T^M ^ HHHHH iiifcyitiia Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/forgetmenotchrisOOshobrich /^ A IL M jS M I A . tBn9. ■LONDOU: \?nBT.ISh.ii,'D BY ACKERMAKIsr & C9 FORGET ME NOT; A CHRISTMAS, NEW year's, and birthday PRESENT, MDCCCXXXIX. Appealing^, by the magic of its name. To gentle feelings and affections, liept Within tlie heart, like gold. L. E. L. EDITED BY FREDERIC SHOBERL. LONDON : PUBLISHED BY ACKERMANN AND CO. AND D. APPLETON AND CO , NEW YORK. LONDON : F, SHOBKRL, JUN.,KUPERT STREET, HAYMARKET. Forget Me Not for 1839 ! O yes, if we could number the hearts which each successive portion of this work has caused to throb with gladness ; if we could calculate the kindly affec- tions, the gratitude, the love, and all those chari- ties which constitute the charm of social life, which it has tended to generate or to foster, as well as the delight which the contents of its pages have afforded, since its first appearance in the year 1822; well might we be forgiven if something of pride should mingle with the gratification which we cannot help feeling, when we consider that to our instigation its establishment was principally 4 PREFACE. owing ; and that to us belongs some share in the merit of the happiness which it has been the means of dispensing ! How long it may yet be our lot to co-operate in this agreeable duty we know not — but of this we are confident, that, whenever the connexion may cease, we shall be able to say, as at the present moment : We are not aware that the work contains a single expression or sentiment which we could wish expunged. The Volume now before the Public calls for little particular remark, It will be seen that the fair American contributors whom we last year in- troduced to our readers have again favoured us with productions of their accomplished minds. To them, as well as to several valued corre- spondents at home, we have to apologize for omis- sions, which circumstances beyond our control have imperatively required, and for which in our next Volume we hope to make due amends. C O N T R N T S. PAGE The Genie of Wealth ........ 9 Hope and Death. By R. Shelton Mackenzie, LL.D. . 50 The Stars. By Mrs. L. H. Sioourney 51 The Siege. By Douglas Jerrold 55 The Family Altar. A Cottage Scene. By Mrs. Sigourney 77 The Sybil. By R. Shelton Mackenzie, LL.D. . . 79 Serenade. By Miss H. F. Gould 82 Song of the Burman Lover. By Major Calder Campbell 84 The Belle Sauvage Plot. By Miss Lawrance, Author of His- torical Memoirs of the Queens of England, &c. . . 85 The Princess of the West. By Peter Hesketh Fleetwood, Esq., M.P. * . . 121 The Star in the East. By T. K. Hervev, Esu. ... 144 The Widow's Curse 149 The Mother's Offering. By Mary Howitx y . . , 157 Death in a Foreign Land. By Mrs. Abdy .... 161 The Priest and the Penitent. By Mrs. Walker . . . 163 6 CONTENTS. PAGE Address to the Ocean. Ou Columbus setting sail to discover America. By Washington Bkowne, Esq, . . , 173 Hammer and Nails. By Mrs. Lee 175 The Old Abbey Bell 193 The Highland Gillie. By Major Calder Campbell . . 195 A May Queen, By Richard Howitt 197 To my Sister on her Twenty-third Birthday. By Miss M. A, Browne 199 The Cornish Wrecker. By R. Johns, Esq 201 The Little Blind Boy. By Miss H. F. Gould ... 220 Lady Olivia and the Traveller. By the Author of TJie Re- former ♦ . . . 221 Alice Lee, By Miss L. E. Landon 231 The Howdie- Witch of Cawdor. By Major Caldeb Camp- bell 235 Remember Me. By Miss Christina Kinqlake . . 253 Bleeding Heart Yard. A Legend. By R. Shelton Mac- kenzie, LL.D 255 The Coliseum at Rome. By N. Michell, Esq,, Author of TJie Saxon's Daughter, An Essay on Woman, &c. . . 273 The Parting Wreath. By C. Swain, Esq 275 Song. By C. J. Davids, Esq 280 The Curse of Montrose 281 The Margate Romance. A Chapter from the Confessions of an Unlucky Traveller 299 England. By Washington Browne, Esq 329 CONTENTS. 7 PAGE The Indian's Reasons for Worshipping the Sun. By J. Forbes Dalton, Esq 330 The Poet and the Magician. By Miss M. A. Browne . 332 No more of Love. By Miss Louisa H. Sheridan . . 335 II Palazzo . . 337 Song. By Miss M. A. Browne 359 The Flag of England. By Charles Swain, Esq. . . 360 PLATES. PAGE 1. Inscription Plate. Painted by T. Bell. Engraved by C. Rolls. 2. Almeria. Painted by E. T. Parris. Engraved by C. Rolls To face the Title 3. The Genie of Wealth. Paintedby Mrs. M'Ian. Engraved by C. Rolls 9 4. The Siege. Painted by S. J. E. Jones. Engraved by S. Davenport 55 5. The Princess of the West. Painted by G. J. Middleton. Engraved by H. Rolls 121 6. Morning Prayer. Painted by J. M. Joy. Engraved by W. H. Simmons 15? 7. A Highland Gillie. Painted by A. Cooper, R.A. Engraved by J. OuTRiM 195 8. Alice Lee. Painted by J. Nash. Engraved by L. Stocks 231 9. The Parting Wreath. Painted by Miss L. Adams. En- graved by E. A. Periam 275 10. Margate. Painted by T. Jennings. Engraved by J. B. Allen 299 11 II Palazzo. Painted by G. Barrett. Engraved by J. E. IIlNCHLIFF 337 ' k in'MfJan.. pina:^ Z:?id/yn,J'u2>*l>yjickemam,kC'J^Jy T3nS G-EB'IIUS OF I^EAILTI THE GENIE OF WEALTH. I had just returned from Anatolia, and had gone to the bath in the Hah Khane Square of Constantinople. On my return, I sat down on one of the benches in front of the coffee-house, to enjoy my pipe and my cup. A dozen Armenians, Greeks, and Turks, were sitting grouped round a little Smyrniote, who was performing his part a I'improviste, for their amusement. What- ever his jests were, they were sufficiently pungent to stimulate oriental ears, for I never saw so many beards move so heartily : " Oh 'tis merry in the hall. When beards wag all," is the old song, but its reality is now to be looked for only among the sons of Islam, the gravest of all ani- mals existing, the owl and the donkey not excepted. However, at last, the little Smyrniote — perhaps, thinking that he was rendering himself too amenable to that law of the Prophet which forbids that any true believer shall be made ridiculous before the infidel — * 10 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. *' tried a softer strain," a true Eastern romance ; as the poet says : " He changed his hand ; and now a lover flies. And now, the dear deserted fair one dies : How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move ? No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love." I obtained a sketch of his romance, which was of re- morseless length, for the Turks are so httle of Sheri- dan's opinion, that they think they can never have '^ too much of a good thing." I curtailed it, cut out all the apostrophes to Mahomet, the histories of the hero's private devotions, his regular ablutions ; can- celled hymns enough to have worn out the lungs of a monk, and abolished raptures that would have raised a blush on the cheek of a prima donna. And here it is. Blessed be the memory of Hassan ben Sadi, ben Achmed, ben Omar ! May his bones lie undisturbed in the valley of peace, may his memory be green as the turban of the prophet, and may the fragrance of his fame spread round the world like the odour of the rosebeds of the Houries ! He is gone ; and we must follow : let it be our praise in the lips of our sons that we were like Hassan ben Sadi, ben Achmed, ben Omar. Hassan was a camel-driver, the son of a camel- driver, the grandson of a camel-driver. One evening, as he was marching with his camels, laden with bales of Indian silk, along the terrible plains that stretch THE GENIE QF WEALTH. 1 I from the shore of the Persian Gulph to Ba«;clad, the air became doubly hot ; it rose in wild gusts^ and rushed round him hke blasts from a furnace. The bliieness of the sky turned fiery red^, the desert before him seemed to rise and swell like the sea which he had left behind, and the immense sweep of the sands seemed to be ploughed by a thousand shares. All was instantly tumult and terror. Hassan had seen the storms of the wilderness in other days,, but the fierceness of the scene round him was terrible. The sands rolled up in sheets, that looked like clouds of flame in the air. His alarm and astonishment were such as he had never felt till that moment. In three hours more he should have reached Bagdad, and in that city of de- lights^ the '' City of the Gardens," should have rested from all his labours. But, what power of earth was now to carry him through those three hours ? The Angel of Darkness rode the howling wind. The Angel of Death was in the pillars of sand that in the glare of the sky looked as if they were molten iron. There, he thought, he must perish beside his camels, that lay on the ground with their lungs con- vulsed, their eyes straining on their master as if in reproach for their agonies, and their long howls echoing dismally through the storm. But, in the midst of the tempest^ a still wilder cry pierced his ear. Descending the side of a hill, a few hundred yards off, a company of horsemen had been 12 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. seen for some time cautiously threading their way among the rocks and bramVjles. But a coUmm of sand suddenly burst upon them, and buried the troop in an instant. They could not have perished more utterly if they had been annihilated. Not a cry was heard ; not a vestige of them was to be seen. Yet, at last, an arm was observed to push itself through the sand, and move wildly, as if the frame below was in the last con- vulsion. Hassan, though fainting with the heat, was bold and humane. He struggled from the place where he thought that he had found his grave, to the pile of sand that lay like the tomb on his fellow man ; caught the hand, drew the body to the light, and, after a long effort, and moistening the parched lips with (he last drop in his watersack, gladly saw the stranger restored to sense and motion. This had been the last fury of the storm. The wind, as if subdued by the will of the prophet, in compassion to a deed of mercy, sunk away. The desert grew calm, the sun threw a last gleam, and that gleam showed the minarets of Bagdad. The search for life in the remainder of the troop was vain. They were found parched up as if they had been burned in a furnace. Hassan's camels lay dead ; he had lost all that he was worth in the world ! But he shared his bag of dates with the stranger, and side by side they walked onw^ard in silence and awe to the gate of the city. THE GENIE OF WEALTH. 13 As they stopped under the shadow of its frowning battlements, Hassan's companion asked him how he meant to get his livelihood in future. " I know not/' was the answer. '* I have but few wants. The desert was enough for my dwelling, and the camel for my camp." "But," said his companion, *' you have lost your camels, and, until you can bring back those with which you set out on this unlucky journey, you cannot return to your tents." *^ Well, I must try to earn something by hiring my- self out to the merchants of the city ; and the man who can Hve on dates and water, whose bed has been the sand, and whose roof the sky, needs not be in much despair, even in cities." '' You are a philosopher," was the stranger's reply. *' But, as even philosophers may be taken up by the city guard, and the most gallant of mankind may be severely bastinadoed unless he can give an account of himself, I recommend it to you to take this purse, and depend upon the love that all men bear to piastres and dinars." But Hassan was bred in a school which pronounced kindness to the stranger the first of duties ; and the young Arab would not stain his honour by taking the coin. The stranger insisted, but all was to no purpose. At length the drum of the city guard was heard ap- proaching the gate. In another moment it would be B 14 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. shut. The stranger suddenly pushed the Arab within- side the gate, then, apparently pressing himself close to one of its pillars of black basalt, bade Hassan fix his eye on the evening star. The Arab gazed with habitual delight on the beautiful planet, which then shone with extraordinary lustre. When he turned his eye to the ground again, he was alone. His friend had vanished, but whether into the sohd pillar, or into the air — whether he were a man, or one of the spirits that take upon them the shape of man — Hassan could not determine — he was gone ! It was now necessary to find a habitation. The night was magnificent, and Hassan had often slept with no other canopy than that which he shared with his camels ; but the approach of the city guard who came on, striking the ground with the iron-shod ends of their lances, soon told him that he must submit to civiHzed life, and sleep in a hovel. He wandered through some of the obscure streets of Bagdad, where his first taste of society was furnished by a whole pack of dogs, famishing for food, and evidently much in- clined to make their supper of the stranger. But Hassan's staff and stout arm kept his pursuers at bay, until he reached the door of a caravansera. There he entered, luckily found the fragments of some traveller's meal, a cup of water, and a corner to lie down in. '* What more," said he, when refreshed by his meal, " what more can man ask, than dates, bread, a cup to drink, and a roof to shelter him! " THE GENIE OF WEALTH. 15 He wrapt his head in his cloak, and prepared to sleep ; but sleep, that comes to the weary, seldom comes to the excited. The adventure of the day had put a fever in the Arab's blood. Before his closed eye, every incident of his perilous escape passed in rapid succes- sion ; and, between his extraordinary danger, the ima- ginative nature of that hour, when all is still but the mind, and the poetic temper of the sons of the desert, he found himself unable to get rid of the idea, that there was something supernatural in the whole event. The character of his strange companion assumed an additional strangeness; he remembered the singular dignity of his countenance, the decisive tone of his voice, the form whose majesty his simple clothing could not disguise, and, above all, his sudden disap- pearance. " Spirits and angels,** said the Arab, " have visited men in old times, why can they not visit them still?" With those impressions gathering on his mind, he at last fell into slumber, but there the whole world of imagination was opened on him. In his dreams he saw his companion, a palpable son of Paradise, de- scending on earth, to rescue innocence, to restrain the rage of the tempest, and to protect the humble alike from the violences of man and the inclemencies of Nature. He saw him riding on the wings of the tem- pest, which had destroyed his camels, and leading himself from the edge of the grave. In the thick coming fancies of the hour, he saw this descended I 16 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. guardian lead his step? through life, protect him against evil, shower wealth upon him, propose the loftiest honours of the East, and finally place him on the throne of the Caliphs. All now was splendour and luxury ; but the sky suddenly darkened, thunder roared, a flash of lightning struck the throne, the whole fell in ruins, and a gulph of unsearchable depth and darkness yawned at his feet. Hassan opened his eyes with a cry of terror, and saw round him a groupe of Armenian merchants, whose place he had taken in the caravansera, and whose kicks and curses, when they found him there, liad made the thunder and lightning of his dream. He sprang on his feet, and explained how he had come there. His bold form^ which could have struggled with the tiger, made the Armenians recoil, but bis handsome face and good-humoured smile soon con- ciliated them. They were about to leave Bagdad in the course of the day, and the Arab, expert in his vocation, was soon engaged to assist in loading their camels. This work employed him until evening : the merchants took their departure, and the Arab, richer by some piastres, returned with a bag of dates and a pitcher of water to his corner in the caravansera, which was now empty. But even in this day he had seen something of the luxuries of city life, and, after attending the merchants from the bazaar where they had purchased their goods to the coffee-house where they had taken their parting meal, Hassan felt by no means disposed to THE GENIE OF WEALTH. 17 set his customary value upon dates and water. How- ever, hunger cannot wait to reason ; he swallowed his simple supper, and wished that he had been born a merchant instead of a camel- driver. " What a mise- rable thing," said he, " it is, to have nothing but a naked floor to lie on, and dates and water for supper for ever ! " As he uttered the words, a shght sound near him made him raise his eyes ; the moon was in her glory, and a broad stream of light poured into the chamber. In its central illumination stood the figure of the stranger. The light fell with such strong radiance on his turban and countenance, that Hassan was almost convinced at the moment of the reality of his dream, and that the stranger was a son of Paradise, colne either for rebuke or for reward. He prostrated him- self before him ; the stranger spoke. '^ I have heard thy complaint. What wouldst thou ? '* '' Great Spirit!" said Hassan, still prostrate, "I ask for nothing but what will support life. I ask for a roof for my head, sandals for my feet, and a meal once a day." " And with those thou wilt be content ? How much money wilt thou require for them ? " *^ A piastre a day," was the answer of the Arab, *' will supply them all." He heard a slight noise as of something falling on the ground. *^ I will see thee again," said the voice, '* on the Sabbath of the Prophet." B 3 I 18 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. There was silence. Hassan in awe dared not raise his eyes for a while. He at length looked up — the chamber was empty, but close to his head lay a small purse of green silk ; he eagerly grasped it ; it con- tained seven piastres wrapt in a slip of paper, on which was written the well-known verse of the Koran, " He is rich who wants httle; he is richest who wants nothing." The Arab started from the ground in an ecstacy of delight. Seven piastres were a larger sum than he had possessed since he had been a camel- driver, but those were more than piastres — they were signs of the favour of Heaven. He determined to sleep no more in the caravansera. He instantly sallied forth, and, in a short time, found a chamber, in which there was a bed ; and that night, at least, he did not lie on the floor. He arose with the dawn^ went to look for work, obtained some, with the price of which he pur- chased food, and returned duly at night. But even his new chamber did not altogether please him so much on the second night as it had done the first. He had worked during the day, carrying par- cels from one warehouse to another, and in the rooms of the clerks he had seen tables, sofas, and other fur- niture, which made tl.e naked walls of his dweUing seem doubly desolate. In the mean time, he had paid a piastre a day for his lodging, and his purse was rapidly sinking to the dregs. On the sabbath no work was to be done, and he spent the day in lamenting over his poverty. THE GENIE OF WEALTH. 19 " How hideous," said he, " are these walls, naked as the rock ! A man might as well be in his grave as sit between these mounds of earth ; yet, bad as they are, I am come to the last piastre. I was better off when I slept on the sands by the side of my camel." The night had fallen, and the question with Hassan was, whether he should expend his last piastre to buy a lamp, or sit in darkness and save it for the morrow. Suddenly a gleam of hght darted through a chink in the door, the door opened, and he saw a burst of dazzling illumination filling the cell. When his eyes had recovered from the sudden glare, he saw that the light proceeded from a singularly powerful lamp in the hand of the stranger. " Hassan," said he, in a voice of dignity, " I have heard thy com- plaints ; what wantest thou ?" '' Son of Light, " said Hassan, bowing to the groimd, '^ I am not worthy that thou shouldst behold me. Thy servant wants but that he should not perish within these damp and chiUing walls. I ask but a divan to rest upon when I am tired, a table whereon to take my meals when I am hungry, a cup of milk for my refreshment, and fire when the dews have wet through my cloak ! " " Thou hast well said," uttered the stranger ; " dost thou not want more ? " *^ Nothing in the world, " was the answer. " Well, then," said the stranger, '* ask no more. 20 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. Those things shall be given to thee. But remember the verse of the Koran — ' To weariness the turf is a throne. To idleness the throne is but a seat of thorns.' '* As the figure departed, Hassan raised his head to follow the retreating steps of this being of power and dignity. He found beside him a heavy purse^ with seven gold coins, wrapped in a slip of paper, con- taining the words of Hafiz — " To-morrow comes, To all men trouble ; But to the fool sorrow. To the wise man wisdom. ** To-morrow flies. To all men twenty-four hours gone. But to the fool a day lost, To the wise a day gained." Hassan, perplexed by the warning, remained sleep- less for a while, thinking on the morrow. But the purse was in his hand, and every man is soon recon- ciled to the future that begins by giving him a purse of gold. He placed it, with a care new to him, in the folds of his turban. His dreams that night were strange and stormy. He thouglit that he walked out into the place of tombs, and that there, taking the purse from his tur- ban, to delight his eyes with the sight of the coin once more, it suddenly swelled till it burst, and scattered the gold round it in all directions ; that he had picked up all the coins but one, which continued to escape THE GENIE OF WEALTH. 21 from him in the most extraordinary manner ; it some- times rolled under his foot, at others slipped from his fingers when they were ready to close upon it ; at other times sprang up, and whirled round his head in circles so rapid that they dazzled his eye. All the world knows the oddity of dreams, and that in sleep the mind never cares for realities. At length the coin rose high above his head, burst asunder, and in its centre showed a small spark of light, beyond all the brilliancy of a diamond. The spark increased, shaped itself into form, and, at length, instead of the coin, exhibited to Hassan a figure of exquisite beauty, with purple wings, floating high upon air, and a wand from which, whenever it touched the earth, a stream of gold seemed to pour. Its face was incomparably beautiful, but the words which issued from lips richer than all the roses of Cashmere were the reverse of flattering to his vanity. " Hassan, you are a fool ! " said the phantom. In dreams we often have strange courage, and Hassan asked " Why ?" " Because you have time, money, and talent, the three things that give every thing to their possessors in this world. Which will you have, wealth, wit, or wisdom ? " " W^it," said Hassan. ^^ Blockhead ! " said the phantom ; '' wits die for want of bread." *' Wisdom, then," said Hassan ; *' a wise man wants nothing but existence." 22 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. " Blockhead again !" said the spirit ; " choose wealth, and you will have both wit and wisdom ; or, if you have neither, the world will give you credit for both." ^' Wealth, then,*' exclaimed Hassan. No sooner had he uttered the words than he heard a clap of thunder. The moon seemed to be suddenly darkened by a cloud, and he heard a rushing sound like that of a remarkably heavy shower. In the next moment he found himself struck on all sides by a shower of metal. Coins fell round and upon him thick as hailstones. By the glimpse of light that remained, he could see that the first handful he took up was bright new-minted gold. His delight was unspeakable ; he gathered it from the ground, stuffed his sash, his bosom, and his turban, with it. The shower still fell; he now grasped it in his hands — his hands could hold no more, he crammed it into his mouth ; he must have gathered at least ten thousand pieces of gold. This, thought he, is enough to make me rich for life ; but I shall never have such another chance. The shower still fell, and the gold had risen as high as his knees ; his neck was weary with the weight of his turban ; his hands could scarcely hold what they had already seized; he was, besides, nearly choked — but was he to lose the shower, which was coming down at the rate of thousands a minute? The gold had by this time risen up to his neck — ^in another moment it would have suffocated him. He was now in terror; the terror rose to agony, the blood burned in his brain ; THE GENIE OF WEALTH. 23 his eyes were straining in their sockets ; he was on the point of perishing. By a last effort, dropping the gold from his liands^ and loosing his girdle, his robe fell off, and with one wild bound he extricated himself from the heap, but came out more naked than he went in. He heard another thunder-clap, opened his eyes, and found that he had fallen on the floor — in the vio- lence of his agony he had overturned his crazy bed, and they had rolled down together. It was now daybreak, and Hassan went to work as usual in the bazaar. A quantity of fine furniture, pre- paring for the Prince of Lahore, filled one of the chief stalls. '' Dreams are for the night," said Hassan, as he looked at the crystal lustres, chests of exquisitely wrought ivory, and pearl-fringed curtains, for the summer pavihons of this luxurious sovereign. '^ If he had more legs or arras than I,'* said Hassan to himself, '* or if he had wings and rode the clouds, there might be some reason for his having all those things, and my having none of them ; but, as the matter now stands, for the soul of me I cannot discover why T should lie on sackcloth, while he lies on silk." The consequence of those meditations was that, before sunset, Hassan had expended one half of the purse in furnishing his chamber. Day by day, as it was found that he was a purchaser, the dealers in second-hand divans, mirrors, and tables, helped him to discover that his chamber still wanted something which they alone could supply. At length the seien 24 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. zechins would go no farther, and it was just then that he found out that they had gone too far. The silks and gilding of his furniture, faded as they were, formed an intolerable contrast with the dark and rough walls. He had, besides, filled the chamber until he found it difficult to move. He now attempted to sell them back again, but the dealers refused to look at them, affirming that it was their business to sell, and not to buy. And as for others, the price they offered was so low, that he might as well have given them away. The week closed on Hassan in bitter vexation. He had a chamber of his own, it is true, and that chamber handsomely furnished, and yet he was more unhappy than when he lay on the sands. On the eighth day, at sunset, he again saw his mysterious benefactor ; he would have run to kiss the hem of his robe, but a for- bidding gesture show^ed him that this august per- sonage was not to be approached with impunity. " What wantest thou ?" said the voice. " This furniture is thy bounty," said Hassan in awe, ** but I have too late learned that it is too much for me, yet I cannot sell it ; to destroy it would be cri- minal, and what is to be done ? " '^ I read thy thoughts," said the form ; ^' thou wouldst have a house instead of a chamber." " I must not call thee angel," said Hassan, '^ I dare not call thee man — but thou knowest the secret of the thoughts that I scarcely know myself! " The stranger silently took from his girdle a purse. THE GENIE OF WEALTH. 25 laid it on one of tlie tables, and disappeared. Hassan sprang from the ground and grasped it ; it contained a hundred zechins, Dayhght saw him on his feet, but he had scarcely made his morning ablutions, when he heard a crier pass through the street, saying that Ben Ali, the mer- chant, was going to India for a year, and wanted a tenant for his house. Hassan followed, was led to the house, a small but elegant building, in a garden of the suburbs, paid down fifty of his zechins on the spot for the year's rent, had his furniture removed to it in- stantly, hired a household, and that night slept under his own roof, master of a mansion. Half the new week was given up to the examination into all the advan- tages of his new purchase. '^ Here," said the delighted master, " I am at my ease for life. A bath, a delicious garden, a summer apartment, with a fountain cool as the snows of the Caucasus, a winter apartment catching every ray of the golden south — I have now obtained every true enjoy- ment that wealth can give. For what can it give more than health, quiet, and comfort ! Let the grand Mogul himself enjoy more, if he can." He was sitting in full view of a brilliant sunset, on the fourth day, as he uttered those words for at least the four hundredth time. A keener observer might have found in the frequency of the repetition some growing doubt of the fact ; for we seldom talk much of things where we are fully convinced. And on this c 26 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. evening Hassan certainly repeated the reflection con- siderably oftener than before. The last repetition was rather ominousl}^ rounded with a prodigious yawn. To the astonishment of the philosopher, the yawn was followed by a peal of laughter. He had evidently been overheard. No man's feelings are much grati- fied by being turned into ridicule. But the laugh was evidently female, and what ridicule is so intolerable ? Hassan sprang from the marble kiosk where he had played the philosopher so unluckily, and glided in the direction of the sound. A lofty wall, which enclosed the gardens of his neighbour, once the Pasha of Erivan, prohibited his going further on his voyage of discovery ; besides, the guards were vigilant, and cu- riosity is soon cooled where it may cost the curious his head. Hassan retired, strangely disconcerted, to his ^chamber ; and, for the first time, began to think that fine houses and fine furniture ought by no means to satisfy the wishes of a man of taste, who was but twenty five, and whom the mirror in which he now gazed with double interest declared to be a re- markably showy personage besides. Morn rose on him after a feverish night, in which Mahomed's paradise, and the Sultan's dungeons, seemed alternately to pass before him, houries to smile - with ineffable charms, and executioners to bastinado with indefatigable bamboos ; the scenes closed with a marriage, in which he had led the Caliph's daughter to a palace, and, as he was approaching the bridal THE GENIE OF WEALTH. 27 chamber, was suddenly seized, sowed up in a sack, and flung into the Tigris. In desperate agitation, he had started from his couch, and rushed into the garden. It was the loveliest of all hours, the daybreak of an eastern summer's day. Every rose breathed doubly delicious fragrance. The sky was a sheet of hyacinths. The air was a breeze of perfume, whose exquisite coolness reached the very soul. Yet, in the midst of this moment of peace, over which the very clouds of morn seemed to bend in calm delight, the voice of sorrow suddenly rose. It was the lamentation of woman for unhappy love. It soon sank in whispers, as if the spirit of the mourner was worn down. The Arab's native imagination awoke, his brain was on fire, and he pronounced, that the woman who sang with a voice so tender must be very young, very much wronged, and, in all probability, very pretty. He now listened with increased attention. To his astonishment he heard — what? Could it be his own name? He hstened again — the fact was confirmed. It was now im- possible to doubt that the weeper was a woman of taste. Yet there were as many Hassans in Arabia as coffee- berries on the trees in Yemen. The thought was perfectly correct and extremely mortifying at the same time. But patience must explain the mystery. Yet what a miserable comforter is patience ? During the rest of that day, he would have sold all the patience in the world for a single glance at the 28 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. matchless creature ; for, that she was matchless who had pronounced his name with such unconscious melody, he could no longer have any imaginable doubt. Nightfall found him looking at the moon, a sure sign of a growing passion ; and shaping to himself a hundred different forms of beauty in the air, the most beautiful of them all inevitably belonging to his love. Again a sound struck his ear ; the low thrilling of a lute accompanied a charming yet a timid voice. But the words were more charming still. They told to the shades of twilight, in the wild yet touching style of Oriental song, that ' the love of Hassan was the cause of the minstrel's sorrow ; that his fame, his wit, and his beauty, were the wonder of all mankind, but fatal to her peace; that the cruelty of a tyrant had discovered her passion for the handsomest of men ; and that she must weep like a fountain till her heart was dry, or melt in the glow of unrequited love, like the peaches of Trebizond before the blaze of the noon- day sun.' To resist all this, Hassan must be more or less than man. He was neither. He sprang up an elm, which flourished in rich foliage over the wall ; and, with thejoss of his turban and the hazard of his head, he gained the battlement, and had a full view of the singer. His fancy had, for once, not deceived him. She was a Georgian, and extremely beautiful. The Georgian is to all other women of the East what the THE GENIE OF WEALTH. 29 Arabian is to all other steeds. She is the stateliest, the most elegant in form, and the most high-spirited. To rescue this loveliest of all possible Georgians from her captivity was worth fifty mansions, or five hundred pashas. While Hassan gazed, the Georgian continued alternately touching her lute, and raising her black eyes to the twilight, which now came slowly dropping its veil over the glittering sun-mists of the hills, like a velvet covering dropt over the jewelled orna- ments of a Sultana's toilet; or the gold plate of a royal banquet, when the guests have departed, and the hall of feasting is still. He perceived that her quick glance had caught his, and he thought that a blush, lovelier than all the carnations of Damascus, glowed on her cheek. His whole fancy was in a flame. He gazed, unconscious of the time, the danger, and the twilight, until he was warned of the whole three by the discharge of a remarkably well loaded carbine, which rattled the branches of his tree round his ears, half choked him with a shower of falling leaves, and put the Georgian to flight at full speed. Love is an excuse for silence, suUenness, and a pro- pensity to hang or drown one*s-self, in every corner of the habitable world. For the rest of the week, Hassan spent his hours in vain efforts to see the dark eyes of his divinity, and, of course, in despair. The sun of course lost its brightness, and the stars withdrew their light ; the flowers were turned into weeds, and the peace that was to be found alone at the bottom of c3 80 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. the crystal river which flowed in front of his mansion became more and more the subject of his meditations. The end of the week approached, and Hassan never longed so mnch for the coming of the benevolent yet grave minister of the Prophet, who had so often relieved his embarrassed soul. Yet what could either man or angel do for him now ! Hassan rose from a sleepless couch on the last morning of a week, which had been the most feverish of his existence. He lingered through the day, thinking that it would never be done. But, if time hung heavily on his hands, it was suflS- ciently rapid with others. At sunset, all in bis neigh- bour the pasha's palace was sudden uproar. His Highness had been convicted of making a fortune rather too rapidly even for Oriental tastes ; the Caliph had accordingly ordered him to refund ; the thing was impossible, for the lordly oflScer had spent the money as fast as he had raised it by the help of the bamboo. Justice is sometimes still more rapid in the East than fortune-making. Justice on this occasion grasped the house, the household, and the harem, of the delin- quent ; and the public crier was heard, half an hour after the announcement of tlie Pasha's exile, proclaim- ing the public sale, for the next day, of every slipper and slipper-wearer that he was worth in the world. The night was stormy, and the tempest which had fallen on the Pasha was no imperfect emblem of the storm which swept over the luxurious groves and gar- THE GENIE OF WEALTH. 31 dens from which he had been driven. As Hassan roamed through the chambers of his mansion, thinking of things that rushed on his brain like the mingled tor- rents and whirlwinds that rushed from the skies, a flash of unusual brightness turned the darkness of the apartment into day, and showed him the stately figure of his visitant standing before him, and surveying his countenance with a fixed calmness of look, which seemed the result of long contemplation. '* You are unhappy," at length he broke silence. "Yet you have what thousands would envy, and what you never could have expected to possess." " I am the most miserable of human beings," was the sudden answer of the Arab, with his dark eye turned on the stranger. ^' What are to me those trifles, a house, slaves, horses ? What is life without society? what is youth without hope? what is man without wife, child, or kindred ?" ^' Were those among your original demands ? " asked the stranger. *' I thought that your wants were rather more simple ; food, clothing, and shelter." ** What ! " retorted the Arab. ^^ Is life to consist of nothing but those ? Is man to be no better cared for than the camel ; or, rather, a thousand times worse ? Are the mere appetites, the mere senses, to be all that we must supply ? Is the mind nothing, the heart no- thing ? Is the one to sleep, and the other to be frozen, or are both to be famished ? and then is man to be told that his happiness is amply provided for ? 32 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. Spirit, Angel, or Genie, whatever thou art, give me the power of possessing but the one lovely being who has turned my soul into an inextinguishable fire, or take all. I was happier, immeasurably happier, before I ever saw thee." The mysterious visitant frowned and turned his head as if to depart, but the Arab's feelings, though keen, were not ungenerous. He rushed after the re- tiring form, grasped the hem of his robe, and implored him with such eloquent distress to return, that he at length prevailed. " I have tried thee, Hassan," said the stranger, in a stern tone ; *' I have supplied thy wants ; they have continually multiplied ; the desire of each new posses- sion has made all the past worthless. What to-day is an enjoyment, to-morrow becomes a necessity. Ab- stain in time." *^' But this once," exclaimed Hassan, with all the impetuosity of passion. As he spoke the words,- a heavy purse fell on the ground at his feet. When he stooped to grasp it, the stranger had vanished. The next day was one of universal animation in this quarter of Bagdad. The fall of the Pacha was au event which put all the great men of the city in motion ; the populace followed the great men ; and the sale of the Pacha's effects by order of the Caliph was a scene of jests, of scoffs, a struf]^gle of bidders, and a triumph of rivals. The fallen find few friends any where, but in the East none j the word of the THE GENIE OF WEALTH. 33 Sultan is law^ and those who share In the spoil easily find it justice. Hassan was, of course, first on the spot. As each successive beauty of the harem was brought forward veiled, he was in a fever of expectation. At length the Georgian came. As the veil was drawn from her forehead, a general cry of admiration rose., The connoisseurs of Bagdad were never so much on the alert before. The great officers of the court pro- nounced her beauty to be worthy of the Caliph alone ; the rich merchants immediately speculated on the prodigious per-centage which they were to make by transporting her to the court of some Indian king. She was certainly a superb creature, tall and statel}', yet with all the flexibility and elegance of youth ; her long hair, dark as the raven's plume ; and her brilliant eye, flashing from under her finely-pencilled brow, like the morning star glancing from under the cloud of twilight. Hassan was more madly in love with her than ever, yet to those who observed her beauties with a cooler glance, there was a haughtiness on her brow, and occasionally a slight curl of contempt on her lip, which showed that the spirit of the Sultana was there, under all the softness of the beauty. But the bidding began — it rose rapidly. Hassan, impatient of the delay, flung his purse into the hands of the Caliph's officer who presided at the sale ; the officer poured its contents upon the table— ^it was a thousand zechins. All looked 34 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. at each other in astonishment, for all were appalled at the price. The great men, ashamed of being publicly ontdone, glided one by one out of the hall. The merchants shook their heads at the extravagance of the young spendthrift, who had bid twice the market value of this tempting commodity ; but the Georgian gave her purchaser a glance and a smile, for which he would have given the purse over again. The hall was now empty : Hassan led bis brilliant purchase to his own home. To prevent the possibility of her being torn from him by the hand of power, he married her on the same evening, and the d'civ closed in festivity. For three days all was oriental amusement, but on the fourth, the wife began to exert her matrimonial privileges. The palace of the Pacha was still empty, and she had enjoyed its splendours too lately not to feel the contrast of her present dwelling. She dis- covered — that her husband's house was small, with but little elegance and no splendour; that his gardens were neither shaded enough for shelter, nor large enough for enjoyment. On the fifth day, she found " that her health was rapidly declining," and that a continuance of what she termed her confinement in that dungeon must endanger her life. Hassan at first de- precated, she pouted at the deprecation ; he then argued, she frowned at the argument. He next re- monstrated, and talked of a husband's authority ; her bright eyes flashed at the remonstrance, and her tongue poured forth a stream of such eloquent indig- THE GENIE OF WEALTH. 35 nation, that Hassan, equally terrified and astonished, rushed out of the house ; pondering as he roved through his gardens on the extraordinary haste with which men throw away their zechins, and the remarkable ill-luck with which they now and then throw themselves away after them. The remainder of the week was past in mutual re- crimination, at length amounting to a declaration of war on both sides; Hassan pronouncing that his mansion, such as it was, was infinitely too good for his wife, such as she was ; that she should look upon herself as only too happy in escaping the tyranny of an old Pacha, overwhelmed with years and iniquities ; and that she ought to thank her stars, for having found a young husband before she had lost all that made her tolerable — her beauty ! The Georgian flamed tenfold at this; declared that, however old the Pacha might be, he was incomparably more captiva- ting than his successor ; that he was as generous as that successor was mean ; and, as the finale, that, let what would come of the matter, she must have a house fit for her reception, or she would make him feel ^*^that the daughters of Georgia, who were prin- cesses in their own country by birth, and fit to be princesses in every other country by beauty, were not to be insulted by every low adventurer, who thought fit to bribe a Cahph's officer by money which he had probably gained on the high road." On the last day of the week, the pair kept apart 36 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. from each other ; the Georgian's eyes were red with angry weeping, and her cheeks were pale with fretted passion. Hassan roamed about the house, with his turban pulled over his brows, biting his lip, and gloomily wishing that his wife would come to her senses, or that his zechins would come to him again. The last evening of the week found him roving along the bank of a small but deep stream, which, after watering his gardens, poured itself into the Tigris. " One plunge," said he, " and all would be over. I have now bound the chain upon myself for life, I have committed the last act of human imprudence with my eyes open. What if Fatima is beautiful, the tiger is beautiful, but its beauty disappears before its teeth and claws. The poisoned flower may be beau- tiful, but who will touch it, when to touch is to die ? I cannot call upon my good Genie — he warned me, I disdained his warning. And I am undone !" The passions of the Oriental belong to his climate ; they are hot as its sun, and wild as its whirlwind. Hassan started from the spot where he had be- queathed his spirit to the Prophet, and made but one bound to the bank of the stream. In another instant, he would have been in its depths, but a strong hand grasped his robe. He turned indignantly, and dagger in hand. It was the stranger who had seized him ! The Arab, abashed, and overwhelmed with this new proof of a presence which he now believed to be un- ceasing, however invisible, cast his eyes on the ground. THE GENIE OF WEALTH. 37 " If you had made that plunge/* said the stranger, " you would have wanted no more mansions, money, or wives, but you would have wanted — what is of more importance than any of the three — common sense, common courage, and common virtue. But I shall not upbraid you now. The power of Beauty is irre- sistible, and the wise man can as little resist it as the fool ; but the wise man avoids the temptation, the fool solicits it." " I feel it all," exclaimed Hassan. " Beauty is the serpent, and it is too late to shrink from the poison, when the fangs are in our heart. The lightning is brilliant, but it is too late to fly to shelter, when the flash has struck the brain. The diamond hilt of the dagger will not cure the wound inflicted by its blade. Genie, I have been mad, but I have now recovered my senses. Leave me to die." " What is thy new want ?" said the stranger. " A want so extravagant," was Hassan's answer, *' that I dare not name it before thee. What less than a palace could please a woman born with the haughti- ness, pride, and ambition of a Sultana ! " The stranger's large dark eye cast on him a glance of compassion, and something of a smile was seen upon his severe lip. The customary purse was dropped at his feet, and he retired. Hassan would have followed to thank him for this rescue from utter ruin, but a gesture of the hand drove him back, and in the next moment he was alone. With a palpitating heart he D 38 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. opened the purse ; it contained a larger sum than he had ever before received, and with it a paper, con- taining these words : — " To-morrow the palace of the Pacha is to be sold. Purchase it, and try if happiness consists in gilded roofs, pompous gardens, and the cares of riches." " The precept is incomparable," thought Hassan, in the joy of the moment. ^' But the experiment is in- comparable, too. If riches fail to give happiness, it is when they fall into the hands of fools. They com- mand all things except wise men, and wise men com- mand them." He hastened to communicate to his wife the intelligence that he was about to purchase the palace. The Georgian's indignation was softened at once. Her magnificent eyes no longer blazed with resentment ; her cheek no longer displayed the alter- nate paleness and hectic of thwarted domination ; she flung herself into his arms, dropped her snowy brow upon his bosom, and over their supper of sherbet and peaches recounted the splendours, luxuries, and de- lights of those stately halls of her late master, which were so soon to be in possession of him, whom she ardently pronounced to be the most delightful, hand- some, and generous, of husbands ! The morrow had scarcely come, when the purchase was made ; and the purchase was scarcely made before the Georgian had run through every chamber, exa- mined every jewel cabinet, and scolded every slave in the vast and glittering mansion. THE GEiNIE OF WEALTH. 39 All this was charming, till it grew tiresome. And it must be acknowledged that there are few things of which one grows sooner tired than of looking at huge rooms and fine furniture. In forty-eight hours, every apartment had been examined, every fountain had been set playing, every musical clock had performed its tunes ; and the superb Georgian had found that there was no novelty in doing the same thing over again for the tenth time. On |the third evening, supper was ordered in an exquisite apartment overlooking the gardens. The hour was dehcious, the cool air breathed in loaded with hving fragrance, the nightingale performed the serenade to the rose. '' Is not all this delightful ?" at length said Hassan, after a lapse in the conversa- tion which had lasted a considerable time. '' Very ! " said the Georgian, with an incipient yawn. *' There is no hour so touching as this, when all nature seems sinking to repose,'* said the husband, suiting the action to the word, and stretching his fine form along the sofa. " You are quite right, my love ; the air itself seems remarkably sleepy," said the wife, with a yawn of the most undisguised kind. The evening was enlivened with a dance by the slaves, a song on the lute, and a moonlight walk to hear the nightingales pouring out a whole concert among the pasha's bowers of roses. But the charm 40 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. was fairly worn out, and the fair Fatima pronounced against another day's solitude, as a matter utterly beyond the patience of any woman not absolutely bed- rid. Hassan explained the disadvantages of attempting to invite guests of whom they knew nothing ; of giving banquets for which they had neither money nor credit ; and giving themselves an infinity of trouble only to be laughed at in the first instance, and put in jail in the second. But he explained to no purpose whatever. He was certainly a rather languid advocate on the point ; and his wife, calmly, but resolutely, insisting that they should live in solitude no longer, Hassan spent the next morning in sending his slaves to invite all the leading personages of the city to a feast ; while the fair Fatima superintended the preparations. Evening came, and the fair Fatima, having inspected her form in the largest mirror in Bagdad, settled the matter with herself, that before that mirror stood the handsomest face and figure in the dominions of the Caliph. But Hassan, having inspected the banquet, was terror-struck by its splendour. He saw in it not merely the expenditure of his last coin, but a prison in the perspective. But it was now too late to mur- mur ; and, drest in a sumptuous costume from the pasha's wardrobe, he followed his brilliant wife into the hall where they were to be so soon restored to all that was showy in society. But the hours passed, and not a turban was to be seen but their own. Mid- THE GENIE OF WEALTH, 41 niglit came, but all was solitude. The high personages of the city, the pashas and officers of the court, the emirs and Beys, had evidently scoffed at the pre- sumption of an upstart daring to expect the honour of their presence. The banquet stood untouched, and the scene closed in Fatima's giving a curtain lecture of remarkable length and pungency, on her own ill luck in losing the most magnificent of pashas to be sold to the most pitiful of renegadoes, and on the intole- rable insolence of Hassan's attempting to monopolise a woman whose beauty was worthy of the Caliph's throne. The unfortunate Arab was totally overwhelmed by this species of attack. It was quite clear that his at- tempt to act the great man had failed. Next day the city rang with laughter at the absurdity of his ban- quet, and the effrontery of presuming that the nobles of the Cahphate would stoop to honour with their pre- sence an adventurer of whom the world knew nothing. He hid his head in shame. But his wife had found out her talent for domestic eloquence, and, with a force which made her ill-omened husband wish that he had been born without ears, she gave him the opinions of a wife in the tone of a sovereign. Two days of this trial fortunately brought the week to an end. A third day would have seen Hassan in the bottom of the Tigris. As the time approached when the visits of tlie mysterious stranger had been hitherto made, the Arab felt at once an anxiety be- d3 42 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. yond all that be had ever felt before to disburden his mind to him, and an unusual dread of his presence. The twilight came, but not with the soft serenity which makes it the loveliest hour of the East. The sky was turbid with vast ridges of heavy clouds ; wild gusts swept the cedars that shaded the marble kiosks of the pasha's gardens, broad shafts of lightning shot from cloud to cloud, and the Tigris, swelled by the torrents of rain, roared and swept along, covered with surges and foam. Hassan, fevered with anxiety, rushed out of the palace, and took a strange delight in encountering the uproar of the elements ; but the storm suddenly increased to such intensity, that even his daring courage was shaken, and he attempted to take shelter in a mosque which, partly temple and partly tomb, had been the burial place of a long line of Pashas. But he was too late. As he reached the threshold, a burst of thunder, and a broad sheet of lightning, striking at the same moment, seemed to en- velop him in flame ; he saw the mosque reel backward and forward in the shock for an instant, and, in the next, found himself buried in the ruins, and thought that all his earthly cares were over. How long he remained in this swoon he knew not, but, on awaking, he found himself lying on a sofa, with a female of singular lovehness watching over him. At his first movement she retired. As he looked round the spot where he lay, his dazzled and disturbed senses conceived that he had at length reached the THE GENTE OF WEALTH. 43 place of Moslem rest, that the earth had been left be- hind, and that he was in paradise. The chamber was a pavilion of the most delicate yet rich materials; curtains of green silk waved gently to let in the aromatic breeze ; flowers of the richest luxuriance seemed to cover the ground wher- ever he glanced beyond the pavilion ; a light, which seemed to his eyes lovelier than moon or star had ever given, showed the faint outlines of groves, lakes, and mountains ; and shapes, clothed in all that he had ever imagined of celestial splendour, were seen moving singly or in groupes through endless ranges of pavi- lions, that glowed as if they were built of solid pearl topaz, and diamond. But the strangest source of this brilliant illusion was in the recollection of that coun- tenance which had hung over him, and vanished like a spirit in the instant of being seen. It was just one year since Hassan had seen that countenance on earth, and seen it swept from him by the angel of death. It was just one year since he had been the most devoted lover in his tribe, had been on the point of becoming the husband of the loveliest girl of that tribe ; and had, to his agony, seen her and her camel swept away in an attempt to cross the Tigris after a storm like that which had so lately over- whelmed himself. All search had been in vain. The camel was thrown up dead on the shore, Esme's veil and shawl were found floating on the waters ; and there all trace was at an end. But Hassan was con- 44 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. viuced that he had now found her^, where the spirits of love and beauty are alone to be found — in paradise. Transient as the glance was, it revived all his passion at the instant. What were the haughty captivations of the Georgian, or the luxuries of earthly opulence, to the loveUness which had first thrilled his heart, and was now where anguish, distrust, or coldness could come no more ! But while he gazed on the splendours around him with the mystic raptures of a vision, he was suddenly wrapt in darkness, and heard the well-known voice of the stranger. ^' Hassan," said the solemn tones, " what wish hast thou still ungratified? The pasha is dead. His pashalik awaits the disposal of the Caliph. Speak the word, and it is thine.'* The whole picture of power instantly offered itself to the Arab's mind. Once pasha, he should accomplish every desire. The nobles of Bagdad, instead of in- sulting him by their refusal, would crowd to his halls ; his talents, of which he had begun to conceive a high idea, would find a field for their display. " The world was still a showy world, and the man who threw away fortune deserved to see it abandon him for ever." For a moment the flame of ambition dazzled his eyes, and he was about to pronounce the final accept- ance of the superb offer. He had actually bent the knee before the dim outline of the stately figLU^e, THE GENIE OF WEALTH. 45 which now beo^an to grow on the darkness; when the thought of his Arab maiden rushed on his mind. '' Mighty being," he exclaimed, *' whether thou treadest the earth or comest from the clouds, whether thou art wise among the wisest of the sons of men or bringest wisdom from the stars of heaven — hear the humblest of thy slaves ! " Strong emotions, of a nature which he had never felt before, checked his voice. Life seemed at once to have assumed a new colour. His mental eye had acquired a neW faculty of discovering the truth of things. Even the stranger's majestic form grew more majestic, as, with one hand uplifted and bearing a wand, it appeared to be preparing some high ceremony of incantation. *' Deliberate well, son of the dust, before thou re- fusest pomp, pleasure, and power," were his words. " Will they give love?" murmured the awe-struck Hassan. " Will they fill up the vacancy of the heart ? will they give contentment ? will they cool the fever of ambition ? will they make me happier than I was, when, with the woman I loved by my side, I wandered along our valley, lord of nothing but a tent, a camel, and a contented mind ?" '^ Think of the pashalik ! " repeated the solemn visitant. '^ Think of the command of armies, of the adoration of the multitude, of the troops of slaves, of the jewelled courtiers, of the popular shout, of the splejidid banquet, of the matchless harem ; of being the envied, the honoured, the dazzling, and the re- nowned ! " 46 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. "Demon!" exclaimed the Arab, starting upon his feet, " tempt me no more ; 1 know thee now. Terrible was the hour when first I met thee. Storm and death, the rage of the elements, and the power of the grave, were the fit harbingers of that temptation which has driven me on from one wild wish to another, and held me in a chain of perpetual cravings, per- petual disappointments, and perpetual torture. Be- gone ! I will be tempted no more. Let me but be as I was on the fatal day when first I saw thee." '' The pashalik ! " repeated the stranger, in a still more powerful tone. " Fiend, begone !" was the single outcry of Hassan ; who, at the same moment, felt his arms pinioned, bandage flung over his mouth, his head wrapped in a thick covering, totally divested of the power of seeing or struggling, and hurried away, he knew not whither. After what he conceived an interval of some hours, he found this wild progress suddenly stop. He heard the sound of funereal music, the chant of voices mingled with the yell of slaves, and scented the heavy odours of incense. The coverings were taken from his eyes, and he found himself lying under a vast canopy, curtained with huge folds of black velvet. A faint light quivered through a lofty hall, round which stood slaves with their heads bent upon their bosoms, and all the costume of oriental mourn- ing fur one of the great men of the land. THE GENIE OF WEALTH. 47 Bewildered at the sight, Hassan gazed awhile, in doubt whether all were not but another portion of his dream ; but, when he attempted to rise, a burst of horror, mingled with astonishment, swelled through the hall; he sprang from the sofa, and all was instant flight, the lamps were struck down in the confusion, all was darkness once more, and Hassan, in still deeper perplexity, remained fixed to the spot, until he should recover his faculties sufficiently to unravel this most mysterious of all his adventures. But, in feeling his way round the vast chamber, he touched a door, which gave way before him. What there met his wandering and delighted eye? That door opened on a landscape, bathed in the purple beauty of twilight ; the sun was shedding a flood of rose-coloured light from the west, and in the softened radiance shone a cottage, embowered with all the fra- grant fruitage of the eastern garden. Every feature of that cottage was familiar to his eye ; but, as he gazed with enjoyment such as he thought he was never to feel again, he saw a form gliding through the thicket of flowers and moving towards him. With an exclamation of delight, he sprang forward, and found that the lovely vision was no shape of air, that his Arab maid was restored to him, was in his arms, was breathing out her joy in sighs a thousand times more eloquent than words, and weeping those tears which happiness sends from the heart — Hassan had found life, love, and his cottage, restored at the same instant. 48 THE GENIE OF WEALTH. When he could at length find words—-" Light of my soul!" he exclahned, raishig the blushing girl's face from his bosom, that he might behold its beauties with new rapture j *' my Esme, what beneficent angel, what bounty of the Prophet, has brought thee back to life and me?" The lover's speech was broken short by a loud laugh. He looked up indignantly : the mysterious stranger was looking down from an arbour immediately above his head. " Thank the Prophet for something else, Hassan," said he ; " for this was my doing. Come, no prostration ; I am neither angel, nor magi- cian, nor even the demon, which you did me the ho- nour to think me so lately. 1 am but a man after all, and have to thank you for a new and amusing display of human absurdity." *^ What art thou, then /" said Hassan, partly re- suming his self-possession. " Every thing and nothing, as it may happen," was the answer. " I am fond of originals, and you struck me as one of the oddest of them. Chance threw us together — chance made some of the adventures that drew you out ; the rest owed themselves to whims of my own." ** Am 1 dreaming or awake? is all this magic or reality ?" asked the astonished hearer; then, throwing his arm round the slender waist of Esme — '* But here at least is no deception. This is true woman, true beauty, true delight ! " THE GENIE OF WEALTH. 49 '' Oh, beyond all question," was the stranger's reply. " The girl is beautiful, loves you, is worth all the heart that you have to give, and is worth a hun- dred Georgians besides." Hassan's cheek coloured, and Esme fixed the darkest pair of eyes in all Arabia on him with an inquiring look. " To prevent any further inquiries on that point," said the stranger with a smile, " the Georgian is gone, exactly twenty-four hours since. She had, like nine- tenths,of her charming sex, a remarkable fondness for rank, so, as the pasha of TripoH was passing her palace, she ran off with him ; he is only old enough to be her father, but she will be the wife of a pasha ; he is a human baboon, a superannuated blockhead, a toothless tyrant, but she will be the wife of a pasha 1" " But why supply me with such sums of money, why indulge all my follies, why plunge me into one absurdity after another?" asked Hassan. " I give you a woman's answer, yet the true one. It was my caprice. I wished to see how far man would go in pursuing his eagerness for possession, and leaving his happiness behind. I should have gone further still, and tried my experiment on human nature to the last extreme, but for the thunder-storm which had so nearly put an end to all your oddities, and which, by accidentally throwing the woman of your heart in your way, showed me that you had a heart. The thing is so rare that it was worth respecting, and, £ 50 HOPE AND DEATH. after having discovered that you were not altogether a fool, I amused myself again by assisting you to become a sage. Besides^ you had saved my life, and I owed you something. You are now in the gardens of the Caliph Omar." " Generous and noble being !" exclaimed Hassan, '' while the Caliph has such men in his dominions, well may he be called the most illustrious prince of mankind. And who art thou?" " The Caliph Omar." XlMENES. HOPE AND DEATH. BY R. SHELTON MACKENZIE, LL.D. Hope is a legacy the Dead bestow On us who mourn their quick and early flight; It whispers comfort in Affliction's night. And, like the angel at the Saviour's tomb. Sheds heaven-sent light upon our mortal gloom 1 Death marks his prey when least they think of him ; He rushes, like a lion, from his lair — The blooming cheek grows pale, the bright eye dim. And the brow darkened with a wild despair. We shudder with a sense of mortal pain — We weep, as if our tears could wake the dead ; — Then white-robed Hope descends : '' Ye meet again In the far clime where those ye mourn have sped !" THE STARS. BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. Make friendship with the Stars. — Go forth at night. And talk with Aldebaran, where he flames In the cold forehead of the wintry sky. Turn to the sister Pleiades, and ask If there be death in heaven ? a blight to fall Upon the brightness of unfrosted hair ? A severing of fond hearts ? a place of graves ? — Our sympathies are with you, stricken Stars, Clustering so closely round the lost one's place. Too well we know the hopeless toil to hide The chasm in love's fond circle — the lone seat Where the meek grandsire, with his silver locks. Reclined so happily — the fireside chair Whence the fond mother fled — the cradle turn'd Against the wall, and empty — well we know The untold anguish, when some dear one falls. Too oft the life-blood, trickling from our hearts. Reveals a kindred spirit torn away. 52 THE STARS. Tears are our birthright, gentle sister train. And more we love you that like us ye mourn. Belted Orion ! with thy lion-shield ! What tidings from the chase? what monster slain? Runnest thou a tilt with Taurus ? or dost rear Thy weapon for more stately tournament ? Fair queen Cassiopeia ! is thy court Well peopled with chivalrous hearts, that pay Due homage to thy beauty ? Thy levee. Still is it thronged as in thy palmy youth ? Is there no change of dynasty ? no dread Of revolution 'mid the titled peers That age on age have served thee ? Teach us how To make our sway perennial in the hearts Of those who love us, so that, when our bloom And spring-tide wither, they, in phalanx firm. May gird us round, and make life's evening bright. But thou, oh Sentinel, with changeless eye. Guarding the northern battlement of Heaven, For whom the seven pure spirits nightly burn Their torches, marking out, with glittering spire. Both hours and seasons on thy dial-plate; How turns the storm-tost mariner to thee ! The poor, lost Indian, having nothing left In this his ancient realm — not even the bones Of his dead fathers — lifts his brow to thee. THE STARS. 53 And glads his broken spirit with thy beam. The weary caravan, with chiming bells. Making strange music 'mid the desert-sands, Guides, by thy pillared fires, its nightly march. Reprov'st thou not our faith, so oft untrue. To the Great Pole-Star, when some surging wave Foams o'er our feet, or thorns beset our way ? Speak out the wisdom of thy hoary years, Arcturus ! patriarch ! monarch of the train. That gather radiance from thy golden urn. We're but of yesterday — short-sighted sons Of this dim orb, and all our proudest lore Is but the alphabet of ignorance : Yet, ere we trace its little round, we die — Give us good counsel, ere we pass away. Lyra ! sweet Lyra ! sweeping on with song. While glorious summer decks the listening flowers. Teach us thy melodies; for sinful cares Make discord in our hearts. Hast thou the ear Of the fair planets that encircle thee As children round a hearth-stone? Canst thou quell Their woes with music? or their infant eyes Lull to soft sleep ? Do thy young daughters join Thine evening hymn ? Or does thine Orphean art Touch the warm pulses of thy neighbour stars And constellations, till they higher lift The pilgrim staff, to run their glorious way ? E 3 54 THE STARS. Hail, mighty Sirius! monarch of the stars [ Whose golden sceptre subject worlds obey. May we, in this poor planet, speak to thee ? Thou highest dweller in the highest heaven. Say, art thou nearer to His throne, whose nod Doth govern all things ? Hear'st thou the strong wing Of the archangel, as it broadly sweeps The empyrean to the furthest orb. Bearing Heaven's watchword ? Knowest thou what report The red-haired Comet, on his car of flame. Brings the recording seraph ? Hast thou heard One whisper through the opening gate of heaven. When the pale stars shall fall, and yon blue arch Be as a shrivell'd scroll ? Thou answerest not ! Why question we with thee. Eternal Fire ! We, frail and blind, to whom our own dark moon. With her red phases, is a mystery ? Back to the dust, most arrogant! Be still ! Deep silence is thy wisdom ! Ask no more ! But let thy life be one long sigh of prayer. One hymn of praise, till, from the broken clay. At its last gasp, the unquenched spirit rise. And, unforgotten 'mid unnumbered w^orlds. Ascend to Him from whom its essence came. Hartford, Connecticut. (U.S.) 1 ^, * ■,*. ■♦ THE SIEGE. BY DOUGLAS JERROLD. " This morning, Reinhold Dort, the money-changer, was found dead in his bed." — " Yesterday, Helena Hecht, the fair young wife of Peter Hecht, the clothier, in the market-place, was taken from him." — " Old Abraham, the apothecary at the Elephant, is gone too." — '' And the pretty babe of Martha Gratz." — ^^ And the burgomaster's page." — '' And Gottfried, the blind beggar at the western gate."— " Shame! shame I" cried twenty voices in according chorus, and some frowned their discontent, and some idly shook their clenched hands above their heads. ^' Ye are bold citizens, to cry thus out on death, and death's works," said a young man, who, leaning against a door, listened with thoughtful face to the tragic gossip of the talkers. " Death's works ! " exclaimed one of the knot ; ^* marry, yes — death and the governor." 'And the governor? A money-ringer of three- 56 THE SIEGE. score and odd sleeps into death ; a young wife defies the doctors; the man of rhubarb finds all physic vain ; a baby dies teething ; a beggar of eighty needs at last a grave ; and all these deeds," cried the young man, with a contemptuous laugh, " ye lay upon the go- vernor !'* '^ And on none but him," replied one of the crowd; and a shout from his fellows approved his answer. *^ On none but him. There is no hope of relief for the city." '' How know you that ? " calmly asked the youth. *^ I — I have no hope," said the man doggedly. " Happily, Simon Holzkopf, though, as I believe, the quickest tailor of your quarter, the safety of the city rests not upon you. It may be saved, though you have lost all hope." *' And we are to behold our wives and children fall down dead before our faces !" cried Simon ; ^' hear ye that, my masters? we are to starve, and starve in silence too ! " '^ The governor, I doubt not," cried another of the crowd, '' finds patience in his larder." " I saw him yesterday," said a third, " and it made my blood boil to see how sleek and fat he looked. Ha, Simon ! I wish that you and I, and every honest burgher among us, had no more than a lark for every capon swallowed by his governorship since the siege — only one mouthful of sour wine for every quart he has taken of the best Rhenish." THE SIEGE. 57 " Ay, ay," cried the tailor, and he clutched his jerkin, '' our clothes would hang with better credit to the makers, eh. Master Caspar? for I think I have seen the day when your feathers have been finer, ay, and have shone upon plumper limbs. That's hardly the leg of Martinmas last," and Simon Holzkopf glanced askant at the attenuated figure of the young man, who had braved the displeasure of his fellow- townsmen by advocating the pohcy of the determined governor. " Never heed the leg, Simon," said Caspar airily, " it may dwindle to a rush, still my heart shall not be too heavy for it." " And is there no hope of a capitulation ? will the governor not relent?" asked more than one of the mob. '* Another week — only another week — 'tis said, he purposes to keep the enemy out. — If, b}^ that time, no succour comes — " " It matters not," cried an old man, " what banner floats upon our walls, since death, death will be at all our hearths." " Men ! " exclaimed Simon Holzkopf, " shall we endure this? Shall we drop into our graves, whilst the pampered governor " " Down with the tyrant! " shouted the mob, and Simon, animated by the cry, proceeded in his oration. *' Whilst the pampered governor feasts upon the best ? What cares he for our shrieking babes, our 58 THE SIEGE. weeping wives? — he, gorged witli the fat of the earth, drunk with the wine of " *' Peace, fool ! " cried Caspar, and, at his indignant voice, the eloquent tailor stood suddenly silent with open mouth ; " peace — this is no hour to babble false- hood, foolish at any time, most base and wicked at a time like this. We have all suffered— all must suffer ; not one throughout the city but has felt the fierceness of the war. In every place has hunger had its vic- tims." '' The nuns of St. Ursula have eaten their grey parrot," exclaimed Hans Potts, an idle wag, known to many of the mob ; and, whilst some laughed at the sally, some, condemning it, called out for Caspar to proceed. " Not one among us," cried the young man, " hath fared more hardly than the governor. You — you, Simon Holzkopf, who know every dish upon the go- vernor's table, every flask of wine in the governor's cellar, tell me the dainty that he fed on yesterday. You cannot guess — no ; it is too rich, too costly, for your simple apprehension — you cannot dream of such a rarity! Fellow townsmen!" and young Caspar turned for a moment from the abashed Simon to the still increasing crowd, '^ you remember the holiday at Easter last ? The governor rode through our city, and feasted with the merchants at their hall. The horse he sat a king might have backed — a beautiful, a glorious thing, a creature that scarcely touched the THE SIEGE. 59 earth — an animal of perfect frame and blood. You all remember how your eyes were fixed upon it^ and the brute, as conscious of its beauty, pranced to your shouts. Yesterday the governor dined off that horse ; with the meanest of his men he drew lots for a choice morsel of that noble steed. " " A burgomaster's wife/' cried Hans Potts, '' has made a roast of her monkey; Hard times, my mas- ters, when the siege sends our best friends to the spit ! " " Silence, hound !" exclaimed an old man ; ^' is this an hour to fling about your sorry jests, when those we love are dropping dead around us? Peace, mum- mer! Speak you truly, Caspar? is the garrison so straitened? " '* Go you to the walls — ask not of me," replied the youth; ^' go, and bthold the sight I've quitted; if that convince ye not, hang up the governor, and call in the foe." " What sight? what sight? " roared the mob. ^' Famine feeding on a thousand men — burly sol- diers, shrunk almost to skeletons ; their flashing, hope- ful eyes deep set, and flickering with a horrid glare ; their manly cheeks pinched in with want ; their hearty, jocund voice sunk to a hoarse whisper; their gallant bearing changed to slow decrepitude ; their looks of victory to the blank stare of coming death." " Horrible ! horrible ! down with the governor ! " exclaimed the crowd. 60 THE SIEGE. " They suffer this, but suffer nobly," cried Caspar ; " not a murmur, not a look of treason to the stern will of him who rules them. Martyrs to the glory of their arms, they stand resolved — come what will, they have sworn with the governor to hold the citadel another week." *^ Glory ! a pretty word, i' faith ! Shall we dry our wives* eyes with it? will it fill our children's bellies ?" cried one of the crowd. " I trow they've something more toothsome than glory for supper," said a second ; '' or does the go- vernor's lady and his delicate daughter feed off the insipid dish ? If so, 'twill spoil their pretty looks." A derisive shout followed this remark, and again the crowd called for vengeance on the governor. " Let's to the citadel !" cried fifty voices, and '' To the citadel ! " hallooed the mob. With the words, the crowd rushed onwards, but soon halted in their course. Many paused, as they avowed, to reconsider their determination; the greater part slunk home; and when, at length, the discontented townsmen halted at the outer gate, few were to be seen save the half- dozen immediate partizans and admirers of Simon Holzkopf and Hans Potts. Whether they demanded instant audience of the governor, at the time sur- rounded by his family, gazing wistfully from the walls for expected succour, or whether, contented with his stein answer just rendered to the civic authorities then in the garrison, they held their peace, the archives of THE SIE<5E. 61 the city give no note. Quitting the discontented, self-dubbed deputies, let us return to the hero of our story, Caspar Brandt. " And the good widow, Caspar ? " asked the old man who had rebuked the wit of Hans Potts, and who, on the flight of the crowd, walked slowly towards the market-place with the youth ; " these are sorry times for necessities like her's; how fares she? " Caspar answered not — strove with manly strength to repress the emotion ; but a deep groan burst from his lips — he paused, and quivered like a struck reed. '* Caspar — Caspar Brandt !" cried the old man, and caught the youth in his arms. '* Blessed Virgin ! what ails the boy ? '* " Nothing — nothing ; a sudden faintness, nothing more;" and Caspar, with a sickly smile, pressed the o!d man's hand. " By all the saints ! your hand burns Hke heated stone. Come — come to my house — I have yet half a cup of wine, that, for the love of old times, for the grateful thoughts I bear your mother, kind in the days of misery and death to me and mine, shall be spared you. Tell me, how fares the widow ? " " Sick, Master Martin, sick almost to death," an- swered Caspar. " For tw o months she has kept her chamber — for two months has been almost helpless. Still, her state brings this poor comfort with it ; she knows not the extreme misery of the town — knows not the bitter suffering of her friends and neighbours." ■ 62 THE SIEGE. ^' And her wants, Caspar ? Alas ! " cried the old man, " affliction has made me selfish — steeled my heart to old acquaintance, else I had sought you long since. Now, Heaven help me ! I can do nothing. Her wants — how are they supplied ? " '^ She needs but little, of the simplest kind, and that — Heaven be thanked ! — I have obtained, may still obtain, for her. She will die — she cannot wrestle with the sickness that consumes her ; she will die ! " re- peated the young man, in a hollow, hopeless voice, and big tears started from his eyes, " but not — not with famine ;" and, as he spoke, the youth clenched his hand, and trod the earth with new strength. " Nay, her years give every thing to hope," said Martin. *' At little more than seventeen — ah me ! it seems but yesterday — she was your mother. And still she has kept her youthful face — still, in looks, has seemed no other than your elder sister." " Ay, Master Martin, ay. God pardon me ! " ex- claimed the youth, and the tears poured anew down his cheeks, " God pardon me, and make me humble ! but now — now I cannot think of losing her, and pray for meekness." " Hope should be the young man's staff, as 'tis the old man's crutch," said Martin. " You will not lose her, trust me, no ; the present troubles past, all will be well again. Come — in a half-cup of poor wine," said Martin, lowering his voice as he passed a pas- senger, who paused a moment, and leered with the THE SIEGE, 63 malice of keen want at the old man^ talking too loudly of a priceless luxury, " let us, good Caspar, drink to better times. A half-cup, boy, a poor half-cup," and the old man sighed, as he paused at his threshold. Draw- ing the key from his pocket, he unlocked the door, and led the way into a house, where once comfort and heaped plenty gave a constant welcome. " Sit down, Caspar ; your father has sat in that chair, when the roof quaked with the laughter of fifty throats — when Fortune herself served at the hearth, and seemed my handmaid. Well, well, the hearth is quenched now ; the old, old faces are passed hke morning shadows ; the sweet, constant voices are heard but in my dreams ; and I sit at my cold fireside, an old, grey- headed, solitary man. But come, boy, the wine !" and Martin took a small flask from a shelf. '^ What stirs you ? " asked the old man, seeing Caspar start. ^' Your pardon. Master Martin — is not that bread?" and Caspar pointed to a small loaf by the flask on the shelf; at the same moment a deep bkish crimsoned the young man's face, and he sat as though detected in an act of shame. Martin took the loaf, and, gazing in Caspar's face, a tear shone in the old man's eye, and his voice trembled as he spoke. ^^ Is it so, lad ? God help you 1 is it so ? " " Forgive me. pray, forgive me 1" stammered Cas- par. " I have another,'* said Martin ; " your mother was 64 THE SIEGE. the playmate of Margaret, my own bright gh'l — tended her in sickness — would, with the love of early girlhood, watch her in death ; I tell you, boy, I have another," cri(^d the old man with vehemence ; '^ take it, and God increase it to you ! " " Never ! I am not that sordid, selfish wretch to rob old age," cried Caspar, and he sought to reach the door. ^' I tell you, boy, I have another," exclaimed Mar- tin; " you hear? another," and he placed himself before the youth. '*' Where is it ? " asked Caspar ; '^ make me see it ; • and so bitterly has the time wrung us, that, for her dear sake, I will, I must, despoil you." *' The loaf is — 'tis — 'tis locked up — the key in my chamber; T have wine — have feasted twice to-day," said Martin ; but Caspar mournfully shook his head, and, hurriedly embracing the old man, attempted to depart. " You do not quit me thus," cried Martin, holding the youth. '^Heaven forgive me! I knew not that things had gone so hardly with you. Hear me ; to-morrow T have a new supply — a friend, an old, old friend has promised me. If, boy, if you would see your mother live, cast not away her life upon an idle form. Caspar Brandt, in the name of your dead father, whose spirit at this moment lingers at this hearth, share this with 5'our father's friend." Saying this, old Martin forced the loaf into Caspar's hand, and broke it. " Now, boy, get you home," said THE SIEGE. 65 Martin, seating himself; " bear my good wishes to your mother, and leave me to my supper." Again Caspar embraced the old man, and, swal- lowing a half-cup of wine forced upon him by the hospitable host — for surely hospitality was in that broken bread, that meagre vintage — hastened from the house. Martin, for the first time, tasted food that day, but he sat not in solitude at his deserted fireside, for he ate his crust, and drank his humble draught, with the spirits of the dead gathered about his board ; and the dry bread became manna, and the wine a draught for saints. Caspar hurried to a distant quarter of the city, where, at the commencement of the siege, he had se- cured an asylum for his sick mother ; where, day and night, he had watched her sinking health. The rent of three small houses, bequeathed to her by her father, most frugally applied, had enabled the widow to sup- port herself and child ; but, since the war had closed about the city, all trade had ceased, debts were no longer paid, social obligations no longer respected or acknowledged. It had been the chief care of Caspar to disguise from his motlier the extent of the calamities that pressed around them ; and though, deceived by his filial tenderness, she knew not half the misery that threatened them — half the horrors raging in the city — she read with a mother's eye the haggard story written in her son's face : it was plain that he was sinking beneath the task of administering to her com- f3 66 THE SIEGE. fort, her repose. He had, on the day on which our story opens, been many hours from home; and the widow sat with a beating heart, and with a thousand thoughts of undefined danger busy in her brain, watching the dedining rays of a spring sun. Every sound smote her soul with disappointment, for it was not Caspar's footstep. Thus she sat, until suspense became a torture, until, with her overwrought fancy, she had filled her chamber with phantoms of terror, until she was surrounded by a host of fears. '' Caspar ! Caspar ! " she shrieked, and sprang from her chair as the youth entered the house. " Mother ! " exclaimed the boy, and in a moment he stood in the chamber, embracing his parent. '' Now, God be praised ! " cried the woman, *^ God be thanked, and may my doubts — the fears of a widowed mother — meet forgiveness ! Oh, this is a blessing ! " and the widow again caressed her son. " Mother, how is this ? Why did you rise to-day — and what is here?" and Caspar pointed to the widow's cloak, for the mother, worn with anxious watching, had resolved to seek her son abroad. '' You have stayed late, Caspar, very late," said the widow, evading an answer to his question — " very late. What has happened? what news from the walls?" " We shall beat them yet, mother," said Caspar, with a forced smile: " fear not — still we shall have THE SIEGE. 67 merry days. The governor is strong in hope — we shall beat them yet." ^^Alas! my boy, you are pale and weary — need rest and nourishment." " A little rest, mother, only a little rest," said Caspar, " for to-day I have fared nobly with our old friend, Martin, of the market-place. I have drunk wine to-day, mother; and see, here is bread for sup- per^" and the boy placed a portion of the loaf upon the table, and hastily quitted the room. Descending a staircase, he unclosed a door which opened into a little stone-paved court ; a goat ran to him, and gam- bolled about him. Caspar, breaking the bread which he had received from Martin, gave it to the animal to eat. " Come what will," said the youth, looking mournfully upon the feeding creature, " come what will, you must not go supperless ;" and Caspar, re- serving only a small piece of the loaf for himself, gave the remainder to the hungry goat. He then, with new looks of cheerfulness, returned to his mother. '' Yes, Caspar, " said the widow, *^ 1 feel that this misery will end — it would be wickedness to doubt it. Your love, your tenderness, my brave boy, must find the recompense of happy days. Such virtue cannot pass away unknown and unrewarded." '^ I am rewarded, ten times overpaid, dear mother, by your fond words — your doting looks. There, you are better to-day, I am sure, much better; your voice is stronger — your eyes brighter^" said the son. " Let 68 THE SIEGE. this hateful war once cease — let these horrid tumults end — this sickening, desolating want give place to old, familiar comforts, and you will be strong, be happy, once again." '' I am happy, Caspar — believe it, boy, profoundly happy. But for these times of peril I had never known my son. Good, gentle, and tender, I ever thought him, but I had not known his full nobility of soul, his generous contempt of wrong, his scorn of selfishness in selfish times." " Mother ! " cried the youth, blushing at the praise, and playfully placing his hand to her lips. As they sat, embraced in each other's arms, the still young and beautiful face of the widow, a face to which even sickness had added a soft and melancholy sweetness, and the flushed, animated, manly countenance of the youth, presented a picture of the purest love, the holiest affection, digjiifying human hearts — the love of mother for her child, the answering devotion of child to parent. Never was maternal tenderness more ex- quisitely manifested — never filial duty more devoutly paid. Thus they sat, and Caspar, looking in his mo- ther's face, taught himself to hope for coming health — never had she looked so sweetly beautiful. " Let the war be ended," he thought, " and all will be well again." With these new hopes Caspar rose, and, taking a small earthen vessel from a shelf, quitted the room. An hour and more had elapsed since the goat had taken her scanty meal, and Caspar was again THE SIEGE. 69 about to descend the stairs that led into the court, when he was startled by a loud, quick knocking at the door. " Who knocks there ? what seek you ?" asked Caspar, his hand upon the door-bolt. '^ Open the door, Caspar Brandt ; we would speak with you," answered a voice without. " We are sent by the burgomaster : honest men fear not the magistrate." At these words, Caspar drew the bolt, and opened wide the door. Instantly the passage was filled with the under-officers of justice. " Caspar Brandt," said one of them, ^' you must come with us." "First tell me for what," answered Caspar, draw- ing back. " That you shall know in proper season," said the officer; " in the mean time, you are our prisoner." " Prisoner ! Impossible ! With what am I charged ? What have I done?" asked Caspar. " Tut, tut, you have heard the proclamation ; for all your innocent looks, you know well the governor's orders; hark, my masters! do ye hear it?" and the officer pointed his staff towards the court, where the goat was at that moment heard to cry. "Away with him !" exclaimed one of the officers, a gigantic burly fellow; and as he spoke he seized the youth by the collar, and suddenly dragged him into the street, where he was instantly surroimded by the guards. " Be still, be patient, Caspar Brandt," said one of the officers ; " for, if the people should learn your crime, they'll tear you piecemeal." 70 THE SIEGE. " Crime ! crime !" cried the bewildered Caspar. " The proclamation of yesterday makes your offence a fatal one. What ! at a time like this, feed a beast with fine wheaten bread I — when Christian babes are withering with want, cast loaves to goats!" cried the officer. " But come, and take my counsel — come peaceably — the judge will hear you." Caspar, conscious of the innocence, nay, of the goodness, of his intentions, resigned himself into the custody of his guards, and, assured that he could satis- factorily justify the seeming wastefulness condemned by the officer, felt confident of speedy liberty. His only anxiety, his only fear, was lest his mother had overheard the parley between himself and his captors, lest his sudden absence from the house should cause her new alarm. As he was led to the justice hall, the following crowd continued to increase, and with eager- ness inquired the offence of the prisoner. At length one of the guards — he had been roughly handled by Caspar when hauled into the street — dropped a few malicious hints to two or three earnest inquirers, who were not slow to piece out an ample enormity where- with to charge the culprit. The story ran from mouth to mouth, losing nothing as it went. *^'0h! the monster! feed cattle with bread! nou- rish dogs on loaves, and men and women perishing with hunger I" cried one. ^' Dogs !" exclaimed a second, '^ feed dogs ! I doubt not he hath somewhere a whole pack of hounds, fat and sleek with food stolen from Christians." THE SIEGE. 71 " Ha ! ha !" shouted Simon Holzkopf, '^ and this is the rare fellow, who preached patience to us this morning; who gave us a sermon on the goodness of starvation. Look at the villain^ townsmen — did ye ever see so stout, so burly a rogue, filled to the lips with the fat of the land ? — but that is not enough ; 't is not sufficient that he must lard his own stomach, but he must rob the poor to feed his beasts." '^ What said the proclamation ?" asked another; ^^ the governor's proclamation of yesterday ?" ^'What said it?" echoed Hans Potts; ''why, it said death to all who should keep a dog, a cat, nay, so much as a linnet, to consume the food that Christian lips are white for. And you heard the knave this morning talk of the dinner of the governor. Well, he forsooth must keep a pet goat — ay, must run away from schooling us, to throw I know not how many loaves to his pretty favourite. Well, well, if there 's justice left in the city, we shall see a hanging-day!" "To the gallows with him !" cried a dozen voices, and the cry was immediately taken up by the whole crowd. " No trial ! to the gallows with him I" The crowd increased, and the shouts for vengeance on the unfortunate Caspar became loud and incessant. The square before^ the justice hall was filled with the multitude, whose roaring voices pealed through the building. '^ Let the governor judge the prisoner ; the gover- nor's proclamation makes him guilty. Let the governor 72 THE SIEGE. be judge," said the burgomaster, unwilling to bear the obloquy, which, in better times, would be certain to rise against him, should he condemn Caspar. "The people cry for his death," said an officer; "we had hard work to keep him from their nails." "Ay, but let the famine cease, and the same people will curse the judge who sentenced him. Let the go- vernor, who makes such laws, execute them ; to the garrison with the prisoner!" Such were the words of the burgomaster, who with his officers had that morning vainly endeavoured to move the governor to capitulate, and who now sought to aggravate the evils of his obstinacy. ^'Hang a man for keeping a milch goat !" said the magistrate. " No ; again I say, since the sword makes laws, let the sword execute them. Take your prisoner to the gar- rison." "The prisoner, Caspar Brandt, to the gallows!" again rose from the crowd, and rang through the hall. "Take him through the western passage, and so you will avoid the mob," said the magistrate: and Caspar — who had now resigned himself to certain death — was led away to the garrison, the hall still echoing the cries and curses of the multitude, who, when they learned the escape of their victim — or, we should rather say, his brief reprieve — followed, hal- looing and shouting, to the walls, their rage redoubled by disappointment. The governor, his officers, their men-at-arms, were THE SIEGE. 73 speedily assembled, and Caspar Brandt, with pale yet unclouded and undaunted brow, stood before his judge. ^* Younor man," said the governor, ^' 1 am sorry for you ; but these are times when the duty of the citizen becomes religion. Did you not hear the proclamation V '^Ay, my lord," said Casper, calmly. " And braved it? I am sorry for you. The penalty is death." "lam prepared to die," answered Caspar, '^and yet — yet " "Speak," said the governor, "and boldly. If there be any doubt of your guilt — nay, if there be the slightest — " "My lord," interrupted one of the officers, ''we have brought testimony sufficient. Room there," and the officer beckoned to one of his followers, who, making his way through the crowd, flung from his back the carcase of the slaughtered goat. Caspar sprang like a hound upon the fellow. " May the hand wither," he exclaimed, '' that did this !" and, when again seized by his guards, his eyes fell upon the slaughtered animal, he burst into tears, and, covering his face with his hands, groaned, " Mother ! dear mother !" " This is no time to cast bread to beasts. Let the prisoner have a confessor, and then," and the governor paused, surveying the youth with looks of pity, " and then despatch him." " Here 's Father Franz," said the officer, as an old G 74 THE SIEGE. monk broke through the crowd, and, without a word hurrying to Caspar, embraced him. " My son ! my dear son ! Oh, my lord governor, what would you with this youth ? A nobler creature, a gentler soul, a youth in whom more virtuous gifts are mingled, lives not in the city. And here ! a cap- tive! What is his crime ?" asked the monk. *^ Look there, father," said the governor, and he pointed to the dead goat. ^^ You have heard the pro- clamation, you know the measures which our care for the common good imposes upon all." " Mine — mine is the fault," cried the monk. "Thine !" said the governor. '' This youth — he has a mother — yet a young and comely woman, but that is little — it is her goodness, her tenderness, her more than motherly affection for the brave lad, that have made him forfeit his life for her from whom he drew it." "But your share in his fault?" asked the governor. " I was his mother's confessor, and, when her means failed, her physician too ; for, in my youth, I studied medicine, and hence the lowly poor — thanks to my saint — have often owned the value of my skill. As the rigours of the siege increased, the poor widow pined and wasted; coarse food she could not take — death seemed inevitable. Milk was her only nou- rishment — this poor lad sold all but his last garment to buy the goat, now slaughtered at your foot — from day to day, and week to week, unknown to his poor. THE SIEGE. 75 dying mother, deprived himself of needful food, that the animal, to him a sacred thing, since his mother's life depended on it, might not want provender — nay, when your proclamation was made known, dared to despise it, for a parent's hfe," " I am sorry for him, most sorry," said the governor, with melting eyes, " but justice must be done. Father, prepare your penitent for heaven." " My lord, grant me one prayer ; I ask not for my life," cried Caspar, " you say 'tis forfeit, the cruelty of the times demands it — let it go ; the sentence cannot stain my memory — let it go. But my mother— oh my lord ! if ever your's were dear to you, protect mine when I am gone; save her from the sharp misery of " A piercing shriek was at this moment heard — a shriek of such wild agony, that the sternest soldier felt his heart grow cold at the sound. Another moment, and the wretched widow, nerved by despe- ration, burst through the crowd, and fell upon her son's neck. " Caspar ! my own boy ! my brave — brave " '' O God! she's dead!" exclaimed Caspar, as he beheld the white face, the fixed lips, of his motionless parent. The soldiers gathered about the mother and son, and a murmur of compassion rose from the crowd. The governor's wife and daughter had heard the tale, and flew to the spot to sue for mercy. Still, uncon- scious of the presence of all, save the one dear object, Caspar gazed on the pale features of the widow. — 76 THE SIEGE. " She 's dead — dead ! " he uttered, in that cold, hope- less voice, that sounds of a broken heart. " No, no, my son, her pulse beats," said the monk, '^ she breathes." " Hark, hark ! " exclaimed a soldier, and he leapt upon the wall — " the trumpets ! our friends ! " A loud hurrah rose from the garrison. " Silence ! " cried the governor, " I hear nothing ; " and there was a profound pause, and the gloom of disappointment gathered on the faces of all men, who with hushed breath listened, their brows growing darker with the silence. Another second, and the trumpets came shrilly on the wind — shouts rose from the gar- rison, and a thousand weapons flashed from their scabbards. '^ My lord, a sword [ — let me — let me die there I" and Caspar, the monks having borne away his mother, rushed to the foot of the governor, and pointed beyond the walls. •^ I grant your prayer," cried the governor ; "and now, men, unbar the gates, and sally upon them ; we have the foe between us." Wild and joyous were the shouts with which the men rushed on the besiegers, who, hemmed between the two parties, were, after a fierce and sanguinary fight, utterly defeated. Many were the deeds of valour done that day. Caspar fought as though he hungered for death : at least twenty of the foe fell beneath his maiden sword. THE FAMILY ALTAR. 77 He returned to the city with the conquerors, and the next day appeared before the governor. " My lord/' said Caspar, " I am still your prisoner. I sought for death." " And have found knighthood : I marked you on the field," said the governor, " am myself your debtor for a life. Kneel, and rise a valiant knight." The filial piety^ the bravery, of young Caspar be- came a famous story through the city. The fair daughter of the governor had heard from his mother's lips the history of her son's virtues, learned from her father the glory of his deeds, and, with her father's glad consent, became in after years the young knight's bride. From the day of the battle the widow gathered health and strength, and lived to be a grey-haired matron, happy in her son's greatness. In the cathedral of the besieged city, may be seen a monument, where, lying at the feet of a warrior in complete mail, is sculptured a young milch goat. That monument records the filial piety of Caspar Brandt. THE FAMILY ALTAR. A COTT^aE SCENE. BY MRS. SIGOURNEY. I saw a cradle at a cottage door. Where the fair mother, with her cheerful wheel. Carolled so sweet a song, that the young bird. Which, timid, near the threshold sought for seeds, g3 78 THE FAMILY ALTAR. Paused on his lifted foot, and raised his head. As if to listen. The rejoicing bees Nestled in throngs amid the woodbine cups. That o'er the lattice clustered. A clear stream 'Came leaping from its sylvan height, and poured Music upon the pebbles ; and the winds. Which gently 'mid the vernal branches played Their idle freaks, brought showering blossoms down. Surfeiting earth with sweetness. Sad T came From weary commerce with the heartless world ; But, when I felt upon my withered cheek My mother Nature's breath, and heard the trump Of those gay insects at their honeyed toil. Shining hke winged jewelry, and drank The healthful odour of the flowering trees And bright-eyed violets — but, most of all. When I beheld mild, slumbering Innocence, And on that young maternal brow the smile Of those affections which do purify And renovate the soul — I turned me back In gladness, and with added strength, to run My weary race, lifting a thankful prayer To Him who showed me some bright tint of heaven,. Here on the earth that I might safer walk. And firmer compass sin, and surer rise From earth to heaven. Hartford, Connecticut, C^^- S) THE SYBIL. BY R. SHELTON MACKENZIE, LL.D. Upon her head no diadem, No sceptre in her hand. Nor Tyrian purple shewed her there A ruler of the land — But star-crowned was that lofty brow. And her lip wore high command. None knew whence came that stranger. Nor where her distant home. Nor whom she sought, untended, 'Mid the armed bands of Rome. But the boldest, at that hour. Were as smitten by a power. For they felt a sudden awe When that queenly form they saw I Three scrolls, of mystic might. To the Roman king she took ; 80 THE SYBIL. Large was the guerdon that she claimed As the price of the triple book.* A lip of scorn Tarquinius bore — She quelled him by a look. That thrilling glance had power. Like a spell, on every one : Quickly she passed away. Ere they saw that she was gone. With a charm she flung to earth One book of prophet-worth — The thunder spoke with a hollow roll When the forked lightning burnt the scroll. Again, with mien unmoved. She sought the Roman king : His warriors and his augurs old Stood round him, wondering. — " At the same price I claimed for all. Two sacred books I bring ! " Rome's ruler did not heed The treasure that she brought ; And, as before, the mystic maid Evanished, like a thought. • lu truth, the Sybil carried nine books to the Roman kiug. Ihe poem, however, was suggested by a fine painting (the production of a very clever Irish artist, named O'Keefe, who died in April, 1838), and this repjesented the Sybil with only three scrolls : it was consi- dered better to follow the picture than the legend, where the diffe- rence was of no moment. THE SYBIL, 81 She passed^ but none could tell Where her stately footsteps fell ;. And a murmur came aloud From the terror-stricken crowd ! Long years have rolled their tide Since her haunt the Sybil sought. Where the fiery leven burnt the scroll Beside the wood-crowned grot ; But the form, the face, the scene. Art's magic here hath brought. Thought, the mind's lord, is on that brow. And pales that sunny cheek. And presses down the lids that veil The eyes whose glance can speak. A troubled look of care Doth that lonely Sybil wear ; But the stronger sense of duty came — The second scroll is in the flame ! A third time on the Roman king She fixed her searching eye — He bent a lowly knee, and knew Rome's guardian genius nigh ; He bent a lowly knee, and said — " At any cost I buy." A spell to him she told — A spell of high command — - 82 SERENADE. By which in that last book to read The fortunes of the land. She passed — all eyes saw now The halo on her brow. And tracked her heavenward flight afar. By the lambent light of that radiant star ! Such is the legend. — Read it not. Oh, worldling, with a frown : And slight not what the hoary Past To the Present hath brought down On the deathless page that chronicles Rome's deeds of high renown. Too often, in the path of life. The denizens of earth Thus, like the Roman king, reject Fair Wisdom's proffered worth. With careless eyes they look On her truth-revealing book. And precious is the price they pay When its better part is lost for aye ! SERENADE. BY MISS H. F. GOULD. Sleep ! sleep ! if the visions around thee that hover Are fair as the form thou hast veiled from my sight ; If bright as the orbs which thy soft eye-lids cover. Or pure as the soul whence they borrow their light 1 SERENADE. 83 Oh_, sleep ! if the lone one who pours out his numbers Through night's silent shade, where the stars dimly beam. When thou from his sight art locked up in thy slumbers. May once pass before thee, the thing of a dream ! But who will be near him when Morning is breaking. And pours forth her splendour these shades to dispel ; To hail her returning, when thou art awaking — Ah ! who'll be with him of thy visions to tell ? For long ere the dawn is the orient flushing. My feet will have passed from the turf where they rest; To air far from this o'er my dewy locks brushing. The sighs will be heaved that now burthen my breast. r go ! but thine image, my spirit attending. Will still be before me to brighten the way ; Its light with the gloom of my loneliness blending. Will scatter the night with the glory of day. Farewell ! while my bark in its frailty is tossing. The sport of the billows, on life's stormy sea, I Httle shall lieed the rough waves I am crossing. If my heart, as its pole-star, may still look to thee ! Newburyport, Massachusets. (U. S.) SONG OF THE BURMAN LOVER. BY MAJOR CALDER CAMPBELL. Oh ! come with me, in my little canoe. For the tide is high, and the sky is blue. And the wind is fair, and 'tis sweet to row To the isles where the mango-apples grow ! Oh ! come with me, and be my love. And for thee the jungle-depths I'll rove ; I'll gather the honeycomb, bright as gold. And seek out the elk's most secret fold. I'll chase the antelope over the plain. And bind the tiger cub with a chain ; And a young gazelle, with silver feet, I'll bring thee for a playmate sweet ! I'll climb the palm for the bya's nest. And red peas I'll gather to deck thy breast ; I'll pierce the cocoa for its wine. And twine thee posies, if thou'lt be mine! Tlien come with me, in my light canoe. While the waters are calm and the skies are blue. For should we linger another day. Storms may arise, and love decay ! THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. BY MISS LAWRANCE, AUTHOR OF "historical MEMOIRS OF THE QUEENS OF ENGLAND," &C. "These things caused much alarm at the time, for there was, doubtless, an awful Jesuitical plot in hand.-' BISHOP BURNET. Although during the reign of George the Second plots and conspiracies, if the assertions of the govern- ment papers and the prime minister might be credited, were " plentiful as blackberries;" still, excepting the outbreak of forty-five, they were all of that trifling, and, indeed, apocryphal character, that, while they served just to ruffle the monotonous current of every- day life, they produced no effect beyond. And truly in character with the age were its plots. That era of point lace and periwigs, of '' vastly little " lap-dogs, '' monstrously dehcate " dragon-china, of flounces, furbelows, and flowered ducapes, was no age to witness the fierce daring of the *' three-score young gentlemen of Portingale," who swore on their daggers to kill Ehzabftth in open day ; or that deadly plot of *' barrels of gunpowder, wherewith to blow up both houses of parliament," for what could Guy Fawkes H 86 THE BELLE SATJVAGE PLOT. himself have done in the cellar, if arrayed in long point cravat, double ruffles, and Families tye-wig? So the plots of these days were carried on by the gentler agencies of scented valets, and soubrettes, and *Mittle French milliners;" treasonable correspondence was transmitted inside the wrappers of arquebusade bottles, and Walpole and his trusty Paxton more than once sat in solemn deliberation over a case of contraband snuiF-boxes, and French-mounted fans. What the minister really thought of these plots, it may be difficult to say, but the shrewd Jacobites were accustomed to remark that Sir Robert Walpole was lucky even in them, since, whether the king was to be refused money, or the Commons urged to raise it, that magic word "Pretender," skilfully combined with " a horrid popish Jacobite plot," was sure to work won- ders ; and, like the name of Cceur de Lion to the Arab war-steed, never failed to reduce the most refractory to obedience. This was the opinion of those, whose views were scouted by the vast majority, who saw in the prime minister the saviour of his country, and who, loud in their admiration of the Walpole administration, were unwavering in their behef of all and every plot, duly *' set forth by authority." Among this majority nearly every citizen of our good city rejoiced to enrol himself, and, acting on the laudable maxim that "when bad men combine the good must associate," each city w^orthy, (save when taking stock, or family parties in- tervened) proceeded each evening, with newly-combed THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. 87 wi<^ and freshly-filled snufF-box, to his respective club, determined to smoke his pipe in honour of old England, and to toast with his whole heart the favourite minister, in the glass of punch which concluded his quietly in- dustrious day. It was at one of these clubs, held in a comfortable room, well furnished with " aids to reflection," in the pleasant forms of pipes, glasses, bottles. Daily Cou- rants, gazettes, and huge china punch-bowls, that some of the most respectable inhabitants of Ludgate Hill were assembled, discussing the meaning of the following ominous paragraph, which had appeared that very morning in the Daily Courant. *' We have been credibly informed by an honourable gent, just come over from Ostend, that the Dutchess de B i sent last week from Versailles, to a cer- tain person whose pretences are well known, a white rose tree in a Dresden china pot, and that thereupon this worthy personage sent thirteen of them wrapped in white paper, and tied with white ribbon, to his chosen friends here. Lord C, and old Lord S., without doubt, had one, and we think if we asked at R. House we should find the 7ioZ>/e owner had one, too. This honourable gent also saith that one is coming over by a special messenger to the old Dutchess of B. That suspicious persons are coming over, there is no doubt ; a worthy skipper in the Cognac trade told us only last week, how they are casting cannon-balls at Strasburgh, and he also saith that two French officers 88 THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. of the Carabiners are coming over to recruit in the Highlands, the which we the more believe, seeing that a Jesuit-like looking man came over to a place in Kent, which shall be nameless, and, after staying there two days, went away nobody knew where/' *' There is something in thiSy*^ said old Mr. Neville, the lawyer, laying down the paper. '^ I always said France would not long be quiet, but then what say you to this letter on the other side ? — ah ! it 's written by somebody who knows what he 's about." Mr. Neville resumed his spectacles, and read with due emphasis the following high-sounding letter, ad- dressed to the editor. " To be prepared for danger is the proud preroga- tive of enlightened man, who, combining the lessons of the past with the anticipations of the future, can draw inferences therefrom, wherewith to regulate his future conduct. These considerations have in- duced me to take up the pen to urge upon my compa- triots the necessity of strict adherence to the glorious constitution and the principles of 1688. Nor do 1 lift a warning voice in vain : mischief is at hand. The Gallic monarch, crafty and vigilant; the Pretender with his finger on the map of England ; the Jacobites showing their faces in open day ; and Alecto and her baleful sister furies about to rush forth from their darksome cave! Truly, in times like these, where might we look for help ? were it not that we have at THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. 89 the head of affairs that noble minister to whom we may well address that line of the great Roman poet, and say : — • Nil desperandum, Teucro duce et auspice Teucro.' " The high-sounding phraseology of this delectable epistle, so different from the usual style of newspaper correspondents a hundred years ago, but, above all, the Latin quotation, rendered it perfectly irresistible. The whole club was in a fever of excitement. Mr. Wingate, the draper, proposed an instant address to the minister, offering, not their lives, (Sir Robert would have cared little for them) but their property, to aid in repeUing the Pretender, and chaining '^ Alecto and her baleful sisters " in their cave ; while Mr. Hewitson, the silversmith, recommended an instant muster of the city train-bands, he having the honour to be one of the captains in that august company. " I should like Mr. Cooper's opinion about it," re- sumed old Mr. Neville, " for he is of a i^olid judgment, and thinks much on these matters." "He does," answered Mr. Wingate, '*^and I know it is his opinion that the Pretender will make another attempt ere long ; he told me he feared so, when it w^as said that white-flowered silks were all the vogue at Versailles ; and here he is." The gentleman who now entered was a little, formal, middle-aged man, Mr. Silas Cooper, the silk- mercer, of the old-established shop, the Blackamoor's h3 90 THE BELLE SaUVAGE PLOT. Head, nearly opposite the Belle Sauvage ; and when we acquaint our readers that he had a map of Europe in his back parlour, kept his books by double entry, made out his bills in " choice Italian hand," had a competent knowledge of Latin, and a laudable hatred of French silks and Jacobites, they will readily believe that so accomplished a personage could not fail to be an acquisition to any club in London. *^ And now, Mr. Cooper, what is your opinion of these things? " asked half-a-dozen voices at once. Mr» Cooper shook his head. That shake, although scarcely so comprehensive as that of Lord Burghley, in the Critic, was yet sufficiently emphatic to excite the most eager curiosity. But Mr. Cooper was not so immediately going to satisfy them; so he lifted his wig, wiped his forehead, took out his snufF-box, re- freshed himself and his neighbour with a pinch, and again shook his liead. At length he began : '' There is, doubtless, an awful, papistical, jacobitical plot in hand. 1 know it, 1 am sure of it." With breathless anxiety was every eye now fixed upon him, and the worthy mercer continued : ** Not two hours since, as 1 was standing at the door, up came the Dover Express, with three insides and five out. Well, at that very time there was a young woman in the shop, whom my young man was serving, and who, he says, kept a sharp look at the door ; so she came and looked out, and, as a tall, good-looking young man, with a scarlet roquelaure on his arm, got out, she started, and said THE BKLLE SAUVAGE PLOT. ^1 something, I could not tell what. I turned to speak to her, but she had gone back to the counter, where she took up her parcel, and then went away, just as though she did not wish to be seen. Well, methought there was somewhat more than common about this young man, so I went over to the coach, and there he was, with a Httle black portmanteau in his hand, looking after his other luggage. ' That gentleman *s somebody more than we think for,* says the coachman, with a nod ; ^ we took him up on this side Canterbury, but / think he 's only just come from over the water/ Now you must think that this made me very anxious to know all I could; so I questioned the coachman and an old deaf gentleman, who, with his wife, were the other inside passengers, and I found from them that, just three miles this side Canterbury, a groom in livery rides up, he begs the coachman to stop a little while, for his master would rather lose ten pound than not get to London to-night. Well, soon after, up comes this gentleman, with another, on horseback. ' Success to your errand !' says this other, and off he rides, while the young man got into the coach, and set himself in the corner, just like a spy or a Jesuit, speaking nothing. Well, at dinner he would not drink port, and when the old gentleman offered hinrl his snuff-box, he took out one that seemed to be set with diamonds, and then, as though recollecting him- self, he put it back into his pocket, and took out a silver one. I asked the coachman if he knew who the 92 THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. gentleman was that came with him to the coach, and he says he thinks it was somebody from Squire Haw- kins, the Papist, you know, who had his house burnt down in the fifteen, for harbouring Jacobites." " Ay, likely enough," ejaculated old Mr. Neville ; 'tis the bearer of the white rose, / think." ^^W'hy, you shall judge when you've heard ah," continued Mr. Cooper. '' So, seeing no more intelligence was to be gained, I just took a quiet walk, and, in about half an hour, back I came ; but what do you think I then heard ? This fine young gentleman hath taken lodgings at the Bell and Savage, for a week cer- tain, and it 's a back room too, with no look-out but slanting roofs and chimneys. ' I like tobe quiet,* said he." "Ah, no doubt!" cried old Mr. Neville. " In Sir John Fenwick's plot, Pendergast came over from France, and put in at Feversham, and, when he came to London, there was he in a back room, for you may well believe he did not want the world to see him." " No, indeed ; but the poor landlady is quite proud of her new lodger : ' he 's quite a gentleman, sir,' says she, * and he has as handsome a gold repeater as I ever set eyes upon.' Well, I asked what name he went by, and she says, ' Mr. Johnson ; ' but what is stran- gest of all, before he had been there half an hour, a young woman (it 's my firm opinion 't is the very same young woman) came in, and asked for him by his name. He bid her be shown up, and the waiter says he thinks she had a letter in her hand. Well, after THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. 93 she left, he rung the bell, and ordered pen and ink, and desired that he might not again be disturbed that night." " 'Tis plain enough," cried Mr. Wingate, "he's come over from the Pretender, and that young woman hath doubtless come from the old dutchess or some of those she- Jacobites with news, and now he is writing despatches." '^ Something ought to be done forthwith," said Mr. Hewitson ; '' to think of a bloody Jacobite plot in this very parish, before our very eyes ! " *' Something ought certainly to be done," said old Mr. Neville, " but it is my opinion that the plot should be allowed to ripen. Now, if we stop it too soon, it may break out again ; let it come to a head. But, good Mr. Cooper, I trust you said nothing to the land- lady that might cause suspicion, for women have tongues, Mr. Cooper." "' Surely not," replied the mercer ; " I would not breathe a word of it, save to such old friends and neighbours as you are." " And you have no wife to tell it to, Mr. Cooper," continued the old lawyer, " and that 's as well, for few women can be trusted in such matters as these." '' I think there 's one lady, and in this neighbour- hood, that might be," interposed Mr. Hewitson ; *^ it is Miss Hetty Nurden — an excellent young person." *^ So she is, and very judicious for a woman," replied Mr. Neville ', " what do you think of her, Mr Cooper ? " 94 THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. The worthy silk-mercer took some more snuff, for he seemed to think it a question that required deep consideration ; at length he said, that he thought Mrs. Nurden was a very nice old lady, and that it was a pity she was so troubled with the rheumatics. '^But the daughter, Mr. Cooper?" persisted old Mr. Neville. '^ A very worthy and excellent lady, I doubt not," he repHed demurely, "but really, what with busi- ness, and what with public affairs, 1 have little time to become acquainted with my neighbours." "Ah, and you will have enough on your hands now," rejoined Mr. Neville, " for, truly, you must keep a close look-out, that, as soon as the plot is properly concocted. Sir Robert may be acquainted therewith." In this suggestion Mr, Cooper ac- quiesced ; the conversation took a more domestic turn, and parochial affairs superseded public, until the nine o'clock bell summoned them home. Anxious to put in instant practice the admonition of the preceding night, the next morning saw Mr. Coo- per take his patient stand at his door, and keeping a vigilant watch over the gate of the Belle Sauvage. For many hours his vigilance was exercised in vain. The lumbering Cambridge waggon jolted in ; the York Dispatch, with its six " strong trotting horses," rumbled out ; but the suspicious stranger never made his appearance. Occasionally, Mr. Cooper's eyes glanced down the hill toward the small neat shop. THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. 95 known by the name of the " Fan and Feathers,'* where Mrs. Nurden and her daughter resided, fol- lowing the then quiet and genteel occupation of mil- liners. It was doubtless from the daughter's name having been associated with the ^' awful plot" now in hand, that Mr. Cooper thought of her at all ; but, as he meditated, he could not help recollecting what an excellent judge of silks she w-as, what a pretty Italian hand she wrote, and how patriotic were her opinions respecting contraband French goods. Indeed, so sin- gularly absorbed was the worthy mercer in these meditations, that we cannot tell how long he might have indulged them, had not the appearance of the very young woman who yesterday visited his shop forcibly recalled his mind to more important duties. Yes, there she was, in her sprigged chintz gown and black hood, cautiously gliding up the very gate- way. Mr. Cooper's watch was not long : she re- turned, crossed the w^ay, and proceeded to the '^ Fan and Feathers." What was now to be done? Gen- tlemen never in those days entered milliners' shops to make purchases, else Mr. Cooper himself would have followed her for two yards of black ribbon for his tye- wig ; but anxiety and fear quicken our ingenuity, and, ere the young woman came out, the worthy mercer determined to send his shop-boy, bidding him give especial heed to the young woman in the chintz gown, and carefully mark what she bought. "And what did she ask for?" was his question almost ere the boy had re-entered the shop. 96 THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT, " Three dozen yards of white satin ribbon," was the reply. ^^ I thought as much! "ejaculated Mr. Cooper; *^* but three dozen yards — goodness ! " **^ Yes, sir ; and she said she'd take the whole piece, for more might be wanted." Mr. Cooper w^ent into his back parlour, and sat dow n to think what was best to be done ; and then it came into his mind that Mrs. Nurden ought to be made acquainted wjth the risque she ran in serving white ribbon to Jacobites, and also that if Miss Hetty, who was so prudent, were just warned of this plot, she might be able to do good service. It was true, Mr. Cooper had not spoken to the lady since he met her at Mr. Hewitson's last Christmas, but then she was a neighbour, and then it was for the public weal that the white satin ribbon should be inquired about ; in short, zeal for his country eventually induced Mr. Cooper to lay aside his gown, put on his chocolate coat and laced cravat, and, taking his gold-headed cane, to proceed to the " Fan and Feathers." " O Mr. Cooper," exclaimed Miss Hetty, not with- out surprise, ^^ is it you ? pray walk in." The worthy mercer shut the half glass door_, which, as well as the w^indow, was shaded by the green silk curtains, (for milliners in those days kept as much as possible from public view) and followed Miss Hetty into the back parlour, where the little shining round table, with its thread-papers, needle-case, and point sprigs upon THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. 97 green oil-skin, bore honourable testimony of the genteel industry of the fair occupier. " Pray sit down, Mr. Cooper," said the lady, placing one of the high-backed chairs for him ; " plea- sant summer weather ! '* '' I'm sure 1 interrupt you, madam," said our mer- cer, bowing with his three-cornered hat in hand. ^^ I'm sure I'm an intruder." ^^ Indeed you are not," courteously replied the lady, taking up the thread-paper. " Why, madam," hesitated Mr. Cooper, and at length depositing the hat in the window-seat, " I called be- cause I fear sad things may be going on." '' Sad things, sir !" cried Miss Hetty in amazement ; '* what, has our boy ? or our maid ? — dear, dear, I fear she will not suit us, for she came home from her holi- day full ten minutes after half-past eight." Mr. Cooper smiled at the female narrowness of mind that never contemplated " sad things" beyond the restricted circles of domestic life. " No, my dear madam," said he, " Molly seems a very worthy person ; but dangerous people from France are about." " Thank you, I'll be on my guard — but I never buy French lace except openly of Mons. Delaune." " Ah, madam, it is not about French lace," said the mercer ; '' but I'm sure I interrupt you ! " ^*'0 dear no !" replied the lady, resuming her thim- ble, and taking up the small piece of green oil-skin on I 98 THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. which the rudiments of a point sprig had just been traced out. Mr. Cooper glanced a look at the taper fingers plying the needle upon that prettiest and most lady-like species of fine needlework, point, at the comely though not youthful features, the plainly banded auburn hair, so neatly confined by the clear muslin fly cap, and he almost forgot the " horrid ja- cobitical plot." His thoughts soon, however, resumed their wonted channel, and he proceeded to give the lady a full account, and to express his fears about the white satin ribbon. But the milliner, although she duly expressed her alarm at the earlier part of the story, was not alarmed at this. " It is for trimming a white satin petticoat," said she, " and the young woman said it was to be worn at Lady Pomfret's ball — indeed she's to come back again for some more." " I should greatly like to see her," said Mr. Cooper, musingly, " I should, of all things." " She will be here in less than an hour, I dare say," replied Miss Hetty. " It is really of importance that I should see her," returned Mr. Cooper, hesitatingly, ^^ because, you see, ray dear madam, that I could then be certain whether it was the same person that yesterday came to my shop." " Ah, surely so ; well, Mr. Cooper, take a dish of tea ; I 'm sure she will be back again soon." Mr. Cooper again hesitated; he stammered out something about leaving business so early, and then THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. 99 earnestly protested that he was quite sure he was an intruder. The lady, as in pohteness bound, flatly contradicted him, rung the little hand-bell that stood upon the mantel-piece, and ordered the tea things. Within ten minutes, Molly, having exchanged her check apron for one of snowy holland, and having arrayed herself in a clean mob-cap, with Flanders edging, came in with the Httle round tea-board, and the little china cups, the httle teapot, and the little silver cream jug, standing like a pipkin, on its three little legs, and placed them on the table. Then, Miss Hetty, carefully laying aside the point sprigs, drew from beneath her book-muslin apron a huge bunch of keys, and, unlocking the corner cupboard, took from thence the japanned tea-cannister, the china sugar- bason, a pair of scissar-shaped tongs, and two dimi- nutive spoons. Then, being duly certified by Molly, that the kettle was actually boiling. Miss Hetty mea- sured out four teaspoonfuls of tea into the teapot, and, carefully replacing the lid, lest the fine flavour should escape, proceeded herself to the kitchen, for " making tea," among our great grandmothers, was too important a trust to be delegated to a servant. Very pleasantly did Mr. Cooper and the lady (for old Mrs. Nurden was confined up stairs with ^^the rheumatics,") chat together ; about Mr. Hewitson and his country house ; so rural, only half a mile beyond Moorfields; how Mr. Atkins and the children were going gipsying to St. John's Wood, and how old Mrs. 100 THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. Neville was sadly frightened with the cows in Spa fields^ (for your re^^ular cockneys always, during summer^ talk of ruralities ;) and then the patterns of the new silks were discussed, and, ere the fifth cup was finished, both the lady and the gentleman wondered that they had not become better acquainted, and each thought the other exceedingly pleasant company. But the shop-bell rang, and two ladies entered. Miss Hetty promptly obeyed the call, while Mr. Cooper impa- tiently awaited her return, in the little back parlour. '' And she has not returned, after all," said Miss Hetty, coming back for her scissars, ** but these two ladies are come instead." '^ Then beware, my dear madam," whispered Mr. Cooper, '' for these are, doubtless, also in the plot ; what have they come for ? " '* To bring back the white satin ribbon, and to say they should like gauze." *^ But white, I suppose.** '^ O, yes, for it will make rosettes better." "Ah, truly, white roses would not come amiss to them." " Why, the eldest lady was just asking if I had any white artificial roses, only they must be without green leaves." " Ay, doubtless, a pair of French Jacobites." *' O, dear no, Mr. Cooper, they 're English ladies, 1 *m sure, and the youngest, whom the other calls Almeria, is one of the sweetest creatures you ever saw.'i^ Mr. Cooper shook his head. " Ah, Miss Nurden, I THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. 101 * you are not aware of this plot: here a servant comes, and then, lest she should be discovered, her mistress comes, and then, you'll find, to-morrow somebody else will come ; 'tis a fine plot that 's in hand, and 1 '11 tell you what, if you could but get them into this back parlour, and lock the door, I would run oflT to Alderman Fludyer's for a warrant; a pair of papistical baggages !" " Oh, Mr. Cooper ! " cried Miss Hetty, " what are you saying? what, to think of inveigling customers, and locking them in a back parlour? really, that's Jesuitical, Mr. Cooper." '*" Mr. Cooper felt that zeal for the Walpole adminis, tration had certainly carried him a little too far. '' Do n't be alarmed, my dear madam," said he, in tones soft as his superfine satin ; '^ but wdien the protestant cause and our invaluable constitution are at stake, one's feelings are apt to overpower one — why, the Pope and the Jesuits may have a hand in it." '' Ah, true — well, 't is a mercy that the pope, the devil, and pretender, are kept out of England," replied tiie lady. "It is, my dear madam, thanks to Sir Robert. Well now, with deference to your better judgment, suppose I just put on my hat, and walk out of the shop, and then, as I pass, I can have a close look at them, and T can watch them, and see where they go." " But, Mr. Cooper, you 've not finished your tea, ^nd there 's a nice strong cup in the teapot." i3 102 THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. Mr. Cooper hesitated ; he looked at the lady, and he looked at the teapot, for it occurred to him, that a pleasant chat in the little snug parlour was really preferable to following what might, after all, be a mere wild-goose chase. But zeal for the Walpole administration prevailed. '' My duty forbids me, madam," said he, impressively laying his hand on his waistcoat, " else I should with great pleasure — with the greatest, indeed." " Well, Mr. Cooper, will you come back and finish ?" ^* Most willingly, my dear madam," cried our mercer, delighted at a suggestion which so well reconciled duty and pleasure. Miss Hetty hastily collected some point sprigs, as an excuse for her lengthened absence, and Mr. Cooper, with the spirit of a patriot, placed his three-cornered hat on his head, grasped the gold- headed cane, as though it had been a pike, and, with the determined step of a parliament soldier, rather than a man of silks and satins, sternly and steadily marched into the shop, bestowing a most earnest look upon the two ladies. The elder was handsome, but of sober and matronly appearance, but the younger, with her bril- liant complexion, her bright laughing eye, and that open ingenuous countenance, could she be a French spy, or an unworthy Englishwoman, in league with the Pretender ! impossible ; and yet there she sat, looking right lovingly upon white satin and white gauze ribbon, twirling them round her pretty fingers. THE Bh;LLE SAUVAGE PLOT. 103 as though she had been accustomed to make white cockades for all the Pretender's staff. Mr. Cooper shook his head as he strode out of the shop, but here a new cause of anxiety met him. Just beside the window stood a genteel young man, gazing intensely through the half-opened door at the ladies. '^ I knew him directly/' said Mr. Cooper, when some twenty minutes after he returned to finish his tea, "the very young man at the Bell and Savage! Well, methought I would watch, and when those two French Jacobites came out ." ''Don't say so, Mr. Cooper," persisted the lady, " they are nice English ladies, I 'm sure." " Well, madam, but what do you say to the eldest as she came out giving him a nod, and throwing a letter?" '' [t 's very strange," replied Miss Hetty, " but still, that sweet young lady might know nothing about it ; it was the eldest, you said." " It was ; well, after that, I watched, and saw them get into a yellow chariot, but the young man had slunk away. And now, my dear madam, I could tell you somewhat of great importance, which I ought not divulge, only I 'm sure I can depend on your prudence." The lady bowed. " Well, I have seen the landlady, and she says the waiter told her that a little while ago, when he went in, there was a letter lying on the table addressed to the honourable Captain Digby, and that when my young man saw the waiter look at it, he 104 THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. took it up, and seemed quite confused ; and she "saith she beUeves that is his real name, for his cambric handkerchief has an E. D. at the corner ; — 'tis a shock- ing popish name, Digby." '^ Really it is strange that a military gentleman should lodge at such a place," said Miss Hetty. '* It is, madam, but then he thought he should not be found out there — he may, though, after all — can you think where these two friends of his came from ? or what is their name ?" " Nothing more than that they seem to live in London, and that the youngest is called Almeria, as T said." ^* Ah, that is not a good English name, like Jane or Sarah, there 's something outlandish about it. Well, I 've resolved what to do, and that is, forthwith to write to Sir Robert." '' You do not, surely ! " exclaimed the lady, aghast at the thought of the Ludgate Hill mercer writing to the minister. *'\ do, madam; 1 have turned it over in my mind, and consider it a duty I owe my country ; so I shall write all I know, and beg our worthy minister to do as his sound sense may direct." The last cup of tea was now finished, the mercer arose, and, with a low bow, which the lady returned by an equally low curtsey, he thanked Miss Hetty for her polite attention, and proceeded homeward to indite his epistle -, while the lady, the cares of the day being over, went up stairs to detail to her mother all that THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. 105 had passed ; not a little flattered to think that she could number among her acquaintance a person who could actually write a letter to the prime minister. The morning's sun shone pleasantly into a large room, furnished in the heavy fashion of the day, and there, in a ponderous arm-chair, placed beside an equally ponderous table, on which lay a rich gold-em- broidered housewife, and a rich gold etui case, sat a lady, in blue damask, with ruffles and apron of Brussels point; her hands employed on some cambric, but her eyes more frequently directed toward the door than fixed on her work. She was past the middle age, but her small and regular features and the delicate fair- ness of her complexion gave her a much younger look ; and, but for her excessive embonpoint, she might have passed for twenty years younger. The door opened, and admitted a tall portly middle-aged man, whose dress and air alike required the aid of a Ches- terfield, but whose aid, judging from the haughty and nonchalant air, might have been proffered in vain. He advanced after cautiously closing the door, and with a respectful bow laid a packet of papers on the table. The cambric w^as hastily laid aside, and the soft and rather heavy blue eye of the lady lighted up with a sudden intelligence, which showed that affairs of state were far more congenial to her mind than the easy labours of the needle. That room contained the arbiters of the destinies of England, perhaps of Europe — Queen Caroline and Sir Robert Walpole. 106 THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. " Sit dowDj Sir Robert/' said the queen. " I am sorry to tell you, this office cannot be oriven." *' Good heavens ! your majesty cannot say so ; it is most important." "I know it, but he says every office that falls is asked either by yourself or some of your friends." " Certainly," replied the minister, " certainly, your majesty ; who are to have offices except those who sup- port us ?" ** Certainly," replied Caroline, with an arch smile, ''but in this case he is determined." " But we are bound to give it to Beauchamp, and, had old Winslow died three years ago, he would have had it ; here has he been always at our call, always ready to fag upon committees." " Or to make speeches in coffee-houses in praise of the Walpole administration, or to write letters," said Caroline, laughing. The minister bit his lip. " Ay, he 's a confounded puppy, I know, but then his brother is worth keeping ; and if Harcourt Beauchamp is refused the place. Lisle Beauchamp will join the opposition." " In spite of that splendid letter in the Courant ?" inquired Caroline. ** Ah, true, that was better than usual : but, your majesty, it is for this very reason the place is fitted for Harcourt Beauchamp ; it 's almost a sinecure, so he can do little mischief, and I have no other to offer him, for we are three and four deep in promises already. THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. 107 and, by some plaguy chance, whenever a man f^ets a snng place he 's sure not to die until he has killed off half-a-dozen with waiting for it. But might we not yet persuade him?" Caroline gave a significant glance, and shook her head. " We must be quiet for the present, he is quite put out." '' With what some rascally Jacobite has put in his head," said the minister. '^Yes, I believe it is John Hinde Cotton's doing. My lord so and so told Mr. Somebody, who told his wife, who told somebody else, (you well know how a silly story gains currency) that our dear ally and cousin Louis said last week, at Versailles, that he should take care to keep in with yow, for then he could pension off half his court with the treasury places that fall into your hands." The minister bit his lip, for he well knew that a silly remark like this was more likely to injure him with his royal master than a direct charge of treason. **I see it all/' he at length said, " a}^, whatever that party may say about our plots, a shrewd plot is hatching not far from here. And it is on this very account that Beauchamp ought to have the office; if we seem to lose our influence, it is well nigh gone." "It is," said Caroline, "but he is strangely put out : one could almost wish there were some rumour of a plot, for that is the only thing to bring him round." " Why, as to plots, your majesty, we can have them 108 THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLpT. made to order at ten minutes' notice^ as my peruke- maker says/' answered Walpole, laughing, ^^and now I remember I have a letter in my pocket all about one ; and sent me by a foolish fellow on Ludgate Hill, who seems to think unless people go about with their names pasted on their backs they must be Jesuits or French spies." The minister drew from his pocket the large sheet of foolscap, and laid it before the queen. " It may be as well to mention this," said Caroline gravely, after she had hastily glanced over its contents ; '^indeed you are in duty bound to do so." The minister looked earnestly at the queen : there was a suppressed smile on the lip, but the keen blue eye laughed outright. " Certainly, your majest}^," said he. Caroline burst into a hearty laugh. *' Why, truly, this genuine plot has happened most opportunely : all men are managed either by their hopes or their fears, but hush 1" Her quick ear caught the sound of foot- steps : she took up the cambric, resumed her thimble, and, while the minister rising from his chair stood hat in hand, as though he had just entered, the queen of England plied her needle, like a very sempstress earning ninepence a day. The door opened, and a little dark man in a chocolate undress entered ; his sharp thin features wore an expression of continual anxiety, and his keen black eyes looked searchingly into every corner, as though he expected at least to find a hand-grenade. ^* Well, Sir Robert, but you are early," said he. The portly minister bowed with more THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. 109 reverence than gracefulness. ''Ay, you are come, X suppose, to ask for some place.'" '* By no means, your majesty ; I have come to say that the few thousands you mentioned will be at your disposal by the fifteenth ; a little management will be required, but that can easily be settled." The little dark man nodded, and almost smiled. *^ That is well. And now. Sir Robert, whatever else you have to say, say out ; madame will not tell," and he nodded smilingly to the queen, who sat plying her needle as though hemstitch were the whole duty of woman. ** I have received this letter just now," said Wal- pole, carelessly taking up the silk-mercer's epistle, *' I think it my duty to show it. But we must remember that citizens are easily frightened." The little man took the letter eagerly. '' What, any thing about the Pretender ?" said Carohne, just glancing her eyes from her needlework; " I thought every thing was quiet now." ^'Ay, more quiet, more mischief, madame; look at this," said her liege lord, putting the letter into her hand. " Then your majesty thinks we had better inquire V said Walpole ; " to be sure T have heard accounts from tolerably good authorities about the white roses being sent, but it is difficult to get correct intelligence." " And there may be nothing in it, after all," inter- posed Caroline, quietly. 110 THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. " But there is something in it, madame ; and Sir Ro- bert, I trust you will do your duty,*' said the little man. *' Assuredly; but I know of no one who is so fitted to inquire into this as Mr. Harcourt Beauchamp — he wrote that letter in the Daily Courant, for he is heart and hand for us." '^ But he may expect that place in the treasury, and you know you can't give it him," said Caroline. '^ But he shall give it him, if I please, madame," said her liege lord sharply ; " he shall have the place, I say ; so send. Sir Robert, and find out all you can." Meanwhile, all unconscious of the interest their pro- ceedings had awakened, in a quiet drawing-room sat Lady Harriet Elmsley and her young friend Almeria Shirley ; the former holding the very roll of white gauze ribbon which had excited the fears of Mr. Cooper in her hand, vhile the latter, apparently in no very pleasant humour, was twisting and turning about a gilt-edged billet which she had just received. *' I wish this ball were over," said she, petulantly, " but if I do go, I am not obliged to dance the whole evening with Harcourt Beauchamp." ** Surely not, unless you chuse," replied Lady Har- riet, *' and yet, if he gets this place in the treasury, your guardian will not be best pleased at your refusing him." Almeria turned her bright eyes reproachfully on the speaker. " This time last year you would not have said so," she replied. THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. 1 11 " But Edward and you had not quarrelled then. Poor Edward ! little did I think this time last year, at Lady Pomfret's ball, that my brother would be sup- planted by a coxcomb like Harcourt Beauchamp." " Why did he take such offence then, and go abroad ? " " Because my brother is not so anxious for your fortune as this scribbling puppy, and so is as proud as yourself." The fair Almeria frowned, and tore the gilt-edged billet into little strips. " No one has supplanted Edward, but his own pride," said she; 'Mf he were here on Friday he would see — but that cannot be." '^ If it were possible that he could be here, would you be reconciled ?" asked the sister, earnestly. '^O, surely, but it cannot be — he's in Flanders." Lady Harriet was silent ; she turned about the white gauze ribbon, as though thinking of very different things. At length, she arose to give farther orders to her own maid, to whom was entrusted the important charge of trimming the fair Almeria's white satin petticoat, and, soon after, again was Fanny sent to the '' Fan and Feathers," to purchase another dozen yards of the white gauze ribbon. Heavily, meanwhile, passed the day over Mr. Cooper's head. He waited patiently until half past two, expecting a summons from the minister ; but tea- time even came, and still there was no message. In a very sullen humour did he sit down to his favourite ir^ THE BELLE SAUVaGE PLOT. repast; but the tea was not such as he had drunk with Miss Hetty Nurdeii — it was flavourless; surely the water had not boiled; and then, tlie sugar-tono^s were missing : so he really began to think tliat the superintendence of the tea-table suited a lady far better than a gentleman. And then he looked at the vacant arm-chair opposite, and then he thought that a little pleasant conversation about his neighbours, or even about this *^ awful jacobitical plot," would be far preferable to sitting moping by himself. It is, indeed, astonishing how sentimental our worthy mercer became, ere he concluded his fifth cup of weak bohea. His fancy had actually conjured up the fair mil- liner, in her neat fly cap and sober silk gown, sitting in matronly state in the empty arm-chair, and pouring him out a cup of " nice strong " tea, with her own fair hand. Alas ! the bright vision soon faded away, and Mr. Cooper, unable to bring back his mind to the sober and matter-of-fact occupation of posting his ledger, determined to enjoy the sweet summer evening in the mall of Moorfields. He set out ; but how was it ? he mistook the right for the left, nor discovered his mistake until he stopped just before the door of the " Fan and Feathers." And now the thought occurred to him, that he was in duty bound just to step in and inquire if any more white ribbon had been sold. The duty he owed to his country was his excuse, as he told Miss Hetty, and she, as in politeness bound, invited him in; but so great was his anxiety to obtain intelligence. THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. 113 or so pleasant did he find the lady's converse, that it was actually half past nine before he took his leave. Three days passed, and in a room in the Treasury- stood the minister, evidently in a very ill humour. He pushed back his wig, took pinch after pinch of snufF, and then threv^ the box, a gold one, with the pleasant features of Queen Caroline (her own gift) enamelled on the lid, most irreverently on the table. " Confound the puppy ! when is he coming ?" said he to the tall obsequious functionary who stood beside him ; *^ yes, this comes of helping one's friends, to be plagued with such a blockhead !" " The blockhead, or, rather, the plot. Sir Robert, hath done you good service hitherto," said the official ; " the prince was offering bets that you would be out of office before Christmas only last Monday, but now, * le jeii est fini/ says Frederick, ' he carries every thing before him.' " " Why, truly," replied the minister, " to give such a puppy a good place shows, perhaps, one's influence more than a worthier appointment. But you are sure, Paxton, that he wrote this stuff? " pointing to a co- lumn of that day's Daily Courant. *' I am certain. Sir Robert; here's the copy in his own hand-writing." " Meddling ass ! " muttered the minister ; *' he could find time to write nonsense then, although he had not time to inquire about the plot." k3 114 THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. Paxton smiled. " Why, Sir Robert, he is now pay- ing earnest attention to Miss Almeria Shirley — so^ what with billets doux and patriotic letters, he has no time to spare." '' To Almeria Shirley ! What, that pretty girl endure such a confounded coxcomb? Hang the wo- men's tastes ! I thought she had been engaged to my godson — where is this confounded puppy?" As though in answer to the complimentary epithet, the door slowly opened, and, with one hand gracefully placed on his breast, while the other held the diamond studded snuff-box, in elegant undress of pea-green, and with a bow worthy of Versailles, Mr. Harcourt Beauchamp entered. " I must beg you another time to make a little more haste, sir," said the minister angrily. Mr. Har- court Beauchamp looked surprised — he had no answer in his vocabulary for such a speech; Paxton glided away, and the minister stood a moment silent. " I've sent for you, Harcourt," he now began, " to ask what made you write this confounded nonsense," and he tossed the Daily Courant to him. " Nonsense! Sir Robert?" " Ay, nonsense, for, first, it is uncalled for, and, next, it is not true. ' There was too much truth in our warning of last week.' Now, pray, what do you know about this plot ? or is there any plot at all ? " " Time will shew. Sir Robert ; but, really, I thought a few more hinlb from a gentleman inight do as much service as a sung from a Grub-street garreteer." THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. 115 •* Not a tithe so much, and, therefore, 1 patronize Grub-street garreteers ; they speak to folks in tlieir own manner, and so are understood. But what do people care about * mildly paternal governments, ' * awfully destructive sentiments,' and such stuff? Why, look at this song, this is the sort of writing we want," and the minister placed in the passive hand of the astonished literary gentleman a slip of dingy paper, printed in the genuine Seven Dials type, and adorned at the top with a wood-cut, intended to represent Sir Robert in all the glory of his huge cauliflower wig, but which certainly bore an equal resemblance to an owl in an ivy-bush. " Ay, that 's a song for you, set to a popular tune, and with a chorus : 1 wish you could write such another.'* Mr. Harcourt Beauchamp, a little recovered from his surprise, just glanced at the chorus — " If to drive off Pretender, and Devil, and Pojie, And make all French Jacobites fly, Sir Robert 's the man will do all tliat ten can, Which nobody can deny." And you call this good writing?" ejaculated the sorely offended fine gentleman, as the paper dropped from his hand. *^' Ay ! " replied the minister, heartily laughing, '* that 1 do ; and I hope at the next election to have it sung all over the country. But now, Harcourt, remember 1 will have no more nonsense; — write about loves and doves to all the maids of honour at once, if 116 THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. you please ; send magnificent letters to the ^' World," and the " London Packet," against frogs, Frenchmen, and wooden shoes, as you like ; but, if you mean to keep your place, no more nonsense in my papers." Mr. Harcourt Beauchamp stood uncertain for a mo- ment what reply to make. Had his adviser been a portionless cadet or a brother placeman, he would instantly have challenged him to measure swords in the Green Park ; if it had been his stern old tutor, he would have shut the door in his face ; but with the all-powerful minister what was to be done ? Not long did he pause, for, although ignorant of many things, he was profoundly versed in court tactics; Mr. Har- court Beauchamp, therefore, determined to pocket the affront, as the only means of pocketing his thousand a year ; so he meekly *' kissed the rod," and assuring Sir Robert that he would never again illumine the pages of the Daily Courant with his brilliant remarks, with an humbled bow, retired. Paxton re-entered with a letter, which the minister hastily perused, " What is your opinion of this plot ? " said he. *^ There is some mystery in it, certainly. Sir Robert. That a young man of good family is residing, for no visible reason, at the Belle Sauvage, is certain^ and that, on the day he came to London, I received notice of a suspicious person having landed at Feversham, is also true." *' Well, this silk-mercer has here written to tell me THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. 117 tliat some suspicious-looking papers have been disco- vered through the joint exertions of waiter and chambermaid, and, moreover, that the girl is ready to swear that she saw something like a decayed white rose, tied with a piece of white satin ribbon, in his hand, one night, as she peeped through the key-hole." Paxton laughed. *^ I thought a white rose would play a part in it; however. Sir Robert, perhaps it might be as well to take this young man into custody ; it would show we were in earnest, and gratify, too, the inhabitants of Ludgate Hill ; twenty-eight of them voted for our candidates at the last election." *' To be sure, it would give the citizens something to talk about, and, if I hinted to a certain personage that we were about to take strong measures, I might prevail on him to give that colonelcy to my godson, instead of to Maltravers : — well, take the proper steps, Paxton, but, be cautious, for, if we should take an honest Whig into custody instead of a Jacobite, what's then to be done? " <^ Make him a polite apology, and provide him a place in the treasury. Sir Kobert, and then he will have no cause to complain." The evening of Lady Pomfret's ball arrived. All the beauty and fashion of London crowded the gilded saloons, adorned with the richest cabinets, the most splendid china, the most recherche curiosities, for the mistress of the robes had been in Italy, and pride 118 THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. herself on her exquisite taste. And, half concealed by the large Chinese screen, wearied with the admi- ration her beauty had excited, sat Ahneria Shirley, in her rich and elegant dress, her snowy neck adorned with jewels, and plumes waving in her hair. But why should we stop to describe with pen what Parris has done so much better with his magic pencil ? There she sat, just as you see her in her picture, and there you may also see the very gauze ribbon on the petticoat, that excited the suspicions of the worthy silk-mercer^ while, just behind her chair. Lady Harriet was standing with anxious brow. " To whom will you give these flowers to-night?" asked she, pointing to Almeria's beautiful nosegay. Almeria looked vexed, for she remembered that last year, in that very room, she had given the flowers she wore to her rejected lover. " Not to Harcourt Beau- champ," said she. *' Would that you would give them to Edward !" replied Lady Harriet. " Impossible ; he is in Flanders." " He is in England, in London ; what would you say if I brought him even now to your feet?" Almeria looked earnestly at the speaker. " What, Edward returned ?" '' Yes, a week ago, only I would not suffer him to make hiiriself known, till I knew how you would receive him ; give me your flowers, and 1 will fetch him instantly." Almeria blushed ; she took the beau- THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. I ly tiful bouquet from her bosom, and put it into Lady Harriet's hand. Some time elapsed, but Lady Harriet returned not; there was a slight confusion in the adjoining room, and earnestwhispenng,andthen two gentlemen approached the fair Almeria. *' We are sorry to acquaint you, madam, with what has happened," said one, '' but Lady Harriet has met with a dreadful alarm : her brother. Captain Digby, who it was thought was in Flanders, has it appears returned, unknown to his family, with despatches from the Pretender, and he is actually the bearer of one of the white roses." *' Where is he?" cried Almeria in alarm. *■' Thanks to Mr. Paxton's care, quite safe," returned the other gentleman. ^''He is taken into custody ; for the white rose, with some violets, tied with white satin ribbon, was actually found upon him." ^^O take me to him !" said Almeria; "that white rose and violets / gave him, in this very room, last vear." *' So this is the end of the horrid jacobitical plot !" said the minister, laughing, as the next morning he entered the apartment of Queen Caroline ; " much ado about nothing, after all ; my unlucky godson must re- turn to England quite incognito to look after his lady, and, all unwitting the awful paragraph in the Daily Courant about the white roses, actually keep a white rose., and tied, too, with white ribbon, most carefully 120 THE BELLE SAUVAGE PLOT. in his pocket-book. How shall we manage now ? Still, your majesty will remember, that / always ex- pressed my disbelief of this plot, and so did you." The queen returned Sir Robert's significant smile with one of equal significance. '' All will be well ; yon have only shown an excess of zeal, and this is a fault which sovereigns very easily forgive." And thus ended the Belle Sauvage plot. Instead of one hanging, there were two weddings ; instead of judge, jury, sentence, scaffold, and grim executioner, there were congratulating friends with holiday faces, and bridesmaids adorned with unjacobitical white roses, and the fair Almeria, escorted by the minister himself to St. George's Hanover Square ; while the cidevant milliner, in mantua of the richest white ducape, and point ruffles of her own making, sur- rounded by sober citizens, anxious to pay due honour to one of their number who had so laudably distin- guished himself for his loyalty, returned as Mrs. Cooper from St. Martin's Ludgate. And all were well pleased — the minister, for he had regained his failing mfluence. Queen Caroline, for she had obtained her own way, even the monarch himself was so well pleased, (though we can scarcely tell why, but, per- haps, it might be through sympathy), that he ap- pointed Mr. Cooper "silk-mercer to their majesties,*' and gave Edward Digby the fourth dragoons. THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. BY PETER HESKETH FLEETWOOD, ESQ. M.P. It was in the latter end of the month of September, that a solitary traveller in the interior of a North American forest found himself on the bank of one of those rapid streams, near which the earlier settlers were accustomed to erect their log-houses, to plant the germs of a new growth of civihzation, and, amidst the hunting grounds of the Indian, to establish a fresh domain for man. The unpretending and hospitable board of the Dutch boor or the English Puritan was always offered to a brother wanderer, not merely as a matter of bounty, but as a right to which his circum- stances created an indisputable claim. One of those primitive dwellings now invited the temporary sojourn of the travel-stained and almost exhausted subject of this narrative. It was not the residence of a modern Squatter, a sturdy backwoods- man, a dealer in furs, or a fugitive from offended laws. The period in which these events occurred belongs to an earlier, and, if the phrase may be allowed, a more poetic age. The inhabitant, or, properly speaking, the mistress of the mansion, was a lone female, unmarried, and L 122 THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. still youthful > though the first bloom of early girlhood had passed from her fine countenance, with its usually evanescent character in the American hemisphere. Although the earlier transatlantic settlers despised the elegancies of profane learning, as they shunned the more imaginative adjuncts of religion, there were some among them, who, partaking of the pedantry and blind to the afibctation then frequently found in Europe, conferred upon this remarkable woman the appellation of the Arnerican Diana, Her aged father was the original planter of the settlement ; and his daughter, by one of those rare chances, hardly probable enough for fiction, but more true than some of the relations of history, blended many, if not all, of the softer characteristics of her sex with great physical energy and moral hardihood. Familiar with every exercise of the woods, indif- ferent to their dangers, and inured to the climate, she had acquired an authority among the increasing com- munity by whom she was surrounded, which, although it partook not of the forms, still less of the ostenta- tious splendours, of regality or chieftainship, possessed much of the substantial power occasionally denied to both. To trace in detail the sources of that ascendency is beside the purpose of the present narrative ; enough that it was generously exercised, and never disputed. Her personal beauty and mental endowments, her pecuniary resoiu'ces, rare in that age and country, her THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. 123 romantic disinterestedness and impartiality, and the influence of some predilections which she indulged in favour of Indian manners, enabled her to acquire this ascendency, which many quahties, intellectual and moral, that marked her extraordinary character, con- curred to preserve. The modern tourist in the United States will now find no remnant of the Indians of that district, though he may hear the tradition that such a race once ex- isted, and be shown in evidence the treasured relic of some antique weapon which they wielded. Years have rolled on; the white man is lord of the soil; sixteen millions of a commercial population swarm over the land ; and the echoing sound of the axe adds, every succeeding year, hundreds of square miles to the domains of civilization ; while the rapid disappearance of the original inhabitants signalizes and disgraces the progress of refinement. In the busy streets of a trading town, all remembrance is lost of that being whose gifts of nature, of fortune, and of education, raised her to the power of a princess and to some of the honours of a goddess. Though History will not condescend to record, and marbles and medals do not transmit to a remote age, events which in no degree influenced the scenes enacted on the great theatre of human affairs, yet another art, not always humbler in its pretensions, though generally more domestic in its subjects, has furnished one memorial now occupying a place on the 124 THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. walls of my apartment, in which the exterior charac- teristics of this almost poetical creation have been faithfully preserved, in combination witli accidents and adjuncts proper to her habits and illustrative of her character. Frequently as I have gazed on this exquisite, and, to me, invaluable production of art, have I become sensible of the intuitive perception of truth and nature, which restrained the artist's pencil from giving to that pensive and almost divine coun- tenance the common-place beauty of glowing roseate hues ; for the freshness of the breeze seldom im- parted to her cheek its bloom of joyousness, and art, by its immortal touches, tells, in that portrait, the oft- repeated tale of *' The grief of hearts forsaken." The sun cannot revive the flower whose root is cankered, neither can the dews restore freshness to the plant whose principle of vitality is extinguished : so in human affections, as in the physical structure of man, there is no second Spring. The beauty of in- tense feeling rests on those faultless classic features ; but their marble paleness shows that feeling's early blight. The origin of her settled melancholy, the cause of such total retirement from society, the motives which drew her sire into the fastnesses of an unexplored region, were alike hidden in mystery and regarded with wonder. Of their native land nothing was known among the tribes excepting this — they came THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. 125 across the great river (the Atlantic) from a distant island, and they did not speak the same tongue as the other pale faces (the Dutch). But to return to our more immediate subject. The solitary traveller, excited by the near prospect of rest and refreshment, which the proximity of this lone dwelling presented, vigorously, as compared with his former pace, commenced ascending the elevation on which it was built, and quickly found himself in the presence of its owner. After the dignified but un- ceremonious and hospitable welcome with which he was received, the new acquaintances conversed with ease ; for they fluently spoke the language of Shak- speare and Milton. When the stranger had taken the requisite rest and refreshment, the conversation naturally turned on the peculiar manners and habits of the people among whom the lady resided; for these were some of the leading objects of the traveller's curiosity. The descriptions of modern tourists and even the dramatic novels of the present day have conveyed no unfaithful representation of the great outlines which mark the character of the North American Indian; still they are but outlines, and, at best, those writers deal in generalities. However true it may be that hospitality, generosity, courage, fidelity, nay, that every savage virtue adorned the red man, yet some tribes, and especially some subdivisions of tribes, of- fered an exception to the general rule : hence it was l3 126 THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. that the Princess, as the Indians were accustomed to style her, cautioned the traveller neither to place implicit reliance on his own estimate of the character of the Indian tribes, then in their immediate vicinity ; nor to imagine that he might, otherwise than after many precautions, and by great good fortune, hope to penetrate into and return from the hunting grounds of that tribe whose village stood at the head of the stream which wound its way round her dwelling. " Beware," said she, '^ of disregarding the admo- nitions of one long familiar with these scenes, who has no interest in advising you to adopt caution, and who shudders at the thought that the spirit of re- search of her fellow-countryman may meet a sad reward in death by treachery. Return, since the purposes of your journey are now, to a certain extent, accomplished; proceed, and, without any prospect of benefit to science, you may perhaps leave no memorial behind, excepting those of violence, to indicate the route you have taken, or to communicate the fate which may have befallen you." *' Pardon me," replied the ardent traveller — his eyes lighted with the spirit of enterprise, the almost mad- dening desire of change, the insatiable curiosity that grows on that which feeds it, the love of hazard which makes some men feel That danger's self is lure alone — *' pardon me, lady, I am not quite so ignorant of these red men as your very kind, but (give me leave to THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. 127 say) feminine fears, lead you to apprehend. I have already journeyed far ; I think I know when I need fear danger : the natives, if trusted, are true." '' If wholly trusted," she replied, '^ the tribe of which we are speaking may have sometimes proved not absolutely false. Coming as you do from the land of my forefathers, I cannot consider you as a stranger ; — but, as a friend and countryman, once more I adjure you to beware! I have sojourned long in these regions ; I have studied the people. I have made a woman's wit awe their bolder natures ; and I have found it a painful lesson to observe how deeply duplicity is seated in the human heart. Manifold benefits, time, counsel, have not been spared; all that intellect and wealth could accomplish for their advantage — that have I done. The power that 1 enjoy has been the work of years of toil and vigilance, and is such as no European could be supposed capable of acquiring ; but I sleep on a volcano ; I grasp the slippery snake; I move as on the surface of a quag- mire. The fire may slumber, but the principle of combustion is beneath : the trembling morass may sustain me for a season, but the least false movement plunges me into its depths. The snake may sleep and my grasp may be firm ; but momentary relaxation is instant death. Dream not that ihere exists any state of society, civilized or barbarous, in which the evil passions of our nature are not found : social treachery masked under friendship is the bane of our 128 THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. father-land : in savage life the principle is the same, the effects more immediately dangerous, '' These considerations, however, which should go- vern your conduct as a wanderer among those who are not bound to you by interest or gratitude, are not such as ought to induce me to change my abode, or to withdraw the benefits that I have the power to confer on these children of darkness. The ingratitude of the savage occasionally demands precaution. In guarding against it, I remember in mitigation that there is ig- norance to be urged in its favour ; while the hypocrisy of civilization, as frequent as it is unpardonable, I could not encounter again, after it had poisoned the fresh springs of my youth !" The surpassing quietude of her deportment, the calmness, approaching to apathy, which characterized a voice, melodious, soothing, and dignified, and to which long intercourse with the Indians had imparted much of the solemn and romantic tones of the red man, made a deep impression on her guest — an im- pression materially enhanced by the evident absence of every feeling of our nature, excepting those which are connected with benevolence, in one so gifted with every charm of her sex. " Come forth with me," she continued, with a sweet sad smile, '^ and look from my domicile on the wide field of creation. Let us mitigate the disapprobation wdthin which this anatomising of the weakness or wickedness of our fellow creatures may lead us to THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. 129 indulge, by looking on Nature as she was designed for man, ever varying, yet still harmonising in her mi- nutest points." The place to which they retired was a green sloping lawn, spreading over a wide expanse, and decorated with a few of the giants of the forest, allowed to remain for beauty, after their companions had yielded to the purposes of utility. Numerous evergreens, sweetly scented, grew around ; and the flowers of many a chme added their varied beauty to the scene. Far could the eye trace the productions with which Nature in this country teemed ; then, roving farther, it gradually lost the perception of objects in the dim haze of the horizon, where the blue sky and the green earth were blended into one indistinct line. In a half dreamy, half meditative mood, the tra- veller enjoyed that happy, vision-like chain of feeling, when, the mind at rest, and care forgotten, man luxuriates in all the refined powers of a poetic ima- gination. The interest unconsciously excited by his fair com- panion, whose sequestered position had a mystic charm for his romantic nature, was increased as the elevation of her mind was displayed : pure, unw^orldly, noble, profound, her thoughts were graced by feminine softness, and conveyed with a refined choice of ex- pression, in a voice whose sad sweetness charmed the more for being devoid of effort or art. Her placid re- signed manner was almost like self-communing, and 130 THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. proved that the wish to make a favourable impression was extinct in this early-chastened heart. Much conversation passed; both were deeply- versed enthusiasts in the standard poetry of their native land; a community of literary taste is the earliest bond of intimacy, and their interchange of ideas was an unaffected display of riches in two highly- gifted though strongly contrasted minds. As the intellect of the enterprising traveller shone before her, the lady felt increased solicitude that so valuable a member of society should not be lost. She therefore renewed her endeavours to prevail on him to turn his footsteps to some other path. She failed in dissuading him from the enterprise, but eventually succeeded in obtaining a promise that he would use some portion of the circumspection which she recom- mended. They parted, mutually pleased with each other; both had taken their part in furnishing mental enter- tainment ; and here, amid the wilds of nature, intellect v»ras a jewel that could be doubly appreciated, sur- rounded by the darkness which ignorance had spread abroad. Weeks rolled on ; the lady, in the routine of her solitary life, was accustomed to the casual passing visits of strangers ; she adapted herself speedily to the conversation most interesting to her visiters ; and, when they departed, she returned, as readily as before. THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. 131 to lier own peculiar pursuits. Yet, at times, the remembrance of one so highly gifted as the tra- veller came across her mind, and perhaps carried her thoughts back to those earlier days, when intel- lectual companionship had for her peculiar charms; when life was green, and the world was seen through the vista of hope. Then silently would the emotions of woman overcome her more stoical spirit; and the outpourings of a broken heart melt the icy casket in which she had sealed up Nature's feelings. These moments were not common — better far had they been so. One day, an itinerant vender of the products and curiosities of distant climes, half hunter, half merchant, who at rare and distant intervals penetrated into these regions, called at the hermitage, and displayed, among other articles, a small compass, which the Princess immediately recognized as having belonged to the traveller. ^^ Whence did you procure this V was the natural question. *' At the Clearing, near the mouth of the stream, from one of the Indians of the Black River, who had come down to make the annual purchases for his tribe, and to exchange his peltry for hatchets, gunpowder, rifles, nails, &c." If her fears wanted corroboration, she had it in the cap and the curiously carved staff, which she parti- 132 THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. cularly remembered, from their design, and the antique mounting of the latter. The habit of controlhng emotion and masking anxiety enabled her to put such questions as too clearly brought a sad conviction to her mind respect- ing the death of the traveller, so lately her guest ; and she succeeded in drawing forth such additional infor- mation as might lead to a more full and detailed account of the affair. Having done this, and pur- chased the necessary articles, she dismissed the trader, without exciting his suspicions, or causing him to imagine that any thing be3^ond curiosity had led to her inquiries. Quick in resolve, decided in execution, her plans for obtaining information were soon effective. She learned that the traveller, after parting from her, had been tempted to proceed on his purposed route, and had been murdered by some of '^ the sons of the Black River," who, it appeared, had been tempted by his imagined wealth. The particulars and proofs of this atrocious crime were reduced to writing, and forwarded to the colonial authorities; but all this was infinitely easier to the energetic Englishwoman than to effect such a dis- turbance of Dutch apathy as would be necessary for avenging the wrong. Perhaps the authorities had not the power — they certainly manifested very little of the inclination — requisite for bringing the mur- derers to justice ; and in that quarter the earnest and THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. 133 anxious entreaties of this extraordinary woman proved unavailing. Behold her now, seated under a forest pine : deep thought furrowed her brow, giving increased dignity to her appearance, while she reflected on the means of exacting that retributive justice which she had been unable to obtain from the government. Like all persons of high resolve, the idea of failure — eventual failure — she never permitted herself to en- tertain. With her mental eye fixed on the goal, she paused but to consider the best course by which it could be reached. *' I have governed tribes who never before acknow- ledged any law ; I have exacted homage, where even respect was seldom before given ; and now I have asked redress from both the chief of the tribe and the authorities that here represent one of the European powers, and they cannot give it! Am I, after all, the poor helpless being to rest contented here, and cannot I penetrate a few miles farther amid these forests, for an act of justice, when I could have braved all I have done for selfishness, to escape from odious and hypocritical society? ay, when I could even per- suade my dear father to quit his country, and seek with me peace among less civilized nations? Away with the idea of doubt ! I have resolved, and I will accomplish ; ay, all ! these murderers shall know how deep is the determination of an Englishwoman. My people shall see that they yield obedience to no tinsel M 134 THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. sovereignty. Mountains and rocks shall bear my name ; and, if I reign, it shall be both with the power of a Queen and the dignity of a Woman.'' Within a few hours after this determination, her table was loaded with jewels, trinkets, plate ; and the general preparations indicated that all available means were to be employed in order to obtain a con- siderable sum of money as speedily as possible. A small force was soon afterwards raised on the coast ; auxiliaries were added from among her Indian neighbours ; and, in a little time, an armed body of sufficient strength to venture upon penetrating into the interior of the forest was collected, and this intrepid woman proceeded to fulfil her determination by placing herself at its head. Slowly and cautiously they advanced, molesting no one — nay, even conferring, where possible, benefit on any occasional wanderer whom they encountered ; and thus intelligence of their progress was rapidly diffused by the scouts of the several tribes. Alarmed at the formidable invasion now threatened, and not ignorant of the fame of its conductress, the menaced tribe sent to arrange terms ; but a stern and peremptory repulse, coupled with a declaration that no conference could be held until the murderer was given up unconditionally, struck terror to their hearts ; and the invaders uninterruptedly continued their march. The tedious march was now accomplished; and before them lay some of the devoted dwellings. THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. 135 Then, and not till then, was the murderer given up ; and this influential and determined woman returned to her home without committing any injury in her pro- gress; then, proceeding with the prisoner to the nearest point where European authorities were esta- blished, she delivered him to their charge, disbanded her troops, and once more sought the beloved quiet of her woodland recess. It is our province to leave her here, and bend our steps to the place where preparations were to be made for the trial of the murderer. The authorities deter- mined, as they had proved unequal to the task of seizing the culprit, at least to make up in parade, when he was in custody, for their previous indolence or impotence. They gave notice to the various parties holding jurisdiction in the neighbourhood, whether European or Indian, and also intimated to the sylvan Princess that they were willing to follow any direc- tions which she might give. She replied 'that all she asked was justice; that she trusted they would inquire fairly into the case, and adjudge according to the evidence.' As the time for the trial approached, the utmost interest was excited throughout the whole district, and an immense concourse of spectators was attracted, both from the novelty of a criminal being so taken, and also from curiosity to see the famed Princess, who was expected to attend the trial. The wild and fanciful dresses of the chiefs, the heavier and more 136 THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. voluminous cloaks in which the wealthy inhabitants of the town and its environs were wrapped, and the calm looks of the more peaceful burghers, gave a varied and picturesque interest to the scene. Arriving, with her customary simplicity and absence of parade, in the midst of this assemblage, the Princess graciously saluted those who were known to her, and passed forward to the house of a burgher with whom her father had long been acquainted, and whose resi- dence she proposed to honour with a temporary occu- pation. Immediately on entering this plain, substantial dwelling, and being left in a room by herself, the written evidence connected with the impending inquiry engaged her attention ; which, in a short time, was interrupted by the entrance of an attendant, ushering in a young Indian female, whose age just bordered on the earliest dawn of womanhood, and whose appear- ance, if it had all the wilduess, wanted nothing of the interest that attached to her tribe — > the Children of the Black River. The Princess intuitively perceived the errand of her visiter, and motioned her to be seated. The poor girl turned inquiringly to the attendant in waiting, as if to ask whether he were to remain. The lady, without hesitation, dismissed him; for she did not dream of the possibility of the least danger from the interesting- looking being who stood before her, and who, after a short pause, thus began ; " Princess ! I come to you as the sun of my destiny I THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. 137 you can wither and destroy, or you can shed the light of heaven over the desolate wigwam of the Son of the Black River. See you these hands ; they have toiled : tliese feet; they have trodden many a day's journey, that the treasures I have obtained might be laid at your feet;" and she produced a small pouch, filled with silver coins. She then continued : " I seek my father : you may save him. I know that the Great Spirit at present hides his face from us ; I know that my father has offended ; I saw it all !" and she dropped her head on her knees : " all !" she repeated in an almost stifled voice. The lady shuddered ; but, subduing her emotion, she said, " Tell me then all ! but let it be the truth, for you know I cannot be deceived." '' Princess," replied the girl, proudly raising her head, " I never deceived." Then, sinking again into her former position, she added, " But time passes, and I have not yet spoken of my father. It was on a bright moonlight night that the Stranger applied to my father to become his guide, on that journey which he wished to make to the shores of the Upper Lake, and he offered for this service powder and lead, with these beads, a hammer, and a hatchet. '^ We were without food ; other tribes had wrested from us some of our best hunting-grounds : our men seldom went out upon the war-path, and the pale faces, from day to day, were gaining upon the slender possessions that remained. My father agreed to be m3 138 THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. his guide; and, taking his rifle, prepared for the journey. He soon departed, leaving me alone ; for ray poor mother sleeps quietly by the shore of the lake. The door of our dweUing lay open ; I could not sleep, so T passed through the open grounds along the bank of the stream, towards its source, till the clear lake lay in all its calmness at my feet. '* Dark seemed the little mound of earth raised over the grave in which my mother lay : and a deeper sense of loneliness than usual came over me. Perhaps, thought I, the spirit of my dear mother hovers not over me ; I have been long absent, and she will not meet me, but will withdraw her welcome on account of my neglect. The flowers too droop their heads, and the pines frown on me. Well ! perhaps my dearest mother will forgive me, and come to breathe the balmy odour of peace across my brow. I will lay myself down, and sleep with my mother ! And I wept and was happy, for then my cheek touched the sod, and the tears sank into the earth, and I thought if they moistened her cheek that her spirit would forgive me! Thus I lay 1 know not how long, when steps ap- proached, and a voice, strange to me, asked if this was the lake ? My father's voice replied that it was. *' The stranger then gave my father charge of his cloak, and slowly moved along the shore to a consi- derable distance. Why he came so far to visit this spot I know not. At length the sound of his steps gradually died away, and I knew that my father alone was near; THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. 139 but, fearing lest he might chide me for my wanderings, I crept in among the underwood and lay still. Presently, he came near the grave, and, as he laid down the cloak, something dropping from the pocket struck against the ground : it sounded like money : — he started — and I soon heard him as if numbering the coins. Then he said to himself: ' Had I had this wealth, the wife of my bosom had not died, and the want of these base aids may cause my beloved child to follow her to the grave. Would that this treasure were mine I but it is another's, and confided to me. I ought not ever to have remembered it, or even to have touched it !' '' Then he seemed to be gathering it in his hand to put it again into the pocket of the cloak, when a hurried step approached, and the stranger passed quickly up the track : before the purse was replaced, he confronted my father. The light of the moon strongly fell on his features, and I saw them masked by the expression of distrust. " ' Give me,' he said, ' my cloak and my purse : what have you taken ? fool that I was to have trusted them out of my own possession ; but I had forgotten that my money was there.' ^ Trust !' replied my father, ^ dare you doubt me ? here is your purse.' The stranger took it in silence and counted the con- tents. ^ The numbers are not right,' he added ; ' you have taken more than the sum promised you; our bargain is at an end.' 140 THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. " My father was, of all created men, the most prompt to feel bitterly any imputation upon his good faith, and I saw that his hand was on his knife. The stranger started, but my father answered, ^ Fear not ; you have trusted me : I cannot harm you ; but you have yourself broken our bargain : we are for the future strangers.' ' Not so quick,' angrily replied the traveller, ' you have taken more than your pay.' * I have taken nothing,' was the answer. ^ It is false,' was responded. *^ The knife gleamed in the moonlight; the stranger dropped : he uttered no sound ; the spouting blood rushed upward, and fell on the grave of my mother ! My father shuddered, and, looking round, stooped to raise the fallen man; but it was useless: life was now extinct. " For a time he stood gazing at the corpse, until at last, like one roused from a trance, he took up the cloak, threw it across the body, and then, stooping down, leant for a time over the grave, as though com- muning with the spirit of my departed parent. He groaned bitterly ; then, suddenly rising, he lifted up the cloak, opened the pocket, and took out the money : at that moment, his foot struck against something, and, stooping to pick it up, he found several of the coins, which he had dropped while returning the stranger's purse. '' ' It is too late,' he sighed, ^ I may as well take this treasure — he cannot want it, I do — he doubted THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. 141 me, and he fell.' So spoke my father, lady — need I proceed? I will die for my father, if you wish, but oh ! save him ; spare my only friend, or kill me too." The Princess had not interrupted the poor girl's narration ; but her deep breathing spoke the interest which it had excited. Taking the hand of the sup- plicant, she said : '' I will be your friend." ^' You my friend ?" was all that the child of the woods could utter, and the poor girl sunk on the floor. On the following day the Indian culprit was brought to trial. The proofs were clear against him, and the case was very speedily concluded. He was liable to receive sentence of death. The proceedings were closed ; the Judges had but to fix the punishment, and the guilty man awaited in silence the fiat that should declare in what manner his life should be closed. Intently gazing iit the lady, as if to read her coun- tenance, and see what feeling stirred her soul, the friends of the prisoner watched each movement she might make ; not a sound escaped from her lips, calmly pressed together ; her brow was knit, but the expression of her eye rendered the frown doubtful. The Judges inquired if she had any suggestions to offer, '' for," said they, '^ to your heroism and love of justice may be attributed much of the merit of this conviction." Who that has witnessed the awful moment when 142 THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. sentence is to be pronounced but must remember how much importance seems to attach to the tone in which the first accents are uttered. In this case, however, there was nothing left for hope. The president of the court made known the decision, and had pronounced the sentence in the usual form ; yet the Princess still remained silent. In that colony, as well as in every other, wherein a shadow of sound jurisprudence exists, the executive power enjoyed the prerogative of mercy. However extraordinary such a step would have appeared under other circumstances, yet the governor of the colony, taking into consideration the peculiar incidents of this trial, signified his wilHngness to assent to any mitiga- tion of the punishment that the lady who exercised the strange and anomalous sovereignty which has been already described might propose, resolving, on that individual occasion, to invest her with his own authority, and let her deal as she might think proper with the criminal. To this he was the more readily moved, from her having communicated to him the narrative of the Indian girl, ratified with all the so- lemnities of an oath, and bearing upon its face so many evidences of probabiUty. Like one then to whom sovereignty was familiar, she proceeded to its instant exercise. She spoke, and breathless attention hung on her words, while every anxious eye was turned to that form of majestic and surpassing beauty, as she thus addressed the prisoner. THE PRINCESS OF THE WEST. 143 '^ Your life has been forfeited, though I have not borne witness against you : my part in your pro- secution was the collection and arrangement of facts, which spoke for themselves. True — I penetrated into your fastnesses, where you thought man, much less woman, dared not enter; and the secret murder in the Prairie of one whom you considered friendless is revealed within a few moons after its perpetration. The laws of the pale-faces condemn you : the red man breathes not a word against the justice of that con- demnation ; nay, even your friends and the conscience within you speak to the truth of the charge. '* But /, an Englishwoman, bid you live I I have scrutinised your motives, and seen that you were not under the influence of deliberate malice, whatever feelings of offended pride, or powerful temptations of want, caused your dark crime. You thought that an Englishman might be destroyed with impunity. Of the contrary you have now been convinced. Learn also that England can practise mercy as well as justice. Behold ! you are free. Henceforth, if an Enghshman should cross your path, be his friend. Tell your brethren what you have seen ; and, when you wish for a blessing on your children, pray that they may be the friends of Englishmen, and that your country may become another England." THE STAR IN THE EAST. BY T. K. HERVEY, ESQ. The burning East hath caught a sign Upon the brow of night. And starts the sage to see it shine O'er all the morning's hght ; A stranger, with his step of fire. Upon the starry way. And wings that tarnish not, nor tire. Amid the blaze of day; And keeping still his flashing eye Uushut, amid the sun-bright sky ! He is not of the stars that sang At that primeval birth. When all their lyres with music rang. To hail the young, glad earth; When pealed the world's wide anthem out. To join the spheres abroad. And one high psean met the shout From all the " Sons of God !" THE STAR IN THE EAST. 145 He was not of the fiery train That fought on Kishon's ancient plain !* Whence comes that glorious messenger ? Why came he not before ? Chaldea hath no form so fair. In all her Planet-lore ; The Gheber knoweth not that star. Amid his creed of fire. Nor hath its beauty hailed,- from far. The mariner of Tyre ! When Midnight, with her pageantry. Looked o'er the Idumean sea ! It prophesieth in the skies ; Oh ! where hath it been hid. For ages, 'mid the myriad eyes That light the Pyramid ! The Persian, with his starry wit. He cannot write its name. And who shall read the story writ Upon that brow of flame I It hath no mark in Grecian art. Nor sign on Zoroaster's chart ! It spreadeth forth its glittering wing. And beckonelh to the West, And circleth, like a living thing In haste, that may not rest : * The stars, in their courses, fought against Sisera. — Judges, v. 20. 146 THE STAR IN THE EAST. The sage hath watched its course afar. And pondered it apart. Till, lo ! the story of that Star Shines in upon his heart. And rises brightly on his soul The legend of its burning scroll ! 'Tis he — *tis he — the light of whom Those ancient prophets told. The star that should from Jacob come,* To shine on Judah's fold ; The East shall offer odours sweet. To meet its rising smiles. And Kings bring presents to His feet, From '' Tarshish and the isles," f And Sheba, from the desert far. Be summoned by the herald-star. The angel, with his sword of flame. Who watched o'er Eden's glades. When man, bowed down by guilt and shame. Went weeping from its shades ; Perchance to that same shining power This gentler task is given. To point, in this redeeming hour. The pathway back to heaven, * There shall come a star out of Jacob.— Numbers, xxiv. 17. t The kings of Tarshish and of the isles shall bring presents.- Psalm Ixxii. 10. THE STAR IN THE EAST. 147 And promise, with his flashing eyes, A new and brighter Paradise. Along the wild, hke ships at sea. The pilgrim-camel rides. And through the heaven, silently. That glorious banner glides ; The desert-fiend, in breathless haste. Stalks fast and far away — And like the garden blooms the waste. Beneath the holy ray. Where they, who weary not nor rest, Are traveUing, star-led, to the West. When Judah heard the voice of God, On Egypt's hostile plain. And shook again her hair abroad. And flung away her chain. She followed, through the desert way. Alternate gloom and light. And that was still a smoke by day. That glowed a fire by night. And morning saw the Godhead shroud Behind the pillar of the cloud. But onward, onward, gliding still. Afar, and yet afar. By night and day, o'er plain and hill. Looks forth yon golden Star : — 148 THE STAR IN THE EAST. Oh ! never herald's presence yet With such a glory shone. And, sure, such guide must bring the feet Unto a gorgeous throne ; And who shall meet His awful eye. Whose burning heralds walk the sky ! That guide hath halted suddenly ! And, with their fragrant freight. The stately camels stoop the knee Before a stable-gate ! Oh ! He, whose name was first on high. Is lowliest in his birth. And He, whose star is in the sky. Hath but a crib on earth ! And they, the wise, have trod the wild. To bow before a little child. So, guided by that Eastern ray. The lowly and the poor May gather precious fruits to-day. Beside that stable-door : That not unto the highest, here The highest place is given. And they who serve below, may wear The starry crown in heaven ! And shining things still keep the road That leads the Christian to his God ! THE WIDOW'S CURSE. The house and grounds which my uncle and aunt at present occupy were some years since in the pos- session of a very distant branch of the family, who, according to popular tradition, were obliged to dispose of it in consequence of a series of misfortunes entailed upon them by a curse. The tale appeared to me so wild, so romantic, and so characteristic of the country, that I was tempted to commit it to paper. In one of the most sequestered spots of the county of Roscommon were to be seen two or three cabins. One of them rose superior to the others. It was in- habited by the aged widow, Biddy Mann, and her pretty grand-daughter. Biddj^, to use the country phrase, had *' come of dacent people," who had been well to do in the world ; but times were sadly changed. Biddy's life had proved a lengthened chain of griefs and wrongs, which had roused all the worst feehngs of her nature, and excited all the warmest and best to enthusiasm, and these were all bestowed on her only hope and comfort, her grandchild, the gentle Kate. And who more worthy of this love ? She was the only survivor of her family of four sons. Her husband and two of her sons fell victims to the system of false information practised against the peasantry of unhappy n3 150 THE widow's curse. Ireland at the time of the rebellion ; the other two fled to foreign countries, and sank into an early but peaceful grave^ which was denied them in the land of their birth. The severity of the agent of an absentee landlord, of whom she held her cabin and ground, completed the catalogue of her misfortunes. Gale-day (^rent- day), the dreaded day, was fast approaching, and Biddy had no visible means of averting its terrors. The season was bad; potatoes and her little crops had failed. She could beg through the world, but sure it would fairly break her heart to see her Kate brought to that pass. In vain Kate offered consola- tion : the old woman passed her time in bitter in- vectives against those whom she considered as the authors of her misfortunes, and in caresses and lamen- tations over her child. Suddenly, however, a change came over her spirit. Biddy became pensive, taciturn; her neighbours whispered that it was strange ; sure, may be, it was a warning for death — but life, in its most brilliant and attractive form, was the subject of Biddy's thoughts. In short, she had for many nights a golden dream, which she determined to act upon. She dreamt that, in an old mansion-house, called Pallas, inhabited by a family of the name of O'Higgins, a pot of gold was secreted, and that she was the person for whom it was destined. All her thoughts were accordingly bent ou securing the treasure. THE widow's curse. 151 Taking an affectionate leave of her Kate, she set out on her journey, the object of which she kept a profound secret. A few days brought her to its termination. It was the close of a dark November evening when she came in sight of the old man- sion-house of Pallas, the object of her toils and hopes. With agitated steps she hastened on, re- gardless of danger ; crossed the rapid stream, swollen with the rains of the season, that flowed at the foot of the eminence on which the house was situated ; and soon arrived at the door, which, in Ireland, is ever cheerfully opened to the wanderer. Her age, the inclemency of the niglit, all served her for a pass- port. She had not been long seated by the brightly blazing turf fire, when her scrutinizing eye was caught by a stone in one corner of the kitchen — just such a stone, and in the precise situation of that which she had seen in her dream, and beneath which the hidden treasure had been deposited ever since the time of the Danes ; for that is the period to which all secret stores of this kind are ascribed. Amazed and awe-struck at the prospect of the speedy fulfilment of her dream, she joined not in the innocent mirth and the tales of fear and wonder with which the happy circle of dependents beguiled the long evening after the toils of the day. Conceiving that her silence was occasioned by fatigue, they pressed her to take re- freshment, and then left her to her own thoughts, and 152 THE widow's curse. undisturbed to form plans for gaining possession of her treasure. The voices of the spinners, with the soft hum of their wheels, which had seemed to sing a lullaby to the storm, had long ceased, and were succeeded by the harsh voice of the wind, touching every note of discord, from the shrill, wild whistle to the loud, awful blast which spoke of danger. The remains of the cheerful fire now only threw a dim uncertain light on objects to render them fearful from their indistinct- ness ; and thus it fell on the tall and spectre-like figure of Biddy Mann, as she rose from the liumble pallet which had been allotted to her in the kitchen. With stealthy step she approached the stone, which re- sembled the broken shaft of a small pillar, and now served the purpose of a low seat. As the kitchen was paved with small stones, and Biddy was provided with implements for her work, which she had carried in her bag, there appeared but little opposition to her undertaking, except the danger of wakening one of the sleepers in the kitchen. She commenced her operations with anxious yet cautious haste. Already had she bared the founda- tion of the stone, which she raised with a vigorous effort, but it slipped from her hands, not, however, before she saw, or thought she saw, the object of her search, the antique earthen pot containing the trea- sure. The loud noise of the fall roused the sleepers, who started up in affright, with exclamations of '^ The THE widow's curse. 153 Lord save us! The Lord have mercy upon us 1" In a few moments the alarm was general, and the kitchen was filled with the males of the family. There stood Biddy^ the spirit of the alarm, with an air of desperate determination to overcome all diffi- culties. The state of the stone, the implements scat- tered around her, and that which she held in her hand, plainly told the cause of the disturbance and its author. The master of the house advanced towards her, and in an angry tone inquired what she was doing, and how she had dared to remove any thing in his house. Beckoning him to come nearer, and inclining her body, without quitting her position, she said, '' Whist a lanna ; send them away ; and I'll be afther telling you something you will like to hear." All the ser-, vants, as if struck with fear, fell back to the further end of the room, when she whispered : " There's gould, pure gould, under that stone ; it never belonged to you or your's. I alone knew of it ; to me alone then it belongs. Help the poor widow to get it this night. With a heart and a half I'll share it wid ye, and ma^ the Almighty pour his blessing on you 1" These words were unheard by all save the person to whom they were addressed. Her whisper ceased — a pause succeeded. A moment of dark thought passed over the countenance of her auditor, and was followed by one of angry decision. Seizing the arm of the old woman, he exclaimed : " Think not to fool me with your tale of falsehood. Leave my house this 154 THE widow's curse. instant !" He pushed her from hira with violence. Turning to his servants, '* Why stand ye staring there ?" he cried. " Turn her out, I say." His second son, Bernard, a fine lad, now ran up to him, and, with a look of earnest entreaty, laid his hand on his father's arm. '' She is a poor helpless woman, who cannot harm us," said he. " Surely, father, you would not turn her out in such a night as this !" *^ May God bless you, child !" ejaculated Biddy. " Dictate not to me V vociferated the father ; *' if none of this useless gang will do it, I must rid my house of the old witch myself." '' O masther, masther dear, don't do it agrah!" re- monstrated a voice from among the servants. ^' Re- member the prophecy of long ago about that stone, and don't bring misforten on yersel and the childer 1'* " Silence, fool ! You shall see how I regard your prophecy." As he thus spoke, he hurried the powerless old woman across the kitchen, and, in another instant, outside the door. Not till then did she recover the power of utterance. With a voice loud, wild, shrill, as the winds against which it contended, she cried : ^^ O'Higgins, ye'll sup sorrow for this. My curse, the widow's and the orphan's curse, be on ye !" '' Hold, good woman," said Bernard, interrupting her ; " do not utter wicked curses. Here's money, which will procure you comforts and shelter." THE widow's curse. 155 ^^ Keep your money/' replied Biddy ; '' I'll not sell my blessing or my curse. On you, child, be ray blessing, for you have pitied me : may you never, never stand in need of pity yersel, and never know- sorrow ! May riches bless you in a strange land, and give you every comfort in life ; and may heaven be your bed at last ! But on the father of ye, on all be- longing to him save yersel, may a blight rest ! May the riches he has got cause his destruction ! May he be low as me and my darlint Kate this night — and that won't be long. Dead or alive, I'll have re- venge !" The door was closed. The solemn words of the imprecation had sounded the more awful from the storm which was raging. By the following day that had subsided, and Nature again appeared gay and cheerful; but gloom hung over the house of Pallas. The servants whispered their fears of the old woman's curse ; the very walls seemed to repeat it. From that fearful night the old woman was never heard of there or at her own home. Time passed on. O'Higgins seemed to have ac- quired sudden wealth, made purchases, appeared to be blessed, not cursed ; when, one fine moonlight summer night, which he was enjoying on the lawn before his house, the calm silence of the scene was broken by a sudden piercing cry: another and another followed, and then a fearful laugh of exultation. He ran to- wards the spot whence these sounds proceeded, till he 156 THE widow's curse. eame to the clear and rapid though shallow stream at the end of his lawn. Here he found two of his ser- vants^ who^ with loud lamentations^ had just lifted some burden out of the water. " O masther !" they exclaimed, on seeing him ; " poor dear misther Harry I The ould woman has fairly murthered him. Sure, I saw her mysel strangle him in the ford." The wretched father was horror-struck, on a nearer approach, to behold his favourite, his idolized son, a corpse. He had perished, and, as all the peasantry firmly believed, by the supernatural agency of Biddy Mann. This was the beginning of O'Higgius's mis- fortunes. He became silent, morose, litigious, went to law, in a very short time lost all his property, and was so reduced as to live in a small cottage on his own grounds. From the fulfilment of the curse pronounced on the father, the blessing bestowed on young Bernard was confidently expected to prove true. Seeing the most gloomy prospects at home, he collected his little pro- perty, determined to try his fortune in foreign lands, went to Spain, where success favoured him, and thence to South America, where he acquired wealth and honours, and became one of the most distinguished of tlie republican leaders, under the name of Don Ber- nardo O'Higgins. Thus were alike fulfilled Biddy Mann's blessing and her curse. A.M. • W.J'oy . del^ ru2'^h^4.yL"'^^.±^ '^ fa^'oJ\^J MO]R.I^II^G- PKAYlSIl , THE MOTHER'S OFFERING. BY MARY HOWITT. PART I. MORNING PRAYER. Our dear ones are torn from us ! One by one. The golden links of our soul's love are severed ; And mid the quicksands and the shoals of life The heavy billows of adversity Cast us forlorn and naked ! It is well — For God hath stricken us — still from the depths Of our great desolation goeth up. Like his, the frail disciple on the sea. Our feeble cry. Lord help us, or we perish ! Yet, though thou chastenest me, I will fly to thee. And put my trust in thee, and at thy feet- Lay down my precious things; nor would I murmur. Though thy good Providence saw meet to strip me Even of the one dear blessing thou hast left ! And, for thou yet art merciful, my soul Shall not withhold aught from thee ! Oh my Father Accept mine offering ! — this one poor lamb I dedicate to thee in life or death ; Accept thou him, thou hast mine other treasures ! Boy, clasp thy hands, and raise thy heart to God, For here, before Him, in the face of day, Here, in this chamber of our poverty, o 158 THE mother's offering. With our sore desolation round about us, I dedicate thy life and all thy powers To Him and his great human family ! Father, behold thy child, and what in hira Comes short of thy requirings give him further ; Courage — not courage such as maketh men Stand, sword in hand, to meet their enemy. But such as nerved the Saviour to drive forth The dealers from the Temple ; as sustained him Mid the revilers in the outer court. Crowned with thorns, yet answering not again ! Give him persuasive speech — not with bland lies To win the ear of kings, or to take captive The hearts of women, but with eloquent words To lure men's souls to virtue; to make felt How beautiful is love, and to instil The spirit of love, even as a holy essence. Where'er his presence comes. Oh gracious Father, That this poor child of mine might be thy herald Among mankind ; to the lorn prisoner, Down in the hopeless dungeon, carrying knowledge Better than life, light better than the day ! — That to the Judge upon the high tribunal He might impart mercy and charity ! Oh let him sit by death-beds, and in homes Made desolate, and with the faint in heart. And the poor weary sinner ! Let him compass Both land and sea to speak peace to the mourner ! Father, I ask not wealth nor length of days. THE mother's offering. 159 But bread to eat, and raiment to put on. And that thou wilt support me to make fit This child for thy great work ! PART u. THE DEATH-BED. Woman, Speak low, methinks he sleeps. I smoothed his pillow Scarce fifteen minutes past, and he since then Hath hardly moved. Man, If he sleep, he will do well, God grant he sleep till eve ! Child, I will not stir. But I will lay me down upon the hearth. And sleep too, lest I wake him. Man. Come life or death. All will be well with him. I heard, last eve. More than I knew before, though we so long Have known him and the holy life he led. *Twas he, who like an angel stood between The living and the dead, when the plague raged I'th' city ; it was he, who in the war-time Lived in the hospital among the wounded. Tending them with the kindness of a woman. And comforting and cheering them in death. Woman. God's blessing on him ! Man. He was one time sent for. When or wherefore I know not, to the King, And offered lands, and some great bribe in gold. leO THE mother's offering. So he would sell himself to do their will. Which was for evil. Woman. That he woidd nat do ; Gold could not bribe him to an evil deed ! Man, Yet he was poor, and had an aged mother Dependent on him, but he would not do it ! He said, far more he loved his peace of mind Than lands or gold ; and that the favour of God Was higher than that of kings! Woman. 'Twas a brave man ! Man. Brave ! thou shouldst hear old Eugene talk of him ! Eugene and his grandchildren were a-bed, When flames burst forth, and all the house was fire. For 'twas a gusty night ; the neighbours stood In panic terror, wildly looking on. And though poor Eugene and the httle children Cried out for help, none dared to rescue them. When suddenly that young man, hurrying forward. Without reproach on those who stood so helpless. Seizing a ladder, rushed into the chamber. And amid raging fire brought forth the inmates. As if his life were nothing. Thou shouldst hear Old Eugene speak of him ! Woman. Thus did he ever; His life was a self-sacrifice. They whom The world looked coldly on, and, with hard judgment. Spurned from its presence as a thing unholy, • He sought out, pitying their blind ignorance. DEATH IN A FOREIGN LAND. 161 Restored to self-respect and lured to virtue ; He hated sin, but the poor outcast sinner Was still his human brother. This was great. But to my mind sets forth his virtue less Than that refusing of the offered wealth. Seeing he was poor, and had an aged mother Dependent on him — ^loving so that mother ! Why, most men would have snatched the gold in triumph. Smoothing the price on't to an easy conscience ! Man, He was not of their sort. Woman, But I must see him — Oh ! God thou has ta'en thine own ! Man. Ah, is he dead ? Yes, this is death — sleep ne'er was calm as this. But what an angel's face it is in death ! Woman, He's with his mother now, a saint in heaven. Man, Well may'st thou weep, nor can I keep back tears. DEATH IN A FOREIGN LAND. BY MRS. ABDY. Not long shall this feeble pulse remain. And this failing strength endure. Thy sunbeams, fair Italy, shine in vain. Thy climate can work no cure. And I sigh, when through myrtle groves I roam. By the balmy breezes fanned, o3 162 DEATH IN A FOREIGN LANO. " Oh ! why was I sent from my quiet home. To die in a foreiorn land ?" They knew I must die, I remember well Their foreboding looks and sighs. And can Death be charmed by an earthly spell. Soft zephyrs, and azure skies ? I would give them all, on the wood to look Where the clustering nut-trees stand. And to gather lilies by the brook. That runs in my native land. I weep not because in early youth I am called from this world of care, I have humbly studied the book of truth. And mourned o'er my sins in prayer. And I hope through the Saviour, in whom I trust, T may join the blessed band Of holy angels and spirits just. In a brighter and better land. But my light and vain companions here No calm to my mind impart. Their language is foreign to my ear. And their manners to my heart ; Would, when I lie down to yield ray breath. My kindred could round me stand, I think I could greet the angel of death. If he came in my own dear land ! THE PRIEST AND THE PENITENT.* BY MRS. WALKER. "So the beautiful Imoinda is to be married this morning. Faith, Pembroke is a lucky fellow. I for one would gladly vote the barter of half the blond belles of this town, so that we might keep among us the glorious eyes of that divine Creole girl. Positively they make sunlight in the darkest day of November." " Why, Villiers, man, you are getting poetical : I did not know the Barbadoes widow had made a slave of you, too. Really, the negroes on her estates are free in comparison to the poor devils she holds in bondage here. Well, she is a sweet creature, and I hope Pembroke may value the treasure he has won, as she deserves." The above dialogue took place in the High Street of that prettiest and most gossiping of towns, Chel- tenham, between two of the loungers ever to be found there and in other watering places. We will now more fully introduce to our readers the lady to whom it referred. Imoinda Jerningham was the widow of a man, by courtesy called gentleman, • The facts contained in the following tale were communicated by a friend who was an eye witness, but, for the sake of giving clear- ness to the narrative, I have written as if I myself had been the spectator. 164 THE PRIEST AND THE PENITENT. who, because he possessed large plantations in Jamaica, and had numbered fifty years, thought himself entitled to exercise over the lovely and portionless girl, whom he had bribed her parents to force to the altar as his wife, a tyranny and despotism, which, even the elasticity of sixteen, and a naturally bright and joyous temperament, were scarcely capable of coping with. After a wretched disunion of three years, the death of a brother called Mr. Jerningham to England, and a few more months conveyed to his wife the tidings, heard certainly without any very violent demon- strations of grief, of his own demise. She was now, at nineteen, with all the power which wealth confers, all the freedom a state of widowhood enjoys, and all the influence with which a face and form of singular loveliness always endow a woman. The delicacy of her health demanding change of climate, she repaired to England, and had passed the period since her arrival at the favourite resort of travellers from the warm latitudes — Cheltenham. Her presence there had excited quite a furor among natives and visiters, and Alexander numbered not more victories than did Mrs. Jerningham; though her conquests were not on the embattled plain, but in the sweet walks of the Montpelier promenade, or in the glittering and garlanded ball-room. For those who wish for a description of our beauty, w^e w^ill briefly sketch her. Large starry eyes, whose flashing lustre was tempered by an expression of such THE PRIEST^AND THE PExNITENT. 165 tender beseecliingness, that every look was a prayer ; a skin of the finest and clearest olive, now utterly colour- less,now glowing as sunset; hair black and shining; and a form so exquisitely pliant, so faultlessly proportioned, that every movement was grace, every attitude worthy of perpetuation by the sculptor's chisel. With such manifold attractions, it is no marvel that her hand was an object of eager competition ; but, disdaining the allurements which rank possesses, the temptations which affluence equal to her own held forth, she selected from her host of admirers Henry Pembroke, the scion of a poor, though noble. Catholic family, who, saving a genealogy without a blot and a fine manly person, appeared to have no especial claim to such distinction, unless a love, whose vehemence and intensity often hurried him into temporary distrust and suspicion, can be called so. The day of her nuptials had arrived, and Imoinda sealed her earthly fate for weal or woe, and became the wife of Henry Pembroke. The ceremony over, the married lovers entered their travelling carriage, and set off for the Continent. It was an evening in early spring : earth, air, and sky, were fraught with beauty, and filled every sense, even to overflowing, with a deep yet subdued feeling of enjoyment — one of those evenings, when, at the sight of Creation in all its fitness and perfection, the heart is humbled in lowly worship of the divine 166 THE PRIEST AND THE PENITENT. Creator, and, the better faculties of the soul awakened, it pants to exchange the perishing interests of Time for the fadeless glories of Eternity. I had taken my evening stroll among the ruins of the Coliseum at Rome, and, my path homeward leading me by the Church of San Giovanni Laterano, I entered its open portals. The last chant of vespers was pealing through the aisle, low, sweet, and solemn. In a few minutes, all whom devotion or curiosity had called thither had left the edifice, and I found myself, as I fancied,, sole occupant of the spacious area. While inspecting the pictures — for where is the church in Rome that has not some picture worth inspection ? — I was startled by the choking sob of femi- nine agony near me. I then found that the screen afforded by one of the colossal figures of the Apostles, which adorn the aisles, had hidden from my view a confessional, from whose recesses, it was evident, the accents of grief proceeded. Unwilling to listen to this outbreak of a loaded heart, whose anguish it was not for me either to hear or to assuage, T was leaving the church, when a wild unearthly scream, which still rings in my ears, arrested my footsteps, and, a moment afterwards, I saw the grey marble floor, on which I stood, crimsoned with blood ! To force open the door of the confessional was the work of an instant; and, on entering its narrow precincts, I discovered priest and penitent, both, to all appearance, lifeless. The latter, a young and beautiful woman. THE PRIEST AND THE PENITENT. 167 was yet kneeling in the attitude of supplication ; and the contrast of the black waving hair which fell in shadowy masses about her, the ashy cheek, and the white robe saturated with the dark red stream, which had gushed in torrents from the wound in her bosom, presented an aspect of horror, from the recollection of which my memory yet recoils, in spite of the interval that has elapsed since I witnessed it. The priest, a fine man, evidently not more than thirty years of age, held in his hand the short poniard, whose blade had dealt death to the fair creature before him. My first impression was, that life had ceased with both, abruptly, but entirely. The subsequent exami- nation of those whom I summoned to my assistance undeceived me. We then found that the penitent was the only sacrifice, and that the death-like stupor in which the priest lay was the operation of strong mental agony, wdiich had paralyzed his form like the thunderbolt from Heaven. As the facts which led to this catastrophe became matter of immediate and general notoriety in Rome, and afterwards formed the subject of judicial inquiry, it can be no infringe- ment of domestic sanctities to narrate them. The unfortunate victim, whose death-shriek I had heard, was the beautiful Imoinda, who a few years before had been the idol of all who looked on her, and whom I had last seen as the blushing bride of the envied Henry Pembroke. They had passed the whole of their married life on 168 THE PRIEST AND THE PENITENT. the Continent. His love, whose warmth and fervour had won her affections, became, after their nuptials, a curse rather than a boon to her on whom it was lavished, from the insane jealousy associated with it. In vain did Mrs. Pembroke, renouncing the gratification which she derived from society, where she was wor- shipped as a goddess, cheerfully and willingly relinquish it, and consent to live in the utter seclusion of an ob- scure village in the south of Italy, where the balmy breeze and the rich perfume were the only incense she inhaled. Her temperament, warm and glowing as the clime where her first life-breath was drawn, exhi- bited itself in the fond and passionate love which she bore her husband, and made every sacrifice of personal vanity or pleasure trifling and inconsequent, if a tender smile from him rewarded her self-denial. But Pembroke, not satisfied with all that she had abandoned for his sake, with that strange overweening selfishness, which so often degenerates into cruelty in man, who, because the being over whose affections he rules with omnipotent sway has no fresh offering to make to his love or vanity, forgets the thousand already conceded, became changed in manner, and, though still restlessly suspicious, cold, moody, and sullen. This was the wTeck of the happiness of both, the basis of the tragedy which ultimately supervened. The nature of Imoinda, quick, ardent, and generous, wdiile it eagerly returned love for love, resented indig- nantly aught of caprice or coldness. She insisted on THE PRIEST AND THE PENITENT. .1G9 leaving their quiet retreat, and in an evil hour pro- ceeded alone to Florence, where she plunged with de- sperate gaiety into every scene of pleasure that solicited. Her husband, apparently reckless of her conduct, though really loving her still, and cognizant of her every action, followed her incognito to the city where she resided. At a masked ball given during the Carnival at the Pitti Palace, she had been throughout the evening the partner of the Prince Gonsalvi, a young nobleman, alike distinguished for the graces of his person and the extent of his hcentiousness. While seated with him in a temporary pavilion in the garden, her husband suddenly appeared before her. The rude violence with which he seized her roused the wrath of her companion ; a scuffle ensued, and the young Prince was felled to the earth by a blow, which left him to all appearance dead. Pembroke fled. From that period, no tidings of his fate had ever reached the innocent bu wretched and bereaved Imoinda. Accusing herself as the cause of his expatriation, for it was. generally thooght that he had gone to America, uncertain even whether he yet lived, her remorse became ceaseless and acu^e. The engines which she had thoughtlessly employed to re- cover, as she hoped, his lost affections, had turned against herself, and levelled every hope of human en- joyment in the dust. What now to her were fame, beauty, affluence ? Her possession of these was only valuable if subservient to the happiness or gratificatioii p 170. THE PRIEST AND THE PENITENT. of the one only being she loved, and he had deserted her ! believing her, how falsely ! — faithless, unloving, and disloyal. The sympathy of all classes encompassed her. But there was no balm in their gentlest word. The voice of flattery followed her footsteps wherever she appeared, but its accents sounded hollow and heartless. Often did she turn from the gilded saloons into which the affectionate urgency of friends hurried her, and, seeking her lonely chamber, press with fond and agonized caresses the miniature of Pembroke to her heart and lips, and feel that, could she once more be the companion of his hearth and home, no unkindness should force a murmur from her lips, or tempt her even for a m.oment into that levity, which had deceived him, and stamped the fiat of misery on every moment she numbered. It was three years after his disappearance that the fearful scene which I witnessed took place in the Church of San Giovanni Laterano. Imoinda had gone thither, led hy the fame of the priest, whose eloquence and sanctity filled Italy with its echoes. Little did she deem that the man before whom she bowed in penitence was he whom, his errors all forgotten and forgiven, she yet loved with the freshness and concentration of happy and by-gone years. His person even her eye could not recognize; for, in addition to the defacing marks which grief had written on his brow, lie had, for the purposes of concealment, stained his THE PRIEST AND THE PENITENT. 171 hair and complexion of a dark Indian tint. Little too did he deem, when he took the monastic vow, and placed an eternal barrier between himself and her who still too strongly weaned his heart from Heaven, that he had acted on false suspicions, and voluntarily, as it were, destroyed the peace and happiness of both. He had left Italy only for a time, and returned thither to devote himself to the service of relisjion; and, though believing his wife guilty, feeling a desire to learn her movements, he became a monk of the severe order of the Capuchins. His blameless life, stern sanctity, and powers of oratory, won him a far- spread reputation. Thousands came to him to confess. Day by day, he hoped that she too would coftie, and that his ear might listen to the secrets of her soul — and she did come — and, kneeling at his feet, told of her follies, her errors, her frivolities. With breathless interest he heard her tell of these. He thought that crime would be added to the list — nay, he almost hoped it. He suggested — he interrogated — he de- nounced. But the confession was finished — she had no more to own — she was spotless, and he was de- ceived ! — spotless — and confessing in broken accents her unquenched love — and yet he durst not clasp her to his heart ! He pronounced her name in the familiar tone of tenderness, so well known, so unforgotten. It was enough — disguise was longer impossible — she flung herself on his bosom, and for a moment held him in her 172 THE PRIEST AND THE PENITENT. arms. He started from her embrace, told her of the vows that he had uttered, of the impassable gulph that he had placed between them ; and, seizing a poniard, which he had concealed in his vest, was about to plunge it into his heart, when she wrenched it from his grasp, and, falling on her knees to implore forgive- ness of Heaven and him, buried it to the hilt in her own breast. He recovered, and is yet living. But she, the faithful and the fond, was dead ! All the fervent and stormy passions which had alternately transported her to the summit of earthly bliss, or plunged her in the lowest depths of mental despondence, were hushed in eternal stillness. She was dead. The shafts of calumny could no more wound, the allurements of the world seduce, the presence of joy brighten, or the bitterness of sorrow^ grieve. She was at peace. Let but a few months thus roll on, and she would be forgotten by all, save one ; in whose mind memory w^ould ceaselessly ply the work of pain. In the silence of night, in the cold grey dawn of the morning, when there was rest for others, there should be no repose for him — the unswerving faith, the passionate devotedness, the wild embrace, and the dying struggles of Imoinda, would stand between him and sleep, and make the couch of obUvion the scene of vivid and acutest consciousness. In the service of his Creator alone he shall find peace, in assisting his fellow-creatures the only solace for a wounded spirit. ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. ON COLUMBUS SETTING SAIL TO DISCOVER AMEIltCA. BY WASHINGTON BROWNE, ESQ. Be calm, thou Ocean ! he who sails on thee Is of the best blood of the human race ; Spread forth thy waste of waters silently ; Him, who now wooes thy favour, do thou grace. For he must win him an immortal place Second to none heroic or renowned : For none, O Ocean ! who may seek to trace, Howe'er adventurous, thy vast watery round. Henceforth shall be like him through time witli glory crowned. No armament is his, with sound of slaughters. Thy sanctitude of quiet to annoy ; No fleet with human blood to stain thy waters. To subjugate, to torture, and destroy : No trafficker in men, bent to decoy His fellow-creatures to a desperate doom ; Receive him. Ocean ! to thy breast with joy ; Be hushed, thou dread inexorable tomb. That he o'er thee may reach fair isles of fadeless bloom. The Assyrian empire had begun and ended; The Hebrew dynasty had past away; p3 174 ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. The Macedonian his stion^^ arm extended Over the East, and perished with his sway ; And Greece had had the glory of its day. And Rome its arms, arts, luxury, and decline ; Whilst a vast continent, unknown of, lay From age to age beyond thy billowy brine. Girt round with pleasant isles beneath those skies benign. However pleasant might thy region be. Arcadian Pan ; whatever charms were dealt Unto thy vales and streams in Arcady ; In lovelier realms than those none ever dwelt ; No frame more balmy breezes ever felt Blown fresh from fragrant groves and limpid streams : There life and iramortali(y so melt Into each other, each the other seems. For all the eye beholds is like divinest dreams. Then smooth thy rugged front, old Ocean ! keep Bound in strong chains the terrors of thy breast ; For, shouldst thou rise and shake him through the deep, Ages must lie the undiscovered West : And he, the gifted seer, the bravest, best. Must perish in thy billows with his fame. But thou dost smile upon him ; he is blest : And kings, his petty foes, grow red with shame. As the old world resounds linked with the new his name. I HAMMER AND NAILS. BY MRS. LEE. A HAPPY family party, assembled round an English fire-side, were enjoying the comforts of a bright blaze, crimson curtains, a warm, thick carpet, and closely fitting doors and shutters, while the sleet pattered against the windows, and the stormy blasts preceded by low moans, swept by in furious gusts. ^' This," said one of the youngsters of the circle, " is just the night for a ghost-story ; those hurried and complaining tones, which rush on with the wind, seem to come from a set of demons hastening to be present at some horrible catastrophe." "No!" said another, "they seem to be giving us warning that they are going to take possession of some wretched soul, just about to escape from its earthly habitation." " Or rather," said a third, " they seem to me as if they themselves were pursued and tormented by some mightier power. I never hear these groanings of the storm but I think of that Canto of Dante, where the poor sinners are incessantly wafted on by the wind without knowing any rest." '' What is the use of all these comparisons," said a fine, sturdy schoolboy ; " let us have a good solid ghost-story 1" 176 HAMMER AND NAILS. " What shall it be ?" was asked. " A new one," was the reply ; " we know by heart all about the lady with the black ribbon, the httle rat, the damsel of the guillotine, and the married woman and her stockings." " Learned as you are, Edward, in such matters, I suspect that there will be some difficulty in finding a novelty for you," observed an elder sister. " Oh!" rejoined the lad, " I would bet anything that CJncle WilUam could tell us something fresh ; sailors always have some tough yarns about super- natural beings, and what is more, they believe in them too, don't they. Uncle WiUiam?" " Many of them do," said the sailor. " Jack is always superstitious; but, although mortally frightened at such things in the hour of leisure, he forgets all in the moment of danger and exertion. I have seen the sturdy rogues sitting in groupes on the deck, or lean- ing against the guns, during watch, on a fine night, and telling stories till the face of each was whiter than his neighbour's. Then came the boatswain's whistle, and started them nearly out of their skins ; and many a brave fellow has covered himself with the blanket of his hammock, that his half-dozing vision might not meet the forms which had just been described by his comrade." '* Let us hear one of those yarns, if you please. Uncle ?" said a rosy-cheeked damsel, creeping up to the sailor, who loved her better than -ill other human Hammer and nails. 177 beings, and, tucking her arm within his and looking imploringly in his face, she was not to be resisted. The candles were removed to the further end of the room, the chairs were drawn closer together, and Uncle William, after a moment'-s pause, thus began. " You shall have one, which made a great impres- sion on me when I was a boy, and which went among us by the name of' Hammer and Nails.'" In the month of May, 17 — , a goodly ship sailed from Plymouth harbour, bound for India and the China seas ; she was well built, and in every respect well found, but there was a strange look about her, not easily defined. It probably arose from the gloominess of her appearance within and without : her very canvas was dark ; her hull was black, without even a narrow white streak to enliven it; the hen-coops were also black ; the cuddy was of a deep, dull green ; and the furniture of the captain's cabin was of the darkest morone. The crew consisted of five-and-twenty men, besides the captain ; they were of various nations, but would not have been remarkable in any respect, had not a certain air of solemnity and quietness reigned among them. They were scarcely conscious of it themselves, and were not originally disposed to such feelings ; but, when the bustle and anxiety of getting fairly out of Channel were over, and they tried to amuse themselves with their usual sports, the deep low voice of the mate would be heard saying, *' No 178 HAMIMKR AND NAILS. noise there," till, at last, all conversation was carried on in whispers. "I say, Tom, haven't we got a queer skipper?" said the sail-maker to the man who was helping him to sew the seams of an awning. *^ Look at him now, as he stands with his arms folded, leaning against the cuddy-door, his hat slouched over his face, his stiff black hair oozing out of each side, and his sharp, black eyes looking out for squalls among us." " You had better not let him see that you are watching him," said the low tones of the mate in the sail-maker's ear. The fellow started and was silent ; but, when he saw the speaker go in to write his log, he whispered still more softly, *^ That fellow's voice is every where, like the captain's eyes!" *^ 'Tis odd," rejoined the helper ; '^ and I have felt very queer ever since I came on board this here ship. I don't know but I repent being in her, she's so quiet, and 'tis so unnatural for a captain to sail on a Friday." " I always sail on a Frida}^," said a clear, hollow voice, close beside them. The men were instantly dumb, but, after a long pause, the incorrigible sail-maker, hitching himself nearer to his messmate, and giving him a kick under the awning, said, in even less than a whisper, " I didn't know he had moved, did you ?" The ship rapidly pursued her course, the wind was fair, and no living thing saluted their eyes, except now HAMMER AND NAILS. 179 and then a flight of Mother Carey's chickens, which swept hurriedly past them. They made the lovely island of Madeira in the night, and dropped anchor, and early the next morning the custom-house officers came on board. The captain received them with the utmost courtesy, speaking Portuguese fluently ; his papers were presented and examined, and '^ Sta ben'* having been pronounced by the chief officer, he raised his hat from his head, and bowed them down the ship's side. Not the slightest invitation to remain and take refreshment was given, but the manner of the captain was so peculiar and at the same so courteous, that these officials, to whom it was a novelty, were so overpowered, that they got into their galley without making the least observation. The captain ordered his gig to be manned, and pro- ceeded to the shore, where he laid strict injunctions on the crew not to stir from the landing-place. For two hours did the men wait patiently at their post ; but, at length, tired of their inactivity, they, with their usual thoughtlessness, drew lots for one to stay behind, while the others rambled about. When thus indulging their curiosity, a procession, in honour of Nostra Seiiora del Monte came past, and they were ordered to take off" their hats. On refusing to obey, a priest of powerful frame advanced from among the crowd, and attempted to uncover their heads by main strength. They resisted, and a scuffle ensued. The multitude of enraged Portuguese would soon have overpowered the 180 HAMMER AND NAILS. tars^ had not a tall^ dark-looking man glided amidst the crowd ; extending his arms, he quickly opened a passage on each side. " Espera,'' said he, in a voice which might have been heard over half the town. The astonished combatants became passive, and the speaker, waving his hand to the Englishmen, waited till they had retreated in safety ; then, turning to give a look of scorn to the whole party^, before the}^ could recover themselves he followed, and, placing himself in the boat, ordered the men to return to the vessel. The good-hearted fellows, half grateful, and half ashamed, after sundry winks and gestures among them- selves, deputed the steersman to speak for them ; but no sooner had he uttered the words, " We wish cap- tain to ," than he to whom they were addressed fixed his eyes sharply upon him with a piercing glance, and cried '^Silence!" in so commanding a tone, that the abashed orator made no second trial to express either gratitude or apology. The whole of that day passed, and not a soul from the island was suffered to come on board, the ever- ready mate being constantly at the gangway to pre- vent all communication. At night, when the men flattered themselves that they should be able to ship a little grog, they were all ordered to bed, excepting two, who w^ere to take turns to keep watch. According to the preconcerted plans of those who had rowed the captain's gig, some attempts were made ; but no sooner were the hands stretched out to reach the for- HAMMER AND NAILS. 181 bidden bottle than the voice of the captain, whom they supposed to be safely stowed in his cot, exclaimed, " Beware!" and the haiids were hastily withdrawn. The next morning the blocks were reeved in expec- tation of cargo, and a heavily laden boat approached from the shore. On coming alongside, a young English clerk inquired — ^'Is this the Black Eagle, Captain Conder?" On being answered in the affir- mative, he stepped up the rope-ladder, and the captain and mate advanced to meet him. The latter attended to the shipment of the wdne, and the former took the clerk into the cuddy. " Mr. S 1 hopes you will do him the favour to dine with him to-day. Captain Conder," said the visiter. *^ I thank him, but I never dine out," was the firm reply. " Your bill and invoice, sir ?" While these were examined, refreshment was offered to the clerk, but he was so strongly impressed by all he saw around him, and by the countenance and voice of the captain, that he did not attempt to taste the ship-delicacies which were set before him. He gra- dually ceased his loquacity, and, receiving his money and signing an acknowledgment, he gladly took his leave. However, as he set his foot on the ladder to go down the side, he exclaimed, " Queer ship this, queer captain too!" '' Your business is wine, sir," sarcastically ob- served a voice which he thought he had left in the cuddy. 18-2 HAMMER AND NAILS. He did not turn to see whence it proceeded, but, hastening his descent, silently seated himself in his own boat, and returned to the shore, where he doubt- less made ample amends for the restraint which his tongue had undergone. The blue peter was hoisted, the authorities again came on board to receive the harbour dues, and never had they before transacted their business w^itli equal despatch. All was made taut, the anchor was weighed, and the Black Eagle majestically left the port. The voyage was remarkable only for its tran« quillity ; the men were well fed, and, although not overworked, were kept in such constant employment, and so vigilantly watched, that every disposition to murmur was instantly checked. Once, indeed, a de- putation from the forecastle came aft, and, with many scrapes of the foot and twitches of the locks on the forehead, requested permission to celebrate the cross- ing of the Line with the usual ceremonies. " The Line, my lads," said the captain, with an attempt to smile, " we passed it three days ago." On bringing this intelliojence to their messmates, a complaint at length broke forth, but it was so instantly and firmly repressed, that, like all others, it subsided, and the crew gradually gave up all disposition to fun ; even the Saturday night passed unheeded, but the habit of gathering together to tell stories during watch was too much a part of themselves to be wholly abandoned. No sooner, however, did they assemble. HAMMER AND NAILS. 183 than the mate was to be seen leaning against the ship's side, or seated on a water-cask close b}', or, if it were his watch below, the captain would lengthen his walk and come so near, at every alternate turn, that their closest whispers could be heard. The very men at length began to assume the bear- ing of their officers, and a general air of sadness per- vaded the whole of this little w^orld. With the mate, as with those under him, it was, however, not a natural feeling ; his countenance was remarkable for its benignity ; his thick, curling, chesnut hair clustered round a manly set of features, and the clearest blue eyes ; his complexion was fair, although partially bronzed by weather, and a lurking smile, which he was not wholly able to repress, would occasionally display a perfect set of teeth ; but he seemed to think it a part of his duty to be sad and solemn, and, as he conscientiously performed this and every other service, he admitted no relaxation in others. There was evidently some strong tie of feehng beween him and the captain : if the latter were unusually restless, the mate would stand and gaze mournfully upon him, and then turn away as if some painful recollection assailed him ; he paid him the utmost respect, and offered the most delicate and silent attentions, but they were rarely seen to converse together. The captain's perturbed spirit, as it beamed from his brilliant eyes, his wan face, half covered with the darkest hair, his attenuated but highly muscular 184 HAMMER AND xNAlLS. form, his often clenched hand, and set teeth, and the lightning rapidity of his walk, were the outward signs of some terrible mental evil, and often had it been conjectured what he could have been or done. It was well known that Captain Conder and Mr. Osborne had sailed together for many years, but the hopeless mystery which encircled them at length checked every attempt to penetrate it, and what was at first strange, in time became a matter of course. " What weather?" said one of the rising watch to the man who was preparing to turn in. " You may be sure what weather it is, Tom ; we ha'n't been blessed with the sight of a black cloud for many a week." " Hang me ! if I don't long for a good storm, it is so unnatural like to have fair weather for ever." " Hold your tongue," said his messmate, as he slowly ascended the ladder, ^' we must be close to the Cape, and who knows but we may have more than enough of clouds there ?" The Cape, however, was doubled without the shghtest disturbance ; a gentle breeze wafted them on, and they proceeded into the Indian Ocean. The only opportunity the men had of communicating their thoughts freely was in whispers from hammock to hammock, after the watch descended, and so precious were these moments become, that, contrary to the usual practice of falling asleep immediately after turn- ing in, they would thus contrive to utter their con- HAMMER AND NAILS. 185 jectures. All, with their wonted superstition, concurred in the idea that an indefinable spell hung over the ship, which it was not in their power to shake off, and this probably prevented them from forcibly ex- pressing their discontent at the constant interference with their usual habits of mirth and amusement : but many resolved, if they reached India in safety, to forfeit all wages and leave their employers, taking their chance of getting home in another vessel. On reaching the Indian seas, the manner of the cap- tain became more extraordinary than ever, and the anxiety of the mate consequently increased ; their meals were eaten in perfect silence; the frequently untouched morsels of the captain were quietly handed by the mate to the steward, with a sigh, and then replaced by something more tempting. No kindness or attention was, however, acknowledged by his master, who just appeared to tolerate his companion when necessary ; but, instead of shutting himself up in his cabin, as he usually did when not required on deck, he was constantly pacing backward and for- ward from the cuddy to the main-mast, with a rest- lessness which appeared to find no rehef. Physical nature, how^ever, would sometimes be exhausted, and he would be forced to retire to his couch. Rest of mind was evidently denied to him, and, one night, the man who had been steering, as he resigned the wheel to his comrade, whispered, ^^ Listen!" The bustle of changing watch had subsided, and all was ci3 186 HAMMER AND NAILS. silent, when a deep hollow groan, succeeded by a second and a third, alarmed the helmsman ; and, being of a more timid nature than his predecessor, he beckoned to the mate to come to him. " What now?" said Mr. Osborne. " You'll soon hear, sir, if you keep quiet." The groans were again uttered, and the counte- nance of the mate became almost livid, as the bright moonbeams fell upon it and a slight breeze lifted his curls from off his cheek. " How long have you heard this, Jackson ?" *^ Ever since I took the helm, sir." Again there was a pause, wdien a groan louder than before saluted their ears, succeeded by a heavy sound, like something falling. The mate darted into the cuddy, and, bursting open the door of the captain's cabin, he found the latter on the floor. " For God's sake, sir !" he exclaimed, as he raised him, " tell me if you are ill ?" No answer was returned, and yet the sufferer lived. '^ I implore you to speak, sir, and to tell me what is the matter; by all the gratitude I owe you, by the innocence which prompted you to save me from dis- grace worse than death, I will be silent as the grave, if you will only tell me what is on your mind 1" rapidly uttered the mate, as he raised the captain in his arms. A convulsive shudder passed over the frame of the HAMMER AND NAILS. 187 fallen man, and, disengaging liimself, he angrily ex- claimed, *' What is all this, Mr. Osborne ?" Instantly checked by the stern haughtiness which was thus expressed, the mate replied, " I beg your pardon, sir, your groans were so loud that vye thought you were ill, and we heard you fall ; even now I have just raised you from the floor/' " Well, sir," said the captain, " what if I choose to sleep on the floor this hot weather, and have the nightmare?'* The mate bowed and retired ; and, finding by the eager looks of the congregated watch that some explanation was necessary, he gave that of the cap- tain. " It may be so," muttered one of them, '^ but he has had the nightmare for these two nights, to my certain knowledge." The next day the captain breakfasted in his own cabin, and did not make his appearance on deck. The time for taking the sun's altitude arrived, and Mr. Osborne took his station with the apprentice, who had been disabled from an accident during a part of the voyage. " Make it eight bells," said the mate. " Wliat's your latitude, Mr. Scott? go and work your longitude, and report to me in the cuddy." The lad performed his task, and gave the result to the mate, who was seated before his log-book : '' La- titude, 3« 6' N. Longitude, 63'^ 20' 5" E., sir," said 188 HAMMER AND NAILS. he, as the captain slowly opened the door of his cabin ; it was instantly closed with the utmost violence, and the startled apprentice hurried away. The dinner hour arrived, and the steward summoned his chief. No reply was given till the mate repeated that the table was served. *' I do not choose any dinner, Mr. Osborne," was the reply ; '^ these warm latitudes take away my appetite ; let me have some soda-water." The order was obeyed, and the solitary mate hurried over his meal in silence. The day passed on with its accustomed duties, and, to the astonishment of every one, the captain appeared on deck with a more cheer- ful countenance than he had ever been seen to assume ; he looked around, and inhaled the cool breeze of the evening with apparent pleasure. He spoke kindly to the mate, and attempted to smile at the fine lad who had reported the progress of the ship. A gentle ripple curled against the sides of the vessel, and there was almost an air of gladness throughout her inha- bitants, as she skimmed the surface of the deep blue waters. The next day, the mate, the apprentice, and the captain himself, prepared to make their observations. The sun reached its meridian, and the latitude was worked; the lad looked at the mate with astonish- ment — the latitude w^as the same as the day before. The quadrant dropped from the hands of the captain, but, as Mr. Osborne picked it up, he said, " Perhaps HAMMER AND iNAILS. 189 we have made too much easting, sk; we will work the longitude." *^ Ah, true !" said the captain. ** I am sure/' said the helmsman, '' we have been steering N.E. by N. ever since yesterday." '' Hold your tongue," said the mate. He and the lad retired to the cuddy, and made their calculations, and the longitude proved to be the same as the day before. " There must have been some mistake," said the mate, ** but we must enter it as such. She seems to be going along nicely now, however" — "but so she did yester- day," thought he. " What can be hanging over us?" No rest was taken by either master or mate the whole of that night; the latter paced the deck and the former the cuddy throughout the dreamy hours, and they met at breakfast without exchanging a w^ord. Noon approached, and, as they took their stand, "Now, my lad," said the mate to the apprentice, " we have been steering due north all night, and I think we shall find some difference." Again did the sun, with its dazzling brightness, reach the southernmost point, and again did the mate and the apprentice look aghast at each other; the figures were the same, and yet the quadrants were in excellent order. The mate first recovered himself: " For your life," said he, in a low voice, " tell this te no man, but see what your longitude is, and come quietly into the cuddy with it, written on the edge of 390 HAMMER AND NAILS. your quadrant; again I charge you not to utter a' sound." The lad sat down in a corner close to the door, and, having performed his task, tremblingly presented it to the mate within, who was leaning his head upon his hand, as if buried in thought, but evidently knowing the result; he copied the figures into the log-book, left it open on the table, and quitted the cuddy with the apprentice. No sooner had they departed than the captain softly opened the door of his cabin, and, with stealthy pace, crept to the log ; the same figures, three times repeated, saluted his eyes; a look of frenzied despair passed over his features ; then, clench- ing his fist and striking his forehead, he rushed back into his cabin. A death-like stillness reigned upon deck ; the crew stared at each other with wondering and anxious looks : the mate seemed to gasp for breath as he sadly leaned over the gangway; the sky was bright and clear, and of that deep colour which is so beautiful between the tropics; not another living thing was seen in the equally clear and blue ocean, and that doomed vessel, with her twenty-six souls, seemed to be the only speck in the vast wilderness around. Five minutes more, and the captain rushed on deck in a frantic state — '* Crowd on all sail, Osborne, let her stagger under it; by all the powers in Heaven we will leave this accursed spot !'* His orders were obeyed, and he himself lent a hand ttAMMER /VND NAILS. 191 to facilitate their execution; his hat fell off, his long black locks blew from his ample forehead^ his flashing eyes^ his finely cut features, his muscular frame, seem- ing to possess superhuman strength ; his sonorous yet melodious voice, resounding from stem to stern, seemed to fill the vault above ; but, crowd as they would, they were now sensible that the vessel did not move : the sea became smooth as glass, the canvass flapped listlessly against the masts, but still the ship did not roll as in a calm ; she seemed to be out of the power of ordinary events. As the last rope was pulled, and the men could do no more, a loud ringing laugh was heard by every one — each thought it was his neighbour. A breeze passed over every wondering face, and still the sails flapped ; but presently a small black cloud appeared in the horizon. '^ A white squall !" said one of the men. " Take in all sail, stand by to cut the halyards,** cried the mate, *' or we are lost 1" '' A white squall do ye call it?" said one of the men sulkily; " I call it a black one." They looked round for the captain for orders, but he was gone, and they heard his door close with frightful violence. The black cloud came, and spread over a large sur- face immediately above the ship ; it then opened, and two figures of frightful form descended from it, bear- ing between them a coflfin, which they placed on the 192 HAMMER AND NAILS. deck. One of them stationed himself by its side, with a huge hammer and several nails in his hand, and the other took the lid from the coffin. " Charles Osborne !" exclaimed he. The mate advanced, and was laid in the coffin ; it was much too narrow for him, and he was rudely pushed upon the deck. Another and another was summoned by name, till all the twenty- five had tried the dimensions : for some it was too short, for others too long; it was then too wide, or too slender in its proportions; but, as each took his station in it, the figure with the hammer and nails stood with uplifted hands, ready to strike and to close the victim within it. Those who had clear consciences advanced, with pale but calm countenances; others trembled violently ; those who had much to repent of were convulsed, and big drops of perspiration stood upon their foreheads ; these w ere so near fitting that the figures grinned with delight; they were even pressed down into the coffin, as if to stuff them in ; but the demons, shaking their heads, violently tossed them out again with an impatient gesture. At length the whole of the twenty-five had taken their turns, and, while they blessed their own escape, they anxiously fixed their eyes on the cuddy-door. '' There is yet another," said one of the demons in a hollow tone ; ^' come forth, Ferdinand Conder !" With erect mien and ghastly smile, the captain for the last time issued from his place of refuge, look- ing like a man who knew that his hour was come, but THE OLD ABBEY BELL. 193 determined to meet his fate with firmness. He gave one look of affection at the mate, and quietly laid him- self in the coffin ; in an instant the lid was closed over him, nine nails were driven in with one blow to each, and, takini^ the coffin in their arms, the figures as- cended into the black cloud, which closed over them. The vessel seemed to rise out of the waters, and, as she returned to their surface with a mighty plunge, a tremendous rush and the word " Min-der" were heard above. The cloud disappeared, and all was still ! THE OLD ABBEY BELL. 'Tis evening, sweet evening — how calm and ^iblime Sinks the sun in his glory, those proud elms between ! As I pass by yon abbey, dismantled by time. What thoughts crowd around me to hallow the scene ! 'Tis the season of Autumn, the calm of the year, 'Tis the sweet Sabbath eve — what a tale doth it tell. As slowly yet sadly it wafts on the ear The deep warning voice of that old Abbey Bell! It strikes on my heart with its silver-toned chime. Tells of joys that have vanish'd, of hopes that have fled. Of projects defeated, of misemploy'd time. Of eyes that have wept, and of hearts that have bled. As it marks the swift flight of the hours as they roll. With what struggling emotions the heart seems to swell ! I yield to a sadness I dare not control. As I list to the peal of that old Abbey Bell. 194 THE OLD ABBEY BELL. Can I pass 'neath those portals now mouldering with age. And behold the last tribute to genius— a grave — Nor feel that here slumber the hero and sage. The prince and the patriot, the learned and brave ! The pomp and the pageant, the anthem and prayer. The triumph of nations, the solemn farewell. The sound of rejoicing, the knell of despair. Have all been announced by the peal of that bell. As I wander alone through those shadowy aisles. And listen once more to that ominous strain. It warns me to fly from the world and its wiles, And bids me improve the few years that remain. Months, years, glide away with the days of my youth ; Have I bade with its pleasures its foUies farewell ? Have I learnt one great lesson of wisdom or truth ? Cease, cease to reproach me, thou old Abbey Bell 1 Have I learnt the stern value of time as it flies ? Have I learnt to endure, have I learnt to forgive ? Have I learnt to resign the enjo/ments I prize ? Am I fitter to die, am I fitter to live ? Ah ! no ; all imperfect and frail as I am. When by sorrow subdued will the heart not rebel ! When opprest by injustice, the heart will condemn — Cease, cease to reproach me, thou old Abbey Bell ! THE HIGHLAND GILLIE. * BY MAJOR CALDER CAMPBELL. " Why stays my lord?" the Highland Gillie cried. And the impatient dogs tried hard to break The leash that bound them : full an hour had passed. Nor in that space had the hill-echo told The absent sportsman's triumph or defeat. O'er the wide moorland shades begin to fall. And Kenneth wistfully, from downward loch To upland brae, casting a careful eye. Beholds the coming storm. Mists gathering start. Like ghosts, from strath and glen, and sighing gusts Of chilling wind drive o'er the dreary heath The shelter-seeking birds ! With kindly hand He pats the patient pony's glossy coat. And speaks, in household phrase, such fondling words As the Celt knows wherewith his hounds to check. Or stimulate, as needs. ^^ Why stays my lord?" The Highland GiUie cried. ^^ Darkness comes fast. * Gillie is the common Gaelic term for a page or other young male vassal. 196 THE HIGHLAND GILLIE. And thick the drift-clouds mingle in the air. Anxious to send their fleecy tenants forth !" Hark? A shudder thrills the Page's stalwart form ; It is the Water-Kelpy*s shriek, that comes In long and doleful murmurs from the lake ! Deep growled thf^ dogs, yet, cowering to the earth. Clung to the moory heath, as if in fear ! " Ele comes !" the Gillie cried, " for loud and near Echoes the sharp report. Welcome that sound!" Alas ! how often do we hail with joy The breeze that bears us anguish, the glad bark That comes from distant shores with tales of woe. And the bright billow, that may bring to us The dear, unburied dead ! — The pony starts. Snorting with wild dismay — for the report Is followed by a groan — a groan that speaks The parting of a soul in agony ! No longer growl the dogs, the leash is snapt. The steed is left alone ! "My lord ! my lord !" the Highland Gillie cried. As, feeling all the prophet in his breast. He reached a lonely hollow in the heath. Where lay the body of his lifeless chief! Beside him there were found tale-telling things, A letter, bearing proud and scornful words From her who first had taught him how to love. A MAY QUEEN. 197 And taught him^ too, to know that perfidy Can dwell with beauty in a seemly form ! A letter, and a ring, and withered flowers. Were found beside him ! Oh ! Woman ! play not with the fervency, The faith, of a young, trusting, ^loble heart ! This is thy work — the victim was my friend I A MAY QUEEN. BY RICHARD HOWITT. One is there whom we often meet On moors, in woods, and by the streams ; A human creature, fair, discreet. That none more wise or radiant seems. A dreaming poet would declare I'hat, whilst a nightingale had sung. This being, in the moonlight air. To life had from a fountain sprung ; And, looking on her form and face. The wisest poet well might say 'Twas Poesy, the sweetest Grace, From her two sisters, here, astray. r3 198 A MAY QUEEN. Of their own selves so weary grown. There are — the vine without the elm — Whom but to leave an hour alone Would with a world of gloom o'er whelm. Great must her self-reliance be Who thus for nature leaves her kind. With quite enough to hear and see. Enough of food for heart and mind. Her soul with beauty flowing o'er. The world she walks in seems her own ; Who treads the haunts she trod before. Nor ever knows she is alone. So gentle is she in her power. So unassuming is her look. Her form is easy as a flower. Her motion, graceful as a brook. When I have chanced to cross her way. The charm I never can forget ; Surrounded with the sweets of May, It seemed. 'twas May herself I met. For Poets fable such a Maid, Born of the bow of April showers. Light-tripping on, o'er hill, through glade, 'Tis she who fills the world with flowers. TO MY SISTER ON HER TWENTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY. BY MISS M. A. BROWNE. Thine eye is radiant still ; thy silken hair Curls just as darkly o'er thy gentle brow ; Still is thy cheek as soft, thy hand as fair. Thy forehead was not smoother then than now. And yet two years, two busy years, have passed. Sweet sister ! since I sang thy birthday last. Two changeful years ! since then two hoary heads Have, from our home, been pillowed in the grave. And we have known full many an hour that sheds A double darkness on life's troubled wave. Friends have been cold, and fortune's sunshine brief; Sister ! those years have had their hours of grief. And, saddest far, from our own chain of love. One gentle sister of our hearts is taken. No more her fairy footsteps round us move. No more her smile a kindred smile doth waken ; She faded, but as dew-drops fade, to rise. And paint a rainbow in the gloomy skies. 200 TO MY SISTPJR. Even so her spirit^ passed from earth, is yet Seen like a star in its ethereal hght. And on the misty clouds of our regret Raiseth Hope's bow of promise, pure and bright ; She hath departed for the holier sphere. Mourn we, but never wish that she were here. And 1 am changed, sweet sister — even thou Knowest not the waves of feeling and of thought. That o'er my heart have passed in troubled flow. And channels in its wilderness have wrought : Suffice it that one spot unchanged I see. The spot whereon is fixed my love for thee ! A love that changeth not, save as the young And tender sapling, to the firm-set tree ; Fresh branches from its stem there may have sprung. Matured and deeper rooted it may be ; Oh, that it might have power to grow, and spread A three-fold shield above thy precious heart I Vain hope ! thou hast a better shelter proved, A changeless refuge from the heavy storm, A shadow from the heat. He who hath loved. And chosen, and saved thee, will His vows perform. And bind thee in His sheltering mantle fast. And bring thee to His glorious home at last ! THE CORNISH WRECKER, BY R. JOHNS, ESQ. There are popular fallacies^ whicli^ though generally believed, are seldom publicly asserted, and thus, like the slanders of private scandal, they long remain un- refuted. To these belongs the notion that the natives of the Cornish coasts make it their custom during stormy nights to lead horses with lanterns attached to their heads along the summit of cliffs, that ships may be lured to destruction by false lights. This inconsiderate fable we have seen gravely administered to the public within the last ten years. Then there are dark hints of murder committed on the victims of shipwreck, that the right of the wreckers to their pillage might remain undisputed; while all the recollections of sea-shore violence on the coasts of England are carried west- ward, and confused into a monstrous idea that the fathers of the present generation of Cornish fishermen and miners not long ago made wholesale murder a pastime if not a profession ; and even yet are their sons supposed to give strong indications of their parentage. We frankly confess that the world may be many years older ere the coast-born poor of Cornwall can be brought to respect, on principle, property cast upon 202 THE CORNISH WRECKER. the beach by the violence of the elements; custom for centuries liaving apportioned such waifs to the finder, still profanely are they called God-sends ; but we are fairly borne out in saying that on no part of the coast of England is more self-devotion displayed for the safety of a distressed vessel whilst aid can be afforded her, or for the rescue of life when her destruc- tion is inevitable. The following incidents, the leading facts of which will, perhaps, be remembered by the Cornish reader, may serve to exhibit a wreck on the coast of Cornwall in its true colours ; we shall only add that, while there are instances in the recollection of many, where gallant Cornish wreckers have perished in their endeavours to save the shipwrecked, the records of murders com- mitted on the unfortunates thrown upon their shores exist but in the unsubstantiated legends of by-gone years. Deep was calling unto deep, the red lightning pointed like the finger of a destroying angel from out the thunder cloud, and the messenger of wrath revealed amid the blackness of night a doomed vessel con- tending with the breakers of a rocky shore. Rolling heavily, she ground her keel on the fatal reef that held her till the fires and winds of heaven and the rage of the foaming waves had done their worst, making a wreck of the good ship Planter, homeward-bound West Indiaman. The reader may, perhaps, tremble for the fate of the hapless mariners of that bark, even THE CORNISH WRECKER. 203 should they escape from " the hell of waters" that sur- rounds them, our scene being laid on a wild part of the coast of Cornwall, where a throng of suspicious- looking fishermen and gaunt miners crowd the beach. The vessel is fast going to pieces ; every wave that passes over her washes from his clinging hold some despairing wretch whose life-grasp yields to the suction of the retreating waters. The Cornish wreckers, joined hand in hand, are in the breakers. The foremost of each line, supported by those behind him, grasps at the senseless forms tossed amid the surge, or casting a rope to the swimmer whose strength is failing him, they rob the sea of its prey. Ere the ship broke up a hawser had been passed to her, by which many of her crew and passengers were saved, and every fire of the neighbouring cottages had its crowd of these suf- ferers, when their companions in misfortune, rescued at a later period of the wreck, arrived. Divers are the rude efforts to arouse consciousness in the apparently dead, and with what joy is the return of animation hailed by the wives and children of the fishermen ! The men, when they have deposited their burdens of suffering humanity, again repair to the beach ; but now it is too evident that the sea no longer supports on its troubled wave aught of the victims of shipwreck but the swollen and mangled corse. The bale, the wine-cask, the shattered timber, and the broken spar, chests, crates, and cases, are dashed on the shore by the rushing tide, but no more of human 204 THE CORNISH WRECKER. life is there to be rescued. This night Sythney Cove has lost one of the boldest of its fishermen ; and on the morrow a name will be called at the neighbouring mine which will be answered only by the wail of the widow and the cry of the orphan. Two of the res- cuers have perished. While a single human being was to be saved, bravely did the wreckers struggle with the waters^ but noiv they conceive that they have won their reward, and truth obliges us to present a degraded picture of those who have as yet deserved our warmest approbation. A scene not less grotesque than picturesque is dis- played on that shore. Boxes and packages are broken open ; wearing apparel, and goods of divers kinds, are scattered on the beach. Fires are lighted, wine and spirit-casks spiled ; while men, and even boys, drink from buckets, hats, and shoes, till each puncheon has a groupe of noisy Bacchanals around it. Now come the galloping j^^eomanr}^, hastily called out; the excise- men, the custom-house officers and their assistants, together with the posse comitatus of neighbouring gentry. After a few^ sharp contests with the wreckers, some little attention is ensured to the rights of pro- perty ; and by daybreak large piles of goods saved are heaped on the beach, guarded by the sailors of a revenue-cutter on the station and the dismounted yeomanry. Such was the wreck of the Planter West Indiaman, in the winter of 179 — ,on the coast of Corn- wall. THE CORNISH WRECKER. 205 But we must leave for a while the crowded strand, and turn our attention towards a cottage, where an elderly matron and a fair girl, whose beauty would have graced a prouder dwelling, were awaiting the return of Hannibal Strike, who had been all night abroad. The woman, in her short cotton jacket, woollen petticoat, and check apron, looked well the fisher's wife, as she was impatiently gazing from the door into the early dawn, fancying every wayfarer that approached from the direction of the wreck him whom she sought ; but a nearer view would convince her that she beheld not the stalwart form, grey head, and embrowned visage, of one of the boldest fisher- men, the best of pilots, and withal the most deter- mined wrecker on that part of the coast, for such was the character of her husband. Scarcely less anxious than the expectant wife was her companion, though the poor girl could claim no other relationship with Hannibal than those kindred ties which arose out of gratitude on the one side, and generous protection on the other. Some ten years before our tale commences, a shopkeeper in the neighbouring town, with whom our fisherman occasionally dealt for groceries, when- ever a lucky pilchard season or other speculation allowed of his treating his good dame with such luxuries, had died insolvent, leaving an orphan girl totall}^ unprovided for. Strike was one of the last belonging to the neighbourhood who was informed of this occurrence; he happening to have been absent s 206 THE CORNISH WRECKER. just tlien, ill-natured people declared not for the pur- pose of passing goods through the custom-house, though several of the gentry within a few miles of Hannibal's abode had requested him to leave in their back premises certain ankers of Schiedam, *^ any time after nightfall, at his earliest convenience." We do not mean to hold the fisherman up as an example of propriety to all the meddlers with salt water along the coast of England : though we will not allow shame- less libels on the character of Cornishmen to go forth unrefuted, we must not hide the fact that our hero, in common with most of his friends and neigh- bours, was more than suspected of doing a little smuggling. Nevertheless, Hannibal was a warm- hearted kind fellow, who could not hear of distress without trying to relieve it, unless, indeed, under- writers were the afflicted parties ; and he forthwith took possession of the only property the grocer left behind him which the creditors did not covet, and brought home little Mary Harvey, as a playmate for his son, who was about four years her senior. Well was his charitable act rewarded, when this boy, grown a stripling of fourteen, abandoned the home of his youth, and went forth a reckless adven- turer, leaving to the child of the stranger those duties of filial love and obedience which he so cruelly forgot. The cottage of Hannibal Strike was not more than a mile from the beach where the wreck of the merchant- man had caused the scene we have attempted to de- THE CORNISH WRECKER. 207 scribe. The fisherman, as usual, had been the first to save Hfe, and the last to cease plundering that which the prejudice of custom led him to consider lawful spoil ; and now, as morning dawned, little thinking of those at home anxious for his safety, he was watching a small box or case which, though sufficiently buoyant to be raised on the crest of the wave, would again provokingly become lost in the trough of the sea ; now appearing as if the next breaker would cast it at his feet, and then swept away just as the wrecker thought the prize within his grasp. During the night more than once had Hannibal saved life at imminent peril to himself; he had afterwards secured about his person several valuables which chance had cast in his way ; had then taken his share in the tustle with the authorities ; and now, could he but obtain that tempt- ing case, he had prudently determined to make the best of his way to his cottage. A huge roller at length dashed the wished-for treasure far on the beach; in an instant the wrecker seized it, and, placing it on his shoulders, commenced his retreat, congratulating him- self that an abutment of the cliff had, as he thought, saved him from the observation of some sailors be- longing to the cutter, then guarding a pile of goods about five hundred yards distant. Hannibal, however, had not proceeded far along the beach, when a rough grasp on his shoulder, and a blow from the flat of a cutlass, made him drop his load and turn on his assailants, who were no other than Mr. 208 THE CORNISH WRECKER. Smart, a revenue-officer^ and Dick Stretcher, his cox- swain — *^ Now, Hannibal Strike, you old vagabond ! if I do n't get you sent across seas for this, never trust me !" cried the blustering official. " No sure, sir, you won't," doggedly replied the fisherman ; *' and, if it warn't for them pistols, and that bit of bright iron, you shouldn't rob me of what the sea gave me. Fath and troth, you shouldn't. Arn't I saved two lives this blessed night ? There 's the old man up at the Dolphins; and the young vellor they thouglit was dead, and I dragged out of the wash of the waves — did n't Jan Pentreath tell me that his old 'oman and Gracy Dolcooth had brought un to life again ? Not that I care to tell 'ee what I 've done — I only mean T 've earned my right to what I 've got ; and more than that, I seed nobody laid hand on a thing while life was to be saved ; and a wreck 's a God-send to the coast ; and so it was in my vay ther's time, and his vayther's afore him." Smart responded to this plausible defence of wreck- ing with a sneer, ordered his coxswain to seize the case, and, coolly telling Hannibal he knew where to find him, would have walked off; but the old man caught him by the arm, and, as if reckless of conse- quences, said : — " Afore you go, Mr. Smart, first take a few words from Hannibal Strike. You sa}' you know where to find me, please sure I believe 'ee do — case why ? — 3^ou comes there for no good. But, whether you 'forms against me or no — if I see you a skulking THE CORNISH WRECKER. 209 about my door, trying to make a poor girl like my Mally forget her vartue, dang it if I doant make 'ee feel the weight of an old man's hand." The party addressed seemed to wince under the stern gaze of the wrecker, but at length broke away with an impatient oath at his impertinence, and an assurance that the vengeance of the law should reach him for his morning's work. He would have secured Hannibal on the spot, but two or three stragglers were approaching, and the revenue-officer, by a constant harsh exercise of his always unpopular duties, liad few friends among the fishermen ; thus he might calculate on being opposed rather than assisted by the new comers. Smart, who was a good-looking but unprin- cipled man, prided himself much on his intrigues. Long had he sought to lure Mary from the path of in- nocence, and his enmity to Hannibal Strike arose from a conviction that the honest counsel of the old man had been the cause of his having failed in his designs. Even younger in mind than years, the gentle girl had at first felt gratified by the attentions of one whom she considered far above her in station ; and, ere his dishonourable motives were discovered, she had nearly rendered to him that gift which is seldom to be recalled — a maiden's heart. But Hannibal's sound though homely reasoning aroused her from a dangerous dream before it was too late. When the revenue- officer received his dismissal, Mary's lips trembled not to give it utterance, and her affection towards her s3 210 THE CORNISH WRECKER. benefactor seemed, if possible, increased by this act of faithful guardianship. We will now carry the reader to ^^ The Dolphins," a little public house, bearing a sign-board exhibiting the semblance of three nondescript fishes, by cour- tesy allowed to be thus designated. In a small sanded parlour, stretched on a rude couch formed of sails and blankets supported on chairs, was an elderly man, who, though clothed in the rough garb of the humble people around him, bore the ap- pearance of a gentleman. On his brow were graved not only the furrows of Time's relentless share, but there too might be traced the deeper lines that tell of age anticipated by sorrow. This was the individual to whom Hannibal Strike had referred as " the ould man up at the Dolphins." It would be of little importance to our narrative did we trace the early career of the stranger whom we have occasion to introduce; suffice it to say that, many years before shipwreck cast him on the coast of Corn- wall, he had been a wealthy planter in the Island of Barbadoes, when a destructive fire in his dweUing and plantations reduced him to comparative poverty, the same stroke of adversity depriving him of his wife and child, to whom he was devotedly attached. Feeling every aim of existence thus suddenly snatched from him, he became disgusted with his colonial pursuits, placed his estates in the hands of an agent, and, with the hope of dissipating his grief, had tra- THE CORNISH WRECKER. 211 veiled through many parts of North and South America ; nor did he return to the West Indies till the reported improvement in his property, a weariness of wandering, and a wish to secure a favourable oppor- tunity of selling his estates, induced him to revisit Barbadoes. The settlement of his affairs effected, Mr. Mortram sailed for England, having prophetically announced to the few friends that Time had left him in the colonies his intention of going home to die in his native land. When the strong arm of Hannibal Strike came to his support amid the breakers, he was quite ex- hausted by his exertions'in breasting the waves; added to which a blow from a floating portion of the wreck had severely, and, as it was soon discovered, fatally, injured him. When borne to The Dolphins, he was speechless, the blood gushed from his mouth, and an artery was found to have been ruptured. A sur- geon from the adjacent town was speedily in attend- ance ; offers of superior accommodation to that of the humble hostelry arrived from the neighbouring gentry; but the stream of life ceased not to pour, in spite of the skill of the mediciner, and ere long the shipwrecked stranger made his abiding home in the little church- yard of Lannassy. The reader is now acquainted with particulars which came not to the knowledge of the parties engaged ia kindly offices about the dying man, till, their care being unavailing, the coroner's inquest that sat on the body elicited what we have narrated. 212 THE CORNISH WRECKER. But, leaving the Dolphins, let us make our way to the cottage of Jan Pentreath, where, after having un- dergone more remedies than the Humane Society would ever have sanctioned, and found restoration in some of the many, a handsome young man was snugly sleeping between the blankets of a low truckle-bed. There was a blazing fire on the hearth, on either side of which two old women were seated at a little round table, bearing cups and saucers, matchless of their kind ; together with a black tea-pot that had for its neighbour a suspicious-looking case-bottle : a loaf of coarse brown bread, a potato pasty, and a few salted pilchards, completed the preparations for the sociable afternoon meal of Peggy Pentreath and Gracy Dol- cooth — " Help ee self, then, uu Gracy, and, if it 's only for the nonce of it, put in a drop o' the liquor. A dish o' tea is a comfort then, please sure, after being up all night, and a fussing all day as us a been. Give the bottle a lift, then, there be plenty more where that's a come from. Well, now, if that aint a nice handsome gentleman, after all! and the neigh- bours does say he 's got a power o' money. I only wish un would w^ake and have a morsel to ate. Help eeself to the tatie fuggan, Gracy. They tells me he 's the son o' the voreign gentleman that 's dead, up at the Dolphins." "And so he be*s>" answered Gracy, taking up the conversation as soon as Peggy had stopped to sip and blow a saucerful of hot tea : — " It all came out afore THE CORNISH WRECKER. 213 Mr. Roberts, the crovvner ; my Peter was there, and he tould me that this young vellor was the old man's hare, which means a rich squire's son. But, please, sure, the gentry won't lev un stay here long. While you was wanting, there camed a power o' company to knaw how he be 's, and to look at un sleeping ; and that Muster Smart said he wanted to get un to dentify a box as he called it ; and it seems he 's a got poor Hannibal Strike in the prison for stealing of un." " Ah ! Gracy, cheeld veane ! 1 heard something o* that when I was out. That Smart 's a cantankerous young toad I He wants to swear old Hannibal took the box from the pile o' goods his people were a- guard- ing ; but I '11 be sworn it's all a lie; they pays un for lying up at the custom-house." Thus in an under-tone prated the watchful guardians of the sleeper, who, though he had slumbered heavily during the whole morning, showed as yet but little like- lihood of waking. We will now proceed to the town of Lannassy, where, in a wretched prison, the more miserable on account of the little use made of it, was Hannibal Strike, seated on the damp floor of his cell, the authorities not having made up their minds whe- ther he should have his place of confinement fitted up with the accommodation of a truss of straw for the night, or whether it might not be expedient at once to dispatch their prisoner to the county-goal. Hannibal had passed one examination before the magistrates. The coxswain swore that the case seized in the pos- 214 THE CORNISH WRECKER. session of the wrecker had formed part of a pile of goods which he and his comrades had collected — how it had been abstracted he knew not, but he identified it by certain marks which had engaged his notice. In addition to this evidence, Mr. Smart gave so exagge- rated an account of Strike's offences against the revenue, and threw so much suspicion on his general character, that, as the magistrates were anxious to make an example of some of the parties engaged in wrecking the night previous, it was thought but just to press the matter against one who, they imagined, had actually restolen what had not long before been rescued from the grasp of the plunderers. Hannibal solemnly denied that he had done any thing worse than just save the case from the waves, though he candidly confessed that he was carrying it home to see what it might contain, and in a tone of apo- logy, said that the gentlemen might talk as they liked, but nothing should make him beheve that there was any harm in a poor man's taking what the sea gave him. Evening was fast approaching when Nanny Strike, the afflicted wife of the fisherman, and the sobbing Mary were admitted to the prisoner. They brought news that the magistrates did not mean to forward him to Bodmin till the next morning, and he was now per- mitted to have a flock mattrass, together with a plen- tiful supply of straw, and furthermore the solace of companionship till eight o'clock. *' Well, these be new-vangled laws, Nanny," said THE CORNISH WRECKER. 215 Hannibal, as he sat himself on the bed. " But this be comfortable, please sure, after the hard ground — why I be nearly stiff o' the could." "Ah, Hannibal, what be they a-going to do with ee ? Dear — dear — why did ee meddle with that box ?" "Dang the box! they can't harm me — don't ee take on so, you foolish old 'oman," and the affectionate husband wiped the eyes of his weeping spouse with her apron. " And thee, too, Mally, thou silly cheeld," said he, smiling through his glistening tears on the orphan girl, " I believe ee are both come to make an ould fool o' me." Mary answered this appeal by clinging to her bene- factor, and exclaiming : — " 'Tis I who have brought all this — Mr. Smart is taking vengeance because I fol- lowed your warning." " Do n't ee cry, there 's a good maiden — cheer up, my ould dame — why, what makes ee both hold to me so?" soothingly expostulated Hannibal. " They won't hang me, dost think, for just taking what the breakers flung me — for steal the box I never did. Oh that my boy was here to stand up for his vayther ! but there 's no one o' my name but a poor weak 'oman like thee, Nanny" — and the old man's head drooped on his breast as if he sorely wanted the comfort he fain would have imparted. The constable who had locked the afflicted family in the prison was now heard approaching, and the women began to weep afresh, fearing that a longer stay with 216 THE CORNISH WRECKER. the prisoner was to be denied them. But the cause of his coming was to reconduct Strike before the matris- trates. ^'l don't know what it all means," said the man, ^' but there be some of the gentry up at the Mayor's, and you're to be examined again before I lock you up for the night." Accompanied by his wife and adopted daughter, Hannibal was now taken to the house of the principal magistrate. Here he was ushered into a room, where he found several of the town dignitaries assembled round a young man of gentlemanly exterior, reclining on a sofa, earnestly talking to a very attentive audi- tory. On the entrance of Strike he attempted to spring from his couch, but, as if through weakness, again fell into a recumbent posture. " The owner of the box you are charged with having taken," said one of the gentlemen, pointing to the stranger, who was no other than the individual whom we left in Mally Pentreath's cottage, but who, as '^ un Gracy " had prophesied, was soon removed thence to much better quarters. " T humbly beg his honour's pardon," answered the wrecker, " but I only took what the sea hove up, and what . As sure as a gun, if it arn't the young vellor I dragged from the water!" cried Hannibal, turning suddenly to his wife, who with Mary had been permitted to follow him into the room. The fisluM'man's delight that he was now, as he con- sidered himself, safe from prosecution, seeing that he THE CORNISH WRECKER. 217 had saved the life of the owner of the box, was soon lost in astonishment as he beheld the fixed gaze of his wife directed towards the young man, who had again risen from the sofa, and was approaching her. His wonder was complete when his good dame, with a startling scream, flung herself into the gentleman's arms, and wept aloud. The hand which the stranger held out to Hannibal was most respectfully taken, and retained for a few moments with an air of bewilder- ment, till Nanny Strike's face, streaming with tears, was raised, and, at length finding words to express her joy, she exclaimed : — "Oh Hannibal, do n't ee know him ? he is our son !" The father and husband was now the most affected of the party, as Harry Strike knelt for the old man's blessing and forgiveness. Mary, too, was not an un- interested spectatress of the scene, and soon took her position in the family group, when details too long for our hmits explained that the young adventurer had been found by Mr. Mortram a poor ill-treated cabin- boy, in a ship where that gentleman happened to be a passenger; that he rescued theladfrom the brutal treat- ment of his master, and placed him at a school in New York. There the reports of his preceptors as to his natural abilities and good conduct so delighted his benefactor, that, becoming more and more attached to him, the childless planter ultimately adopted him as his son. Education had not exhibited its effects in mental development without touching the heart of the T 218 THE CORNISH WRECKER. truant wanderer. Ere Mr. Mortram made Harry his companion to Barbadoes, prior to bis proposed removal to England, perfect confidence existed between the young man and his patron. The latter had contemplated with much satisfaction the reconciliation of the lost son to his parents, and had promised his protege that he would speedily put it in his power to compensate, in some degree, to the authors of his being for past forgetfulness. Harry Strike lamented the death of Mr. Mortram most bit- terly, for he had fully appreciated the kindness be- stowed on him ; but, though great was the damp thus cast on the happiness he experienced at being re- united to his family, a more immediate distress arose from the charge which still rested on his father. The magistrates, who had been sympathising spectators of the scene described, consulted on the matter, and de- clared they could not interfere with the due course of justice, as Mr. Smart continued to press the commit- ment of the fisherman for having stolen property when under the protection of his men. Happily the next day it was discovered, by Harry's instrumentality, that the box, which contained papers of consequence, bore marks and appearance exactly similar to ano- ther, which, after some search, was discovered to be still in the possession of the revenue-officers. Hannibal was thus exonerated from the graver charge which had been preferred against him, and as to the offence of wrecking, it would have been invidious THE CORNISH WRECKER. 219 to make a solitary example of him. Mr. Smart very prudently procured his removal from that part of the coast; Hannibal Strike and his wife lived for many years in a commodious cottage not far from the scene of the wreck ; their son Harry, wko had purchased property in a midland county, in vain en- deavouring to persuade the old couple to leave a locahty endeared to them by the memories of past days. But the pretty Mary Harvey was not quite so inexorable : after the lapse of two years, which were not idly spent in preparing herself for the superior position which she was invited to share, she became the wife of Harry Mortram. The name of Strike is now extinct, and we can as- sure the reader that we do not depart from truth out of delicacy to the feelings of his descendants in saying that Hannibal Strike, for the rest of his hfe, strictly adhered to the " new-vangled " law of meum and tuum. Though, when there happened to be a wreck within ten miles of his cottage, the old man was sure to be there, it was merely as a spectator. Yet still, as a matter of argument, to the day of his death he held the opinion of his fathers, that there was '*^no harm in taking what the sea threw on the shore/' THE LITTLE BLIND BOY. BY MISS H. F. GOULD. Oh, tell me the form of the soft summer air. That tosses so gently the curls of my hair ; It breathes on my lips, and it fans my warm clieek. But gives me no answer, though often I speak. 1 feel it play o'er me, refreshing and light. And yet cannot touch it, because I 've no sight. And Music, what is it ? and where does it dwell ? I sink and I mount with its cadence and swell. While thrilled to my heart with the deep-going strain, 'T ill pleasure excessive seems turning to pain. Now, what the bright colours of Music may be. Will any one tell me ? for I cannot see. The odours of flowers that are hovering nigh. What are they ? on what kind of wings do they fly f Are these shining angels that come to dehght A poor little child that knows nothing of sight ? The face of the sun never comes to my mind — Oh ! tell me what light is, because I am blind ! Newbury Port, Massacliusets. (U.S.) LADY OLIVIA AND THE TRAVELLER. BY THE AUTHOR OP " THE REFORMER." A midday sun was blazing over St. James's Square, burning up the feeble vegetation of its enclosure, and heating its broad pavements to the baking atmosphere of a Sunday oven. All was close, sultry, suffocating. Not a breath brushed away the dust from the scorched leaves, or animated the heavy air. On one of the three sides of the square — all the world knows that St. James's Square has only three sides — we will not tell which, because we do not like to be personal, stands a mansion into which we plead our privilege to enter. Our heroine was in her boudoir, surrounded by every luxury that wealth could devise. The walls were covered with flutings of pink silk, excepting where they were tied apart with silver cords, to unveil the large and costly mirrors that alternated with the blushing drapery. The ceiling was richly painted with a Flora scattering flowers, and the floor was covered with a silken carpet so luxuriantly soft that tlie Sybarite himself might have made it his couch without a com- plaint. We cannot now stay to mention the flower vases, the Buhl work, the Indian screens, the French bijouterie, the exquisite enamels, the splendid china, t3 222 LADY OLIVIA the books in their costly biadiiigs, the rare exotics, which were crowded into this luxurious chamber. We must pass on to its occupant. Seated ou a low couch, one elbow on an eider cushion, covered with pink satin and tasseled with gold, with one little foot half buried in the correspondent pillow, was this heroine of our's : she was beautiful — heroines now-a-days are of no earthly value, unless they are so — very fair, with the softest blush in the world upon her cheek ; eyes of that colour, so rare and so seldom seen — violet ; and hair like sunbeams, falling in long negligent curls over neck and shoulder. She was wrapped in a large loose robe of the finest French cambric, trimmed with we do not know how many yards of the finest Valenciennes lace, worth we do not know how many guineas, and girdled round the waist with a long scarf of Indian crape, that could be extended like the fairy-given pavilion in the Arabian Nights into a size capacious enough to canopy an army, or compressed into a passage through a lady's ring. The birds are happy as they sing among the bowers ; the insect is happy as it floats along the sunbeam ; the vast Leviathan is happy with the broad ocean for his bed, and the mighty wave for a pillow ; the eaglet is happy as it soars to meet the sun — and we of mortal mould, are we happy with the same ingredients which constitute the felicity of all creation around us, with the treasures of all the elements at our disposal ? Answer, AND THE TRAVELLER. 223 tliou young fair girl, art thou happy in the plenitude of thy luxury? — No; the lassitude, the weariness, the disquiet, of that brow are answer enough. Presently there came the loud summons at the outer portal of that mansion : a name was passed from lacquey to lacquey, and finally the owner of that name followed its announcement into the presence of our heroine. " Ah ! you in town !" said her ladyship, rousing from the indolence of her attitude, but the next moment relapsing into it again : '^ you in town !'* '' Yes, and you in town ! may 1 not respond. I scarcely hoped to have found you here.'' *^^ And would not, if I could have determined whither to go." *' The world before you where to chuse." '^But no Providence to be my guide !" " Oh, fie ! what guidance do you need, save and except your own wishes?'* "I have none on the subject." "Then make it a matter of judgment." " Judgment wants something to rest the soles of her feet upon." " And has she nothing?" " Nothing." " Then cast lots." "No; Chance, if there be such a thing, would in- fallibly make me the worse allotment." " Take what she decides against." 224 LADY OLIVIA *^ Was that an intentional Irishism, my dear Lady Ashton?" " Let me chuse for you." '^ You do not know my indinations." " How do you know that ?" " I presume it, because I do not know them myself. And, besides, you have chosen ill for yourself. You are here iii town, while I wish to be out.''' "And yet here you have all things to make you happy." "Then I do not know how to use them." " Here is the gratification of all the senses." " Of all the senses. Yes ; odours and harmony, and banquets and spectacles." *' There is, too, exquisite enjoyment for the mind : literature spreads out a field for the highest intellect. If you are imaginative, there are poetry, painting, sculpture, music." " I suppose I am like the horse-leech — did you ever hear of such a thing ? — crying out, ' More ! more !' " " Oh, you are getting hypochondriac ! Come, my carriage is at the door; go with me my morning round." " I cannot without dressing." " But you can dress." "The trouble." "Fie!" "The dust." AND THE TRAVELLER. 2*25 " We will close the carriage windows.'* " But, then the heat." ''My dear/' said Lady Ashton, '' is there any physical difference between ourselves and a peasant girl?" "I wish I were a peasant girl!" sighed Lady Olivia Grantham. The mansions of the great — wealth, splendour, illu- mination, music, dwellings covered with the tinsel and filled with the gauds of the world. Music was sounding cheerily. Graceful groupes, distinguished by beauty, and still blessed with youth, were threading fantastic traceries over the chalked floor, which had already lost much of its legibility. Every individual creature was striving to persuade his neighbour that this world of our's is a world of perfect happiness. All but one- she was sitting inanimate — it was our heroine. " Come," said Lady Ashton, *^ do not be good by halves— dance." "Do not ask me. It is a robust and vulgar exer- cise." " Does not the harmony of sound excite the desire of accompanying it with the harmony of motion?" "The music has a correspondent vulgarity." '' You wished yourself a peasant girl this morning : think how the heart of such a one would beat while she tripped it on the light fantastic toe 1" " We cannot feel like any thing but what we are. 226 LADY OLIVIA I cannot sympathise with the pleasures of a peasant girl." '' But then each individual ought to have his own proper pleasures; his own wishes, hopes, and fears/' " What should be mine V asked Lady OHvia. "What are the wishes of a young and womanly heart ? Come, now, let me parade before you your long line of beaux." " It will prove an unprofitable review." " Now I have you in the broad blaze of light. Trul), Lady Olivia is very beautiful ; and I give you notice that I shall watch every inflexion of feature or tinge of colour most narrowly. Well, to begin." "Nay, pray end before you begin." *• Is it then in vain that men flatter you^and women envy you ?" " The one for the other." " That is severe." "But true." " You have been sitting here for half an hour, sur- rounded by worshippers, and you have not deigned a smile on any one of them." " Smiles are unmeaning things." " When they come from a heart ?" " From the unmeaning heart." " Is your's such ?" "I wish it knew what it meant !" said Lady Olivia, with another si^h. AND THE TRAVELLER. 227 " Is it a blessing or a curse when all external things conspire for our felicity ?" '^ A curse.'* *' Why V *' Because it neutralizes our self-exertion, and self- exertion is the best happiness that this world affords." Then was Lady Olivia Grantham miserable, for the oil and the wine, and the milk and the honey, and the garnered things of this rich earth, were her's. She had rank, she had riches, she had beauty, she had warm feelings, she had talents. The sun had never shone too hotly on her, the wind had never visited her cheek too roughly. Contradiction had never fallen upon her ; she was like some daintily rare exotic. Lady Olivia sat listlessly : it was the fashion to ad- mire her, so she was admired for her very listlessness. She had a troop of beaux around her ; some devoted themselves to her rank, some to her wealth, some to her beauty. We cannot say that her warm feehngs were responded to, because there were few persons who even surmised that she had any, and with those few it was only conjecture; neither can we say that her talents gained her many worshippers, for few men are fond of talented women; in truth, we ourselves — we only whisper it — think them disagreeable creatures. If we needed to enumerate other causes of admiration than those we have already given, we would not count up her perfections but her failings, for we verily be- lieve that these are the most powerful attractions of women : her fickleness, her fancifulness, the over- 228 LADY OLIVIA indulged daintiness of her habits, and the almost sickly delicateness of her person. " Lady Olivia sat, as we have said, l elite d'une armee around her, yet the demons of lassitude, listless- ness, and ennui were upon her. A few comments on the dancers, strictures on the music, criticisms on the last opera, a little private scandal, and a little court news, these made up the conversation. *'Come," said Lady Ashton, "let me introduce you to the lion of the night." *' I do not like hons." '^ You cannot chuse but like him. 1 defy your in- difference." "Who is he? What is he?" " Who is he — the traveller of the desert ; he who has traversed the sandy plains of burning Africa, and explored the buried temples of proud Egypt. He who has suffered hardships which we, pillowed in our luxu- ries, cannot body out in our imaginations. What is he ? Why now look upon him !" As Lady Ashton spoke, an opening in the groupe towards which she was directing Lady Olivia's attention ^ave them a partial view of the traveller. " Is that your traveller?" asked Lady Olivia. ^'Even so." " That little ugly black man ?" " Little ugly black man !" repeated Lady Ashton, in at one of chagrin. "At least, leaving the vgly as a matter of taste, you will not deny that he is a lit'.le black man." AND THE TRAVELLER. 2*29 "He is not great of stature^ certainly, and he is rather dark." " Rather /" " Well^ very. Then you will not go and accept an introduction ?" "I am not tempted." '*^ Since you will not accompany me, 3^ou must ex- cuse me if I leave you for the present. I must hear what he is telling; he tells his traveller's tales inimitablv." The little black man was speaking with uncommon energy : his eye, '' that darkened with immortal light," was full of varied expression as he told of " hair- breadth scapes and dangers by flood and field." His whole person seemed instinct with thought. The lordly courtling and the silken lady hung round him and drank in his absorbing narration with greedy ears, as he told of Herculean labours and intense sufferings, but told of them as remembered pleasures. Even Lady Ashton had forgotten her friend when she felt her sleeve gently pulled, and, turning round, beheld Lady Olivia, who, with the slightest blush over her delicate face, softly said : — " Introduce me." " To the little ugly black man ?" asked Lady Ashton. " To the little black man," replied Lady Olivia. Our scene no longer lies among the courts and halls of our city of palaces, but where the burning sands of u 230 LADY OLIVIA. Africa spread themselves into illimitable plains. Where tlie sun pours down burning floods of light and heat upon the arid earth, and vegetation becomes extinct beneath its effulgent intensity ; where not a leaf casts its green shadow for the lone traveller, not a breath of air cools his worn brow, not a drop of water gurgles for his parched lip : even here, in these sandy deserts, immortal mind impels the footsteps of mortal man, even here is our traveller, our intrepid traveller, and even here not alone. ** Dearest ! I dread to see you faint by the way," said the little dark man, as he turned on that dearest one of those looks of love which make the desert a paradise. ^'^And now, tell me, if on these sultry plains your heart does not turn lingeringly to that far- off" country — fatherland — home — remembering its re- finements, its ease, its pleasures, with a longing heart?" '' Those are the first unkind words my husband has spoken," replied Lady Olivia, as she smiled cheerily upon him, in spite of toil and bodily exhaustion. '^ I shall chide him bitterly if he repeat them." *' Nay, but I could neither blame nor wonder at such natural feeling. There you had home, and country, and rank, and wealth, and friends, and re- finement, and luxuries, and all the pleasures of life, and here ." "I have — your' said Lady Ohvia. ALICE LEE. Through the dim and lonely forest Comes a low sweet sounds Like the whispering of angels To the greenwood round. Bearing through tl*e hours of midnight. On their viewless wings, Music in its measure telling High and holy things. Through the forest lone and dim Swelleth soft the twilight hymn Of the old knight's lovely daughter. The gentle Alice Lee. On the grass the dews unbroken In their silver lie. And the stars are out in thousands On the deep blue sky ; Bright as when the old Chaldeans Held them as the shrine Where was kept the varying fortune Of our human line. Would that o'er their mystic scroll Better hours may have to roll For the old knight's lovely daughter. The gentle Alice Lee I 232 ALICE LEE. Time was, coming forth together, She and Spring Kiight seem Like tlie beautiful creations Of a morning dream ; Each went through the quiet greenwood Wandering alone. With the green leaves and wild flowers O'er their pathway strown. Of the seasons in the year Spring seemed fittest to be near The old knight's lovely daughter^ The gentle Alice Lee. Round her head the locks are golden^ So the sun in June Pours his glory o'er the summer At his crystal noon; From that shining hair, when parted. Came the pure high brow. With the carving of a statue. With the mountain's snow. Bkie her eyes as yon blue heaven^^ Nature every charm had given To the old knight's lovely daughter. The gentle Alice Lee. But it was the inward beauty Breathing from her face. That gave every look and motion Its diviner grace ; ALICE LEE. 233 Thought was on the high white forehead. In the deep blue eyes. And it was the quick warm feeling Bade the blushes rise. Which could such sweet light impart. Writing on the cheek, the heart. Of the old knight's lovely daughter. The gentle Alice Lee. Lovely was the highborn maiden, Happy were the hours Gathering in the oak-tree's shelter Mosses and wild flowers ; When the deer from each green coppice Fled, a startled band. Save when some familiar favourite Fed from her small hand. Danger now, and fear, and wrath. Are around the woodland path Of the old knight's lovely daughter. The gentle Alice Lee. Nobly doth she meet the trial. She who hath but known Till the present time of trouble Life's smooth path alone. Though her smile be somewhat sadder. And her eye subdued. Such are lovelier as the token Of a higher mood. u3 234 ALICE LEE. Like an angel's is the face. In its meek and pensive grace^ Of the old knight's lovely daughter. The gentle Alice Lee. Not an hour of calm and quiet Hath his old age found. There are foes and strangers haunting His ancestral ground. Of his ancient halls and woodlands Is the old man reft. But they have not quite bereaved him. For his child is left. Others evil fortunes move. Deeper, dearer, is the love Of the old knight's lovely daughter. The gentle Alice Lee. 'T is her voice that now is raising Words of praise and prayer. Heaven vi^ill consecrate the worship Of this hour of care. Earthly care and earthly sorrow Only purify ; Such a heart as that uplifting Its best hopes on high. Heaven will bless the faithful maid. Heaven will bless the duty paid By the old knight's lovely daughter. The gentle Alice Lee. L.E. L. TH:E HOWDIE-WITCH OF CAWDOR. BY MAJOR CALDER CAMPBELL. In a romantic district of Scotland^ near the ancient Castle of Cawdor (where, some years ago, the sin- gularly fashioned bedstead, on which the royal Duncan is said to have received his death-stroke from the dagger of the treacherous thane, was consumed by an unlucky fire), resided for many years a withered beldam, called Eeshpal Gorm. My first recollections of her are somewhat vague, merely presenting the forbidding appearance of a gaunt and ugly old woman, with long, unkempt elf-locks of grisly black, escaping from beneath an untidy curch, or coif, and with a huge, unseemly scar or mark, of a deep blue colour, on one cheek ; from which, or probably' from the blue cloak which generally formed her out-door covering, she derived her sobriquet of Gorm (Blue), her avowed name being Hossack. In the most mischievous caprices of my infantile passions, ^*^Here comes Eeshpal Gorm !'* was a warn- ing that instantly produced quiet and obedience ; but, as I approached boyhood, a strange sort of interest, not free from a degree of superstitious terror, became mixed up with my meditations on the old woman. I 236 THE HOWDIE-WITCH OF CAWDOR. learned that she had been long the lonely inmate of a gloomy bothy, or cabin, in one of the deepest and dreariest dingles of the Cawdor woods, upwards of a mile from my father's house, and half that distance from any residence. She had first visited the hamlet of Calder, adjoining the Castle, some thirty years ago, as a practitioner of the obstetric art ; but she was not a native of the place, neither had she kindred or acquaintance there, and both her dialect and her ignorance of the Gaelic, which is chiefly spoken by the peasantry in that part of Scotland, proclaimed her to be from the Lowlands. Her professional skill, as a '' wise woman," does not appear to have been dis- puted, but her success in procuring employment was not in proportion to her expectations. Her appearance, so sudden and unlooked for, at a place where she was utterly unknown, her apparent want of all connexion, and her guarded and sour silence on all subjects touching her own affairs, coupled with her repelling countenance and manners, occa- sionally servile and obsequious, but more generally rude and disobliging, and if roused to anger fierce and threatening, excited strong feelings of aversion and suspicion in the bosoms of the many; nor was it, unless in cases of desperate emergency, or in the deficiency of all other aid, that her services were called for by the good-wives of the country. It was however remarked that all persons of no character, the dissolute mothers of babes that claimed no osten- THE HOWDIE-WITCH OF CAWDOR. 237 sible, or, at least, no legal fathers, resorted freely to Eeshpal. On suspicion grew suspicion ; from the soil in which doubt was so plentifully sown sprang up dis- like, and s\iperstition was not tardy in casting its stone on the gathering cairn of opprobrium. Eeshpal's maledictions had been known to produce evil, but her blessings — none had ever heard them. Eeshpal's bothy, to which she had retreated on the death of the old fox-hunter who had occupied it for many years, was seldom approached by the decent dames of the hamlet; but such had occasionally entered it, and it was ever found mysteriously furnished with what the honest gossips thought had no business there. There were bunches of herbs and roots, dry or recently gathered, slung from the rafters, or carefully laid out on paper ; there were a few stuffed animals, too, of the very nature of v^hicli the housewives were igno- rant; there were glasses of odd shape, and tins of quaint forms — and what could she want with all these ? On those visits, she was usually found inside her cottage, arranging her weeds and roots, simmering some nauseously scented decoction, or reading a dark odd-looking book, which they were quite sure was not the Bible, for she promptly stowed it away when in- terrupted, She never complained of poverty, and her practice was too scanty to obtain her a hvelihood; but her 238 THE HOWDIE-WITCH OF CAWDOR. dues, if not instantly paid, were greedily demanded and received without thanks. Her kail-yard and her cow, and a hive or two of bees, were her whole visible stock. That cow, too, was scarcely ever dry, while those of her neighbours often had no milk at seasons when there was no acknowledged cause for such lack. She had been occasionally known to absent herself from home for a day or two at a time, but none knew whither she had gone. At night voices had been heard ascending from the dark dell in which her habi- tation stood ; and more than once, from the house of Auchendown, the nearest mansion, and which was situated on a rising ground that overlooked the burn which ran past her door, several twinkling lights, of an unearthly blue, had been seen at dead of night by the terrified servants glimmering among the alder bushes and high trees near her dwelling. The con- clusions were that she dealt in the black art, and therefore was she nicknamed the How die- Witch ; howdie being, avglice, midwife ! When I was' very young, a melancholy event oc- curred, in which Eeshpal had been more than sus- pected of taking an active part. I shall relate the circumstances, reserving the denouement for the latter part of this paper. Jeannie Grant was the bonny daughter of an honest cottar near Calder, and the affianced bride of William Rose, the rich young gar- dener at the Castle. This man had incurred the displeasure of the Howdie. Entering the garden one THE HOWDlE-WnCH OF CAWDOR. 239 day, she unceremoniously began filling her large striped woollen apron with apples from one of the choicest trees, in which operation she was roughly interrupted by the indignant guardian of the fruit, who, telling her to be gone, rashly, perhaps unfeel- ingly, added : '' Ye are no' to be takin' the aipples o' our vera best tree to play your ungodly can- trips wi'." Flinging them down on the grass, with a look like that of an enraged wild cat, and stamping her foot, she screamed out, '^ Take back your trash ; but mind me, William Rose, proud as you are, ye'll lose the love of Jeannie Grant as sure as I have lost these apples — and all for the taunt you have given me this day !" William afterwards owned that the fierce expression of the hag's countenance, as she uttered this denun- ciation, so '' yearned his very blood, that he looked like a cog of crudlet milk in his mother's dairy !" Sure enough it was that, a few days thereafter, a recruiting party attended the annual fair at Calder ; belonging to it was a handsome young Irish soldier, who attracted the eyes of the admiring damsels, but all were by him neglected for bonny Jeannie Grant. From that day, for the space of two months, each successive Sunday brought Dennis Neale from Fort George, on a visit to Calder. Jeannie's father, a rigid covenanter, interfered, and forbade him the house; but, without his knowledge, Eeshpal, the 240 THE HOW DIE-WITCH OF CAWDOR. Howdie, ofiered tlje lovers free access to her's — besides, they had the thick green woods of Cawdor to wander in. WilHam Rcse, too, interfered, but Jeannie, with prompt indiojnation, dismissed him. In short, the poor girl, flattered by the fervent admi- ration of her gaily drest suitor, and cajoled by the crafty speeches of his ally, the Howdie, became wholly infatuated. Yet it was with the firmest reli- ance on his promises of a speedy union that she finally became his victim ; and, as he placed a gold ring on her finger in the presence of Eeshpal Gorm, he swore that when she next saw him it would be with the licence from his commanding officer for their nuptials in his pocket. She never saw him more. The regiment left Fort George by sea for Glasgow, and week after week passed on, in alternate hope and fear to Jeannie, without any tidings from her faithless Dennis. At length, taking courage from despair, she wrote to the adjutant ; a reply came, which not merely confirmed her doubts — it destroyed her hopes at once. Dennis Neale had gone on furlough to Ireland, accompanied by his wife! The despair of the ruined girl may be better con- jectured than described, and even from Eeshpal, her sole confidante, she received little sympathy. The heartless beldam made light of her anguish, and contented herself with promising assistance and con- cealment during the approaching crisis ; fur Jeannie was about to become a mother ! But, one day, as her THE HOWDIE-WITCH OF CAWDOR. 241 time drew near, the miserable young woman, in her sore distress and remorse, throwing herself at her father's feet, confessed her guilt. Old James Grant was, as I have said, a stern and rigid man ; too cold and severe himself to incur danger from the tempta- tions of such sin as his daughter had yielded to, and too proudly a sectarian to pity humbly as a Christian, he had no mercy, no charity, for the penitent sinner ; and spurning her cruelly as she knelt, he bade her ' leave his house for ever, and with the ring on her finger, which was the badge of her bondage to Satan, purchase for herself and her unborn babe a wi?iding sheet /' She left him, and none knew whither she went. One woman, while gathering fuel on the skirts of the wood, fancied that she saw Jeannie Grant, weeping bitterly and wringing her hands, among the thickets ; but, on calling to her, the wretched creature — if it was not rather her wraith — retreated amid the underwood, and was lost to sight. It was not before two days had elapsed that Jeannie's misfortune became known. Remorse and pity then found way to her father's heart, and he dis- closed the sad shame to his shuddering neighbours, who strongly censured while they pitied him. Still, his cup of woe was not full — he would forgive her — she could only have gone to the hut of Eeshpal Gorm, the fatal cause of all — he would seek her there —he knew that of late she had often visited the old witch. X 24*2 THE HOWDIE-WITCH OF CAWDOR. He sought her accordingly, but he fouud her not. The Howdie professed utter ignorance of Jeannie's fate ; she had not even seen her for several days ! But, as the repentant parent left her threshold, whither he had been accompanied by the faithful gardener, the blue-cheeked hag whispered to the latter with a grin of satisfied malignity, ** Wully Rose, my braw chiel, where's your rotten apples now ?" The woods, the waters, the bogs, far and near, were all searched, but searched in vain — Jeannie Grant was never seen in life again. This " ower true tale" was often repeated to me, as I sat on the knee of WiUiara, the gardener; but what I am now going to relate of the Howdie-witch fell within my actual experience ; yet I must preface the recital by a few facts, trivial in appearance, but of material importance to the denouement of my history. It so happened, at the time I write of, when I was a boy of fifteen, that the house of Auchen- down was occupied by the widow lady of the laird of Blairgowan. She was yet young and handsome ; a tall, dark beauty of the Itahan style of countenance ; but there was a something in her large black eyes and an occasional quiver about her lips, that I did not like — and the youthful are proverbially physiognomists. She had married, solely for his wealth, a man of hideous aspect, of disgusting manners, and with a mind not very remote from imbecihty. He died, leaving her child- less, but there was a will in her favour, drawn out by THE HOWDIE-WITCH OF CAWDOR. 243 her own father, a wily W. S. of Edinburgh, by which she became possessed of all his personal property ; not even his aged mother and destitute sisters, to whom he had always shown a liberal kindness inconsistent with his general nature, were so much as named in the will; while large legacies were left to his father-in- law and to one other person. That other was Pearse Watkins, his favourite man servant, and, if all tales might be credited, the favourite also of his wife. In- deed, strange rumours had been current among the scandal-mongers, regarding this man and his mistress, even before the laird's decease, since when, they had assuredly not decreased; at all events, it was evident that great familiarity, such as ill became their relative positions as superior and domestic, existed between them, and considerable shyness was accord- ingly manifested towards Mrs. Mackinnon by several families. The lady of Blairgowan had been some years a widow, and, as she had gradually thrown aside her weeds, it was naturally supposed that she would once more enter those gay scenes of life to which she had been accustomed, and of which she had partaken with no appearance of reluctance ; but, on the contrary, she kept more to herself than ever, saw fewer visiters, and, although her mother came all the way from Edinburgh to see her, rejected all invitations, and issued none. She had turned very charitable of late, nor had it escaped remark that she paid particular attention to 244 THE HOWDIE-WITCH OF CAWDOR. Eeshpal Gorm. That person had been very ill for some weeks, and the lady had not confined her kind- ness to messages or messes, sent by careless proxies, but had gone herself to the Howdie*s hut, and once had been accompanied by a medical man, to whose care she recommended the old woman. On EeshpaFs recovery, she was frequently sent for by the lady ; and, as the servants used to tell with amazement, she be- came at length such a favourite with Mrs. Mackinnon and her mother, that she was often detained for se- veral successive nights —a bed was prepared for her in a closet adjoining the mistress's own chamber, and she was never permitted to return home without ample proofs of the lady's liberality. It is true that, at this period, Mrs. Mackinnon herself complained ; she needed a nurse, and she had taken a fancy to the Howdie. Every body wondered, but every body knew that the rich are capricious, and nothing more was said. It was autumn. The richest shades, all various, but all beautiful, of that delightful season, covered the woods of Cawdor. A thousand lovely wild flowers carpeted the rich sward, sprang up beneath the branch- ing trees, and decorated each cliff and knoll, in the variegated grounds around the Castle. The dark- tinted fir stood, like a frowning duenna, beside the pale and delicate chesnut ; the rough-leaved elm in- terlaced its boughs with the lordly and glittering beech ; the ash rattled its whimsical catkins, like a housewife, proud of her bunch of keys ; and the geen. THE HOWDIE- WITCH OF CAWDOR. 245 and the mountain ash, the former loaded with black and delicious cherries, the latter shaking its manifold clusters of scarlet berries, like chaplets of coral beads, adorned every avenue. By the banks of the wild and romantic mountain-brook that rushed through these sylvan scenes, the queen of the meadows shook her lovely head in the breeze, shedding the rich aroma of her scented tresses to the vesper bee, which, already glutted with its harvest of honey, sought lazily its distant hive. Wild thyme fringed the brink of the burn, while brambles, dotted with their mulberry-like fruit, guarded the yellow asphodels and delicate wood- sorrel from the rapacious hand of the prying botanist. Orchises, white, purple, and straw-coloured, sprang up in the moist swathes of forest-grass ; and in the magic light of eve, that tinted the brawling waters now with an emerald and now with a ruby hue, the stern and stately castle of Earl Cawdor towered in baronial pomp over the woodland scene. I had been enjoying a holiday in the woods, but the sun was near setting, and I was still at some distance from home before I began to think of returning. I reached a lovely spot in the forest, where path or track there was none, just as the top of a well-known rock, peering over the trees to my right, told me that I was passing within forty yards of the Howdie's hut. But though the sun had now set, my heart was light, and I cared not, but cheerily made my way over bush, briar, and ledge of stone. Presently I heard a sound as if a X 3 246 THE HOWDTE-WITCH OF CAWDOR. person were digging in the earth. It came from the left hand of my route, where a high bank divided me, at that particular spot, from the brook. The light of day had not yet entirely left the earth, but the place was naturally gloomy, and the trees shed an artificial obscurity around me. I stopped to listen ; the noise continued, and my first impression was, that one of my treasuries had been discovered. Near the spot where I then stood, I had found, some days before, a bi/ke. Does the English reader ask what is a byke ? It is a nest of wild bees — a treasury of the richest and sweetest honey! Some sly cow- herd, or fagot-gatherer, I conjectured, had discovered it ; and stealthily I crept among the bushes, resolved to share in, if I could not save, the delicious spoil. At length I drew near : my byke was safe, but there, on the ground, kneeling among the rushes and briars, down six or seven feet beneath me, was the Howdie Witch ! She had scooped out a hole in the soil, in which I presently saw her place what at first seemed to be a roll of white cloth ; but, just as she was about to lay it in the earth, part of the cloth fell off, and I beheld, with a shudder, the face of a child ! Boy as I was, I felt a strange desire to see more ! And I watched until, having heaped earth and shingle over the unhallowed grave, the witch strode away. My homeward path lay in the same direction which she took, and which, instead of being that to her own abode, led us to Auchendown. Proceeding up a by- THE HOWDIE-WITCH OF CAWDOR. 247 road that brought her straight to the house, I lost sight of her, and hurried home, determined to unfold the weighty secret that burdened my breast to my mo- ther. At home, however, all was confusion. My mo- ther had been hastily summoned away to a sigk or dying friend, some ten miles off; my father was cross or cold ; and I was, even then, not of a temper to disclose my sentiments or my sorrows to the menials. Next day I rambled towards Auchendown, and, throwing myself beneath a tree, I meditated on the strange adventure of the past evening. I was at- tended by a pet terrier of my mother's ; it was a great favourite, and seldom left her side; but, in the hurry of her departure from home, the animal had been either forgotten, or perhaps purposely left behind. A cross and testy creature it was to strangers, but faithful and affectionate to its friends. Suddenly its attention was roused, it erected its ears, growled, and, before I could discern who or what was the cause of its excitement, it burst from my arms, and fiercely attacked a woman who was passing by : it was Eeshpal Gorm ! Before I had time to call off the dog, she lifted a large stone, and struck the animal with such force, that it fell completely stunned. Believing it to be dead, and en- raged at the cruelty which had doomed my mother's pet to so sudden an end, I lost all caution ; and, taking up the little terrier in my arms, I uttered a volley of boyish abuse on the beldam, concluding with these words : — '^ Where 's the bairn you buried last night, you old limmer ?" 248 THE HOWDIE-WITCH OF CAWDOR. Were I to live a thousand years, I never should forget the start, the glare of vi^olfish, diabolical ven- geance, which the old woman betrayed as these words escaped my lips. For a moment she stood quite still, both hands clenched firmly together, and her shrivelled lips so far apart as to show her yellow and fang-like teeth; the next, she seemed as if she were about to spring upon me ; but I waited not ; restraining with some difficulty the reviving Fanny, I rushed, ran, flew, from the spot, nor stopped until I found myself in the parlour, in the presence of my astonished father. Then it was that I told my tale of wonders to him. He listened in silence, but, when I ceased, he laughed at what he called my romance. Yet, ever and anon, he recurred to the subject, and I could perceive that it had made some impression on him. But he was an indolent man ; and not until my mother's return, some days afterwards, not until she had heard my story, and urged him to examine the spot, did he take any steps to investigate a circumstance that was at least of a suspicious nature. I then accompanied him and a chance visiter, who had taken my mother's side in the argument, to the mysterious grave. I found it readily, for the Howdie had taken little pains at concealment ; nay, I could not help thinking that all things looked far less horrible by day than they had seemed under the influence of twilight. We had provided ourselves with a spade, the earth was soon shovelled off, and there, behold ! lay the rotting body of the Howdie's welI-kno\Yn old doited dog ! THE HOWDIE-WITCH OF CAWDOR. 249 My father and the gentleman laughed loudly, while I stood confused, and — shall I own it? — disappointed. I had sworn to a white cloth, and the dog was, certainly, of a whitish colour ; and then they quizzed and jeered me about the grey dog which I had converted into a dead child, wrapt up in a shroud ! I was ashamed and vexed then, but now, at this time of day, I am firmly convinced that my imprudent speech to Eeshpal Gorm was the means of preventing the discovery of an iniquitous deed. I never saw the Howdie again, for in another month 1 was on my way to England, whence I proceeded, on the completion of my education, to India. The Lady of Blairgowan's was a melancholy fate : after some weeks of severe indisposition, in which with singular obstinacy she rejected all medical attendance, she left Scotland for France, where she was soon re- stored to health ; but, on her return, two years after- wards, while incautiously leaning over the side of the vessel, during a brisk gale, she overbalanced herself, and was precipitated into the sea. The night — for it happened in the night — was very dark, and, although every exertion to recover her, aUve or dead, was made, her body was never found, What became of Pearse Watkins I know not, but the following extract from a letter which I received from my father, some ten years after the transactions I have thus briefly narrated took place, will tell the fate of the Witch with the blue cheek. 250 THE HOWDIE-WITCH OF CAWDOR. " You remember the object of your youthful detes- tation, Eeshpal Gorm, alias Isobel Hossack, the Howdie of Cawdor ? Well, she is no more ; and her death has been attended by some suspicious circumstances that lead us to conjecture its having been caused by vio- lence ; while other events tend to throw some hght, a horrid and dismal light, on the transactions of former years. I have had reason to regret the injudicious ridicule I cast upon what to me seemed the mere result of your youthful and romantic imaginings ; nay, I am inclined to believe that occurrences, which in this world can never wholly be cleared up, must have taken place at that time, between the inmates of Auchen- down and Blue Eeshpal. The Howdie had been for several months in a very frail state; indeed, the old woman could not have been far short of eighty, and, as winter drew on, she seldom left her hut. Your mother, ever alert where charity has a part to play, took care that she was plentifully supplied with food and fuel, and, indeed, the peasantry, much as she has ever been their aversion, have recently shown her genuine kindness in her need. " She, however, survived the winter, and was be- ginning to move about again; when one evening, about a month ago, two of the servants were de- spatched by your mother with some Httle comforts for her. As they descended the path that leads to her hovel, they picked up, among the bushes at the way- side, a handsome fur boa, (which, by the bye, has THE HOWDIE-WITCH OF CAWDOR. 251 since been recognized as having belonged to Mrs. Macldnnon.) They were naturally enough astonished at this, and still more so when, a few paces in advance, a shilling was found, and still nearer the hut a quilted cloth pocket, which was well known, inasmuch as Eeshpal was seldom seen without it. Their alarm was excited to the utmost, when, approaching the door, they heard the groans of a person evidently suffering from acute pain. The wretched old woman was, in fact, in a dying state ; she was lying on the floor, half drest, as if she had either fallen, or been dragged from her bed, and, though apparently quite sensible, she was speechless. A gleam of joy shone on her counte- nance, as she saw who the intruders were, and she was gently laid upon her bed. Slowly she raised her hand, and pointed to her throat, which, indeed, be- trayed marks of violence ; the discoloured skin showed as if an attempt to strangle her had been made ; one of her fingers, too, was dislocated, and on farther examination, they perceived that her large kist or coffer had been forced open and rifled. '^ She expired before the light of another day, wholly speechless, though making great exertions to speak ; and seemingly much pleased with the kindness that was shown to her, and the prayers thai were breathed at her bedside by some of her worthy neigh- bours. It was after her decease that, sewed firmly into a thick corner of the old quilted pocket, where it must have escaped the depredators, a gold ring was dis- 252 THE HOWDIE-WITCH OF CAWDOR. covered. I wish you had seen our new constable, Wilham Rose, the ci-devant gardener^ when this ring was shown to him. His start would have been a study for a tragedian. He knew the ring instantly ; it was that which many long years before had aroused his jealousy, on the finger of his betrothed bride ! Inside were the initials D. N., and J. G. — Dennis Neale, and Jane Grant! '^ Not a scrap of paper, or any thing, indeed, of an elucidatory nature, w^as found among the effects of the Howdie ; but the discovery of this ring set a thousand wild surmises afloat regarding the fate of the unfortu- nate owner. Your adventure, too, was raked up from the ashes of the past ; and at length the country-folks insisted on digging up the floor of the cabin, and burning the ruins, as a thing accurst. Tliey dug, accordingly, but nothing was found, and the miserable bothy was consumed. The Howdie, however, had a hive or two of bees in her little garden, and these were sold. On removing them, two young lads, bent on the destruction of every thing connected with the spot, began to root up the kail-stocks, beds of parsley, &c. Taking spades, they dug and delved, till, coming to the space over which the bee- hives had stood, one of the spades struck against a broad flag-stone, at some depth from the surface of the ground ; a shove or two served to displace it, and it was raised. Pieces of cloth, shreds of rag, and bits of crockery excited their curiosity. Presently they found the bones and skull of REMEMBER ME. 253 an infant; and in two more strokes of the spade^ the entire skeleton of a grown-up person struck the ter- rified gaze of the rustics! The skeleton has been examined, and proved to be that of a woman ! There cannot be a doubt that Jeannie Grant died in this hut — how, or by what means, rests with God, but most probably in the pangs of child-birth. You will say : — ' But there was yet another child !' I do believe it ! Over its second grave the cloud still depends! Its death may have been natural, but its birth was, at least, involved in mystery, and most probably in guilt.'* REMEMBER ME. BY MISS CHRISTINA KINGLAKE. Remember not thine idle dream. Or, if thou e'er shouldst think of me. Remember me but as a beam. Just passing o'er a stormy sea. Remember me but as a sound That on thy gentle slumber broke. Yet perished ere its place was found. Or e'en thy dreamy spirit woke. Remember me but as a flower. That bloomed throughout its little day. Or as a sunny April shower. That glistened in the morning ray. Y 254 REMEMBER ME. Remember me but as a wave. That broke in sadness on the shore — Which to the winds its music gave A moment — and was heard no more. Remember me but as the foam. Far on the bounding surge at play. Yet having on no surge a home. Swept by each passing gust away. Remember me but as the snow That perished 'neath a sultry beam — Or as the false and fleeting glow In which we steep a childish dream. Remember me but as the breeze. That gently o'er thy path did pass — That woke the music of the trees. And softly stirred the dewy grass. As of a glistening drop of rain. That quivered on the trembling bough. So think of me ; — 'twere all in vain To seek the quivering rain-drop now\ And as the wanderer thinks of Heaven, While traversing Life's troubled sea. So, till o'er me steals Life's blank even. So shall my thoughts e'er turn to thee. BLEEDING HEART YARD. A LEGEND. BY R. SHELTON MACKENZIE, LL.D. If it were in my power to relate a tale as I heard it, years ago, from the lips of one who firmly believed in the marvels which she told, the effect upon others might be as it was upon me. But the place, the lis- teners, the narrator, with her earnest simplicity of diction, her overpowering sense of reality, and her thrilling tones, should all be brought up to produce that effect. When we were young, how an old crone's ghost- stories, by the Christmas fire, shook the nerves, and froze the blood, and made Curiosity, like the Giaour in '*^ Vathek," still cry out "More! more!" When the serious day-thought came, we could smile at the baseless terrors of yesternight. The scene, the dusky light of the midnight embers, the weak and wavering voice of the story-teller, herself a living personation of the Past, a link between the living and the dead — these combined to clothe her legends in the garb of wonder. Had they been told by others, at a diflferent time or in a different place, how coldly would they 256 BLEEDING HEART YARD. have fallen upon the ear, how feeble their spell to move us ! Thus, too, an anecdote which, in the relation (by one whose sufferings had almost unsettled her reason), had strangely stirred the very depths of my spirit, may fail to interest my reader to whom I shall present it nearly as it was spoken. For there is an impressive eloquence in the eye, the glance, the open brow, the tone, the thin and hectic cheek, the darkly flowing and dishevelled hair, the deep earnestness of spoken nar- rative, which the mind can scarcely imagine, and of which the pen vainly endeavours to represent even an outline. With these words of preface, let me now relate the legend which I heard. In this huge place called London, there is one spot, almost its centre, to which many close alleys, and crowded courts, and narrow lanes, and long passages, and murky yards, pour out a daily rush of population, like the arteries sending life-blood to the human heart. Not one of these places but has some sad memory as- sociated with it, some story of sin and sorrow, of silent suffering, or of deep crime. Hundreds of these places there are within the space which we call Holborn. A populous world it is, with its hum of many voices, like the murmur of the angry waves when they dash into white foam upon a rocky coast. But it was not always thus, nor did it always bear that name. There was a BLEEDING HEART YARD. 257 titne when it was a space where the citizens of London met for sports, the very names of which have passed away, like the memories of those who practised them. Then, one of the kinj^s of England enclosed these city-meadows with a wall, and gave them, as a gift, to some cunning courtier, who had found the way to his heart by flattery. And then, when king and courtier had alike departed, the fair fields came into the hands of a brave old soldier who had won fortune and fame in the wars with France. This was the Lord Hatton. He built a palace in the centre of his estate — a grand chateau, like what he had seen abroad. He had a gardener from the Low Countries to lay out for him a beautiful place, with fruits and flowers, and quaint sculptures, and rare birds from far lands beyond the sea. The palace and the pleasure-grounds are gone — the most searching antiquarian would fail to find a trace of either. But the place which we now call Hatton Garden shews where they once were. They were the marvel of their day, and their owner was so proud of them that it was hard to say which he cared more for — them or the fair youth, his only son. Well and tenderly, piously and fondly, had he brought up this youth. But, in time, the old lord died, and the dwelling and the garden, the gold and the jewels, the honours and the title, descended to his son. There was a gorgeous funeral, and the king attended it, with all his court. The young Lord Hatton wanted y3 258 BLEEDING HEART YARD. some months of being of age, but preparations soon began to be made for the rejoicings. They ransacked foreign lands for what was rare and rich to celebrate his birthday. They brought arras from the tapestry-makers of Artois, and fine hnen from the looms of Flanders, and rich wines from the valleys of Burgundy, and cloth of gold from the store -houses of Genoa, and tall mirrors from the manufactories of Venice, and spices from the fragrant land of Arabia, and royal carpets from the merchants of Persia. For the Lord Hatton had wealth to answer almost the very demands of extravagance, and he resolved that his coming to man's estate should be celebrated in no niggard way. At last the gala-day came. The king himself was among the guests. The magnificence of that day was never forgotten by those who saw it, and it was talked of, far and near, as eclipsing even the most royal splendours. Tliere were fountains, from which rich wiuCS spouted from daylight to sunset ; there were refreshments laid out in tents, to which all were welcome; there was a field-at-arms for the knights; and there was an extensive range in which the yeomen might exercise their sports. There was something to match the taste and rank of all — rich and poor, old and yoiing, gentle and simple. The place was thrown open to all, by public procla- mation. Among the lowly guests was one who had more beauty than the highest of the fair ones present. She was very lovely, and exceedingly proud of that BLEEDING HEART YARD. 259 rare and surpassing beauty. She was among the crowd, but not of it. Her father was an honest man, who earned a hard living by hard labour. She was discontented with her lot in life. Many "allants of the court, who had noted her remarkable beauty, had at- tempted to draw her from her father's lowly roof; it was pride, rather than principle, which, as yet, had prevented her fall. She was sick at heart with discon- tent. There was this aggravation also — she had been educated above her station. At a convent adjacent to her father's cottage, in what we now call St. Mar- tin's lane, there was a convent where she had been taught to read and write — unusual attainments for one of her rank and sex, at that time — and increase of knowledge brouglit fuel to the flame of discontent which was devouring her heart. She was thus ex- actly ripe for temptation, and be sure that the Evil One ever watches the hour and seizes the occasion. It would be difficult to determine what had brought Edith Lee, for that was her name, to the great fes- tival that Lord Hatton gave. It is true that all her neighbours went, but that was no example for one who scorned to follow in the common track, and had hitherto avoided all exhibitions of grandeur ; after they were over, when she sat down in the poor cot- tage of her father, it made her spirit very sad to think that others should be decked with splendour and sur- rounded with luxury, while she was subject to the lowest wants, yet felt that she had capacity for enjoy- 260 BLEEDING HEART YARD. merit as high as they had. Surely she had not gone thither to display her beauty, for she was too proud to be vain, and had half hidden her face beneath the large hood which she wore, according to the custom of her humble condition in those days. Neither was it to gain that attention which young women strive to attract by dress, for she wore her plain and customary attire. Tt was a mixture of curiosity and impatience A^hich led her forth. She was tempted by both. If she had endeavoured to define the impulse, she would have failed ; there are times and circumstances which lead us to act, we know not why, as if some invisible hand pushed us forward — as if some viewless finger of Fate beckoned us on. Perhaps, as she stood, pale and still as a sybil, in that scene of gaiety and mirth, her bosom was the only one in that crowd which covered a heavy heart. Naturally of a lively temperament, her musings had turned of late to that thoughtful meditation for which tears would be a great relief, but to calm which tears do rarely flow. But her beauty gained in expression more than it lost in fire by this change. The light of her glance was not dimmed but softened ; and her tones had a subdued sweetness, like that born of the gentle kiss of the southern breeze and the voiceful chords of the JEolian harp. A deeper beauty than that of common life she now wore — a beauty over which Thought had passed and softly left its shadowy- hue. BLEEDING HEART YARD. 261 As she stood, herself almost concealed in the gloom and by the huge trunk of an ancient tree, her mind far away in the land of dreams, as she gazed upon the changing brilliancies of the sky, fancying each cloud an isle where it would be happiness to live and love, she heard the clang of music, and presently came the sounds of approaching footsteps, of light laughter, and of mirthful language. There was one voice, among the many which were speaking, that thrilled the very heart of Edith Lee. It was musical, low, and clear, as the pleasant sound of a well -played flute. And, as the crowd of gallants came in view, there was one face, one form, which she recognized the moment that she saw it — recognized with a heart-throb that covered her brow, cheeks, neck, and bosom with one sudden flush. The voice, the foim, the face, were such as, night after night, had haunted her in dreams, ever since her proud spirit rebelled against her low condi- tion in life. I told you that the tempter had marked that discontent. Never before, never before had she seen him, living, breathing, speaking, in her presence. But he had been with her in the dream by night, and, more indistinctly, in her waking thoughts. His image had filled her heart with new and deep sensations — feelings so pow- erful that the blessed daylight sometimes became wearisome to her, and she longed for night, because then again she could see this spirit- love of her's. So overpowering was this new sense, thus strangely con- 262 BLEEDING HEART YARD, jured up, that often, in the clear noonday, she used to shut her eyes, in the hope that, in this semblance of sleep, he would rise palpably before the vision of her mind. For it was a strange and strong peculiarity of this life-in-sleep that, while in dreams she traced a successive series of adventures with this creation of her fancy, her waking thoughts had but a vague and imcertain impression of him and them. But now she saw him, as glorious as he had ever seemed in the fair and boundless world of sleep ! The crowd of gentlemen passed on, and Edith Lee still remained leaning against the old tree, and strain- ing her sight after them long after they had gone beyond her view. She only felt that she had seen him — that he was a creature of life like herself, and that his evident rank shewed him to be removed from her by a gulf which could not be passed. Edith Lee's mind was the prey of such conflicting emotions that she did not know how long she remained by that old tree ; but, after a time, she became aware that some one was standing opposite to her, and care- fully reading her features. She saw a middle-aged man, well dressed and dark-featured, with a counte- nance which no one could give a plausible reason for not liking, yet its expression was such as one does not love to look upon. There was a sneer upon his thin and pallid lips, and a sardonic something in his glance, which, as their e}' es met, made her feel uncomfortable. She would fain have moved from him, for his gaze BLEEDING HEART Y<\RD. 263 troubled her, but it seemed as if she had lost all power of voluntary motion and speech. He seemed to hold her there with his gUttering eye, as the serpent fixes the wild birds in the Indian woods. He laid his hand upon her's, and the touch, light as it was, thrilled to the bone, and fevered her blood. He spoke to her, and his voice, though sweet enough, grated harshly upon her ear — he spoke in a tone low enough for a whisper, yet every syllable fell distinctly upon her ear, and sank into her heart. " You soar high, lady-bird ! " said ha. " It is a bold dove that would seek a mate in the eagle's nest. You would wed that gay young lord ; " here he bent his face close to her*s, while he added, '^ and you shall!" She shrunk back from him, and the ex- pression of his features became terrible in its demoniac beauty. '' What, pretty one ! " he continued, " you shrink from your friend, who has the power and the will to assist the cottage flower that fain would flourish in the stately halls of the palace. Why, trembler, / have known your wishes, 1 have fashioned your dreams, until sleep has become for you a life more beautiful than reality. Your heart rebelled against the state in which you were placed, and the rebellion gave me power over you. See, now, you shrink from my words, and you never shrank from my works. You stand even upon ground that is mine own. Your foot rests upon the grave of a suicide — you need not start! He killed his mother by his pride of heart ; he stained 264 BLEEDING HEART YARD. a name that the breath of dishonour had never tar- nished before ; he betrayed his country ; he denied his »oper. R.A . C Hancock &c. Imperial 4to. cloth, bound elegant, price 2/ 2s ; ditto, proofs on India Paper, 3/. 3s. ALBUM COSMOPOLITE containing Autographs and Drawings by Sovereiirns. S'atesnun, Poets, &c &c. of every country, from the Album of Moas. Alexander Vattemare ; price ?*• p«i" part; proofs, 125. each. ^ WORKS OF ART. JERUSALEM AND MOUNT SINAI, including the most in- teresting sites between Grand Cairo and Beirout, from drawings br F. Arundale, Architect : with a descriptive account of his tour and residence in those remarkable countries. 4to. cloth, price 1^ 5s. MEMOIRS OF THE LIFE OF THE LATE JOHN MYTTON, ESQ., of Halston, Shropshire; with notices of his Hunting, Shoot- ing, Driving, Racing, Eccentric, and Extravagant Exploits, by Nimrod ; second edition, ornamented with numerous and additional coloured illustrations by H. Aiken, and T. J. Rawlins. 8vo. cloth, elegant ; price 1/. 5s. WEEDS OF WITCHERY, by Thomas Haynes Bayly, illustrated with 12 comic designs by Townsend. 8vo. cloth, price /s. 6d. SUMMER RAMBLES, illustrative of the pleasures derived from the study of Natural History, embellished with numerous coloured plates ; cloth, price 4s. THE FLORAL ALBUM, or Gathered Flowers, with five ex- quisitely coloured groups of flowers. 4to., silk elegant, price 21. 2s. THEORY OF PAINTING, to which is added an index of mixed tints, and an introduction to painting in Water Colours, with pre- cepts, by .T H. Fielding, teacher to the senior classes at the Honourable East India Company's Military Seminary, Addiscombe. Second Edition, enlarged, 8vo. price 1/. 6s. SYNOPSIS OF PRACTICAL PERSPECTIVE, Lineal and Aerial, by T. H. Fielding ; second edition, enlarged, 8vo. price 1/. As. THE ARTIST, or Young Ladies' Instructor in Ornamental Paint- ing, Drawing, Fancy Work, &c., by B. F. Gandee, with plates. 18mo. price 12s. ILLUSTRATIONS OF MODERN SCULPTURE; a series of engravings, with descriptive prose and illustrative poetry, by T. K. Hervey. Imperial 4to., half bound cloth, price 21. 6s. PUGIN's DESIGNS FOR GOTHIC FURNITURE. Parti contains twenty-five plates for Cabinet Makers, Upholsterers, &c. Part 2 contains twenty-seven plates for Iron and Brass Founders. Part 3 contains twenty-seven plates for Silversmiths, &c. Royal 4to. cloth, price, each vol. 1/. I*. PUGIN's DETAILS OF ANCIENT TIMBER HOUSES, in twenty-two plates. Royal 4to. cloth, price il. Is. THE CIVIL ENGINEER AND MECHANIST, a Practical Treatise in its several branches, designed for the use of Engineers, Iron Masters, Manufacturers, and Operative Mechanics, &c.by C. J. Blunt, and R. M. Stephenson, Civil Engineers, Architects, &c. The working plans and general views of these important subjects are laid down in original drawings of great practical accuracy and careful execution. In parts, with descriptive letter-press to each part. Price, each II. Is. 1 to 5 have appeared. The following Imperial folio works handsomely half hound. PROUT's FACSIMILES OF FIFTY SKETCHES IN FLAN- DERS AND GERMANY; price, on India paper, £6. 6s. or on tinted grey, £5 5s. ROBERTS'S PICTURESQUE SKETCHES OF SPAIN. 26 plates, price, Al. 4s. or coloured in imitation of the originals, 10/. 10«. LEWIS'S CONSTANTINOPLE, 26 plates, price, £4 4s.; in a folio, coloured, £10 iOs. WORKS OF ART. 3 LEWIS'S SKETCHES OF SPAIN AND SPANISH CHA- RACTER, 26 plates, price, £4 4s. ; £10 10s. in a folio, coloured. LEWIS'S SKETCHES OF THE ALHAMBRA. 26 plates, price £4 4s. ; £10 10s. in a folio, coloured. RICHARDSON'S SKETCHES ON THE CONTINENT, 26 plates, £4 4s.; £10 10s. in a folio, coloured. COOPER'S SKETCHES OF CATTLE, 34 plates, £4 14s. 6d ; £10 lOs. in a folio, coloured. NASH'S MIDDLE AGES, 25 plates, £4 4s. STANFlELD's MOSELLE, RHINE, AND MEUSE, 30 plates, £4 4s ; £ 10 10s. in a folio, coloured. VIVIAN'S SPANISH SKETCHES, 29 plates, £4 4s. FIFTY SKETCHES AT HOME AND ABROAD, by J. D. Harding; price £6 6s. PROUT's INTEIilORS AND EXTERIORS, 48 plates, half bound. Imperial 4to. price, £3 3s. J. S. PROUT's ANTIQUITIES OF BRISTOL, 30 plates, half bound. Imperial 4to. price, £2 10s. J. S. PROUT's CASTLES AND ABBEYS IN MONMOUTH- SHIRE, with letter-press, 30 plates, £5 5s. THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, illustrated by twenty-five poetic and dramatic scenes, designed and etched by David Scott, S. A. Imperial folio, cloth, price 21. 12s. 6d., on large paper, 41. 4s. CO.MPOSITIONS IN OUTLINE, from Lord Byron's "Manfred" and " Prisoner of Chillon," by F. Thrupp, Sculptor. Imperial 4to., cloth, price 14s. DESIGNS FOR RURAL RESIDENCES, consisting of Cottages. Decorated Cottages, small Villas, and other Ornamental Buildings, with observations on Landscape Gardening; by J, B. Papworth, Architect. Second Edition, 8vo. price 1/, lis. 6d. HINTS ON ORNAMENTAL GARDENING, 'illustrated with twenty-eight Coloured Designs for Garden Buildings, useful and Decorative; by J. B. Papworth. Second Edition, 8vo. price II. lis. 6d. THE ALHAMBRA, showing the plans, elevations, and sections, with the elaborate details of this beautiful specimen of Moorish Architecture, printed in colours in exact imitation of the original drawings, taken on the spot by Messrs. .Tules Goury and Owen .7 ones, Architects, to be completed in ten parts, each containing five plates. Folio Columbier, price II. 5s. ; folio Grand Aigle, heightened in gold, 21. 2s. each pait. 1 to 7 are now ready. THE GEOGNOSY CF ST. HELENA ; with numerous coloured plates, and descriptive letter-press, by F. Scale, Hon. East India Company's Civil Service. Folio, 21. 2s. SCENERY OF THE WINDWARD AND LEEWARD ISLANDS, a series of twelve highly coloured views in a neat port- folio, by Lieutenant .1. H. Caddy, R.A. Price, the set, 3/. 10s. SIX COLOURED VIEWS ON THE LONDON AND BIR- MINGHAM RAILWAY, from drawings taken on the spot by T.T. Bury, price, the set, 12s. SIX VIEWS OF THE LONDON AND GREENWICH RAIL- WAY, sketched on the spot by G. F. Bragg. Price, the set, in two tints, 5s., coloured 9s. TWELVE COLOURED VIEWS OF THE LIVERPOOL AND MANCHESTER RAILWAY, from drawings made on the spot by T. T. Bury ; in two parts, price, each, 12s. 4 NEW PRINTS. WINDSOR CASTLE A^'D ITS ENVIRONS. Edited by T. Roscoe. Esq. To be completed in seven parts, each containing three plates and a vignette on steel by J. Carter. Price, per part, 2». ; India, 3s. 6rf. COOKKS' SH IPPING AND CRAFT. Twelve numbers. Royal 4to. Price 1/. lis ; or half bound, 1/. I65. ELI.MKNTOS DE FISICA, 6 de Filosofia Natural. General y Medica, por Dr. Neil Arnott. del Renl Colegio de Medicos, d^ la Gran Bretana, traducidos al Espanol por el Dr. Don Manuel Maria Saenz de Hernaija. 3 tomos. 12s. each vol. EL INM'RUC lOR, IJepertorio de Ilistona, Bellas Letras y Artes. A monthly ma<^:izine in the Spanish lanyua^e; 45 numbers, to he continued, price Is. each ; or three vols, for the years 1834 to 1837; price, each vol. 14s., cloth bound. NEW PRINTS. The Measurement given refers to the Subjects t exclusive of either blank Margin or Inscription. THE MARTYRS IN PRISON. Dodicatrd bv snpci:*! permission to her Majesty. Fainted from oriitfiiial rorJrnirs bv J.R. Htrbtrt, and eno:raved fa Mfz. by S. W Reynolds. Size 27i inches by 20. Prinls£2 2'<. ; proofs£3 13». 6d- india vA^vr £5 5s.' bOLION ABIiEY IN THE OLDEN TIME. Bv E. Landscer, R. A. In Mei. by S. Coii^^ins, A.R.A. 28i inches by 2.'^. Prints, £3 3s.; proofs, £6 6s.; before letters, £10 lOs. CHKLSKA PENSIONERS, reading tlie Gazette of the bafle of Waterloo. By Sir Ditvid Wilkie. RA. In line by J. Hiirnetl. 28 inches by f?. Prints, £3 38.; proofs, £6 b'*. : India, £10 IDs. : before letttrs, £12 12s. GREF.NW ICH PENSIONERS, commemoMiing the anniversary of the battle of Trafalgar. In line by J. Burnett- Companion to the foreg'Din., same size and price. VIEW OF THE COURT OF LIONS IN THE AI.HAMBRA, by Owen Joiies, Arcliitect. Printed in colours from nine litlii.ofiaidiic sidnes, and re- lieved in pold. Size 1 foot 5\ inchts bv 2 feet 2 liisih, |.rice £2 12s. 6d. THE MAID OF SARAGOSSA By Sir David Wilkie, R. A. In Mez. by S. Cousins, A.RA. 28^ inches by 19. Prints, £3 3s.; proofs, £5 5s.; before letters, £8 8s. MARt US rURTIUS. In Mez. by J Martin. 26} inches by 19- Printu, £2 12s. 6d. ; proofs, £5 5s.; before letters, £10 10s. SNAP APPLE NIGHT, or all hallow eve. Hv D. MTIisc, A.R.A. InMez. by J. Scotr, 31g inches by 2I|. Prints, £2 2s. ; proofs, £4 4s. ; before letter*, £S5s. THE VILLAGE (HURCH. Bv Mrs. SevfTarth. In Me/, by J. Egau. aii inches by 144. Prints, £1 l<.; proofs, £1 lis. 6d. ; before letieis, £2 2s. THE RETKEAl' AT NASEbY. Bv A. Coop* r, R.A. In M-z. bv vV. Glller. J« inches by 17- Prints, £1 is. ; pro<)"f-.£l lis. 6d. ; before letters, £2 2s. HAIED (Portrait of a celebrated Deer Hound). Hy E. I njidseer, R.A. In Mez. bv C. G. Lewis. 23^ inches by 174. Prints, 15s.; pro(if«,£l 5s.; before letters, £2 2s. THE BRITISH QUEEN AND GREAT WESTERN STEAM SHIPS, a Pair, highlv colourtd. Price 10s. 6d. each. THE SL'EKt'lNG BLOODl.OUND. By E Laiidsee % R.A. In Mez. by T. Landseer. 20 inches by 15^. PriiUs, 12s. ; proofs, £1 Is.; before letter*, £1118. 6d SUSPENSE. (Companion to the above.) By E Landseer, R.A. InMez.by B. t*. Gibbon. Same si/.e and price. THE HO r BREAKFAST. By C Hancock. Engraved by J. Porter. 164 inches by 12?. Prints, 12s.; proofs, £1 Is. THr: COVENANTER. Bv H. P.Parker. In Mez. bv W. O. Geller. 2lt inches bv I6\. Prints, 15!^. ; > roofs, £1 5s. ; coloured, £l i Is. lid. THE COVENAMER'S BAPTISM. Bv G. Harv.y, S-A. In Mez.byJ.E- Cooiibs. 22i inches bv 19- Prints, £2 28.; proofs, £3 3s ; before letter*, £4 48. '■HE BATTLE OF DRUMCLOG. By G. Harvev, S.A. In Mez. by C. E. Wagsiaffe. 24 in. by 18^ Prints, £2 2s. ; proofs, £3 3s. ; before letters, £4 46. NEW PRINTS. 6 eSOVENANTERS PREACHING. By G Harvey, S.A. InMez. byj. Brom- ley. (Compaiiioii to tlu- above.) Same size and price. THE PASSING OF THE REFOilM KILL, (June the 7th, 1832.) My S. W. Reynold-. In Mez. by VV. W alker. 23\ inches by 22. Prints, £3 38. ; proofs, £5 63., and €8 8«. LOOKING OUT. Ry H P- Parker. In Mez. by W. O. Geller. 22iinche« by 18. Prints. I5s.; proofs, £ I .5s. ; coloured, £1 lis 6d. LOOKING IN. Hy H. P. Pari OF I HE Pr^T LAMB. By W.Collins, R A. In Mez- by S. W. Reynolds. 20 inches t)y 15^- Prints, £l l?.; proofs, £2 2s , and £3 3s. SUNDAY, livthcsame. ((ompanioii to the above.) Same size and price. THE CELEBRATION OF THE FOURTH OF JUNE AT ETON. By W. Evans. In Mt/,. bv C G. Lewis. 19 in. by 13]. Prints, £1 Is- ; proofs,£2 28. WELLlNGr(»N AT WATERLOO. ByA. Cooper, R.A. In Mez. by T. Bromley. 22 inches by 17- Prinis, £l Is. ; proof-^, £2 2s. NAPOLEON AT WATERLOO. Panted by Steuben; in Mez. by W. H. Simmons. Coni(iani in ti the ab^ve. Same size and price. THE ABHOlSFORU FAMILY. Bv Sir David Wilkie, R.A. In line by R. Graves, AR. A. 141 inches b> 11.^. Prints, £1 Is.; proofs,£22s. MAY DA Y ; in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. By C. R. Leslie, R.A. In Ifue byJ.H- Watt. 21^ inches bv 13^ Prinls,£2 2s. 6d.; proofs, £5 5s. INDULGING, ily W. Kidd. In line by VV. H- Watt. ll| inches by 8|. Prints, lOs. 6d ; proofs, £1 Is.; before leiterr, £2 2s . SMUGGLERS AliArKKD- By H.P.Parker. On Stone by T. Fairland, 21 inches by 17- Prints, on India I'aper, 7s. 6d. ; coloired, 15s. WOLVES A ITACKING DEER. A Scene in the Tyrol. Hy F- Gauermann. In line by B. P. Gibsun. 10 inches by 8^. Prints, 7s. 6d. ; proofs, 15s. THE CANTERBUiiY PILGRIMAGE. By I". Siofhard, R.A. In the Nu- niismatiqueorba-so-relievo style. ByA.Collas. 15i in. by 6|. Prints. 7s. 6d. THE LAST SUPPEit. By Leon.trdo di Vinci. Engraved by A. Collas. la the same style- I5l in« lies by 6|. Prints, 78. 6d. BELSHAZZaR'3 hEASr. In Mez. by J. Martin. 28.J inches by i8j. Prints, £2 12b. 6d.; pro its, £5 5s. ; before letters, £10 10s. THE FALL OF BAi^YLON. By tiie same. Same size and price. THE DEATH OF THE FIRST BORN. By the same. 29 inches by I7i. Same price. THE DESTROYING ANGEL- By the same. Same size and price. THEFALI. OF NINEVEH, By the same. 32 inches by 21. Prints, £5 59. proofs, £10 10s. ; bi fore U tl. rs, £21. JOSHUA COMMANDING THE SUN TO STAND STILL- By the same. 27 inches bv 17 Prints, £3 13s. 6d.; proofs, £7 7s. ; before letters, £14 14s. THE DELUGE. By the same. 28 inches by Is;!-. Prints, £3 3s.; proofs, £6 6s.; bef.re Ielers,£l2 12s. THE tlKUCIFlXION- By the same. 28^ inches by 18j. Prints, £2 128. 6d- ; proofs, £5 5s. ; beloie letters, £10 10s. PANDEMONIUM AND SATAN IN COUNCIL. By the same. A pair. 28 inches bv 19. Prints, £l lis; ad.: proofs,£2 12s. 6d. each. OPENING OF I HE SEVENTH SEAL, and IHE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. By the same. A Pair. 17^ iricli< s bv I14. Prints, 12s. ; proofs^, £l 4s. each. THE OPENING OF IHE SIXTH SEAL. By F. Danby, A.R A. In Mei. by G. H- Phillips. 27 inches by 19Jt. Prints, £2 12s. 6d. THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. By F- Danby, A-R.A. In Mez. by G. H. Phillips. 30 inches by 19}- Prints, £2 128. 6d. THE DEPARIURE OF IHE ISRAELITES FROM EGYPT. By R. Ro- berts. In M z- bv I. P. Quiiley 28 indies by 18. Prints, £2 2». ANCIENT .lEUUSALEM. duriiiii theapproach of the Miraculoug Darknes.s which attended the Crucifixion. Fainted by VV. Linton ; in Mez. by T Luptou. Size, 28 inches by 18. Piints ^L 2s,; proofs , U. 4s. ; before letters, Gl. 6s. 6 NEW PRINTS. JACOB'S DREAM. (From the celebrated picture at Devonshire House ) Painted by Salvator Rosa ; in Mez. by S. W. Reynolds, Size, 27i inches by 19i. Pr nts, 21. 2s. ; proofs, 31. 13s. 6d.\ before HISTORICAL ILLUSTRATIONS TO THE BIBLE, for the Use of Schools and Home Education— the Old Testament. Twenty plates ; price 20s. PROGRESS OF INTEMPERANCE. (A series of six plates.) Painted by E. V. Rippingille ; in Mez. by S. W. Reynolds. Size, 18 inches by 13; price, the set, prints, 31. 3s. ; proofs, 5/. 5s. ; before letters, 7^. 7s. THE CHILDREN OF THE MARQUIS OF ABERCORN. Painted by E. Landseer, R.A. ; in Mez. by S Cousins, A.R.A. Size, 17i Inches by 17; prints, 11. 11«. 6d.; proofs, 3/. 3s.; before letters, 51. 5s. THE PREACHING OF KNOX BEFORE THE LORDS OF THE CONGREGATION. Painted by Sir D. Wilkie, R A. ; in Line by G. T. Doo. Size, 23i inches by 21 ; prints, il. 4s. ; proofs, 81. 8s. before letters, 151. 15s. CRANMER REVOKING HIS RECANTATION. Painted by F. P. Stephanoff; in Mez. by J. Egan Size, 24i inches by 19; prints, 562 2s. : proofs, ^3. 3s.; before letters, £4: 4s. THE KEEPER GOING ROUND HIS TRAPS. By C. Hancock. In Mez. bv H. Bfcckwith. 16^ inchesby llj. Prints, 10s. 6d.: proofs, I5s. : first proofs, £1 15. THE FORESTER IN SEARCH OF GAME. Companion to the above- By the same. Same size and price. THE PORCH OF CHARTRES CATHEDRAL. By S. Proiit. In Mez- by J. Eg-an. 30 inches by 22- Prints, £l5s.; proofs, £2 12s. 6d. ; before letters, £3 3^. THE EAGLE'S NEST. (A child being rescued by its motlier.) Bv G. Dawe, R.A. In Mez. bv H- Dawe. 24^ inches by I7f • Prints, £1 is. ; proofs, £-2 2s. ROBINSON CRUSOE, AND HIS MAN FRIDAY- By A. Fraser. In Mez. bv C G. Lewis. 22? inches by 16. Prints, £l Is. ; proofs, £2 2s AMELIA, WAITING THE RETURN OF HER HUSBAND. Bv E. PrenUs. In Mez. by J. C Bromlev. 21 inches by 15|. Prints, £1 is.; proofs, £2 2s. COTTAGE PIETY. By J. Webster. In Mez. by G. H. Phillips. 20 inches by 16i. Prints, £1 Is. ; proofs, £2 2s. THE DAUGHTER. By E. Prentis. In Mez. by J. C. Bromley. 17 inche* bv 13^. Prints, 126.; proofs, £l is- 'THE WIFE. By E. Prentis. In Mez. by J. C. Bromley. Companion to the above. Same size and price. A SHIPWRECK. By J. M. W. Turner, R.A. In Mez. by C. Turner, A.R.A. 30 inches bv 20?. Prints, £i is.; in colours, £2 2s. REAPERS IN A S rORM. By Beaume. In Mez. by Maile. 26 inches by l»|. Prints, £1 4s. ; in colours, £2 2s. WRECKERS OFF FORT ROUGE. (Calais in the distance.) By C.Stan- field. In Mez. bv J. P. Uuillv. 26* inches by 19^. Prints, £1 Is. ; proofs, £2 2s. ST. MICHAEL'S MOUNT, CORNWALL. (A Shipwreck.) By C. Bentley. In Mez. bv J. Egan. 26i indies by 19^. Prints, £1 Is.; proofs, £2 2s. THE RfcTURN TO PORT. By E. Isabey. In Mez. by D. Lucas. 26^ inches bvl9i. Prints, £1 Is.; proofs, £2 2s. . ^ r, r. ^ THE Port of Liverpool. Bv S. waiters, in Aquatint by R. G. Reeve. 24i inches by 17i. Prints, 12s.; in colours, £1 4s. ,. , , , SOLICITING A VOTE. Bv Buss. In Mez. by T Lupton. 18^ inches by 12i. Prints, 12s.; proofs, £l Is.; before letters, £1 lis. 6d. „ ^ .., THE TIGHT SHOE. By H. Richter. In Mez. byT. P.Quilly. CompanioD to the above. Same size and price. .t^u.ni, ni* WAITING FOR THE TIMES (After an adjourned Debate.) By R. B. Havdon. In Mez. by T. Lupton. 14 inches by lOj. Prints, 7s. 6d.; proofs, 129. READING THE SCRIPTURES. By R. B. Havdon. In Mez. by J. h. Coombs. 12 inches bv 10. Prints, 7s. 6d. ; proofs, 128. , ASKING A BLESSING. Bv A. Eraser. In Mez. by C G. Lewis. 14 inches by llj. Prints, lOs. 6d. ; proofs, £1 Is. NEW PRINTS. 7 THE LOVE LETTER. By J. Graham. In Mez. by W. Ward. 145 inches bv Hi- Prints, I2s. ; proofs, £1 Is. ; in colours, £1 4s. JOHN ANDERSON MY JOE- By W. Kidd. In Mez. by W. Carlos. n| inches by 12. Prints, 8s. ; in colours, 16s. ROBERT BURNS AND HIS HIGHLAND MARY. By R. Edmonstone. In Mez. by Mrs. W. H. Simmons. 14| inches bv 11|. Prints, 8s.; in colours, 16s. HINDA. By G. Beechey. In Mez. by G. H. Phillips. 2lj inches by 17i. Prints, 15s. ; proofs, £1 as. ; in colours, £1 lis. 6d, THE HAPPY DREAM. CAfter the ball.) By J. Stewart. In Mez. bv W. Nicholas. 16i in, by 13j. Pri.its, lOs. 6d. ; proofs, £1 is.; in colours, £1 5s. BLIND MAN'S BUFF, AND VILLAGE POLITICIANS. By Sir David Wilkie, R.A. In line by A. Raimbach. A pair. 24 inches by 16^. Prints, £2 12S. 6d each. READING OF A WILL, AND PENNY WEDDING. By Sir D. Wilkie, R.A. In line by J. Burnet, and J. Stewart. A pair. 23^ inches by 15j. Prints, £2 12s. 6d. ; proofs, £5 5s. each. THE BLIND FIDDLER. By Sir D. Wilkie, R.A. In line by J. Burnet. 22 inches by 16. Prints, £2 2s.; proofs, £6 6s. ; India, £8 8s. THE RENT DAY, AND DISTRAINING FOR RENT. By Sir D. Wilkie, R.A. In line by A. Raimbach. A pair. 24 inches by 16^. Prints, £2 2«s. each. THE PAKJSH BEADLE. By Sir D. Wilkie, R.A. In line by A. Raimbach. 24 inches by 18. Prints, £2 2s. ; proofs, £4 4s. ; before letters, £8 8?. ALFRED IN THE NEATHERD'S COTTAGE. By Sir D. Wilkie, R.A. In line bv J. Michell. 2U inches by 14i. Prints, £1 lis. 6d. ; proofs, £3 3s. DUKCAN GRAY, AND GUESS MY NAME. By Sir D. Wilkie, R.A. In line by Engleheart, and Smith. 13 inches by 12. Prints, £l5s. ; pmofs, £2 12s. 6d. each. HIGH AND LOW LIFE.by E.Landseer, R.A. On stone by E. J. Lane, A R.A. Pair. 15 inches by 12. Prints, on India paper, Qs.; Proofs, I5s. ; in colours, 18s. each. JACK IN OFFICE, by E. Landseer, R.A. In line by Gibbon. lU inches by 12f . Prints, 15s. ; proofs, 1/. 10s. THE DISPUTED FARE, by J. Holmes ; in Mez. by .J. Egan. 18 inches by 14i. Prints, 12s.; in colours, 24s. MAZEPPA, by H. Vernet. In Mez, by .7. Lucas. A pair. 17 inches by 12i. Prints, 12s. ; in colours, 24s. each. THE PETS, by E. Landseer, R.A. In Line by W. H. Watt. 13 inches by 11. Prints, 21s., proofs, 21. 2s. THE STRAY KITTEN, by W.Collins, R.A. In Line by H. C. Shenton, 13^ inches by IH. Prints, U. Is. ; proofs, 21. 2s. THE FAIR FORESTER, by H. Wyatt; in Line by G.T. Doo. 13 inches bv 10^. Prints, II. Is. ; proofs, 21. 2s. GIRL AND FLOWERS, by Sir T. Lawrence. In Line by George T. Doo. 121 inches by 10. Prints, 1^ Is. ; proofs, 21. 2s. SPANISH FLOWER GIRL, by Murillo. In Line by J. H. Ro- binson. Si inches by 7- Prints, 12s. ST. JOHN THE EVANGELIST, by Domenichino. In Line by F. Bahmann. 13 inches by llf . Prints, 7s. 6d. ; proofs, 125. and 1/. Is. ; before letters, 21. 2s. MISCHIEF IN FULL PLAY, by E. Landseer, R.A. ; in Line by W. Raddon. 12 inches by 10; prints, 16s. 6d.; proofs, 1^. Is.; before letters, 1^. lis 6d. OPEN YOUR MOUTH AND SHUT YOUR EYES, by Sharp; in Line by W. J. Taylor. 12 inches by 9 ; prints, 12s. ; proofs, 1^, is. THE BRIDE, by C. R. Leslie, R. A. ; engraved by .1. Thomson. 10 inches by 8i; prints, 10s. 6d. ; proofs, 15s. ; coloured, 1/. Is. COTTAGER'S SATURDAY NIGHT, by T. Stothard, R.A. ; in Line by W, H. Worthington. 14i inches by 10^; prints, 7s. 6d. ; proofs, 10s. Gd. CHILDREN BROUGHT TO CHRIST, by T. Stothard, R.A. ; ia Line by W. H. Worthington. 131 inches by lOi ; prints, 7*. 6d. ; proofs, 10^. Gd. 8 NEW PRINTS. A PHTLOSOPHI-R IN SEARCH OF THR WIND, by R. Farrier; on stone by T. Fairlaud. I6i iuclies by 13f : prints ou India paper, 7*- ^d ; coloured, los Till': DAMiKKOLS PLAYFKLLOW, by W Etty, R.A.; on stone by Iv Morton. 11 inches by 11; prints on India paper, 5s.; proofs. 7s. 6 19. Prints, £2 2s.; proofs, £j 3s.; before WOLSEY RECEIVING THE CARDINAL'S HAT; (same size, and com- panion to •• the Kemble family :") by G. H Harlow. In Mez. by W. Geiier. Prints, £2 2s. ; proofs, £3 3s. ; before letiers, £4 4s. NEW PRINTS. y THE CITATION OF WICKLIFFE; forniinsra companion to " the trial of Queen Katherine ;" bv S J. E. Jones. In iMe/.. by J. ligau. 29i inches by 22j. Prints, £2 12s. 6(1. ; prnofs, £5 5s. ; in colours, £5 5s. THt: INQUISI HON; by S.J. E. Jones. In Me/., by J. Egan. 26i inchet by 20J. Prints, £1 lis. 6(1 ; proofs, £2 12.s. 6(1. and £3 3s. GUILT AND INNuCtNCK; bv J. R. Herbert. In Mez. by J. Egan. 18} iiichesby H^. Prints, 15«.: proofs, £l is.; before letters, £l lls.6d. VIEWS OFQUKBEC, A.ND THK FALLS OF M.AGARA ; (a series of twelve coloured views); by Lieut Col. Cockburn. 26 incliesby 17^. Price £10 10s. tb« •et; or separate li.ites, £1 is. each. ECCE HOMO ; fmni theori«in:ii in the National Gallery ; by Correg?io. On stone, by W. Franquinei. 22 inches by 19. Piints, on India paper, 10s. 6d. ; proofs, 15s.; finelv coloured, £l l.s. A HIGHLANDSHEl'HliRD'S UOG; rescning^ a sheep from a snow drift; by E. Landscer, H.A. On stone, by K.J. Lane, A.R.A. 16^ inches by ia|. Prints, on India par)er, 10s. Gd. ; in colours. £l Is. THE WiDiW's TUKASl RKS, AND THE WIDOWRR, by A. Peuley ; iu Mez. by J. Egan. A })air. 47 inches by 14; prints, 12«.; proofs, 1/. Is ; oolonred, 1/. 4s em-li. THE BH 1 HEMAI D, ANl* J IJ EI I':T. by E. T. Panis and Miss L. Sharpe; in Mez. by J. Bromley. 211 inches by 15|; piiiits, 1/. 1*.; proofs, 2/ 2s. ; coloured, 2/ 2s. i FIRST AFFECTIONS, AND BLIGHTI<:D HOPE, by E. T. Parris ; in Mez. by T. Lupton and J Bromley. 18f inches by 13; prints, 1/. Is. ; proofs, 2/ 2s. ; coloured, 21. 2s. each. THE APPOiNTlOD HOUH. by J. Herbert; in Mez. by J. C. Bromley. 21 inches by 15i; prints. \L Is.: proofs, 2/ 2s. CORDELIA, by w! Boxhall ; in Mez. by J. Bromley. 21 iuche* by 16; prints, 1/. Is. ; proofs, 21. 2s. ; coloured. 2i 2s. JULIET, by Miss F. Corbaux; in Mez. by W. Say. 17i incliesby 13f ; prints, 12s ; proofs, 1/ Is : coloured, 1/. 4s. TH E M< )T 1 1 E U 's G K A VE, by C. Hancock; in Mez. by H. Quilley . llf inches bv 8i ; prints, 7s. ^d.: proofs, 12s. THE SHEPDEUD's GUA\E. Painted by E. Landseer, R A.; in Line by B. P. Gibbon. Size, 12 inches by lOi ; prints, 12s.; proofs, £1 Is ; before letters £l lis. 6(L THE SHEPHERD'S CHIEF MOURNER. Painted by E. Laudseer, R A.; in Line by B, P. Gibbon. Companion to the above; same size and price. BURNETs CARTOONS, engraved on steel by himself. Size 18i inches by 231, price 4s. each. THE HOMAN PlliSONER. Paintcnl by T. Weller ; in Mez by G. R. Ward. Size, ISi inches by 1.^. Prints, 15s. ; proofs, 1^. 10*. before letters, 21 2s. GULLIVER IN BROBD GNAG (Exhibited on the Farmer's Table.) P tinted bv R. Redgrave ; engraved by J. MoUison. Size, 9 inches 3-8ths by 7 inches 3-8ths. Prints, 7s. Gd.; proofs, 12s.; first proofs, 15s. THE RAT CATCHER. P.iinted by C. Hancock; in Line, by W, Raddon. Size, lUi inches by 7i- Prints, 7s. ^d.; proofs, 12s.; before letters, 15s. THE MADONNA OF ST. SIXTUS. by Raphael; in Mez. by W. Say; 181 in. l>v 14 ; prints 1.5s ; proofs, 1^ 10s. ; coloured, 1/. 10s. 6d. THE MARRIAGE OF ST. CATHERINE, by Coieggio; in Mez. by VV. Say. Coaipanion tu the above. Same size and price. THE RIVAL SUITORS, by Fragonard; in Mez h\ S. Angel. 12 inches by 10; j)rints. 7s 6fif ; proofs. 12s ; coloured, 15s. THE BROKEN PITCHER, by W. Kidd ; in Mez. by W. Carlo*. 13i inches by 11 ; prints, 7s. 6d.; proofs, 12s.; coloured, 15s. 10 PORTRAITS. THE COURIER, OR FATE OF THE BATTLE, by W. Kidd; in Mez. by W. Carlos. lOi inches by 13 ; prints, 7s. 6d. ; proofs, 12s. ; coloured, 15s. SELF-EXAMINATION, in Mez. by G. Saunders. 10 inches bv 8 ; prints, 5s. ; proofs. 75- 6d, ; coloured, 10s 6d. MONKS AT THEIR DEVOTION, AND GIRL TAKING THE VEIL, by Graoet ; engraved by Gleadath. A pair. 18^ inches by 14 ; prints, 7s 6d. ; coloured 12s. each. THE STORY OF MY LIFE, by H. Liverseege; engraved in the dotted style by T. Woolnoth. 10 inches by 28; prints, 7s. 6d. ; proofs, 10s. 6d. PORTRAITS. The following Portraits of Her Majesty the Queen. Painted by G. Swandale ; engraved in Mez. by W.O. Geller. Size, 22 by 161 ; prints, £i Is.; proofs. £2 2s. ; before letters, £3. 3s. Painted by H. CoUen; engraved in stipple by T. Woolnoth. 54 inches by 4^, Prints, 5s. ; proofs, 7s- 6d. ; before letters, 10s. 6d. Paiute'd by A. Chalon, R.A. ; in Mez. by S. Cousins, A.R.A ; size, 21 inches by 30 ; prints, 3/. 3s. ; proofs, 51. 5s. ; before letters, 8/. 8s. Painted by E. T. Panis ; in Mez. by E. Wagstaff ; size, 9| inches by 121 high; price II. Is. ; proofs, 21. 2s. ; India, 31. 3s. Painted by Stewart; in Mez. by E. H. Every; size, 11 inches by 13^ high; price 7s. 6d. Painted by R. J. Lane, R.A. ; engraved in the chalk manner, by F. C. Lewis, in a circle 7i inches in diameter. Prints, 5s.; proofs, 7«. 6d. ; before letters, 10s. 6d. Painted by G. Hayter ; in Mez. by H. Cousins ; size 26 inches by 16; prints, £2 2s. ; proofs, £4. 4s. ; before letters, £6 6s. In stipple, from Finden's Female Aristocracy; size, 10 inches by 8; prints, 7s. 6d. ; proofs, 10s. 6d. By T. Sully, for the United States ; in Mez. by C. E. Wagstaff; prints, £1 Is.; proofs, £2 2s. ; before letters, £4 4s. ByA. Aglio; in Mez. by James Scott ; 22 inches by 17; price £1. Is.; proofs, £2 2s. HER MAJESTY AND H. R. H. THE DUCHESS OF KENT, a pair, by Chalon ; on stone, by R. J. Lane; size, I7i inches by 12; price, £1 Is. ; plain, £2 2s.; proofs, £3 3s. iu colours. HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN AND H. R. H. THE DUCHESS OF KENT (whole lengths), a pair, by G. Hayter; in Mez. by J. Bromley ; 24i inches by 16i; prints. 1/. lis. 6d ; proofs, 31. 3s. each. THE CORONATION OF HER MAJESTY QUEEN VIC- TORIA, by G. Havter. HER MAJESTY QUEEN ADELAIDE, by A. Grahl; in Mez. by S. W. Rpvnolds, 9 inches by 7i- Prints, lOs. 6d. ; proofs, 15s. HIS LATE MAJESTY WILLIAM IV., engraved in the numis- matique, or basso-relievo style, by A. Collas, after Sir F. Chantrey. ISi inches by 13f ; prints, 12s'. NAPOLEON AND HIS GENERALS, engraved by A. Collas, in the same manner. 22i inches by 16. Prints, 12s. EARL GREY, (whole length,) by F. Say ; in Mez. by W. Say. 26 inches by 16^. Prints, 1^. lis. 6d. ; proofs, 21. 12s. 6d. LORD BROUGHAM, (whole length ;) by J. Lonsdale. In Mez. by T. Lupton. 18i inches bv 14^. Prints, II. lis. 6d. ; proofs, 21. 12s. Qd. NEW PRINTS. 11 BARON LYNDHURST ; by A. Wivell. In Mez. by H. Dawe. 17i inches by 14. Prints, 1/. Is. ; proofs, 1/. lis. 6d. ; before letters, 21. 2s. THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON, (whole length;) by W. Simpson. In Mez. by G. H. Phillips. 25^ inches by 16|. Prints, 1^. lis. 6d. ; proofs. 3/. 3s. ; before letters, 5/. 5s. THE DUKE OF WELLLNGTON ; by Sir T. Lawrence. In Mez. by S. Cousins. Hi inches by 9^. Prints, 1/. Is. ; proofs, 21. 2s. SIR ROBERT PEEL, BART; by J. Wood. In Mez. by W. Ward. lU inches by 9i. Prints, 1^. Is. ; proofs, 21. 2s. LORD ABINGER; by Sir M. A. Shee, P.R.A. In Mez. by H. CJousins. Hi inches by 9i. Prints, II. Is. ; proofs, 21. 2s. ANNE, COUNTESS OF MORNINGTON, painted by the Hon. Lady Burghersh ; in Mez. by W. Hodgetts; size, 17 inches by 24 high, prints, £1 Is. ; proofs, 2, 3,and 4 guineas, EARL OF EGREMONT; by G. Clint. In Mez. by T. Lupton. 23i inches by 15i. Prints, 11. is. ; proofs, 21. 2s. RICE WYNNE, ESQ. Painted by J Pardon; engraved in Mez. by W. O Geller. Size, 24 inches by 18^. Price £1 5s. Paul OURY, Esq. a Fox Hunter, rough and ready. Painted by R. R. Scanlan ; engraved by Thomas Landseer, Size, 20 inches byl5i. Price £1. Is. THE HON. LADY CUST; by G. Middleton. In Mez. by H. Cousins. 151 inches bv 12|. Prints, 1/. Is.; proofs, 21. 2s. THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON ; by E. T. Parris. In Mez. bv W. Geller. 12 inches by 9. Prints, 12s. ; proofs, 1^. Is. THE HON. MRS. NORTON ; by J. Hayter. In Mez. by W. O. Geller. 91 inches by 8. Prints, 7s. 6d. ; proofs. 12s. L. E. L., Portrait of Miss Landon ; by D. MClise. In the Dotted manner, bv E. Finden. 13i inches by llf. Prints, 7s. 6d. ; proofs, 10s. 6d. MADEMOISELLE TAGLIONI (as la Bayadere.) drawn byA.E. Chalon, R. A. ; on Stone by R. J. Lane, A. R. A. 201 inches by 13. Prints on India paper, 10s. 6d.; proofs, 15s. ; beautifully coloured, 21. 2s. MADEMOISELLE TAGLIONI, designed and drawn on Stone, by B. Mulrenin. 16 inches by 9. Prints, on India paper, 5s.; co- loured, 10s. 6d. MADEMOISELLE PAULINE DUVERNAY, designed and drawn on Stone by J. F. Lewis. 15i inches by Hi. Prints, 7s. 6d. ; co- loured, 10s. 6d ; extra coloured, 15s. MADAME EMMA ALBERTAZZI, designed and drawn on Stone, by Miss F. Corbaux. 15i inches by Hi. Prints, 7s. 6d. ; coloured, 10s. 6d. ; extra coloured, 15s. MADAME JULIA GRISI, by A. E. Chalon, R. A.; on Stone by R. J. Lane, A. R. A. 17 inches bv 12i. Prints, 7s. 6d. ; coloured, 10s. 6rf. ROSE BRADWARDINE, by A. E. Chalon. R.A. ; engraved in the dot manner, by H. T. Ryall, lOi inches by 7i. Prints, 10s. 6d.; proofs, II. Is. ARIEL, by E. T. Parris ; in Line by F. Bacon. 17 inches by 12. Prints, 10s. 6d. ; in colours, 1^ Is. 12 NEW PRINTS. SPORTING PRINTS. PORTRAITS OF THE WINNERS OF THE DERBY, THE OAKS. AND GREAT Sr.LEGi'R STAKKS; b^autituUy coloured from the onj,Mnals by .1. Femeley, C. Hancock, F C Turner, .&c. 16i inches by 12i. Price 15s. t-ach. Rowrov, PiHam, Vekocipede, Glencoe, Cadland, Shaniel, Rtnr>i,EswoRTH. Hay Middletok, Chorister, St. Giles. S'ti.ian, Dangkkous, Cyprian, Hornsea, MuNDTo. Owen of Trumps, Elis, Phosphorous, Miss Letty. [To be Continued.1 THE K. 'kAL HTTNT — Meetinjjof Her Majesty's Sfnghounds on Ascot Heath, by F. Grant ; in Mcz. by F. Bromley; 3:i inches by 21 ; prints, £3 3s ; proofs. £f) 5s. ; betbie letters, £6 6s. THE HUNIEU s ANNUAL; Four Plates, on India Paper, price 21 2s. By R B. Davis ; on stone by .1 W. Giles 16i inches by 13. Parti contains. 1. Portrait of C Davis, Huntsman to Her Majesty, on Hermit. 2 Pntiait of T. Goosey, Huntsman to the Belvoir Hounds. 3 Portraits of G Montford and W Derry, Hunts- man and Whipper-in to the Melton Hounds. 4 Portrait of J. Shirley, Huntsman to the Bramshall Hounds. [To be Coutluued Annually ] R. B. DAVlS's KENNEL SCENES; on stone by J. W.Giles; contents: 1. Tlie Mother. 2. Taking,' out to Walk. 3. The First Discipline. 4. Drafting. Prints, plain, in the improved method of two lints, price, tiie Set, 16.s ; in Colours, 1/ 4s. STAMLi: SCENKS, AND FIELD SCENES; by the same. Each Four Plates Same bize and i»rice. DONCASiEll RACES, 1,^36. FOR THE GREAT ST. LEGER STAKES ; Four Coloured Plates, by .1. Pollaid. 24^^ inches by Hi. Price 31. 13s. 6rf. the Set. THE AYLESBUUY STEI PLE CHASE. 1836; Four highly- coloured Plates, repieseuting the Light Weight Stakes. 19i inches by 131 . Price -21 L's the S^-t. THE LEAMINGTON STEEPLE CHASE; Four Coloured Platet after F. C Turner 23i inches by 14^. Price 3/. 3s. the set. ALKEN's SHOOTINGS; Four Colouied Plates. 18 inches by 13. Price 2/. 2s the set. HAWKIN(i ; Four Coloured Plates after F. C. Turner. 15i inches by 12i. Piice2/ 2s. the set. BACHELOR s HALL; Six Coloured Plates. 18i inches by 13^. Price 3/. 3s ihe set. R. B. D^VlSs SH(^OTING^; Grouse. Partridge. Pheasant, Snipe, Woodcock, and Water-Fow 1. Six colouied plates. 17i inches by 13i. Price 3/. 3s the set. EPSOM RACES; a series of Six finely-coloured plates, by J. Pollard. 18* inches bv llf. Price 3/ 3s the set. MOVING ACCIDENTS BY FLCOD AND FIELD ; Four highly coloured plates, by F. C. Turner. 14i^ inches by lOi. Price II. 16«. tll6 set. THE QUORN HUNT; in a series of eight beautifully coloured plates, illustrating Nimiod's celebrated article on English Fox- Hunting, in the Quarterly Riiview. 20i inches by 12i. Price 4/. Us.ed. the set. F. C. TUUNER's FOX CHASE; (Illustrating the old song of " a Southerly \\ ind and a Cioudy Sky,") Four coloured plates. 19 inches by I4i. Price 2L 2s. the set. SPORTING PRINTS. 15 COUNT SANDOR's HUNTING EXPLOITS IN LT! ICE STEB- SHIRl') ; iri a series of Ten hi'j;hlv-coloured plates, by J. Feriieley. 13f inches by 10^. Price 3/ 3.iioks, Widgeon. Black Grouse, Red Grouse, Ploiers, Quails, B^tld Coot, r, Spurliu;; Miller, Three Blind Uns and a Bolter, Jorrocks's Hum Brt;akfast, Lord Marrovvb >i'es and his .Man, Swell and the Surrey, Two PlaLes, the Sporting Tailor, llie Hmited Tailor, I'le Sporting Parson's Hunting Lecture, Fox Hunting versus Politics, the Scortinar Bighop, Mungo for a Hundred, the Hunting Svseep and the Duke, and Spree at Melton Mowbray, Two Plates. [To be Continued.] DRATVING BOOKS AND RUDIMENTS. HINTS ON LIGHT AND SHADOW, illu-traled by twenty examples, d©- Klgned and ou sioiie, in two tinis, bv S- I'roul, F.S., b;»und, imperial 4to. HAKDIN(;'S KLEMEMAKY ART, or tie use (pf tli-- black Lad pencil ad- Tocated audexplaiiu d, with nunier'ns plates, foiio, cloth bound, pi ice £2 2s. J. D. Hardiuj^'s Drawing Book for 1837 ; 6 Numbers, at 3s. each, Compl«le, half-bound, £1 is. J. D. Harding's do. for 1835 ; 6 Numbers, at Is. 6d. ea-ch, lOs. 6d. 14 DRAWING BOOKS. J. D. Harding's do. for 1834 ; 6 Numbei-s, at is. 6d. each, 10s. 6d. J. D. Harding's do. for 1832; 6 Numbers, at is. 6d. each, lOs. 6d. G. B. Campion's Sketches of the Picturesque Character of Great Britain; • Numbers, at each 58. plain, or 98. tinted. G. Barnard's Continental Drawing Booli, for the use of Advanced Pupils ; 3 Numbers, at 6s. each, £1 18. T. S. Cooper's Studiesof Cattle from Nature; 8 Numbers, at 4s. each, £i iss. T. S. Cooper's Studies of Cattle, New Series ; 10 Numbers, at 4s. each. T.S. Cooper's Animals and Kustic Groups; 8 Numbers, at 2s. each, l6s. J.C. Zeitter's Rudiments of the Horse; 3 Numbers, at 3s. each. H. Aiken's Studies of the Horse and other Animals; 6 Numbers, at 2s. 6d. each. H.Walter's Studies of Animals; in 8 Numbers, at is. each. J. H. Holland's Studies of Flowers ; 3 Numbers, Coloured, at 7s. 6d. each, J. Leigh's Studies of flowers; 7 Numbers, at each Plain, is. 6d., or 38. co- loured, £1 28. 6d. Pegg's Studies of Flowers; 7 Numbers, at each Plain, is. 6d., or 3s. Coloured- £l 2s. 6d. Andrew's Lessons in Flower-Painting; in 6 Numbers, Coloured, 2s. 6d. each, 166. Bartholomew's Groups of Flowers; in 2 Numbers, Coloured, 10s. 6d. each. Eldridge's Studies of Flowers; in 3 Numbers, Coloured, at 4s. each. Leigh's Flowers of the Seasons: in 1 Part, Coloured, £l. G. Child's Cottage and Landscape Scenery ; in 3 Numbers, at 2s. each. G. Child's Sketches from Nature; in 9 numbers, at is. each, lOs. 6d. Eldridge's Drawing Book of Trees; in 3 Numbers, at Is. 6d. each. Eldridge's Rudiments of Trees; in 3 Numbers, at Is. 6d. each. Eldridge's Landscapes; in 3 Numbers, at is. 6d. each. Eldridge's New Landscapes for 1836: in 6 Numbers, at ls.6d. each, 10s. 6d. Campion's Groups of Figures, for Illustrating Landscape, Marine, and other Drawings; 6 Numbers, at is. 6d. each, lOs. 6d. Bragg's Shipping and Craft; 12 Numbers, at is. 6d.each,£l is. Nicholson's Landscapes; in 3 Numbers, at Is. 6d.each. Nicholson's Advanced Ditto; in 3 Numbers, at 2s. each. Morton's Studies of Heads ; in 3 Numbers, at is. 6d. each, Fairland's Human Figures; in 7 Numbers, at is. 6d. each. Fairland's Animals; in 14 Numbers, at Is. 6d. each. Fairland's Landscapes ; in 7 Numbers, at Is. 6d. each. M. Stanley's Sketches from Nature ; in 6 Numbers, at Is. each. B. R. Green's Illustrations of Perspective; in 6 Numbers, at 2». 6d. each, 17s. 6d. D' A Imaine's Studies of Cattle; in Numbers, at Is. each. G. Harley's Juvenile Drawing Book ; in 12 Numbers, at 8d. each. G. Child's Little Sketch Book; in 14 Numbers, at 6d. each. T. Fairland's Juvenile Drawing Book ; in 14 Numbers, at Gd- each. Wilson's Juvenile Drawing Book; in 16 Numbers, at 6d. each. Carbonnier's Studies of Heads ; in 6 Sheets, price 28. each- Cowen's Forest Trees ; in 6 Sheets, price Is. 6d. each. Eldridge's Forest Trees; in 6 Sheets, price Is. each. N.B. The greatest variety of French Rudiments, ACKERMANN AND CO S PREPARED GENUINE CUMBERLAND BLACK-IiEAD PENCILS, Of different degrees of hardness and depth of shade, 9d. each, or 88. per dozen, except BBB, is. each, or lOs. 6d. per dozen. H. A degree harder than genuine Cumberland Lead, and used for Outlines, HH. Two degrees harder, and used by Architects. HHH. Three degrees harder, and used by Architects, Engineers, Surveyors, &c. HHHH. Four degrees harder, ditto, ditto. HHHHH. Five ditto. F. Fine Pencils, used by Artists, Drawing-masters, and Pupils FF. Fine Pencils, used by ditto. Double thick Lead, ditto B. For deep shades ,and finishing touches. PENCILS AND DRAWINGS. 15 BB. A deeper black for shading than B. BBB- Still blacker for ditto. HB. Hard and black for shading. EHB- Extra hard and black for ditto AcKERMANN AND Co.'s Fine genuine Cumberland Black-lead Pencils, not prepared, have been known for many years as the best Pencils for Sketching and general use. They are particularly adapted for Young Students to copy from Lithographic Studies. The prepared Pencils FF, B, BB, and BBB, serve for the deep shades and finishing touches. DRAW^INGS LET OUT TO COPY. AcKERMANN AND Co. Solicit the attention of the Amateurs of the Art of Drawing to their CIRCULATING PORTFOLIOS, which comprise a very ex- tensive Collection of Drawings and Prints of Figures, Landscapes, Flowers, Fruit, &c. The following are the terms of Subscription ; Yearly . Four Guineas. Half-Yearly . Two Guineas. Quarterly . One Guinea The Money to be paid at the time of Subscribing. Weekly Subscribers to pay 2s. 6d. per Week ; taking at one time Drawings or Prints not exceeding Two Guineas ; for which a Deposit is to be made until the Drawings or Prints are returned. Subscribers are not to take at one time Drawings or Prints to a greater amount than their Subscriptions; but they may exchange them as often as agreeable. It will be needless to recommend care to be taken of the Drawings and Prints in their possession, as they can only be received back again in a reasonably good state. Such as may have been creased, received oil, ink, or colour spots, or are torn or cut, must be paid for. THE GRAPHIC MIRROR. For sketching from Nature, reducing, &c. with accuracy and despatch. The difficulties known to exist in the Camera Lucida are obviate d in this instrument, as it shows the point of the pencil and image of the object equally clear and distinct, and is easily adjusted. Price £l 58. in a case J or in a Mahogany box, £l 6s. 6d. Ackermann and Co.'s New and Improved SKETCH BOOK, used by Artists and Amateurs. This Sketch Book consists of a body of paper, compressed so as to form a solid substance to all appearance, containing pieces of drawing- paper, each of which, when drawn upon, can be separated by the introduction of a pen-knife at the space left in the front of the book, and, passing the kijife round the edges of the paper, care being taken to cut only one at a time. ACKERMANN AND CO's SUPERFINE OIL AND WATER-COLOURS RECOMMENDED AND USED BY THE FIRST ARTISTS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM. N. B. DRAWING MATERIALS OF EVERY DESCRIPTION. 96, STRAND, WILL SUPPLY THIS FOIiIiOW^ING ANNUALS FOR 1839^ ON THE DAYS OF PUBLICATION. £. S. d. The Book of Royalty, splendidly bound in scarlet morocco Thirteen lii<.;hly coloured Diuwings . . . . 2 12 6 FoROET ME Not, elejjantly bound in crimson Morocco . 12 Keepsake, bound in crimson silk 1 i India proofs, large i)ai)er 2 12 6 Gems OF Bkauty, imperial 4to 1 11 6 Book OF Gems 1 11 6 large paper 3 3 Heath's Book OF Beauty, bound in blue Morocco . .110 India proofs, large paper . 2 12 6 Heath's Picturesque Annual, bound in Morocco . ,110 Ind'a j)roofs, large paper 2 12 6 Landscape Annual (Portugal), bound in Morocco . . 1 I India proofs, large paper 2 12 6 Drawing-Room Scrap Book, elegantly Lound . . .110 Oriental Annual , . .110 large paper . . ... 2 12 6 FiNDEN*s Tableaux, Imperial 4to. splendidly bound in Morocco 220 India proofs 3 3 Friendship's Oiferino 12 FiSHEH»s Juvenile Scrap Book 8 Hood's Comic Annual, half bound, Morocco . . . 12* Bijou Almanac . . .016 Cruikshank's Comic Almanac 2 6 Oracle of Rural Life and Sporting Almanac . .026 Flowers of Loveliness, in a unique and novel binding. Imperial 4to. the volumes for 1-36, 1837, and 1838 . 1 11 India proofs, large paper . . 2 12 London: Printed by F. Shoberl, Jan., Rupert Street, Haymarket. 123 f