understand? 
 Agree to what she proposes; but, between ourselves, I will meet 
 you at Gaza on the day of the new moon , and it is finished." 
 
 "Good." 
 
 Faithful lo her promise, at an early hour of the morrow, Eva, 
 w rapped in a huge and hooded Arab cloak, so that her form could 
 not in the slightest degree be traced, her face covered with a black 
 Arab mask, mounted her horse; her two female attendants, 
 habited in the same manner, followed their mistress; before 
 whom marched her janissary armed to the teeth, while four Arab 
 grooms walked on each side of the cavalcade. In this way, they 
 entered Jerusalem by the gate of Sion, and proceeded to the 
 house of Besso. Fakredeen watched her arrival. He was in due
 
 252 
 
 time summoned to her presence, where he learned the success 
 of her mission. 
 
 "ScheriffEffeudi," she said, "has agreed to keep the arms 
 for three months, you paying the usual rate of interest on the 
 money. This is but just. May your new friend at Beiroot be 
 more powerful than I am , and as faithful ! " 
 
 "Beautiful Rose of Sharon ! who can be like you ! You inspire 
 me; you always do. I feel persuaded that I shall get the money 
 long before the time has elapsed." And, so saying, he bade her 
 farewell, to return, as he said, without loss of time to Beiroot.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The dawn was about to break in a cloudless sky, when Tan- 
 cred, accompanied by Baroni and two servants, all well armed 
 and well mounted, and by Hassan, a sheikh of the Jellaheen 
 Bedoueens , tall and grave , with a long spear tufted with ostrich 
 feathers in his hand, his musket slung at his back, and a scimitar 
 at his side , quitted Jerusalem by the gate of Bethlehem. 
 
 If it were only to see the sun rise, or to become acquainted 
 with nature at hours excluded from the experience of civilization, 
 it were worth while to be a traveller. There is something espe- 
 cially in the hour that precedes a Syrian dawn , which invigorates 
 the frame and elevates the spirit. One cannot help fancying that 
 angels may have been resting on the mountain tops during the 
 night — the air is so sweet and the earth so still. Nor, when it 
 wakes, does it wake to the maddening cares of Europe. The 
 beauty of a patriarchal repose still lingers about its existence in 
 spite of its degradation. Notwithstanding all they have suffered 
 during the European development, the manners of the Asiatic 
 races generally are more in harmony with nature than the com- 
 plicated conventionalisms which harass their fatal rival, and 
 which have increased in exact proportion as the Europeans have 
 seceded from those Arabian and Syrian creeds that redeemed 
 them from their primitive barbarism. 
 
 But the light breaks , the rising beam falls on the gazelles still 
 bounding on the hills of Judah , and gladdens the partridge which 
 still calls among the ravines, as it did in the days of the pro- 
 phets. About balf-way between Jerusalem and Bethlehem , Tan- 
 cred and his companions halted at the tomb of Bachel: here 
 awaited them a chosen band of twenty stout Jellaheens, the sub-
 
 254 
 
 jects of Sheikh Hassan, their escort through the wildernesses of 
 Arabia Petraea. The fringed and ribbed kerchief of the desert, 
 which must be distinguished from the turban, and is woven by 
 their own women from the hair of the camel, covered the heads 
 of the Bedoueens; a short white gown, also of home manu- 
 facture, and very rude, with a belt of cords, completed, with 
 slippers, their costume. Each man bore a musket and a dagger. 
 
 It was Baroni who had made the arrangement with Sheikh 
 Hassan. Baroni had long known him as a brave and faithful 
 Arab. In general , these contracts with the Bedoueens for convoy 
 through the desert are made by Franks through their respective 
 consuls, but Tancred was not sorry to be saved from the necessity 
 of such an application, as it would have excited the attention of 
 Colonel Brace, who passed his life at the British consulate, and 
 who probably would have thought it necessary to put on the uni- 
 form of theBellamont yeomanry cavalry, and have attended the 
 heir of Montacute to Mount Sinai. Tancred shuddered at the 
 idea of the presence of such a being at such a place; with his 
 large ruddy face, his swaggering, sweltering figure, his flourish- 
 ing whiskers and his fat hands. 
 
 It was the fifth morn after the visit of Tancred to Bethany, of 
 which he had said nothing to Baroni , the only person at his com- 
 mand who could afford or obtain any information as to the name 
 and quality of her with whom he had there so singularly become 
 acquainted. He was far from incurious on the subject ; all that he 
 had seen and all that he had heard at Bethany greatly interested 
 him. But the reserve which ever controlled him, unless under the 
 influence of great excitement, a reserve which was the result of 
 pride and not of caution, would probably have checked any expres- 
 sion of his wishes on this head, even had he not been under the 
 influence of those feelings which now absorbed him. A human 
 being, animated by the hope, almost by the conviction, that a celes- 
 tial communication is impending over his destiny, moves in a
 
 255 
 
 supernal sphere, which no earthly consideration can enter. 
 The long musings of his voyage had been succeeded on the part 
 ofTancred, since his arrival in the Holy Land, by one unbroken 
 and impassioned reverie, heightened, not disturbed, by frequent 
 and solitary prayer, by habitual fasts, and by those exciting con- 
 ferences with AlonzoLara, in which he had struggled to pene- 
 trate the great Asian mystery, reserved however, if indeed ever 
 expounded, for a longer initiation than had yet been proved by 
 the son of the English noble. 
 
 After a week of solitary preparation, during which he had 
 interchanged no word, and maintained an abstinence which 
 might have rivalled an old eremite of Engedi, Tancred had 
 kneeled before that empty sepulchre of the divine Prince of the 
 house of David, for which his ancestor, Tancred de Montacute, 
 six hundred years before, had struggled with those followers of 
 Mahound, who, to the consternation and perplexity of Christen- 
 dom, continued to retain it. Christendom cares nothing for that 
 tomb now, has indeed forgotten its own name, and calls itself 
 enlightened Europe. But enlightened Europe is not happy. Its 
 existence is a fever, which it calls progress. Progress to what? 
 
 The youthful votary, during his vigils at the sacred tomb, 
 had received solace but not inspiration. No voice from heaven 
 had yet sounded, but his spirit was filled with the sanctity of the 
 place, and he returned to his cell to prepare for fresh pil- 
 grimages. 
 
 One day, in conference with Lara, the Spanish Prior had let 
 drop these words — "Sinai led to Calvary: it may be wise to 
 trace your steps from Calvary to Sinai." 
 
 At this moment, Tancred and his escort are in sight of Beth- 
 lehem, with the population of a village but the walls of a town, 
 situate on an eminence overlooking a valley, which seems fertile 
 after passing the stony plain of Bephaim. The first beams of the
 
 256 
 
 sun, too, were rising from the mountains of Arabia and resting 
 on the noble convent of the Nativity. 
 
 From Bethlehem to Hebron, Canaan is still a land of milk 
 and honey, though not so rich and picturesque as in the great 
 expanse of Palestine to the north of the Holy City. The beauty 
 and the abundance of the promised land may still be found in 
 Samaria and Galilee; in the magnificent plains of Esdraelon, 
 Zabulon, and Gennesareth; and ever by the gushing waters of 
 the bowery Jordan. 
 
 About an hour after leaving Bethlehem, in a secluded valley, 
 is one of the few remaining public works of the great He- 
 brew kings. It is in every respect worthy of them. I speak 
 of those colossal reservoirs cut out of the native rock and 
 fed by a single spring, discharging their waters into an 
 aqueduct of perforated stone, which, until a comparatively 
 very recent pjriod, still conveyed them to Jerusalem. They 
 are three in number, of varying lengths from five to six hun- 
 dred feet, and almost as broad ; their depth still undis- 
 covered. They communicate with each other, so that the water 
 of the uppermost reservoir, flowing through the intermediate 
 one, reached the third, which fed the aqueduct. They are lined 
 with a hard cement like that which coats the pyramids, and which 
 remains uninjured; and it appears that hanging gardens once 
 surrounded them. The Arabs still call these reservoirs the pools 
 of Solomon, nor is there any reason to doubt the tradition. 
 Tradition, perhaps often more faithful than written documents, 
 is a sure and almost infallible guide in the minds of the people 
 where there has been no complicated variety of historic incidents 
 to confuse and break the chain of memory ; where their rare 
 revolutions have consisted of an eruption once in a thousand 
 years into the cultivated world; where society has never been 
 broken up, but their domestic manners have remained the same ;
 
 257 
 
 where too they revere truth, and are rigid in its oral delivery, 
 since that is their only means of disseminating knowledge. 
 
 There is no reason to douht that these reservoirs were the 
 works of Solomon. This secluded valley then was once the 
 scene of his imaginative and delicious life. Here were his 
 pleasure gardens; these slopes were covered with his fantastic 
 terraces, and the high places glittered with his pavilions. The 
 fountain that supplied these treasured waters was perhaps the 
 "sealed fountain," to which he compared his bride; and here 
 was the garden palace where the charming Queen of Sheba vainly 
 expected to pose the wisdom of Israel, as she held at a distance 
 before the most dexterous of men the two garlands of flowers, 
 alike in form and colour, and asked the great king, before his 
 trembling court, to decide which of the wreaths was the real 
 one. 
 
 They are gone, they are vanished — these deeds of beauty 
 and these words of wit! The bright and glorious gardens of the 
 tiaraed poet and the royal sage, that once echoed with his lyric 
 voice, or with the startling truths of his pregnant aphorisms, 
 end in this wild and solitary valley, in which, with folded arms 
 and musing eye of long abstraction, Tancred halts in his ardent 
 pilgrimage, nor can refrain from asking himself, "Can it then 
 be true that all is Vanity?" 
 
 Why — what — is this desolation? Why are there no more 
 kings, whose words are the treasured wisdom of countless ages 
 and the mention of whose name to this moment thrills the heart 
 of the Oriental, from the waves of the midland ocean to the 
 broad rivers of the farthest Ind ! Why are there no longer bright- 
 witted queens to step out of their Arabian palaces and pay visits 
 to the gorgeous "house of the forest of Lebanon," or to where 
 Baalbec, or Tadmor in the wilderness, rose on those plains 
 now strewn with the superb relics of their inimitable magni- 
 ficence? 
 
 Tancred. I. 17
 
 258 
 
 And yet some flat-nosed Frank, full of bustle and puffed up 
 with self-conceit, — a race spawned perhaps in the morasses of 
 some Northern forest hardly yet cleared, — talks of Progress! 
 Progress to what, and from whence? Amid empires shrivelled 
 into deserts, amid the wrecks of great cities, a single column or 
 obelisk of which nations import for the prime ornament of their 
 mud-built capitals, amid arts forgotten, commerce annihilated, 
 fragmentary literatures and populations destroyed, the European 
 talks of progress, because, by an ingenious application of some 
 scientific acquirements, he has established a society which has 
 mistaken comfort for civilization. 
 
 The soft beam of the declining sun fell upon a serene land- 
 scape; gentle undulations covered with rich shrubs or highly 
 cultivated; cornfields and olive groves; sometimes numerous 
 flocks ; and then vineyards fortified with walls and with watch- 
 towers, as in the time of David, whose city Tancred was ap- 
 proaching. Hebron too was the home of the great Sheikh Abra- 
 ham; and the Arabs here possess his tomb, which no Christian 
 is permitted to visit. It is strange and touching, that the children 
 of Ishmael should have treated the name and memory of the 
 Sheikh Abraham with so much reverence and affection. But the 
 circumstance that he was the friend of Allah appears with them 
 entirely to have outweighed the recollection of his harsh treat- 
 ment of their great progenitor. Hebron has even lost with them 
 its ancient Judaean name, and they always call it, in honour of 
 the tomb of the Sheikh, the "City of the Friend." 
 
 About an hour after Hebron, in a fair pasture, and near an 
 olive grove, Tancred pitched his tent, prepared on the morrow 
 to quite the land of promise, and approach that "great and ter- 
 rible wilderness where there was no water." 
 
 "The children of Israel," as they were called according to 
 the custom then and now universally prevalent among the Ara- 
 bian tribes — as for example, the Beni Kahtan, Beni Kelb,
 
 259 
 
 Beni Salem, Beni Sobh, Beni Ghamed, Beni Seydan, Beni 
 Ali, Beni Hateym, all adopting for their description the name 
 of their founder: "the children of Israel" -were originally a 
 tribe of Arabia Petraea. Under the guidance of sheikhs of great 
 ability, they emerged from their stony wilderness and settled on 
 the Syrian border. 
 
 But they could not maintain themselves against the dis- 
 ciplined nations of Palestine, and they fell back to their desert, 
 which they found intolerable. Like some of the Bedoueen tribes 
 of modern times in the rocky wastes contiguous to the Red Sea, 
 they were unable to resist the temptations of the Egyptian cities ; 
 they left their free but distressful wilderness, and became Fel- 
 laheen. The Pharaohs how ever made them pay for their ready 
 means of sustenance, as Mehemet Ali has made the Arabs of 
 our days who have quitted the desert to eat the harvests of the 
 Nile. They enslaved them, and worked them as beasts of bur- 
 den. But this was not to be long borne by a race whose chiefs in 
 the early ages had been favoured by Jehovah; the Patriarch 
 Emirs, who, issuing from the Caucasian cradle of the great ra- 
 ces, spread over the plains of Mesopotamia and disseminated 
 their illustrious seed throughout the Arabian wilderness. Their 
 fiery imaginations brooded over the great traditions of their tribe, 
 and at length there arose among them one of those men whose 
 existence is an epoch in the history of human nature: a great 
 creative spirit and organizing mind, in whom the faculties of 
 conception and of action are equally balanced and possessed in 
 the highest degree ; in every respect a man of the complete Cau- 
 casian model, and almost as perfect as Adam when he was just 
 finished and placed in Eden. 
 
 But Jehovah recognised in Moses a human instrument too 
 rare merely to be entrusted with the redemption of an Arabian tribe 
 from a state of Fellaheen to Bedoueen existence. And therefore 
 he was summoned to be the organ of an eternal revelation of the 
 
 17*
 
 260 
 
 Divine will, and his tribe were appointed to be the hereditary 
 ministers of that mighty and mysterious dispensation. 
 
 It is to be noted, although the Omnipotent Creator might 
 have found, had it pleased him, in the humblest of his creations, 
 an efficient agent for his purpose, however difficult and sublime, 
 that divine Majesty has never thought fit to communicate except 
 with human beings of the very highest powers. They are always 
 men who have manifested an extraordinary aptitude for great 
 affairs, and the possession of a fervent and commanding genius. 
 They are great legislators, or great warriors, or great poets, or 
 orators of the most vehement and impassioned spirit. Such were 
 Moses, Joshua, the heroic youth of Hebron, and his magni- 
 ficent sou; such too was Isaiah, a man, humanly speaking, not 
 inferior to Demosthenes, and struggling for a similar and as 
 beautiful a cause — the independence of a small state, eminent 
 for its intellectual power, against the barbarian grandeur of a 
 military empire. All the great things have been done by the little 
 nations. It is the Jordan and the Uyssus that have civilized the 
 modern races. An Arabian tribe, a clan of the .^Egean, have 
 been the promulgators of all our knowledge; and we should 
 never have heard of the Pharaohs, of Babylon the great and 
 Nineveh the superb, of Cyrus and of Xerxes, had not it been for 
 Athens and Jerusalem. 
 
 Tancred rose with the sun from his encampment at Hebron, 
 to traverse probably the same route pursued by the spies when 
 they entered the Land of Promise. The transition from Canaan 
 to the stony Arabia is not abrupt. A range of hills separates Pa- 
 lestine from a high but level country similar to the Syrian desert, 
 sandy in some places, but covered in all with grass and shrubs; 
 a vast expanse of downs. Gradually the herbage disappears, 
 and the shrubs are only found tufting the ridgy tops of low undu- 
 lating sandhills. Soon the sand becomes stony, and no trace of 
 vegetation is ever visible excepting occasionally some thorny
 
 261 
 
 plant. Then comes a land which alternates between plains of 
 sand and dull ranges of monotonous hills covered with loose 
 flints; sometimes the pilgrim winds his way through their dull 
 ravines, sometimes he mounts the heights and beholds a pro- 
 spect of interminable desolation. 
 
 For three nights had Tancred encamped in this wilderness, 
 halting at some spot where they could find some desert shrubs 
 that might serve as food for the camels and fuel for themselves. 
 His tent was soon pitched, the night fires soon crackling, and 
 himself seated at one with the Sheikh and Baroni, he beheld with 
 interest and amusement the picturesque and flashing groups 
 around him. Their fare was scant and simple: bread baked 
 upon the spot, the dried tongue of a gazelle, the coffee of the 
 neighbouring Mocha, and the pipe that ever consoles, if indeed 
 the traveller, whatever his hardships, could need any sustenance 
 but his own high thoughts in such a scene, canopied too by the 
 most beautiful sky and the most delicious climate in the world. 
 
 They were in the vicinity of Mount Seir; on the morrow they 
 were to commence the passage of the lofty range which stretches on 
 to Sinai. The Sheikh, who had a feud with a neighbouring tribe, 
 and had been anxious and vigilant while they crossed the open 
 country, riding on with an advanced guard before his charge, 
 reconnoitring from sandhill to sandhill, often creeping up and 
 lying on his breast, so as not to be visible to the enemy, congra- 
 tulated Tancred that all imminent danger was past. 
 
 "Not that I am afraid of them," said Hassan, proudly, "but 
 we must kill them or they will kill us." Hassan, though Sheikh 
 of his own immediate family and followers, was dependent on 
 the great Sheikh of the Jellaheen tribe, and was bound to obey 
 his commands in case the complete clan were summoned to con- 
 gregate in any particular part of the desert. 
 
 On the morrow they commenced their passage of the moun- 
 tains, and, after clearing several ranges, found themselves two
 
 262 
 
 hours after noon in a defile so strangely beautiful , that to behold 
 it would alone have repaid all the exertions and perils of the ex- 
 pedition. It was formed by precipitous rocks of a picturesque 
 shape and of great height, and of colours so brilliant and so 
 blended that to imagine them you must fancy the richest sunset 
 you have ever witnessed, and that would be inferior, from the 
 inevitable defect of its fleeting character. Here the tints, some- 
 times vivid, sometimes shadowed down, were always equally 
 fair: light blue heights, streaked perhaps with scarlet and shaded 
 off to lilac or purple ; a cleft of bright orange ; a broad peach-co- 
 loured expanse, veined in delicate circles and wavy lines of ex- 
 quisite grace ; sometimes yellow and purple stripes ; sometimes 
 an isolated steep of every hue flaming in the sun, and then, like 
 a young queen on a gorgeous throne, from a vast rock of crimson 
 and gold, rose a milk-white summit. The frequent fissures of 
 this defile were filled with rich woods of oleander and shrubs of 
 every shade of green, from which rose acacia, and other trees 
 unknown to Tancred. Over all this was a deep and cloudless 
 sky, and through it a path winding amid a natural shrubbery, 
 which princes would have built colossal conservatories to pre- 
 serve. 
 
 "'T is a scene of enchantment that has risen to mock us in the 
 middle of the desert," exclaimed the enraptured pilgrim — 
 " surely it must vanish even as we gaze ! " 
 
 About half-way up the defile, when they had traversed it for 
 about a quarter of an hour, Sheikh Hassan suddenly galloped 
 forward and hurled his spear with great force at an isolated crag, 
 the base of which was covered with oleanders, and then looking 
 back he shouted to his companions. Tancred and the foremost 
 hurried up to him. 
 
 "Here are tracks of horses and camels that have entered the 
 valley thus far and not passed through it. They are fresh; let 
 all be prepared."
 
 263 
 
 "We are twenty-five men well armed," saidBaroni. "It is 
 not the Tyahas that will attack such a band." 
 
 "Nor are they the Gherashi or the Mezeines," said the Sheikh, 
 "for we know what they are after, and we are brothers." 
 
 "They must be Alouins," said an Arab. 
 
 At this moment the little caravan was apparently land-locked, 
 the defile again winding, but presently it became quite straight, 
 and its termination was visible, though at a considerable dis- 
 tance. 
 
 "I see horsemen," said the Sheikh; "several of them ad- 
 vance ; they are not Alouins." 
 
 He rode forward to meet them, accompanied by Tancred and 
 Baroni. 
 
 "Salaam," said the Sheikh, "how is it?" and then he added, 
 aside to Baroni, "They are strangers; why are they here?" 
 
 "Aleikoum! We know where you come from," was the 
 reply of one of the horsemen. "Is that the brother of the Queen 
 of the English? Let him ride with us, and you may go on in 
 peace." 
 
 "He is my brother," said Sheikh Hassan, "and the brother 
 of all here. There is no feud between us. Who are you?" 
 
 "We are children of Jethro, and the great Sheikh has sent 
 us a long way to give you salaam. Your desert here is not fit for 
 the camel that your prophet cursed. Come, let us finish our 
 business , for we wish to see a place where there are palm trees." 
 
 "Are these children of Eblis?" said Sheikh Hassan to 
 Baroni. 
 
 "It is the day of judgment," said Baroni, looking pale, 
 "such a thing has not happened in my time. I am lost." 
 
 "What do these people say?" inquired Tancred. 
 
 "There is but one God," said Sheikh Hassan, whose men had 
 now reached him, "and Mahomet is his prophet. Stand aside, 
 sons of Eblis, or you shall bite the earth which curses you!"
 
 264 
 
 A wild shout from every height of the defile was the answer. 
 They looked up, they looked round; the crest of every steep was 
 covered with armed Arabs, each man with his musket levelled. 
 
 "My lord," saidBaroni, "there is something hidden in all 
 this. This is not an ordinary desert foray. You are known, 
 and this tribe comes from a distance to plunder you ; " and then 
 he rapidly detailed what had already passed. 
 
 "What is your force, sons of Eblis?" said the Sheikh to the 
 horsemen. 
 
 "Count your men, and your muskets, and your swords, 
 and your horses, and your camels; and if they were all double, 
 they would not be our force. Our great Sheikh would have come 
 in person with ten thousand men , were not your wilderness here 
 fit only for Giaours." 
 
 "Tell the young chief," said the Sheikh to Baroni, "that I am 
 his brother, and will shed the last drop of my blood in his service, 
 as I am bound to do, as much as he is bound to give me ten thou- 
 sand piastres for the journey, and ask him what he wishes?" 
 
 "Demand to know distinctly what these men want," said 
 Tancred to Baroni, who then conferred with them. 
 
 "They want your lordship," said Baroni, "whom they call 
 the brother of the Queen of the English ; their business is clearly 
 to carry you to their great Sheikh , who will release you for a large 
 ransom." 
 
 "And they have no feud with the Jellaheens?" 
 
 "None; they are strangers; they come from a distance for 
 this purpose; nor can it be doubted that this plot has been con- 
 cocted at Jerusalem." 
 
 "Our position I fear is fatal in this defile," said Tancred, 
 "it is bitter to be the cause of exposing so many brave men to 
 almost inevitable slaughter." 
 
 "Tell them, Baroni, that I am not the brother of the Queen 
 of the English; that they are ridiculously misled, and that their
 
 265 
 
 aim is hopeless, for all that will be ransomed will be my 
 corpse." 
 
 Sheikh Hassan sate on his horse like a statue, with his spear 
 in his hand and his eye on his enemy; Baroni, advancing to the 
 strange horsemen, who were in position about ten yards from 
 Tancred and his guardian, was soon engaged in animated con- 
 versation. He did all that an able diplomatist could effect; told 
 lies with admirable grace, and made a hundred propositions that 
 did not commit his principal. He assured them very heartily that 
 Tancred was not the brother of the Queen of the English ; that he 
 was only a young Sheikh, whose father was alive, and in 
 possession of all the flocks and herds, camels and horses; that 
 he had quarrelled with his father; that his father perhaps would 
 not be sorry if he were got rid of, and would not give a hundred 
 piastres to save his life. Then he offered, if they would let 
 Tancred pass, himself to go with them as prisoner to their great 
 Sheikh, and even proposed Hassan and half his men for ad- 
 ditional hostages, whilst some just and equitable arrangement 
 could be effected. All however was in vain. The enemy had no 
 discretion ; dead or alive, the young Englishman must be carried 
 to their chief. 
 
 "I can do nothing," said Baroni, returning; "there is some- 
 thing in all this which I do not understand. It has never happened 
 in my time." 
 
 "There is then but one course to be taken," said Tancred; 
 "we must charge through the defile. At any rate we shall have 
 the satisfaction of dying like men. Let us each fix on our 
 opponent. That audacious-looking Arab in a red kefia shall be 
 my victim or my destroyer. Speak to the Sheikh , and tell him to 
 prepare his men. Freeman and Trueman," said Tancred, looking 
 round to his English servants, "we are in extreme peril; I took 
 you from your homes ; if we outlive this day and return to Monta- 
 cute, you shall live on your own land."
 
 266 
 
 "Never mind us, my lord: if it worn't for those rocks we 
 would beat these niggers." 
 
 "Are you all ready?" said Tancred to Baroni. 
 
 "We are all ready." 
 
 "Then I commend my soul to Jesus Christ, and to the God 
 ofSinai, in whose cause I perish." So saying, Tancred shot the 
 Arab in the red kefia through the head, and with his remaining 
 pistol disabled another of the enemy. This he did, while he and 
 his band were charging, so suddenly and so boldly, that those 
 immediately opposed to them were scattered. There was a con- 
 tinous volley, however, from every part of the defile, and the 
 scene was so involved in smoke that it was impossible for Tancred 
 to see a yard around him ; still he galloped on and felt conscious 
 that he had companions , though the shouting was so great that it 
 was impossible to communicate. The smoke suddenly drifting, 
 Tancred caught a glimpse of his position ; he was at the mouth of 
 the defile , followed by several of his men , whom he had not time 
 to distinguish, and awaited by innumerable foes. 
 
 "Let us sell our lives dearly ! " was all that he could exclaim. 
 His sword fell from his wounded arm ; his horse, stabbed under- 
 neath, sank with him to the ground. He was overpowered and 
 bound. "Every drop of his blood," exclaimed the leader of the 
 strange Arabs, "is worth ten thousand piastres."
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "Where is Besso?" said Barizy of the Tower, as the Consul 
 Pasqualigo entered the divan of the merchant, about ten days 
 after the departure of Tancred from Jerusalem for Mount Sinai. 
 
 "Where is Besso? I have already smoked two chibouques, 
 and no one has entered except yourself. I suppose you have heard 
 the news?" 
 
 "Who has not? It is in every one's mouth." 
 
 "What have you heard?" asked Barizy of the Tower, with 
 an air of malicious curiosity. 
 
 "Some things that everybody knows," replied Pasqualigo, 
 "and some things that nobody knows." 
 
 "Hah, hah!" said Barizy of the Tower, pricking up his ears 
 and preparing for one of those diplomatic encounters of mutual 
 pumping, in which he and his rival were practised, "I suppose 
 you have seen somebody, eh?" 
 
 "Somebody has been seen," replied Pasqualigo, and then 
 he busied himself with his pipe just arrived. 
 
 "But nobody has seen somebody who was on the spot?" said 
 Barizy. 
 
 "It depends upon what you mean by the spot," replied 
 Pasqualigo. 
 
 "Your information is second hand," observed Barizy.
 
 268 
 
 "But you acknowledge it is correct?" said Pasqualigo, more 
 eagerly. 
 
 "It depends upon whether your friend was present — " and 
 here Barizy hesitated. 
 
 "It does," said Pasqualigo. 
 
 "Then he was present?" said Barizy. 
 
 "He was." 
 
 "Then he knows," said Barizy, eagerly, "whether the young 
 English prince was murdered intentionally or by hazard." 
 
 "A — h," said Pasqualigo, whom not the slightest rumour 
 of the affair had yet reached , " that is a great question." 
 
 "But everything depends upon it," said Barizy. "If he was 
 killed accidentally, there will be negotiations, but the business 
 will be compromised; the English want Cyprus, and they will 
 take it as compensation. If it is an affair of malice prepense, 
 there will be war, for the laws of England require war if blood 
 royal be spilt." 
 
 The Consul Pasqualigo looked very grave ; then , withdrawing 
 his lips for a moment from his amber mouth-piece , he observed, 
 "It is a crisis." 
 
 "It will be a crisis," said Barizy of the Tower, excited by 
 finding his rival a listener, "but not for along time. The crisis 
 has not commenced. The first question is: to whom does the 
 desert belong; to the Porte or to the Viceroy?" 
 
 "It depends upon what part of the desert is in question," 
 said Pasqualigo. 
 
 "Of course the part where it took place. I say the Arabian 
 Desert belongs to the Viceroy; my cousin, Barizy of the Gate, 
 says 'No, it belongs to the Porte.' Baphael Tafna says it belongs 
 to neither. The Bedoueens are independent." 
 
 "But they are not recognised," said the Consul Pasqualigo. 
 "Witout a diplomatic existence, they are nullities. England 
 will hold all the recognised powers in the vicinity responsible.
 
 209 
 
 You will see ! The murder of an English prince , under such cir- 
 cumstances too, will not pass unavenged. The whole of the 
 Turkish garrison of the city will march out directly into the 
 desert." 
 
 " The Arabs care shroff for your Turkish garrison of the city," 
 said Barizy, with great derision. 
 
 "They are eight hundred strong," said Pasqualigo. 
 
 "Eighthundred weak you mean. No, as Raphael Tafna was 
 saying, when Mehemet Ali was master, the tribes were quiet 
 enough. But the Turks could never manage the Arabs even in 
 their best days. If the Pacha of Damascus were to go himself, 
 the Bedoueens would unveil his harem while he was smoking his 
 nargilly." 
 
 "Then England will call upon the Egyptians," said the 
 Consul. 
 
 "Hah!" said Barizy of the Tower, "have I got you at last? 
 Now comes your crisis, I grant you. The English will send a 
 ship of war with a protocol, and one of their lords w ho is a sailor : 
 that is the way. They will call upon the pacha to exterminate the 
 tribe who have murdered the brother of their queen; the pacha 
 will reply, that when he was in Syria the brothers of queens were 
 never murdered, and put the protocol in his turban. This will 
 never satisfy Palmerston, he will order — " 
 
 "Palmerston has nothing to do with it," screamed out Pas- 
 qualigo; "he is no longer Reis Effendi; he is in exile; he is 
 governor of the Isle of Wight." 
 
 "Do you think I do not know that?" said Barizy of the Tower ; 
 "but he will be recalled for this purpose. The English will not 
 go to war in Syria without Palmerston. Palmerston will have the 
 command of the fleet as well as of the army , that no one shall say 
 'No' when he says 'Yes.' The English will not do the business 
 of the Turks again for nothing. They will take this city; they 
 will keep it. They want a new market for their cottons. Mark
 
 270 
 
 me: England will never be satisfied till the people of Jerusalem 
 wear calico turbans." 
 
 Let us inquire also with Barizy of the Tower, where was 
 Besso? Alone, in his private chamber, agitated and troubled, 
 awaiting the return of his daughter from the bath; and even now, 
 the arrival may be heard of herself and her attendants in the inner 
 court. 
 
 "You want me, my father?" said Eva, as she entered. "Ah! 
 you are disturbed ! What has happened?" 
 
 "The tenth plague of Pharaoh, my child," replied Besso, in 
 a tone of great vexation. "Since the expulsion of Ibrahim, there 
 has been nothing which has crossed me so much." 
 
 "Fakredeen?" 
 
 "No, no; 't is nothing to do with him, poor boy; but of one 
 as young, and whose interests, though I know him not, scarcely 
 less concern me." 
 
 "You know him not; 't is not then my cousin. You perplex 
 me, my father. Tell me at once." 
 
 "It is the most vexatious of all conceivable occurrences," 
 replied Besso , "and yet it is about a person of whom you never 
 heard , and whom I never saw — and yet there are circumstances 
 connected with him — Alas! alas! you must know, my Eva, 
 there is a young Englishman here, and a young English lord, of 
 one of their princely families — " 
 
 "Yes!" said Eva, in a subdued but earnest tone. 
 
 "He brought me a letter from the best and greatest of men," 
 said Besso, with great emotion, "to whom I — to whom we — 
 owe everything: our fortunes, our presence here — perhaps our 
 lives. There was nothing which I was not bound to do for him, 
 which I was not ready and prepared to do. I ought to have 
 guarded over him ; to have forced my services on his acceptance ; 
 I blame myself now when it is too late. But he sent me his letter 
 by the intendant of his household, whom I knew. I was fearful
 
 271 
 
 to obtrude myself. I learnt he was fanatically Christian, and 
 thought perhaps he might shrink from my acquaintance." 
 
 "And what has happened?" inquired Eva, with an agitation 
 which proved her sympathy with her father's sorrow. 
 
 "He left the city some days ago to visit Sinai •, well armed and 
 properly escorted. He has been waylaid in the wilderness and 
 captured after a bloody struggle." 
 
 "A bloody struggle ! " 
 
 "Yes; they of course would gladly have not fought, but, 
 though entrapped into an ambush, the young Englishman would 
 not yield, but fought with desperation. His assailants have suf- 
 fered considerably; his own party comparatively little, for they 
 were so placed — surrounded, you understand — in a mountain 
 defile, that they might have been all massacred, but the fear of 
 destroying their prize, restrained at first the marksmen on the 
 heights ; and, by a daring and violent charge, the young English- 
 man and his followers forced the pass, but there they •were over- 
 powered by numbers." 
 
 "And he wounded?" 
 
 "I hope not severely. But you have heard nothing. They 
 have sent his Intendant to Jerusalem with a guard of Arabs to 
 bring back his ransom. What do you think they want?" 
 
 Eva signified her inability to conjecture. 
 
 "Two millions of piastres!" 
 
 "Two millions of piastres! Did you say two? 'T is a great 
 sum; but we might negotiate. They would accept less — per- 
 haps much less — than two millions of piastres." 
 
 "If it were four millions of piastres, I must pay it," said 
 Besso. "'T is not the sum alone that so crosses me. The father 
 of this young noble is a great prince, and could doubtless pay, 
 without serious injury to himself, two millions of piastres for the 
 ransom of his son — but that 's not it. He comes here: he is sent 
 to me. I was to care for him, think for him, guard over him:
 
 272 
 
 I have never even seen him — and he is wounded, plundered, 
 and a prisoner! " 
 
 "But if he avoided you, my father?" murmured Eva, with 
 her eyes fixed upon the ground. 
 
 "Avoided me!" said Besso; "he never thought of me but 
 as of a Jew banker, to whom he would send his servant for 
 money when he needed it. Was I to stand on puuctilios with a 
 great Christian noble? I ought to have waited at his gate every 
 day when he came forth, and bowed to the earth, until it pleased 
 him to notice me; I ought — " 
 
 "No, no, no, my father! — you are bitter. This youth is 
 not such as you think ; at least, in all probability, is not," said 
 Eva. "You hear he is fanatically Christian; he may be but deeply 
 religious, and his thoughts at this moment may rest on other 
 things than the business of the world. He who makes a pil- 
 grimage to Sinai can scarcely think us so vile as you would 
 intimate." 
 
 "What will he think of those whom he is among? Here is the 
 wound, Eva! Guess then, child, who has shot this arrow. T is 
 my father!" 
 
 "O traitor! traitor!" said Eva, quickly covering her face 
 with her hands. "My terror was prophetic! There is none 
 so base !" 
 
 "Nay, nay," said Besso; "these, indeed, are woman's 
 words. The great Sheikh in this has touched me nearly, but I 
 see no baseness in it. He could not know the intimate relation 
 that should subsist between me and this young Euglishmau. He 
 has captured him in the Desert, according to the custom of his 
 tribe. Much as Amalek may injure me, I must acquit him of 
 treason and of baseness." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Eva, with an abstracted air. "You mis- 
 conceive me. I was thinking of others — and what do you pur- 
 pose, my father?"
 
 273 
 
 "First, to clear myself of the deep stain that I now feel upon 
 my life," said Besso. "This Englishman comes to Jerusalem 
 with an unbounded credit on my house : he visits the wilderness 
 and is made prisoner by my father-in-law, who is in ambush in a 
 part of the desert which his tribe never frequents, and who sends 
 to me for a princely ransom for his captive. These are the 
 apparent circumstances. These are the facts. There is but one 
 inference from them. I dare say 't is drawn already by all the 
 gossips of the city: they are hard at it, I doubt not, at this 
 moment in my own divan, winking their eyes and shrugging their 
 shoulders, while they are smoking my choice tobaccoes and 
 drinking my sherbet of pomegranate. And can I blame them?" 
 
 "A pure conscience may defy city gossips." 
 
 "A pure conscience must pay the ransom out of my own cof- 
 fers. I am not over fond of paying two millions of piastres or even 
 half for one whose shadow never fell upon my threshold. And yet 
 I must do it — do it for my father-in-law, the Sheikh of the Re- 
 chabites, whose peace I made with MehemetAli, for whom I gained 
 the guardianship of the Mecca caravan through the Syrian desert 
 for five years, who has twelve thousand camels which he made by 
 that office. Oh, were it not for you, my daughter, I would curse 
 the hour that I ever mixed my blood with the children of Jethro. 
 After all, if the truth were known, they are sons of Ishmael." 
 
 "No, no, dear father, say not such things. You will send 
 to the Great Sheikh — he will listen — " 
 
 " I send to the Great Sheikh ! You know not your grandfather, 
 and you know not me. The truth is, the Sheikh and myself 
 mutually despise each other, and we have never met without 
 parting in bitterness. No, no; I would rather pay the ransom 
 myself than ask a favour of the Great Sheikh. But how can I 
 pay the ransom, even if I chose? This young Englishman is a 
 fiery youth : he will not yield even to an ambush and countless 
 odds. Do you think a man who charges through a defile crowned 
 Tattered. I. 18
 
 274 
 
 with matchlocks, and shoots men through the head, as I am 
 told he did, in the name of Christ, will owe his freedom to my 
 Jewish charity? He will burn the Temple first. This young 
 man has the sword of Gideon. You know little of the world, 
 Eva, and nothing of young Englishmen. There is not a race so 
 proud, so wilful, so rash, and so obstinate. They live in a 
 misty clime, on raw meats, and wines of fire. They laugh at 
 their fathers , and never say a prayer. They pass their days in 
 the chase, gaming, and all violent courses. They have all the 
 power of the State and all its wealth ; and, when they can wring 
 no more from their peasants, they plunder the kings of India."' 
 
 "But this young Englishman, you say, is pious?" said 
 Eva. 
 
 "Ah! this young Englishman — why did he come here! 
 What is Jerusalem to him, or he to Jerusalem. His Intendant, 
 himself a prisoner, waits here. I must see him; he is one of 
 the people of my patron, which proves our great friend's interest 
 in this youth. day thrice cursed ! day of a thousand evil eyes! 
 day of a new captivity — " 
 
 "My father, my dear father — these bursts of grief do not 
 become your fame for wisdom. We must inquire, we must hold 
 counsel. Let me see the Intendant of this English youth, and 
 hear more than I have yet learnt. I cannot think that affairs are 
 so hopeless as you paint them : I will believe that there is a 
 spring near."
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 In an almost circular valley, surrounded by mountains, Ama- 
 lek, great Sheikh of the Rechabite Bedoueen, after having cross- 
 ed the peninsula of Petraa from the great Syrian Desert, pitched 
 his camp amid the magnificent ruins of an ancient Idumaean 
 city. The pavilion of the chief, facing the sunset, was raised in 
 the arena of an amphitheatre cut out of the solid rock, and almost 
 the whole of the seats of which were entire. The sides of the 
 mountains were covered with excavated tombs and temples and 
 perhaps dwelling places; at any rate, many of them were now 
 occupied by human beings. Fragments of columns were lying 
 about, and masses of unknown walls. From a defile in the 
 mountains issued a stream, which wound about in the plain, its 
 waters almost hid, but its course beautifully indicated by the 
 undulating shrubbery of oleanders, figtrees, andwillows. On 
 one side of these, between the water and the amphitheatre, was 
 a crescent of black tents, groups of horses, and crouching 
 camels. Over the whole scene the sunset threw a violet hue, 
 while the moon, broad and white, floated over the opposite 
 hills. 
 
 The carpet of the Great Sheikh was placed before his pavi- 
 lion, and, seated on it alone and smoking a chibouque of date 
 wood, the patriarch ruminated. He had no appearance of age, 
 except from a snowy beard, which was very long: a wiry man, 
 with an unwrinkled face ; dark, regular and noble features, beau- 
 tiful teeth. Over his head, a crimson kefia, ribbed and fringed 
 with gold; his robe was of the same colour, and his boots were 
 of red leather — the chief of one of the great tribes, and said, 
 
 18*
 
 276 
 
 when they were united, to be able to bring ten thousand horse- 
 men into the field. 
 
 One at full gallop , with a long spear, at this moment darted 
 from the ravine, and, without stopping to answer several who 
 addressed him, hurried across the plain, and did not halt until 
 he reached the Sheikh. 
 
 "Salaam, Sheikh of Sheikhs, it is done; the brother of the 
 Queen of the English is your slave." 
 
 "Good!" said Sheikh Amalek, very gravely, and taking his 
 pipe from his mouth. "May your mother eat the hump of a 
 young camel ! When will they be here ? " 
 
 "They will be the first shadows of the moon." 
 
 "Good! is the brother of the Queen with Sheikh Salem?" 
 
 " There is only one God : Sheikh Salem will never drink leban 
 again, unless he drink it in Paradise." 
 
 "Certainly, there is only one God. What! has he fallen 
 asleep into the well of Nummula?" 
 
 "No; but we have seen many evil eyes. Four hares crossed 
 our path this morning. Our salaam to the English prince was 
 not a salaam of peace. The brother of the Queen of the English 
 is no less than an Antar. He will fight, yea or nay; and he has 
 shot Sheikh Salem through the head." 
 
 "There is but one God, and his will be done. I have lost the 
 apple of mine eye. The Prince of the English is alive ? 
 
 "He is alive." 
 
 "Good ! camels shall be given to the widow of Sheikh Salem, 
 and she shall be married to a new husband. Are there other 
 deeds of Gin?" 
 
 "One grape will not make a bunch, even though it be a 
 great one." 
 
 "Let truth always be spoken. Let your words flow as the rock 
 of Moses." 
 
 "There is only one God : if you call to Ibrahim-bcn-Hassan,
 
 277 
 
 to Molgrabi Tcuba, andTcuba-ben-Amin they will not be roused 
 from their sleep : there are also wounds." 
 
 " Tell all the people there is only one God : is it the Sheikh of 
 the Jellaheens that has done these deeds of Gin?" 
 
 "Let truth always be spoken; my words shall flow as the 
 rock of Moses. The Sheikh of the Jellaheens counselled the 
 young man not to fight, but the young man is a very Zatanai. 
 Certainly there are many devils, but there is no devil like a 
 Frank in a round hat." 
 
 The evening advanced, the white moon, that had only 
 gleamed, now glittered, the necks of the camels looked tall and 
 silvery in its beam. The night-fires began to blaze, the lamps 
 to twinkle in the crescent of dark tents. There was a shout, a 
 general stir, the heads of spears were seen glistening in the 
 ravine. They came; a winding line of warriors. Some, as they 
 emerged into the plain, galloped forward and threw their spears 
 into the air; but the main body preserved an appearance of dis- 
 cipline, and proceeded at a slow pace to the pavilion of the 
 Sheikh. A body of horsemen came first ; then warriors on drome- 
 daries; Sheikh Hassan next, grave and erect as if nothing had 
 happened, though he was wounded, and followed by his men, 
 disarmed, though their chief retained his spear. Baroni followed. 
 He was unhurt, and rode between two Bedoueens, with whom he 
 continually conversed. After them, the bodies of Sheikh Salem 
 and his comrades, covered with cloaks and stowed on camels. 
 And then came the great prize, Tancred, mounted on a drome- 
 dary, his right arm bound up in a sling which Baroni had hastily 
 made, and surrounded and followed by a large troop of horse- 
 men, who treated him with the highest consideration, not only 
 because he was a great prince whose ransom could bring many 
 camels to their tribe, but because he had shown those feats of 
 valour which the wild desert honours. 
 
 Notwithstanding his wound, which, though slight, began to
 
 278 
 
 be painful, and the extreme vexation of the -whole affair, Tancred 
 could not be insensible to the strange beauty of the scene which 
 welcomed him. He had read of these deserted cities, carved out 
 of the rocks of the wilderness, and once the capitals of flourish- 
 ing and abounding kingdoms. 
 
 They stopped before the pavilion of the Great Sheikh; the 
 arena of the amphitheatre became filled with camels, horses, 
 groups of warriors, many mounted on the seats, that they might 
 overlook the scene, their arms and shawled heads glistening in 
 the silver blaze of the moon or the ruddy flames of the watch- 
 fires. They assisted Tancred to descend, they ushered him with 
 courtesy to their chief, who made room for Tancred on his own 
 carpet, and motioned that he should be seated by his side. A 
 small carpet was placed for Sheikh Hassan, and another for 
 Baroni. 
 
 "Salaam, brother of many queens, all that you see is yours; 
 Salaam Sheikh Hassan, we are brothers. Salaam," added 
 Amalek , looking at Baroni , " they tell me that you can speak our 
 language, which is beautiful as the moon and many palm trees; 
 tell the prince, brother of many queens, that he mistook the 
 message that I sent him this morning, which was an invitation to 
 a feast, not to a war. Tell him we are brothers." 
 
 "Tell the Sheikh," said Tancred, "that I have no appetite 
 for feasting, and desire to be informed why he has made me a 
 prisoner." 
 
 "Tell the prince, brother of many queens, that he is not a 
 prisoner, but a guest." 
 
 "Ask the Sheikh, then, whether we can depart at ence." 
 
 "Tell the prince, brother of many queens, that it would be 
 rude in me to let him depart to-night." 
 
 "Ask the Sheikh whether I may depart in the morning." 
 
 "Tell the prince that, when the morning comes, he will find 
 I am his brother." So saying, the Great Sheikh took his pipe
 
 279 
 
 from his mouth and gave it to Tailored — the greatest of dis- 
 tinctions. In a few moments , pipes were also brought to Sheikh 
 Hassan and Baroni. 
 
 "No harm can come to you, my lord, after smoking that 
 pipe ," said Baroni. " We must make the best of affairs. I have 
 been in worse straits with M. de Sidonia. What think you of 
 Malay pirates? These are all gentlemen." 
 
 While Baroni was speaking, a young man slowly and with 
 dignity passed through the by-standers, advanced, and, looking 
 very earnestly at Tancred, seated himself on the same carpet as 
 the Grand Sheikh. This action alone would have betokened the 
 quality of the new comer, had not his kefia, similar to that of 
 Sheikh Amalek, and his whole bearing, clearly denoted his 
 princely character. He was very young; and Tancred, while he 
 was struck by his earnest gaze, was attracted by his physiognomy, 
 which indeed, from its refiued beauty and cast of impassioned 
 intelligence, was highly interesting. 
 
 Preparations all this time had been making for the feast. Half 
 a dozen sheep had been given to the returning band; everywhere 
 resounded the grinding of coffee; men passed carrying pitchers 
 of leban and panniers of bread cakes hot from their simple oven. 
 The Great Sheikh, who had asked many questions after the 
 oriental fashion — which was the most powerful nation , England 
 or France; what was the name of a third European nation of 
 which he had heard, white men with flat noses in green coats; 
 whether the nation of white men with flat noses in green coats 
 could have taken Acre as the English had— the taking of Acre 
 being the test of military prow ess ; how many horses the queen of 
 the English had, and how many slaves; whether English pistols 
 are good; whether the English drink wine; whether the English 
 are Christian giaours or Pagan giaours — and so on, now invited 
 Tancred, Sheikh Hassan, and two or three others, to enter his 
 pavilion and partake of the banquet.
 
 280 
 
 "The Sheikh must excuse me," said Tancred to Baroni ; "I 
 am wearied and wounded. Ask if I can retire and have a tent." 
 
 "Are you wounded?" said the young Sheikh, who was sitting 
 on the carpet of Amalek, and speaking, not only in a tone of 
 touching sympathy, but in the language of Franguestan. 
 
 "Not severely," said Tancred, less abruptly than he had yet 
 spoken, for the manner and the appearance of the youth touched 
 him; "but this is my first Gght, and perhaps I make too much of 
 it. However, my arm is painful and stiff, and indeed, you may 
 conceive, after all this, I could wish for a little repose." 
 
 "The Great Sheikh has allotted you a compartment of his 
 pavilion," said the youth; "but it will prove a noisy resting- 
 place, I fear, for a wounded man. I have a tent here — an 
 humbler one, but which is at least tranquil. Let me be your 
 host!" 
 
 "You are most gracious, and I should be much inclined to be 
 your guest, but I am a prisoner," he said, haughtily, "and 
 cannot presume to follow my own will." 
 
 "I will arrange all," said the youth, and he conversed with 
 Sheikh Amalek for some moments. Then they all rose , the young 
 man advancing to Tancred, and saying, in a sweet coaxing voice, 
 "You are under my care. I will not be a cruel gaoler — I could 
 not be to you." So saying, making their reverence to the Great 
 Sheikh, the two young men retired together from the arena. Ba- 
 roni would have followed them, when the youth stopped him, 
 saying, with decision, "The Great Sheikh expects your presence 
 — you must on no accouut be absent. I will tend your chief — 
 you will permit me?" he inquired, in a tone of sympathy, and 
 then, offering to support the arm of Tancred, he murmured, "It 
 kills me to think that you are wounded." 
 
 Tancred was attracted to the young stranger: his prepossessing 
 appearance, his soft manners, the contrast which they offorded 
 to all around, and to the scenes and circumstances which Tan-
 
 2 SI 
 
 cred bad recently experienced, were winning. Tancred, there- 
 fore, gladly accompanied him to his pavilion, which was pitched 
 outside the amphitheatre, and stood apart. Notwithstanding 
 the modest description of his tent by the young Skeikh, it was 
 by no means inconsiderable in size, for it possessed several com- 
 partments, and was of a different colour and fashion from those 
 of the rest of the tribe. Several steeds were picketed in Arab 
 fashion near its entrance, and a group of attendants, smoking 
 and conversing with great animation, were sitting in a circle close 
 at hand. They pressed their hands to their hearts as Tancred and 
 his host passed them, but did not rise. Within the pavilion, 
 Tancred found a luxurious medley of cushions and soft carpets, 
 forming a delightful divan; pipes and arms, and, to his great 
 surprise, several numbers of a French newspaper published at 
 Smyrna. 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed Tancred, throwing himself on the divan, 
 "after all I have gone through to-day, this is indeed a great and 
 an unexpected relief." 
 
 "'T is your own divan," said the young Arab, clapping his 
 hands; "and, when I have given some orders for your comfort, 
 I shall only be your guest, though not a distant one." He 
 spoke some words in Arabic to an attendant who entered, and 
 who returned very shortly with a silver lamp fed with palm oil, 
 which he placed on the ground. 
 
 "I have two poor Englishmen here," said Tancred, "my 
 servants; they must be in sad straits; unable to speak a 
 word — " 
 
 "I will give orders that they shall attend you. In the mean 
 time, you must refresh yourself, however lightly, before you 
 repose." At this moment there entered the tent several attendants 
 with a variety of dishes, which Tancred would have declined, but 
 the young Sheikh, selecting one of them, said, "This, at least, 
 I must urge you to taste , for it is a favourite refreshment with us
 
 282 
 
 after great fatigue , and has some properties of great virtue." So 
 sayiug, he handed to Tancred a dish of bread, dates, and pre- 
 pared cream, which Tancred, notwithstanding his previous want 
 of relish, cheerfully admitted to be excellent. After this, as 
 Tancred would partake of no other dish, pipes were brought to 
 the two young men, who, reclining on the divan, smoked and 
 conversed. 
 
 "Of all the strange things that have happened to me to-day," 
 saidTancred, "not the least surprising, and certainly the most 
 agreeable, has been making your acquaintance. Your courtesy 
 has much compensated me for the rude treatment of your tribe; 
 but I confess, such reflnement is what, under any circumstances, 
 I should not have expected to And among the tents of the desert, 
 any more than this French journal." 
 
 "I am not an Arab," said the young man, speaking slowly 
 and with an air of some embarrassment. 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed Tancred. 
 
 "I am a Christian prince." 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "A prince of the Lebanon, devoted to the English, and one 
 who has suffered much in their cause." 
 
 "You are not a prisoner here, like myself?" 
 
 "No. I am here, seeking some assistance for those sufferers 
 who should be my subjects, were I not deprived of my sceptre, 
 and they of a prince whose family has reigned over and protected 
 them for more than seven centuries. The powerful tribe of which 
 Sheikh Amalek is the head often pitch their tents in the great Sy- 
 rian desert, in the neighbourhood of Damascus, and there are 
 affairs in which they can aid my unhappy people." 
 
 "It is a great position, yours," said Tancred, in an 
 animated tone, "at the same time a Syrian and a Christian 
 prince!" 
 
 "Yes," said the young Emir, eagerly, "if the English would
 
 283 
 
 only understand their own interests, with ray co-operation, Syria 
 might be theirs." 
 
 "The English," said Tancred, "why should the English take 
 Syria?" 
 
 "France will take it if they do not." 
 
 "I hope not," said Tancred. 
 
 "But something must be done," said the Emir. "The Porte 
 never could govern it. Do you think anybody in Lebanon really 
 cares for the Pacha of Damascus ? If the Egyptians had not dis- 
 armed the Mountain , the Turks would be driven out of Syria in a 
 week." 
 
 "A Syrian and a Christian prince!" said Tancred, musingly. 
 "There are elements in that position stronger than the Porte, 
 stronger than England , stronger than united Europe. Syria was 
 a great country when France and England were forests. The tri- 
 colour has crossed the Alps and the Rhine, and the flag of Eng- 
 land has beat even the tri-colour, but if I were a Syrian prince, I 
 would raise the csoss of Christ and ask for the aid of no foreign 
 banner." 
 
 "If I could only raise a loan," said the Emir, "I could do 
 without France and England." 
 
 "Aloan!" exclaimed Tancred; "I see the poison of modern 
 liberalism has penetrated even the desert. Believe me, national 
 redemption is not an affair of usury." 
 
 At this moment there was some little disturbance without the 
 tent, which it seems was occasioned by the arrival of Tancred's 
 servants, Freeman and Trueman. These excellent young men 
 persisted in addressing the Arabs in their native English, and, 
 though we cannot for a moment believe that they fancied them- 
 selves understood, still, from a mixture of pride and perverseness 
 peculiarly British, they continued their valuable discourse as if 
 every word told, or if not apprehended, was a striking proof of 
 the sheer stupidity of their new companions. The noise be-
 
 284 
 
 came louder and louder, aud at length Freeman and Trueman 
 entered. 
 
 "Well," said Tancred, "and how have you been getting 
 on?" 
 
 "Well, my lord, Idon'tknow," said Freeman, with a sort 
 of jolly sneer ; " we have been dining with the savages." 
 
 "They are not savages, Freeman." 
 
 "Well, my lord, they have not much more clothes, any- 
 how; and, as for knives and forks, there is not such a thing 
 known." 
 
 "As for that, there was not such a thing known as a fork in 
 England little more than two hundred years ago, and we were not 
 savages then ; for the best part of Montacute Castle was built long 
 before that time." 
 
 "I wish we were there, my lord!" 
 
 " I dare say you do : however, we must make the best of pre- 
 sent circumstances. I wanted to know, in the first place, 
 whether you had food; as for lodging, Mr. Baroni, I dare say, 
 will manage something for you; and if not, you had better quar- 
 ter yourselves by the side of this tent. With your own cloaks and 
 mine, you will manage very well." 
 
 "Thank you, my lord. We have brought your lordship's 
 things with us. I don't know what I shall do to-morrow about 
 your lordship's boots. The savages have got hold of the bottle of 
 blacking and have been drinking it like anything." 
 
 "Never mind my boots," said Tancred; "we have got other 
 things to think of now." 
 
 "I told them what it was," said Freeman, "but they went 
 on just the same." 
 
 "Obstinate dogs!" said Tancred. 
 
 "I think they took it for wine, mylord," saidTrueman. "I 
 never see such ignorant creatures."
 
 285 
 
 "You find now the advantage of a good education, True- 
 man." 
 
 "Yes, my lord, we do, and feel very grateful to your lord- 
 ship's honoured mother for the same. When -we came down out 
 of the mountains and see those blazing fires , if I didn't think they 
 were going to burn us alive, unless we changed our religion. I 
 said the catechism as hard as I could the whole way, and felt as 
 much like a blessed martyr as could be." 
 
 "Well, well," said Tancred, "I dare say they will spare 
 our lives. I cannot much assist you here; but if there be any- 
 thing you particularly want, I will try and see what can be done." 
 
 Freeman and Trueman looked at each other, and their speak- 
 ing faces held common consultation. At length, the former, 
 with some slight hesitation said, "We don't like to be trouble- 
 some, my lord, but if your lordship would ask for some sugar 
 for us — we cannot drink their coffee without sugar."
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "I would not mention it to your lordship last night," said 
 Baroni, "I thought enough had happened for one day." 
 
 "But now you think I am sufficiently fresh for new troubles." 
 
 "He spoke it in Hebrew, that myself and Sheikh Hassan 
 should not understand him, but I know something of that dia- 
 lect." 
 
 "In Hebrew! And why in Hebrew?" 
 
 "They follow the laws of Moses — this tribe." 
 
 "Do you mean that they are Jews?" 
 
 "The Arabs are only Jews upon horseback," said Baroni. 
 "This tribe, I find, call themselves Bechabites." 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed Tancred, and he began to muse. "I have 
 heard of that name before. Is it possible," thought he, "that 
 my visit to Bethany should have led to this captivity ! " 
 
 "This affair must have been planned at Jerusalem," said 
 Baroni. "I saw from the first it was not a common foray. These 
 people know everything. They will send immediately to Besso ; 
 they know he is your banker, and that if you want to build the 
 Temple , he must pay for it, and unless a most immoderate ran- 
 som is given, they will carry us all into the interior of the de- 
 sert." 
 
 "And what do you counsel ? " 
 
 "In this as in all things, to gain time; and principally be- 
 cause I am without resource — but with time expedients develop 
 themselves. Naturally — what is wanted will come; expediency 
 is a law of nature. The camel is a wonderful animal, but the 
 desert made the camel. I have already impressed upon the
 
 287 
 
 Great Sheikh (hat you are not a prince of the blood ; that your 
 father is ruined, that there has been a murrain for three years 
 among his herds and flocks, and that though you appear to be 
 travelling for amusement, you are in fact apolitical exile. All 
 these are grounds for a reduced ransom. At present he believes 
 nothing that I say, because his mind has been previously im- 
 pressed with contrary and more cogent representations, but -what 
 I say will begin to work when he has experienced some disap- 
 pointment, and the period of re-action arrives. Re-action is 
 the law of society; it is inevitable. All success depends upon 
 seizing it." . 
 
 "It appears to me that you are a great philosopher, Baroni,''' 
 said Tancred. 
 
 "I travelled Ave years with M. de Sidonia," said Baroni. 
 "We were in perpetual scrapes, often worse than this, and my 
 master moralized upon every one of them. I shared his adven- 
 tures, and I imbibed some of his wisdom: and the consequence 
 is that I always ought to know what to say, and generally what 
 to do." 
 
 "Well, here at least is some theatre for your practice; 
 though, as far as I can form an opinion, our course is simple, 
 though ignominious. We must redeem ourselves from captivity. 
 If it were only the end of my crusade, one might submit to it, 
 like Cceur de Lion, after due suffering; but, occurring at the 
 commencement, the catastrophe is mortifying, and I doubt 
 whether I shall have heart enough to pursue my way. Were I 
 alone, I certainly would not submit to ransom. I would look 
 upon captivity as one of those trials that await me, and I would 
 endeavour to extricate myself from it by courage and address, 
 relying ever on Divine aid ; but I am not alone. I have involved 
 you in this mischance, and these poor Englishmen, and, it would 
 seem, the brave Hassan and his tribe. I can hardly ask you to 
 make the sacrifice which I would cheerfully endure; and there-
 
 288 
 
 fore it seems to me that we have only one course ; to march under 
 the forks." 
 
 "With submission," saidBaroni, "I cannot agree with any 
 of your lordship's propositions. You take an extreme view of our 
 case. Extreme views are never just ; something always turns up 
 which disturbs the calculations formed upon their decided data. 
 This something is Circumstance. Circumstance has decided 
 every crisis which I have experienced, and not the primitive facts 
 on which we have consulted. Rest assured that Circumstance 
 will clear us now." 
 
 "I see no room , in our situation , for the accidents on which 
 you rely," said Tancred. "Circumstance, as you call it, is 
 the creature of cities, where the action of a multitude, influenced 
 by different motives, produces innumerable and ever-changing 
 combinations: but we are in the desert. The Great Sheikh will 
 never change his mind anymore than his habits of life, which 
 are the same as his ancestors pursued thousands of years ago; 
 and for an identical reason, he is isolated and superior to all in- 
 fluences." 
 
 "Something always turns up," said Baroni. 
 
 "It seems to me that we are in a cul-de-sac," said Tancred. 
 
 "There is always an outlet; one can escape from a cul-de- 
 sac by a window." 
 
 " Do you think it would be advisable to consult the master of 
 this tent?" said Tancred, in a lowered tone. "He is very 
 friendly." 
 
 "The EmirFakredeen," said Baroni. 
 
 "Is that his name?" 
 
 "So I learnt last night. He is a prince of the house of She- 
 haab; a great house, but fallen." 
 
 "He is a Christian," said Tancred, earnestly. 
 
 "Is he?" said Baroni carelessly; "I have known a good
 
 289 
 
 many Shehaabs, aud if you will tell me their company, I will tell 
 you their creed." 
 
 "He might give us some advice." 
 
 "No doubt of it, my lord ; if advice could break our chains, 
 we should soon be free ; but in these countries my only confidant 
 is my camel. Assuming that this affair is to end in a ransom, 
 what we want now is to change the impressions of the Great 
 Sheikh respecting your wealth. This can only be done from the 
 same spot where the original ideas emanated. I must induce 
 him to permit me to accompany his messenger to Besso. This 
 mission will take time, and he who gains time gains everything, 
 as M. de Sidonia said to me when the savages were going to burn 
 us alive, and there came on a thunder-storm which extinguished 
 their fagots." 
 
 "You must really tell me your history some day, Baroni," 
 said Tancred. 
 
 "When my mission has failed. It will perhaps relieve your 
 imprisonment; at present, I repeat, we must work for a mode- 
 rate ransom, instead of the millions of which they talk, and 
 during the negotiation take the chance of some incident which 
 will more agreeably free us." 
 
 "Ah! I despair of that." 
 
 "I do not, for it is presumptuous to believe that man can 
 foresee the future, which will be your lordship's case, if you 
 owe your freedom only to your piastres." 
 
 "But they say that everything is Calculation, Baroni." 
 
 "No," said Baroni, with energy, "everything is Adven- 
 ture." 
 
 In the mean time the Emir Fakredeen was the prey of con- 
 tending emotions. Tancred had , from the first and in an in- 
 stant, exercised over his susceptible temperament that magnetic 
 influence to which he was so strangely subject. In the heart of 
 the wilderness and in the person of his victim, the young Emir 
 
 Tancred. 1. ] 9
 
 290 
 
 suddenly recognised the heroic character which he had himself 
 so vaguely and, as it now seemed to him, so vainly attempted to 
 realize. The appearance and the courage of Tancred, the thought- 
 ful repose of his manner, his high bearing amid the distressful 
 circumstances in which he was involved, and the large views 
 which the few words that had escaped from him on the preceding 
 evening would intimate that he took of public transactions, com- 
 pletely captivated Fakredeen, who seemed at length to have found 
 the friend for whom he had often sighed, the sledfastand com- 
 manding spirit whose control, he felt conscious, was often re- 
 quired by his quick but whimsical temperament. And in what 
 relation did he stand to this being whom he longed to press to his 
 heart, and then go forth with him and conquer the world? It 
 would not bear contemplation. The arming of the Maronites be- 
 came quite a secondary object in comparison with obtaining the 
 friendship of Tancred. Would that he had not involved himself 
 in this conspiracy! and yet, but for this conspiracy, Tancred 
 and himself might never have met. It was impossible to grapple 
 with the question; circumstances must be watched, and some 
 new combination formed to extricate both of them from their pre- 
 sent perplexed position. 
 
 Fakredeen sent one of his attendants in the morning to offer 
 Tancred horses, should his guest, as is the custom of English- 
 men, care to explore the neighbouring ruins which were cele- 
 brated; but Tancred's wound kept him confined to his tent. 
 Then the Emir begged permission to pay him a visit, which was 
 to have lasted only a quarter of an hour ; but when Fakredeen had 
 once established himself in the divan with his nargilly, he never 
 quitted it. It would have been difficult for Tancred to have 
 found a more interesting companion; impossible to have made 
 an acquaintance more singularly unreserved. His frankness was 
 startling. Tancred had no experience of such self-revelations: 
 such a jumble of sublime aspirations and equivocal conduct;
 
 291 
 
 such a total disregard of means, such complicated plots, such a 
 fertility of perplexed and tenebrous intrigue! The animated 
 manner and the picturesque phrase too in -which all this -was 
 communicated heightened the interest and effect. Takredeen 
 sketched a character in a sentence, and you knew instantly the 
 individual whom he described without any personal knowledge. 
 Unlike the Orientals in general, his gestures were as vivid as his 
 words. He acted the interviews, he achieved the adventures 
 before you. His voice could take every tone and his countenance 
 every form. In the midst of all this, bursts of plaintive melan- 
 choly; sometimes the anguish of a sensibility too exquisite 
 alternating with a devilish mockery and a fatal absence of all self- 
 respect. 
 
 " It appears to me," said Tancred, when the young Emir had 
 declared his star accursed, since, after the ceaseless exertions 
 of years , he was still as distant as ever from the accomplishment 
 of his purpose — "it appears to me that your system is essen- 
 tially erroneous. I do not believe that anything great is ever 
 effected by management. All this intrigue, in which you seem 
 such an adept, might be of some service in a court or in an ex- 
 clusive senate; but to free a nation you require something more 
 vigorous and more simple. This system of intrigue in Europe is 
 quite old-fashioned. It is one of the superstitions left us by the 
 wretched eighteenth century, a period when aristocracy was 
 rampant throughout Christendom; and what were the conse- 
 quences? All faith in God or man, all grandeur of purpose, all 
 nobility of thought, and all beauty of sentiment, withered and 
 shrivelled up. Then the dexterous management of a few indivi- 
 duals, base or dull, was the only means of success. But we live 
 in a different age; there are popular sympathies, however im- 
 perfect, to appeal to; we must recur to the high primeval prac- 
 tice, and address nations now as the heroes, and prophets, and 
 legislators of antiquity. If you wish to free your country, and 
 
 19*
 
 292 
 
 make the Syrians a nation , it is not to be done by sending secret 
 envoys to Paris or London, cities themselves which are perhaps 
 both doomed to fall ; you must act like Moses and Mahomet." 
 
 "But you forget the religions," said Fakredeen — "I have so 
 many religions to deal with. If my fellows were all Christians, 
 or all Moslemin, or all Jews, or all Pagans, I grant you — 
 something might be effected; the cross, the crescent, the ark, 
 or an old stone, anything would do; I would plant it on the 
 highest range in the centre of the country, and I would carry 
 Damascus and Aleppo both in one campaign; but I am debarred 
 from this immense support; I could only preach nationality, and, 
 as they all hate each other worse almost than they do the Turks, 
 that would not be very inviting — nationality, without race as a 
 plea, is like the smoke of this nargilly, a fragrant puff. Well, 
 then, there remains only personal influence — ancient family, 
 vast possessions, and traditionary power — mere personal in- 
 fluence can only be maintained by management, by what you 
 stigmatize as intrigue; and the most dexterous member of the 
 Shehaab family will be, in the long run, Prince of Lebanon." 
 
 "And if you wish only to be Prince of the Lebanon, I dare 
 say you may succeed," said Tancred, "and perhaps with much 
 less pains than you at present give yourself. But what becomes 
 of all your great plans of an hour ago, when you were to conquer 
 the East, and establish the independence of the oriental races?" 
 
 *'Ah!" exclaimed Fakredeen with a sigh, "these are the 
 only ideas for which it is worth while to live." 
 
 "The world was never conquered by intrigue: it was con- 
 quered by faith. Now, I do not see that you have faith in 
 anything." 
 
 "Faith," said Fakredeen, musingly, as if his ear had caught 
 the word for the first time, "faith! that is a grand idea. If one 
 could only have faith in something and conquer the world ! " 
 
 "See now," said Tancred, with unusual animation, "I find
 
 293 
 
 no charm in conquering the world to establish a dynasty — a 
 dynasty like everything else wears out — indeed it does not last 
 as long as most things, it has a precipitate tendency to decay. 
 There are reasons ; we will not now dwell on them. One should 
 conquer the world not to enthrone a man, but an idea — for ideas 
 exist for ever. But what idea? There is the touchstone of all 
 philosophy! Amid the wreck of creeds, the crash of empires, 
 French revolutions, English reforms, Catholicism in agony, 
 and Protestantism in convulsions; discordant Europe demands 
 the key-note, which none can sound. If Asia be in decay, 
 Europe is in confusion. Your repose may be death, but our life 
 is anarchy." 
 
 "I am thinking," said Fakredeen, thoughtfully, "how we 
 in Syria could possibly manage to have faith in anything; I had 
 faith inMehemet AH, but he is a Turk, and that upset him. If, 
 instead of being merely a rebellious Pacha, he had placed him- 
 self at the head of the Arabs, and revived the Caliphate, you 
 would have seen something. Head the desert and you may do 
 anything. But it is so difflcult. If you can once get the tribes 
 out of it, they will go anywhere. See what they did when they last 
 came forth. Itisasimoom, akamsin, fatal, irresistible. They 
 are as fresh too as ever. The Arabs are always young; it is the 
 only race that never withers. I am an Arab myself, — from my 
 ancestor who was the standard-bearer of the Prophet — the con- 
 sciousness of race is the only circumstance that sometimes keeps 
 up my spirit." 
 
 "I am an Arab only in religion," said Tancred, "but the 
 consciousness of creed sustains me. I know well, though born 
 in a distant and northern isle, that the Creator of the world 
 speaks with man only in this land; and that is why I am 
 here." 
 
 The young Emir threw an earnest glance at his companion,
 
 294 
 
 ■whose countenance, though grave, was calm. "Then you have 
 faith?" said Fakredeen, inquiringly. 
 
 "I have passive faith," saidTancred. "I know that there is 
 a Deity who has revealed his will at intervals during different 
 ages: but of his present purpose I feel ignorant, and therefore 
 I have not active faith ; I know not what to do ; and should be re- 
 duced to a mere spiritual slothfulness, had I not resolved to 
 struggle with this fearful necessity, and so embarked in this 
 great pilgrimage which has so strangely brought us together." 
 
 "But you have your sacred books to consult?" said Fak- 
 redeen. 
 
 "There were sacred books when Jehovah conferred with So- 
 lomon; there was a still greater number of sacred books when 
 Jehovah inspired the prophets; the sacred writings were yet 
 more voluminous, when the Creator ordained that there should 
 be for human edification a completely new series of inspired 
 literature. Nearly two thousand years have passed since the 
 last of those works appeared. It is a greater interval than 
 elapsed between the writings of Malachi and the writings of 
 Matthew." 
 
 "The prior of the Maronite convent, at Mar Hanna, has 
 often urged on me, as conclusive evidence of the falseness of 
 31ahomet's mission, that our Lord Jesus declared that after 
 him 'many false prophets should arise,' and warned his 
 followers." 
 
 "There spoke the Prince of Israel," saidTancred, "not the 
 universal Redeemer. He warned his tribe against the advent of 
 false Messiahs — no more. Far from terminating by his coming 
 the direct communication between God and man, his appearance 
 was only the herald of a relation between the Creator and his 
 creatures, more fine, more permanent, and more express. 
 The inspiring and consoling influence of the Paraclete only com- 
 menced with the ascension of the Divine Son. In this fact per-
 
 295 
 
 haps may be found a sufficient reason -why no written expression 
 of the celestial will has subsequently appeared. But, instead of 
 foreclosing my desire for express communication, it would, on 
 the contrary, be a circumstance to authorize it." 
 
 "Then how do you know that Mahomet was not inspired?" 
 said Fakredeen. 
 
 "Far be it from me to impugn the divine commission of 
 any of the seed of Abraham," replied Tancred. "There are 
 doctors of our church who recognise the sacred office of Ma- 
 homet, though they hold it to be what divine commissions, with 
 the great exception, have ever been, limited and local." 
 
 "God has never spoken to a European?" said Fakredeen, 
 inquiringly. 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "But you are a European." 
 
 "And your inference is just," said Tancred, in an agitated 
 voice, and with a changing countenance. " It is one that has for 
 some time haunted my soul. In England , when I prayed in -vain 
 for elightenment, I at last induced myself to believe that the 
 Supreme Being would not deign to reveal his will unless in the 
 land which his presence had rendered holy, but since I have been 
 a dweller within its borders, and poured forth my passionate 
 prayers at all its holy places, and received no sign, the desolating 
 thought has sometimes come over my spirit, that there is a quali- 
 fication of blood as well as of locality necessary for this commu- 
 nion, and that the favoured votary must not only kneel in the 
 Holy Land but be of the holy race." 
 
 "I am an Arab," said Fakredeen. "It is something." 
 
 "If I were an Arab in race as well as in religion," said Tan- 
 cred, "I would not pass my life in schemes to govern some moun- 
 tain tribes." 
 
 "I '11 tell you," said the Emir, springing from his divan, 
 and flinging the tube of his nargilly to the other end of the tent;
 
 296 
 
 "the game is in our hands, if we have energy. There is a com- 
 bination which would entirely change the whole face of the 
 world, and bring back empire to the East. Though you are not 
 the brother of the Queen of the English, you are nevertheless a 
 great English prince, and the Queen will listen to what you say ; 
 especially if you talk to her as you talk to me, and say such fine 
 things in such a beautiful voice. Nobody ever opened my mind 
 like you. You will magnetize the Queen as you have magnetized 
 me. Go back to England and arrange this. You see — gloze it 
 over as they may, one thing is clear — it is finished with England. 
 There are three things which alone must destroy it. Primo, 
 O'Connell appropriating to himself the revenues of half of her 
 majesty's dominions. Secondo, the cottons — the world begins 
 to get a little disgusted with those cottons; naturally everybody 
 prefers silk; I am sure that the Lebanon in time could supply 
 the whole world with silk, if it were properly administered. 
 Thirdly , steam ; with this steam your great ships have become a 
 respectable Noah's ark. The game is up; Louis Philippe can 
 take Windsor Castle whenever he pleases, as you took Acre, with 
 the wind in his teeth. It is all over, then. Now, see a coup d'etat 
 that saves all. You must perform the Portuguese scheme on a 
 great scale; quit a petty and exhausted position for a vast and 
 prolific empire. Let the Queen of the English collect a great 
 fleet, let her stow away all her treasure, bullion, gold plate, and 
 precious arms ; be accompanied by all her court and chief people, 
 and transfer the seat of her empire from London to Delhi. There 
 she will find an immense empire ready made, a first-rate army, 
 and a large revenue. In the mean time I will arrange with 
 Mehemet Ali. He shall have Bagdad and Mesopotamia, and 
 pour the Bedoueen cavalry into Persia. I will take care of Syria 
 and Asia Minor. The only way to manage the Affghans is by 
 Persia and by the Arabs. We will acknowledge the Empress of 
 India as our suzerain, and secure for her the Levantine coast.
 
 297 
 
 If she like, she shall have Alexandria as she now has Malta: it 
 could be arranged. Your Queen is young; she has an avenir. 
 Aberdeen and Sir Peel will never give her this advice; their 
 habits are formed. They are too old, too ruses. But you see! 
 the greatest empire that ever existed; besides which she gets rid 
 of the embarrassment of her Chambers ! And quite practicable ; 
 for the only difficult part, the conquest of India, which baffled 
 Alexander, is all done!"
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It was not so much a conviction as a suspicion thatTancred 
 nad conveyed to the young Emir, when the pilgrim had confessed 
 that the depressing thought sometimes came over him, that he 
 was deficient in that qualification of race which was necessary for 
 the high communion to which he aspired. Four and twenty hours 
 before, he was not thus dejected. Almost within sight of Sinai, 
 he was still full of faith. But his vexatious captivity and the 
 enfeebling consequences of his wound dulled his spirit. Alone, 
 among strangers and foes, in pain and in peril, and without that 
 energy which finds excitement in difficulty, and can mock at 
 danger, which requires no counsellor but our own quick brain, 
 and no champion but our own right arm, the high spirit of 
 Tancred for the first time flagged. As the twilight descended over 
 the rocky city, its sculptured tombs and excavated temples, and 
 its strewn remains of palaces and theatres, his heart recurred 
 with tenderness to the halls and towers of Montacute andBella- 
 mont, and the beautiful affections beneath those stately roofs 
 that, urged on, as he had once thought, by a divine influence, 
 now, as he was half tempted to credit, by a fantastic impulse, he 
 had dared to desert. Brooding in dejection, his eyes were suf- 
 fused with tears. 
 
 It was one of those moments of amiable weakness which 
 make us all akin, when sublime ambition, the mystical pre- 
 dispositions of genius, the solemn sense of duty, all theheaped- 
 up lore of ages, and the dogmas of a high philosophy alike desert 
 us, or sink into nothingness. The voice of his mother sounded 
 in his ear, and he was haunted by his father's anxious glance. 
 Why was he there? Why was he, the child of a northern isle,
 
 299 
 
 in the heart of the Stony Arabia, far from the scene of his birth 
 and of his duties? A disheartening, an awful question, which, 
 if it could not be satisfactorily answered by Tancred of Monta- 
 cute, it seemed to him that his future, wherever or however 
 passed, must be one of intolerable bale. 
 
 Was he then a stranger there? uncalled, unexpected, in- 
 trusive, unwelcome? Was it a morbid curiosity, or the proverbial 
 restlessness of a satiated aristocrat, that had drawn him to these 
 wilds? What wilds? Had he no connexion with them? Had 
 he not from his infancy repeated, in the congregation of his 
 people, the laws which, from the awful summit of these sur- 
 rounding mountains, the Father of all had himself delivered for 
 the government of mankind? These Arabian laws regulated his 
 life. And the wanderings of an Arabian tribe in this "great and 
 terrible wilderness," under the immediate direction of the 
 Creator, sanctified by his miracles, governed by his counsels, 
 illumined by his presence, had been the first and guiding history 
 that had been entrusted to his young intelligence, from which it 
 had drawn its first pregnant examples of human conduct and 
 divine interposition, and formed its first dim conceptions of the 
 relations between man and God. Why then he had a right to be 
 here! He had a connexion with these regions; they had a hold 
 upon him. He was not here like an Indian Brahmin, who visits 
 Europe from a principle of curiosity, however rational or however 
 refined. The land which the Hindoo visits is not his land, nor 
 his father's land; the laws which regulate it are not his laws and 
 the faith which fills its temples is not the revelation that floats 
 upon his sacred Ganges. But for this English youth , words had 
 been uttered and things done, more than thirty centuries ago, in 
 this stony wilderness, which influenced his opinions and re- 
 gulated his conduct every day of his life, in that distant and sea- 
 girt home, which, at the time of their occurrence, was not as 
 advanced in civilization as the Polynesian groups or the islands
 
 300 
 
 of New Zealand. The life and property of England are protected 
 by the laws of Sinai. The hard-working people of England are 
 secured in every seven days a day of rest by the laws of Sinai. 
 And yet they persecute the Jews, and hold up to odium the race 
 to whom they are indebted for the sublime legislation which 
 alleviates the inevitable lot of the labouring multitude '. 
 
 And when that labouring multitude cease for a while from a 
 toil which equals almost Egyptian bondage, and demands that 
 exponent of the mysteries of the heart, that soother of the 
 troubled spirit, which poetry can alone afford — to whose harp 
 do the people of England fly for sympathy and solace? Who is 
 the most popular poet in this country? Is he to be found among 
 the Mr. Wordsworths and the Lord Byrons, amid sauntering re- 
 veries or monologues of sublime satiety? Shall we seek him 
 among the wits of Queen Anne? Even to the myriad-minded 
 Shakspeare can we award the palm? No: the most popular poet 
 in England is the sweet singer of Israel. Since the days of the 
 heritage, when every man dwelt safely under his vine and under 
 his fig-tree, there never was a race who sang so often the odes of 
 David as the people of Great Britain. 
 
 Vast as the obligations of the whole human family are to the 
 Hebrew race, there is no portion of the modern populations so 
 much indebted to them as the British people. It was "the sword 
 of the Lord and of Gideon;" that won the boasted liberties of 
 England; chanting the same canticles that cheered the heart of 
 Judah amid their glens, the Scotch, upon their hill-sides, 
 achieved their religious freedom. 
 
 Then why do these Saxon and Celtic societies persecute an 
 Arabian race, from whom they have adopted laws of sublime 
 benevolence, and in the pages of whose literature they have 
 found perpetual delight, instruction, and consolation? That is 
 a great question, which, in an enlightened age, may be fairly 
 asked, but to which even the self-complacent nineteenth century
 
 301 
 
 would find some difficulty in contributing a reply. Does it stand 
 thus? Independently of their admirable laws which have elevated 
 our condition, and of their exquisite poetry which has charmed 
 it, independently of their heroic history, which has animated us 
 to the pursuit of public liberty, we are indebted to the Hebrew 
 people for our knowledge of the true God and for the redemption 
 from our sins. 
 
 "Then I have a right to be here," said Tancred of Montacule, 
 as his eyes were fixed in abstraction on the stars of Arabia; "I 
 am not a travelling dilettante, mourning over a ruin, or in ec- 
 stasies at a deciphered inscription. I come to the land whose 
 laws I obey, whose religion I profess, and I seek, upon its sa- 
 cred soil, those sanctions which for ages were abundantly ac- 
 corded. The angels who visited the Patriarchs, and announced 
 the advent of the judges, who guided the pens of prophets and 
 bore tidings to the apostles, spoke also to the shepherds in the 
 field. I look upon the host of heaven; do they no longer stand 
 before the Lord? Where are the Cherubim — where the Seraphs? 
 Where is Michael the Destroyer? Gabriel of a thousand mis- 
 sions?" 
 
 At this moment, the sound of horsemen recalled Tancred 
 from his reverie, and, looking up, he observed a group of Arabs 
 approaching him, three of whom were mounted. Soon he re- 
 cognised the Great Sheikh Amalek, and Hassan, the late com- 
 mander of his escort. The young Syrian Emir was their com- 
 panion. This was a visit of hospitable ceremony from the Great 
 Sheikh to his distinguished prisoner. Amalek, pressing his 
 hand to his heart, gave Tancred the salute of peace, and then, 
 followed by Hassan, who had lost nothing of his calm self-re- 
 spect, but who conducted himself as if he were still free, the 
 Great Sheikh sealed himself on the carpet that was spread before 
 the tent, and took the pipe, which was immediately offered him
 
 S02 
 
 by Freeman and Trueman, following the instructions of an at- 
 tendant of the Emir Fakredeen. 
 
 After the usual compliments and some customary observa- 
 tions about horses and pistols, Fakredeen, who had seated 
 himself close to Tancred, with a kind of shrinking cajolery, as 
 if he were seeking the protection of some superior being, ad- 
 dressing Amalek in a tone of easy assurance, which remarkably 
 contrasted with the sentimental deference he displayed towards 
 his prisoner, said — 
 
 "Sheikh of Sheikhs, there is but one God: now is it Allah 
 or Jehovah?" 
 
 "The palm tree is sometimes called a date tree," replied 
 Amalek , " but there is only one tree." 
 
 "Good," said Fakredeen, "but you do not pray to Allah?" 
 
 "I pray as my fathers prayed," said Amalek. 
 
 "And you pray to Jehovah?" 
 
 "It is said." 
 
 "Sheikh Hassan," said the Emir, "there is but one God, 
 and his name is Jehovah. Why do you not pray to Jehovah?" 
 
 "Truly there is but one God," said Sheikh Hassan, "and 
 Mahomet is his prophet. He told my fathers to pray to Allah, 
 and to Allah I pray." 
 
 "Is Mahomet the prophet of God, Sheikh of Sheikhs?" 
 
 "It may be," replied Amalek, with a nod of assent. 
 
 "Then why do you not pray as Sheikh Hassan?" 
 
 "Because Moses, without doubt the prophet of God, for all 
 believe in him — Sheikh Hassan, and Emir Fakredeen, and you 
 too, Prince, brother of queens — married into our family and 
 taught us to pray to Jehovah. There may be other prophets, but 
 the children of Jethro would indeed ride on asses were they not 
 content with Moses." 
 
 "And you have his five books?" inquired Tancred.
 
 303 
 
 "We bad them from the beginning, and we shall keep them 
 to the end." 
 
 "And you learnt in them, that Moses married the daughter 
 of Jethro?" 
 
 "Did I learn in them that I have wells and camels? We want 
 no books to tell us who married our daughters." 
 
 "And yet it is not yesterday that Moses fled from Egypt into 
 Midian?" 
 
 "It is not yesterday for those who live in cities, where they 
 say at one gate that it is morning, and at another it is night. 
 Where men tell lies, the deed of the dawn is the secret of sunset. 
 But in the desert nothing changes; neither the acts of a man's 
 life, nor the words of a man's lips. We drink at the same well 
 where Moses helped Zipporah, we tend the same flocks, we live 
 under the same tents; our words have changed as little as our 
 waters, our habits, or our dwellings; what my father learnt from 
 those before him, he delivered to me, and I have told it to my 
 sou. What is time and what is truth, that I should forget that 
 a prophet of the Lord married into my house?" 
 
 "Where little is done, little is said," observed Sheikh 
 Hassan, "and Silence is the mother of Truth. Since the Hegira, 
 nothing has happened in Arabia, and before that was Moses* 
 and before him the giants." 
 
 "Let truth always be spoken," said Amalek; "your words 
 are a flowing stream, and the children of Rechab and the tribes 
 of the Senites never joined him of Mecca, for they had the Ave 
 books, and they said, 'Is not that enough?' They withdrew to 
 the Syrian wilderness and they multiplied. But the sons of 
 Koreidha , who also had the Ave books, but who were not children 
 of Rechab, but who came into the desert near Medina after Ne- 
 buchadnezzar had destroyed El Khuds, they first joined him of 
 Mecca, and then they made war on him, and he broke their 
 bows and led them into captivity; and they are to be found in the
 
 304 
 
 cities of Yemen to this day, the children of Israel who live in the 
 cities of Yemen are the tribe of Koreidha." 
 
 "Unhappy sons of Koreidha, who made war upon the pro- 
 phet, and who live in cities!" said Sheikh Hassan, taking a 
 fresh pipe. 
 
 "And perhaps," said the young Emir, "if you had not been 
 children of Jethro, you might have acknowledged him of Mecca, 
 Sheikh of Sheikhs." 
 
 "There is but one God," said Amalek; "but there maybe 
 many prophets. It becomes not a son of Jethro to seek other 
 than Moses. But I will not say that the Koran comes not from 
 God , since it was written by one who was of the tribe of Koreish, 
 and the tribe of Koreish are the lineal descendants of Ibra- 
 him." 
 
 "And you believe that the word of God could come only to the 
 seed of Abraham?" asked Tancrcd, eagerly. 
 
 "I and my fathers have watered our flocks in the wilderness 
 since time was," replied Amalek; "we have seen the Pharaohs, 
 and Nebuchadnezzar, and Iskander, and the Romans, and the 
 Sultan of the French — they conquered everything except us — 
 and where are they? They are sand. Let men doubt of unicorns; 
 but of one thing there can be no doubt, that God never spoke 
 except to an Arab." 
 
 Tancred covered his face with his hands. Then, after a few 
 moments' pause, looking up, he said, "Sheikh of Sheiks, lam 
 your prisoner; and was, when you captured me, a pilgrim to 
 Mount Sinai, a spot which, in your belief, is not less sacred 
 than in mine. We are, as I have learned, only two days' 
 journey from that holy place. Grant me this boon , that I may at 
 once proceed thither, guarded as you will. I pledge you the 
 word of a Christian noble, that I will not attempt to escape. 
 Long before you have received a reply from Jerusalem, I shall
 
 305 
 
 have returned; and whatever may be the result of the \isit of 
 Baroni, I shall at least have fulfilled my pilgrimage." 
 
 "Prince, brother of queens," replied Amalek, with that 
 politeness which is the characteristic of the Arabian chieftains; 
 "under my tents you have only to command — go where you like, 
 return when you please. My children shall attend you as your 
 guardians, not as your guards." And the Great Sheikh rose 
 and retired. 
 
 Tancred re-entered his tent, and, reclining, fell into a 
 reverie of distracting thoughts. The history of his life and mind 
 seemed with a whirling power to pass before him — his birth, 
 in a clime unknown to the patriarchs ; his education, uncon- 
 sciously to himself, in an Arabian literature; his imbibing, 
 from his tender infancy, oriental ideas and oriental creeds; the 
 contrast that the occidental society in which he had been reared 
 presented to them; his dissatisfaction with that social system; 
 his conviction of the growing melancholy of enlightened Europe, 
 veiled, as it may be, with sometimes a conceited bustle, some- 
 times a desperate shipwreck gaiety, sometimes with all the 
 exciting empiricism of science; his perplexity that, between the 
 Asian revelation and the European practice, there should be so 
 little conformity, and why the relations between them should be 
 so limited and imperfect; above all, his passionate desire to 
 penetrate the mystery of the elder world, and share its celestial 
 privileges and divine prerogative. Tancred sighed. 
 
 He looked round; some one had gently drawn his hand. It 
 was the young Emir kneeling, his beautiful blue eyes bedewed 
 with tears. 
 
 "You are unhappy," said Fakredeen, in a tone of plain- 
 tiveness. 
 
 "It is the doom of man," replied Tancred; "aud in my posi- 
 tion sadness should not seem strange." 
 
 "The curse of ten thousand mothers on those who made you 
 
 Tancred. 1. 20
 
 300 
 
 a prisoner ; the curse of twenty thousand mothers on him who in- 
 flicted on you a wound ! " 
 
 "T is the fortune of life," said Tancred, more cheerfully; 
 "and in truth I was perhaps thinking of other things." 
 
 "Do you know why I trouble you when your heart is dark?" 
 said the young Emir. "See now, if you will it, you are free. 
 The Great Sheikh has consented that you should go to Sinai. 
 I have two dromedaries here, fleeter than the Kamsin. At the 
 well of Mokatteb, where we encamp for the night, I will serve 
 raki to the Bedoueens ; I have some with me, strong enough to 
 melt the snow of Lebanon; if it will not do, they shall smoke 
 some timbak, that will make them sleep like pachas. I know 
 this desert as a man knows his father's house — we shall be at 
 Hebron before they untie their eyelids. Tel! me, is it good?" 
 
 "Were I alone," said Tancred, "without a single guard, 
 I must return." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I have pledged the word of a Christian noble." 
 
 "To a man who does not believe in Christ. Faugh! Is it not 
 itself a sin to keep faith with heretics? 
 
 "But is he one?" said Tancred. "He believes in Moses; 
 he disbelieves in none of the seed of Abraham. He is of that 
 seed himself. Would I were such a heretic as Sheikh Amalek ! " 
 
 "If you will only pay me a visit in the Lebanon, I would 
 introduce you to our patriarch, and he would talk as much theo- 
 logy with you as you like. For my own part, it is not a kind of 
 knowledge that I have much cultivated ; you know I am peculiarly 
 situated, we have so many religions on the Mountain; but time 
 presses; tell me, my prince, shall Hebron be our point?" 
 
 "If Amalek believed in Baal, I must return," saidTancred; 
 "even if it were to certain death. Besides, I could not desert 
 my men ; and Baroni — what would become of him? " 
 
 "We could easily make some plan that would extricate them.
 
 307 
 
 Dismiss them from your mind, and trust yourself to me. I know 
 nothing that would delight me more than to balk these robbers of 
 their prey." 
 
 "I should not talk of such things," said Tancred ; "I must 
 remain here, or I must return." 
 
 "What can you want to do on Mount Sinai?" murmured (he 
 prince, rather pettishly. "Now, if it were Mount Lebanon, 
 and you had a wish to employ yourself, there is an immense 
 field ! We might improve the condition of the people ; we might 
 establish manufactures, stimulate agriculture, extend commerce, 
 get an appalto of the silk , buy it all up at sivty piastres per oke 
 and sell it at Marseilles at two hundred, and at the same time ad- 
 vance the interests of true religion as much as you please." 
 
 2i)*
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Ten days had elapsed since the capture of Tancred ; Amalek 
 and his Arabs were still encamped in the rocky city ; the beams of 
 the early sun were just rising over the crest of the amphitheatre, 
 when four horsemen, who were recognised as the children of 
 Rechab, issued from the ravine. They galloped over the plain, 
 shouted, and threw their lances in the air; from the crescent of 
 black tents came forth the warriors, some mounted their horses 
 and met their returning brethren, others prepared their welcome. 
 The horses neighed, the camels stirred their long necks. AH 
 living things seemed conscious that an event had occurred. 
 
 The four horsemen were surrounded by their brethren; but 
 one of them, giving and returning blessings, darted forward to 
 the pavilion of the Great Sheikh. 
 
 "Have you brought camels, Shedad, son of Amroo?" in- 
 quired one of the welcomers to the welcomed. 
 
 "We have been to El Khuds," was the reply. "What we 
 have brought back is a seal of Solomon." 
 
 "From Mount Seir to the City of the Friend, what have you 
 seen in the joyful land?" 
 
 "We found the sons of Hamar by the well-side of Jumda; we 
 found the marks of many camels in the pass of Gharendel , and 
 the marks in the pass of Gharendel were not the marks of the 
 camels of the Beni-hamar." 
 
 "I had a dream, and the children of Tora said tome, 'Who 
 art thou in the lands of our father's flocks? Are none but the 
 sons of Rechab to drink the sweet waters of Edom?' Methinks 
 the marks in the pass of Gharendel were the marks of the camels 
 of the children of Tora."
 
 309 
 
 "There is feud between Ihe Beni-tora and the Beni-hamar," 
 replied the other Arab, shaking his head. "The Beni-tora are 
 in the wilderness of Akiba, and the Beni-hamar have burnt their 
 tents and captured their camels and their women. This is 
 why the sons of Hamar are watering their flocks by the well of 
 Jumda." 
 
 In the mean time, the caravan, of which the four horsemen 
 were the advanced guard, issued from the pass into the plain. 
 
 "Shedad, son of Amroo," exclaimed one of the Bcdoueens, 
 "what! have you captured an hareem ! " For he beheld drome- 
 daries and veiled women. 
 
 The Great Sheikh came forth from his pavilion and sniffed 
 the morning air; a dignified smile played over his benignant 
 features, and once he smoothed his venerable beard. 
 
 "My son-in-law is a true son of Israel," he murmured com- 
 placently to himself. "He will trust his gold only to his own 
 blood." 
 
 The caravan wound about the plain, then crossed the stream 
 at the accustomed ford, and approached the amphitheatre. 
 
 The horsemen halted, some dismounted, the dromedaries 
 knelt down, Baroni assisted one of the riders from her seat; the 
 Great Sheikh advanced and said, "Welcome in the name of God, 
 welcome with a thousand blessings ! " 
 
 " I come in the name of God — I come with a thousand bless- 
 ings," replied the lady. 
 
 "And with a thousand something else," thought Amalek to 
 himself; but the Arabs are so polished, that they never make 
 unnecessary allusions to business. 
 
 "Had I thought the Queen of Sheba was going to pay me a 
 visit," said the Great Sheikh, "I would have brought the pavi- 
 lion of Miriam. "How is the Bose of Sharon?" he continued, 
 as he ushered Eva into his tent. "How is the son of my heart 
 — how is Besso, more generous than a thousand kings?"
 
 310 
 
 "Speak not of the son of thy heart," said Eva, seating herself 
 on the divan. "Speak not of Besso, the generous and the good, 
 for his head is strewn with ashes, and his mouth is full of sand." 
 
 "What is this!" thought Amalek. "Besso is not ill, or his 
 daughter would not be here. This arrow flies not straight. Does 
 he want to scrape my piastres? These sons of Israel that dwell in 
 cities will mix their pens with our spears. I will be obstinate as 
 an Azafeer camel." 
 
 Slaves now entered, bringing coffee and bread, the Sheikh 
 asking questions as they ale, as to the time Eva quitted Jerusa- 
 lem, her halting places in the desert; whether she had met with 
 any tribes; then he offered to his grand-daughter his own chi- 
 bouque, which she took with ceremony, and instantly returned, 
 while they brought her aromatic uargilly. 
 
 Eva scanned the imperturbable countenance of her grand- 
 father: calm, polite, benignant, she knew the Great Sheikh too 
 well to suppose for a moment that its superficial expression was 
 any indication of his innermost purpose. Suddenly she said, in 
 a somewhat careless tone, "And why is the Lord of the Syrian 
 pastures in this wilderness, that has been so long accursed?" 
 
 The Great Sheikh took his pipe from his mouth, and then 
 slowly sent forth its smoke through his nostrils, a feat of which 
 he was proud. Then he placidly replied: "For the same reason 
 that the man named Baroni made a visit to El Khuds." 
 
 "The man named Baroni came to demand succour for his 
 lord, who is your prisoner." 
 
 "And also to obtain two millions of piastres," added Amalek. 
 
 "Two millions of piastres? Why not at once ask for the 
 throne of Solomon?" 
 
 "Which would be given if required," rejoined Amalek. 
 "Was it not said in the divan of Besso, that if this Prince of 
 Franguestan wished to rebuild theTemple,the treasure would not 
 be wanting?"
 
 311 
 
 "Said by some city gossip ," said Eva, scornfully. 
 
 "Said by your father, daughter of Besso, who, though he 
 live in cities, is not a man who will say that almonds are 
 pearls." 
 
 Eva controlled her countenance, though it was difficult to 
 conceal her mortification as she perceived how well informed her 
 grandfather was of all that passed under their roof, and of the 
 resources of his prisoner. It was necessary, after the last re- 
 mark of the Great Sheikh, to take new ground, and, instead 
 of dwelling, as she was about to do, on the exaggeration of 
 public report, and attempting to ridicule the vast expectations of 
 her host, she said, in a soft tone, "You did not ask me why 
 Besso was in such affliction , father of my mother? " 
 
 "There are many sorrows: has he lost ships? If a man is in 
 sound health, all the rest are dreams. And Besso needs no 
 hakeem, or you would not be here, my Bose of Sharon." 
 
 "The light may have become darkness in our eyes, though 
 we may still eat and drink," said Eva. "And that has happened 
 to Besso which might have turned a child's hair grey in its 
 cradle." 
 
 "Who has poisoned his well? Has he quarrelled with the 
 Porte?" said the Sheikh, without looking at her. 
 
 " It is not his enemies who have pierced him in the back." 
 
 "Humph," said the Great Sheikh. 
 
 "And that makes his heart more heavy," said Eva. 
 
 "He dwells too much in walls," said the Great Sheikh. "He 
 should have rode into the desert, instead of you, my child. He 
 should have brought the ransom himself," and the Great Sheikh 
 sent two curling streams out of his nostrils. 
 
 "Whoever be the bearer, he is the payer," said Eva. "It 
 is he who is the prisoner, not this son of Franguestan, who, you 
 think, is your captive." 
 
 "Your father wishes to scrape my piastres," said the Great
 
 312 
 
 Sheikh, in a stern voice, and looking his grand-daughter full in 
 the face. 
 
 "If he wanted to scrape piastres from the desert," said Eva, 
 in a sweet but mournful voice, "would Besso have given you the 
 convoy of the Hadji without condition or abatement?" 
 
 The Great Sheikh drew a long breath from his chibouque. 
 After a momentary pause he said , " In a family there should ever 
 be unity and concord; above all things words should not be dark. 
 How much will the Queen of the English give for her brother?" 
 
 "He is not the brother of the Queen of the English," said Eva. 
 
 "Not when he is my spoil, in my tent," saidAmalek, with a 
 cunning smile; "but put him on a round hat in a walled city, 
 and then he is the brother of the Queen of the English." 
 
 "Whatever his rank, he is the charge of Besso, my father 
 and your son," said Eva, "and Besso has pledged his heart, 
 his life, and his honour, that this young prince shall not be hurt. 
 For him he feels, for him he speaks, for him he thinks. Is it 
 to be told in the bazaars of Frangucstan that his first office of 
 devotion was to send this youth into the Desert to be spoiled by 
 the father of his wife?" 
 
 "Why did my daughters marry men who live in cities?" ex- 
 claimed the old Sheikh. 
 
 "Why did they marry men who made your peace with the 
 Egyptian, when not even the desert could screen you? .Why did 
 they marry men who gained you the convoy of the Hadji, and gave 
 you the milk often thousand camels?" 
 
 "Truly there is but one God in the desert and in the city," said 
 Amalck. "Xowtell me, Rose of Sharon, how many piastres 
 have you brought me? " 
 
 "If you be in trouble, Besso will aid you as he has done ; if 
 you wish to buy camels, Besso will assist you as before; but, if 
 you expect ransom for his charge , whom you ought to have placed 
 on your best mare of Nedgid, then I have not brought a para."
 
 313 
 
 "It is clearly the end of the world," said Amalek with a 
 savage sigh. 
 
 "Why I am here," said Eva, "I am only the child of your 
 child, a woman without spears — why do you not seize me, and 
 send to Besso? He must ransom me, for I am the only offspring 
 of his loins. Ask for four millions of piastres! He can raise 
 them. Let him send round to all the cities of Syria, and tell his 
 brethren that a Bedoueen Sheikh has made his daughter and her 
 maidens captive — and, trust me, the treasure will be forth- 
 coming. He need not say it is one on whom he has lavished a 
 thousand favours, whose visage was darker than the simoom 
 when he made the great Pacha smile on him, who, however he 
 may talk of living in cities now, could come cringing to El Sham 
 to ask for the contract of the Hadji, by which he had gained ten 
 thousand camels; he need say nothing of all this, and least of all, 
 need he say that the spoiler is his father!" 
 
 "What is this Prince of Franguestan to thee and thine!" 
 said Amalek. " He comes to our land like his brethren, to see 
 the sun and seek for treasure in our ruins, and he bears, like all 
 of them, some written words to your father, saying, give to this 
 man what he asks, and we will give to your people what they ask. 
 I understand all this: they all come to your father because he 
 deals in money, and is the only man in Syria who has money. 
 What he pays, he is again paid. Is it not so, Eva? Daughter of 
 my blood, let there not be strife between us; give me a million 
 piastres, and a hundred camels to the widow of Sheikh Salem, 
 and take the brother of the Queen." 
 
 "Camels shall be given to the widow of Sheikh Salem," 
 said Eva, in a conciliatory voice — "but for this ransom of which 
 you speak , my father — it is not a question as to the number of 
 piastres. If you want a million of piastres, shall it be said that 
 Besso would not lend, perhaps give, them to the Great Sheikh he 
 loves? But you see, my father of fathers, piasters and this Frank
 
 314 
 
 stranger are not of the same leaven. Name them not together, I 
 pray you; mix not their waters. It concerns the honour, and 
 welfare, and safety, and glory of Besso that you should cover this 
 youth with a robe of power, and place him upon your best drome- 
 dary, and send him back to El Khuds." 
 
 The Great Sheikh groaned. 
 
 "Have I opened a gate that I am unable to close?" he at 
 length said. "What is begun shall be finished. Have the 
 children of Rechab been brought from the sweet wells of Costal 
 to this wilderness ever accursed to fill their purses with stones? 
 Will they not return and say that my beard is too white? Yet do I 
 wish that this day was finished. Name then at once, my daughter, 
 the piastres that you will give; for the prince, the brother of 
 queens, may to-morrow be dust." 
 
 "How so?" eagerly inquired Eva. 
 
 "He is a Mejnoun," replied Amalek. "After the man 
 named Baroni departed for El Khuds, the Prince of Franguestan 
 would not rest until he visited Gibel Alousa, and I said ' Yes' to 
 all his wishes. Whether it were his wound inflamed by his 
 journey, or grief at his captivity — for these Franks are the slaves 
 of useless sorrow — he returned as wild as Kais, and now lies in 
 his tent, fancying he is still on Mount Sinai. 'T is the fifth day 
 of the fever, and Shcdad, the son of Amrou, tells me that the 
 sixth will be fatal unless we can give him the gall of a phoenix, 
 and such a bird is not to be found in this part of Arabia. Now, 
 you are a great hakeem, my child of children; go then to the 
 young prince, and see what can be done — for if he die, we can 
 scarcely ransom him, and I shall lose the piastres, and your 
 father the backsheesh which I meant to have given him on the 
 
 transaction." 
 
 "This is very woeful," murmured Eva to herself, and not 
 listening to the latter observations of her grandfather. 
 
 At this moment, the curtain of the pavilion was withdrawn,
 
 315 
 
 and there stood before them Fakredeen. The moment his eyes 
 met those of Eva, he covered his face with both his hands. 
 
 "How is the Prince of Franguestan?" inquired Amalek. 
 
 The young Emir advanced, and threw himself at the feet of 
 Eva. "We must entreat the Rose of Sharon to visit him," he 
 said, "for there is no hakeem in Arabia equal to her. Yes, I 
 came to welcome you, and to entreat you to do this kind office for 
 the most gifted and the most interesting of beings," and he 
 looked up in her face with a supplicating glance. 
 
 "And you too — are you fearful," said Eva, in a tone of 
 tender reproach, " that by his death you may lose your portion of 
 the spoil?" 
 
 The Emir gave a deprecating glance of anguish, and then, 
 bending his head , pressed his lips to the Bedoueen robes which 
 she wore. " ' T is the most unfortunate of coincidences, but be- 
 lieve mc, dearest of friends, 't is only a coincidenc. I am here 
 merely by accident, I was hunting, I was — " 
 
 "You will make me doubt your intelligence as well as your 
 good faith," said Eva, "if you persist in such assurances." 
 
 "Ah! if you but knew him," exclaimed Fakredeen, "you 
 would believe me when I tell you that I am ready to sacrifice even 
 my life for his. Far from sharing the spoil," he added, in a 
 rapid and earnest whisper, "I had already proposed, and could 
 have insured, his escape; when he went to Sinai, to that unfor- 
 tunate Sinai. I had two dromedaries here, thoroughbred, we 
 might have reached Hebron before — " 
 
 "You went with him to Sinai?" 
 
 "He would not suffer it: he desired, he said, to be silent 
 and to be alone. One of the Bedoueens, who accompanied him, 
 told me that they halted in the valley, and that he went up alone 
 into the mountain, where he remained a day and night. When he 
 returned hither, I perceived a great change in him. His words 
 were quick, his eye glittered like lire-, he told mc that he had
 
 310 
 
 seen an angel, and in the morning he was as he is now. I have 
 wept, I have prayed for him in the prayers of every religion, I 
 have bathed his temples with liban, and hung his tent with 
 charms. O Rose of Sharon! Eva, beloved, darlingEva, Ihave 
 faith in no one but in you. See him, I beseech you, seehim! If 
 you but knew him, if you had but listened to his voice, andfelt 
 the greatness of his thoughts and spirit, it would not need that I 
 should make this entreaty. But alas! you know him not; you 
 have never listened to him, you have never seen him: or neither 
 he, nor I, nor any of us, would have been here, and have 
 been thus." 
 
 END OF VOL. 1. 
 
 PRINTED BY BliRNIIAKD TAUCUNITZ.

 
 ffiL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 frsitV Of Ca . U .«n.9.VJ,^.^..!?FGJ0NAL.L.!BRARy FACILITY 
 
 W- Y 6 1976
 
 
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